Star Trek: Terok Nor 03: Dawn of the Eagles (23 page)

“You needn’t concern yourself with Kira Nerys any longer. I’ll see to the matter personally.”

“But her connection with the Shakaar cell—”

“—isn’t at issue, here,” Dukat said. “She’s on
my
station. And she can’t leave without my knowing it. Let her pretend for a while, that she still has some control. When she starts to get desperate, I’ll bring her in for a discussion about her options. By then, she’ll be ready to listen to reason.”

“You underestimate her,” Basso said. “She’s a terrorist. She might be here to assassinate you.”

Dukat smiled. “Or you,” he said lightly, and the way the other man blanched, he thought he’d discovered the root of Basso’s concern. Considering the lure they’d used to draw her out, it was extremely likely that Kira had been involved with Vaatrik’s death; he’d been Bajoran, but a collaborator with the Cardassians. She might not hesitate to kill another. Basso Tromac, for example.

“Don’t take on so,” Dukat said. “I’ll oversee the matter myself. You trust me, don’t you?”

Basso did his best to nod convincingly. “Of course, Prefect.”

He left the office, the outer door of Dukat’s living space closing a moment later. Dukat stared after him, thinking. After a moment, he tapped his system up and typed in a few commands, calling up two files on Kira Nerys. The first, her file as it had been.

Confirmed association with Shakaar and Kohn-Ma cells. Probable connection to events at Gallitep, to the destruction of several surface relay bases, to numerous counts of tech sabotage. Possible affiliations with other terrorist groups, including Gertis, Krim…
The list continued. Her priority status was in the upper hundreds. He looked at the newer file, a file that he’d edited himself upon receiving the news that Kira Nerys had been recognized by the shuttle’s computer.

Civilian runner for the Shakaar cell. A minor operative whose activities are limited to running errands for the terrorist leaders. May have participated in minor boundary/curfew infringements.
He’d also dropped a digit off her status number, making her a low priority. Dukat altered the number again, lowering it further, then dropped it back into the system. The real file would stay on the self-contained system in Dukat’s private office, for now. Had Kira Nerys set foot on Terok Nor with her actual file online, security would have been alerted immediately, the docking ring locked down. As it was, he and Basso Tromac and a single communications worker were the only people who knew who she really was, and he meant to keep it that way. He didn’t need to be worrying about Central Command’s reaction to his harboring a wanted terrorist, or Odo turning her over to the military police before Dukat had a chance to speak with her. Dukat hoped to eventually inspire a more personal loyalty in Odo, but thus far, the shape-shifter had proven himself to be quite pedantic about the rule of law…

“Best to keep you to myself, for now,” Dukat said, looking at the capture of her face next to the doctored statistics. He still hadn’t decided what course to take with her. In truth, he did not know what outcome he sought, only that he felt irresistibly drawn to the young woman, perhaps because of his history with her mother. His fascination with Meru’s daughter had only grown over the years, deepening as time passed.

Ah, Meru!
There were times he missed her terribly. Her death had been a tragedy, one he’d truly felt himself helpless to prevent. He was not a man who wasted time reconsidering the past, but there were times he wondered what might have been, if Meru had not betrayed him…

Dukat shook himself, closed the files on his screen, and picked up another padd, calling up the specs on a likely tritanium deposit in the northeasternmost corner of Musilla Province. He’d have his chance to indulge his personal life another time; there was work to be done, and he didn’t want next month’s quarterly report to be sent without at least five major projects at outline stage. The people at home needed to understand how vital the annexation remained. He could cite reasons of compassion for their extended stay—the fragile Bajoran government would collapse if Central Command withdrew, undoubtedly causing a civil war—but he felt that appealing to common practicality was a better bet. Bajor was a sustaining resource, one the Union mustn’t dare release. As its prefect, he understood that better than anyone.

O
do had been swept into an investigation regarding the brutal murder of a Bajoran chemist on Terok Nor, and he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. In the weeks since he’d come to the station, since the prefect had recruited him for security, he had struggled to learn the job. He had observed and restated information to people with differences of opinion, and thus far, the disagreements he’d overseen had mostly worked themselves out. Gul Dukat said he’d wanted Odo because of his reputation as a mediator in some of the Bajoran villages, and more recently, with some of the Bajorans in ore processing. But solving Bajoran disputes and puzzling out Cardassian criminal codes were hardly the same thing. A deliberate killing was something entirely new in his limited experience.

Having just come from an interview with the Ferengi bartender, Odo was struggling to keep up with the interface on the security office’s computer. The system differed from the one at the Bajoran Institute of Science, and Odo had not yet become accustomed to its peculiarities.

“Anything from the Ferengi?”

Odo looked up as a Cardassian man entered the room. Dalin Russol had arrived at the station shortly before Odo himself, to shore up security after the previous chief had left. Russol didn’t seem to be especially keen on accepting the position as chief himself, however, although he had allegedly been offered the position, and had thus far been encouraging Odo to accept the role. A year ago, Odo would have accepted the encouragement at face value, but he’d learned a few things about the nature of humanoids. Enough to know that he understood very little.

“Not sure,” Odo said, and left it at that. The Ferengi had given him a story that turned out to be false. A female suspect had bribed him for an alibi, which Odo supposed could be an indication of her guilt. But he had a nagging feeling there was more to the story. He looked up at Dalin Russol. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this job,” he confessed. “The prefect seems to want me to simply find someone to arrest as quickly as possible, without completely ensuring that it’s the right person. I don’t know if he and I…” He stopped, for he didn’t know how to put voice to the rest of it.

“What?” Russol asked him, but then supplied his own answer. “You wonder if the breadth of your own moral bandwidth might not completely overlap with Dukat’s? Is that it?”

Odo wasn’t sure, but he thought this sounded something like what he wanted to convey. He nodded.

Russol smiled. “That is exactly why you must accept this position, Odo. My understanding is that Thrax was as fair as a man could have been, for being a Cardassian, but you—you’re an outsider. You’ll escape the biases my people have for these”—he spread his hands—“Bajorans.”

“Your people seem to have a natural prejudice against them,” Odo replied carefully, for he still did not fully understand what drove the two races to despise each other so.

“My people are offended by the Bajorans,” Russol said, looking away from Odo. He locked his hands behind his back and raised his head, seeming very interested in the ceiling, though he kept talking. “Their culture appeared static to us. They had not progressed, by Cardassian standards, in many centuries. Their behavior…we found it unacceptable for them to have settled into a lifestyle of such lazy contentment.”

“What could be wrong with being content?”

Russol laughed, a rueful sound. “Cardassians live for the pursuit of the next phase in every undertaking of their lives. It’s never good enough to be merely content. Cardassians…scarcely know the meaning of the word, in fact.” He looked at Odo. “So, you have another subject to interview for your investigation?”

“Yes,” Odo said. He wondered at Russol’s behavior, the words he had spoken. The man seemed not to agree with his own characterization of his people, but then, Odo supposed he was not all that well-practiced at reading people’s intentions. One of the many reasons he feared he was ill-suited for the position in security.

Russol left him alone, and Odo continued his clumsy navigation of the computer system, looking for a file on a particular Bajoran. He found it after a few false starts: Kira Nerys.

Odo studied the image of the sullen-looking redheaded woman, and he revisited a nagging suspicion that had troubled him when he had interviewed her in person. She was familiar to him, but he couldn’t place where he had seen her. In one of the villages? He was sure that wasn’t it. He read her file, finding her to be loosely affiliated with the resistance movement, but her activity within the resistance was limited, and she had not been accused of any serious crimes. Of course, Odo suspected that Dukat could have her arrested simply for being associated with the movement, but he sensed that such action would have been arbitrary on Dukat’s part. The thought of Dukat’s nature brought him a resurgence of discomfort. The work of helping solve disputes, he believed, was good work; why would Dukat have asked him to stay, if he did not wish Odo to do his job well?

He studied her picture until the image seemed indistinct, blurry. He had looked at it too long, and now she didn’t look familiar anymore. He shut down the program, trying to picture her as he’d seen her on the station today, when she’d given him her unlikely alibi. He could not shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. Perhaps it would come to him when he spoke with her again.

Kalisi Reyar returned to her quarters after a tiresome day, chilled and out of sorts, to see a message waiting on her companel—a transmission from Cardassia Prime. She hadn’t had a call from home since…since she wasn’t sure when. Her family had initially been proud that she’d left home to design Bajor’s detection grid, but that had been when they’d all thought she would be away a few years, at most. Her father, in particular, had made clear his sorrow that his second-oldest daughter had not already returned home triumphant, to give him grandchildren and settle into a high office at the science ministry. Their last contact had been months before, an obligatory birthday message.

Kalisi took off her coat—she’d spent most of the afternoon outside in a cold and misty drizzle, trying to adjust the hospital’s security feed—and told her computer to run the message as she sat to take off her boots.

A Cardassian woman she didn’t recognize came up, smiling politely. She was well-dressed and spoke in a cool, clear voice.

“Doctor Reyar. My name is Tera Glees. I represent the University of Culat, on Cardassia Prime. As you may or may not have heard, we are expanding our campus to include a research department specifically designed to assist Cardassian colonies and annexations. We’re in need of a professional to round out our weapons division, and are inquiring as to whether or not you’d be interested in taking a position with us. I’ve attached a file outlining a job description, with links to salary, housing, campus maps. I believe you’ll find it comprehensive, but please feel free to contact me at any time with any questions you may have. I look forward to taking your call, and we thank you for your consideration.”

Her eyes wide, one boot still in hand, Kalisi stared at the screen as the woman blipped off. She dropped the boot to the floor, stepped to her desk, and opened the rider, scanning the bullet points with disbelief. The pay and benefits were excellent, the opportunities suddenly limitless.

Weapons research.
At Culat, which had produced some of the best and brightest minds in the Union. She could be done with Crell Moset and his brilliant, soulless eyes, done with menial mechanics and medical scanner debugging, done with the
cold
. She could go home.

She wanted to tell someone, needed to hear it out loud, but she had no friends at Moset’s hospital. In a daze, she put in a call to her father. When his face appeared on her screen, stern and wary and so well loved, she felt like weeping.

“I’ve been offered a position at Culat,” she said, before he could say anything.

“What? At the university?”

“Yes. They’re opening a new research department and want me for their weapons team.”

Her father smiled, then, and her heart warmed. She hadn’t seen that smile in some time.

“The university at Culat is most prestigious,”
he said.
“You’ve accepted?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’ve only just received the transmission.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”
he asked, still smiling.
“Call them back, accept the position. You’ll be home, dearest. You’ll finally be able to start working on that family you keep promising us.”

Is it going to hurt?

No, it won’t hurt a bit. I promise.

Kalisi stared at her father, hearing the little Bajoran girl’s voice as clearly as if she was in the room. Seeing her frightened face, seeing her smile once she realized that the inoculation was over, that there had been no pain.

It didn’t hurt.

“Kalisi?”
Her father frowned.
“You
are
going to accept, of course.”

“I—of course,” she said, but her excitement, her
relief
at the offer was gone. “I have a few things to finish here first…”

“What things? I thought you were working in a medical facility now. Surely they don’t need your expertise on weapons systems to treat sick aliens.”

Kalisi wasn’t sure how to answer him. How was she to tell him that she’d begun to feel haunted by the spirits of a million unborn children?
Alien
children? She had always been his practical girl, his brilliant, focused one. How was she to admit that after all these long, cold years, struggling to make her name—
their
name—she was losing her focus?

She changed the topic, recalling something she’d been meaning to ask him about for some time now. “Do you remember when I asked you a few years back…if you could confirm that a man named Dost Abor was in any way affiliated with the Obsidian Order?”

Her father frowned for a moment, trying to recall the prior conversation, and then he nodded.
“Yes, indeed, I confirmed that he is an operative. He’s stationed at an offworld listening post. But what makes you ask about Dost Abor?”

“Kali?”

Kalisi turned in her seat, saw Crell Moset standing in her doorway. He’d apparently taken it upon himself to surprise her.

“Ah—” She turned back to the screen, smiling apologetically. “Father, my supervisor needs my attention. Perhaps we could speak more of this later?”

Her father had spent most of his professional career acting the diplomat. He needed no further prompting.

“Yes, another time. Be well, dearest.”

The screen went blank, and Kalisi turned to face Moset. She did her best not to let her irritation show, it would only lead to sex…although his attempt to be playful by sneaking into her room suggested that it was already a forgone conclusion.

“That was your father?” the doctor asked. “Who is Dost Abor?”

Kalisi stood, smiling. “I did not hear you come in, Crell.”

“Old boyfriend, perhaps?”

“Nothing like that,” she said. “I’ve just come in. Have you eaten? We could—”

“Your father works as a liaison, doesn’t he? Why would you be asking him about an old lover? Or perhaps he’s another medical researcher…?”

His tone was mild, a slight smile on his crease of a mouth, but there was a sudden sharpness to his gaze that made her stomach tighten. Her lover was an obsessive man.

The truth cost her nothing. “Dost Abor…is someone I suspected to be affiliated with the Order. Just before I came here, he asked me questions about a Bajoran religious artifact I once handled, at the Ministry of Science.”

Moset leaned against her desk. “Why would the Order take interest—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. “Was it one of the Orbs?”

Kalisi couldn’t hide her surprise at the terminology Moset used: the “Orbs.” She’d very nearly forgotten that anyone had ever referred to the objects as such, but she remembered now, Miras Vara had called the thing an Orb…an Orb of the…
Prophets
? Bajoran religious nonsense. “Why would you suggest that?”

Moset pursed his lips slightly, a knowing expression in his usually impassive eyes. “The Obsidian Order has been hoarding them,” he said. “I believe they want to keep them from the Oralian Way.”

“The religious fanatics?” Kalisi was puzzled; she knew very little of that particular organization—only rumors. “I thought the Union dealt with them decades ago.”

The maddening expression, his “teacher” voice. Kalisi dropped her gaze from him as he replied. “The Union probably thinks so, too. But the Way lives still.”

Kalisi couldn’t help a sneer. “How could you possibly know that?”

He smiled. “I have a relative who has been involved with the resurgence of the Way for some time now.”

“The resurgence? So you mean…younger people are practicing this faith now?”

“Yes, they have been rebounding in increasing numbers for at least fifteen years or so.”

“Fifteen years!”