Tales from the Captain's Table Read online

  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….

  Kira Nerys

  Captain of Deep Space 9

  The Officers’ Club

  HEATHER JARMAN

  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.

  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 o
ver 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.