Second self, p.15
Second Self, page 15
“I don’t know,” said Raffi honestly. “But I think it’s a better option than sitting here and waiting for the Romulans to arrive.”
Both women, shuddering, nodded their agreement.
“Commander Byrne is willing to help,” said Raffi. “But…”
“But Zhol won’t allow it, and Tradall is only half conscious,” said Prok bluntly.
“That’s about the size of it,” said Raffi.
The two women gave each other careful looks. “Then,” said Mesat, “on behalf of the civilian population here at Ghenic, I would like to make a formal appeal to Starfleet for your help in removing us to safety.”
Oh, thought Raffi. They’ve only gone and done it.
Both women were staring at her now, and Raffi’s heart went out to them. Trying to look dignified, but both were clearly desperate. What had their lives been like, only a few months ago? Both professionals, well regarded, working on a highly technical project for an advanced civilization. Now they were refugees, their homes in ruins, begging a Starfleet officer for help. How quickly events moved. How thin the line was between prosperity and poverty.
Avarak said, “I have explained to both the professor and the doctor that our orders are to observe and not to intervene. And that our treaty obligations toward the Romulans significantly complicate our position here.”
“I doubt that’s much consolation,” said Raffi.
“Indeed not,” said Avarak. “And, therefore, I have under my own volition been investigating Federation law as it pertains to the protection and preservation of sentient life. And while the Cardassian military in the area might not request our assistance, a direct appeal for aid from recognized civilian representatives cannot be ignored.”
“And do you two have the status of recognized civilian representatives?” said Raffi. “I’m assuming you do?”
“I believe,” said Avarak, “that determining the legitimacy of any local Cardassian democratic structure to be fraught with difficulty at the moment.”
“Well,” said Prok bitterly. “Prime is on fire.”
“We took a vote last night,” said Mesat.
“You took a what?” said Raffi.
“A vote,” said Mesat. Her voice was shaky. “All the civilians here. A new experience for us. But the outcome was quite clear. The majority voted to make a direct appeal to Starfleet. The overwhelming majority.”
“And the rest?” said Raffi, to be certain. “Did they say no?”
“They abstained,” said Prok. “Some habits are hard to break.”
“So that you fully understand what is at risk here,” said Avarak, “this vote was dangerous for those who participated. Ghenic was under martial law when the Dominion surrendered. Gathering in such a fashion was technically illegal. And making such an approach to a foreign power might be considered treason.”
“I think,” said Raffi, “that we can sort out these niceties when we’ve got these people and their kids to safety. But I’m not going to breathe a word of this to Tradall. Or Zhol, more importantly.”
Both women looked much happier.
“One last question,” said Raffi. “I have a plan to get us out of here, but I need to know that you’re going to be happy with where we’re heading. We’re going across the river, and into the Caanta valley.”
Prok started. She said, “Wasn’t that where—” She cut herself off.
“Go on,” said Raffi.
“Yes,” said Mesat. “Carry on, Eksa.”
“I don’t know anything,” Prok said. “Not really. Only that the Caanta valley was rumored to be under Obsidian Order control. I know Assott wouldn’t talk about the place. I asked once whether we should cross the river, conduct a survey, and he refused permission…” She shook her head. “That’s all I know.”
“If that’s the way we have to go,” said Mesat.
“Then that’s the way we’re going,” finished Prok. “The Obsidian Order can go hang.”
If anything was needed to demonstrate beyond doubt that the old Cardassia was dead, thought Raffi, this was surely it. Would Prok have dared to say that out loud only a few short years ago? Mesat put her hand upon her friend’s shoulder. “Well said.”
“All right,” said Raffi. “Then we’re underway.” She pressed palms with both women, and then walked back with Avarak across the compound to the Starfleet building. “Well done,” she said to him.
Avarak bowed his head in grave acknowledgment. “The preservation of life is vital,” he said. “And inaction—observation—is not always sufficient. One must do, as well as be.”
“Is that from Surak?” said Raffi.
“That,” said Avarak, “is from Avarak.”
“Well, you tell him from me that he’s my hero.”
“I most assuredly shall,” Avarak replied.
* * *
After that, their plans were set quickly in motion. Zhol’s guerrilla battle against the Romulans had accelerated over the past couple of days with him taking out key people farther along the river to pick off whoever they could find, and Raffi’s intention was to move the civilians, under cover of darkness, as soon as Zhol was away from the compound. She was pretty sure that Zhol would open fire upon any civilian trying to leave; she was less sure about Tradall, but her instincts told her that this was the kind of direct order that he would dodge. They had to cover the two miles down to the river, get through the tunnels, and out into the cover of the forest before dawn.
Raffi tried to get a few hours’ sleep. But she tossed and turned in bed, occasionally dozing, mostly lying in that halfway state between oblivion and wakefulness, where the mind does not rest and the thoughts and images that are created are magnified in meaning and intensity. Another dream came with the same kind of quality as the one she had on the night she tried sailors’ delight. This time, she was walking under a dark and shifting canopy, which was revealed to be the leaves of trees, huge and ancient trees. She was walking through the woods—but this time she was on the other side of the river, in the Caanta valley. What would they find here? Had the Order been here? What had they done? What other crimes had been committed in this place?
After a while, Raffi became aware of the rushing of water—the river, she guessed—and, faintly, the whisper of the wind throughout the rippling forest. There were no other sounds; no small forest creatures; no birds; no people. The path opened, and Raffi entered a clearing.
Three dark figures were standing beneath the trees. There was white light, of uncertain origin, behind them. She could not see their faces, but she was sure again, somehow, that she knew them—or would, one day, know them—very well. They raised their hands—in greeting, she thought, so she did the same. “We’re coming,” she said. “I’m going to bring them. Bring them all. Save them all. We’ll come over to the valley. We’ll find a way through. Get down to Merna, somehow.”
Suddenly, their demeanor changed. Their hands lifted, not in greeting, not in welcome—this was a warning, hands up, palms out, pushing back, as if to say, Stop! Stop! No farther!
“But you told me to come,” Raffi said.
The movement of their hands became more urgent, pushing her away.
Stop! Stop!
“I have to come! They’ll die if I don’t! There’s no other way.”
You must not come any farther.
The wind was picking up. Overhead, the trees began to shake and rock. There was a sudden rattling sound, like weapons fire. Raffi woke, sweating and frightened, and gasping for air. Her hand touched something small and hard. The hypo. Sailors’ warning.
And someone was tapping at the door.
“Lieutenant,” said Avarak. “It’s time to go.”
PART 3 2340
DURING THE OCCUPATION
8
Mas Gherrod arrived at Ghenic on the back of a military truck. They had set out before sunrise, and the last red rays of Ordeve’s sun were dipping behind the hills when the truck pulled up at the gates of the compound.
Gherrod yawned and stretched. The truck, presumably having passed whatever security checks were in place, bumped on into the compound. One of the packing cases in between which he was wedged shuddered, and he laid a restraining hand upon it. He had spent the first part of the journey picking the locks on the cases and looking for anything that might come in useful. Thus he equipped himself with eight ration bars, a small disruptor, a tiny multifunctional screwdriver, two miniature surveillance devices, a couple of reusable hyposprays, a variety of other small components, and a new pair of boots, which, although by no means stylish, would last him through the next few months.
Then there was nothing else to do but sit and wait. He could make no real plans until he arrived and got the lay of the land. He had read the files, looked at maps, understood his purpose—but all of this was background. Context was everything. He took out a pack of cards and practiced with them. When the road got too bumpy, he put the cards away and ate some dried leya, slowly, eking them out. He tried to keep awake by reciting all 111 of Akleen’s Precepts of a Dutiful Citizen but nodded off somewhere between 76 (“Obey the father of the house; obey the fathers of the Union”) and 84 (“A child is both treasure and tool; guard them and guide them”). He always struggled to get through the ones about the family. Context, of course, was everything, and on that score Gherrod was lacking.
When he woke, it was dark outside. Soon the truck slowed down and came to a halt. He peered through the slats and saw the flare of light from a watchtower, heard the bark of a duty officer ordering them to pass. At last, the truck halted, and the back opened. The driver, a stocky garresh old enough to be his father (if Gherrod had such a thing), jerked his thumb. “Out,” he said. “Start making yourself useful.”
Gherrod jumped down, landing on the ground with a squelch, immediately glad of the boots. He started to unload the cases onto a nearby hover-trolley. A bored gil read out the contents of each one, ticking them off his manifest as Gherrod hauled them over. When that was done, the gil came over to Gherrod and gestured at his arm. Gherrod held it out so that the gil could check the identity chip in his wrist, feigning indifference as his record came up.
OFFENDER: GHERROD, MAS
OFFENSE AGAINST THE STATE: VAGRANCY, IDLENESS, MULTIPLE DERELICTIONS OF DUTY (MINOR)
DISPENSER: ILIANA MA’TAN, JUNIOR ARCHON (THIRD CLASS), MERNA/DARAM DISTRICT JURIDICAL SERVICE
DEGREE OF GUILT: MIDTERCILE, UPPER RANGE
PENALTY: MANDATORY LABOR
TARIFF: SIX MONTHS
The gil flicked the garresh a weary look: How do we get stuck with these floor sweepings? “All right, on your way.” His interest in Gherrod finished, he turned back to the hover-trolley, setting it in motion, and following it off into the darkness.
Gherrod looked around. The garresh, seeing this, pointed farther into the gloom and said, “Civilian quarters that way. Get yourself a bed.” He nodded toward a low but brightly lit building closer to hand, on the left. “That’s the mess, when you’re done. Report to the central office at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow.”
Gherrod, who had the layout of the compound committed to memory, nevertheless said, “Thanks,” to the other man’s back, picked up his bag, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Thank you, sir,” the garresh called back over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the mess. “Don’t make life harder for yourself than it has to be, son.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Gherrod watched him go. He sucked in the cold night air, and blew it out again, the steam of his breath curling in front of him. Miserable, hopeless planet. He walked off to find the cover of the barracks.
The compound delivered no particular surprises. The military built them quickly, according to a standard layout, scaling up as necessary. Ghenic currently housed sixty-six members of the Ninth Division of the Fifth Order, tasked to provide military support for the scientists and engineers at the research base farther along the valley, and to protect the river crossing by the old Bajoran town of Akantha. There were about thirty-three civilians too, supplying administrative and other support functions. Gherrod was there to do whatever anyone told him. The only people lower than him were the Bajorans, and they didn’t count.
Gherrod made his way through the chilly night, finding the civilian accommodation behind the soldiers’ barracks. The big dormitories were sparse and cold, but considerably better than the pen in Merna where he’d been held before his sentencing. There were beds for nine in each dormitory and a shared washing area. Privacy would be a problem, but there were always hidden spots to be found when necessary. There were a couple of people in there already, sleeping or resting, so he moved around quietly until he found an empty cot. He locked his bag in the container underneath. He got a shower—that, at least, was blessedly hot—and went in search of something to eat.
Outside, it had started sleeting. Gherrod hurried into the mess, which was noisy and busy and full of warm bodies. He inched his way through. He was down to his last ten leks, and unlikely to be paid for at least a nine-day, so he took a half portion of taleva and a flatbread and found a place at a table on the edge of the room. The taleva wasn’t bad, for military food, although Gherrod would have used slightly less salt and slightly more ayit. He ate slowly, trying to persuade his growling stomach that there was more. He was good at persuading himself that things were better than they were. When he was done with his supper, he sat back in his seat to watch the room. There was a sweet scent in the air that he couldn’t place. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his pack of cards and began to shuffle them, with quick, clever hands.
It was like lighting a lamp and watching the stone-wings come fluttering. Three junior officers—two glinns and a gil—hoping, no doubt, to make some easy money from this scruffy, shabby new service drone. One of them asked him what he was drinking and bought him some cheap kanar with a rough and chemical taste.
Gherrod held up the cards. “Well, gentlemen—what’s it to be? Blind Moon’s Draw?” His voice came out clipped and sharp, pure East Torr.
“Why not?” said one of the glinns, Antek, a tall and heavyset young man who looked like he’d stepped out of a recruiting holo and wasn’t remotely Gherrod’s type.
Gherrod dealt, and they played. Within two rounds they’d realized that he wasn’t the easy prey they were hoping for, but he was so easygoing, and so obviously not a physical match for any of them, that they didn’t feel threatened. Everyone relaxed. The other glinn, Khenet, bought some bowls of canka nuts for the table to share, and another round of drinks. Partway through the next round, someone brought out a couple of hyposprays. When they used them, the sweet odor became very strong. Antek pushed one toward him. “Try it.”
“What is it?” said Gherrod, handling the hypospray suspiciously.
“The locals call it Prophet’s kiss. We call it crimson shadow. Try it. It doesn’t bite.”
Gherrod could recognize an order when he heard one, so he put the thing against his wrist. No pain, just a little pressure. He quickly felt calm, at ease. The room and the people in the room blurred ever so slightly around the edges, but not so that he was impaired. Best of all, nothing hurt, and he could believe that nothing would ever hurt ever again. By the end of the night, they were all best friends. Gherrod was warm and relaxed and didn’t feel hungry anymore. He knew everyone’s names and roles, and now he had a fairly good idea of their strengths and their weaknesses. He knew that Glinn Antek didn’t like to lose. He knew that Gil Fusot was missing his sweetheart. He knew that Glinn Khenet, the aide to the base commander, was smarter than the rest of them put together. A few of the foot soldiers had been admitted to the circle, and he knew a great deal about them too. He learned how the crimson shadow came into the compound, who sold it, and for what kind of price. He let Antek win more than he deserved, but still came away with enough to eat decently until payday. And when he stood up to go to bed, swaying slightly as you might from too much liquor on a nearly empty stomach, he caught the eye of Glinn Khenet, gave him his best blue-eyed smile—and Khenet smiled back. Yes, he thought, this one. This is the one.
* * *
Gherrod, who was used to early starts, was awake before most of the others in his dormitory. They nodded brusque but not unfriendly greetings to the newcomer and went off to their various tasks. Gherrod had another hot and almost leisurely shower (if there was one thing to appreciate about being away from Prime, it was the abundance of water), and presented himself as instructed at the central office at oh-seven-hundred. To his relief, he was sent off to the kitchens. Yes, he would be on his feet all day, and probably yelled at by some petty tyrant, but it would be warm, there would be no shortage of food, and maybe he could sneak some flavor into the taleva.
The days passed. Gherrod chopped vegetables, washed dishes, and scrubbed surfaces, and did that for eight days in a row with the ninth off. The head cook, Logar Prill, was bad-tempered but took pride in his work. As long as you made him look good, you could more or less help yourself to what was there, and Gherrod was fast enough on his feet to avoid getting hit when Prill started throwing things. Every evening, he went to the mess and played cards and took a little crimson shadow. Only a little; hardly anything you’d notice and just to keep the chill from the bones. He won some; he lost some. Nothing that would stand out. The officers thought his patter was funny and treated him like a clever pet. One time, Khenet, who had lost heavily to Glinn Tretor, handed over the leks and said, sadly, “ ‘Like ithian leaves they fell, and they did not return.’ ”
“Is that from one of your books?” said Antek.
“Yes,” said Khenet, and the other officers groaned and rolled their eyes.
“The House Between the Ithian Trees,” murmured Gherrod, for Khenet’s ears only. “Eleta Preloc.”
“That’s right,” said Khenet. Several times that evening, after that, Gherrod caught Khenet looking at him. Khenet, he noticed, drank moderately and did not use.
