Rugal held out his mug for more tea. “I’m not sure about the aftertaste.”
“Oh, try it between bites of a ration bar. They offset each other.”
They were experimenting with this when Glinn Kelat put his head around the door. Kelat typified the third class of soldier that Rugal had identified: not yet cynical, not past caring, Kelat was one of the surprisingly large number still enthusiastic about the war. He also liked to be first with news. “Have you heard?” he said.
“How could we?” Tret said acidly. “You haven’t told us yet.”
The young glinn was so excited he didn’t notice. “The Breen have entered the war!”
Tret and Rugal exchanged glances. If Kelat was hoping for a rapturous response, he had come to the wrong room. “On whose side?” Rugal asked, chiefly for politeness’ sake.
“Ours!”
“Who cares?” Tret muttered.
Rugal replied, “Good! Great! Thanks for telling us!”
Kelat, satisfied, hurried to carry the news off elsewhere. “I think,” Tret said, after a pause, “that you and I are probably the only sane ones left around here, Rugal. And I’m not entirely sure about me.”
Rugal wasn’t sure about him either. He didn’t think Tret was mad, not yet. But he was probably cracking. Zeal fired you on; lack of investment kept you ticking over. But cynicism? It was a short step from that to despair. It was about as much protection as their armor.
As Rugal had suspected, the Breen’s participation in the war made no material difference to the garrison stationed on Ogyas. “Couldn’t they have sent some of them here?” Tret complained. “They’re used to the cold. Aren’t we meant to be allies?”
Rugal nodded his support, but Tret had it badly wrong. The Cardassians weren’t Dominion allies and never had been. From the start, they had been no better than its servants, and they had fallen out of favor with their new masters at least since the Federation had retaken Deep Space 9. By force of personality alone, Skrain Dukat could have kept up the fiction that he was an equal partner. Corat Damar, demonstrably, could not. Here on Ogyas, the situation was clear to anyone who cared to think about it. The Jem’Hadar were slave drivers. Verisel was the overseer. And Rantok was the idiot who mistook enslavement for service freely given. There would be no relief sent the embattled troops on Ogyas. They would stay here until the Dominion won the war or the Romulans smashed them to smithereens. Or until they froze.
Rugal had to admit that it had not been a bad posting at first. Out of the way, routine, and with the unexpected bonus of Tret’s company. Rugal had been surprised that Dukat had not had something more unpleasant lined up for him. Rantok had obviously been told to keep his eye on him; he was a veteran of the Occupation and devoted to his former commander. From the outset, he had watched Gil Pa’Dar for signs of sedition or attempts to affect morale. Rugal had kept his mouth shut and executed his duties to his best of his ability. Mostly, this was out of fear that Kotan would face reprisals if he caused trouble, although this became much less of a worry after Dukat’s capture. By then, Rugal had discovered that immersing himself in the minutiae of military life meant he didn’t have to think about anything else. Like Penelya, or the fact that wearing this uniform was an offense to the memory of Etra and Migdal. It was cold comfort that Rantok had had to promote him and then decorate him.
The successful Romulan landing on Ogyas, and the ensuing bombardment and blockade, had done more to damage morale on the base than anything Rugal could have managed. Supplies were cut dramatically. Rugal coped with the subsequent privations better than most—certainly better than Tret. The scanty resources and constant noise of the Torr sector had inured Rugal slightly. The blow to his own morale had come at the start of this year, when he had heard from Kotan of the death of Tora Ziyal. That meeting under the sun on Bajor could never happen now. A critical element had gone.
Every so often, Arric sent messages, obviously done hastily between shifts at the hospital, mostly news of Tela, now entering formal schooling. From Kotan, faithful as a hound, Rugal received regular messages. Censorship prevented Kotan from writing much about life on Cardassia Prime, so he wrote what he had been thinking. His messages became more philosophical, more somber—more beautiful—as the war dragged on. He talked about meeting and courting Arys, breaking the story up into installments that made Rugal long for his next message. When he sent the news about Tora Ziyal, he wrote how he would not wish upon Dukat the grief he had felt at the death of his own child. He talked about Bajor, where he had been exarch of Tozhat, and how his hopes for friendship with the locals had soured so badly. He wanted to go back there one day, to visit the graves of Etra and Migdal and thank them. Rugal had all the messages stored on a data rod that he always carried around with him, as he always carried the picture of Arys, and Ziyal’s sketch, and his earring.
From Penelya he heard nothing. Rugal did not even know if she knew where he was. Others sighed over messages from their beloved, Tret included, but perhaps it was better not to have this constant reminder of a different way of life. It was easier to keep his world closed to the narrow sphere of Keralek Base; keep his interests limited to the people around him—the cynics, the zealots, the ones who were past caring—and, everywhere, ruthless and dispassionate, the Jem’Hadar.
The destruction of the Eleventh Order on Septimus III was when things began to fall apart. By the time the Klingon invasion there started, the expected Jem’Hadar reinforcements had simply not materialized. Half a million Cardassian soldiers, mostly reserves and veterans, were massacred. Suddenly, everyone else on Ogyas could see what Rugal had known for ages: that the Dominion rated Cardassian life very low on the food chain.
When the junior-ranking officers at Keralek heard the news, they were gathered in the mess hall on the first basement level of the base. They hunched around the tiny comm, cold and underfed and close to the edge, listening as the scale of the disaster emerged. Reactions ranged from disbelief to fury to outright distress. Even Kelat had a hard time finding anything positive to say, although he struggled for longer than most. “There must have been some sort of misunderstanding. That’s the only explanation. Doesn’t that make the most sense? That there was a miscommunication somewhere along the line?”
“Kelat,” Rugal said coldly, shocked out of his year-long stupor, “the message is perfectly clear. If you’re Cardassian, you’re expendable.” He felt Tret’s hand upon his arm, but continued nonetheless. “You might as well be dirt.”
There was a stunned silence from the other five. Then Envek, the other relatively keen officer, said, “It’s all Damar’s fault.” He lowered his voice. “Yes, the Dominion have overstepped themselves, but Dukat would never have allowed anything like this to happen—”
“Envek!” This was from Alaren, another of the cynics. “I don’t think you’re able to say anything if Rantok hasn’t said it first! Pa’Dar’s right. We’re expendable. We’re surplus to requirements—”
A full-blown argument was soon under way. Eventually, Tret had to order them to stop. He switched off the comm and, in the ensuing silence, he stood up and addressed them all, white-lipped and ashen-faced. “I don’t want a word of this getting out to the ranks. Morale’s low enough as it is. I know what some of you think,” he glanced at Rugal and at Alaren, “but this stays in here. If I find out any of you have passed this news down to the ranks, I’ll have you out shoveling snow till the end of the war. And I’ll have any foot soldier I find discussing it court-martialed. Is that clear?” There was some mumbling, a few sullen nods. “Then go and do something useful.”
They all dispersed. Rugal hung back. “Sorry,” he said, when he and Tret were alone. He knew how much Tret loathed enforcing discipline; it sat uneasily with the young man’s self-image as a likable and approachable officer. “It’s just...” Rugal held up his hands, unable to express the scale of it in words.
“I know.” Tret sighed. “Do you think we can possibly keep this quiet?”
Cardassians were good at keeping secrets, but they were also good at passing them around without getting caught. And they excelled at turning tiny pieces of information into full-blown rumors. “Honestly, Tret? Not a chance.”
Rugal was right. The news sped around the base during the course of the day, but the source of the information could not be identified. Tret made a few more threats in the direction of the junior officers, and left it to Tevrek, the senior-ranking and vastly experienced garresh, to discipline the rank and file as he saw fit. Whatever he did, it worked; any incipient hysteria was firmly quelled to the level of whispers in corners. When the news of Damar’s rebellion broke, however, something had to give.
Rugal was on duty in the ops room, coordinating perimeter security sweeps. The past few days there had been practically nothing from the Romulan side, and historically, this had been the prelude to another assault. On top of that, two out of the last three supply ships had not made it through. Everyone was tired, hungry, and extremely jumpy. About twenty metrics from the end of the shift, Tevrek came into ops, looking for Tret. Rugal sent him over to the far side of the room, and was quickly absorbed again in the security sweeps, only to be shaken out of it when he heard Verisel addressing Rantok in a high, clear voice. “Is it customary within the Cardassian military for the junior ranks to talk treason within earshot of their commander?”
Rugal turned to stare, as did everyone else. Tret was standing with his hand over his mouth. Tevrek looked completely bewildered. Rugal inched noiselessly across the room to one of the soldiers nearest the scene. “What’s going on?” he whispered.
“Damar’s rebelled,” the man whispered back. “Half the military’s gone over to him. Tevrek had come to warn Khevet that there might be trouble—”
“Tevrek threatened him?”
“No, no—he was just informing him!”
Rugal glanced back across the room. Rantok’s eyes had not left the Vorta. “No, ma’am, it is not.” He turned to Tret. “Khevet. Have this man arrested.”
Tret whitened. He slowly removed his hand from his mouth. “Sir—” he started.
Rantok exploded. “Do it, Khevet!”
So Tret did and, two metrics later, Tevrek was being escorted out of ops under guard. The rest of the soldiers present continued their work in as much silence as possible. When Verisel, aloof and inscrutable, finally went out, Rantok addressed them. “I am not unsympathetic to your concerns,” he said. “This is a difficult time, and difficult decisions must be made. But we must demonstrate to the Vorta that we are loyal beyond doubt. I will not have this place turned into another Septimus III.”
Nobody answered. They kept their heads down and did their work. Later, off duty, Rugal lay wide awake in his bunk staring into darkness. A military revolt, led by Corat Damar. He could scarcely believe it. The military didn’t have a revolutionary bone in its whole rotten body. And Corat Damar, everyone knew, was a drunk, a womanizer, not half the man Dukat had been. Could it really be true? It would explain the relative quiet of the past week. The Romulans were waiting to discover whether they had new friends or old enemies to contend with over on the Cardassian side.
Enemies, if you took only Rantok into account. Quickly, Rugal rolled out of bed and slipped down the corridor to Alaren’s quarters. He tapped on the door. When Alaren opened up, Rugal said, “I want to hear what he said.”
Alaren glanced past him, up and down the corridor, and then let him in. As Rugal had suspected, Alaren had indeed got hold of Damar’s transmission. Envek, with whom Alaren shared quarters, was on duty, so the two of them could safely sit and watch it through. Alaren chewed at his thumbnail, Rugal sat with his head in his hands. Damar was not a politician. He did not have Dukat’s charisma, and his words were rough and blunt, but when the transmission got to the end, Rugal realized he was trembling. Not from patriotism, not that—but because the call with which Damar had ended rang in his heart with the clear sweet sound of a temple bell. It was the same call that had driven the Resistance on to victory: “I call upon Cardassians everywhere. Resist. Resist today! Resist tomorrow! Resist till the last Dominion soldier has been driven from our soil!”
Not since reading Natima Lang had a Cardassian voice stirred Rugal in this way, and this was the first Cardassian leader to do so. Not even Tekeny Ghemor, kindly and sad, had moved him so profoundly. Was Corat Damar—improbable as it seemed—the one that could bring Cardassia out of the wilderness and into a new age? And when, Rugal wondered, had he started to yearn so deeply, so fervently, for such a future for Cardassia?
Rugal did not try to recruit anyone. Tret approached him first. In typically perverse Cardassian fashion, he was pushed into action by the discovery that Damar’s Liberation Front was attacking bases manned by Cardassian troops. Verisel had come up to ops from her den down on the fourth level to make sure that the news was passed around the restive garrison. “You must be glad now,” she said to Tret, in front of several rank and file soldiers who thought of Tevrek as a surrogate father, “that you placed the garresh under arrest. This kind of disloyalty inevitably turns on itself. It must be rooted out before serious damage is done.”
In their quarters that evening, Rugal listened to Tret rave about this for a good twenty-five metrics. Eventually, he burnt himself out and flung himself down on his bunk. As Rugal tried to concentrate again on the duty rosters, Tret said, “We need to take soundings from the other officers. Find out who would be with us, who against. Who do you think we can trust?”
Rugal put down his padd. He rolled over to lean down and stare at the young man lying on the bunk below. “Are you trying to get us both shot?”
“I’m not saying anything you haven’t thought—”
“Well, perhaps, but... a little self-restraint, please!”
Tret pushed himself up. “You’ve got a nerve, saying that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Pa’Dar, your antics down in Torr were the talk of the academy! We had bets on whether or not you were going to be arrested. I had fifty leks on you staying free at one point.”
“Oh,” said Rugal faintly. He almost felt flattered. Quickly he collected himself. “Tret, whatever we did down there, we were able to do it because we were in a big city and we could always find somewhere to hide. Where do you hide here? Everyone knows what everyone else is doing. You can’t keep secrets in a place this small.”
“We can try,” Tret said, through gritted teeth. “Rugal, I can’t stand much more of this. It’s never going to end unless we do something about it. Damar’s speech—yes, I heard it too—it made more sense to me than anything else I’ve ever heard in my whole life. Sooner or later, the Dominion will be finished with us. Then what? Nobody’s going to come and save us, Rugal. We have to save ourselves.” His eyes had gone wet. “I couldn’t bear it if this war has been nothing but waste. Not after everything we’ve lived through here—the cold, the food, the damn noise. But most of all, not when it was this war that killed Colat.”
“All right,” Rugal said quickly, and mostly to stave off Tret’s tears. If they started, Rugal doubted they would stop. “Alaren is definitely with us. Metelek possibly. The other two, not at all. As for the lower ranks, nobody knows them as well as Tevrek. Any chance of one of us getting down to the fourth level to speak to him?”
Tret twisted out a smile. “Consider it done.”
Rugal did not doubt Tret’s newfound commitment, but before they got any further, Verisel released the news of the compromise and destruction of Damar’s Liberation Front. That same evening, Gul Rantok summoned his senior staff to his office down on the third level. They trudged in silently and each stood in varying degrees of sweaty guilt while Rantok studied them in turn.
“There are no secrets on a base as small as this one,” he said, “and both the Vorta and I are well aware of the seditious tendencies of some of you.” His eye fell first on Rugal, then on Alaren. “Verisel, when we discussed the matter earlier, was of
the opinion that I should shoot the lot of you, regardless of your political proclivities. You can thank me for my intervention on your behalf, the only reason that the six of you are still alive.” There was a pause. “I said, you can thank me.”
In unison, they mumbled out something approximating gratitude.
“You will reward me with your obedience. You will reward Cardassia with your unquestioning loyalty. And you will serve the Dominion without another word being said. Next time,” he glanced over at Rugal, “I’ll let the Jem’Hadar loose on you. Now get out.”
Subdued, the six officers filed out. They headed down the passage to the lift in silence. Rugal was about to say to Tret, I told you so, but, as the doors of the lift opened, Alaren hissed, furiously, “Remember, she was prepared to kill us all. Loyal or not, you weren’t safe. Think about that.”
A few days later, Damar turned up alive, and the civilian population of Cardassia brought the planet to a standstill. Rugal could not believe it. A revolution on Cardassia Prime—and he was missing it. Tret was beside himself. “Funniest thing since you got that medal,” he told Rugal. It was good to see his spirits lift, however briefly. It was for the last time. The next news from Cardassia Prime was of the Dominion’s reprisal: the destruction of Lakarian City and the death of two million people.
They were all in the mess hall again when they heard. Rugal knew it was the end of whatever allegiance any of them had remaining toward the Dominion. Kelat had to leave the room to throw up. Envek wept openly. Metelek turned to Tret and Alaren and said, “We’ll have to get Tevrek out. He’ll carry the rank and file without question.”
Star Trek: DS9: The Never-Ending Sacrifice Page 20
