Star Trek: Terok Nor 02: Night of the Wolves (27 page)

Vedek Gar looked uncomfortable. “Sulan, I must inform you that I intend to reinstate you as a vedek of the faith, if I am elected kai. I am pleased, in fact, that you have come all this way, so that I can inform you of this decision in person. It would honor me greatly if you would rejoin us here at the monastery, though I’m afraid I can’t offer you your old residence right away—” He spread his hands and gave an awkward laugh.

Opaka was not a political creature, but she understood now that he was. The awareness saddened her. The way she saw it, the Bajoran people needed hope and unity, they needed spiritual healing and a call to action, in support of their faith. She was only the messenger, a carrier of words, and sought no recognition for her acts. But she could see it through his eyes, too, listening to him speak. By endorsing “her” message, he would gain the support of “her” followers in the choosing of the new kai. It seemed inevitable that the ones who sought power were the ones most lacking the humility needed to truly lead.

I will not judge,
she thought. She did not know his heart, no matter what her vision implied.

“Will you come back to us, Sulan?”

Even as he asked, she saw a hand appear in the window behind Gar, a simple shake of the fingers that represented success.

They found it!
Was it as she’d seen? She did her best to keep her sudden excitement hidden, but she had no further reason to prolong their conversation.

“Vedek Gar—Osen—you have my apologies. I see now that my journey here was a mistake. I wish you luck in the outcome of the choosing.” She stood.

Gar looked disarmed. “Sulan! You leave me so abruptly! Can I at least offer you accommodations for the night? You’ve come far, and we still have not discussed your status—”

Opaka smiled at him. “Your graciousness is appreciated, but my path lies elsewhere. The Prophets will look after me. I pray Their guidance will always be with you.”

Gar’s expression hardened slightly, but he stood also. “Of course,” he said. He bowed to her politely as Opaka let herself out of the cottage.

Shev was waiting for her. He grabbed her arm and half-sprinted into the copse of trees behind the keep, practically carrying her. Her son waited there with Ketauna. Ketauna had his arms around a large object, too large to fit in his pack, wrapped in a piece of wool from his bedroll.

“It was just as you said, Mother!” Fasil told her. “A cellar, converted to a reliquary—”

“The Orb,” Ketauna breathed, his face shining with the brilliance of new hope. “As you saw.”

“We must go,” Opaka said quickly. “We cannot stay here.”

“As you say, Kai Opaka,” Shev said reverently.

“Did you cover over the place where you—What?”

“You are the kai now,” Ketauna said, nodding. “You were visited by the Prophets. The people will hear of this.”

“After we find a place for you to hide,” Fasil added.

“And a place to hide the Orb,” Shev said. “The Cardassians will not find this Tear of the Prophets. We must all agree to keep this information to ourselves, until it is safe to reveal it. Do you agree, Your Eminence?”

Opaka nodded, too concerned for the Orb’s safety—and their own—to laugh at her new title. She would refuse the position later, when she had time to consider her arguments, when she was sure the Orb was safe.

They started immediately, heading back toward the mountains, Opaka looking often at the bundle Ketauna carried. How precious, to find such a thing, at such a time! They could speak to the Prophets again, could seek Their wisdom upon the scourge of their world.

You will be secret, but the faithful will know,
she thought, watching Ketauna shift the ratty blanket as he walked, carefully, reverently shifting the long-hidden Tear. The Cardassians would not take it—she had seen as much, in the knowledge granted her by her vision, her
pagh-tem-far.

Things were unfolding as they should. She prayed again for strength, to do as They wished, to find in herself the potential that They had seen in her.

Basso Tromac walked in his usual quick manner as he returned from the shuttle pad. He carried a rather imposing bouquet of Bajoran lilacs, which embarrassed him somewhat. He knew what the flowers were for; Dukat always ordered them when he was trying to patch things up with his Bajoran mistress. Idle gossip saw to it that nearly everyone on the station knew, too. Basso supposed that he felt uncomfortable because he didn’t like to advertise the prefect’s business so blatantly; he considered that the ins and outs of people’s relationships ought to be kept private.

He was relieved that he didn’t see any other Bajorans on his way to the habitat ring, though he did encounter some snickering Cardassian soldiers. Basso wanted to believe that they were laughing because they found Dukat’s personal life to be a source of amusement, but he knew that there was more to it than that. He knew that they had no respect for him, that they considered him nothing more than a simple errand boy, and consideration of this never failed to create a rise of fury in his throat. Well, at least the Bajorans were afraid of him. Though they sometimes acted bold, they knew that he could deliver a death sentence with a single transmission to Dukat. He supposed he should have pitied the idiots on the station for being so stupid as to have landed themselves in ore-processing. If they had only cooperated, as he had, their lives could have been perfectly comfortable. Although, he considered, there would always have to be
someone
left to do the dirty work. It was just the natural order of things, like the
D’jarra
s.

Basso knocked softly on the door of Dukat’s quarters. There was a door-chime, but Dukat had instructed him to always knock, and to always do it softly. The prefect answered the door with his usual stretchy smile. “Thank you, Basso.” He accepted the flowers and turned away briskly.

Basso bowed. “Is there anything else?”

Dukat shook his head wordlessly and the door closed, but not before Basso caught a glimpse of Kira Meru, sitting on the bed with her head down. The back part of her dress was unfastened, which made Basso flush. The image of her bare back, the delicate knobs rising up from her spine, the golden color of her skin…Basso could not immediately erase it from his consciousness. He found it replaying back to him for a moment, and he was forced to swallow down a lump in his throat.

Something compelled him to linger for a moment in the hallway, straining to hear, but he couldn’t make out much of anything. Just the low timbre of Dukat’s rumbling voice. Basso didn’t have to make out specific words to know what was probably going on. Not that it was anyone’s business, but he was well aware of the nuances of Dukat’s relationship with Meru. She would feign sadness for a little while, maybe about her children or something, and Dukat would be patient with her for much longer than Basso thought was reasonable. Basso had to admire Dukat’s patience, for he himself had never been able to maintain much of it when it came to women. He supposed that was why Dukat was prefect—patience. An admirable quality, to be sure—one that simply did not come naturally to everyone.

He tried to listen at the door once more, until he caught himself and remembered the security feed in the hall. It reset itself after a few moments, and it wouldn’t look right if he was still standing here when the sweep came back. He headed off to ops, trying to think of who would be most interested in hearing about Dukat and Meru’s latest fight. Of course, it wasn’t anyone’s business, but having intimate information about the prefect had turned out to be a useful means of getting a captive audience from the Cardassians on the station, if only for a little while.

N
atima had been sleeping, dreaming of a child in the orphanage on Cardassia II. He had been clawing at her arm, trying to get at a bit of bread she had been given, a piece she had intended to save for later, though she was as hungry as she had ever been. He was raking his fingernails down her arm, and she pushed him. He took a step back from her, and she was suddenly overcome with horror, for his breathing had become odd and shallow, squeaking grotesquely as he tried to take in heavy breaths.

“Here!” she cried out, throwing the bread at him. “Take it!” But he did not respond, his eyes bulging horribly in their sockets—and then she was awake, and she saw the flickering orange of the palm beacon, the Bajoran with his mud-matted hair, crouched in the corner over the broken communicator. And Veja. She was writhing, her fingers hooked into claws, and Natima realized that the horrible, thin squealing of her dream was coming from Veja.

“Seefa!” Natima cried, and the Bajoran’s head snapped up—he had fallen asleep over his work. “Help me! I don’t know what to do!”

Seefa moved quickly to Veja’s side. He listened to her chest, and then he put his hand under her back. He lifted her up, slightly, and then moved her head from side to side. Veja didn’t seem conscious, but she continued to make that terrible hitching, gasping sound.

“From what I’ve seen, Cardassians have different physiology than Bajorans,” he said. “Your bone structure, your internal organs—I’m not sure—”

“Is she going to be all right?” Natima knew he was no doctor, but the Bajoran had proven resourceful, and there was no one else.

Seefa listened for a second more, putting a finger to her lips. “Her breathing is very shallow. If one of her lungs was damaged…”

“What can we do?”

Seefa shook his head, started to answer—and then the high, whistling gasps ceased.

Natima was desperate with fear and horror. “Veja! Veja!”

Seefa leaned over her, pinched her nostrils closed and began blowing air directly into her mouth. Natima watched him helplessly, her panic building to levels she could not tolerate. She finally gave in, sobbing, too exhausted to resist anymore. She watched Seefa for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, knowing that he was doing all that he could do, but that it probably wouldn’t be enough.

They were so focused on Veja, neither of them turned at the rumble of falling rock, back by their dig. It wasn’t until white light, strong, unwavering daylight, shafted into the tunnel that Natima realized what was happening.

Oh, thank you, thank you!

Seefa spared her a nod, went back to what he was doing, pushing air into Veja’s struggling lungs. Natima stumbled to her feet, ran for the new opening, hearing a voice now, hearing a man—Damar?—shouting something—

—and then another section of the tunnel was falling, dirt and dust and rock raining down, and Natima realized she was too close. She stumbled back, tripped, fell badly—and felt a sharp pain at the base of her skull as it connected with a rock.

She felt as though she were spinning, spinning away from herself. More of the ceiling had come away, but her vision was blurred and she could see only a ragged patch of whiteness that hurt her eyes. She tried to sit up, but a jarring, nauseating purple-tinged darkness washed over her. She felt sticky warmth seeping from where she’d hit her head.

Stay awake, stay awake—Veja—

Voices were coming from somewhere, men’s voices. Shouting, Cardassian voices. More rubble falling down? Another shout. She flickered back to that boy, that boy who wanted her piece of bread.
You can’t have it!
She clutched it as tightly as she could and a wash of brilliant red flared behind her closed eyes—a weapon’s fire—and she remembered where she was, what had happened.

“Leave his body here,” said the voice. “I’ll carry Veja out, you take the other one.”

Damar.

“He was trying to help us,” she said, but only a struggling whimper emerged and it was too late, and the blackness that lurked around the edges finally closed in, bleeding her reality into dark. Natima slept.

After a silent and mostly uneventful journey back to Bajor, Halpas took the carrier back to the base of the protective kelbonite foothills. Taryl had rigged up a surface signal mask before they’d left to cover their takeoff and return, but they also got lucky; their flight was unchallenged, their set-down as quiet as the remnants of their crew. Nobody was speaking, least of all Taryl, who seemed to have been stricken into a state of crippling grief at the acceptance that her brother was beyond her reach.

They headed back for the village, and had just reached the first dwelling when they were approached by Ornathia Harta. “Lenaris! Taryl!” she shouted. “We have to leave! I’m the only one left, and—”

“Calm down, Harta,” Lenaris said. He looked around, saw no one else about. The ramshackle buildings seemed deserted. “What’s going on?”

“We hacked into Cardassian comms this morning,” she explained, her voice edged with anxiety. “We were able to confirm it—the spoonheads know about the balon! They’re going to come looking for us. Our ships won’t be safe for much longer.”

“What about Lac?” Taryl said urgently. “Did you learn anything about him?”

“Taryl—” Lenaris began, but she ignored him.

Harta looked at her with haunted eyes. “There was a report we found…the prisoners on Pullock V were all executed yesterday. I’m so sorry, Taryl…but we can’t think about it now, we all have to get out of here.”

Taryl did not reply, she only buried her face in her hands and wept. Lenaris felt helpless as he placed a hand on her shoulder, knowing that it had no effect.

“Well, that’s that,” said Legan Duravit. “We’ll take a ship and go, I suppose.”

“The ships are all gone,” Harta said, suddenly sounding defensive. “All but one, and that’s mine. I only stayed behind to let you know what was going on.”

Duravit looked incensed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Harta. We all worked on those ships, and they’re as much ours as they are yours.”

“It’s everyone for themselves,” Harta said stubbornly. “You have the raiders on the carrier, you can use those—unless you want to come with me. And I’ve told you what you needed to know, so I’m leaving—now.” She looked genuinely sorry for a moment, and then she turned to go.

“How do you like that?” Legan Fin exclaimed, looking as though he wasn’t sure whether he should stay or follow her.

“Let her go,” Duravit told his brother.

“Well,” Sten said, “I guess we’d better do as she says. I’m going to get a few things together, and then we’d better figure out where we’re going, and how we’re going to get there.”

“There are still three raiders in the bay of the carrier,” Lenaris said.

“My ship is still hidden in the rocks, if your cell hasn’t taken it, too,” Halpas added. “Though it doesn’t run on balon, so I can’t just park it anywhere.”

“The balon ships might put us in more danger than your ship would at this point,” Fin said.

“We’ll have to find another fuel source,” Taryl said, her voice dull.

“If anyone can do it, Taryl…” Lenaris said, trying to be helpful, but her expression suggested that she wasn’t ready to accept anyone’s optimism.

“We can go to Relliketh,” Halpas said.

Lenaris looked at Taryl, hoping that she would agree to it, but she made no indication either way.

“Relliketh’s as good as anywhere,” Duravit said.

“I’d rather go home to my family’s farm,” Sten said. “I should tell Crea’s mother that…what happened.”

No one was making eye contact. It suddenly hit Lenaris, though it should have been obvious after what Harta had said, that the Ornathia cell was truly dissolving—just as the Halpas cell had done.

“Well,” Lenaris said, his voice tight and disappointed, “maybe for now…before we all decide what to do…we could just make camp back by the carrier, away from the balon. The kelbonite should keep the spoonheads away from us, and from the shuttles, with or without balon.”

“Fine,” Fin said, and the others seemed to agree with him as well, though Taryl was still quiet.

Sten and the Legans went back to their cottages to retrieve a few things, but Taryl didn’t move, her posture slumped and defeated. “Taryl,” Lenaris tried, but she would not look at him. He finally gave up trying to reach her, and headed back to his own cottage to fetch a bedroll and a few other effects he might need to make camp for the night.

Natima rubbed the back of her head where the wound had healed. The dermal regenerator had made short work of the gash, but the hair on the back of her head was still stubble where the medic had shaved it to better access the wound. She had applied a special cellular treatment to stimulate the follicles and fill in the short patch, not sure why she cared at all, after what had happened…But she wanted to grasp on to some semblance of normality, even if it was only to look like her old self.

Veja had not been quite so fortunate. The medic felt reasonably certain she would make an almost-full recovery with no permanent neural damage, probably thanks to the breathing Seefa had done for her. But her internal injuries had been extensive, and the doctor had confirmed what every Cardassian woman feared more than death—Veja would never carry a child to term. She didn’t even know yet; she had been heavily medicated since their return to Tozhat.

Damar had taken the news very hard, which Natima would have expected. According to Cardassian tradition, their enjoinment would be canceled. While it wasn’t unheard of for a barren woman to take a lover, it was very unlikely that she could ever be an acceptable wife. Damar was not the kind of man to overlook such an old and widespread tradition. Natima supposed she had never known a man who
would
have overlooked it. She dreaded the time that Veja was lucid enough to be informed of her condition. Many women chose to take their own lives after sustaining such injuries. Natima didn’t think that Veja would do anything so drastic, but she feared for her friend nonetheless. It was a terrible blow.

Still, Damar had not left Veja’s side since she had been taken to the infirmary. Gul Dukat had demanded that he come back to Terok Nor to resume his duties and the gil had flatly refused, a response that Natima could not help but admire. It took someone of remarkable character to refuse an order from the prefect. As she headed down the hallway of the infirmary to pay her friend another visit, she wondered if she might have misjudged Damar.

Ask Seefa, see what he thinks.

Natima shook off the thought before it took hold. Seefa, their conversation, his death—it troubled her on so many levels, she didn’t know where to begin. As she had done since waking up at Tozhat, she pushed the issue aside.

She stepped into the sterile, warm blankness of Veja’s room. Damar was, as Natima expected, asleep in a chair next to Veja’s bed. There were no attendants present. Veja was still unconscious, or at least sleeping, and Natima decided she’d do better to come back later. But as she was backing out of the room, Damar opened his eyes.

“Miss Lang,” he said formally. He had been noticeably more polite to her since the incident, though Natima didn’t know if it was because his contempt of her had ebbed or if he was simply too sad to be bothered with his former opinion of her.

“Gil Damar. I apologize for disturbing you. I only came to check on her status.”

“It is kind of you,” he said, his voice distant. “She is the same.”

“Has…has her family been notified?” Natima asked. “Because I was thinking that I could…”

“I spoke to her father. He has been…supportive, although he is understandably very…disappointed.”

Natima remembered what Seefa had said about the Cardassian propensity toward euphemism, and she laughed, entirely unexpectedly. Damar gave her an odd look, one that contained a bit of the old contempt that she remembered so well from her encounters with him on Terok Nor.

“Forgive me,” she begged.

“I see nothing funny here,” Damar said icily.

“Of course not, Gil Damar. Except—”

She hesitated. She knew it wasn’t her place to suggest such things, but he obviously loved her so. Perhaps there was a way, after all.

“Don’t you find it somewhat queer that on our world, where children are valued so highly, we would cast away those children who have no parents? Children who could have found a home with women like Veja, who cannot now carry her own child, but longs to be a mother above all else? Hasn’t it occurred to you, after all this, that—”

Damar looked positively horrified, and Natima knew she had crossed the line. “Gil Damar, I fear my female gift for curiosity and observation has gotten the better of me. It is only that I am so grieved for my friend that I forget myself. Please…I will leave you.”

She turned and quickly left the room, practically running to get away. Her own apartment was quite close to the settlement hospital, and she broke into the cool outside air between the buildings feeling as though she’d forgotten how to breathe.

She felt embarrassed for herself, an unusual sensation, as she walked the short distance home. It had never been in her nature to avoid awkward topics just to preserve an air of comfortable formality. Still, she should have known better than to try and be philosophical with a man who was experiencing such suffering. And yet—