Star Trek: Terok Nor 03: Dawn of the Eagles

by S. D. Perry

  Dukat had to consciously relax his neck and jaw to speak. “Where did it go?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps Doctor Mora—”

  “You will have him forward all research regarding the shape-shifter to me immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  “And…Doctor Yopal, I have good news for you.”

  “Oh?” She cocked her head.

  “Yes, Doctor. Your assignment on Bajor has come to an end. You may return to Cardassia Prime.”

  The woman’s smile vanished. “Prefect,” she said faintly, “you are…too kind. But I—”

  “No need to thank me,” he said, fully aware that thanking him was the last thing on her mind. He knew her type all too well. She was driven and committed, and leaving Bajor was anything but a reward to her, especially so abruptly. She would be unlikely to enjoy as much prestige in a Cardassian facility. But losing the shape-shifter was not a mistake that Dukat could let go unpunished. He cut the transmission off, already thinking ahead. What had the Bajoran doctor said?

  “Odo has expressed great interest in learning more about his species…”

  Where might such a creature go? Who would it talk to, if it sought information about other worlds? A Bajoran farmer, raised by generations of Bajoran farmers?

  It will come here, Dukat thought, suddenly certain of it…though Dukat would do what he could to ensure the visit, to see to it that Odo understood where its best chances lay.

  He put a call in to the base nearest the institute, waited while a surprised garresh went to find his commander. It shouldn’t be too hard to find the creature, considering its appearance. He’d have it monitored at a discreet distance, and once he was sure of its whereabouts, he could decide how best to draw it in, bring it to Terok Nor. Then he could take all the time he needed, to decide how Odo might best serve the Union. It—

  He, he reminded himself. It identifies itself as “he.”

  Dukat smiled. A sentient creature that could turn himself into a book on a shelf, an insect on the wall…Perhaps he might serve best as one of Dukat’s team.

  “…which was how I ended up spending half my residency on the station at Hetrith,” Doctor Moset said. “That’s when I really shifted my focus. The creature died, eventually, but I kept it alive long enough to learn everything about it. By the time I went home, I was ready to apply for my second doctorate. And after all that work, they put me here. Even Hetrith had better facilities, and it was a frontier station.”

  He leaned against the biobed that Kalisi was calibrating, his long arms folded, his tone light in spite of his words. She’d found Crell Moset to be a man who took most things lightly, his most common expression one of amused detachment. They were alone in the contagion ward, the beds empty, the day staff excused. In the weeks since Kalisi had come to work at his hospital, Moset had taken to seeking her out sometimes in the late afternoon, talking a bit about himself as she went about whatever menial work she’d been assigned. Complaining about his lot in life, which was so much better than hers, she occasionally felt like throttling him.

  After a few days to consider her options, she’d decided to encourage the doctor. For a relatively young, unmarried woman it was not the wisest choice, she knew, to become involved with a superior. But for such a woman with few prospects, in her personal life or her career, there were worse mistakes.

  Like not becoming involved with one, she thought, tapping at the open control panel on the bed’s back. Second time in a month she’d had to reset the circulatory diagnostics. The equipment wasn’t the best, but at least it was his hospital, his research facility. She was just someone qualified enough to fix it.

  “I mean, how many times have you had to reset these things?” Moset asked, his thin line of a mouth curving slightly.

  “You seem to do just fine with what you’ve been given,” she snapped, a sneer in her voice.

  He studied her a moment, perhaps making his own final decision on the matter. He had a fine, high brow and extremely thin lips. Not a bad-looking man, although his hair was an atypical brown, rather than black. He was tall, which she liked. She didn’t know his personal situation, but doubted it was relevant. He’d been working up to something since the day she’d arrived.

  “That’s right, Doctor Reyar, I do,” he said, meeting her gaze directly. “I’ve done important research in my time here.”

  Kalisi went back to her work. She felt the heat in her voice, felt its warmth. It felt good, to say what she wanted to say. To know what effect her irritation would have. She was an attractive woman, she knew, well-educated and fine of feature.

  “How nice for you,” she said, not looking away from the bed panel.

  A beat later, and his hand was on her shoulder. His fingers were long and tapered, his hand warm through her tunic. It was so cold here, always so cold…

  “I see how hard you work,” he said, his voice low in his throat. “I appreciate it.”

  She turned to him then, letting her anger carry her. “I’m a weapons engineer, Doctor. I designed and implemented the detection grid that has made Bajor safe for us, that has finally halted the insurgency. And because of a single mistake I made, years ago, the Ministry of Science has given me no credit for my work, for my research. My reward for getting the systems up and running is to be sent here, to fix biobeds for you.”

  She’d stepped over the line, but she didn’t care, and the doctor’s heat was coming back at her, his bright eyes flashing with it.

  “You think I want to be here? My specialty—my passion—is nonhumanoid exobiology. I had just begun to establish myself at home and the ministry tells me I’m needed here, running research projects on an inferior species, giving inoculations and treating diseases as though I’m some, some medic. At least you get to go out in the field. I’m here every night, every single night, all alone—”

  He was suddenly so close to her that she could smell him, the astringent scent of sterilizing hand cleanser, an expensive hair oil. His gaze was brilliant, piercing, and focused entirely on her. His hand slipped around her lower back and he pulled her roughly closer.

  She fought him for a just a moment and then allowed herself to be kissed, to feel the crush of his narrow mouth against hers. He was a brilliant man. She would work at his side, find a way not to be forgotten. He pushed his hand into her skirt, and then her only thoughts were of the flesh.

  7

  Although the occasional alien pilot came through Quark’s bar, as well as the odd half-breed from regions unknown, the vast majority of his clientele looked identical to him: dark, slicked-back hair, uniformly gray skin, and indistinguishable shiny gray military uniforms. Sometimes, if one of the Cardassian regulars struck up a conversation with him, Quark had to engage in a moment of panicky brain-wracking in order to place the man—was it someone he’d talked to before? It took time to recognize a particular Cardassian, and even then, Quark didn’t go much by faces; a man’s voice, his mannerisms, the verbal expressions he frequently used—that was the way to tell, in an ocean of bland gray people.

  Women were a different matter. Quark came up from the cellar after the lunch rush one fine, lucrative day to find that there was a new face in his establishment, a female face. He’d seen Cardassian women before, but they were always either uniformed or accompanied by a male. This woman was neither. She was dressed in a long, green gown—not a scientist or a soldier, and apparently nobody’s wife, either. The dimple in her forehead was painted bright blue, something that Quark was reasonably certain indicated that she was not married. The other men in the bar had taken notice, too, a group of noncoms and a couple of glinns at the bar all stealing looks.

  Quark saw that his brother was headed toward the woman’s table. Quickly he elbowed his way ahead of Rom and approached the lone Cardassian female.

  “Hey,” Rom protested, but Quark ignored him. He flashed his best sales smile at the woman.

  “What will you be having, then, miss?”


  The woman lifted her face to him, her throat long and graceful, accentuated by the ridges that ran down either side of it. The neckline of her dress dipped down low enough that Quark could see the alien peculiarities of her pectoral bone structure; a scoop, identical to the one on her forehead, was plainly visible just above her breasts. Quark swallowed, noting to himself that he had never seen quite so much of the Cardassian anatomy before; he found this woman’s to be surprisingly agreeable.

  “A Samarian Sunset, please,” she said, her voice cool.

  “Right away,” he said, and dashed back to the bar.

  “Brother,” Rom said. “Your elbows are sharp.” He rubbed his side.

  “Sharper than your wit,” Quark grumbled, mixing the drink. “Can’t you see there are a half-dozen customers who haven’t been waited on?”

  “I was trying to see to that woman back there—”

  “I’ll handle her, Rom. You take care of those soldiers in the corner.”

  “Oh. Okay, brother.”

  On his way back to the woman’s table, Quark nearly tripped over one of his Bajoran day laborers, a scrawny man who had gone blind in one eye. The man looked up from where he had been scrubbing the floor, his ruined eye disarmingly cloudy and dead-seeming, and Quark scowled at the sight of him. “Out of my way,” he barked, shoving the crouched old man with his knees.

  “Forgive me, Quark,” the man said huskily.

  Quark felt a little nauseous, regarding this poor creature. Since that conversation with Gaila, he’d gone out of his way to show the Bajorans no mercy. He had his reputation to consider; for a businessman, “soft” was like a curse.

  “Ferengi do not forgive,” he said sharply. “I can’t have my customers stumbling over a bag of bones on their way to the tables. Do your job, or it’s back to the mines.”

  “Of course,” the man replied, following it up with a coughing fit.

  “And try to control your coughing! This is a place of relaxation—we don’t need to be confronted with the specter of your various…maladies!”

  Quark stepped over the Bajoran and set the drink down in front of the pretty woman, smiling broadly. He tapped the side of her glass with a fingernail, and the clarity of the glass was suddenly overtaken by a reddish cloud that dissipated into a soft, orange glow.

  “One Samarian Sunset,” he announced with a flourish.

  “Thank you,” she said, eyeing the Bajoran man on the floor. She seemed troubled, but Quark could not be sure, going by her mysterious expression alone. Maybe she didn’t like Bajorans. He could not take his eyes off her. Her skin wasn’t so much gray as the pale, metallic hue of the Ferengi sky on a spring morning. Her eyes sparkled like gems.

  Quark put his hands together and watched her as she took her first sip. “Is it to your liking?” he asked eagerly.

  She smiled, and cleared her throat. “It’s fine, thank you, Mister…”

  “Quark, the proprietor of this humble tavern.” He spread his hands.

  “Well, Mister Quark. I’m Natima. Natima Lang. It’s a fine place, your establishment. The last time I was here, I remember thinking that the station was sorely lacking a nice place for…food and drink.”

  “The last time you were here?” Quark cocked his head.

  She took another sip. “When I was a much younger woman than I am now.” She laughed softly.

  “You look plenty young to me,” Quark said honestly. Cardassians hid their ages well.

  She snorted a ladylike snort. “Thank you, Mister Quark, but…I doubt the Cardassians in here would agree with you. You might have noticed they can’t stop staring at me.”

  “Because you’re so attractive,” Quark said, again in earnest.

  She laughed again, louder this time. “It’s because they can’t figure out what a female civilian my age is doing in a place like this, without a male escort.”

  Quark slid into the seat opposite hers. “I’ll admit that very question occurred to me, as well.”

  She set down her drink, stared at it. “I’m with the Cardassian Information Service. I’ve been sent to report on the state of the annexation. I was on the surface of Bajor, years ago, and now…I’ve been sent back, though I’ll be staying on the station this time.”

  Quark nodded. “So I can look forward to seeing you again?”

  She smiled, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes, I suppose you can.” She gestured to the soldiers that surrounded them. “If they will tolerate it.”

  Quark shrugged. “Who cares what they think?”

  “Women have their roles within my society,” she said, and sounded rueful, though Quark couldn’t imagine why.

  “Isn’t it that way in every society?” he asked. “I mean, besides those Bajorans—they’ve got nothing in the way of civilized societal structure. Their women just run around, willy-nilly, doing any old thing the men do—”

  “I think I’ll be going now,” the woman said briskly. “I’ve finished my drink.” She stood up.

  “Oh,” Quark said, filing the information away. Feminist, probably. He could work around that. “Well, please do come back.”

  “Thank you, Mister Quark.” She said it with a worrisome air of finality. She fished a slip of latinum from a pocket concealed in her dress and dropped it on the table before turning to go.

  Quark didn’t want it to be over, but he had no line at hand. He was reduced to telling the truth.

  “Wait. It’s…lonely on the station, sometimes. Perhaps I could offer you another drink…at half price?”

  She stopped for a moment, actually seemed to think about his offer before shaking her head. “No,” she said finally. “I’m hardly so lonely that I’ve been reduced to chatting all night with a Ferengi.”

  Quark picked up the latinum, rubbing it absently as he watched her walk out. She’d overpaid. He had been insulted, but only slightly. And she was staying on Terok Nor. He’d see her again.

  Natima, he thought, and smiled his best sales smile, even though there were no customers at hand to see it.

  It was late morning; Sito Keral had overslept. His family was already gone, his wife and daughter having done him the courtesy of giving him an extra hour to sleep after a particularly late night. Keral appreciated the extra rest. He wasn’t young anymore and couldn’t function well on just a few hours sleep. But he needed to get out into the fields to join in the harvesting. In these lean times, it was imperative that every able-bodied individual in Ikreimi village divert the sum of their energies toward maintaining the municipal crops.

  He quickly dressed and sat to pull on his old boots, thinking of how nice it might be to someday have a new pair. One could not acquire such goods in his village. There was a single road that led from Ikreimi into Dahkur City, where a Bajoran traveler might take a transport to any handful of locations that would offer such things as boots, factory-made clothing, agri equipment…But that was reliant on money, not only for the goods themselves, but for travel permits, to protect the bearer from the Cardassian troops who inevitably appeared when an unregistered traveler left the boundaries of the village. The soldiers did not discriminate between terrorists and civilians without authorization. For Keral, working now only to sustain his family’s most basic needs, consideration of new boots had become as distant a dream as a free and independent Bajor.

  Keral plotted a course to the katterpod fields as he closed the front door behind him, hoping to avoid the attention of the others in the village who might accuse him of shirking his responsibilities. Squabbles in the village had lately been erupting into vicious and bitter conflicts. Keral did his best to settle them between others, and avoid them on his own behalf, but he was not always successful.

  He had to step over a trickle of foul water that spilled from a broken pipe into the gutter as he left the house. Another project on an always-growing list. Over the splash of water, Keral could hear the beating of running feet—a child’s steps. He stopped to find the source, saw the lone figure of a smallish boy turnin
g the corner of the street a moment later. It was one of the Sorash boys, out of breath as he approached. Keral was instantly concerned—children weren’t supposed to be unattended in the village, not since the detection grid had gone online. The systems did not detect children, which made it perfectly safe for young ones to venture into the forest—except that their parents could not go after them, not without bringing Cardassian soldiers into the village. Fences had been built, boundaries carefully marked, but still, a child without an adult escort was always cause for anxiety.

  The boy came straight to Keral and started talking, the jumbled words interspersed with gasping.

  “Calm down,” Keral told the boy, whose proper name he could not remember—there were three boys in the Sorash family, so close in age they were difficult to tell apart. “Where is your mother? What is it you are trying to tell me?”

  “A stranger,” the boy said between breaths, “in the center of town. He says…he is looking…for you. My mother sent me to—”

  “A stranger?”

  The boy looked uncertain, his eyes wide. It was very unusual to receive outside visitors anymore. The Ikreimi village, situated between Dahkur city and the hill territories, was remote, surrounded entirely by forests that were off-limits to Bajoran travelers. Keral couldn’t imagine what specific business this traveler might have with him, business that would have earned him a travel permit…

  Keral tensed, his gut knotting. He hadn’t thought to ask the obvious. “Is he Cardassian?”

  The boy shook his head. “Not a Cardassian,” he said. “But he looks…funny.”

  Keral raised his eyebrows. An alien visitor? A Bajoran with some disfigurement, perhaps—a member of the resistance?

  “What does he want with me?” he asked, though he imagined that if the boy knew, he would have said so.

  “He says he knows your cousin,” the boy told him.