Star Trek: Terok Nor 03: Dawn of the Eagles (21 page)

“I wouldn’t have expected this from you, either,” Kalem said coldly. “But I suppose we’ve both changed.” He hesitated for a moment, exchanging a disappointed glance with his wife, and then he ended the call.

“We found the shape-shifter.”

Dukat smiled at the glinn on his screen. “Of course you have.”

“You were right, Prefect. It was spotted in another Bajoran village. He has already been ingratiating himself to the locals. It seems he settled a dispute between two men who were accusing one another of burning down a barn, or some such foolishness—”
He stopped speaking, apparently realizing that this was more than Dukat had asked to know.

Dukat tilted his head in recognition of the acknowledgment. “And you’ve made no contact with him, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, I want you to withdraw as much as possible without losing sight of him entirely. Give him time to establish himself. A month, perhaps. Then you’ll send in some of your men, to recruit new workers for Terok Nor.”

“And we bring in the shape-shifter with them?”

Dukat regarded the glinn’s pedestrian thought processes with mild distaste. Unable to see a step past the next. “Absolutely not. You will make it clear to Odo that he is not required on the station. But you’ll also be sure he understands what happens at Terok Nor. That ships from all across the quadrant come here for trade and diplomatic purposes. And that as a…visitor, he would be welcomed here.”

“What if it doesn’t choose to accompany the new workers?”

“Oh, he’ll come here. Perhaps not right away, but he’ll come.”

The glinn’s confusion was apparent, although he was too well trained to question a superior. Dukat considered explaining it to him—that they might be able to catch and cage Odo, but that winning him, besides being infinitely more satisfying, was also their best chance to actually
keep
him. A glance at the office door stilled his urge to enlighten the dull man. Glinn Trakad stood there, a sweaty sheen to his forehead. The subordinate looked deeply unhappy as he tapped the door signal.

News he doesn’t wish to deliver
. Dukat gestured him in, commending the ground soldier once more before signing off. Trakad held a slender box in his hands, what appeared to be computer equipment of some sort. A portable relay drive, perhaps.

“Yes, Trakad.”

“This is from that sensor tower in Dahkur.” The soldier looked ill.

“And…?” Dukat prompted.

“This was not a malfunction, sir. This was an attempt at sabotage. The surface inventory reports confirmed it. Several unaccounted-for flyers have been recorded leaving the surface, but no flyers have actually left. They were Bajoran ships, sir. There is a single capture of the saboteur’s face—a Bajoran.”

A close shot of a young redheaded woman’s soft face snapped on, her expression absolutely intent, her eyes filled with fear. The capture had been taken a second or two before she’d fled for the woods, Dukat imagined, scampering away like some small, wild creature.

Dukat turned away from the screen, away from Trakad. And smiled. She was still alive, then—and as beautiful as her mother had been, though in a different way. Strong, where Meru had been fragile. The nerve it must have taken, to climb that tower, to dare such a blatant offense. It was outrageous, of course, totally unacceptable, but while he condemned the action, he could not help but admire her spirit, the foolish bravery of the young and romantic.

Still, I had hoped she would not continue down this road…

“Why haven’t you contacted the engineer who designed the system?” he asked, turning back to Trakad. “This suggests that the detection grid is not working as it was supposed to.”

“I have tried, sir. But it seems that no one can locate her. You dismissed the director of the institute, and their record-keeping system has been in quite…a disarray since she left. You did not immediately appoint a sufficient replacement, and—”

Dukat sighed heavily. It was no wonder that the man looked as though he’d swallowed broken glass. Nobody wanted to deliver news to the prefect that indicated the prefect had made a mistake. He finally turned around. “Well, then. We will have to send someone else to repair it, won’t we?”

“I have already done it. Our chief of engineering assures me that he has overseen a complete recalibration, and everything is now functioning properly.”

Dukat raised his forehead expectantly. Why then, did the man still appear to be so uncomfortable?

The soldier cleared his throat with some difficulty. “But…but the signals in Dahkur remain as confused as before, sir. More unauthorized ships reported taking off, and the anti-aircraft system fails to lock on to them—”

“Suspend all air traffic in Dahkur,” Dukat ordered.

“Shall we shoot the raiders down manually?”

“No,” Dukat said quickly, thinking of young Nerys. “Get me Basso Tromac,” he ordered. Basso was the only one of Dukat’s adjutants that knew the full extent of his interest in Nerys and in the rest of the Kira family. Basso would have to redouble his efforts in Dahkur right away. Dukat dismissed Trakad, and thought again of Nerys, wondering what she hoped to accomplish, wondering if he could somehow lead her away from the terrorists, to teach her to be a proper citizen of a Cardassian host world, before she got herself into real trouble. He had little spare time, of course, but he felt it was the least he could do for Meru’s only daughter. Such a lovely, lovely girl deserved better than to huddle in the forest like a wild animal.

2365 (Terran Calendar)

K
ira fought to keep her own terror in check as she rifled through the belongings of the chemist. She still could not entirely believe that she was here, on Terok Nor, a place most Bajorans would have done anything to avoid. It had been a hasty decision to come—a dangerous one—but this was an opportunity that could mean a significant advance for the resistance. It was long believed that Dukat employed a small, secret network of informants, and Kira was currently right in the den of one of them—the one who served as their direct link to the prefect. Vaatrik Drasa owned this shop, and he could walk in any minute and find her…

There were hundreds of things that could go wrong here. Coming to Terok Nor was easily the biggest risk Kira had ever taken—bigger even than Gallitep. But when the Shakaar cell caught word that there was a way to get someone on the station—and back off again—Shakaar had insisted that they had no choice.

Tahna Los had wanted to go, originally, but the Bajoran man who came to the Shakaar cell with the intel insisted that a young woman would be viewed with less suspicion. It was as though the assignment was made for her, and she’d been quick to volunteer. It was an opportunity they couldn’t afford to miss.

So do it, already!
Kira moved faster, looking through Vaatrik’s files, her fingers scrambling over his keyboard, looking for anything, anything. The man who had arranged for her to come here had insisted that there was a list somewhere in this shop. A list of eight collaborators, who were scattered all over Bajor. Take them out, their informant had insisted, and over half the Cardassians’ intelligence infrastructure would fall apart.

She left the computer running a search and stood, considering the jars of herbs, powders, and drugs that lined the walls. She searched for some clue that one of them contained more than it seemed to, then checked her chrono. If Shakaar’s informat—the man who’d gotten her onto the station—had done his job, Cardassian security would still be busy with the explosion he’d caused down in ore processing. But she didn’t have time to search every jar! She had to get out of here soon, but would she get another chance tomorrow?

“Who are you?” someone demanded, and Kira took a step back, turning, her thoughts racing with the thunder of her heart. Vaatrik had caught her.

“Hello,” she began, wondering with some doubt if she could try to seduce him. “I’m—”

“I’m calling security, unless you explain yourself right away.” The Bajoran went for his comm, but Kira drew her phaser, reacted before she’d thought through the greater implications—and Vaatrik fell to the floor with a crash.

“Oh
kosst,
” she whispered. She had just killed Vaatrik, and the door was wide open for anyone to see. Had he signaled for security? She had to get out of here right now. There would be no other opportunity, for this shop would be swarming with Cardassians in moments, and then she would never get off this station alive. She had failed.

“Rom!” Quark was in a foul mood when he opened his door. “You’re supposed to be tending bar!”

“Frool is watching the till, Quark. I have to tell you—”

“Frool is not family, Rom. You get back there right away.”

“But, brother—”

“No buts, Rom, Frool is probably robbing me blind even as we speak!”

“But, brother, there’s a Lurian in the bar.”

Quark’s mood worsened. “Well, get rid of him!”

“But…brother, he’s really…big. And…hairy. He says his name is Morn.”

“All Lurians are big and hairy, Rom, no matter what their names are, and they’re also bad for business.” He waggled his fingers like a squawking puppet. “
Jabber jabber jabber.
Find someone to deal with him. Maybe you could plant something on him, get him arrested. Now that Thrax is away, it should be easy to concoct a simple frame job.”

“Yes, but, brother—”

“Maybe I should get in touch with that Tarulian trader I did business with last year. We’ve got to make the best of our opportunities while Thrax is off the station.”

“But, brother—”

“What did I tell you about
buts
?” Quark shoved his brother out into the hall.

“But, brother!”
Rom shouted, just before Quark could slide the door closed. “There’s a new chief of security now!”

Quark scowled. “What did you say?”

“There’s a new chief of security now.”

“I don’t believe it,” Quark muttered, and grabbed his jacket. “Come on, Rom. We’re going to the bar. I’ll take care of this Lurian of yours.”

A new chief of security? Quark hoped his brother was mistaken—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time his fool-headed brother was wrong about something. Quark wasn’t sure if a new chief was going to be a bad thing or not. He’d just gotten Thrax sufficiently broken in, really. A new chief might be too quick to make assumptions about a Ferengi businessperson. Assumptions that might be correct, but that was exactly the problem. At least Thrax always gave him the benefit of the doubt, pretended that his race had no bearing on his likelihood of being a suspect for any particular crime. A new security chief might not feel quite the same way.

Rom continued with his blithering as the two made their way down the corridor of the habitat ring and onto the Promenade. “It’s true, brother. Yesterday Dukat hired someone else, to look into a murder investigation.”

“I’ll give him a murder to investigate,” Quark muttered.

Rom ignored him. “He’s not a Cardassian, the new chief. He’s a shape-shifter.”

Quark wasn’t quite listening as the two entered the bar, and he noted that the Lurian in question was indeed big, possibly the biggest Lurian he had ever seen. He sat at the far end of the bar, his massive bulk heaved over a single staggering barstool. Poor barstool. As to his hairiness, well, Quark was less alarmed about that than he was about the bigness, but it did make him seem especially menacing. He was talking up a couple of unwitting Cardassians seated near him at the bar.

In an instant, it dawned on Quark what his brother had just said. “Wait, what did you just say about the new chief of security?”

“Uhhh…he’s a shape-shifter,” Rom said.

Quark snorted. “There are no shape-shifters in this sector, you nitwit.”

One of the Cardassians at the bar, a dal named Boheeka, turned away from the typically long-winded Lurian to interject. “It’s true,” he said. “He really is a shape-shifter. I saw him once, at the Bajoran Institute of Science. He can be anything he wants to be. He’s one of a kind, they say. Nobody knows where he came from.”

Quark felt himself go stiff with horror. “No.”

“Yes,” Boheeka said. “He could be”—he picked up a cocktail napkin—“this napkin! He could be…him!” He pointed to the Lurian, who had now fallen silent. An unusual state for a Lurian.

Quark looked frantically from the Lurian to the Cardassian. Was this a joke? A cruel, cruel joke? “Why isn’t Thrax coming back?”

The other Cardassian shrugged. “Who knows? I, for one, won’t miss him.”

“Me either,” added Boheeka. “He was arrogant.”

Quark swallowed repeatedly, his throat having gone very dry. “He wasn’t such a bad guy,” he squeaked. At least Thrax was no shape-shifter, pretending to be a cocktail napkin so as to spy on a humble Ferengi proprietor.

A Bajoran woman walked into the bar then, drawing his attention; someone from the mines, probably, though they didn’t often come into Quark’s place unless they were looking for work. This woman’s posture seemed to suggest otherwise.

“There you are!” she cried out, and walked straight up to Quark. She was pretty, young, with bright red hair and large, expressive eyes. If not for all the lumpy, cumbersome clothing, she might be something. He’d been thinking about hiring some dabo girls…

“I just wanted to let you know,” she said, coming closer, “that I appreciated the opportunity.” She came close enough then that Quark could smell her, a scent that was at once peppery and sweet, like Bajoran
nyawood
. With an almost imperceptible movement, she reached out her hand and pressed several strips of latinum into Quark’s palm. The careful precision of the motion indicated that she did not want to make the transaction known to the Cardassians at the bar. Quark deftly slipped the latinum into the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Of course,” he said, waiting to see what would happen next.

“I know that you have a lot of other Bajorans who want to work for you,” she went on, “and I just hope that I made an impression on you…that you won’t forget.”

“Sure, sure,” Quark said, thinking he might understand. These Bajorans! They always assumed he was going to be on their side, that he would be willing to concoct stories on their behalf, just because he had gotten himself mixed up with the business of selling supplies to them. He sighed. Well, at least there was the latinum, though it wasn’t very much. He’d better get rid of her. “You did make an impression. But I’ll have to think about it some more. There are quite a few others who are looking to work for me.”

“Thank you,” she said huskily. “Just let me know if…there’s anything more I can do.” She turned quickly and left the bar. Quark stared after the young woman, hoping he’d seen the last of her. She was sexy, sure, but something about her immediately suggested trouble, and he wasn’t interested in getting mixed up in anything else—especially now that he had to worry about a new security chief.

One of the Cardassians at the bar let out a low chuckle. Quark turned to him, returning his lascivious implication with a meaningful grin, though he felt a little ridiculous about it. He’d never seen that woman before in his life, let alone had any sort of relations with her. Although he had, on occasion, taken part in such relationships with other Bajoran women, that was hardly the business of these depraved Cardassians. He cleared his throat and looked away, hoping to change the subject—particularly before the Lurian started to prattle again.

“So, ah,” Quark said to the soldier, sitting down next to him, “tell me more about this so-called shape-shifter.”

Rom suddenly materialized from somewhere in the back. “Brother!” he said urgently.

“What is it, Rom?”

“Brother—the Lurian—he’s still here!”

The massive Lurian turned, fully capable of hearing Rom’s warning, though the alien had almost nothing in the way of ears. Quark waved his hands. “Not now, Rom. We’ve got bigger things to worry about at the moment than Lurians.” He turned to the hulk at the end of the bar. “No offense,” he told him, and the Lurian shrugged.

Quark coughed and turned back to the Cardassian, hoping to trip him up somehow, for he was still working the angle that this was a ruse meant to make him look foolish, that there wasn’t really any shape-shifter, and that Thrax would come walking through the door at any moment, the Cardassians in security all having a little laugh at Quark’s expense. He could hope, anyway. But he had a bad feeling. The Lurian in the bar, the bizarre actions of the red-haired Bajoran woman, and the unconfirmed rumor of a new security chief—all seemed to mark the presence of some unhappy portent. Or, at the very least, the makings of
some
kind of change on the horizon. Things had been going quite well lately; a change could only be for the worse.

Quark scowled. The nerve of Thrax, resigning his post without even saying good-bye. It was enough to drive an honest man to drink.

Doctor Moset was excited. Kalisi could see it in the brightness of his eyes, the quick, efficient way in which he laid out their equipment, checked the hypos she’d prepared. Funny, how she’d stopped thinking of him as Crell, somewhere along the line. They continued to sleep together, but much of the passion had fled on her end, replaced with a kind of fearful awe. If he knew that she was less than present at their physical meetings, he didn’t seem to mind. Nor did she, particularly. Moset had been given a free rein by Central Command, a license to do whatever he deemed relevant to achieving new medical breakthroughs. A man with that kind of power was not to be denied, not if she still hoped to salvage a name for herself.

He leaned forward now, the two of them waiting for the first Bajorans to file in. They were at a medical center outside the Jalanda manufacturing camp, to give the required annual Fostossa booster to the workers and their families. Moset had wanted them both to be here. A day they could reflect upon with pride, he’d said.

“Are you ready to make history?” Moset asked, touching her shoulder. The lab was overbright, accentuating his pallor.

Kalisi nodded. He knew what interested her, understood her motivations well enough; she sometimes wondered if he was manipulating her, reminding her of the things she most wanted those times she felt less than committed to his agenda.

A dozen, fifteen Bajoran children filed into the room, led by a pair of soldiers and a middle-aged Bajoran woman, her face pinched and fearful. The children, all young, were subdued, staring at the smiling doctor with the hypo in his hand. The oldest was perhaps in her early teens; the youngest still possessed the rounded cheek and jaw of a child half that age, his eyes wide with anxiety.

“Where are their parents?” Kalisi asked. The soldiers shuffled the children forward.

“Working,” Moset said. “But they’ll be in to get theirs soon enough; the gul is excusing them from the lines early.”