The Return
The tall, handsome Cardassian ran a nervous hand through his bright yellow hair. He had no idea how they would react. After all, Edon Malar was probably the most wanted man in The Cardassian Union. The fact that Cardassia Prime had been bombed into the stone age and its military regime toppled might not be enough to protect him. But he had to come. He had to help his people.
He had wanted Cardassian culture to change, but not like this.
The damage was far worse from the surface than it appeared from space. The entire city was in ruins and this was only one of the targets. Lakarian city had been utterly annihilated. An entire metropolis with over two million people, slaughtered like cattle. Across the whole of Cardassia eight billion people had died at the hands of The Dominion, and that was just the civilians.
This was not Lakarian, this was Cadassia city. It looked more like the labor camps on Bajor. The once majestic city had been laid low. It had been well over a decade since he last set foot on Cardassian soil, since that day he had hacked into the omnipresent viewscreens and unleashed the so called 'Anarchy Virus', releasing hours of 'subversive' human music and videos to the masses. He had so many orders of execution that the Obsidian Order had created an entire squadron to deal with him. And when he'd gone to Bajor and began reverse engineering Cardassian technology for the rebels. . . Well, that had really pissed off Central Command.
He was surprised that he had not been killed on sight.
On Bajor, he was something of a 'war hero'. On Cardassia Prime, he was doubtless labeled a subversive traitor who had fought against his own people. But he had not been fighting his own people. He never had been. He had been fighting Cardassia's military regime, its cold, heartless philosophy and all of the suffering and death that came with it. He was fighting against Cardassian culture, not the Cardassian race.
As he walked the shattered streets heads turned in shock and surprise. Even amidst the devastation and the difficult work of rebuilding an entire world, Edon Malar's appearance drew instant attention. He wanted people to see him, that was the whole point. To see that he didn't accept the status-quo. That he wasn't just another cog in the machine of The State. Unfortunately, he was also wanted, and even now there were likely many who would kill him given the chance.
Here he was, alone, with only a duffel bag carrying his meager possessions and a few credits. He had no doubt that was far luckier than many others to have that much.
He fingered the Bajoran earring in his right ear. It had been given him by Kai Opaka herself after he had faced his demons with the aid of The Orb of Prophecy and Change. He was perhaps the only Cardassian honored to view an Orb with the consent of any of the Bajoran religious community. He had lived on Bajor for so long, fighting his own people, until he settled down to help care for the needs of a rural orphanage. They had been sad to see him leave, but they knew that he must. He was needed here far more badly. Returning home under the best of circumstances would have been a culture shock.
These were far from the best of circumstances.
The earring was not the only souvenir he had gained on Bajor. He walked with a twisted cane carved to resemble a serpent and a distinct limp. His left leg had been crushed when a Cardassian bombing run had struck the cell where he was working. It had healed badly, the Resistance had little access to even basic medical supplies. They'd been betrayed, one of their number had actually been a surgically-altered Cardassian. He himself had unmasked her, he'd noted the unusual coolness of her skin and her rigid bearing. The clincher had been, ironically, his own name. He'd asked her what 'Edon' meant. Her immediate response, 'Purple', was correct, in Cardassian. In Bajoran it meant 'Strength'. Very careless of her instructors, not to train her to think like a Bajoran.
He had heard that the Borg were helping rebuild Cardassia Prime, but it was surprisingly difficult to pick them out. He assumed that most of the aliens he saw had been brought aboard the massive Cone that lay just outside the city limits. A few bore obvious prosthetics, mainly artificial limbs. The designs were so exotic and intricate that he was tempted several times to stop and examine a former drone, but that would be incredibly rude. The Ministry of Technology, if it still existed, must be overflowing with wonders. . .
The former Borg were incredibly efficient, their technology so advanced that it boggled the mind. Fortunately for the Cardassian people, these Borg served under a free-willed Cardassian, an orphan like himself named Taran Dibari. The boy was mentally ill, to put it kindly, but he was also determined to rebuild his home world and save his people. The Cardassian people almost universally loved Taran, he was using every resource at his disposal to help his suffering people, and he had avenged their loss by destroying The Dominion and eradicating the entire changeling species. For this act of genocide he had been tried by The Vulcan High Council and found insane, sentenced to remain on Cardassia Prime, undergo mental therapy, and to help in the rebuilding effort. Which was exactly what he had wanted to do in the first place.
Edon wanted to seek audience with him.
The Cone was the size of a small city in and of itself. There was no difficulty finding it. It towered over the city, casting a giant shadow across much of the broken land. To a mechanical engineer like Edon Malar the Cone, like the Borg themselves, was both fascinating and terrifying. A massive bio-organic city-ship filled with utterly alien and often dangerous technology. He met no resistance as he entered an open portal, walking past empty rows of regenerative alcoves lit by cold orange lights. He stopped for a moment to admire the workmanship. This was the kind of tech that engineers dreamed of. It was also the stuff of nightmares. He had heard that Borg vessels were capable of regenerating damage in much the same way as a living being. Perhaps they were living beings. Fully artificial lifeforms composed entirely of nanites. Now that would be an achievement.
He passed a pseudo-drone, a Borg who was still linked to this tiny collective consciousness. Most of it's armor and non-essential implants had been removed, making it appear almost like whatever race it had belonged to. Edon did not recognize the species or gender, if any. It was a tall, slender reptilian humanoid with six-fingered hands. Four fingers and two opposable thumbs. It turned toward him. "Are you Edon Malar?" The voice was smooth and natural.
"Yes, I am."
"Follow me. Taran wants to see you." The creature moved forward without delay, with Edon following closely on his heels. The sound of his cane tapping the metal floor echoed loudly in the mostly empty hallways of the vessel. After several minutes they arrived at a doorway. The being standing before him was not Cardassian, he was some form of Klingon. A Fek'lhr. This must be K'Rash, The Borg Exarch's personal guardian. He was famous and powerful in his own right. His cranial ridges were far more pronounced than that of a Klingon, his nose was concave and his mouth was incredibly wide and filled with long, pointed teeth. Dark brown hair was pulled tight into a long braid that hung over his shoulder. He wore traditional Klingon garments befitting his position and his arms, one of which was a magnificent prosthetic, were crossed. A bat'tleth was strapped to his back, ready for action. The pseudo-Borg vanished as the Fek'lhr offered a traditional Klingon greeting, which Edon returned
The tall, burly Fek'lhr stepped aside to allow the fugitive entry.
Taran Dibari had already seen Edon Malar through the eyes of his Borg, but it was always better in his opinion to see something through one's own eyes. He was tall and handsome, if a bit thin. His hair was a brilliant shade of yellow, wildly styled, and a small patch of black hair grew from his chin. His goggles were strapped across his forehead, revealing fierce purple eyes. He was dressed in the red and black jumpsuit of a mechanic and carried a small bag containing books, music and clothing. He utilized an uridiam cane with a stylized, mechanized serpentine design reminiscent of the works of H.R. Giger, or, perhaps, the Borg themselves. His his left leg had been crushed during a Cardassian assault on his Resistance cell and poorly healed due to lack of medical supplies, according to Bajoran records available to The Collective. That could easily be corrected with superior Borg medical technology. He appeared no older than he had when he'd went into exile.
Taran Dibari was silent for a moment.
"Welcome. Edon Malar."
Edon bowed slightly, "Thank you. I did not expect such an easy reception."
"I've wanted to meet you for some time now. You are a very impressive individual. You single-handedly created the Anarchy Virus and worked with the Bajoran Resistance. You designed the subroutine that caused all of the systems at the Balinok labor camp to crash, allowing the Resistance to secure the base, free the prisoners and kill Gul Orat. The price on your head was enormous and there are still those who would desire your death. You are a far braver man than I, returning here."
"I came to help."
Taran Dibari looked far more. . . Organic than Edon had expected. He was small and painfully thin, childhood malnutrition had taken it's toll upon his growth. Like Edon, however, his eyes marked him, square, silver pupils set in highly advanced artificial eyes. His right arm had been replaced by an intricate bio-mechanical limb. He had allowed his hair to grow back, and wore simple, middle class garments.
"We would greatly appreciate your help. We could use a man like you. While Borg technology is nothing if not resilient, we still find ourselves in need of mechanical aid and advice from time to time. With The Collective shattered, our knowledge has diminished greatly."
"Are you offering me a job?" Edon was shocked.
"Yes."
"I would be honored to have the opportunity to work with such technology for the good of our people, but I am unfamiliar with it. I would have to study for a long time to begin to grasp the mechanics of it all."
"You're too modest. I've read your file, one with your intellect and obvious enthusiasm would learn very quickly. Besides, I can provide you with assistance until you 'learn the ropes'."
"I also have at least one-hundred and fifty death sentences." Edon pointed out.
"One-hundred and sixty-seven, to be exact." Taran corrected, "But that was the old regime. I'm sure arrangements could be made with the current government."
"I've heard that Madred survived the attack." Edon said warily.
"You've heard correctly, though he no longer wields any authority."
"Eight billion dead and a monster like that survives . . ." Edon shook his head in mournful disbelief.
"How did you manage to survive? The Obsidian Order was still operating on Bajor until the massacre here, and The Dominion briefly held Bajor. . ."
"The former, I don't know. Perhaps The Prophets protected me. As for the latter, Jem'Hadar were not bred for their intelligence, and they had more important targets to deal with than a petty anarchist. I was also keeping a low profile . . ." Edon smiled and ran a hand through his wild-colored hair, "Well, a relatively low profile. Bajor is a large planet, and I was living in a small town in a small province in an orphanage. Most Bajorans wouldn't have been able to find me."
"You are an orphan, like myself." Taran stated.
"Yes. I am."
"Then you know how cruel Cardassians, and the universe at large, can be." Taran smiled sadly, "Would it surprise you to know that I wanted to assimilate our entire race? I believed that it would be better to spend one's childhood in a Maturation Chamber than on the streets of Cardassia Prime."
"Some would probably agree with." Edon conceded, "I'm sure most children of the streets have, at one time or another, felt that anything would be better than the misery and loneliness. I know I did. . . There were times . . ." Edon closed his gleaming purple eyes, thinking of the times he'd prayed for death. That was the past. He'd won. He'd survived, and he'd helped others. If he could prevent anyone else from such suffering, it would be worth the pain. "We have both seen acts of great evil, suffered under great evil. But there is also beauty, and kindness."
"Too little."
"True." Edon knew what it was like to grow up without parents on a planet where orphans had no place in society. They had been tossed aside, unwanted, unloved. Forced to live like animals. But each person is different. Gul Madred grew from a homeless orphan to a heartless torturer and executioner. He himself had grown up a rebel and 'seditionist', and Taran . . . What horrors had he known, to so gladly throw away his freedom and submit willingly to The Borg Collective. "But it is there." He smiled, "It's up to people like us, people who know what it is to suffer, to do all we can to prevent others from suffering as we did."
"That has been my intention all along." Taran stated. "I just had a different view of Salvation."
"But now you can truly help our people. You are free."
"In the words of the human poet Janice Joplin, 'Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.'" Taran shrugged, "But it doesn't matter, now. The Collective is obsolete. The Queen is dead."
"But you're alive. You are helping change the world, for the better. That is the greatest thing you can possibly do with your power."
"Perhaps." The young ex-Borg turned to the large window overlooking the stricken city, "Perhaps . . ."
"May I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Is Linkin Park supposed to be depressing?"
The question was asked with total sincerity. Edon began to laugh, but caught himself. "Sometimes. But the music is much more complicated than that. Rage and angst were popular themes in human music of the period, but there were subtler tones as well . . . Why?"
"I enjoy their music. It makes me feel . . . Something."
Edon sincerely hoped that the 'something' was not Numb. Perhaps, for a former Borg, feeling anything was a blessing.
"Somewhere I Belong?" Edon asked, "We all feel like that at some point in our lives, especially people like us, who know what it is like to have nothing. We all want to be a part of something. To belong. To have a place and purpose in the universe." He walked over to the young Borg and put a hand on his shoulder. "This is where we belong. We have been placed here, now, to help save the Cardassian race."
What happened next was pure instinct. In his work at the orphanage, Edon had seen many traumatized children. Lost. Wounded. Tormented by the past. Taran Dibari's artificial eyes were filled with the pain and anguish he had seen so often, too often, on so many young faces on Cardassia and Bajor. The boy had been through Hell. He wrapped his arms around the boy and held him in a reassuring embrace. Taran Dibari, former Exarch of Unimatrix 01, buried his head in Edon's chest and wept. Edon felt his own warm tears begin to flow. "It's time to heal, Taran. Time for all of us to heal. You're strong, you can do it." He smiled, "We both can."
The End