Jas listed slightly as he got up and walked to the nearest wall, rubbing his fingers down it. “Old friends,” he told the stones, “if nothing else, I have at least learned an important truth. I am a coward. And I am afraid I may be forced to abandon you.”
Dukat glanced up and tapped the intercom panel at the sound of the chime. “This is the gul.”
Tunol was uncharacteristically hesitant in her reply. “Sir, someone has just transported aboard.”
“From Bajor?”
“I’m…not quite sure. The carrier wave was phase-scrambled.”
That piece of information was all that he needed. Dukat’s lips twisted. “Send them to my duty room.”
“She’s already on her way, sir.”
Dukat’s grimace turned to hard granite, and he turned the padds on his desk facedown, pausing only to flick a spot of dust from the dull metal of his armor.
The door to his chamber hissed open, and Rhan Ico stood outside, flanked by two troopers. She dismissed them without a word and entered the room. Dukat couldn’t be sure which he found more irritating: that she entered without his permission or that the two gils obeyed her without question.
“Thank you for receiving me, Gul Dukat.” Ico took a chair and smiled thinly.
Dukat noticed that the automatic security subroutines built into the consoles of his duty office had not reacted to her presence; normally, if a member of the Ministry of Science, a civilian, walked into the chambers of a ranking military officer, each one would go blank to conceal data outside her purview. Instead, every screen remained active, silently showing Dukat just how high Ico’s clearance went.
He was in no mood for games. “What do you want, Ico?” Dukat was brusque and distrustful.
She frowned slightly, as if disappointed that he wasn’t about to engage in the usual rounds of wordplay and dissembling. “I’m aware of the contents of your mission orders,” Ico said without further preamble. “It seems that, once more, we share common goals.”
Dukat’s eyes narrowed. “However true you may think that is, I don’t intend to repeat past mistakes with you.”
“On the contrary,” she countered, “our last association was a great success.”
“For you, perhaps. Tell me, how many more of those pretty baubles have you purloined since then?”
Ico spoke as if Dukat had said nothing. “I know what you are looking for.”
“A way to terminate you and all your kind?”
She sniffed, smiling slightly, and Dukat chided himself for allowing her to draw from him that flash of annoyance.
“The passengers,” she went on, “from the Xepolite transport.”
“Ah,” said Dukat, returning a cold, feral smile of his own. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions that there are agents on board the Vandir reporting to the Obsidian Order.”
Ico laughed. It was a short, unlovely sound. “I have heard it said that organization has operatives on every ship in the Union fleet, from the lowliest fuel tender to the proudest dreadnought.” She cocked her head. “But to continue. The masking compound? It is of Federation origin, a tool utilized by Starfleet Intelligence.”
Dukat schooled his expression carefully. Starfleet agents posing as Bajorans, on-planet at a critical juncture such as this one. It was a worst-case scenario brought to life.
“Clearly, they must be dealt with as soon as possible,” Ico went on.
Dukat kept himself in check, resisting the urge to immediately call an alert and begin an aggressive search. “Why are you telling me this? I’d imagine you much prefer to keep the kudos from such a capture to yourself.”
She inclined her head. “A number of reasons. You’re quite intelligent for a military officer, Dukat. You would have come to the same conclusions in due time. There are matters that I have currently in hand that require the majority of my attention. And, of course, Jagul Kell’s lamentably shortsighted self-interest. He’s quite incapable of managing such a situation. I think it would be best if he remained uninformed about this development for the time being.”
“You want me and my men to do your work for you?”
She smiled coolly. “Isn’t that always the way?”
He wanted to punch that smile down her throat. “I don’t need your help.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she warned. “I’m giving you a gift.”
“And what do you want in return?”
Ico got to her feet. “Why, the same thing that you do, Skrain. A triumphant Cardassia, and a compliant Bajor.” She tapped a control on her comcuff and vanished in the haze of a transporter beam.
The evening had drawn into night as they left the great hall of the keep, the Bajoran clerics and the party of Oralians walking side by side without really mingling. Vedek Gar had led the meeting with a reading from Yalar’s New Insights, choosing a parable that Bennek had considered a somewhat uninspired work, while in turn the Cardassian cleric had performed a recitation with Tima, a piece telling the story of the Birth of the Fourth Fate. Even from behind his mask, Bennek had not been able to miss the cold expressions directed toward the woman by some of the Bajoran priests. I wonder, do they disapprove because of her adherence to the Way, or because she is my lover? He imagined he would never know for sure. Tima glanced at him and gave a wan smile, concealing a multitude of subtle signals. She feels the same way that I do; where once we were greeted as honored brothers and sisters, now we have become unwelcome. Oralius has lost purchase on her birthworld, and the same will happen on Bajor, I see it coming.
“Would you join me on the balcony?” asked Gar. “The night is warm. I will have refreshments brought to us.”
Bennek nodded. “I would like that.” He followed the Bajoran out of the stained-glass doors, and a light breeze pulled at his robes. The Oralian gathered them in his hands and took the proffered seat at the stone table under the stars. The sky was scattered with light cloud and patches of darkness. “I am sorry that Vedek Arin was not able to be here tonight,” he continued.
“He’s in Kiessa,” said Gar lightly. “Matters of the church. I’m sure you understand.”
Tima shot Bennek another look. Before the flyer had arrived at the camp to bring them to the Naghai Keep, she had predicted that Arin would not be present. The man had been slowly aligning himself with the interests of Kubus Oak over the past few months. It was no secret that Kubus’s interests were in concert with the Union’s, and there was no place for the Oralians there. Vedek Gar is the only ally we have now, he reflected, feeling bleak.
A servant brought hot deka tea and a plate of veklava; the sight of the food brought a sour taste to Bennek’s lips as he thought of the burned-out storehouse in the camp, the katterpods and bread all ruined.
Gar poured the tea and cupped the stone mug in his hands, savoring the woody smell. “Bennek, I am glad you came here. I know about your recent problems, about the firebombing and the intimidation. I know you must find it troubling to venture from the safety of your settlement.”
“Such as it is,” said Tima.
“Your people are embattled, my friend,” he continued.
“And it pains me to think that the Way may die out.” Gar shook his head sadly. “Your numbers have diminished, and they continue to do so, yes? I have heard that many have left the Way and renounced their faith.”
Bennek stiffened. How does he know about that? I have kept that sordid fact a closely guarded secret! But it was true. On some level the cleric could understand the men and women who fled the camps and gave up their church so that they could eat again, be free again, be considered Cardassian again. “This is a troubling time for the children of Oralius,” he admitted. “But she grants us the Way, and she will show us a path through adversity.”
Gar leaned forward. “Perhaps she already has.”
“I do not follow you.”
“Perhaps you should,” said the other priest. “We have often spoken of how your worship of Oralius and our devotion to the Prophets are b
ut two sides of the same coin. There are those on Bajor who have come to feel your faith is like an unwanted tenant, that its presence will somehow dilute the veneration of the Celestial Temple.” His gaze passed over Tima, and the implication was clear; as one of the handful of Bajoran Oralians, she embodied that concern. “We both know that is untrue, but how can we convince the people otherwise?”
Bennek’s blood ran cold. “Do you want us to leave Bajor?”
Gar smiled and shook his head again. “No, no, you misunderstand. I do not suggest you leave us, my brother. I suggest you join us.”
Tima blinked, confused. “Bennek, what does he mean?”
He gasped. “You want the Way to merge with the faith of the Prophets?” The thought of such a thing made the Oralian’s heart tighten in his chest. “Give up our identity?”
“You would not be giving it up,” Gar said mildly. “It would be a confluence, an assimilation. The Way could come under the auspices of the Bajoran church, and your people would be protected by us.” His fingers knitted. “A coming together, Bennek. The Prophets can offer so much to you.”
For an instant, he wavered on the cusp of the proposal, the pressures and the great weight of his responsibilities bearing down on him; the temptation to release it all, to let someone else take up the stewardship of the Way, was strong.
And then he heard Dukat’s words once again, the memory of them hard and cold in his thoughts. All that is important now is your responsibility. Bennek’s hands tightened into claws. Hadlo had died trying to keep the Oralian Way from being destroyed by the faithless, and on that night five years ago, Bennek had followed in his footsteps, selling his honor to keep the Way alive. His mentor had asked for sacrifices, and Bennek had made them. But this? What the vedek was suggesting was no less than to accept the slow death of his faith, that which Bennek had struggled to hold off year after agonizing year.
Tima was staring at him, her eyes wide and shimmering with fear. He gave her a nod, reaching inside himself to find the wellspring of devotion he knew lay there. “No,” he replied, with shaky defiance. “I see that you mean well, my brother, and I thank you for your offer, but the answer is and will always be no. Whatever adversity threatens to engulf us, the children of Oralius must not flinch from it. This is our path.” He took a breath, and found a certainty that he had thought long forgotten. “This is the Way.”
Conflicted emotions crossed Vedek Gar’s face; Bennek thought he saw anger there, along with sadness and regret. Finally, the other priest nodded. “I did not expect you to agree, my friend. I hope that my words instead spurred you to remember how much your faith means to you.” He sipped the tea. “That you elect to forge on despite your hardships, that shows the strength of will needed to stay true to your beliefs.” Gar paused, and when he spoke again the warmth in his voice was absent. “But I must warn you that Cardassia will not suffer your presence, even here on Bajor, without question. Soon you may find yourself faced with a terrible choice.”
“The Detapa Council believe Oralius is dead within the Union,” Bennek replied, “but all they have done is cut her to the core of her most staunch followers, driven her underground. The Way will survive.” He got to his feet, and Tima followed. “And whatever choice I must make, I will do it in the name of my faith.”
21
The skimmer hummed over the scrubland, keeping in the lee of the dry riverbed. The Bajoran man with the shaven head and the hard eyes steered with quick, economical movements on the yoke. Every light inside the vehicle had been doused, and he was using a night visor to find his way. Gwen Jones found her attention kept falling back to him. He wasn’t like Nechayev; Jekko lacked her caustic manner and instead, he had a kind of workmanlike quality to him, a sort of grim determination. He was the first real Bajoran she had ever met, and he wasn’t at all what she expected.
In the backseat, Nechayev had her gear pack open, and she was working at the tricorder inside it. Without looking, the woman reached up and passed Jones a small pistol. Jones took the phaser and weighed it in her hand. It was set on heavy stun, and she pocketed the weapon, hoping she wouldn’t need to use it.
She glanced out of the window at the blur of the landscape flashing past. Bright light from Bajor’s multiple moons gave her clear sight for some distance. In the blue-white illumination the scrubland looked sterile and unwelcoming.
“A decade ago this was all farms,” Jekko answered her unspoken question. “Katterpods mostly, and a few kava orchards.”
“What happened?”
“The Cardassians,” he said, as if that were enough explanation on its own. He talked without looking away from the job of steering. “Bought up a lot of the land through trade blinds, mostly through the Kubus clan. Got it cheap too, no surprise when it was their fault the place was drying up. See the enclave? The spoonheads sank wells there and drew off the water table, made all the farms in the surroundings fail. Folks out here were happy to take the money and go. Didn’t like living next to offworlders anyway.”
“Didn’t someone complain?”
“Probably. And those that did got paid like the rest, or else they’re still out here somewhere, buried in the dirt.”
“That’s horrible,” Jones grimaced.
Jekko drew back the throttle, slowing them to a halt. He shot her a look. “Horrible?” He smiled grimly. “Let me take a guess. This sort of thing is all a bit new to you, isn’t it?”
She colored. “It is, yes. I’m not really a field agent, I’m just an analyst—”
“She’s here to make sure I don’t get caught out by eating with the wrong fork,” Nechayev broke in as the skimmer settled to the ground. “So. What now?”
Jekko retracted the canopy, letting the warm night rush in. “We walk from here.”
The Bajoran pulled a camouflage net from a compartment in the skimmer and concealed the craft in a tumbledown barn. Jones saw evidence of building foundations all around, the overgrown remnants of a dirt track; the place was likely the site of one of the farms Jekko had mentioned. She turned around and saw the enclave in the near distance, a walled settlement capped with the glassy mushrooms of habitat domes. She could just about make out the red glow of sensor pods around the walls. “How are we going to get in there?”
Nechayev beckoned her to follow the Bajoran into a dusty cutting and there, beneath tinder-dry bushes, was the oval mouth of a tunnel. “Drainage conduits from the old farm complexes,” he explained, levering off a metal grille. “Cardassians just built onto them, used the existing infrastructure. If you know where to look, there’s a couple of places inside the walls where the new building marries up with the old. We can get in that way.”
“You’re sure?” Jones asked.
He nodded. “Some data was slipped my way, from a contact in the Korto City Watch. The chief inspector and I go way back.”
“Can you trust him?” Nechayev asked.
Jekko shot her a hard look. “More than I trust you.”
“But you haven’t actually been inside the enclave?”
“No. They haven’t been open to Bajorans, not for a long time, not for anyone without an armed escort from the Union military. For security.” He added the last words with hard sarcasm.
“They’ll have sensors covering any entry points,” Nechayev snapped. “The Cardassians aren’t stupid.”
“No, but they are arrogant, and arrogance breeds over-confidence.” Jekko nodded. “We’ve never used this way in. But I’m betting your Starfleet hardware will be able to bypass any scanners.”
The agent glanced at her tricorder. “We’ll see.” Nechayev drew her weapon and entered the conduit.
Jones followed. “Watch your head,” Jekko told the women. “It’s a long walk, so stay alert and make sure you don’t step in any barrowbug nests.”
“What the hell are barrowbugs?” Nechayev’s voice drifted back from the darkness.
Jones gave an involuntary shiver. “Like cockroaches,” she said, “but as big a
s your fist, and they spit acidic venom.”
Nechayev swore under her breath, and Jekko waved Jones inside. “After you.”
In the dark of the drainage conduits it was difficult to reckon the passage of time, and the repetitive scrape-thud of their footsteps made it even worse. Nechayev concentrated on the glowing display of her tricorder, using the device to scan the tunnels on the go, automatically forming a route map they could use for their egress. Just as he had in the skimmer, Jekko moved with confidence, turning at junctions and crossing over pipeway intersections, never once hesitating or stopping to refer to the faded glyphs on the curved walls. This guy is good. She grudgingly admired the Bajoran’s trade-craft. He’s committed the entire route to memory.
With Jones’s warning in mind, Nechayev gave a wide berth to the masses of yellowed cottony fibers that clung to the underside of inspection grids and the stone ceiling. At the edges of her vision, she saw spade-shaped things scuttling around them in the halo of her tricorder’s dim light and grimaced.
After what seemed like hours, Jekko halted and whispered a single word. “Here.”
There were a series of steps cut into the crumbling thermoconcrete, and Nechayev looked up to see faint light filtering through a hexagonal hatch over their heads. She flicked the tricorder over to passive scan, and a smear of color appeared on the display. “There’s an isoscanner,” she said quietly. “Detects thermal footprints from a living being over a certain size, or metallic masses like scout drones or snoopers.” She flipped open the emitter matrix panel on her phaser and dialed back the power output.
Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Page 38
