by S. D. Perry
His companel chimed. One of the duty officers in operations addressed him briskly. “Gul Dukat, this is Gil Trakad.”
“What is it?”
“Reporting, sir—the delayed shipment of mining equipment has finally arrived.”
Dukat sighed heavily. “Well! How very kind of the Valerians to finally bring us our merchandise! Inform the captain that I expect a formal explanation for the tardiness of this shipment.”
The young gil hesitated. “It was not the Valerians who delivered this cargo, sir. Their ship experienced a mechanical failure and was forced to make an emergency landing in the Solvok system.”
Dukat leaned back in his chair. “I see,” he said. “So, who, exactly, has brought us our much-anticipated package, Gil?”
“It…it couldn’t be helped, sir, the ship grounded on the Solvok moon, and there are a limited number of ships that run through that system, this time of year—”
Annoyed, Dukat switched on his holoframe to have a look at the security images that cycled along the docking ring and the cargo bays. What he saw instantly made his lip curl, for a familiar-looking ship had docked, and its crew was beginning to unload its cargo. The rust-colored vessel had a bloated aft end tapering toward a much narrower front—a bit like a stubbier, backward version of a Cardassian scoutship. But Dukat knew too well the design of this courier, and he spoke with the force of a curse.
“Ferengi.”
Natima Lang did not particularly enjoy these assignments, interviewing soldiers as they arrived home from the conflict along the border territories. The brown-uniformed troops who disembarked from their ships at the Mekisar military base outside of Cardassia City were usually exhausted from the long journey home, not to mention the horrors they had experienced on the front lines against the Federation.
Natima knew that her world struggled to keep up with the superior forces of the Federation troops; the Federation had more sophisticated weaponry, and their ships had much better tracking and dodging capabilities than any Cardassian vessel. But then, the Federation lacked something that Cardassia had in no short supply, and that was a particular brand of pride and self-respect that Natima knew was unsurpassed in the entire known galaxy. Cardassia would fight to its last breath over those territories. Whether it was the right thing to do, however, she could not say. She only knew that she was expected to retrieve appropriate sound bites from the returning soldiers to bolster the morale of her people, and she meant to do her job.
She scanned the careworn faces of those stepping through the platform portal, their rocky features revealing little emotion beyond simple weariness. She hoped to recognize someone, anyone, from the last time she had been here. It distressed her to think of those soldiers she’d come to know in any capacity being killed and never returning, but of course it was the reality, a reality that the Information Service always had to face.
When she’d been assigned to Bajor, easily the most violent and primitive world she’d ever seen, Natima had witnessed some of the most unspeakable things of her career. She’d enjoyed the challenge, at first, but was relieved that her request for a transfer back home had finally been granted. Bajor was a cruel place, with cruel people. It horrified her to see the aftermath of the skirmishes between Cardassian soldiers and the resistance fighters on that world, but perhaps the most upsetting revelation she’d had there occurred when she had discovered that she was beginning to relate to the Bajorans on some basic level. It seemed to her the very best reason to come back home, to focus her allegiance where it belonged; but her opinions regarding the Union had never been the same after the years she’d spent on Bajor.
With a small handheld netcam, she spoke to a few soldiers, who responded to her questions brusquely but supplied her with the patriotic phrasings she expected—and needed—to hear.
“My unit paid dearly, but the Federation’s losses were even more significant. We will prevail.”
“Cardassia will not sleep until we have wrested what is rightfully ours from the Federation dogs.”
“The families of those who have not returned can feel proud knowing that their son, husband, father, or brother gave up his life to better our world.”
Natima winced a little at the last one, for there were women in the military as well as men, but Cardassia was still mired in patriarchy. Females were seldom in combat, although there were a number in command. It was generally believed that women belonged in the sciences, situated as far away from physical danger as possible, for their roles as mothers were valued more highly than any other contribution they might make to the Union. While Natima certainly didn’t regret that she wasn’t stationed on the border along with these returning soldiers, she might at least have liked the option. As it was, she got plenty of disdain from her male colleagues at the Information Service, who had long tried to dissuade her from covering pieces that might place her in harm’s way. It was foolish, especially considering that Natima had no children—and though Cardassian women were blessed with an especially long window of fertility, Natima’s window was more than halfway closed.
In this press of nearly identical soldiers she suddenly saw a familiar face, one that it did her heart good to recognize, for it was the face of her old friend, a glinn named Russol. It was always a relief to see her acquaintances return safely, but it especially gratified her to see that Gaten Russol was still alive.
She put up her hand and called to him, and he turned, along with a few others who looked to see what the commotion was about. Russol smiled in instant recognition, for the two had shared a few exchanges at various press conferences. Natima had come to believe that Russol and she were like-minded politically.
“Hello, Miss Lang,” he said, bowing slightly, stepping closer. “On assignment, I presume?”
Natima nodded.
“You look rather uninterested,” Russol noted. “Do you find these interviews tedious?”
Natima was taken aback at his undercurrent of irritability, not sure if he was flirting with her, but Russol then smiled so warmly that she was compelled to smile back. Perhaps he was flirting.
“It’s worth it to have run into you,” she said, feeling bold. “It’s always a relief to confirm that an acquaintance has come back safely from the front lines.”
“They’ll never finish me off, though it’s not for lack of trying.” His face twisted slightly, his eyes growing distant before he refocused on Natima.
She cleared her throat, fidgeting with the netcam in her hands. “Do you have any comments that you might like to share with the Union public?” she asked him.
Russol snorted. “No,” he said, and his voice was unmistakably bitter. “I suppose I would have something to say, if I thought that anyone would listen to my opinions instead of execute me for them.”
Natima was shocked; she knew from their past conversations that Russol had a bit of a radical streak, but she had not expected him to state anything so bluntly. She was not sure how to respond.
From the corner of her eye, she thought she recognized another of the men that were coming across the tarmac from where the returning ships were docking. Turning slightly, she identified the features of a man whose name did not come to her right away, but his profile and expression was immediately reminiscent of quaking regret, of a time that Natima generally took pains to avoid revisiting. Bajor. Terok Nor.
Natima looked away. This was Corat Damar, the former fiancé of Veja, Natima’s old friend and colleague from her days on Bajor.
She tried to turn so that Damar would not see her, hoping to avoid an uncomfortable reunion. His memories of Bajor were probably even more unpleasant than Natima’s, for it was on Bajor that he had lost the woman he loved. Veja Ketan had not died, but she had been injured so severely as to render her incapable of bearing children, which, according to Cardassian tradition, made her ineligible for marriage.
In a way, Natima had always thought, Veja’s ultimate fate was worse than if she had died, for although she was alive and
generally well, Damar could not marry her, and Veja was very unlikely to marry anyone. Some women in her position would have taken a lover, but Veja was not the kind of woman to indulge in such tawdry dalliances, and anyway, it was clear that there was no other man for her but Damar. Natima still spoke to Veja from time to time, and had learned recently from her that Damar had married and had an infant son. Veja had delivered the news with heartbreakingly false indifference. The entire subject depressed Natima so profoundly that she wished never to think of it, let alone to speak of it. Natima was unmarried herself, but she had never been especially interested in the prospect of marriage and children. Veja’s life’s dream had been to raise a family. The circumstances on Bajor had taken that from her.
Natima risked a glance in the hope that the soldier had gone away, but he was there—and he raised his head and looked at her. She saw the hardness in his expression go slack for a moment as he recognized her, hidden sorrow rising to cloud his gaze. Natima could not look away now, for it would be impolite to pretend that she had not seen him. She smiled quickly, but he did not smile back, looking very much as though he intended to go on his way without acknowledging her. Though it was rude, the possibility that she would not have to speak to him filled Natima with great relief.
“Miss Lang?” Damar called.
She could not reasonably ignore him in Russol’s presence, not without a lengthy explanation that she would rather not give. She nodded to Russol.
“Another time, I hope,” she said lightly, and he smiled, spreading his arm in a gesture of polite dismissal. Damar strode through the other soldiers in his unit to approach her.
“Hello…Gil Damar,” Natima said, after searching his uniform for signs of his rank. She was surprised to see that he was still a gil, for it seemed that his military position had been rising rather quickly back on Terok Nor, over a decade ago. She remembered, then, that he had been a favorite of Dukat—until he had fallen from the prefect’s good graces, following the incident that resulted in Veja’s injury.
“Hello, Miss Lang,” Damar addressed her, his voice reflecting an edge that indicated a pronounced dislike. He had never made a secret of his opinion of Natima, and she knew that he would not have approached her at all without compelling reason.
“I am here on behalf of the Information Service,” Natima said, raising her netcam. She hoped to keep the exchange relatively free from topics that would cause discomfort for either of them. “Perhaps you would like to make a statement—”
“Do you ever speak to Veja Ketan?” Damar interrupted.
So much for avoiding discomfort. “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice hard and steady. “I still see her from time to time. She works within the fact-checking division of the service now, and mostly stays out of the field. She has a little house on Cardassia IV, but then she also stays in the Paldar sector, during the cold months.”
“So…she is well,” Damar said hollowly. “She is…does she ever speak of me?”
Natima coughed. “No,” she lied. She did not wish to continue this line of conversation. “Tell me, Gil Damar, do you have anything to say to the people of Cardassia regarding the situation in the border colonies?”
“The border colonies,” he snarled. “They are a waste of Cardassia’s resources. I won’t miss being there.”
“So, you’re not to be sent back, I gather?”
“No. I’m to be made glinn next service quartile, and then I’m to join a freight crew for a shipping operation.”
Natima nodded. All of Cardassia’s interstellar shipping concerns were overseen by Central Command. Officer on a freight crew was still “military” work, but it was a lucrative and therefore much coveted assignment; there were subsidies, contracts, even benefits, depending on the runs. Still, there was no glory in such work.
“Well then! Congratulations are in order regarding your new rank—and your new assignment,” Natima said. She could hear how brittle and false she sounded. “I hear that serving on a freighter can be an exhilarating existence—plenty of travel, meeting people, experiencing new cultures—”
“I’m sure it will suit me fine,” Damar said flatly. “But Bajor is where I would rather be.” He spat on the ground, as if to illustrate his feelings on the matter.
Natima stepped back from Damar, speechless and disgusted at the gesture. Why would Damar want to return to the place that had nearly destroyed him? Natima herself had vowed never to go back to Bajor if she could possibly help it. Besides the danger, there was the remoteness, the climate, the awful smells—and the dust! Natima would never forget that terrible, choking dust, from the reddish dirt that turned to mud in the humid cold, thick and crusty like wet concrete.
“I would devote my life to the pursuit and execution of the insurgents of Bajor,” Damar said, his expression icy cold, completing his statement without words. Because of Veja.
“But…the Bajoran resistance movement…it is only getting more dangerous,” Natima said carefully. “We’ve practically tapped out the Bajorans’ resources anyway. We might as well—”
“It’s not Bajoran resources I care about,” Damar snarled. “It’s exterminating the people who live to make Cardassians suffer. I don’t know why we haven’t begun using biogenic weapons in the B’hava’el system yet, but I can tell you that if I were stationed on Bajor, any unit under my command would not fail to drive those terrorists out of the dirty little caves where they squat and scheme. They are a backward and violent people, and their existence does nothing to perpetuate humanoid progress.”
Natima flinched. He was wrong to suggest biogenic weapons; that would give the Federation cause to finally put an end to the Bajoran annexation. The Union was already walking a fine line between occupation and genocide—a thing that the Federation was very unlikely to tolerate, since they couldn’t seem to prevent themselves from meddling in other worlds’ affairs. But Natima was not comfortable arguing with Damar. It was not only because she understood his personal stake in the matter, but because her own opinions concerning Bajor tended to lean toward the dangerous. Central Command did not always bother to distinguish the subtle differences between mild dissent and high treason. Natima decided to end this encounter; though she might seem brusque in doing so, she had nothing more to say to Corat Damar. “If you will excuse me, Gil—”
“Certainly,” he said, and turned abruptly away from her to follow the rest of the soldiers to the transport station, where they would be sent home to their families for a night or two before heading off to their next assignments.
Natima thought, as she watched him go, of the word he had used to describe Bajorans—backward. It may not have been entirely inappropriate, in certain contexts, but weren’t Cardassians also backward, in their own ways? For if Damar and Veja had still wished to marry, to raise a family, why could they not have taken in an orphan child to raise as their own? Natima knew only too well the dire conditions of the orphans left behind on Bajor to fend for themselves in a hostile, alien society—not to mention those abandoned children who lived right here, in the Cardassian Union. But it would have been unthinkable for someone like Damar to defy the social constructs of what was acceptable as a traditional Cardassian family. She had dared to broach the subject with him once, and had always regretted it. Damar was a man who did not take tradition lightly, no matter how irrational it might have appeared to an outsider—or to someone like Natima, who had once managed to glean a sense of her world through the eyes of an alien observer, at least for a moment, and had not much cared for all that she’d seen.
Of the regularly stationed assignments the Obsidian Order had to offer, the surveillance post at Valo VI was easily the quietest. For those agents who preferred a little solace now and again, a short stint on Valo VI was a welcome respite. But to be sent for more than a few months was cause for concern, especially among the older agents who were not yet ready to turn in their sigil. The long-term post to Valo VI was synonymous with retirement. It may have been preferable to
death, but for an Obsidian Order agent who had grown accustomed to a lifestyle of unpredictable chaos, being stationed indefinitely at a static listening facility was as near death as one could get while still breathing.
Dost Abor suspected that his own circumstances were different. He had committed no error that he was aware of to have warranted his placement on Valo VI for such a very long time, and he was far enough from retirement age that it made little sense for him to have been put out to pasture so soon. His conclusion was that Tain perhaps considered him a threat. Abor figured he had two alternatives. The first would be to prove his mettle to Tain by accomplishing a breakthrough that could not be ignored and that would guarantee his placement back in the field, where he belonged. The second would be to kill him. It was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility, though it would be something of a trick. Abor felt fairly certain that nearly every agent had entertained such thoughts from time to time, but Tain still sucked air.
This facility, housed beneath an allegedly impenetrable force field on a rather miserable asteroid, was one of many that was unknown to those outside the Order, Cardassian or otherwise. Although there had been a single security breach at this facility some years ago during which an operative had been killed, no data had been compromised, and Abor’s superiors had shrugged off the incident as an inconsequential break-in by Bajoran scavengers looking for an easy target. Enabran Tain had never been particularly concerned about Bajoran comings and goings, since he, like most Cardassians, considered them to be a vastly inferior species that posed no genuine threat to the sanctity of Cardassia—unlike Gul Dukat, who couldn’t even get a handle on their pathetic uprisings.
