“You want to maintain our high infant mortality rate?” Lang said, unable to blunt the shrill edge in her voice. “The numbers succumbing to the Calebrian plague? What we’re receiving now barely addresses those needs!” Her aide, the one Kira recognized as a former student, placed a reassuring hand on her teacher’s arm, but Lang shoved it off.
Asarem shrugged. “No need to raise your voice, Ambassador. I’m merely pointing out a previously overlooked complication in providing your people with virtually unlimited medical supplies. When taken individually, crates of biomimetic gels and isomiotic hypos have legitimate applications. In combination with other agents, Cardassia could conceivably manufacture biogenic weapons,” she said, her tone mild.
What? Startled, Kira sat forward in her chair, waiting to hear what would be said next.
The phrase “biogenic weapons” triggered a low hum of hushed exchanges from spectators in every corner of the room. Asarem must feel very secure in her position to make such audacious suggestions. Given the same evidence, Kira wouldn’t have drawn those conclusions. Even in these days of quantum torpedoes and orbital weapons platforms, an unseen enemy terrified populations more effectively than any particle beams or warships ever could. Why is it that we default to the presumption that we’re safe simply because we can’t perceive, with our senses, any immediate danger?
Clenching her hands around the arms of her chair, Lang’s eyes narrowed to dark slits, incredulity etched on her face. Kira felt the room collectively holding its breath in anticipation of the Cardassian ambassador’s response. She scrutinized Asarem for a long moment, allowing extraneous murmuring to die down. Uncomfortable silence swelled until Lang spoke. “I accept that you hold us in little esteem. But what kind of soulless ghoul would I be to come here, begging for help, if it were my intent to divert desperately needed medical supplies to manufacture weapons? What possible motive would we have?” Her soft-spoken tone belied her incisive words.
Heart pounding in her throat, Kira willed Asarem to show mercy, to rise above forcing Lang to flay herself in order to prove good faith. If we fail to show compassion when compassion is called for, we succumb to the same cruelty exhibited by our oppressors during the Occupation. She held her breath.
“Reestablishing military supremacy. Blackmailing Bajor. There are a host of logical reasons that aren’t unprecedented,” Asarem said, sounding like she could reel off another long list of potential Cardassian black deeds if asked to. “Besides, what reason would you have to elucidate your government’s true intentions here and now when you know Bajor and the Federation would never agree to assist in any sort of rearmament?” She paused, waiting for the meaning of her words to sink in. “And it’s possible the Ghemor government could be using you: why would they tell you what their true intentions are if feeding you sympathetic stories about children and helpless pregnant women helps them accomplish their long-term objectives?”
Kira felt sick. This isn’t negotiation: this is retribution.
Inhaling deeply, Lang gritted her teeth. “To this point, Minister, Bajor has been extremely generous in helping us rebuild a social services infrastructure that provides pediatric hospital facilities, vaccinations and basic preventative health care.”
“And we will continue to be generous,” Asarem said reasonably. “But I believe imposing some restrictions or implementing time limits on the type and amount of aid we continue to provide is not unreasonable, given the probability that Cardassia, at some point, might divert that aid for militaristic purposes.”
Kira noted, with concern, the panicked expressions on the Cardassians seated beside Lang. And it wasn’t the fear of being caught engaged in treachery, it was the fear of those watching hope flicker and die. All eyes looked to their leader for guidance.
Shadows, new since her triumph at the reception, darkened Lang’s lower eyelids; her shoulders hunched slightly with fatigue. She leaned over the table, putting her in closer physical proximity to Asarem. “With all due respect, Minister, a week before I left, I spent five days helping deliver supplies to our medical facilities,” Lang began, “and I have to ask, when was the last time you held a child in your arms dying from the curable Fostassa virus?”
Lang’s words scraped Kira raw; a flood of memories poured over her, stinging like saltwater.
In the hours following the final assault on Cardassia, she and Garak walked the decimated streets, picking their way around twisted metal from collapsed buildings, chunks of stone and broken glass. Acrid smoke hung like thick fog: the breath of destruction. Weak cries attracted Garak’s attention, leading him to a dirty faced little boy in shredded clothes, huddled against a toppled pillar. The child rocked back and forth, crooning a discordant song, to a floppy-limbed doll he hugged against his chest. When the boy failed to acknowledge either Garak or Kira’s approach, Garak waved a hand in front of the boy’s eyes, quickly ascertaining the child had been blinded. He had instantly scooped the boy into his arms, the child clinging to him, wrapping his gaunt legs around Garak’s waist. Garak passed the doll off to Kira. She reflexively hugged the cold thing against her, knowing the boy would want his toy back until, horrified, she discovered the true nature of what she held. Mustering all her self-control, she avoided recoiling and tossing the baby’s corpse away; instead, she waited until she found a small indentation in the ground, probably a bomb crater, where she could show the dead proper reverence.
And now she wondered if Lang had been there, that black night on Cardassia.
The Cardassians had paid exorbitantly for their arrogance. Regardless of what had been done to her—to Bajor—at their hands, Kira failed to see how extracting further payment would be justified. I wouldn’t take up the lash if it were handed to me. The realization stunned her. Kira sought Natima’s eyes, hoping she would find comfort in the knowledge that a former enemy understood, but Asarem’s chair suddenly shoved back. Kira steeled herself for the minister’s response.
Asarem stood up with deliberate slowness, her body vibrating with sinewy tension. Squaring her shoulders, she faced Lang, still posed offensively. “The last time a child died from Fostassa virus in my presence?” she said, her voice glacial. “Eight years ago. Just as the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor ended.”
Lang froze.
Brittle quiet chilled all present.
“Ambassador, Minister,” came Gul Macet’s quiet appeal. Seated at Lang’s elbow, he had thrown a cautionary arm in front of his superior. “I believe this is an appropriate juncture to call a recess. Our delegation will review the numbers your staff has provided us and after we’ve eaten, we’ll meet back here to see where we can reconcile our differences.”
Now composed, Asarem said softly, “Based on the substance of the talks to date, it’s my judgment that we take an indeterminate recess until such time as both delegations are better prepared to delineate definitive parameters on the items we’ve discussed.” With a visible tremor in her hand, she passed off a padd to an aide and turned piercing eyes on Macet. “When we both know how flexible our respective governments can be in negotiating specific points, I believe we’ll accomplish more.”
“You mean, when Cardassia is willing to do whatever Bajor demands?” Lang said cynically.
“Natima,” Macet cautioned without looking away from Asarem. “By indeterminate recess, do you mean the rest of the day?”
“I mean as long as it takes,” she said. Asarem cleaned up her workspace without comment as her aides packed up any extraneous supplies. Support staff for both sides studiously avoided contact with the opposition.
Shaking, Lang collapsed into her chair until Macet coaxed her outside, ostensibly for lunch. Her aides, some looking glum, others angry, followed close behind.
The Cardassians and Bajorans exited through opposite doors. Kira waited until all but Minister Asarem had left before she rose from her chair. I’ll be complicit in this injustice if I don’t speak up.
“Minister, might I have a word?”
&n
bsp; Asarem arched an eyebrow. “Colonel Kira. I presume you want to share your enlightened perspective.”
“I don’t know what you mean by enlightened, but any reasonable person would be concerned about what just happened here.” Whatever she had done to alienate the second minister, Kira wished she understood so she could apologize.
“You think I’m being unfair to the Cardassians?” she asked sourly.
Be rational, Nerys. Don’t lose your temper, Kira admonished herself. “Lang is asking for medical supplies, not quantum torpedoes. She’s not even requesting raw materials that could more easily be diverted to develop weaponry.” From her own experience, she knew that crude weapons spewing shrapnel or obliterating infrastructure were just as effective as the sophisticated weaponry Asarem seemed to believe the Cardassians were interested in building. “What’s unreasonable about wanting plasma replicators and surgical equipment? How does traking a hard line, making it difficult to save Cardassian lives, benefit Bajor?”
“Your attitude surprises me, Colonel,” Asarem said pointedly. “You of all people should appreciate the need to do whatever is necessary to ensure that Cardassia is never again in a position to harm Bajor, or anyone else.” The minister turned back to packing her briefcase. “Perhaps the reports of your patriotism are exaggerated.”
I don’t have to take this! I’m not the enemy. Kira resisted the urge to snipe at Asarem. “Last time I checked, I was wearing the uniform of the Bajoran Militia, Minister. I do have some experience relevant to this situation.” Kira tried smoothing her sharp tone, but knew her impatience seeped through.
Asarem paused, cast a glance at Kira’s bare ear. “Last time I checked, faithful Bajorans follow the counsel of the Vedek Assembly.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed. Biting back a dozen thorny responses, she pushed forward on the critical issues. “Have you even been to Cardassia since the war?”
“No,” Asarem said. “I haven’t.”
“Then how can you compare what you know of Bajor with what Cardassia is going through? What right do you have to dismiss Ambassador Lang the way you did just now?”
“The rights given me by the people of Bajor who elected me to serve them.”
“And the people of Bajor elected you to be their avenging angel? To single-handedly make the Cardassians pay for fifty years of wrongdoing?”
Asarem slammed her case on the table. “I decided to hear you out because as the commander of Deep Space 9 you’re owed a measure of input. But I’m done.” Walking briskly, she left the conference room; Kira maintained her pursuit. She locked onto Asarem and refused to let her escape until she’d said her piece; her conscience wouldn’t allow her to walk away.
Addressing Asarem’s back, Kira persisted with her argument. “We may have been thrown out of our homes, seen horrible starvation and disease, but our shrines are still standing and after thinking the Celestial Temple was lost to us forever, the Prophets brought us the Emissary and we became stronger. The prophecies tell us that we will be stronger yet. For all the horrors inflicted on us by the Cardassians, half our population wasn’t executed and millions of our children haven’t died since with flesh melting off their bodies due to radiation sickness. We didn’t emerge from the Occupation drowning in our own dead.” Kira jumped directly into Minister Asarem’s path, blocking her from moving any farther. “Where is your compassion, Minister?”
Cold fury burning, Asarem’s voice shook. “With the generations of dead and brutalized Bajorans who committed no crime save being born Bajoran. The Cardassians allied with the Dominion. They brought destruction on themselves. Now get out of my way before I call First Minister Shakaar and inform him that we need to reconsider your position as commander of this station.”
For a long moment, Kira stood rooted to the spot, staring defiantly at Asarem, daring her to make good on her threats before finally stepping aside and allowing her to pass. She watched Asarem disappear down the corridor. I hope the air is pure enough for you there on the moral high ground, Minister.
How dare Asarem talk to her like she had some vastly enlightened understanding of collaboration and innocent Bajorans dying that Kira didn’t have! She knew. She had lived it; the Occupation had set the stage—had framed her decisions—for her entire life. But at some point, Kira had to stop defining her life by her losses and if that meant accepting friendship with Cardassia, then she damn well would! Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, mouthing a prayer for peace, hoping consolation would come from faith. As much as duty pressed on her mind, Kira knew she had to sort out all the confusing threads unraveling in her mind.
Did I just leap to the defense of the Cardassians? Prophets help me, what am I doing?
First order of business upon retiring to her quarters was changing into civilian clothes, but the usually comfortable, well-worn fabric irritated her skin; the sleeves and neck felt tight and confining, like she’d accidentally put on another’s clothes. She gave up on eating when her replicated hasperat tasted like spicy sawdust. Her mind dulled whenever she attempted any routine task; she found herself in a stupor, wondering what it was she had started but now couldn’t recall. The staticlike quiet pressed on her.
Opening the cupboard that housed the few small remains of her religious life—a few candles, incense, an icon—she removed her earring from a shelf and draped it over her palm, feeling the cold metal links, the weight of the silver. She encapsulated the earring in her fist, gripping it until she felt its edges digging into her skin. One by one, as if in a trance, she lit the candles.
With hands outstretched and eyes closed, Kira prayed.
She interspersed recitations of every prayer she’d memorized since childhood with blunt, almost impatient pleas for the clarity that had thus far eluded her. Time drizzled away—maybe hours—and Kira remained standing. She would stand until she dropped or until her prayers were answered.
At last, her hands fell to her sides and she knew what was required. She considered her earring with longing one last time before she reverently replaced it on the shelf, blowing out the candles and locking the cabinet door.
Gul Macet scrolled through one of several intelligence files he’d brought with him from Cardassia. While he hadn’t always approved of Central Command’s tactics, he wasn’t above sifting their refuse if it aided Cardassia’s cause. A good strategist never discounted information on the basis of how it was collected or who had done the collecting.
Before him on the table, Kira Nerys’ official Singha Internment Camp record lay open, accompanied by the annual ID holos taken until she left the camp to join the resistance. He thumbed through the screens, finding nothing new—nor did he expect to. I thought we had her this afternoon, he thought, recalling the conflict playing across her face. He knew she’d been in the capitol city the night of the attacks. Something haunted in her eyes told Macet he shared that in common with the young Bajoran.
The door chimed. Expecting that Natima had returned to take him up on his offer of a late meal, he ordered the computer to admit his guest. We’ll have to make a plan for tomorrow—Asarem will make us fight for the privilege to return to the table.“Natima, did you have any luck contacting Sirsy?” he asked without looking up from Kira’s file.
Silence.
Usually, Natima’s gown swished as she walked; he hadn’t yet heard footsteps. Perhaps young Vlar has brought me dinner. He twisted away from his studies to see what awaited him.
“Gul Macet,” Kira Nerys began, “I wondered if you might be interested in taking a walk?”
15
“She did it!” Bowers exclaimed. “The worm is transmitting. It’ll only take me a minute to search their system and see if I can find the codes to claim that matter load.”
“Timer set,” Julian said. “We have three minutes before the Cheka system security starts their sweep of the computer. Ensign Tenmei’s lock shows green.” With a transporter lock on Prynn, Bashir tracked her location from the sciences station. She hadn’t moved
for ten minutes, but her vitals remained normal, other than indicating agitation.
“Status of Chief Chao?” Vaughn asked.
Bashir rechecked his display and reported, “Also in position.”
Now comes the fun part, Vaughn thought. Waiting. He paced the Defiant’ s bridge slowly, keeping his head clear, focusing on the next step in their plan. “We can’t get overconfident, Sam. Breaking into the Cheka system isn’t enough. If we can’t locate the codes, we’ll be right back where we started without the materials Nog needs for the defense system.” And there was the little matter of making sure Prynn had enough time to escape the suite before security linked the computer penetration with her presence. She had been insistent about avoiding a beam-out while she was with Fazzle, wanting to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention. Once she attached the “worm” to the terminal, she’d initiate her exit strategy.
Hunched over tactical, Sam attacked the incoming data with the determination of a grint hound on the tail of a razorback. He tapped through screen after screen, filtering data, running language decryption algorithms and using the Defiant’ s computing power to run a separate search, narrowing the amount of information he had to plow through.
“Two minutes,” Julian announced. “So when’s part ‘b’ of our plan supposed to play out?”
Vaughn checked the time, “Shortly. Where are we at, Sam?”
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