Tales from the Captain's Table

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “You’re wondering how I know.”

  “Do you read minds as well?”

  “I read people. That’s my business, and as you can see from looking around you, I’m an expert at doing business. You want me to tell you about yourself?”

  “Reon—”

  “I don’t mean vital statistics. I mean the fact that in twelve-years in the resistance, you have never once faltered in your loyalty. You’ve been watched, even approached by agents looking for vulnerabilities in that seemingly impenetrable moral armor you protect yourself with in the hopes that you might be turned—”

  I gasped. I’d been approached?

  Plin smiled smugly. “Your invulnerability—your single-mindedness—makes you blind in some respects, Nerys. All of those in my circles keep an eye on you, wondering not if, but when we’ll wake in the night to find your knife at our throats.”

  “So if you assume I’m here to kill you, why am I sitting here and not in a transport on my way back to Hedrickspool?”

  “Because I have a use for you.”

  “But what about my ‘impenetrable moral armor’? Surely you don’t believe you can induce me to betray those who have my loyalties with anything in this room.” I smirked, waving my hand in the direction of Plin’s overt displays of prosperity: Kendra jade figurines, tapestries, and the countless antique reading scrolls ensconced on her shelves.

  “I share your loyalties,” she said simply. “We fight for the same side.”

  Incredulous, my eyes widened and I snorted. “Please. You can do better than that. Pretending to be on the same team as your enemy? A pretty transparent tactic for someone who plays in your league. I thought you were good at this.”

  She crossed the space between us, crouched down next to my chair, leaned close and whispered hoarsely into my ear. Sitting back on her heels, she looked at me expectantly.

  I blinked. Clutched the chair’s armrests. Stared at Plin, my mind racing. Was it possible?

  Plin had provided me with an emergency extraction code given to top-level resistance operatives when they needed to abort a mission. Only those who had passed tests of loyalty beyond any conceivable doubt could have an extraction code. Faking the codes was impossible, to my best knowledge.

  While Bajor’s resistance cells didn’t run under centralized leadership, an agreed-upon emergency system had arisen over the years that allowed resistance agents to work anywhere on Bajor and be able to locate backup in an emergency situation. The codes changed weekly—the day before I left for Doblana Base, Shakaar had issued me my new extraction code.

  Either Plin served the resistance or a traitor lurked in our most powerful circles. There was no other way for Plin to have the information she’d whispered to me.

  I wasn’t sure which option I found more surprising.

  At last I overcame my shock. “How could you—”

  “Can you conceive of a more ideal cover for a resistance cell than a successful business run by collaborators?” she whispered, smiling mischievously. “Once you’re inside the Club, look beneath the dabo and the Cardassians parading around with their Bajoran comfort women on their arms and you’ll see how perfect our setup is.”

  Blinking back my surprise, I sat for a minute, considered her words and realized that no, I couldn’t think of a more effective cover. Then the questions started. Why hadn’t Shakaar told me? How had she managed to keep such a secret for so many years without being suspected by the Cardassians? Could she be lying—playing both sides of the game and profiting from both? My expression must have borne witness to my questions because Plin patted my arm and told me that the answers would come in good time. She returned to her chair and watched me closely until I was ready to speak.

  I had many questions. “But how can you avoid leaks with so many operatives?”

  “Not all the employees here are operatives. You won’t necessarily know who works with us, for your safety and theirs.”

  Immediately, I pounced on the pronoun. “Us?”

  “You can work here,” she said, toying with the stem of her wineglass as she spoke. “But there are no solo operations in the Officers’ Club—I won’t allow you to blow our cover, even inadvertently. I’ll need to know the details of your op.”

  So it came down to me revealing all in exchange for—what? No deal. “You honestly expect me to tell you that?” I shook my head. “Granted, you’ve lobbed quite an authentic-looking grenade into my lap, but I still don’t trust you.”

  Plin laughed a deep melodious belly laugh. “Excellent. You shouldn’t. In due time, however, you will be faced with a decision: we work together or you’ll be on that transport to Hedrickspool, without an apology to Shakaar. Fair?”

  I nodded, paused, wrestling with an impulse to ask my questions, but reluctant to reveal myself.

  “You will see Reon again,” Plin said quietly, willing me to meet her gaze.

  I found understanding in her vivid green eyes. Perhaps she did read minds after all.

  Plin slapped her thighs and rose from her chair. “One of the personnel coordinators from the Club will be up to start you on your improvement regimen.”

  “Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I followed her.

  “I have much higher expectations for those who work for me than Shakaar does,” she said, tapping information into what I assumed was a communication unit on the wall. “I have to grant that he gets results, but I feel that the journey to achieving those results should be equally satisfying.”

  Two Bajorans plainly dressed in por wool tunics materialized in the doorway. Plin introduced them as Tov and Mena and told me that they would be responsible for preparing me for work in the Club—grooming, diet, medical—

  “—and especially those teeth,” Plin added on her way into the anteroom.

  I’d passed the first test.

  I submitted to Tov’s and Mena’s orders without protest. After all, what’s to complain about soaks in an oil tub, head-to-toe zusah-wood exfoliating treatments, and relaxing in farak steam. Having my scars mended and teeth cleaned and repaired wasn’t bad either. I ran my tongue over the sleek white enamel, searching for the old caries and gaps, and found none. Even I, who lived on the opposite extreme from vanity, enjoyed a small gush of pleasure when I saw my smile. Mena had brought me a series of protein shakes formulated to help my body acclimate to eating before I assumed a regular diet of fruits, vegetables, and meat for the first time in my life. She warned me that I would need more cosmetic treatments before work started, but that at least I was presentable enough to be seen in the Club.

  “Follow me to your new quarters. Your roommate hasn’t started her shift yet and she’ll be orienting you to the facilities and our rules,” Tov said. “Madame Plin chose her specifically for you. You are fortunate she’s taken a personal interest in your welfare.”

  She’s interested because she wants something from me, I thought cynically. As I followed Tov through a series of winding service passageways, I ruminated on who Plin might have matched me with until the last hall terminated in a pair of doors.

  We passed into a gloriously illuminated foyer furnished in plush, brocade settees and plump chairs offering flashes of purple, deep tree greens, and blues. On every side I saw buffet tables jammed with gleaming serving dishes and platters brimming with stuffed puffs, cheeses, steaming meats, layered desserts, and corpulent, ripe fruits. Servers flitted about, pushing carts loaded with gilded liqueur carafes and wine bottles. Overwhelmed by the fatty, spicy scents, I avoided breathing through my nose; my stomach convulsed with nausea. I forced my attention away from the food, noting instead the décor.

  In essentials, the design exhibited the refined elegance of Plin’s salon garnished with an overlay of crystal, shiny metallic surfaces, and colorful flourishes. From above, prismatic light shone through an ocean of vibrant blue, green, and yellow wavy glass, giving me the sensation of walking underwater. At a long-ago time many of Bajor’s buildings had been as noisy and colorful as
the Club, though they were no longer so—not in a day of gray Cardassian faces, the dark, glinting metal of weaponry, and the rags of an oppressed people. I was reminded of why I’d come to this place—to do my small part to help my people overcome their conquerors. But shouldn’t it be harder?

  A flash of guilt stabbed at me. No one here in the Officers’ Club seemed to be suffering or even cognizant that so much misery existed beyond these walls. Bajorans, Cardassians, a few Trill, humans, Ferengi, and others I didn’t recognize milled mindlessly around the central reception area. They flowed in and out of walkways into adjacent spaces, most likely the casino and gaming rooms or the club’s notorious private suites, smiling and laughing, satiated in debauchery. Few if any that I knew from my life in Dahkur would ever have the opportunity to sleep in a safe place, never mind being offered the luxuries I’d partaken of over the last few hours. I’d even been inoculated against Vensa’s Syndrome! Growing up in the camps, protection from such an illness was unheard-of. A lucky Bajoran who contracted it might lose hearing or sight; an unlucky Bajoran would be paralyzed or driven insane. Now I would never have to wonder if or when the disease would strike me. How was I fortunate when so many others weren’t? What had anyone here done to deserve such privilege?

  In my mind, I heard Plin’s admonishment to look beneath the surface. I studied my surroundings, peeling away the shimmering layers, the grotesque excesses. The room slowly shifted, recast itself….

  I noted the alcohol poured in every corner; winced at the Bajoran women draped around the members’ necks like medals celebrating conquests; saw the drugged haze in the faces of the Cardassians smudged in Andorian saf. A giggling girl sat on a gul’s lap, hand-feeding him pulpy kalava seeds. And then it occurred to me, as I watched a comfort woman ply her Cardassian guest with more kanar, that from all outward appearances, the Cardassians did the indulging—the Bajorans enabled it.

  Plin’s people controlled the stage.

  Looking beneath the façade, just for a moment, I glimpsed what power these women had over the members, how vulnerable the Cardassians allowed themselves to become in this place. Plin had done a magnificent job of crafting an irresistibly seductive environment that, over time, could beguile the most hardened glinn or gul into a false sense of security.

  Talk about the perfect targets for opportunistic resistance operatives.

  “Before we reach your quarters, I’ll show you where you have to be disinfected at the start of shift,” Tov said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Disinfected?”

  “Our clients find our odors—distasteful. Our skin secretions, our musky perspiration, our hair scent.” He scanned me perfunctorily from boot to scalp. “You’ll have to cut yours.”

  I smoothed the long plait falling down my back, wondering what other indignities I would be subjected to.

  “They are a fastidious people. Attentiveness to our own hygiene helps our members have a more agreeable experience.”

  “The customer is always right,” I quipped, a line I’d heard from the Ferengi who ran the bar on the space station. A dazzling fountain combining lasers and morphing holographic plant life drew my attention away from my host. I almost didn’t realize he’d stopped walking.

  Tov frowned, raised his index finger to halt me. “In our club, we have members, not customers. Members receive benefits, they do not transact for services. Understood?”

  I understood all right. But who was Tov fooling? Prettying up the business of selling a person like one might sell a farm animal with euphemisms and nice decorating didn’t make this any less a distasteful scenario—just as calling a vole a “furry field scavenger” doesn’t make it any less a pest. I knew what this job required and I was willing to take it on. That didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.

  A statuesque Bajoran woman clothed in a scanty, translucent drape wrapped around her torso glided by me, head held high, shoulders squared.

  Will I have to dress that way? I shuddered.

  As I watched her cross the lobby toward the reception desk, I realized she didn’t wear her familial earring. Neither had Plin or any other Bajoran I’d met, come to think of it. Probably not allowed. Part of looking subservient to the conquerors, I reflected wryly. I wondered who she was—whether she was one of Plin’s agents—and how she’d come to be in the place. I wasn’t certain if I should be impressed by her beauty and confidence or pity her having to seduce Cardassians on a daily basis. Knowing my days at the Club were numbered gave me the fortitude to endure such humiliation for a season, but past that all bets were off.

  All my life, I’d seen less glamorous variations on the women working the Club, hovering in the filthy corners of the space station or hanging around the barracks at military outposts, hoping for an extra ration of soup. Plin’s employees, though, hardly looked like they’d suffered a day in their lives with their rounded, fleshy curves, well-powdered cleavage, and rouged cheeks.

  By comparison, I felt like an emaciated river rodent.

  My mission’s success, though, required that I become a woman that Cardassian soldiers would admit into their private lives, thus providing a way for a clever woman—perhaps a resistance operative—to use her access to the soldiers as a way to tiptoe her way into the most vulnerable military installations on Bajor. Contemplating my new life—of opulent furnishings, plates of food filled to overflowing, comfortable mattresses, sleep uninterrupted by fire fights or explosions—I wavered between feeling that I’d made strides forward and that I’d stepped into a silken noose that would ultimately prove to be my undoing, never mind that Plin wanted me for an operation of her own. After all, as I looked at the people around me, I wondered if any of them remembered the world on the outside or if the glittering façade of the Officers’ Club had seduced them with self-indulgence and luxury. I despised people so weak. And yet, I was doing my damnedest to become one—or at least give the appearance of one. Congratulations, Nerys. You’ve blown up ammunition depots, lied to soldiers with the power to execute you, murdered collaborators in cold blood, stolen resources, weaponry, and anything else Shakaar asked you to take, all to further the cause of Bajor’s independence. And today, you’ve fought for the privilege of sleeping with the enemy.

  “I suppose there’s a pecking order for members. That senior officers and guls receive the companionship of someone like her.” I jerked my head in the direction of the woman who had passed by. “But the lower-level personnel would have to settle for someone like—” I took a deep breath, gave a cursory glance at my negligible cleavage and skinny limbs. “—me?”

  For the first time since I’d met him in Plin’s office, a white, toothy grin split Tov’s face. Then he laughed. Hard. “Forgive my uncouth response. It is entirely inappropriate, as the misunderstanding you are laboring under is my fault.” And then he burst into another fit of laughter, collapsing forward.

  While I realized that I wasn’t the most polished of the girls working for Plin, I hardly considered myself paloku droppings, so I mirrored a more pinched version of Tov’s smile back at him and waited for him to compose himself. The desk attendants across the reception area had begun eyeing him nervously. I wondered if I should shepherd him into a more private location.

  His laughter hiccoughed to a stop. “My dear, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not fit to provide benefits to our members.”

  My smile froze. “Wait a minute—”

  “Hold that thought.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, ordering my silence. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me beyond the lobby into a quiet service access hallway and into a turbolift.

  “Speak,” he ordered at last.

  “I’m not fit to sleep with a Cardassian.”

  “Sleeping is such an inexact term.”

  “I’m not fit to provide sexual favors to a Cardassian,” I said bluntly.

  He pursed his lips together, hemmed and hawed.

  I held up a finger. “Just spit it out.”

  “You would be repugna
nt to them.”

  My eyes widened in shock. “Repugnant to them? And you think it would be the highlight of my life to be pawed by those murderers? Why those cold-blooded, lizard-skinned—”

  “I’d advise you to stop there if you ever want any hope of serving them.” All signs of amusement left Tov’s face.

  You need this job. I took a few deep breaths, gritted my teeth, smashed my lips together, and prayed to the Prophets for patience. “So what exactly will I be doing?”

  “Housemaid.”

  I wasn’t good enough to sleep with the spoonheads; I was good enough for the spoonheads’ garbage. Lucky me. I’d lived long enough to know insulting when I saw it and this situation certainly qualified. I just had to do whatever it took to elevate myself off recycler and refresher duty and into the bedroom. No matter what was required of me. I took a deep breath. “When do I start?”

  Somewhere behind the illusion of the Officers’ Club, Reon laughed.

  My roommate hadn’t been around when Tov brought me to my quarters. I took advantage of the down time to rest, though years of training myself to survive on a quasi-alert half-sleep proved hard to undo.

  A clankety-clankety-clankety sounded across the room. I opened an eye.

  My roommate was bent over her bed, shaking glinting metallic objects the size of my thumb out of the top of her leather corset. When the last object clanked onto her quilt, she reached into her bosom with her hand, fished around for any strays, and found at least two, which she tossed into the pile with the others.

  “Hey,” she called over to me when she noticed me observing her. Her voice was smoky and her eyes twinkled like the gems on her corset. “Glad to meet you—”

  “Nerys. Kira Nerys,” I said, scooting up against my headboard.

  “Plin Teara—call me Teara, though. Everyone does.” she grabbed a couple of her “treasures” off her pile and tossed them over to me. “Let me be the first to give you a tip as your official welcome to the club. You won’t see credits like this until you become a companion. But if you play nice, you’ll quickly advance to the gambling rooms, where the money is better. It only took me a season to make it off the housekeeping staff and a season past that to advance out of dabo.”