Pliable truths, p.7
Pliable Truths, page 7
“And what will you do?” Keiko placed her hand atop his. “I know you, Miles Edward O’Brien. You’d be climbing the walls and pulling out your hair inside of a month.”
“I’ll find something to do. We’ll find something to do, together.” Before Keiko, O’Brien had never contemplated leaving Starfleet. Even after a war and all its lasting impacts, this was the only life he had ever known, and he had seen no reason to give it up, but things now were different. He had other considerations and priorities beyond his own aspirations.
Keiko said, “I know this couldn’t have been an easy thing for you to consider, and I love that you’d walk away from Starfleet for us without hesitation. I know you’re still mulling it over, and you can have all the time you need to reach a decision. Whatever that is, just know that I love you.” She pointed to the computer screen. “How about this? We wait until after this next assignment, and then talk about it some more. Deal?”
“Deal.” Twisting his hand underneath hers, he laced his fingers with hers and offered a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Keiko.”
Tugging on his hand, she pushed herself from the desk and moved to sit on his lap before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “You’re very welcome, Chief. Now, may I remind you that our daughter is sleeping soundly in her bed and we have the rest of the evening to ourselves?”
“Is that right?” O’Brien slid his arms around her waist. “Whatever will we do?”
Keiko smiled. “You’ll think of something.” Then her smile faded. “But no music. Or sound effects.”
8
Even with the thick carpeting beneath his feet from where he sat in the bridge’s command well, Picard felt the shift as the Enterprise’s massive engines disengaged and the vessel dropped out of warp speed. On the main viewscreen, he watched as distant stars, portrayed as colorful streaks passing to either side as the ship tunneled through subspace, retreated back to their normal appearance as remote pinholes in the opaque backdrop of space. After more than forty years spent in the company of those same stars, the transition to and from warp speed was still one of those things that brought him comfort. He had always felt at home aboard ship. It was here, among the stars, that he truly felt alive.
“We are secure from warp speed,” reported Data from the flight controller’s station, situated between Picard and the main viewer.
Sitting to Picard’s right, Commander Riker ordered, “Proceed on to Bajor. Full impulse.”
It was during this exchange that Picard noticed Counselor Troi. Seated on his left, she silently regarded him, with the slightest hint of a knowing smile teasing the corners of her mouth. The captain knew she had sensed his emotional shift. She seemed pleased that he had allowed himself this fleeting bit of peace.
Duty first, Picard reminded himself.
It was not chastisement, but instead a simple clarification of priorities. Troi must have understood his intention, as he caught her subtle nod before they both returned their attention to the viewscreen.
Now visible and growing larger with each passing second was a planet, a blue pearl emerging from the darkness, and as the Enterprise drew closer Picard noted five small moons orbiting it. He could also make out a smaller object even closer to Bajor than its natural satellites. “Magnify,” he called out.
Lieutenant Jae, the officer at the operations station, tapped a control on her console and the image on the main viewer jumped forward, bringing Bajor into full relief. Parked above the planet in geosynchronous orbit was a dull metallic construct.
“Terok Nor,” he offered, regarding the Cardassian space station with a critical eye. Despite it being the epitome of practical Cardassian design prioritizing function over form, Picard appreciated the station’s odd, even foreboding beauty.
“Captain,” said Lieutenant Worf from the tactical station above and behind Picard. “We are being hailed by Terok Nor’s operations center.”
Rising from his chair, Picard stepped toward the viewer. “On-screen.”
The image of Bajor and the station disappeared, replaced by the face of a Bajoran man. Cropped black hair framed his narrow, angular face, and he wore the uniform of an officer in the newly established Bajoran Militia. His otherwise humanoid features were accented by the subtle creases across his nose. A scar on his forehead intersecting his left eyebrow suggested to Picard that he, like a significant percentage of Bajorans filling the militia’s ranks, had served in the Resistance movement, bringing with him hard-won skills and experience.
“Federation vessel, this is Terok Nor station operations. I am Major Heslo Artun of the Bajoran Militia and interim commander of this facility. I offer greetings on behalf of the Bajoran Republic.” Despite his words, Picard noted a stiffness to his tone, as though he were reciting a script written for him and which he read under protest. Plainly, Heslo was not excited about this meeting.
Picard moved to stand closer to Data. “Major, I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commanding the Federation Starship Enterprise. It is a privilege to speak with you today.”
“Our sensors show you are on approach to Bajor, Captain. We request that rather than assuming orbit over the planet, you alter your course to dock at the station.” As before, Heslo’s demeanor was not rude, but instead hewing to strict formalities.
Picard said, “We are happy to follow whatever procedures you’ve established, Major. It was my understanding that the conference would be held at your government’s primary capitol building.”
“First Minister Kalem has directed a change of venue,” replied Heslo. “He feels that the station provides a more… appropriate… backdrop for the topics to be discussed.” The major offered the slightest hint of emotion by cocking his left eyebrow, which only served to draw further attention to the scar on his forehead. It convinced Picard there was more in play here than a simple change of setting.
Doubting Heslo would be willing to entertain further questions, Picard instead said, “Very well. We will adjust our course accordingly.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Heslo nodded. “Our docking control officer will transmit pylon and mooring instructions. Terok Nor Operations, out.” Without waiting for a response, the Bajoran severed the communication. The viewer’s image returned to that of Bajor. Still dominating the center of the screen, the planet now was larger than it had been before.
“Not exactly rolling out the red carpet for us, are they?” Riker’s expression told Picard his first officer was not complaining but making one of his normal frank assessments.
Troi said, “The Bajorans will have no end of doubts about our intentions. Many will be wary, and with good reason. After all they’ve endured, trust is a commodity they’ll extend only when they feel it’s warranted.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” replied Riker. “What do you suppose Heslo meant about First Minister Kalem considering Terok Nor a better setting for the conference? My gut tells me something’s up.”
Considering the question as he returned to his seat, Picard said, “It could be something as simple as wanting to offer the Cardassians a setting that puts them more at ease and therefore more agreeable reaching consensus.”
“I didn’t sense anything overt from the major,” said Troi. “A bit of smugness, but it’s possible that’s a simple outgrowth of the confidence he and other Bajorans might be feeling now that the tables have turned in their favor. It’s reasonable to assume the Cardassian delegation will attempt to act as though they’re not affected by the change in the status quo, but they’ll be sitting across from people they once tyrannized, who are now in a position to make demands of them they may not wish to grant. I suspect egos will flare.”
Picard recalled from his review of Kalem Apren’s biographical summary that before the arrival of the Cardassians, he had served as junior minister of the planet’s Hedrickspool Province. During the Occupation, he relocated to the Kendra Valley, working as an arbiter to settle disputes between Bajorans in Kendra Province. Kalem had sought out the position of first minister for the new Bajoran government. It was unknown how Kalem felt about the Cardassians who had oppressed his people for over forty years. Surviving the Occupation was a feat in and of itself. It was well documented that in the takeover’s early days, Cardassian forces made a point of executing leaders at all levels of government to make clear to all Bajorans who now ruled them. How he had escaped was a mystery, though no mention was made if he had collaborated. Was this gamesmanship designed to annoy the Cardassian delegation?
From his station, Worf reported, “We are receiving instructions from Terok Nor docking control.” Tapping additional controls on his console, the Klingon placed one hand on the station’s curved railing. “I am routing them to Commander Data.”
What he needed was more information, Picard decided. He would have to be on his guard to make sure the conference did not deteriorate into chaos. There was too much at stake, for the Bajorans as well as the Federation and—he conceded—even the Cardassians.
Picard sat in silence, watching as Data maneuvered the Enterprise into position beside one of Terok Nor’s upper docking pylons. The station was massive, its outer mooring areas able to accommodate the Galaxy-class starship with more than enough room for other vessels of equal size to utilize the other two upper pylons.
“Docking maneuver complete,” reported Data, his fingers moving across his console with unmatched dexterity. After a final look to Lieutenant Jae, who nodded in confirmation, he added, “Mooring clamps are attached. All systems at station-keeping mode.”
“Thank you, Mister Data.” Rising from his chair, Picard looked to Riker. “Well done.”
Picard knew his first officer was a stickler for detail when it came to bridge personnel being proficient in a number of areas that included docking operations as well as separating and reconnecting the Enterprise’s primary and secondary hull sections. These and related exercises were a frequent element of training simulations Riker required on a continuing basis for all conn and ops personnel. Even Data took part in the drills despite his expert piloting and navigation skills, doing so as a benefit to the other officers with whom he might be assigned to bridge duty.
“Mister Data,” said Picard. “When is the Oceanside due to arrive?”
Without having to consult his console, the android replied, “Seven hours, thirty-four minutes, sir.”
Nodding in approval, Picard looked at Riker. “You have the bridge, Number One,” he said before glancing at Troi. “The counselor and I have some final items to address before we meet with First Minister Kalem.”
Riker replied, “Understood. Geordi will likely want to get over there with his team as soon as he gets the go-ahead. Doctor Crusher is finalizing her preparations for the medical team she’ll be leading on the surface.” He turned to face Worf. “Begin enhanced security on all airlocks. Lieutenant, you’ll command the first security team we take over.”
Before the Klingon could reply, Troi said, “Captain, after giving this some thought, Mister Worf believes it might be better if he remains on the ship.”
“Oh?” Picard shot a quick glance in Worf’s direction before returning his gaze to her. “For what reason?”
“Given the state of the Bajorans, a Klingon—another race still remembered for their conquering ways—might do more harm than good at this early juncture.”
Considering her comments, Picard asked Worf, “Lieutenant?”
The security chief straightened his posture. “Sir, I did express these concerns to Counselor Troi.”
“Captain,” added Troi, “it’s a valid observation, given the evolving situation on Bajor post-Occupation.”
“I commend your thoughtful analysis, Lieutenant.” After a moment, Picard ordered, “Very well. Number One, I know you were planning to oversee our efforts on the station and the surface from the Enterprise while Counselor Troi and I attended the conference. Mister Worf will take the conn, allowing you to carry out your duties on-site.”
“Very good, sir,” said Riker.
Satisfied with the new arrangement, Picard returned his attention to the main viewscreen, Data had adjusted the image to provide a view of Terok Nor from the Enterprise’s vantage point, with the ship now moored. Even from this angle, the size of the station remained impressive, the sight made even more grand by the curvature of Bajor just visible in the screen’s lower-left corner.
Taking in the scene, Picard allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He had always personally disagreed with the Federation’s policy of not assisting the Bajorans. His recent meeting with Nechayev was one of the very few times he had allowed himself to voice his true feelings, rather than fuming in silence at the narrow-minded interpretation of the Prime Directive. Wanting or expecting the Bajorans to offer them absolution was naïve, at worse arrogant. The path to forgiveness would be long and fraught with obstacles, tests, and judgment.
It was time for the Federation to walk that path.
9
After curfew, the barracks’ doors were secured from the outside, and shutters closed over the windows. Inside, observers were posted near each door and window, listening for signs of guards or anyone else who might be approaching. Two more were up in the roof, accessed via a trapdoor hidden behind a recessed lighting panel in the ceiling. There, Ranar and another lookout huddled in the dark, and by accessing the ventilation ducts that ran the length of the building they could use the flues at either end to keep watch over the compound outside. The vantage point near the barracks’ front looked out over the center of camp, the most likely direction from which a guard might come. The main lights had been extinguished, leaving only smaller ones above the exits as well as the doors leading to the makeshift kitchen, lavatory, and showers. Except for the small handheld lights carried by several of the Bajorans with whom Panat shared living quarters, the barracks was dark.
Scattered around the edges of the common room, groups of prisoners engaged in normal conversations mixed with the occasional louder outburst. There was a buzz in the air that to anyone outside who might be listening sounded like the usual sort of interaction between people who worked and lived in constant proximity to one another. While there was truth to that, the background chatter also provided sound camouflage for Panat and a smaller group of twelve Bajorans who huddled on the floor near the center of the building’s common room.
“Keep the lights low,” warned Panat. From where he lay on the floor, he caught sight of a wayward beam that interrupted his hasty briefing. In response to his instruction, those wielding the lamps assumed positions similar to his, keeping the illumination inside the circle of inmates gathered at the center of the room. This prevented any telltale light flashes from escaping between seams in the doors or windows and possibly attracting unwanted attention from outside. The lights were fashioned from handheld units and other devices purloined from the camp’s equipment bays or scavenged from the refuse. Rather than attempting to hide these, the prisoners instead left them where they could be discovered without effort, passing them off as reading lamps whenever they were found by guards conducting inspections. As the years passed and incidents involving the small lights presented themselves, most of the guards relaxed their rules on this and other lesser infractions. There might be the occasional guard who would confiscate them as a means of demonstrating his authority, but for the most part the Bajorans were allowed these minor comforts.
However, Panat knew they could not afford to arouse suspicions or do anything to provoke interruptions.
“You now know everything I do,” he said in a low voice, after completing his description of what Yectu had shown him in the workspace hidden below the barracks. He studied the faces of the gathered inmates, many of whom looked back at him askance. It was a lot to absorb in such a short amount of time, but time and opportunity were precious commodities in this place. No one had the luxury of being able to contemplate long-term planning. There were only those moments, infrequent and unpredictable though they may be, that might present an opening to act against their overseers. Was this one of those occasions? Could they seize upon the mysterious information they had collected, and somehow turn it into an advantage? Barring that, could they at least make life more difficult for the Cardassians? Without more information, there was no possible way for Panat to know.
He asked for a show of hands, and aside from Yectu and one other person, no one in their group had heard the term “Cradis” used in any form here or anywhere else before.
“Meeju,” said Yectu, gesturing to the younger woman who had raised her hand. “Where did you hear it?”
“In the officers’ quarters,” replied the other Bajoran, her voice almost a whisper. “We were completing our laundry tasking for the day. Glinn Trina and another officer were talking.” Meeju crab-walked toward the empty circle at the center of the group. “Trina mentioned the word in the context of being an active protocol. I don’t think he’d heard the term before.”
Yectu shook her head. “Unless he’d had reason to interact with the Obsidian Order for any length of time, there’s no reason for him to have heard it. The same’s true for Gul Havrel. He’s certainly not an agent, so perhaps he answers to them, at least in some respects.”
“Did Trina say anything else?” asked Panat.
Frowning, Meeju replied, “He didn’t offer specifics, but it was obvious he was uneasy. I have to wonder if he was even aware of whatever the protocol involves until now.”
“If Havrel is overseeing or even just protecting some kind of top-secret project,” said Yectu, “then information about it would be compartmentalized to an extreme degree. Anyone not directly involved wouldn’t be briefed on it. It’s possible none of the guards would be aware of it either.”
