Tales from the Captain’s Table (17 page)

“Meanwhile, the fools’ father returned home from his captivity. He could have gone back to his life as a warrior, but, as was his right, he chose not to reclaim his honor. He had fought his battles, and he had two sons to carry on his name.

“But his sons were very great fools indeed, and they bickered and argued. The older son refused to see his father, thinking him a disgrace; the younger son would not do his filial duty and obey. So where once the two were inseparable, where once they were able to achieve great things together, now they achieved nothing.

“Eventually, the warrior died of natural causes. That only made things worse. The older fool had lost his arm in the same battle that claimed his dishonorable captain. Having at last achieved the captaincy he had waited his entire life for, the older fool, in a misbegotten attempt to salvage his family’s honor, had his father’s arm grafted onto his own body.

“The younger fool excoriated him for it. He tormented his brother, even took up arms against him in a battle on behalf of the Order of the
Bat’leth
. Unable to allow his disobedience to continue, and with his position as head of the House now secure with the great warrior’s death, the older fool was forced to remove his younger brother from their House.

“He had no choice, which only made him more foolish.

“Was he right to refuse to see his own father? Was he right to take arms against his own brother? Was his father truly a coward who killed another warrior without showing his face in a barroom brawl? Was his father truly able to escape the Romulans, or did they let him go? And if so, did that disgrace lead him to avoid reclaiming his honor?

“And did any of that matter?”

With the very same arm that once belonged to his father, Klag raised his final
warnog
and drank it all down. “A fine House has been sundered because of two children who did not learn the lesson that Nakri taught them: that they were warriors, and that warriors do not obey blindly, but do what is right. When they were children, the two fools knew that they could defeat the
klongat
even though Nakri told them they could not. Because, though it is honor and duty that guide us, they should not shackle us.

“Duty to her husband compelled Gosek to continue her mad quest for Koghima’s killer when there was no reason why she should. Duty to his House compelled Kazho to follow her through to the bitter end. Duty to his ship compelled the older fool not to challenge his captain, even though he was an incompetent who deserved to die. And duty to his honor compelled the fool to shun his own father when he refused to reclaim his lost glory—and to cast out his brother when he did not follow the elder’s lead.

“Regardless of the motives, regardless of the truth, regardless of the misunderstandings, regardless of the disobedience in the face of righteousness, regardless of the obedience in the face of dishonor—the result is the same, and the result is tragic. And little can be done about it now.

“Because the older fool realized too late that his father was dead, and that he would never be able to speak to him, to be with him—to learn from him ever again. Whether or not he was an honorable man, whether or not he stabbed a man in the back, whether or not he truly escaped from the Romulans—the fool, once again and for the final time, failed to learn the lessons his father tried so hard to impart to him. Instead a great warrior died thinking his oldest son hated him. At the very least, he was spared the sight of his son, a Klingon warrior, admitting to a room full of friends and strangers—and others—that he misses his father.”

With that, Klag rose from his stool, turned, and left the Captain’s Table.

Cap took Klag’s
warnog
mug and dropped it into the dirty-dish bin. As he did so, the noise in the bar started, slowly, to build, as the patrons realized that the story was at last over, and regular discussion could resume until such time as someone else was asked for their payment.

“An interesting story,” the Triexian said.

The Romulan once again sneered. “Your criteria for interest are considerably less exacting than my own. I found the first story dull, the second aimless, and the third maudlin.”

“Well, I liked it,” the Boslic woman said.

“Which one?” the Telspong asked.

“All of them.”

The Bajoran solar sailboat captain shrugged. “It was just more fighting, killing, and honor.”

Cap walked over to the end of the bar where the other Klingon still sat, brooding. “Another bloodwine?”

The Klingon shook his head without looking up.

“What about a story? Do you have one?”

Finishing his bloodwine and then casting the mug aside, the Klingon rose from his bar stool and said, “My brother just told it.”

With that, Dorrek, son of M’Raq, left.

Cap had observed Kira throughout Klag’s story. Something in Klag’s tale struck a chord with the Bajoran woman, and Cap knew that she had found her payment, even if she herself didn’t realize it. Refilling her drink, he watched her thoughtful expression, even as her companion, Sisko, told a story about a young man—Sisko’s own son, Cap knew, though the captain left this fact out—who had lost his father and, in an attempt to find him, traveled a great distance and had many adventures on a vessel called the
Even Odds
in a place thousands of light-years from his home. In the end, the young man did not find his father, but brought two lost souls back to the place that all three had called home. Cap had already heard a version of this story from the
Even Odds’
own captain a while back, and he enjoyed hearing the different perspective.

When that was done, Kira announced that she had her own story and that the tales of Klag and his brother inspired it. The Romulan commander blanched at the notion, but everyone else in the bar listened as Kira began….

I
felt his eyes on me. Even surrounded by four office walls and no windows, I sensed his presence. I saw cabinets and curiosities from my seat in the examining chair and the attendants bustling about with their tools, impassively taking their measurements and notes, poking at me as if I were a specimen. He’d always been exceedingly good at playing make-believe and persuading others to go along with his games; it’s how he managed to stay comfortable while the rest of us went without. He’d left me—left all of us—what was it, ten years ago? But I still had issues with him. Prophets knew I saw his face on every collaborator I pummeled with my fists, heard his voice in the gurgling gasp of death I dealt each traitor. I couldn’t escape him, though I’d certainly tried.

Even this examining room, abundantly stocked with the latest medical supplies and sterile instruments, expressed his nature perfectly: He loved excess. He always sought to add more to what he already had and he refused to share because it meant he would have less. But who could blame me for hoping that he might have changed? I still cared about him in my own way regardless of what he’d become (and if the gossip was true, he had his share of identities, including collaborator, pimp, black-market dealer, thief, and arms dealer). Let me be clear: I didn’t forgive my brother. I just hadn’t given up hope that he could still be of use to the cause.

So when Shakaar asked me to run an operation for the resistance by infiltrating one of the most powerful organized crime syndicates on Bajor, I accepted without hesitation. The mission was straightforward. I would worm my way into a nest of collaborators to facilitate the kidnapping of one Glinn Gundar. We’d heard through back channels that Gundar was being dispatched from Central Command to upgrade the Bajoran Sector Communications Network encryption algorithms sometime in the next sixty days. Preventing Gundar from completing the systems upgrade was critical.

Running a resistance is difficult when you can’t eavesdrop on the enemy’s conversations.

My job was to remove Glinn Gundar from Doblana Base and place him in Shakaar’s custody. No idea what would happen next; once Gundar was in the resistance’s hands, I was done. But I had a vested personal interest in this specific operation that gave me an extra motivation to succeed.

First, bringing down the Cardassians by using the collaborators sweetened the deal considerably. I loved nothing better than bringing those bottom-feeders to their knees and making them beg for mercy. Second, since my brother Reon stood at the top of their festering ranks, I had the chance once and for all to settle the score. He could support our cause, honor his Kira name, and help me, or he could hold ranks with his corrupt cronies. If he chose the latter, he would suffer for it. The Fire Caves would be a pleasant way to die after I was done with him. There might be some hint of the Kira
pagh
left within him or there might not be. I would find out soon enough.

The first phase of my mission had been successful. On the grounds that I was seeking employment, I’d bribed my way onto a supply transport headed for the Doblana Arctic Base complex, a large facility tasked with managing critical pieces of the Occupation’s infrastructure, including communications. The Plin Syndicate ran their primary facility side by side with the Cardassian base, a business called, innocuously enough, the Officers’ Club—the facility I anticipated working for. Ostensibly, the outward purpose of the Officers’ Club was providing an abundant supply of the usual vices to the Cardassians assigned to Doblana. In our briefing, Shakaar had stated that the comfort women, gambling, drugging, and drinking didn’t even account for a tenth of Plin’s revenues—it was just the proverbial foam on the
raktajino
and a cover for the real business: a major hub for the Alpha Quadrant black market. Talk about an abundance of opportunities for the resistance!

I just had to survive the job interview.

Only a mission that promised such a lucrative outcome could have induced me to tolerate the treatment I was being subjected to. Under normal circumstances, I’d be more inclined to knee a groin or two and get the hell out. I kept reminding myself, though, that I was enduring this humiliation for Bajor.

As Doctor Liawn pried my mouth open, he recoiled at the “stink of jumja rot” emanating from my decaying, blackened teeth. Recently, I’d had a few sores inside my lip, but I’d lanced them with my knife blade and burned out the puss to keep the infection from spreading. The doctor had shuddered when he’d observed the remains of those wounds.

He bid me to close my mouth with a wave of his hand and took a step back. “You’re in terrible shape.”

“No one ever said the caves of Dahkur were luxury suites in Ashalla.”

Liawn exhaled loudly and shook his head. “If it were only your teeth, I wouldn’t be concerned. Cosmetic treatment, and your molars will be white as
sova
shell, but the rest of you isn’t much more than cadaverous skin and bones—I could see through your cheekbones to the back if your skull if I shone a light through your sinuses. I’ve known wire scrubbers less coarse than the skin on your hands, elbows, and knees.”

As he prattled on, I clenched the edge of the examining table wishing for all of Bajor’s stolen latinum that I could leap off and strangle him. What held me back was the conviction that Shakaar, perhaps most of Bajor’s resistance cells, counted on me to pass Liawn’s scrutiny and go to work for Plin Patra. I needed this job. I had to be hired even if I had to sleep with half the staff to do it.

Leaning forward, I widened my eyes, affixing him with my best version of an earnest, innocent look. “If repairing my teeth isn’t a problem, there must be some mud bath or oil treatment that could help my skin. And Prophets know that I’d gain weight on a diet of something other than
teep
grass.” I batted my eyelashes, offering him a shy but pleading grin that I kept in my arsenal for those rare occasions when smiles worked better than a punch to the jaw.

A dimple creased Doctor Liawn’s doughy cheeks. He found my pathetic attempts at flirtation amusing, I could tell. “If it were only your appearance that troubled me, I’d advance you to the next interview.”

I toyed with the lace ruffle around the wrist of his jacket. “I have many skills, Doctor Liawn. I’m certain I could satisfy all your doubts.”

“My experience with you refugee types is that malnutrition compromises your bone density—even muscle strength,” he said, taking a step back so as to be out of my reach. “Don’t take this personally, but this isn’t a position for a weakling. Our employees have to be able to hold their own in any one-on-one they might be thrust into.”

“Test me,” I said, tossing my hair, confident that I could pass any screening an Officers’ Club could devise. Hell, I’d gone hours in hand-to-hand with soldiers twice my size and weight and escaped with little more than a scratch. I could manage a tray full of
kanar
-filled snifters and run a dabo game wearing high heels—no problem.

His lip curled as he considered me for a long moment. “Fine then. Step behind that partition.” He nodded toward the rear of the medical bay. “You’ll find the appropriate attire to change into. I’ll call ahead to make sure the arena is ready.”

Arena?
I pondered the implications of the word while I peeled away the layers of patched and faded cloth I’d fashioned into a tunic and breeches. I deposited my yellowing, sweat-stained chemise onto the chair and paused to look in the mirror mounted on the side of the partition. I don’t know how long it had been since I’d had the luxury of a mirror. Maybe a year, maybe two since my mission to the space station Terok Nor when I’d been forced to assassinate Vaatrik. Appearance didn’t rank high on my list of concerns, didn’t get the job of freeing Bajor done. What I needed was a stalwart heart, strong legs, good fists and the willingness to use them; that I had. But beauty…Doctor Liawn had assessed me fairly. The emaciated creature reflecting back at me bore little resemblance to the Nerys of my memory. The filth embedded into my nail beds, in the skin crevices of my wrists and neck where my flesh was exposed to the elements stood out in stark relief against my pale upper arms, legs, and torso. The nearly translucent skin stretched tight over my ribs, the knobs of my joints, and my desiccated muscles. I could see my pulse fluttering in my veins. I studied the reflection, wondering whether it was my hatred for the Cardassians or my passion to see Bajoran independence that kept the waif in the mirror alive and fighting. Did it matter? I was alive.

I pulled on the unisex shorts and tank top Liawn had left behind and emerged from the partition. His assistant waited for me. I followed her through several sets of doors into a long hallway where Liawn stood outside yet another door that I assumed opened into the arena. He attached sensors to my circulatory and respiratory regions, then placed a headband around my forehead and temples, informing me that the band would monitor my neurochemical levels.

“So what will it be: Klingons, Cardassians, or Romulans?” he asked.

Understanding occurred; Liawn wanted to know who I hated most. New confidence filled me and I smiled. “No question. Cardassians.”

“Hardly surprising,” Liawn said with a snort. Without further explanation, he activated the doors and gave me a gentle shove into a spacious room. The spongy give in the floor beneath my feet reminded me of what I’d been told a hoverball practice court was supposed to be like. I still struggled to acclimate to the recirculated air; my lungs rebelled against inhalations free from the spores, dust, smoke, and pollutants I’d lived my whole life with. A hissing door interrupted my thoughts. I spun around to see a burly Cardassian, stripped bare to the waist, striding through the doorway. Part of my brain registered that this couldn’t be a flesh-and-blood Cardassian. Hadn’t Liawn asked me to choose an opponent like I might a random card in a game of
triuval?
I’d heard stories about holography and the ability to create lifelike characters out of light and energy—the bar on the space station was famous for its holosuites—but I’d never had firsthand experience with the technology. My eyes and slamming pulse validated the illusion’s realism; the familiar sensation of adrenaline coursing into my limbs energized me.

He held his elbows at right angles, his hands in fists; he didn’t smile.

But I did. The familiar burn of molten anger energized my limbs. I found it delicious. No love, no dream of freedom motivated me, only unadulterated hate. I snarled, charged my enemy, drew first blood. Each blow, each bruise fueled my fury. Years of scratching, biting, breaking my enemy had prepared me for this combat. What I lacked in brute force, I made up for in cunning as I ducked, dodged, and parried his blows.

How long our hand-to-hand combat lasted, I can’t recall. When I finally snapped the Cardassian’s neck, the door hissed open and I staggered out into the hallway. I gratefully received assistance from a waiting attendant who offered me a basin to spit a mouthful of blood and tooth shards into, and quickly spirited the distasteful mass away. I probably bled internally, perhaps I’d sustained a fracture or a concussion. I didn’t care. Endorphins numbed my pain. I exulted into the hallway, confident that I’d proved my worth to these sniveling collaborators. Ten of them wouldn’t be worth one of my fellow resistance fighters. Plin wouldn’t dare turn me down now. She would have to hire me. If that was the worst she could throw at me, I knew I would triumph.

The look on Liawn’s face said differently. “Peri will fix your teeth and attend to your wounds. I took the liberty of procuring you new things. Your old clothes are hardly fit to wear. I’ve had them recycled. I’ve also provided you with enough credits to transport wherever on Bajor you want to go. They’re in the pouch next to your boots. Go with the Prophets.” He turned on his heel and headed away from the arena.

I refused to accept failure.

Chasing after him, I shouted, “I mopped the floor with that Cardassian. What else do you want from me? How dare you turn me away! I want this job! I
need
this job!”

Liawn paused, exhaled, clearly annoyed. “Besides the fact that the sensors indicated both microfractures due to porous bones and weakness in your pulmonary vessels with increased stress making your fitness questionable, you lied.”

My eyes widened.
How dare this betrayer call me a liar
. “I
lied?”

“I’m almost persuaded by your indignant behavior, I’ll grant you that much,” Liawn said, drawing closer to me. “Why do you really seek employment with Plin Patra? Who are you working for?”

I took a step back, took a deep breath and began, “I admit: I’ve served in the resistance in the past and you might think that’s why I’m here now. But you have to believe that I’m done with it.” I dug deep into my gut, remembering every mistake I’d ever made, every failed op as I tried conjuring a defeatist mind-set. “I can’t take it anymore. The suffering, the futility of it all, the endless cycle of death and destruction. I’ve had enough.”

His eyes glinted through narrow slits, his face puckered in a frown.

I sensed his disbelief; I reached deep within my
pagh
and opened up the place of my darkest fears and most despairing failures. I had to convince him. I turned watering eyes up at him. “Any belief, any dream I had—” A tight, pained gasp escaped my throat. “—that we could end this Occupation is fading. I don’t think we can break the backs of the Cardassians in my lifetime.” I grabbed Liawn’s arm, forced him to face me. “I’m exhausted. You’ve seen me—I have an old woman’s body. Without this job, I have no way out of the cold and mud and starvation. I need the
litas
to go off-world and start over somewhere else.” My shoulders slumped, I raised my hands to my face, breathing deeply to steady the sobs I wanted Liawn to believe were threatening to burst through.