Tales from the Captain’s Table (18 page)

From behind me, I heard clapping.

“Well done,” a throaty female voice spoke behind me. “I don’t believe a word of it, but our Cardassian members might.”

Raising my face, I turned to see Plin Patra standing behind me. We’d never met face-to-face, but I recognized her from the rare opportunities I’d had to scan the newsfeeds. From time to time, she and her entourage showed up in the Cardassian News Service propaganda standing beside Prefect Dukat or socializing with visiting dignitaries. The Cardassians offered Plin’s warm associations with them as proof that they could work and play well with the Bajorans.

So this was the woman who helped the Sulati acquire bioweapons and kept Dukat’s bedmates in silks and baubles. Soft living kept her milky complexion satiny and unblemished; she looked like she was my age, though I knew she had children older than I was. No adornments mussed her long chestnut brown hair worn up in a tightly pinned chignon. Up close, she lacked the imposing presence she exuded in her public persona. I’d expected she’d be much taller. Even her clothing avoided pretentious displays of wealth; her plain jewel blue trousers and short jacket, both impeccably tailored, cut a fluid line over her slender form. I suppose I expected more glitzy whore and less entrepreneur. For a moment, her seeming simplicity disconcerted me.

Noting my scrutiny, she raised an eyebrow. Finally: “Change your clothes, let the nurse fix your wounds, then come back into my office and we’ll talk.”

Her office had more in common with a luxury suite of living rooms than a boxy, utilitarian space with a desk—what I thought of as an office. Past twining sunset colored orchids in cloisonné vases, hand-carved furniture, and wall-size frescoes of pastoral Bajor, Plin led me into her library. She motioned for me to take a seat in a high-backed chair upholstered in dark green Tholian silk before taking her place across the room in a similar-style chair. I heard burbling water somewhere in the background.

“You’re not worried that my scrubbing-brush-like skin is going to snag your fabric,” I said, pausing before sitting down.

Plin laughed. “Reon told me you had a sense of humor.”

“I’m sure Reon’s had more fun than I’ve had over the last ten years. Not much amusement in liberating the oppressed and brutalized.”

“On that, we agree.” She poured wine into a pair of goblets sitting on a tray beside her chair and walked over to offer one to me before returning to her own glass. Raising it in the air, she said, “To good business.”

“To good business,” I agreed, and waited for my hostess to take a sip before taking a sip of my own. Feeling neither cold nor uncomfortable, I sat poker-straight in my chair, sharpening my focus on Plin, refusing to allow ease to lull me into sloppiness.

Plin tilted her head thoughtfully, offering a half-smile. “You trust no one. Good. That will make this easier.”

“This?” I raised my wineglass to my lips.

Daintily, she crossed one leg over the other, smoothing her trouser leg. “You don’t want a job. You’re not leaving Bajor. You’re here on assignment from the resistance.”

I swallowed too much wine, coughed, and quickly raised the back of my hand to my mouth in hopes that I’d covered my surprise, but obviously, Plin was too clever or too well connected for me to fool her. How could she possibly know? My operation was known only to the highest echelon of resistance leaders.

“You’re wondering how I know.”

“Do you read minds as well?”

“I read people. That’s my business, and as you can see from looking around you, I’m an expert at doing business. You want me to tell you about yourself?”

“Reon—”

“I don’t mean vital statistics. I mean the fact that in twelve-years in the resistance, you have never once faltered in your loyalty. You’ve been watched, even approached by agents looking for vulnerabilities in that seemingly impenetrable moral armor you protect yourself with in the hopes that you might be turned—”

I gasped. I’d been approached?

Plin smiled smugly. “Your invulnerability—your single-mindedness—makes you blind in some respects, Nerys. All of those in my circles keep an eye on you, wondering not if, but when we’ll wake in the night to find your knife at our throats.”

“So if you assume I’m here to kill you, why am I sitting here and not in a transport on my way back to Hedrickspool?”

“Because I have a use for you.”

“But what about my ‘impenetrable moral armor’? Surely you don’t believe you can induce me to betray those who have my loyalties with anything in this room.” I smirked, waving my hand in the direction of Plin’s overt displays of prosperity: Kendra jade figurines, tapestries, and the countless antique reading scrolls ensconced on her shelves.

“I share your loyalties,” she said simply. “We fight for the same side.”

Incredulous, my eyes widened and I snorted. “Please. You can do better than that. Pretending to be on the same team as your enemy? A pretty transparent tactic for someone who plays in your league. I thought you were good at this.”

She crossed the space between us, crouched down next to my chair, leaned close and whispered hoarsely into my ear. Sitting back on her heels, she looked at me expectantly.

I blinked. Clutched the chair’s armrests. Stared at Plin, my mind racing.
Was it possible?

Plin had provided me with an emergency extraction code given to top-level resistance operatives when they needed to abort a mission. Only those who had passed tests of loyalty beyond any conceivable doubt could have an extraction code. Faking the codes was impossible, to my best knowledge.

While Bajor’s resistance cells didn’t run under centralized leadership, an agreed-upon emergency system had arisen over the years that allowed resistance agents to work anywhere on Bajor and be able to locate backup in an emergency situation. The codes changed weekly—the day before I left for Doblana Base, Shakaar had issued me my new extraction code.

Either Plin served the resistance or a traitor lurked in our most powerful circles. There was no other way for Plin to have the information she’d whispered to me.

I wasn’t sure which option I found more surprising.

At last I overcame my shock. “How could you—”

“Can you conceive of a more ideal cover for a resistance cell than a successful business run by collaborators?” she whispered, smiling mischievously. “Once you’re inside the Club, look beneath the dabo and the Cardassians parading around with their Bajoran comfort women on their arms and you’ll see how perfect our setup is.”

Blinking back my surprise, I sat for a minute, considered her words and realized that no, I couldn’t think of a more effective cover. Then the questions started. Why hadn’t Shakaar told me? How had she managed to keep such a secret for so many years without being suspected by the Cardassians? Could she be lying—playing both sides of the game and profiting from both? My expression must have borne witness to my questions because Plin patted my arm and told me that the answers would come in good time. She returned to her chair and watched me closely until I was ready to speak.

I had many questions. “But how can you avoid leaks with so many operatives?”

“Not all the employees here are operatives. You won’t necessarily know who works with us, for your safety and theirs.”

Immediately, I pounced on the pronoun. “Us?”

“You can work here,” she said, toying with the stem of her wineglass as she spoke. “But there are no solo operations in the Officers’ Club—I won’t allow you to blow our cover, even inadvertently. I’ll need to know the details of your op.”

So it came down to me revealing all in exchange for—what? No deal. “You honestly expect me to tell you that?” I shook my head. “Granted, you’ve lobbed quite an authentic-looking grenade into my lap, but I still don’t trust you.”

Plin laughed a deep melodious belly laugh. “Excellent. You shouldn’t. In due time, however, you will be faced with a decision: we work together or you’ll be on that transport to Hedrickspool, without an apology to Shakaar. Fair?”

I nodded, paused, wrestling with an impulse to ask my questions, but reluctant to reveal myself.

“You will see Reon again,” Plin said quietly, willing me to meet her gaze.

I found understanding in her vivid green eyes. Perhaps she did read minds after all.

Plin slapped her thighs and rose from her chair. “One of the personnel coordinators from the Club will be up to start you on your improvement regimen.”

“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I followed her.

“I have much higher expectations for those who work for me than Shakaar does,” she said, tapping information into what I assumed was a communication unit on the wall. “I have to grant that he gets results, but I feel that the journey to achieving those results should be equally satisfying.”

Two Bajorans plainly dressed in
por
wool tunics materialized in the doorway. Plin introduced them as Tov and Mena and told me that they would be responsible for preparing me for work in the Club—grooming, diet, medical—

“—and especially those teeth,” Plin added on her way into the anteroom.

I’d passed the first test.

I submitted to Tov’s and Mena’s orders without protest. After all, what’s to complain about soaks in an oil tub, head-to-toe
zusah
-wood exfoliating treatments, and relaxing in
farak
steam. Having my scars mended and teeth cleaned and repaired wasn’t bad either. I ran my tongue over the sleek white enamel, searching for the old caries and gaps, and found none. Even I, who lived on the opposite extreme from vanity, enjoyed a small gush of pleasure when I saw my smile. Mena had brought me a series of protein shakes formulated to help my body acclimate to eating before I assumed a regular diet of fruits, vegetables, and meat for the first time in my life. She warned me that I would need more cosmetic treatments before work started, but that at least I was presentable enough to be seen in the Club.

“Follow me to your new quarters. Your roommate hasn’t started her shift yet and she’ll be orienting you to the facilities and our rules,” Tov said. “Madame Plin chose her specifically for you. You are fortunate she’s taken a personal interest in your welfare.”

She’s interested because she wants something from me,
I thought cynically. As I followed Tov through a series of winding service passageways, I ruminated on who Plin might have matched me with until the last hall terminated in a pair of doors.

We passed into a gloriously illuminated foyer furnished in plush, brocade settees and plump chairs offering flashes of purple, deep tree greens, and blues. On every side I saw buffet tables jammed with gleaming serving dishes and platters brimming with stuffed puffs, cheeses, steaming meats, layered desserts, and corpulent, ripe fruits. Servers flitted about, pushing carts loaded with gilded liqueur carafes and wine bottles. Overwhelmed by the fatty, spicy scents, I avoided breathing through my nose; my stomach convulsed with nausea. I forced my attention away from the food, noting instead the décor.

In essentials, the design exhibited the refined elegance of Plin’s salon garnished with an overlay of crystal, shiny metallic surfaces, and colorful flourishes. From above, prismatic light shone through an ocean of vibrant blue, green, and yellow wavy glass, giving me the sensation of walking underwater. At a long-ago time many of Bajor’s buildings had been as noisy and colorful as the Club, though they were no longer so—not in a day of gray Cardassian faces, the dark, glinting metal of weaponry, and the rags of an oppressed people. I was reminded of why I’d come to this place—to do my small part to help my people overcome their conquerors. But shouldn’t it be harder?

A flash of guilt stabbed at me. No one here in the Officers’ Club seemed to be suffering or even cognizant that so much misery existed beyond these walls. Bajorans, Cardassians, a few Trill, humans, Ferengi, and others I didn’t recognize milled mindlessly around the central reception area. They flowed in and out of walkways into adjacent spaces, most likely the casino and gaming rooms or the club’s notorious private suites, smiling and laughing, satiated in debauchery. Few if any that I knew from my life in Dahkur would ever have the opportunity to sleep in a safe place, never mind being offered the luxuries I’d partaken of over the last few hours. I’d even been inoculated against Vensa’s Syndrome! Growing up in the camps, protection from such an illness was unheard-of. A lucky Bajoran who contracted it might lose hearing or sight; an unlucky Bajoran would be paralyzed or driven insane. Now I would never have to wonder if or when the disease would strike me. How was I fortunate when so many others weren’t? What had anyone here done to deserve such privilege?

In my mind, I heard Plin’s admonishment to look beneath the surface. I studied my surroundings, peeling away the shimmering layers, the grotesque excesses. The room slowly shifted, recast itself….

I noted the alcohol poured in every corner; winced at the Bajoran women draped around the members’ necks like medals celebrating conquests; saw the drugged haze in the faces of the Cardassians smudged in Andorian
saf.
A giggling girl sat on a gul’s lap, hand-feeding him pulpy
kalava
seeds. And then it occurred to me, as I watched a comfort woman ply her Cardassian guest with more
kanar,
that from all outward appearances, the Cardassians did the indulging—the Bajorans enabled it.