Star Trek: Terok Nor 02: Night of the Wolves

by S. D. Perry

  “This is where you sleep?” She gestured to the pallets.

  “No,” he said. “My cousin’s children sleep there. He had no room for them in his own house—he lives with his sister-in-law. His wife is dead, and we took in the children when his sister-in-law’s house got too crowded.” Bis took the candle and gestured to a corridor that led them to the back of the square house, and Ro followed him before he stopped.

  “Why would you say that?” he asked softly.

  “Say what?”

  “About you…seducing anyone?” He looked embarrassed.

  “Because it’s absurd,” she told him sharply.

  “Haven’t you ever—” He stopped, and she was forced to look away. She considered what he was asking before she replied.

  “No,” she finally said. “I haven’t.”

  The candle flickering between them, Ro was aware of the sudden awkwardness there, too, standing in the corridor between the tiny rooms of this desolate house.

  Bis stepped into one of the small rooms, revealing a bare pallet, a heap of worn clothing. He set the candle on a small, rough chest, the light casting long shadows across their faces, and turned to face her. He put his arms around her then, the feeling strange and terrifying and electric. As she had been on Jeraddo, she was clumsy in his embrace, not sure how to respond. But her body knew, and after a long, warm moment, she felt herself soften to his touch. Nobody had ever approached her this way, and as he drew back to kiss her, his face moving toward hers, she realized, for the first time, how much she had wished that someone would.

  Kira pulled a knot of something unpleasant out of her mouth. A bone, perhaps? She hoped it was a bone, for something about the shape of it suggested a tiny little beak. She examined it, decided it was just a bone splinter, and laid it down on the long wooden table where the members of the cell took their meals together. “Ugh,” she exclaimed. “Who made this food? Furel?”

  “It was Shakaar,” Dakhana Vaas told her, nodding toward the back of the cave.

  “Oh,” Kira said, a little embarrassed. She wouldn’t want Shakaar to hear her complaining.

  “It’s all right, little girl, he knows he can’t cook.”

  Kira resented Dakhana calling her “little girl,” since they were only a couple of years apart, and anyway, Kira had been with the cell for more than a year. She silently wished she was taller, or at least as tall as Dakhana.

  Shakaar came into the main body of the cave from where he’d been sitting with his precious and notoriously troublesome comm system since just before mealtime. He leaned his hands against the end of the table, his expression suggesting news.

  “Listen up,” he said, the unusual tension in his voice imploring everyone to look up. The older members of the cell occasionally heckled Shakaar for his tendency to mumble, but he was not mumbling now. “We’ve got a chance to get into Gallitep.”

  “Gallitep!” Dakhana exclaimed. “Who’s your informant? Is he reliable?”

  “I believe so,” Shakaar said. “But even if it’s just a rumor, this is an opportunity that I don’t think we should pass up. It’s too important. The Cardassians have decided to shut down the place for good. It’s too much trouble to relocate the Bajoran workers, so…” he trailed off, passing a hand over his grim face.

  “So they’re going to kill them instead,” Furel said, the disgust in his voice plain.

  “Yes,” Shakaar said. “Right now, I just need a couple of volunteers to go down and meet with this contact in order to get more information about the plan. It’s a little risky—”

  “Risky,” Dakhana warned. “Shakaar, we’re talking about Gallitep! There’s no way to even approach that camp; there’s nothing around for kellipates except booby-traps and Cardassian patrols, the air security has to be the tightest anywhere on the planet, and Gul Darhe’el is—”

  “I’m talking about a meeting at a safe location not far from here,” Shakaar said. “I wouldn’t usually ask anyone to meet with a contact when I can’t vouch for his reliability. But like you said, Vaas, this is Gallitep. This person is supposed to have inside knowledge of the camp, and it could be the only way anyone could even—”

  Kira spoke up before anyone else could. “I can go.”

  Shakaar turned to her, hesitating. Kira was sure he was going to say no, but he surprised her. “Okay, I have one volunteer. Who else?”

  “Well, I’ll go with her, of course,” Lupaza said. “So that means Furel is coming.”

  Furel folded his arms and nodded without a word, his eyes reflecting hard determination. Kira wondered if he might have known someone who had been taken to the camp; almost everyone had relatives who had died or gone to work camps, but Gallitep was different.

  “That should be fine,” Shakaar told them. “You’re to go and meet this person at the Artist’s Palette at six-bells tomorrow. Whoever he is, he’s asked that we perform some sort of favor in exchange for the information. I don’t know what the favor is, but—”

  “But I’m sure we can handle it,” Furel finished. “We will handle it.”

  Shakaar nodded. “If this information is legitimate, we can’t afford to be skeptical. Those people in that camp can’t afford it, either. This is their last chance, and it sounds like we don’t have much time.” His gaze panned around the room. “This is one that we have to get right, no matter the cost.”

  He had no doubt that Gul Dukat was going to be furious when he delivered this piece of news, but Basso Tromac could scarcely conceal his persistent smile when he approached the prefect’s office. Of course, he would not have the satisfaction of saying “I told you so,” not to Dukat. Such a move would certainly mean a death sentence for anyone, especially for a Bajoran. But at least Basso would get to see the look on his face; that alone would be worth the outburst that was sure to follow.

  “Gul,” Basso addressed the prefect as he entered the office, seating himself behind the enormous desk without being asked; his relationship with the prefect had at least become secure enough that he no longer had to wait for permission just to sit down in his presence. Dukat looked up from his filing computer, gave him a nod, and pressed his fingertips together, an expression of impatient expectation on his face.

  “I must warn you that what I’m about to tell you is going to be very…disappointing,” Basso began.

  Dukat looked weary. “Yes, you said as much this morning, when you asked to meet with me. Now suppose you get to the point, Basso.”

  “Of course, sir. You know that I’ve tried to keep very careful tabs on the Kira family, though in recent years Taban has refused to accept any more of your generosity. He has become quite…bitter since his wife—ah, that is, since Meru passed on. I have done my best to keep track of the children, but they are older now, and they tend to—”

  “Yes, I’m aware of the Bajoran child’s propensity to wander. I wonder if this story has an ending, Basso.”

  Basso cleared his throat. “Of course, Gul. You see, the daughter, she—”

  “Yes, Nerys. Beautiful girl.” He sighed. “What’s she, about fourteen now?”

  “That’s correct, sir. She has been increasingly difficult to locate in the past few years, roaming and coming home only on very rare occasions.”

  “But of course, you have ensured her safety,” Dukat said carefully.

  Basso began to feel worried. “I have done my best, sir. It’s true that Bajoran children are allowed a certain amount of freedom, but certainly not to this extent. I wondered if she might have taken to running away, but when my people in the village spoke to Taban, he seemed entirely unconcerned for her safety. It seems that he…knew where she was. She—”

  “So, she is safe,” Dukat said, appearing to relax somewhat.

  “Well, yes, she seems to be safe, but—you see, sir, what I’m trying to tell you is that I have information to suggest that Nerys has joined the resistance movement.”

  He risked a direct look at the prefect’s face. Surprisingly, Dukat did
not look angry, exactly. He looked surprised, but not angry. Basso could not quite place his expression, but if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said the prefect looked…concerned.

  “Only fourteen years old,” Dukat finally said. “After all I did for her as a child. I saw to it that she was sent to school—art school, as her mother wished, though apparently she didn’t take to it. I never would have predicted an outcome like this.” Dukat pushed himself up from his chair, folded his arms, wandered toward the back of the room. “Do you know where she is, Basso?”

  “Sir, I don’t know yet, but I am doing my best to locate her. My contacts have suggested that she must be hiding in the Dahkur hills, with one of the cells in that general vicinity, but we can’t nail down which one. It seems possible that even her father doesn’t have that information.”

  Dukat sighed again, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

  Basso could not quite puzzle out the meaning behind the prefect’s reaction. Sad, fearful, strangely introspective—nothing like what he’d been expecting. He couldn’t help but feel cheated. Dukat spoke again after a moment, and Basso wondered if the Dukat he’d expected to see was about to make an appearance.

  “After all I did for her,” he repeated, but his voice was colder this time, as if he’d had time to contemplate the meaning of it all. “You must find her, Basso, and you must bring her to me.”

  “Of course,” Basso said reluctantly, realizing that he should have expected this order. Dukat went on.

  “And she must be completely unharmed, do you understand me? No excuses.”

  “Un…harmed? Yes, yes…certainly,” Basso stammered, and left the room without being told to. He knew the prefect well enough to know when it was time to leave him, and anyway, he needed to get away so he could think. What had gone wrong? He’d been expecting an expression of horrified shock, followed by a lengthy tantrum and an order to kill the ungrateful girl, a standing order that would probably never be carried out. Instead, he’d gotten himself a great deal more work, he realized. Locating Kira Nerys, hiding somewhere in the Dahkur hills with one of any number of resistance cells, and bringing her to the prefect—alive—that was a tall order. A nearly impossible order. And Basso had no one but himself to blame for it.

  Daul had traveled a considerable distance on foot; at least twenty kellipates. Such a long walk was rare, a feat he hadn’t undertaken since he was a child. Average Bajorans rarely went anywhere anymore, except perhaps to the nearest food ration lines, and Daul didn’t have to worry much about that, being one of the few who was still gainfully employed underneath the Cardassians. He had more to worry about from another Bajoran than he did from a Cardassian, for he had all the necessary credentials that could get him out of a sticky situation, if he happened to be stopped by a soldier. It was a mostly comfortable position to be in, though a fragile one. But this journey he had taken today was so far out of his comfort zone, he could scarcely fathom why he had chosen it—for he had come here voluntarily. This whole thing, this was his idea.

  He was nearly to the place that was once called the Artist’s Palette. It was still called that by the locals, though there was nothing around to suggest its former moniker. At one time, the leaves and flowers on the trees here had been brightly varied in hue; purple and green and pink and orange, from the springtime throughout the fall. Now, the few trees that still produced leaves were uniformly clad in a dull, sickly yellow. The Cardassians had long ago leached the minerals from the surrounding soil, using a process that required an acidic chemical to retrieve the elements used in making certain types of polymers. Those polymers were essential in the construction of Cardassian dwellings. The elements were shipped to a facility on Pullock III where the support structure for the dwellings was manufactured, which were then shipped back to Bajor and combined with other parts, things made on many other worlds, using Bajoran raw materials to power the transport ships—ships built from Bajoran metals and fueled with Bajoran fuel. None of it made a bit of sense, really, when one started to consider it, but Daul supposed there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  Yes, there is. This thing he was doing right now.

  Three people were approaching. Three Bajorans. A teenaged girl and a pair of adults, a man and a woman. Were these the people he was waiting for? The palms of his hands felt slick and cool. Perhaps these people were about to kill him for being a collaborator. Perhaps I deserve it.

  “Are you here to speak to me about…Gallitep?” Daul said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his anxiousness.

  The young girl turned to her companions. “Aren’t we supposed to have a code word?” she murmured, just loud enough for Daul to hear.

  Daul remembered quickly—the man he had spoken to had suggested a code word. “I almost forgot,” he apologized. “Ah, rah-vu sum-ta.” It was Old Bajoran, a word that meant something almost like “child of night”—the classic poetical name for a cadge lupus.

  “That’s right,” the older woman replied. “Okay, then. Tell us what we need to know.”

  Daul cleared his throat and began to speak, his words tumbling out. “I suppose you are familiar with the setup of Gallitep, the physical characteristics of the camp—”

  “Yes,” the man said. “It’s impossible to approach.”

  “Except from inside, yes.”

  “From inside?” This was the woman.

  “Via transporter. I am to be taken to Gallitep in a few days, and I think there may be a way to transport a few more people in after me. There is a transporter code that will allow for it, and I think I may have gotten access to the correct code.”

  “But…” The teenage girl looked at her companions. “How would we get access to a transporter?”

  “You think you may have gotten access?” the man said, speaking over the teenager.

  Daul held up his hands. “I believe I have,” he corrected himself. “It is risky, but I believe it can be done. There is an industrial transporter at the Bajoran Institute of Science, not far from here. This transporter could not only get people into Gallitep, it could get them out, as well. If someone who can operate a transporter was able to lock on to a large group of people, that person could perhaps transport them out of the camp, and possibly to a place of safety—”

  “I don’t like all this perhaps and possibly that I’m hearing,” the man said.

  “I only want to emphasize that there are risks,” Daul said. “But please believe me when I tell you that the goal is worth the risks. I have been inside the camp, and although I only saw a fraction of what I suspect goes on there, I didn’t have to see much to understand that Gallitep is the worst place Bajor has ever seen.”

  “We can do it,” the woman said confidently. “I’m sure we can.”

  “Why…how did you get inside Gallitep—and then back out again?” the teenager asked.

  “Shh,” the older woman shushed her. “It’s not important.”

  “No,” Daul said, inexplicably wishing to be honest with these people. “It’s all right. I work at the science institute. I was conscripted to develop the computer system that runs the camp.”

  The girl’s mouth hung open for a moment and then snapped shut. “Oh,” she replied, and then looked away.

  “Yes, I helped to design it,” Daul went on, “and now, I will help put a stop to what it is intended to do. But I don’t suppose that will redeem me. Still, maybe I can at least look at myself in the mirror again.”

  “Maybe,” the woman said, and though she tried to remain neutral, she could not mask the tightness in her voice. She despised him, he could see it on her, hear it in that single word.

  “I have brought you an isolinear rod with more details. More importantly, this rod will allow you access to the Bajoran Institute of Science. You must wait until nightfall, when everyone has gone home, and you will be required to enter a code to deactivate the security system.”

  The woman and her companions nodded, listening closely now. At least they
could set aside their hate for something so important. At least there was that.

  “I will be at the camp when it happens, working on the system. I will purposely delay the work so that I am still there when you arrive. At a given time, I will program the system to simulate a mining accident, which will force the Cardassian guards to corral the workers in a common place. That is where you will come in—someone will have to transport into the camp in order to create a lock-on target for the transporters. The transporters can be programmed to lock on to Bajoran targets only—the procedure is outlined on the datarod. When it is done, when the Bajorans are safe, I will initiate the computer system to destroy the camp. The self-destruct system should kill any remaining Cardassians. At that point, you will have to transport me out as well.” He said the last part hopefully.

  The man nodded. “I think we can handle that,” he said.

  Daul started to remark on the second part of the task, but then he remembered something. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You’ll need these.”

  The three Bajorans looked curiously at the four little comm devices he produced, relics he’d stolen from a vault at the institute, where examples of Bajoran technology were stored for later study. “These are old, but they still work. They’ll be necessary for you to project a signal that can be locked on to by the transporter. You can also use them to communicate with each other, even over great distances. And they operate on frequencies the Cardassians haven’t monitored since the Militia was disbanded.”

  “I know what a combadge is,” the man said, a little curtly. He took the devices and pocketed them.

  Daul went on. “I suppose your leader told you that I am asking for a favor, in return for this information?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “What is this favor, exactly?”

  “I would do this myself,” Daul explained, “but I won’t have the opportunity before I leave, and I have no plans to return to the institute after I’m transported to Gallitep.” He hesitated, sensing impatience from the three nameless rebels, and he went on, “Do you have the ability to hack into a computer system, including high-security files?”