by S. D. Perry
Sulan recognized the last bit as a fragment of familiar prophecy. Let him who has tilled the soil till the soil, for the land and the people are one…
It was a common theme, one that appeared numerous times in prophecy. The land and the people are one, the importance of the harvest, and the importance of those who facilitated it; each Bajoran assigned to his or her role, an elaborate, ancient system meant to promote peaceful cooperation among all strata of society—no one role less important than another. Though some may have held more prestige, it was understood that without even one element of the D’jarras, Bajor would cease to function. At least, before the Cardassians came, that had been the way.
Gar began to recite the rest of the verse as it appeared in her mind. “…but the land will cry fallow without the efforts of the many. She who is a merchant, he who tends to the sick, she who guards the flocks, all must look to their own callings, and follow in the paths laid out by their fathers and mothers.”
Opaka bowed her head and clasped her hands together, feeling humility swell in her breast. She knew that Gar had chosen this message deliberately. Though it was a favorite topic of Kai Arin’s, Gar had never previously chosen to address the abandonment of the D’jarras, not directly.
“My brothers and sisters,” Gar continued. “It may seem a small thing, tradition, in the face of hardship, in the fluctuations of a hard spring. But we all know that those Bajorans who choose to participate in acts of terrorism have begun to advocate for the dissolution of the D’jarras. I know there are those of you who have become impatient, waiting for the Cardassians to restore our full privileges, to want to shirk your natural-born identity and perhaps take up the mantle of some other profession in the meantime. But those lost privileges will never be restored if the Cardassians cannot trust us. And if these uprisings of violence do not cease, I fear that this essential trust may never come to be. Only patience, and faith in the Prophets, will bring about the better world we so desire. The message of the resistance is tempting to those whose faith has faltered—fight, destroy, let our anger rule us. But make no mistake—the men and women who turn from the path that fate has assigned them, who encourage others to do the same, will serve only to hurt us all. They build a wall between us and our Prophets, Who weave the Tapestry in which all our lives are threaded.”
Opaka Sulan’s humiliation was soundly complete. She pressed clasped hands against her face. Tears of shame threatened.
“What’s wrong, Mother?” Fasil whispered, his hand—nearly an adult’s hand—pressing against his mother’s shoulder with still-childlike concern.
“Hush, Fasil. After the sermon concludes, I will speak to you.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t—”
“Shh!”
Fasil turned his attention back to the service. Sulan watched as her son faithfully raised his hands and murmured the ancient chants in concert with the Bajorans around him. A heavy lump formed in Sulan’s throat to see Fasil so nearly grown, and so like his father.
Fasil regarded her with curiosity as they left the shrine. “You seemed unusually affected by this morning’s message,” he said cautiously, as the two walked the distance to their old stone cottage. The air was warm but humid from days of rain, the weeds suddenly knee-high at the sides of the worn dirt path. The cottage was located halfway between the shrine, with its adjacent monastery, and the ancient ancestral castle that still stood at the edge of the woods to the south, the Naghai Keep. The fusionstone structure had withstood much of the destruction that marked the early years since the Cardassians declared Bajor an annexed world.
“Yes,” she told her son. “Vedek Gar reminded me that I must never forsake the Prophets, no matter my personal misgivings about the occupation.”
Fasil was quiet for a moment. “I believe Vedek Gar was trying to manipulate the congregation,” he said.
Sulan was surprised. “Fasil!”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
Neither spoke again as they came upon their little house, nestled up against a wide thicket of trees that was just big enough to be called a forest. The cottage had served many purposes throughout the centuries: as a buttery, a tool shed, even a coop for livestock. Opaka Bekar had claimed it years ago, just before the birth of their son, when he and Sulan were both prylars at the second Kendra Shrine. It was generally accepted that married couples lived separately from the rest of the priory. At the time, Sulan was anything but happy to accept the squat little structure as her home. The cottage had never been much, and it still bore evidence of its past as a storage facility and a pen for animals. But Opaka had come to love it. She knew how very lucky she was to even have a roof over her head, let alone one as sturdy and comfortable as this beloved little house.
As they entered, Fasil went immediately to the cupboard in the corner where the wooden dishes were kept. He removed two bowls and watched his mother as she lifted the lid from an iron kettle on the woodstove.
“‘For the land will cry fallow without the efforts of the many,’” he said, after a moment.
Opaka, tending to the kava root that had been stewing all afternoon, nodded as she watched her son lay two ceramic spoons down at the table. “Yes, that is the prophecy, Fasil. I’m pleased that you know your verse.”
“Mother, the land is crying fallow now.”
She began to say something but then stopped, realizing that she had no appropriate response. She moved to the far wall and used a long stick to prop open the window situated just below the peak of the high ceiling. She grunted with the exertion of the task; she had often wondered why whoever built this cottage would have put the only functionally opening window in such an inaccessible position. She supposed it was for security reasons, but that didn’t explain why the glassed-in window was fashioned much more like a heavy door than a window.
“Much of Bajor goes unplanted these days, it’s true,” she told her son. “But it isn’t as though the entire world is in famine. Most of us have enough.”
“How can the efforts of the many serve to sustain Bajor, when so many of the D’jarras have become obsolete? Only a handful of pilots are allowed to fly, and most can’t afford their own ships. Soldiers and police ceased to exist when the Militia was dissolved. Writers and artists have been all but outlawed. Scientists and engineers are deprived of the opportunity to work, unless it’s directly in the service of our occupiers. Fishermen and farmers still thrive where the land and waterways have not been poisoned by mining, but even then, Bajor’s bounty is forcibly given up to feed Cardassia Prime.”
It was an argument he’d made before, one she’d sidestepped as best she could. It was not for a vedek to concern herself with politics, only to tend to the faithful and serve the Prophets. But Fasil, it seemed, was determined to discuss the matter.
Sulan turned and regarded her son with a glimmer of wonder. Had she thought him a boy, only a short time ago? He was no mere extension of his parents. He was his own individual, and was fast becoming an outspoken adult.
“Mother,” Fasil went on, “I heard you speaking to Gar about your concerns the other day, and I know he agreed to speak to the kai for you. But either Gar missed your point entirely, or he just used your faith in order to placate you. You did not tell Gar that you wanted the kai to denounce the D’jarras; you told him only that you wished to speak upon the matter, to have a reasonable discussion. I believe that Gar is trying to distract you.”
“To what purpose?”
Fasil shook his head, and Opaka stared at him. Her training and her faith labeled his words blasphemous, but she knew Fasil, too. Knew his heart. Knew that his mind was one of the keenest she’d ever encountered.
“Don’t you remember what Kai Dava once said? He said, ‘It is in the time of struggle that we must become as one.’”
Sulan was familiar with the verse, though it had been written long ago. It seemed to reference the ancient era before Bajor had become a united world, when its many nations had finally begun to la
y down the arms they had raised against one another. She had not considered that those words could apply to their present circumstances. She nodded slowly, and sat down at the table. There was truth in what he said, but there were many truths. He did not yet understand the complexities of such things.
“Fasil, I know that you are no longer a child,” she said softly. “And you are so like your father. He would be proud of you. But Kai Arin’s beliefs are not without—”
“My father would still be alive if it weren’t for the D’jarras.”
“Cardassians killed your father when they attacked the city, Fasil. Not Bajorans.”
“I blame them both,” Fasil said stubbornly. “The doctor who refused to treat him because of his caste—”
“It was out of respect that a doctor of the laity refused to treat a prylar.”
“And it cost my father his life.”
Sulan did not want to continue this line of conversation. She rose from the table and went back to the kava at the woodstove, trying her best to chase memories from her mind. She could not block them out, not entirely. The recollection of when she had first learned of the attack on what was left of Korto, and the following realization that Opaka Bekar had gone into the city that morning…Her husband had decided to sell a small piece of heirloom jewelry, determined to make that year’s Gratitude Festival a memorable one, with a proper feast. But he had chosen the wrong day to travel.
“Mother, you know that most Bajorans have abandoned their D’jarras anyway, out of practicality. What other choice have they had? If they are going to ignore the D’jarras, many of them feel that they might as well ignore the other teachings of the Prophets as well. Now that the Tears of the Prophets have all been destroyed, or lost, or stolen by the Cardassians—for we all know who have really taken them—many people are beginning to believe the Prophets have abandoned them. They need a religious authority to sanction what they’ve been forced to do, or else they will forget their faith entirely.”
“The Prophets have not abandoned Bajor,” Opaka said firmly. “We don’t need the Tears of the Prophets to assure us that They are still there. We can hear the voices of the Prophets coming from our own hearts, if we take the time to listen.”
“And what does your heart tell you of what is happening to Bajor?” Fasil asked. “What will happen, if we cannot come together?”
There was an answer, but she’d struggled so long to deny it, to adhere to what her own spiritual leaders had so strongly advocated. To embrace it as truth, she had to ignore a lifetime of teaching.
She’d had dreams. Since she was a girl, she’d had dreams about things. Fire and death. Struggle and rebirth. People she knew but didn’t recognize. Her Orb experiences had been powerful, riddled with symbols and imagery that she barely understood, but the themes were clear and persistent.
Always embrace the truth. Always speak your heart.
“I don’t need to be convinced that the Prophets speak to us,” Fasil continued. “And perhaps the D’Jarras were once the best way for us to live together. But things are different now. You’re right, the Cardassians were responsible for Father’s death. They are a violent people. They’ve taken Bajor from us—and we’ve let them do it, clinging to a system that doesn’t allow us to come together and stop them.”
Sulan studied him, feeling slightly breathless. “Where did you learn to be so opinionated?” She wrapped a piece of coarse linen around the handle of the kettle and removed it from the fire. “Certainly not from me.”
“From none other,” Fasil replied, smiling. “I know that I come from stubborn stock, and for this I am grateful.”
Opaka used a long-handled pestle to mash the kava, turning the clear broth into a thickened stew. “Fasil,” she mused. “I see that you are becoming an adult…But the way you speak makes it seem as though it has already happened.”
Fasil seemed to deflate slightly at her mild response, reminding her that he was still a child in some ways. “I don’t mean to defy you, Mother.”
“I know that. You have always been a good son.” She sighed, smiled at him. “In truth, my heart tells me that you are right. The kai, what there is of the Vedek Assembly—they only wish to maintain the integrity of the faith, but this is no longer the Bajor of our forebears. Your assessment of the D’jarras is what I believe.”
It was a relief to speak it aloud, and she was suddenly hungry. A funny reaction to deciding that one’s spiritual betters were wrong, but there it was. She brought the kettle to the table, dishing out small portions of the chalky soup.
Fasil hesitated before raising his arms in thanks to the Prophets for his meal. “If you believe it—then that is what you must teach.”
3
Gil Damar busied himself triple-checking the conference room’s comm feeds, to accommodate the individuals who would be “attending” the meeting via link. Among those would be Legate Danig Kell of Central Command, Dukat’s immediate superior. Damar knew that this meeting represented a great deal to Dukat; it was his first chance, as Bajor’s prefect, to actively demonstrate for these officials the direction he wished to take Bajoran relations. It was important that Damar and the other officers in charge of the preparations take care not to overlook anything.
As the visiting officials began to arrive, Damar stepped aside to let them pass, bowing or saluting each man as he took his seat around the heavy table. Four provincial overseers were attending in person from the surface, as well as six of the more influential base commanders; for most, this was their first visit to Terok Nor. Seven more officials would be present via link, and recordings of the meeting would be viewed by a score of other important men.
Damar lingered in the corner as Dukat had instructed him, waiting to be summoned by any of the attendees for a glass of rokassa juice or, for some of the coarser attendees, kanar. Damar himself couldn’t stand the syrupy stuff, never having developed a taste for it, though he’d been known to take a glass in good company for diplomacy’s sake.
As the attendees settled in, the comm links activated, Dukat stood up at the head of the oblong table and spread his hands. “My friends and colleagues,” he pronounced, drawing out each word in his distinctive, slow dialect. “How pleased I am to be greeting you here today. I believe that this meeting, the first of many on this fine new station, will be noted for future generations as a historical event. For we will be discussing a new chapter in the history of Cardassian subject worlds. Specifically, a chapter describing the future of the richest and most successful annexation the Union has ever known.”
Damar noted an undercurrent of mumbling skepticism, and he quickly made his way around the table to fill the dignitaries’ empty glasses.
“Thank you for that introduction, Gul Dukat.” Legate Kell—whose countenance filled the largest viewscreen among several dominating the wall at the foot of the table—remained stoic as he assumed his place as the meeting’s chair. “We all know that the Bajoran annexation has not been without difficulty. The Bajorans have resisted our attempts to bring them to the level of Cardassian technological achievement. They have responded to our help with violence and destruction, frightening away civilian settlers and creating expensive setbacks for Cardassia. Yet, despite that, the Cardassian Union has enjoyed an era of prosperity and comfort due in no small part to the resources we have extracted from the Bajoran system.”
Dukat, now seated, nodded sagely. “And with better management of the terrorist threat, our prosperity will only increase.”
Kell smiled pleasantly. “Indeed, Dukat, I am aware of your political platform.”
Dukat smiled back, undaunted. “With your permission, Legate, I am eager to present to everyone the station’s first productivity report.”
“By all means, Gul Dukat.”
Dukat’s long neck stretched very taut as he stood up straight, his bearing regal. “I am very pleased to report that according to preliminary estimates, the output from Terok Nor’s ore processing units will translate
to one hundred new ships in the fleet every three service quartiles.”
Dukat waited as the room broke out in scattered applause. “I might add that those are very conservative estimates. But there’s no use getting ahead of ourselves. I think it would be prudent to ask for a contingent of twenty legions to be sent to Bajor every two service quartiles, until the insurgency is entirely extinguished.”
Kell made an indignant sound. “Twenty?”
“Indeed, Legate. As the output increases—which I believe it will in the space of a year—we’ll want to be certain that the Bajoran perception of our commitment to them remains unshaken.”
“Gul Dukat, I must remind you that a very large contingent of fresh troops has been sent to Bajor within the last month, with more scheduled to arrive soon as part of your new strategy to impose defeat upon the resisting Bajorans. And what I haven’t heard from you is the numbers regarding resistance casualties, which I’m told have not decreased in any significant measure.”
Dukat’s smile tightened. “Perhaps you weren’t aware, Legate, that the bulk of those troops sent to Bajor were redeployed to the colonies along our border with the Federation before it could even be determined that my strategy was effective…”
“I am very aware of it. We are fighting a war on many fronts, Gul.”
“Of course. And yet none of those fronts holds as much importance for the future of the Cardassian Union as does Bajor. If we falter in any way, we send a message to the terrorists that they are winning.”
“If what you say is true, then your effective leadership becomes even more crucial,” Kell said. “I have the utmost faith that you will successfully suppress the resistance with what you have been given.”
“Legate Kell, if I may say something,” interjected Gul Darhe’el, at the table’s corner. One of the regional administrators on the planet’s surface, Darhe’el had for the last ten years overseen the mining operation at Gallitep, one of Bajor’s richest minerological sites.
