Star Trek: Terok Nor 03: Dawn of the Eagles

by S. D. Perry

  Mora caught his breath. “Not everyone can be as brilliant as you are, Doctor Reyar.” He could not look at her in the eye, knowing that she was waiting for his reaction, and in truth, he was finding it difficult to conceal his horror. He had not counted on something like this…

  “So,” he said carefully, “it will work on the same principles as a tricorder?”

  Reyar frowned. “No,” she said. “The targets are too broad. In the future, I plan to remedy the imprecision of this system, but for now, these physical sweeps should be more than sufficient to help pinpoint the locations of terrorists.”

  “Terrorists,” Mora said. “But if innocent civilians were to trip the system…”

  Reyar’s frown went deeper. “If a civilian remains within the boundaries designated for Bajorans, he has nothing to worry about. It is designed to target terrorists. If a Bajoran is carrying proper identification and a permit when he is picked up, he will, of course, be set free.”

  “But,” Mora said, “people make mistakes. Children sometimes run off into the forests—”

  “The system will not target children,” Reyar said firmly. “I saw to that. You are the template, Mora, an adult male. We are going after the resistance, Doctor, not children. We are not terrorists.”

  She went on, explaining that Cardassian-sanctioned Bajoran ships would continue to function unmolested, and Mora bit his lip, bursting with questions. The system would be unaffected by children, but at what age did Reyar assume that Bajorans suddenly became dangerous? Was it based on physical sweeps, on DNA, or on some other property? And might the resistance simply begin to rely on children to run their errands for them? That wasn’t unheard of, though Mora actually knew very little about the resistance. He had never met anyone in the resistance as far as he knew, only heard rumors about them. His heart sank further in his chest as he realized that the plan he had worked on for so long would not be feasible with such a sensor system in place. He doubted very much that the Cardassians would allow his cousin to obtain a travel permit—possibly his parents wouldn’t be eligible, either. There was nothing he could do while sequestered at the institute, which, while not entirely remote, was a small distance away from the villages. As a probable target for terrorist activity, it would likely be placed beyond the perimeters of Reyar’s no-travel zones.

  He kept his expression flat, desperately considering alternative possibilities as he turned back to his work. He felt the hot, eager flicker of hope slipping away from him. He put his head down and tapped at his padd, trying to formulate some kind of a plan, immediately talking himself out of anything he could think of. He would have to be clever if he meant to do something, and he wasn’t sure if it was the sort of cleverness he could deliver. These systems were going to go online, and there was nothing he could do to warn the resistance about it. He was no spy, no rebel. He was just an invisible man in a lab coat, without much of a soul left.

  3

  Ashalla was cold today, colder than it would normally have been in Tilar, where Winn Adami had grown up, colder than in Relliketh, where she had spent five years in a Cardassian prison camp. But Vedek Winn felt warm inside today, for she had come to the Shikina Monastery at Ashalla specifically to be in the presence of the Orb, and today was the day that would finally happen.

  After all that she had been through in her life, she felt that she deserved the attention of the Prophets. It had taken her the better part of the past year to get permission from the rest of the Vedek Assembly to view the Tear of the Prophet, the Orb of Prophecy and Change, the most valuable and revered object on all of Bajor—and its most closely guarded secret. As the most junior member of the Vedek Assembly, Winn had to wait for many weeks before she received word of her “clearance,” but now that she was here, her resentment at being made to wait was beginning to dissipate.

  Vedek Winn awoke in the bedchamber at the Shikina Monastery with heady anticipation; she could not wait to find what important truths about herself the Prophets would reveal. Winn had always known that she was destined for something important, and after the years in the prison camp, her conviction had grown even stronger. The Prophets had arranged it so that she would survive that experience intact, but with a furious, unwavering desire to see herself vindicated for what she had been put through. The Prophets did not choose just anyone to be captured, tortured, humiliated, released, and then almost immediately chosen for the Vedek Assembly. Winn had been quite sure for some time now that she was meant to be a mouthpiece for Them, and this would be the first step toward proving it.

  She brushed her soft, light hair before donning the modest headpiece of her order. These days, only Jaro Essa had the privilege of seeing her without it, and she took some measure of pride in that knowledge. She had always worn her robes casually when she was younger, often forgoing the traditional headgear, but after being stripped of her vestments at the prison camp, Winn felt that she would not take them for granted again, that her physical presence was to be carefully guarded from anyone except for the very few to whom she submitted her trust. Right now, Essa was the only person who fell into the category.

  She belonged to Essa now, as much as she could belong to another person. He was an influential man; though he held no power under Cardassian authority, he was powerful nonetheless. It made Winn proud to think of her Essa: he was honest, he was true to Bajor. He had gained his reputation by his own merits, not by licking the boots of the despicable aliens who had come to try to steal this world. But the Prophets would eventually see the Cardassians away—Winn believed that as surely as she believed in her own potential. And when that happened, Jaro’s star would rise along with hers.

  A soft rap came at the door, and Winn presented herself to the monks who were to take her to see the Orb.

  “Vedek, I come to inform you that we cannot take you to the Tear of the Prophets this morning, for there is to be—”

  “Cannot take me?” Winn repeated, with fierce politeness. “But…I have waited all this time already.” It galled her that this underling apparently had the authority to deliver such a message to a member of the Vedek Assembly.

  The monk went right on speaking as if he had not been interrupted. Her irritation with his insolence made Winn miss the first part of his message. “…or what there are of them here at the shrine. We have received an encrypted message from Prylar Bek at Terok Nor—”

  “Prylar Bek? What could this possibly have to do with the Tear of the Prophets?”

  “An emergency council of the Vedek Assembly,” the monk stated, repeating the first part of his message. “You, of course, are required to attend. It must be done immediately. There is not time for anyone to travel, and we cannot rely on communiqués, even encrypted ones. Prylar Bek insisted it was imperative that the Cardassians not hear the content of his message, for it concerns the kai herself.”

  Winn swallowed her bitterness and followed the aging monk as he lurched his way down the glossy, echoing corridor of the monastery. He took her to a chamber where she was met by another member of the Vedek Assembly, an old, unlikable woman named Sharet Ras. Winn nodded to her with the appropriate measure of deference, thinking that perhaps someday she would be in a position to make the other vedeks feel like children, as Vedek Sharet often seemed to like to do.

  Soon they were joined by seven other vedeks of the assembly, with Sharet presiding as the senior member. There were several core members away, but as the Shikina Monastery was currently home to the main body of the Assembly, it would be up to the attending vedeks to conduct the meeting, to hear the message, and to make whatever decisions might need to be made. In spite of her disappointment, Winn had to consider that perhaps it was the Prophets’ doing that she should happen to be here at this time.

  “Prylar Bek has sent us a coded message in the hand of a mock prisoner smuggled off Terok Nor,” Vedek Sharet informed the others, not wasting any time. “He has learned from someone on the station that a new detection grid could put the life of the k
ai—and, indeed, the lives of every Bajoran—in grave danger. The grid is purported to be almost ready—it will be operational within the week. He has insisted that the shrine where she has hidden must be completely evacuated, for the Cardassians will be sure to find it just as soon as the new system goes online.”

  “Who is his source?” Vedek Preta demanded. “How can we even be sure that the coded message is genuine? This could be a trap to bring the kai out into the open.”

  Winn had been thinking much the same thing, but something in her constitution wouldn’t permit her to speak—not only because she was the youngest member of the assembly, nor because her first concern had been for the kai. Her anxiety was for the resistance fighters who would likely be targeted by the technology in question. There had been a time when Winn had disagreed with the rebellion, but times had changed. The Vedek Assembly’s positions had changed. Of course, the kai was a symbolic beacon of hope for Bajor, but she did not hold the same importance to its future as did the resistance. Winn was suddenly eager to contact Jaro Essa.

  Vedek Sharet smiled patiently. “We must come to a quick conclusion, my brothers and sisters,” she said. “We must decide which poses a greater risk: evacuating the kai—preferably here, to the Shikina Monastery—or doing nothing.”

  “Bek is a trustworthy man,” Vedek Marin said. “We must do this.”

  The other votes were cast, with four of those in attendance voting to reject the warning as a trap, and four opting to immediately inform the kai of the possible danger and to arrange to have her secretly transported to the Shikina Monastery. It fell to Winn to cast the deciding vote, which pleased her not a little. After a brief moment of reflection, she decided to warn the kai, for she ultimately felt that Kai Opaka was good for Bajor. She wondered if the kai would ever learn of Winn’s role in the vote. How will I reply when she thanks me?

  The decision made, some monks were recruited immediately to take the message to Kendra, so that Ranjen Stassen could be contacted at the shrine of the kai. Winn was relieved that the ordeal was over, and eager to resume her scheduled appointment with the Orb. But Vedek Sharet had other ideas.

  “Vedek Winn,” she said, with a gentleness that Winn surmised to be false, “I think it is best if we do not take anyone down to see the Orb just now. There has been so much excitement for a single day…and you must have heard that an Orb experience is not something to be taken lightly. I sense, Vedek Winn, that you are not ready for such an experience today. We will speak further on the matter tomorrow.”

  “But…Vedek, after all the time I’ve waited, I am more ready today than I will ever be,” Winn protested, but she could see a kind of finality in the eyes of the old woman. She would not be getting her chance to see the Orb today—maybe not even this week—especially if the warning concerning the kai turned out to be genuine. The “excitement” would not be ebbing any time soon. As she returned to her rooms, Winn thought to herself that the warning had better turn out to have substance; if she’d been prohibited from seeing the Orb without cause, it would certainly make her regret her vote.

  Russol met Natima at her house with a skimmer, a means of transportation that she supposed he felt was more discreet than public transport. But Natima knew only too well that if Russol had been marked as a possible dissident, it wouldn’t matter how he chose to travel; the authorities would know where he was going before he even got there.

  Natima was taken to the residence of a retired archon, where she was greeted in the lobby of his impressively large house by one of his many servants. The furniture was rich and heavy, the art expensively austere. She was surprised that one so wealthy would have associated with government nonconformists; she had always supposed that rebellion stemmed from desperation, from the young, the poor, or men like Russol who’d been forced to take part in conflicts that they did not agree with.

  There were many people here, seemingly from all walks of life and within every age category beyond young adulthood, though most of the people she saw were nearer to her own age. There were only a few women, and most of them seemed to be someone’s wife. It may have just been the backdrop, but everyone Natima saw seemed to come from wealth or prestige. She supposed she should have felt out of place, but she mostly only felt curious. She was uncomfortable speaking too freely to anyone she met, though the conversations she overheard quickly confirmed that these people were indeed radicals; she no longer believed Russol was trying to trick her. Staging something on a scale like this, with so many other people involved, seemed highly unlikely.

  It took some time before the “meeting” came to order, though the lack of organization and leadership made it unlike any meeting she’d ever attended—more like a confused congregation at a party. The guests had been called to gather in a large, glassed-in room at the back of the manse, overlooking the expansive grounds, stone gardens, and cultured cacti. Russol and the host tried to maintain direction over the crowd, but as various well-dressed figures stood to speak, others would cut in and still others would stand to disagree, the resulting arguments and side arguments quickly giving way to chaos.

  “The heart of our problems rests on Bajor,” one man kept insisting. “The costs of the Bajoran venture have long outweighed the profits. And when those resources have run dry, the market for those products that are reliant on Bajoran raw materials will crash, and the economy will suffer for it.”

  This at least seemed to resonate with most at the meeting, but the solutions were another matter. “Cardassians will never accept an abrupt conclusion to the annexation,” another man cut in. “We must first find an alternate source of those materials that now come from Bajor—for when the Bajoran minerals have all been mined—”

  “The problem is that Central Command is not pacing the removal of those materials!” interrupted someone else. “Bajor has more than enough resources to sustain Cardassia for many generations. But Central Command has been striking trade agreements with other worlds that do not make long-term economic sense for us. They are only interested in short-term wealth, where they should be providing for Cardassia’s long-term needs.”

  “But the Bajoran resistance—the conflicts with the locals have become more than the current prefect knows how to handle. The Information Service refuses to report the truth on the matter of Bajoran terrorism—”

  Natima flinched internally. When she’d been on Bajor, she had been one of the primary media censors. Her objective had been to downplay the violence on that world, reporting instead on the perceived successes of each Cardassian venture.

  The arguments continued, and Natima began to feel exhausted just listening. She caught Russol’s eye and tried to convey to him her feelings. Why did you bring me here, Russol? This group has no direction, they are only united by their sense of frustration, but they use it against one another. Russol looked back at her, and Natima saw a shift in his jaw that seemed to indicate he did not disagree with her.

  “Friends,” Russol called out over them. “We’ve come here tonight at great risk to ourselves. We may not all agree on each and every strategy, we may not even be sure what it is that we want to change—only that change is what we all desire, in the Union’s policies regarding Bajor. We need people like you if we are going to bring about that change.” He swept his arm out in a gesture to indicate everyone in the room, but Natima felt as though he might be speaking directly to her, as though he was addressing the look she had just given him. The room was mostly silent now, and Natima finally felt herself able to listen.

  “Every day this annexation continues, more lives are lost, and another piece of Cardassia’s soul is chipped away. We need to make our domain reflect the integrity and hope that each of us carries inside, for the Union that could be—the Union we can see, in our hearts and minds, the pride of which inspires us toward greatness. We need people who believe that a sound government, a solid economy, and a world we can be proud of is worth the risk of being called dissident.”

  Natima felt a surg
e of inspiration. She did indeed believe that Cardassia was worth fighting for; she loved her world and she loved her people. It was the tactics of its politicians and soldiers that she disagreed with. Over the years, she’d come to understand that the desperate times before the annexation had warped the sensibilities of the modern Cardassian. The traditions and customs that had sprung from necessity during those lean times, the rigid definition of what constituted a family—Natima would like very much if those definitions could be retooled to better fit the conditions of the present. Not only because she was an orphan, but because of something she had learned on Bajor.

  Natima had only met one Bajoran insurgent, but that meeting had been enough to learn something about the whole of them, she believed. The terrorists had bucked their old social proscriptions, the castes that had once defined their society, and they had bucked the proscriptions imposed upon them by their occupiers. They had done it to preserve something more inherent than tradition—it was a sense of self that they clung fast to, a deep-rooted definition of what it meant to be Bajoran. Natima had been envious when she had recognized it, and she was envious still, for she felt no such connection to her own world—not anymore.

  She longed to revisit it, the Cardassian patriotism she had enjoyed before her time on Bajor. She hoped that perhaps Russol would be the one to resurrect it, Russol and this group of squabbling dissidents. Fifteen minutes ago, it had seemed impossible to her—but now, as she watched the group of people around her, rapt at Russol’s words, she allowed herself to hope that it might be true.

  B’hava’el had just begun to dip in the valley below the foothills, and Li Nalas knew he’d do best to get back to camp before the sun got any lower. It was a long walk to the camp, which was situated in the sparsely vegetated valley below him, and Li didn’t relish the idea of sleeping out in the open. It was warm now, but once the sun went down behind the valley’s rim, it would not be.