Star Trek: Terok Nor 03: Dawn of the Eagles (16 page)

“You say Glinn Russol sends his respects, through you,”
the exarch said.
“He is an honorable man. I’ve met him many times, on Cardassia II. But I find it strange that he would fraternize with a member of the Information Service, let alone ask one to deliver a message.”

“My employment has no bearing on my allegiances,” Natima said. She took a breath, reminded herself that just because her job had taken her far from home, there were still things, however small, that she could do to help the movement. “I wish to speak to you as a citizen of Cardassia only.”

Skyl’s lips thinned.
“I would prefer to speak to you in person.”

“That would be preferable to me as well,” Natima said quickly. “So, you’ll meet with me?”

He nodded slowly.
“Yes, time permitting. I will see you sometime next week, if that conforms with your schedule.”

“I can make it comform,” Natima said.

She signed off the transmission, and regarded another call that had been holding, one from within the station. Could it have been security, listening in and demanding to meet with her in regard to her business with Skyl? Even as she thought it, she knew better; security would not bother with the courtesy of a call. She considered letting the transmission go to her message system, but decided that she could use a distraction. In fact, the call came from Quark, the man who owned the bar.

“Miss Lang!”
the Ferengi declared as he appeared on her screen.
“I’m so glad I’ve caught you in. I was wondering…if you might have some time this evening, if you would care to have a drink with me, perhaps, or even a walk around the station? If you could use the company, that is.”

Natima hesitated. She could, indeed, use the company, and the idea of a walk was appealing. She spent most of her time reading feeds from Bajor, correcting copy, doing her job. She didn’t feel comfortable roaming the station in her free time, which both irritated and shamed her. She hadn’t expected to feel so intimidated by the constant stares of Cardassian men, as they silently assessed her status, but she’d come to feel quite isolated in the short time since her transfer. A tour of Terok Nor would be nice.

But with Quark?
She wasn’t sure what to make of the Ferengi. She’d heard stories about them, of course, but had never personally known any. And she didn’t know him well enough to decide if he was trustworthy, or if he was as greedy as the stories made out. But he interested her, on some level; perhaps it was the reporter in her, curious about another culture, or perhaps it was just the invitation to be with someone from whom she didn’t have to fear exposure as a traitor. At least, she assumed not. Quark clearly had dealings with the Bajorans that were not looked upon kindly by the prefect.

“Maybe just one drink,” she said, and he nodded eagerly.

“I’ll see you in the bar, then,”
he said. He grinned broadly, exposing his filed teeth.
“I’m looking forward to spending some time with a beautiful lady.”

He promptly ended the transmission, and Natima sighed. Perhaps it was simply the flattery. Even from this odd little alien man, someone whom she did not find physically attractive in any way—but then, she had never been one to be tripped up by a man’s good looks. The few times in her life she had ever been drawn to a particular man, it had been the measure of his integrity that had called to her. And while she found it difficult to believe that a Ferengi bartender would have much of that, she supposed she could stand a night of listening to someone tell her she was youthful, attractive, whatever else he was going to say in trying to woo her; in truth, her ego could use it.

The Bajorans of this village had been kind to Odo, and he understood that they were appreciative of his assistance with their harvest. But he also wondered how much of their acceptance was a result of his remaining in his humanoid form, at least while anyone was present. Nobody had asked him to approximate the shape of anything else, nobody had instructed him to revert to his natural state, nobody had insisted that he hold still while they waved a tricorder around him or poked him with an electrified probe. He found it refreshing, though the children in the village made him ill at ease—they all tended to stare and whisper whenever he was around, something the adults at least refrained from doing.

He had been given leave to rest at an abandoned farmhouse, and offered meals at a communal table. Odo had no need for food, but he understood that it was a necessity and a social activity for Bajorans, and so he joined them as often as seemed appropriate. He still did not know what he meant to do, now that he had left the institute, but he was satisfied that he’d made the right choice in leaving. Doctor Mora had turned away from him, after giving him the message to carry, and had told him not to bother returning until he was ready to continue their work. Odo had grown used to Mora’s manipulations over the years, had come to understand that the doctor did not have many choices. Odo enjoyed having choices. He liked the variety of people he was meeting, and was beginning to understand that while he was quite different from the Bajorans in some ways, there were also distinct similarities. They spoke of their feelings with such freedom, smiled and laughed and cried with ease, embracing their lives…It was all foreign to him. He had amassed thousands of facts, of definitions, of data threads in his years at the institute, but had learned little of the ways of people, and found this new situation quite appealing. Doctor Mora had been comparatively quite subdued, and few of the Cardassians he’d met had ever bothered to speak to him of their personal lives.

On this day, the people of the town had continued their shelling of
katterpod
beans, their primary staple food. When the sun had risen, they had gathered at the enormous mill to work, as they had for the past two days; most sat outside in the cool, early light, shelling beans for various purposes, while a few worked inside, carrying some of the shelled beans to the millstones; they would be ground into flour that could be used to bake a type of flat bread called
makapa.

Odo’s unsurpassed strength in operating the massive millstones seemed to be valued by the Bajorans, who tired much more quickly than Odo and required a longer rest between work periods. He was therefore working the mill, an apparatus that years before had been driven by water. For reasons that Odo did not entirely understand, the water no longer flowed with any regularity, and the equipment now had to be driven by brute strength. He was pleased that he could assist. Doctor Mora had often asked him to perform, but never to assist.

Two Bajorans who had accompanied him inside the old building were beginning to quarrel about their method of shelling the beans. “If you stack them like that, the beans on the bottom will be crushed,” said the first man.

The other man made a face. “They won’t be,” he insisted. “It’s much more efficient to do it this way. And anyway, the crushed beans can go into the flour bin. You have to account for a few crushed beans in the harvest.”

His companion shook his head. “We can’t justify the possibility of spoilage,” he said. “Crushed beans are twice as likely to mold if they’ve sat for more than a day.”

“They won’t sit,” his friend argued. “I’ll have all these shelled by this afternoon, at the latest.”

“You say that, but you don’t know your limits. I’ve been watching you, and your pile only disappears when you’ve got a helper with you. By yourself, you won’t be able to shell this entire heap by tomorrow. You have to lay them out to shell them.”

The other man was beginning to look angry. He started to reply, but first he looked up and caught Odo’s eye, and the shape-shifter realized he’d stopped turning the stones in order to stare at the men, a behavior he remembered Mora specifically instructing him not to do. He dropped his gaze.

“What is it?” one of the men asked, his tone unfriendly. “Do you have an opinion about
katterpod
stacking, Odo?”

Odo shook his head from side to side. “No,” he said. “But I do have an opinion about conflict in the face of hunger.”

The man narrowed his eyes, and his companion spoke up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Odo chose the words in his customary careful manner. “I only mean that the particulars of the food harvest shouldn’t be a matter of such dispute. What matters is only that it gets done, because your survival depends on it. Is that correct?”

The first man nodded slowly, and looked at the other. “I’ll help you shell this pile when I’m done with mine,” he said.

Odo went back to pushing the stones, happy that the unfriendly tone had gone out of the man’s voice. Several times since he’d come to Ikreimi, he’d witnessed unpleasant interactions, and he was coming to learn that a third party could sometimes redirect their intentions. He was as polite as he knew how to be, and often asked to be corrected if he was in error; and somehow, the things he said to them seemed to make them stop to reconsider their conflict. He couldn’t say why he did so, he only knew that he felt relief when the arguments ceased. It reminded him of the things Doctor Reyar had used to say to Doctor Mora—unkind things, things that had filled Odo with unwelcome tension.

The two men both turned their heads at once as another man entered the mill. It was Sito Keral, the man Odo had originally come to the village to see. He looked frantic.

“What’s with you, Sito?” one of the men asked him. “You were supposed to be here nearly an hour ago.”

Keral’s face was all downturned lines. “Ver, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do. Jaxa’s gone!”

Odo ceased to walk, loosening his arms, remembering the small girl with yellow hair. She had smiled at him the day before, at the midday meal.

“Gone! What do you mean, gone?” Ver asked.

“She’s run off toward the mountains, into the forest,” Keral said.

“What would make her do such a thing?” the other man cried out. “Isn’t she old enough to know better by now?”

“It’s my fault,” Keral said miserably. “My cousin sent me a message that indicated she could…she could…But now—” The man had run out of breath.

“Your cousin, the collaborator?” Ver said.

The fear and panic in Keral’s eyes gave over to rage. “My cousin is a good man!” he shouted. “The message was for the resistance. That is why Jaxa has gone—she is trying to help!”

“For the resistance!” Ver exclaimed. “She’ll never get to where they are hiding by herself!”

“Someone must go after her,” Keral said, pleading. “Ver, your uncle has papers. Couldn’t you ask him to…” He trailed off.

The other two men looked at each other, an unspoken note of impassive defeat passing between them. It was clear enough, even to Odo, that Ver did not want to ask his uncle to perform this favor.

Again, there was conflict here, and Odo thought he knew how best to solve it. He stepped forward. “The detection grid will ignore me,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“Go where?” Keral asked, looking a little surprised. He seemed not to have been aware that Odo was even present.

“To get Jaxa,” Odo replied promptly. “I’ll look for her and bring her back.”

Keral had water running over the lines in his face—tears, of course—but he had a look in his eyes of hope. Odo recognized it as he recognized it within himself. Hope, the feeling that what is desired is also possible; that events may turn out for the best. He’d long known the definition; to see it was compelling, to say the least.

Odo left the mill at once, without looking back, and without waiting for a reply from the others, for it seemed to him a matter of some urgency. Children were important to the Bajorans, and ill-equipped to be alone. He was pleased that he could be of further assistance to these kind people.

N
atima liked the look of Quark’s smile as he gazed at her across the bar. It was at once friendly and lascivious, and she felt that the look on her own face probably mirrored his. She remembered, with slightly embarrassed pleasure, the holosuite experience from the night before—and what had come after the holosuite, in Quark’s quarters.

It was late, the establishment mostly empty. He leaned across the polished surface, over the remains of the two Samarian Sunsets in front of her. Quark refused to charge her for her drinks, a matter that seemed to entirely astound his brother Rom and the Bajorans who worked there. Apparently, Quark didn’t have a reputation for generosity. Natima knew better.

“Will you have another drink?” Quark asked her.

Natima smiled. “I don’t think I can handle any more this evening,” she told him. “I feel lightheaded.”

“I do, too,” Quark said, “and I haven’t had a drop.”

Natima’s smile grew broader, probably more foolish. Quark glanced over her shoulder then, looking toward the door, and his eyes went wide, his smile disappearing.

“I didn’t do anything!” he cried out. She turned around and saw that Thrax, the station’s chief of security, had just entered the bar and was making a beeline for where she sat. She shifted nervously. Had Quark made a mistake in his black-market transactions? Or was it Natima he was after? She wasn’t sure which option would be more unhappy for her.

She got her answer quickly enough as the tall man stopped by her chair. “Miss Lang,” he said coolly. “I’d like it if you’d come with me to the security office.”

Natima cleared her throat. “May I ask what this regards?”

Quark was gaping. “What do you want with her, Thrax?”

Thrax’s already menacing expression grew even more so. “Mind your business, Ferengi.”

“I am minding my business,” Quark said. “The lady’s business is my business.”

Thrax’s forehead creased with mocking curiosity. “Is that so?”

“It’s not true,” Natima said quickly, rising to go. “He has nothing to do with me.” She wouldn’t be responsible for getting Quark in trouble—Cardassian politics were not his concern.

“Natima!” Quark said, clearly hurt.

“It’s all right, Quark. I’ll see you later this evening.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” She said it with firm finality, trying to convey to him not to get involved, but he continued to look concerned, and she hoped very much that he would stay out of this, whatever “this” amounted to.

She followed Thrax across the Promenade to the security station, and took a seat in his cramped office. She drew a deep breath, reminding herself to be careful, not to let him intimidate her. But his manner of interviewing her was not threatening at all. In fact, he was oddly pleasant, a tack Natima presumed was meant to disarm her.

“Miss Lang,” he said. “It’s come to my attention that you have contacted the exarch at the Tozhat settlement.”

“That’s correct,” she told him, thinking there was nothing suspicious about it. “On Information Service business,” she added.

“Oh?” Thrax said. “But that isn’t what you told him. You said that you spoke to him as a citizen of Cardassia only.”

Natima felt her face darken with alarm, to hear him recite the exact words she had spoken to Yoriv Skyl. Had he been listening to the entire transmission? To all her transmissions?

He smiled. “There is nothing that goes on here that escapes my attention, Miss Lang,”

“What is this about?” she demanded. If he meant to arrest her, she’d rather he just get on with it. She had no interest in playing shadow games.

“I’m only satisfying my curiosity,” he told her. “I’m a man who likes to stay on top of people’s intentions. I’m especially curious to know something. You mentioned a name that is familiar to me. Glinn Russol.”

Natima sat frozen, terrified at the prospect of incriminating her friend.

“Is this the same Russol who bears the first name of Gaten?”

Natima didn’t know what to do. “I…I…”

Thrax nodded. “I thought so,” he said. “Well. That is all I’ll be needing to know from you, Miss Lang. You may go now.”

Natima stood up on shaky legs, confused.

“Oh, and, Miss Lang?”

She turned back to him, tried not to look as though all she wanted to do was get away from Thrax and his stifling office. “Yes?”

“I’d appreciate your discretion about this meeting. In return, I will happily keep the contents of your transmissions to myself.” He paused. “You’ll do best to avoid discussing your business with your new Ferengi friend. I know what he’s up to. He thinks he’s clever, but he makes plenty of mistakes. Mistakes that could easily come to the attention of Dukat, if he isn’t more careful.”

Was this a threat? “Th—thank you,” she replied, and left the security office, her heart hammering.

Doctor Seia Trant led this day’s trip to another work camp, another Fostossa vaccination for another tired line of grubby, sullen workers. It was the third time Kalisi had been sent along on one of the excursions to manage the equipment, to set hyposprays, and to see that the camp medical systems were compatible with Crell’s. This camp was a few hours from Moset’s hospital; it had some local name she’d already forgotten. She disliked the trips, disliked looking at the sickly workers, disliked Trant’s knowing smirk whenever Moset was discussed, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. Someone had to assist, and Moset had been locked in his lab for days, finishing up some radiation study for the science ministry.

Today, there had been little for Kalisi to do. The camp’s system was already compatible with the hospital’s—they were both obsolete—and medical files had been downloaded, backed up, sent off. She could either wait in the shuttle or assist Trant with the inoculations, which would at least get her back to the warmth of the facility that much faster. She sat at the counter behind the generally glum-faced Trant, refilling hyposprays, ignoring the smell of unwashed flesh and sour breath as the Bajorans filed into the room, ten at a time, staring around themselves like dumb cattle. A handful of soldiers stood by, most of them looking over the two female doctors with smirks of their own.

Kalisi watched another thin old man step up to Trant’s table, as weak and tired looking as the rest of them. He slouched on the low stool, took his injection without comment, stood, and was motioned back out again by a soldier with a rifle. It was galling, how little these people appreciated what was being done on their behalf. Crell Moset had spent years studying Fostossa, had found a vaccine for a disease that had killed thousands of these people in the early years of the annexation. She had yet to hear a single appreciative word.

A worker sat down, a female with dead eyes. Hypo, stand, next. A man with a scar. Hypo, stand, next. A young woman with a babe at one pallid breast; neither looked well. Kalisi looked away, unhappy with the pity that welled up in her. At least at the institute, the only Bajoran she’d had to see was Mora Pol. Fumbling, frightened Doctor Mora, with his pet plastic man and his pedestrian mind. For him, she’d felt contempt. For these dirty, sorrowful people she couldn’t help but feel pity, in spite of what they’d done to the Union, what they’d done to her
life
…

“How many more are there?” Kalisi asked.

Trant shot her a glance. “Eager to get back to the facility, Doctor Reyar?”

The looks, the smiles, that was one thing; with that insinuating tone, Seia Trant had overstepped her bounds, and Kalisi was no novice to professional malice.

“Are you implying something about my relationship with Doctor Moset?” Kalisi asked, loudly, brightly, and was rewarded for her candor. Trant looked away, her face darkening.

“If I’ve offended you—” Trant started, but was interrupted by a wild-faced man a few people back in the line, dirty and greasy-haired, his teeth bad. He had stepped out of line, was staring at the two doctors with an expression of disbelief.

“Crell Moset? You work for Crell Moset?”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, a hard-faced glinn with a scarred temple ridge. “Back in line.”

“Moset the butcher? Is that who sent you here?”

The glinn raised his rifle. “Back in line,
now
.”

The Bajoran lunged past him, grabbed at one of the hyposprays on the table, his expression crazed. Kalisi and Trant both stood and backed away as the other soldiers came running. The Bajorans scattered.

“What’s in these?” the man shouted. “Another infection?
Poison?
”

He shook the hypospray in Kalisi’s face, and then the soldiers were on him, knocking him down with their rifles, holding him down while Trant stepped forward and injected him with a hypo she’d pulled from somewhere, something that instantly halted his struggle, calming him into a glassy-eyed stupor.

Two of the soldiers carried the mumbling madman out while the glinn barked instructions to the workers, shuffling them back into line, calling off work code numbers.

Kalisi looked to Trant, who was calmly stepping back to her place, checking the tray of vaccinations.

“Seems like there’s one at every camp,” Trant said, sighing. “Doctor Crell Moset, evil scientist.”

“What? Why?”

Trant shook her head. “They’re superstitious and ignorant, these people. They don’t understand how advances in medicine are made. How advances in
anything
are made.”

Kalisi nodded, remembering Mora’s puffy, stupid face. “I’ve noticed that,” she said. As they went back to their work, she tried to picture it—Crell Moset, the work-obsessed, silently passionate man who fancied that he had a good sense of humor, as some kind of mad genius…

Bajorans
, she thought, and refilled a new hypospray.

When she’d left home that morning, it had seemed like a grand adventure, a daring, heroic journey that would end with hugs and
jumja
cake, rewards for bravery…And Sito Jaxa had managed to hold on to that fantasy while the sun was still in the sky, imagining the surprised faces of the dashing resistance fighters when they realized a little girl had saved them, imagining the ride home in one of their flyers, the stories she’d be able to tell her friends at school…She’d darted and hidden, pretending that there were enemy soldiers after her, and for a while she’d walked by a stream that had small fish in it, and she’d stopped twice to eat the snacks that she’d packed for herself—all the while dreaming and pretending, acting like a little girl, doing all the things she had imagined she would do if she ever got to explore the forest on her own.

Jaxa had longed to go back into the forest for what seemed like an eternity. When she had been very small, children of the village could run into the forest and play together whenever they liked, and Jaxa thought she remembered going into the forest all the time, though it was a very long time ago in her short memory. Jaxa wasn’t sure exactly how old she had been when the rules had abruptly changed, when children were suddenly kept close to their parents at all times, when punishment for wandering off suddenly became severe and frightening—frightening because the children understood immediately that there was serious danger waiting for the entire village if they ever disobeyed. Fences had been built, warning signs erected. None dared challenge them—until today, when Jaxa had been so sure she was setting off on an auspicious adventure, one with the happiest of endings.

Now the sun was setting, and it was much colder than Jaxa had thought it was going to be. Even though the early fall days had been hot lately, the forest night was chilly, and too cold for sleep—as if Jaxa could have slept anyway, with the fears and regrets that were reeling in her head. What had she been thinking, sneaking away like this? Well, her pa always said she was rash. She’d made a foolish decision, a childish decision, and now she was likely going to freeze to death for it.

She huddled miserably in the dark, hiding beneath the exposed roots of a rubberwood pine, thinking to herself that she should have reached the mountains by now, anyway. She thought it would be so easy to find them—the tips of the tallest peaks were clearly visible from Ikreimi village, but here, with the trees so close overhead, she could only catch glimpses of them, and even then it appeared that they were moving farther away, not closer. She had most likely been walking in circles. Now she only wanted to go back home, but she didn’t know which direction that was, either. She had badly misjudged her own abilities, her own sense of direction. Well, how could she have known? She had scarcely ever been out of the village, not since she was a little girl, going to the city with her mother and father before the grid went up. It had seemed so easy, then, but what had she known at that age?

Jaxa was alone, frightfully alone. The old road she’d roughly paralleled all day had badly deteriorated until it finally gave way to tangled forest. Jaxa had seen no footprints; the branches and weeds grown across the path were undisturbed. It especially surprised her, considering her assumption that the alien visitor, Odo, had traveled this road. She supposed he must have come by another route. The forest appeared entirely devoid of humanoid activity, now and for a very long time past.

But with that thought, she heard something. A rustle in the low branches. Something moving toward her, something big. She froze, her eyes open wide in the darkness. She tried with all her might to see what was making the noise, but she could only see the dark gray shadows of the trees around her, and the brilliant, cold stars wheeling overhead.