by S. D. Perry
“Doctor Reyar, I’ll not keep you guessing. This matter concerns an old colleague of yours, from the Ministry of Science.”
“The ministry,” Kalisi repeated, trying to think of anyone suspicious she had known at the old facility.
“Yes, a woman named Miras Vara. You were quite close to her at one time, were you not?”
“Miras!” Kalisi exclaimed. Miras was hardly the sort of person that warranted the attention of the Obsidian Order. But then, perhaps Kalisi had been wrong. Perhaps this was not the Obsidian Order at all? Nobody had identified it as such; in fact, this man had not identified himself in any fashion.
“May I ask what this is about?” she said, feeling a little less frightened, a little more confused.
The man hesitated, and then spoke again. “Doctor Reyar, you contacted your father some years ago regarding Doctor Vara, and her strange behavior following an incident with a Bajoran artifact.”
Kalisi immediately remembered. “Yes, I did,” she admitted. “But I have not seen Miras in years. Not since…”
“Not since she disappeared, following that incident.”
“She…disappeared,” Kalisi repeated—a statement, but then she wasn’t sure if she had known it. She had been so busy with her research at the time—so determined to be recognized by the Cardassian Board of Scientists so that she could develop her prototype on Bajor…
“That’s right,” the man said. “No one has heard from Doctor Vara since you notified your father about that object. And no one has been able to find the object, either. In fact, some time ago, I sought to retrieve it from the Ministry of Science, where it had been…misplaced for a good long time. But do you know what I found, when he went to remove it? Remove it legitimately, I might add, with proper permit and credential?”
“What?” Kalisi asked in a small voice, for she had not quite puzzled out what any of this had to do with her.
“The object was gone!” he said, in mock surprise. “Gone, after it had been confirmed that the director at the science ministry had relocated it, at last. You knew, before any of this occurred, Doctor Reyar, that the object held some significance. You knew enough to tell your father that he would be wise to inform Enabran Tain about it, didn’t you? Now, I would like you to tell me anything you know regarding Doctor Vara’s disappearance, Doctor Reyar.”
His eyes glittered. Kalisi shook her head. “Please,” she insisted. “I don’t know! I haven’t spoken to Miras in ages. I had no idea she was wrapped up in any…missing object. I…my father is Yannik Reyar, can you contact him, please? Does he know I’m here?”
“I know who your father is. I don’t need to call him.”
Kalisi felt ice in her veins. It was so terribly cold in this room—was that part of this man’s interrogation technique? Was this an interrogation? She was afraid, and being scared made her angry. Who was this person?
“I’ve told you all I know,” she said, realizing as she said it that she’d told him nothing. “I’m to be sent to Doctor Crell Moset’s hospital. If I don’t arrive there, my father will know that something has happened to me.”
The man laughed then, the threatening tilt of his countenance abruptly vanishing. “My dear, you sound so grim!” he exclaimed. “Of course you’ll be taken to Doctor Moset’s hospital. It’s a pity you couldn’t help us. But if you remember anything at all…”
Kalisi stood, dazed. Was this really coming to an end? “I’ll contact you, of course,” she said, though she did not know his name, nor even the name of this planet where he apparently resided. “But who…?”
“My name,” he said cordially, “is Dost Abor. If, at any time in the future, you remember anything at all about your friend, you need only to contact your father in order to find me.”
“Anything at all,” she promised, wondering now what had actually happened. Had she imagined the cold, the way his eyes had shone, watching her cry for her father? Had she imagined her own fear?
Any citizen of the Union could be called upon at any time to assist the authorities in matters concerning the good of home and state. Which authority—homeworld police, the Order, Central Command—didn’t really matter; authority got what it wanted. It seemed she’d been called upon, that was all.
Of course that’s all. Miras Vara had gotten herself into some kind of trouble. It made sense that someone would want to talk to her old acquaintances. And she didn’t know anything; she hadn’t even thought of Miras in years…
She forced a laugh at herself as the pilot beamed them back up to the shuttle. I should have been a writer of enigma tales, she decided. She’d been slightly inconvenienced, at worst, and she’d overreacted. That was all. But then—that cold, handsome smile.
Dost Abor, she thought. She’d remember the name.
OCCUPATION YEAR THIRTY-FIVE
2362 (Terran Calendar)
5
There was no more smoke, the explosion’s resultant fires having long since died, but everything smelled of burnt composite and chemicals, the stink rising from the blackened ground. There was nothing left of the house—scarcely even rubble. The Bajoran device, whatever it was, had reduced the Pa’Dar home to little more than a large heap of fine dust.
Kotan Pa’Dar stood at the edge of the site with his personal aide, scarcely able to look at the mound of ash. A slight breeze stirred the dust, and Pa’Dar felt his eyes and throat ridges ache, wondering if the bones of his wife and son were in that dancing tide of particles. It was a mere fluke that Pa’Dar himself had not been home when the attack had occurred. In the days that followed the incident, contemplating his life without his family, he had wished that he had been home, sometimes so fervently that he could not sleep. He wished he had gone with them, wherever they now were.
Yoriv Skyl, who had been Pa’Dar’s assistant and closest friend for the past four years, was now doing his best to provide consolation, but Pa’Dar found that he wished the other man would simply remain silent, as he could hardly bear to concoct responses for him.
“The others at the settlement continue to insist that your son may not have been here when the attack occurred,” Skyl said. “Every man in our vicinity has been instructed to look for an eight-year-old Cardassian child, and with so few of our children on this world, it will only be a matter of time—”
“Please, Yoriv. This isn’t necessary.” Pa’Dar found it ironic that his own house should be the one to be targeted. He had been sympathetic to the plight of the Bajorans almost since the beginning of his term; he had originally come to Bajor in the role of scientist, not conqueror, and during his reluctant political tenure had done his best to see to it that the Bajorans under his direct governance were treated fairly. But the terrorists did not distinguish, only worked to create the biggest impact with their violence. And who better to attack than an exarch?
Pa’Dar and Skyl were supposed to be discussing the particulars of a new dwelling that would be built here, directly atop the ruins of the old, but Pa’Dar was far from enthusiastic about the idea. He did not want to live on this spot anymore; in fact, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to live on Bajor anymore.
With that thought, his adjutant fielded a transmission that had come to his padd. It was Dukat—Pa’Dar knew it from the first silky word as the prefect greeted Pa’Dar’s aide.
“Yoriv.”
Skyl turned slightly, to keep Pa’Dar out of the frame. Pa’Dar watched impassively, sure that his assistant would know to keep him out of any exchanges with the prefect. Especially today.
“Hello, Prefect. Is there something I can do for you?” Skyl’s round face was the picture of helpful supplicant.
“Yes. You can remind Pa’Dar that the reports concerning drilling estimates in Tozhat were to be in my hands as of yesterday.”
“Prefect, perhaps you’ve not heard of the tragedy that occurred here four days ago—we are still dealing with the aftermath.”
“Of course I am aware of it,” Dukat said. “I am the one who ordere
d that the site be assessed right away for the approval of a new structure. I wanted the affair to be managed as seamlessly as possible, to allow Pa’Dar to put the incident behind him—after an appropriate opportunity to grieve, of course.”
“Yes, of course, and for that, I know the exarch is grateful. You’re most gracious, to extend such a courtesy when I know how you’re counting on that data…”
Skyl went on, handling the prefect with his customary aplomb. Pa’Dar was grateful for his assistant’s capabilities, for he himself had never been much of a politician when it came to handling Dukat’s demands—many of which Pa’Dar disagreed with directly. Pa’Dar had been acquainted with the prefect for a long time, and the rivalry and dissent between the two men had only increased over the years. It didn’t improve the situation that certain members of Pa’Dar’s family served on the Detapa Council, and it was no secret that the council was often in direct conflict with Central Command. As the civilian government started to exercise more influence over the military, Dukat’s position weakened—and he had Pa’Dar to vent his frustration on.
As Skyl continued to field Dukat, Pa’Dar had another look at the ruins of his home, and made a decision. Skyl finished his call and turned to Pa’Dar with apology in his expression.
“Business does not rest, Kotan. I will facilitate those reports for you—all that they will require is your thumbscan. None of it is of such consequence that you need to trouble yourself with it immediately.”
“Thank you, Yoriv. But if I may make an observation—it seems to me that you do my job even better than I do.”
Skyl looked worried. “I don’t mean to imply that your input is unnecessary, Kotan. I only meant that perhaps, at a time such as this—”
Pa’Dar interrupted him. “You misunderstand me, friend. My father insists that he can eventually get me nominated for a seat on the Detapa Council if I return to Cardassia Prime. There are two members of the council who will likely be retiring soon, due to their age…. I wouldn’t have considered it before now, but it seems to me that the Bajorans no longer appreciate my efforts here.”
Skyl appeared to understand, now. “And so…my services will no longer be required?”
Pa’Dar almost smiled. “They will be very much required, Yoriv, for I intend to recommend you as my replacement. I have little doubt that the prefect will approve, since it seems to me that your relationship with him is far better than mine has ever been.” He did not add that it was unlikely that any other, more experienced politician would want the position. Where once a man might feel that his political career could be secured by serving a few terms on Bajor, most now felt that it was not worth the risk. That skepticism was not likely to abate in the wake of this current tragedy.
Yoriv was speechless, and for a moment, Pa’Dar thought perhaps the other man didn’t wish to take the position. But Skyl broke into an earnest smile, a smile of gratitude, and Pa’Dar felt, for a moment, something almost like relief—but it was gone again with another slight breeze, the dust of his heart and home spinning up into the ever chill wind. If nothing else, the thought of leaving Bajor at last was of some consolation. That comfort was small indeed.
She was only imagining that she could hear the whistling of the wind outside, Kira knew. In fact, nobody in the Shakaar cell was sure what kind of weather was going on beyond the dense, soundproof rock, though they’d received a report that there was a strong storm front coming in. Unusual for this late in the spring, but deep in the cave, there was no way to confirm what was really happening out there. Refractory minerals in the surrounding hillside, so effective at concealing them from Cardassian scanners, likewise made their own tricorders useless, unless someone maintained a tricky relay system that would have to be periodically recalibrated from outside. Where the weather was concerned, it was easier just to crawl through the tunnels to have a look at the sky. Sometimes Kira looked forward to doing the weather report, just to glimpse the outside world, but she didn’t want to do it today. She was tired after another sleepless night.
Nobody went outside much anymore, and not for longer than absolutely necessary. After the detection grid had first gone online, they thought they had already defeated it; Mobara had come up with small individual devices that were supposed mask their biosigns, make them less distinguishable from the surrounding flora and fauna. The tech, as it turned out, wasn’t entirely reliable, a fact driven home during that harrowing week last year when Kira had been cut off from the rest of the cell for seven days while being hunted by Union troops.
More recently, Mobara had cobbled together a rig that generated a scattering field over a small area, making them invisible to the sensor towers, and within the field the cell was able to travel in small groups—up to a point. If someone happened to accidentally wander or be forced outside the perimeter of the field, Cardassians were usually upon them within minutes. That was how well the grid seemed to work.
Although, Kira reflected, it doesn’t always work. Even without Mobara’s gadgets, there were still times when Dahkur’s resistance fighters succesfully crept through the hills undetected, and Kira had often been among those lucky few. But unless and until they could discern a pattern to those failures in the grid, it was in the relative safety of the caves that they made their homes, living off emergency rations and making gradiose plans to knock out the sensor towers.
The few active cells left on Bajor were dealing with the grid in much the same way as the Shakaar, but her cell heard about those things only through word of mouth. They had lost long-range contact with the other resistance groups over a year ago, although nobody was sure how it had happened—probably just a communications tower on Derna that needed maintenance, and no way to get to it. The Cardassians’ anti-aircraft system was still fully functional, but that was an assumption only—one nobody in the Shakaar cell dared to challenge.
Kira set about boiling some water on the makeshift unit her cell used for a stove. This unit could produce heat without the danger of toxic emissions, as long as it was functioning properly. Drinking water was collected from a runoff point in an underground stream below them, one of the same streams that carried off any non-compostable waste and irrigated the artificially lit gardens Shakaar was always trying—unsuccessfully—to coax into producing enough food to make supply runs less necessary.
It was important to check the snowmelt every so often in the spring to ensure that the water levels were sound; they needed enough water to last them through the summer, but too much melt too soon meant they’d have a flood on their hands. The detection grid had turned even that tedious errand into a venture of uncertainty, and nobody had been able to check the rate of runoff in almost a month. Kira was all too aware of it every time she took a drink of water. Would this be the month they’d all die of thirst in this cave? Or the night they’d all drown in their sleep when the subterranean streams beneath them began to swell, filling the chambers with icy water?
The water in the pot began to bubble, and Kira tapped the contents of a Cardassian-issued ration pack into the little saucepan she was using. Most people ate these things straight, but Kira preferred to make a kind of soupy porridge from the crushed contents of the packets. It wasn’t what any Bajoran would call delicious—the Cardassians’ idea of food took quite a bit of getting used to—but you could live on it.
It was early, and the rest of the cell was still asleep, or possibly out in the larger chamber, grumbling about failed plans. Nothing had been going well lately, not for many months. Only a very few minor operations had been successfully carried out by the Shakaar cell over the last year, working in conjunction with what was left of the Kohn-Ma cell, a group Shakaar Edon didn’t always see eye-to-eye with. The Kohn-Ma cell had fewer qualms about “friendly fire” than did any other cell Kira knew about, even if it involved civilians—even if it involved children. Kira didn’t like it, but she had always taken it to be a necessity of fighting a war. Shakaar seemed to feel differently.
Kir
a ate quickly. She didn’t want to be scolded for having her packet of rations so early in the day. The cell members were each supposed to be living on just one of these things every twenty-six hours, but Kira had decided she’d make another run back into one of the local townships herself, tomorrow, after the storm cleared up, to resupply the cell with food and other necessities.
She didn’t know why, but she’d been the luckiest in her outfit as far as these supply runs went. Every time she reminded Shakaar or Lupaza of it, they’d insist that luck only went so far—“How do you know your number isn’t about to come up?” Kira insisted it was only because she was more careful than the others, the ones who hadn’t made it back, though she knew it was certainly not true. She could be just as clumsy as anyone else—last time she hadn’t made it back to the warren until long after the Cardassians must have found the false life sign and moved on to find her signal—but somehow, she’d made it clean.
Kira had just about finished her meal when she jumped at a voice that seemed to come from nowhere. “Nerys!”
She turned to find that someone stood in the tunnel that connected with the northwestern entrance, the one used by the members of the Kohn-Ma cell. It was Tahna Los, a handsome but cocky young man who was not much older than Kira.
“You scared the kosst out of me,” Kira grumbled, and quickly finished her food.
“I need you for a minute.”
