Star Trek: Terok Nor 02: Night of the Wolves (2 page)

T
hey stood at the apex of the Janitza mountain range in the northernmost sector of the continent, the humid, cold air heavy with the scents of pine and nyawood trees. ThirdTier Gil Corat Damar turned to take in the verdant abundance all around, then turned again, his expression a mix of hunger and awe. The new prefect of Bajor stood behind the junior officer, watching, remembering the first time he’d seen Bajor for himself. He’d been a much younger man then, blinking around himself in wonder.

From their vantage point, the valleys far below were patched over with ovals of colorful farmland, fading into wild tangles of jungle and jagged forests. The shadows of moving clouds cast a traveling pallor along the hilly meadows, disappearing where the densely woven carpet of trees appeared almost black.

Dukat could plainly see Damar’s thoughts as he took in the scenery; in his most lavish dreams, Damar could not have imagined a world like this. It was so far a cry from the cracked and sandy plains of their homeworld, with its hot, erose mountains of obsidian jutting from the barren land. Cardassian soil was good for little more than harvesting rocks, or fashioning into clay for making brittle pots. To see this bold illustration of color, of green and blue and rich red dirt, was quite literally breathtaking.

“So—tell me what you think of Bajor,” Dukat said.

Damar hesitated, unable to look away from the lush panorama. Dukat was pleased with the hesitation, a sign of careful consideration, perhaps a weighing of words to find those that would most impress the gil’s commander. Dukat had taken a special interest in Damar, was grooming him to be his own personal assistant, and knew that Damar understood the honor of being so singled out. In truth, pickings had been lean; today’s Cardassian soldier, while certainly still the best trained in the quadrant, left something to be desired in an intellectual capacity. Corat Damar, fresh from officer training, stood out because he thought further ahead than his next meal, his next
kanar,
his next sexual conquest. Dukat enjoyed seeing a sharp mind at work, and, in truth, there was no satisfaction in being admired by a fool. He wanted his personal aides smart enough to appreciate his maneuverings.

And they
do
deserve appreciation,
Dukat thought, smiling.
I’m here, aren’t I?

“How can these people…” Damar began, then shook his head.

Dukat understood. “It seems hard to imagine that the Bajorans could have just squandered all this natural wealth for so long a time.”

“I…suppose they were content with their lot in life as it was, and perhaps they—”

Dukat chuckled. “I believe the word you mean to use is
complacent,
Gil Damar.” He gestured with an open hand. “The Bajorans have only the most rudimentary understanding of what you and I would call progress. The abundance of their world has made them lazy and superstitious. They can scarcely grasp scientific explanations for natural phenomena, preferring to give credit to their ‘prophets’ for anything they don’t understand.”

Damar was silent. He’d know nothing of Bajoran religion, of course, a low officer from the homeworld, but he’d learn. Most of the ground troops and station guards never bothered, but if he was as bright as Dukat believed, he’d pick it up.

“Of course, as prefect, I do not intend to disrespect their beliefs,” Dukat said. “As backward as their religion may seem, I believe it is in the Union’s best interests to allow the Bajorans to continue to worship as they did before the annexation. Some of my predecessors didn’t share my view, but I feel that certain concessions must be made to the Bajorans if we are to successfully mold them into dutiful Cardassian subjects. As it is, they have no appreciation for us, because they fail to see all the good we’ve done for them. They choose to focus only on the inevitable episodes of petty discord that come with any cultural modification. They’re like children, clinging to outmoded comforts, afraid to move forward. I intend to change that.”

Damar’s expression was appropriately deferential. “You’re going to revolutionize relations with the Bajorans, sir.”

Dukat smiled paternally and placed a hand on Damar’s shoulder before a brief, high-pitched tone sounded. Comm from the bridge.

Dukat pressed his comcuff. “What is it?”

“We’re approaching the station, sir.”

“I’ll be right there. Computer, end this program.”

The panoramic views that surrounded them skittered and vanished, revealing a dark chamber outfitted on all sides with imaging diodes. Dukat enjoyed watching Damar struggle to maintain an expression of indifference to the abrupt change. Holodeck privileges were usually reserved for upper-echelon officers.

“Shall we?” Dukat asked, gesturing toward the door, and the young man fell in at his side. Together, they walked toward the central main corridor of the
Galor
-class vessel. Soldiers stopped to salute as the two men headed for the bridge, the gul nodding pleasantly in turn. Each and every one of them would be under his direct command.

Returned, in triumph,
he thought, holding his head ever higher. This was a great day for him. He had been partly responsible for securing Bajor’s allegiance to the Union, but politics had kept him from his rightful place as overseer to the annexation. His “punishment” for alleged missteps, a protracted stint as warden of the Letau prison facility, had turned out to be a prime opportunity; it had given him a chance to display his acumen as a leader, while removing him from the treacherous power struggles taking place in Central Command. He’d had time to cultivate alliances, to subtly discredit his detractors, to work his way to a position that would allow for this exultant return. Now he was prefect of Bajor; he was back to command the fortress station that rose in the Bajoran sky each night, to make his name synonymous with Cardassian superiority. He was where he belonged.

“Sir, I…Thank you, sir, for the opportunity,” Damar said as they neared the bridge. “For the simulation.”

Dukat smiled. “It’s a small thing, to be sure, but I suppose when I was a third-tier gil—of course, we didn’t have anything like current holosuite technology in those days.”

Damar nodded. “Perhaps when I’m able to take some leave, I’ll be able to go to the surface and see the real thing.”

“You may be able to do that, Gil Damar, although I would advise you not to underestimate the responsibilities of military personnel on the station. And—if I’m not mistaken—your betrothed will be on the surface, will she not?”

Damar’s face flushed. His affianced was with the Information Service, if Dukat recalled correctly. Vela, Veja, something like that.

“Yes, sir. She’s at the Tozhat settlement.”

“Well, then. I imagine your time on the surface will probably not be spent climbing mountains.”

Damar grinned foolishly. They stopped outside the bridge, the gil obviously hesitant to assume an invitation, and Dukat gestured for him to step ahead, feeling generous.

“The ship is approaching our new home, Gil. Would you like to come to the bridge?”

Damar positively glowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s go and have our first look at Terok Nor.”

Lenaris Holem had given up trying to keep his right leg from cramping. It was the moisture in the weather today, the swollen clouds above him threatening to spill their contents. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in this line, and since he didn’t have a timepiece, there wasn’t any effective way to be sure without asking someone else. He knew better than to ask the woman sitting on the ground behind him—old Thera Tibb was a notorious jabberbox, and the last thing Lenaris needed was to be trapped listening to her endlessly embroidered anecdotes about her children. Anyway, Lenaris was fairly certain she was asleep, which gave testament to how slowly the line was moving.

Lenaris looked at the man in front of him. He was approximately the same age as himself, in his late twenties or early thirties, with very sharp ridges on his broad nose, and a wild tangle of uncut curly hair. His clothes were rough, even shabbier than Lenaris’s own. He most likely didn’t have a timepiece, either. Still, Lenaris was so bored and uncomfortable, he thought he might as well strike up a conversation.

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been standing here?” he ventured. It was always a little ill-advised to speak to strangers when one was away from home. If the person you spoke to happened to belong to a higher
D’jarra,
he or she might take offense at your attempt to engage in conversation, depending on their caste. But many Bajorans—Lenaris among them—held those things in much lower esteem since the effects of the Cardassian occupation had become more widespread.

“I believe we’ve been here since first morning prayers.” The man nodded at the glint of B’hava’el, piercing a thin ray through a break in the cloud cover overhead. “So, assuming my knowledge of the sun’s position is correct, we’ve been here for at least six hours.”

“Six hours!” Lenaris exclaimed. “I knew it had been a long time, but—”

“I could be overestimating,” the stranger admitted, “but if I am, it’s only by half an hour or so. I’m certain first morning prayers were going on when I got in line, and you didn’t come along much later than that.”

Lenaris folded his arms and sighed. These food ration lines were getting more intolerable by the day. His stomach was empty, aching from the days since he’d had a substantial meal. “I can’t believe the spoonheads put us through this, day after day,” he muttered, “and still have the gall to claim that they’re trying to help us.”

“The…what? Did you say…
spoonheads
?”

Lenaris cleared his throat. It was unwise to throw around such a blatant slur, when there were collaborators everywhere. “I mean, uh…”

The other man laughed. “I don’t know if I’ve heard that before,” he said. “Spoonheads. It does suit the Cardies, doesn’t it?” The stranger stuck out his hand. “My name is Ornathia Lac, by the way. Or just Lac.”

Lenaris took the man’s hand and shook it. “Lenaris Holem. Where are you from, Lac? I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Ornathias.”

“Oh, I’m not from around here.” He seemed not to have any inclination to speak further, but Lenaris was bored. He eyed the other man’s earring.

“A farmer?” Holem asked carefully.

The man nodded, but said nothing else.

Lenaris went on, trying to put Lac at ease. “My mother came from farmers. She married outside her
D’jarra.
” He chuckled, and then clutched at his stomach at a mild twinge caused by the laughter. He was pretty sure he had been working on an ulcer for the better part of a year. “She always had a rebellious streak, which my father says I inherited. She was from the farmlands near the northern Relliketh province—is that where you come from?”

“No,” Lac told him. “I come from inland of the Tilar peninsula, across the channel.” He held out his hand, palm up, and looked toward the sky. “Did you feel a drop?”

Lenaris shook his head. “By the vineyards? What are you doing all the way over here?”

“The vineyards are part of my family’s old estate,” Lac answered, conspicuously ignoring the latter part of the question. “Though the Cardies took part of it over a decade ago, when they were still trying to colonize, my family still controls some of that land.”

Lenaris nodded, curious as to how Lac had come to be at Relliketh. The only way to get across the channel was to go by Cardassian ferry or skimmer, and he wondered why the farmer would go to such trouble and expense. The man didn’t offer any further explanation, however, so Lenaris thought he’d do best to let it lie.

“So,” Lac said, after a moment of silence. His eyes flicked to Lenaris’s earring, a rather plain one that did not include his family’s caste designation. “What’s your
D’jarra
?”

Lenaris was a bit taken aback; it had once been considered impolite to inquire about a person’s
D’jarra,
if he didn’t display it on his earring, or offer the information when introducing himself. But times had changed, and Lenaris supposed there wasn’t any reason not to tell the man.
“Va’telo,”
he said.

Lac’s eyebrows did a little jump. “You’re a pilot?” he asked, sounding hopeful. Most
Va’telo
were pilots, though some were boatmen, and in the old days, many had driven the groundcars.

“I
was
a pilot,” Lenaris corrected him. “I used to do some transport work before the spoon—er—Cardassians shut down the textile mills along the channel. Times have been lean for a long while, though. I had to…sell my ship.” It pained him to speak of it even now, two years later.

Lac nodded sympathetically. “The Cardies have disrupted nearly everyone’s life, I suppose. My family still farms some of our land, but production is down to a tenth of what it was—and then the Cardies take most of it anyway, to meet quotas. It might seem backwards for a farmer to be standing in a food ration line, but—”

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Lenaris agreed.

Lac was quiet again, and Lenaris wondered if he hadn’t said something wrong. The farmer was difficult to read. Lenaris shook his cramping right leg back awake again, not sure if he should continue the conversation.