Star Trek: Terok Nor 02: Night of the Wolves

by S. D. Perry

  Would any of them accept her back? Most likely they believed her to be dead, for Taban had originally sent word that he felt it would be better if they didn’t know what her true fate had been. Could she tell the truth, and would they be willing to forgive her? She didn’t know, but she felt it was worth the risk, if only to see them again, if only to return to her homeworld.

  Dukat had stopped speaking, and was waiting for her reply. She cleared her throat. “Skrain, I love you as well. I always will, and I will always appreciate all you have done for me. But if ever there comes a time when you feel you would prefer to…to move on from me…from our relationship…”

  Dukat’s puzzlement looked different now, and Meru hoped that he had at last begun to understand what she was trying to say. He gave her a terse nod, and stood from his desk, reaching out for one of her hands. “You’ve given me much to consider,” he told her, his voice sounding oddly strained. “But perhaps this is not the most appropriate time for us to have this discussion. I will see you later this evening, if you will consent to have dinner with me.”

  “Of course,” Meru answered. His question was a bit strange, as it had been many years since he had put on the pretense of “asking” her to dinner. Over time, he had dropped most of his formality when the two were together, speaking as plainly and honestly to her as Taban once had. Meru feared she had hurt him, and she squeezed his hand before she let it go. She would never deliberately hurt this man, but the idea of freedom—it was worth almost any price to her.

  Doctor Yopal often insisted on observing Mora’s research sessions with Odo—as he had taken to calling the “unknown sample”—but the frequency of her visits did almost nothing to ease the discomfort that resulted from her presence. Mora set a wide display screen in front of the tank, and then plugged an isolinear recording into his computer port. The display lit up with an illuminated diagram of a Bajoran vocal configuration.

  “You see, Odo?” Mora said to the tank. “You understand this, don’t you?”

  Yopal snorted audibly, and Mora’s face burned. He took up an electrostatic device from his work surface, a long-handled object with a probe at one end. He inserted the probe into the tank and set the cytoplasmic charge on a medium setting. The liquid in the tank immediately began to quiver, and in a steady motion the substance swept and twisted itself into a humanoid form, standing oddly erect in the center of the transparent tank. Odo opened his “mouth” and began making sounds, a rough, guttural sort of noise, akin to a clearing of the throat.

  “Ah!” Yopal said, clearly impressed. “So, you have taught it to make noises, have you?”

  “Yes, I have, Doctor Yopal,” Mora said nervously. Odo had done better in the session last night, but increasing the charge actually had an adverse effect on his progress; he had to hold it steady at its current rate.

  “M-m-m,” Mora said, trying to get Odo to imitate him, as he had done the night before. “Mora.”

  “Uhmmmm,” Odo replied. “Memmm. Memdoooo…”

  Mora smiled. “There, you see?”

  Yopal nodded vigorously. “Very impressive, Mora. I must say, I always assumed from the creature’s…expression that it was indifferent to what we were trying to glean from it.”

  “I made that mistake as well,” Mora admitted. “Though I knew his face was only an approximation of my own…it is hard to see past the impassivity written in his eyes.”

  Yopal kept her ever-present smile, but her tone was less than commending. “I must say, I am surprised you never before considered the possibility that this substance could have some level of awareness.”

  Mora was annoyed; in fact he had considered it, and had said as much. He imagined she was probably galled that he had inadvertently implied that she had made a “mistake.”

  “This is a perfect example of why women are better suited to the sciences,” Yopal said. “Men simply don’t explore all the possibilities. They tend to become stalled on a single facet of an equation, never knowing quite when to move on and branch out.”

  “Of course,” Mora said, nodding deferentially.

  “Well, Mora, I’ll take my leave of you now. I look forward to reading your latest report on this matter.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, nodding to her as she left. He switched off the viewscreen. He reminded himself, as he put the electrostatic device away, that being condescended to by Yopal was still a welcome alternative to doing what Daul had been forced to do.

  “Mmmm…memdo-mage,” Odo said.

  “Yes, Odo, that’s quite enough,” Mora said, and obediently, the pale “person” turned into a shimmering, twisting mass of fluid. Mora watched as he did so, for though he had seen it happen hundreds of times, it never failed to fascinate him.

  Laren stayed close to Bram as they followed their guide from the freighter’s resting place on an old landing field to the meager residences nearby. Mace explained that Valo II had once been a popular resort destination for many well-to-do Bajorans, but the colony quickly went into decline as more and more refugees fled here during the early years of the occupation. Now the primary continent—the only truly hospitable landmass on the planet—was dotted with slums, shantytowns, and nomadic encampments. They meandered through the outskirts of the village, strewn with a few tents and buildings constructed of transitory scrap, the dwellings becoming thicker and more numerous as they made their way into the heart of what passed for a city here. Laren was astonished; even Jo’kala proper was not so shabby as this. There were structures made of some kind of imported stone that looked to have come from Bajor, but the stone appeared too porous to bear up to the harsh winds of the current season; it was chipped and eroded on all the buildings that featured it. Most of the windows she saw were broken, with improvised covers of worn fabric or strips of old smartplastic, but some were simply left gaping open, the bits of jagged leftover glass coated with blowing dust. Everything smelled, like root broth and dirt and despair.

  “My family lives here,” Mace told them, gesturing to some kind of a heap of wood in front of him. “I’d offer you accommodations, but it’s already a bit crowded. My son and his family live with us. His wife is pregnant, and her time is coming soon…” he trailed off.

  “We’re accustomed to sleeping outside,” Bram told him. “You needn’t worry about where to put us. We’re a bit more concerned with getting back to Bajor, if we can.”

  Mace laughed sharply. “You’re better off staying here, if you want my advice,” he told them. “Anyway, I don’t know if it can be arranged. The Cardassians mostly leave us alone here. Between trying to maintain their hold on Bajor and their ongoing border troubles with the Federation, they don’t see us as being much of a threat to them. We’re just eking out a living here; Valo II has nothing that they want.”

  “But you do go into Bajoran space, from time to time,” Laren pointed out. “Like after the freighter—”

  “Yes, and we still take in refugees,” Mace admitted, “but we follow a strict procedure in doing so. There might be some way to get you back, but it will most likely be a few days, at least. We’ll have to discuss it with Keeve and Akhere.”

  “Are they in your cell?” Laren asked him.

  “Cell?” Mace repeated. “What do you mean?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “The resistance,” she said. “You are a resistance fighter, right?”

  Bram held up a hand. “That’s enough, Laren, don’t interrogate the man.” He turned to Mace. “She’s just a kid,” he said dismissively. “Smart for her age, but—you know.”

  “Just a kid, eh? Flying a raider, all by herself, out there in space just swarming with Cardassians…” Mace grinned at Laren, and she scowled ferociously back. She did not appreciate anyone’s attempt at being overtly friendly; she found it suspicious. Still, a long-buried part of her visited the man’s kindness with an infuriating sort of longing. She did her best to suppress it.

  Mace looked up just then. “Ah,” he exclaimed. “Here’s the man I’ve
been looking for.”

  “Darrah,” greeted the other man, nodding at Mace. He was an older fellow, not much beyond Mace in years, but with a completely bald head and a rather ornate earring. It was one of the old D’jarra ones, denoting him as Te’nari. Not everyone wore the jewelry of their caste anymore, though of course everyone still wore some kind of adornment. It would have been as absurd as going without trousers to be seen without an earring.

  Following at the man’s heels was a tall boy, a teenager, with the greenest eyes Laren had ever seen. The two were clearly father and son, with a resemblance that went beyond their similar earrings: a kind of similarity about their noses and mouths, though the father’s head shone with its hairlessness, and the son had a shock of very thick brown hair that hung nearly in his eyes.

  Mace clapped his hand against the other man’s forearm. “Juk,” he said, “I brought back a couple of stowaways with me.”

  The bald man turned to regard Laren and Bram. “Where’d you find them?” he asked Mace, as if they could not hear him.

  Bram answered. “Your friend here claimed a derelict vessel that we had our eye on.” He extended his hand, which the other man looked at for a moment before taking it. “I’m Bram Adir, and this is Ro Laren. We’re from Jo’kala.”

  “Jo’kala!” he exclaimed. “You mean—Bajor?”

  “That’s right,” Laren answered him, unable to take her eyes off the boy who stood mutely behind his father. He did not appear to be much older than Laren herself. She hadn’t had much interaction with people her own age since joining the resistance.

  “I’m Akhere Juk,” the man finally said. “I’ve been on Valo II almost my whole life, long before the Cardassians came, though my people were originally from Mylea.”

  “You’re a Te’nari,” Bram observed.

  Juk shrugged. “We don’t pay much attention to those designations anymore,” he said, but Laren had a feeling that it might not be entirely true. She fingered her own earring, an old one of her father’s that her mother had allowed her to take. Sern’apa. Caste was so unimportant that she paid it almost no mind—it was little more than a word. Its only significance for her lay in the fact that it was something of her father’s.

  “Neither do we,” Bram said, “other than to find things to reminisce about. My mother’s people were Te’nari, also.”

  “Ah,” Juk said, and Laren detected a new light in the other man’s eyes. It had always puzzled her, the old D’jarra system. The very idea that the adults would still pay any sort of homage to it was laughable. Just like most of the old ways. Foolish. Bram and Juk continued to jaw about their castes, and Laren shifted her weight from foot to foot, bored and impatient for something to happen. She looked over Juk’s shoulder at his son, and their eyes met for a paralyzing moment. Laren quickly looked away, realizing that her face had been plastered with a sneer. She rearranged her features to look unreadable, benign, but still durable—a person to be reckoned with. It was the truth, after all.

  The boy cleared his throat noisily. “My name’s Bis,” he said, the proclamation clearly directed at Laren. His voice was deep, but not quite like a grown man’s; there was still a ragged softness to it. He took a step toward her. He extended his hand to her, and it was then that she flinched, as though she thought he meant to strike her. Ro wasn’t much for shaking hands, and in fact, she supposed she had never really done it before that she could remember; she’d only seen adults do it from time to time. To her chagrin, Bis laughed at her. “What’s the matter?”

  She put her own hand out, her cheeks burning, and shook with him, without making eye contact. “This is all very friendly and everything,” she said loudly and sharply, “but just where do you propose we sleep tonight? We haven’t brought our bedrolls or anything like that—”

  “Laren, you let me worry about that,” Bram snapped, bossy as always.

  “We’ve got plenty of room at my house,” Juk suggested, but Bram quickly began shaking his head.

  “No, no, we wouldn’t dream of it. Just find us an empty building and we’ll curl up in a corner. Even under a grove of trees—we don’t need much.”

  Laren shot him an are-you-crazy look, for though it was true that she had often been reduced to sleeping in some very unaccommodating places, she couldn’t imagine turning down an actual bed to do so.

  “Let’s take them to speak to Keeve,” Mace suggested. “And then we can figure out where we’ll put them for the night.”

  Juk and Mace went on talking, and Laren pulled Bram aside, speaking in hushed tones. “Why are you turning down his offer of a decent place to stay? Is it just that you like to be miserable?”

  “I saw the way that boy was looking at you,” Bram whispered. “We’ll not be sleeping in their house.”

  Laren was indignant. “Now I know you’re crazy,” she said. “You would put a phaser in my hand, train me to fly a shuttle, encourage me to break and enter booby-trapped facilities…but you won’t let me sleep in the same house with a boy?”

  Bram snorted. “Let me tell you something, Laren. Bajoran teenage boys can be far scarier than even the most menacing Cardassian soldier.”

  It was Laren’s turn to snort, but Bram kept talking.

  “I ought to know about teenage boys. I used to be one.” He laughed at his own joke, and Laren, though annoyed, couldn’t help but smile a little—if only at the thought of Bram ever having been as young as she was.

  Basso Tromac did his best to avoid making eye contact with any of the Cardassians as he headed to the Bajoran section of the Promenade. There were a handful of them who treated him with at least some facsimile of politeness, but the newcomers generally did not know that there was any distinction between him and the Bajorans in ore processing. They would often stop him and begin asking annoying questions if he looked at them the “wrong” way. Considering the sheer number of new personnel here, it was usually wise to just keep one’s eyes pointed forward, at least until he came to the Bajoran sector, where he could again square up his shoulders, even add a bit of swagger to his gait.

  He had almost made it to the heavy barricades that divided the station when Dukat’s lazily authoritative tone spoke out behind him: “Ah, just the man I have been looking for.”

  Basso turned around quickly. “How can I be of service, Prefect?” He bowed a bit, as he always did when addressing Dukat.

  “Basso, I have a question for you.” Dukat spoke loudly over the din that was beginning to erupt beyond the gates—a fight breaking out, perhaps a lost child, some other trivial scuffle.

  “Do you want me to go look into that?” Basso asked.

  Dukat waved his hands. “No, no, I’ve got Thrax and a couple of the others patrolling back there, they’ll get to it soon enough. Come. Let’s walk this way.” He pointed in the opposite direction, and Basso followed him. He didn’t mind walking on the Cardassian side so long as Dukat was accompanying him; in fact, he rather enjoyed these rare opportunities to demonstrate for the others that he was no ordinary Bajoran.

  “Basso, have you been seeing to Meru, as you have been asked?”

  “Of course, sir.” Basso took pains to keep his voice neutral, for he had anticipated this question. He did not have to guess at the tone of the meeting that had taken place between the prefect and his mistress in the office the other day.

  “You haven’t noticed her seeming…different, lately? Unsatisfied with her life here?”

  Basso shrugged. “Certainly no more than before, sir.”

  Dukat’s eyes narrowed and his smile wavered, and Basso quickly tacked on a follow-up: “I mean to say, she seems as happy as ever.”

  Dukat looked away, continuing to walk. The two passed several security officers, on their way to the Bajoran side, along with several miscellaneous soldiers and civilian personnel. Dukat nodded to each one, stilling their conversation until they were out of earshot. “Has she said anything to you about…” He trailed off as the chief engineer’s assistant passed alon
gside them. “…Tora Naprem?”

  Basso shook his head, but maintained a look of puzzlement on his face. “No, she hasn’t said anything specifically about her—but now that you mention it, she did seem to indicate to me…well, I suppose I dismissed it as nothing, but it does seem a bit odd…”

  “What?” Dukat demanded. “What did she say?”

  “Well, she said that she worried that one day you would grow tired of her, if you ever found a younger mistress, someone prettier. She said she thought she knew how your wife must feel, having to tolerate dalliances by the man she loved…” Basso shrugged. “Nothing that any woman doesn’t fear from time to time, but perhaps…perhaps she did learn something of Naprem…the new baby. It would seem to explain why she is suddenly—”

  “She spoke of my wife?” Dukat asked sharply. He stepped into an empty pathway that led toward the habitat ring, and Basso followed him.

  Basso nodded. “M-hm, m-hm, she did indeed, sir. She said, ‘Poor Athra, it never occurred to me how difficult it must be for her—I almost feel in her a kindred spirit.’ It was something along those lines.”

  Dukat looked furious, though he kept his voice low. “She spoke of my wife by name?”

  “Yes, I remember it quite specifically.”

  Dukat looked troubled. “I have never told her my wife’s name,” he said. “You’re sure she said those words?”

  “I am quite certain, Gul, but you must know that she has the resources to find out just about anything she wants to know.” Basso contrived an expression of sudden realization. “Oh, my. You don’t think—you don’t think Meru would ever try to contact your wife, do you? She is such an impetuous person, and so lonely for female companionship…” Basso stopped, and shook his head. “No, no, that’s ridiculous, of course.”

  Dukat looked troubled for a moment. “Lonely?” he said, almost to himself. He turned to Basso, speaking louder now. “She has no means of contacting anyone.”