STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE
POISON AND DELIVERANCE
1.
The Shakaar resistance cell operated out of a network of caves in the mountains of Dahkur Province. A twenty-year-old Kira Nerys sat on a rock in one such cave, cleaning dirt and grime out of the firing aperture of a phaser rifle.
A shadow fell over her. "Kira."
She looked up at Shakaar, her cell leader.
"Let's take a walk," he said.
In the Bajoran underground, nobody had an office with a door that closed, so if you wanted to have a private conversation, you walked and talked. That way, any eavesdroppers could only get a few snippets of information before you were beyond their range. Kira knew a walking talk meant a mission. They stepped into the light outside of the cave.
"I've got something for you," Shakaar said. They were walking at a brisk pace along a path that spiraled this particular mountain.
"What type of something?"
Shakaar turned and made a moment's eye contact. "Assassination." He then looked back up the path as they continued walking.
2.
"Campos," a Cardassian guard bellowed jovially. The Bajoran chef looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. "We've found you an assistant worthy of serving the esteemed Gul Rotel."
Glin Warvak was holding the arm of a young Bajoran woman with luxuriant red hair cascading down her back. She wore a tattered, but flattering dress. She was quite beautiful, which was no doubt why the overseers selected her. Like most Guls, Rotel had an unabashed eye for the ladies.
The girl was looking downward meekly. Warvak continued to grin broadly and hold her arm, apparently waiting for Campos to respond.
"I thank you, sir," Campos said, turning back to his chopping. "I'm sure we'll put her to good use."
"I'm sure," the Cardassian said. "But if she doesn't work out let me know." He leered at the girl. "There are plenty of other good uses for her." The girl continued to look at the floor. Warvak chuckled and walked out of the room.
Campos tilted back the chopping block and used his cleaver to sweep the vegetables into a bowl. "What's your name?"
"Tanta Loresa," Kira answered. She walked over to stand beside the chef.
Campos was now kneading a large piece of dough. He turned to look at her. "You're very pretty." Kira looked back at him. There was no lust in his eyes. He was merely stating a fact. He turned back to his preparations. "I hope you also know how to work."
"I do," she answered softly.
Campos put down what he was working on and gave her his full attention. "Child, just so we're clear, I have no wish to toss you back to those wolves. But I really do need help in here, so if you're going to stay, you'll have to pull your weight. Do you know your way around a kitchen?"
"I've never been in a kitchen," she said. "But I learn fast."
The chef gave a somewhat exasperated sigh, but he also smiled and offered a hand. "Campos Rhen."
They shook.
3.
Campos's father had been one of the premier gourmet chefs on Bajor before the occupation. When the Cardassians invaded, they allowed him to keep his restaurant open, and it was a favorite spot for the officers to come and dine with their Bajoran mistresses. Campos's father taught him everything he knew, and he too became a world class chef.
When the resistance movement became more than just a nuisance, the Cardassians needed to keep tighter control over things. They shut down the restaurant and installed the Campos family in Gul Rotel's mansion at the Dahkur Labor Camp. The kitchen was revamped to their specifications, and they had been serving the best cuisine Bajor had to offer to Gul Rotel and his senior staff ever since.
4.
It had been a week since Kira began working for Campos. Her first few creations had been utter disasters, and after a couple of days she began to let her meek-child-of-the-occupation act dissipate. On the morning of day three, she swore profusely when her hasperat soufflé failed to rise. When she sensed Campos was about to admonish her technique, she slammed the pan into the garbage and immediately started over from step one. He turned back to his own work, and said nothing.
As the sun was setting, Kira presented a gorgeous specimen of hasperat soufflé to Campos. It was her fifth attempt that day. He studied it for a moment, and then took a bite. Kira watched him with real anticipation. He chewed. He considered. And at last, he swallowed.
"Not bad," he said. He took a second bite, and Kira smiled for the first time since they had met. At that moment, he liked her immensely. She had the drive to succeed, and took true joy in others relishing her creations. The rest would come with time.
"I think this arrangement just might work out for both of us," Campos said.
5.
After another week, Kira had grown more comfortable and more capable in her cook's assistant role, and she could spare enough of her attention to make conversation with Campos. She learned that he was a widower. His wife had died a few years ago from a hereditary condition. They had had one daughter together who was now five.
Kira had been more or less honest with him about her own childhood, just changing some of the names and places to protect her true identity. She spoke as little as possible about her more recent years, as she'd been living anything but a normal life. Not that any Bajoran's life could be called normal.
As members of Rotel's house staff, Kira and Campos were allowed to move about the labor camp quite freely. Today, they were picking fresh fruits and vegetables in the garden Campos kept. Since it was behind the mansion, they were cut off from the main camp's strip-mined ground and the great clouds of dust from the drilling. Kira found the gardening to be extremely peaceful. There was the faint background buzz of insects, and the grounds ran into gently sloping hills dotted with trees in the distance. Then she would hear a loud scream from the camp and the shrill whine of the phaser beam that silenced it. And she would remember why she was there.
"Do you want me to pick some of this kava?" she asked. "It looks ripe enough."
"Don't bother," Campos answered. "Can't use it."
"Why not?"
"Gul Rotel is highly allergic."
Kira got up from where she had been studying the kava and hunkered down next to Campos to help pull up some beets. "Sounds like a good reason to feed him some," she said dryly. She offered him a mischievous smile that she hoped suggested she was a prankster, not a killer.
Campos didn't look up from his beets. "Never," he said simply.
His demeanor caught Kira a bit off guard. "You're afraid? Not that you shouldn't be." She continued to watch him.
"I am afraid, but not necessarily for the reasons you're thinking of," he said. "I've been privileged my whole life- there's no denying that. It would be a terrible shock for me to be thrust into the camp as a worker. I probably couldn't make it, and I doubt my fellow man would spare me a speck of pity. And I wouldn't blame him."
"But you can't bear them throwing your daughter into that life, too."
Campos stopped picking. He sat for several moments without answering. "I couldn't bear that," he said. "But that isn't the threat that I live under." He turned to face Kira.
"You see, Loresa, every day while I'm working, my daughter goes to a sort of daycare group for the children of privileged Bajorans living at the estate. There's an older Bajoran woman who looks after them, and a Cardassian guard to keep an eye on them all. A few years ago, before my wife died, there was an attempt on Rotel's life. He called each member of his Bajoran house staff into his office for a private discussion on the matter."
He resumed pulling up beets. "The good Gul told me how much he enjoyed my cuisine. He told me he was glad he could host my whole family in his home. He told me how much Cardassians prize the institution of family." He dropped some beets into his basket.
"He then told me, without ever changing the smile on his face, that if death should find him—any death, be it food poisoning, heart attack, a phaser beam, or a bolt of lightning—that the daycare guard would shoot my daughter at that moment. He―" Campos's voice cut out for a moment, and he cleared his throat sharply. It was a cutting, unpleasant sound. He swallowed, and continued. "He said the guard would use the lowest setting and shoot her in the belly. And he'd escort the others to their quarters and leave her there to die in agony. Over hours. Alone."
"Did you have some connection to the attacker that made him suspect you?" Kira asked. "Because it's absurd that you have to shoulder responsibility for anything that's done to him."
"He's a Cardassian Gul, which makes him a master manipulator. He swore vengeance on every member of his staff where they're most vulnerable if he should be killed. So not only do we keep in line, but we spy on each other as well—just to make absolutely sure he's safe. Bastard turned us into his own security force."
He turned to face Kira. His eyes were dry, but he looked very tired. "So you see, I will never do anything to harm the esteemed Gul Rotel. And I will never allow anyone else to harm him either. We're clear on this." It was not a question.
"We're clear," Kira answered.
6.
"Loresa," Campos complained. "For the Prophets' sake, would you stop opening that oven every minute—it's hot enough in here as it is."
Kira inspected the bulbous top of each muffin one more time and then let the oven door shut. "I just don't want to let them burn. They look really good."
"When you're preparing a multi-course banquet for a group of–" he lowered his voice— "spoon-heads who think they're food critics—you won't have the luxury of hovering over every dish. You have to learn to check with your nose."
Kira looked doubtful, and her nostrils began to flutter as she sniffed around the oven on rapid-fire mode.
"Come here," Campos said impatiently. "Help me trim the fat off these steaks. Forget about the muffins for a minute. They'll let you know when they're ready."
Kira had been honing her baking skills over the last week, and she'd had very little practice handling raw meat. She had gone without too often in her life to let any good parts go to waste, and she concentrated fervently on slicing just the fat with her blade.
Just as she finished excising a sinewy thread of fat from the piece she was cleaning, a warm and pleasant smell wafted across her nose. She dropped the steak on her cutting board and tore off towards the oven, skidding to a stop in front of it. She yanked the door open.
"Your mitts, please!" Campos said.
Kira pulled them on frantically and grabbed at the muffin tin. It clattered against the metal rack as she slid it out. She set it down on the marble counter. The muffins each had a well-shaped dome with a line of golden brown traced around the rim. The berries were spaced so that you could get some in every bite, but they hadn't saturated the dough. They were perfect.
"You see?" Campos said. "You can move on to another task, and when—
"Daddy!"
A young girl came running into the kitchen. She had on a red cotton dress and little brown sandals that clapped against the floor when she ran.
"There's my angel." Campos scooped her up and held her along side him.
"It smells like cake," she said.
"They're muffins. Would you like one?"
"Yes, please."
Campos sat her down on a counter and went to get her one. He placed it on a napkin and put it in his daughter's eager hands. She took the biggest bite she could manage. Kira watched her, hoping for a smile from the little girl, but gladly settled on watching her devour the muffin. The way she held it up to her face, it was if for that moment, it was her entire world.
"Anara, our new friend Loresa made these muffins. What do you say?"
She gulped down the mouthful she was working on. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Kira said. She looked into the girl's face and saw something truly remarkable. Untainted eyes. The occupation had not destroyed her childhood.
It occurred to Kira that she was a rarity of Bajoran culture as valuable and irreplaceable as any artifact. She should be preserved. She should be kept safe.
7.
On the outskirts of the labor camp, there was a ranch with large grazing fields. A few lucky Bajorans were charged with raising cattle to feed the Cardassian troops stationed in Dahkur. It was much better work than the more common alternatives of mining and the factories.
Kira had been sent by Campos to find out how many head of cattle would be apportioned to his kitchen next month. He was trying to plan upcoming meals.
She looked out at the field and saw a man in the distance inspecting one of the animals. She walked out in that direction and reached him a few minutes later.
"Hello, Shakaar."
He was running a hand along the ox's fur in broad strokes. He'd always loved animals. "Good to see you, Nerys. I heard you got the kitchen job."
"That's right."
"So you're in position?"
"Yes."
"How do you want to do it?"
"Poison."
"The usual type?"
Kira walked over to a neighboring animal and ran a hand along its fur like Shakaar was doing. "I had an idea about that," she said. "The chef tells me our mark is deathly allergic to kava."
"Really? Deathly?"
"That's what he said. If we can confirm that, I thought it would be the best way. It wouldn't trip any sensors screening for toxins, so you shouldn't have a problem getting it to me."
"I'll have Fala pull his medical file." Fala was their mole in the Cardassian Records Office. She was the cleaning lady.
"There's one other thing," Kira said. She told him about the situation with Campos and his daughter. Shakaar didn't respond right away.
"I'm surprised at you, Nerys," he said. "You've always hated collaborators more than anyone. I seem to remember—
"This is different."
"No it isn't different," Shakaar said, bolting upright to look at her across the back of the ox he was tending. "We have a policy in place to keep things that seem different from distracting our operatives: Anyone who provides comfort or special service to the Cardassians in exchange for an above-average quality of life is a collaborator, and a legitimate target. The end."
"It would be the end of a five-year-old girl. You can't possibly hold her responsible—
"It's not an issue of responsibility, damn it. You have a mission to take out one of the architects of the occupation. He'll facilitate the death of a thousand children this month. We operate on a world scale, with the goal of freeing a world." Kira was about to retort, but Shakaar cut her off. "And I know you're going to say we can't lose sight of the people, and people are individuals, but at the end of the day, we have to be calculating if we're going to beat these spoon-head bastards. Rotel weighs a hell of a lot more on the scale than one collaborator and his daughter."
"She is an innocent Bajoran child. And if you want to think all worldly, have you thought that we need to keep young girls like her alive if want another generation of Bajorans?"
"She's collateral, Nerys. I'm sorry."
Kira stared at him hard.
"That's an order."
She continued staring.
Shakaar let out a hollow sigh.
"You have a mission to complete, and I expect you to complete it and to survive. Beyond that—I leave the details to you."
8.
It arrived with a shipment of kitchen supplies a few days later: a vial of kava extract. She surreptitiously dropped it in her apron pocket and continued to help Campos restock the pantry.
9.
The first course that evening was spice soup—Rotel's favorite. Kava was a mild vegetable, and when Kira had sniffed the extract, it was almost scentless. The flavor would be undetectable in Campos's fiery concoction.
The soup was simmering on the stove in a fairly small pot. Rotel was dining with a small contingent of his officers tonight—only four men total. The vial would be enough to put a lethal dose in each bowl. Assuming one was highly allergic.
Campos was working on a marinade and had his back to Kira. She popped the stopper off the vial and poured it into the soup. She placed the empty tube back in her pocket and began stirring slowly, as if to keep the contents from sticking to the pot.
Campos turned and smiled at her. "Glad someone remembered to do that. My nose hadn't reminded me yet. It's a good thing your youthful senses are sharper than mine."
"That's what I'm here for," Kira said.
Rotel's laugh thundered from the dining room. She heard kanar glasses clink against each other.
Campos stepped away from his marinade and came over by Kira. He took four bowls down off of the shelf and began ladling soup into them. "You know, Loresa, I've been meaning to say… I couldn't be happier with the situation—work wise. I'm really proud of the progress you've made."
Kira felt the floodgates open, but she quickly staunched the flow of emotion. Operatives had to compartmentalize. You couldn't let the feelings and intentions of your true self be seen when you were working. Especially by yourself. Tanta Loresa quickly shut the door on Kira Nerys, who peered anxiously around it, wanting to get her message out.
Thank you for taking a chance on me.
Thank you for teaching me how to cook.
I'm sorry I betrayed you.
I'm sorry you're going to die.
I won't let them hurt your daughter.
The last one was the hardest to silence. Shakaar was right about Campos being a collaborator. She had known from day one that his death would be unavoidable. She even got the sense that, under the right circumstances, he would be all right with his fate. But in the current circumstances, his daughter's life hung in the balance. And no matter what Kira was able to do for her, Campos was going to die tonight believing his little girl was laying in the dirt, writhing in agony, and calling for her father. He might even think he could hear her cries.
She couldn't risk telling him, because he'd never risk relying on her to save his daughter. He'd raise the alarm, the gauntlet would close, and in the end, the only person involved that wouldn't die would be Rotel.
Tanta Loresa shut the door tight.
"Thank you," she said. "I really like working with you, Rhen."
He smiled at the use of his individual name. It denoted closeness and friendship.
"I just need to run to the facilities quickly," she said.
"See you in a few," he said. He took the tray with the soup bowls out to his patrons. As Kira headed for the door, she heard him tell the Cardassians, "Ba'hat suro."
It was Bajoran for bon appetite.
10.
The daycare area for the mansion's Bajoran staff was outdoors, just off of the east wing. It had a small playground, a shed stocked with toys and athletic supplies, and a few tables for meals and activities. Today, there were about seven children in attendance, with a single Bajoran woman in her fifties to care for them.
Glin Warvak positioned himself at the far edge of the play area. He was leaning against a tree and had his phaser rifle slung over his shoulder and resting against his hip. He wanted to be far away enough that he wouldn't hear much of their mewling, but close enough to act if the situation warranted it. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that while this was a cushy duty, it was also boring as hell.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Warvak turned to see a red-headed Bajoran girl standing timidly behind him. It was the girl he'd delivered to the chef the other week.
"Ah, Campos's kitchen girl." He looked her up and down. "I hope you brought me something tasty."
She looked down at the ground. "Mr. Campos said to tell you I didn't work out. He said you would put me to good use."
Warvak smiled wolfishly. Today wouldn't be a total loss after all. "There's no doubt of that, my dear." He took hold of her arm and led her behind the shed. He reached for the hem of her dress, but she stopped him by placing a finger against his lips. "Let me," she whispered.
Kira reached back behind her neck as if to unbutton her dress—and then thrust her hand forward, clutching a wooden spoon with the handle sharpened to a point. She jammed it into the Cardassian's throat as hard as she could. His mouth opened as if to scream, but he could make no sound. A single spurt of blood leapt forth from his wound and ran down the front of his uniform. He dropped to his knees, and as the darkness crept in from the edge of his vision, he could feel Kira's hot breath against his ear.
"That's from Campos Rhen. He says 'Ba'hat suro.'"
Warvak fell face first into the dirt. His leg twitched once, and then he was still.
Kira walked out from behind the shed. She approached the Bajoran caretaker and they exchanged a few quiet words. She then sat down next to Campos Anara, the chef's daughter. She was drawing at one of the tables.
"Hi, sweetheart."
The girl looked up and smiled. "I know you," she said. "You're the muffin lady."
"That's right," Kira answered. "I was just talking to your father, and he wants me to take you on a little trip."
"Where?"
"To the monastery. Now that you're a big girl, you're ready to start learning about the Prophets."
Anara's eyes lit up. "Daddy says the Prophets watch me all the time."
"I'm sure that's true." Kira held out a hand to her and she took it. They walked together in the direction of the ranch. That was their exit point.
As they walked along the front of the mansion, Kira could hear muffled shouting from inside. She picked up Anara and hastened her pace.
"Is Daddy coming too?"
"Not today, sweetheart," Kira said.
11.
Kira stood in the doorway of the mansion's kitchen, watching as two Cardassian soldiers held Campos pinned to the floor. He struggled frantically against them, but was only able to lift his head. He looked directly at her.
"Nerys!" he cried. "They've killed my baby, my little angel. Why did you do it? What goddamn difference did it make? Why was it worth my daughter?"
She didn't die—I got her out. She tried to tell him, but no sound came out. She realized that there was a hand clamped firmly over her mouth, and turned to see Shakaar holding her from behind. He simply shook his head at her.
"Why, Nerys?" Campos persisted. "I trusted you. Why did you kill my baby?"
Beyond where Campos was being held, she could see the dark form of Gul Rotel crumpled next to the banquet table. Constable Odo was crouched next to him, studying the crime scene. He looked up at Kira. "Answer the question, Major."
She's all right! The Vedeks are taking care of her.
"People are dying, Kira. Cardassians and Bajorans. You've been involved in killings on both sides and you have to answer for it."
She struggled against Shakaar.
"Answer."
Odo, you don't under—
"Answer."
I—
"Answer."
Kira bolted upright in her bed on Deep Space Nine. She had a film of sweat over her brow and her breathing was uneven. Her hand went immediately to her belly, and she felt the reassuring bulge of the baby in her womb.
The baby was the last component to getting her bearings—the Rotel mission was more than a decade ago, and was safely behind her. She let out a ragged breath, and with effort, swung her legs over the side of the bed and got up to use the refresher.
As she splashed cool water on her face, the rest came into focus. It was her first night back on the station after the ordeal with Silaran Prin. The deranged Cardassian had murdered Furel and Lupaza, Mobara, Latha, and Fala—all the core members of her resistance cell, except for her and Shakaar.
Silaran had been a house servant on Bajor during the occupation. Because he was not a soldier, he considered himself an innocent bystander, and not at all responsible for the horrors his people inflicted on the Bajorans. He was badly maimed when the Shakaar planted a bomb outside Gul Pirak's window—a bomb planted by Kira herself—and he wanted vengeance for what he considered to be a grave injustice.
When Kira was being held captive by Silaran, he praised himself for taking steps to avoid harming her baby. He claimed she had never shown that type of mercy during the war. Anara Campos's existence was an argument to the contrary.
As she climbed back into bed, she took a moment to thank the Prophets for allowing her to bring the O'Brien's baby back safely. She dismissed the nightmare as having been conjured by feelings of survivor's guilt. It was only natural that this should happen—she suspected Shakaar was suffering similar feelings at this very moment in his bedroom in the capitol. She thought of contacting him, but decided against it. He was a solitary brooder.
There was a faint notion at the back of her mind that there might be another connection between the Campos dream and her escape from Silaran, but she was too tired to psychoanalyze herself. She would deliver the baby any day now, and in the end, that was the most important difference she could make.