Chapter Four
2300
"All right, let's take another break. Ten minutes." B'Elanna sighed, resisting the urge to sink to her knees and from there curl into a foetal position on the ground. Instead, she hobbled down the line, mustering a few words of encouragement for each member of her team as they stretched tired muscles and flexed sore fingers. To her relief – and his, evidently – Vance had taken off down the tunnel, negating the need for B'Elanna to fabricate any politeness to him. When she got to Jor's position, the other woman had the medkit open, preparing to dose herself with a hypospray. The quantity of lectrazine that remained represented an ominous countdown. The supplies lined up neatly in the medkit looked ample at first glance, but time was passing quickly. Once the drug ran out, Jor's condition would deteriorate rapidly. She was putting on a brave face, but clearly suffering. B'Elanna supposed she should count herself lucky that only one member of her team had been injured, not counting the tinnitus that she herself continued to experience intermittently. If they'd been nearer to the surface when the rockfall had occurred, there could have been more casualties – fatalities, even. But even one was one too many.
Vance returned and B'Elanna turned her eyes downwards as he passed. Like Nelson and Tabor, the pilot was now shirtless and she had no intention of letting him think she was checking him out. She needed to check her chrono anyway. Five more minutes and she'd rally them to start digging again. In the meantime, she was going to turn off her headlamp and rest her eyes. She picked a spot to sit down within earshot of the others, but far enough away that their light didn't reach her. When the sound of footsteps headed her way she sighed and opened her eyes. So much for five minutes undisturbed rest. At least the footsteps belonged to Sahreen.
"May I speak with you?" he asked.
She reached up and switched her lamp back on. "Of course."
He crouched beside her, hesitating for a long moment in a way that was unusual for him. She was about to snap at him to get on with it when he started to speak. "We've all been awake for twenty five hours straight," he said matter of factly.
"I know," she said, eyes narrowing. "What of it?"
"People are getting clumsy. A period of sleep would be advisable."
"Sleep? Are you serious?"
He nodded. Of course he was serious. When wasn't he? And the truth was, he was right. Sleep was advisable. But they were in a race against time here.
"Sleep's a luxury," she said, a little more sharply than she'd intended.
"Respectfully, no," he said, not appearing to have taken any offense at her tone. "Sleep is a necessity. A few hours would suffice to refresh us adequately and restore efficiency." He stretched his legs out in front of him to sit down properly, leaning back against the wall by her side, waiting.
"What about the stims in the medkit? Can't we use those?"
Shaking his head with as much animation as she'd ever seen from him, he said, "Bad idea. And, besides, there'd not be enough for everyone. I guarantee you'll notice how much faster we can work after proper rest."
She mulled it over. "All of us together? Or in shifts?"
Turning to look at him, she watched him shrug his shoulders. "Whichever you think best."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "If we take turns to sleep, the digging effort will continue uninterrupted," he said.
"OK then," she replied, ready to rise and announce her decision.
"However," Sahreen continued, "we have established an efficient system that requires each member of the team to operate. It might be wiser to all rest simultaneously, then resume as one unit."
B'Elanna frowned. "Well, which is it then?"
His brow twitched, ever so slightly. "I don't understand."
"Which should we do?"
"That's up to you."
"Well," she said, growing more irritable, "I'm asking for your advice. You know the best course to take. You've got more experience than me."
He shook his head. "I've never been in this exact situation before."
"Well, I don't know what to do," she growled, throwing her hands up in front of her for emphasis. The heat was just unbearable, like being smothered in a warm, wet blanket and placed in an oven. With every heartbeat, the pulse in her right temple drummed and she worried the headache would progress to a full blown migraine. Just what she didn't need when analgesics were limited and she already had an injured teammate. Sahreen didn't respond, he just sat there, hands clasped together under his chin. B'Elanna hugged her knees to her chest and released a long sigh.
"Chakotay wouldn't have put you in command of this mission if he didn't think you were a capable leader," Sahreen said suddenly.
"Perhaps if this mission had gone to plan I would have been capable of leading it," she mumbled. "But it's gone to hell, hasn't it?"
"Even if you think so, you can't tell them that," Sahreen said, lowering his hands to his lap and tipping his head in the direction of the others.
"Do you really think I make a good leader?" she asked, not letting him respond. Not until she'd finished. "Tabor had to remind me about our water problem in the first instance and advise me on the food rationing. I've got Vance giving me his opinion on everything. Dalby acting like my personal bodyguard." She raised her palm. "I know he means well. And now you pull me aside because I'm doing something else wrong."
"Being a leader doesn't mean you must have all the answers. There's nothing wrong with taking advice. Or asking for it."
"No. I guess not."
She thought back to her time at the Academy. There'd been cadets who were clearly destined for command rather than to spend their whole careers at the helm or in technical or scientific posts. Cadets like Max Burke. He had the people skills to make it on the command track. Others, like herself, had been gifted in engineering, or astrophysics, or medicine, but would never be first officer or captain material. Perhaps if she thought of her people as parts of a living machine, the most practical course of action would become obvious.
"All right," she said, reaching a conclusion. Letting Sahreen heave her to her feet, she went to tell the others that their rest period would be longer than she'd initially planned. Perhaps a couple of hours in silent darkness would rid her of her headache too.
The news was well received by all, though Vance had to question the decision not to sleep in shifts.
"No, we'll sleep together," B'Elanna said firmly, only registering her regrettable choice of words after the fact when Vance snickered. "We'll sleep at the same time," she amended. "Four hours. Pick a spot and bed down."
If any one of them managed to sleep soundly in this heat and on the hard, unforgiving floor, she'd be amazed. For once, it transpired, she and Vance were on the same page, though unlike him, she hadn't deemed it good for morale to voice such a negative thought.
"Look at it this way," she responded to his grumbling. "After this, your bunk will seem a lot more comfortable."
He smirked, the obnoxious bastard. She cheered herself by fantasising about breaking his jaw, preferably in several places.
As she turned away from him the light caught on two small metallic discs hanging from a chain around his neck. She hadn't noticed them before. They looked like old fashioned military ID tags that she recalled from old holomovies; the sort that service personnel on Earth had carried in the days before DNA records and subcutaneous chips were commonplace. Vance wasn't the kind of guy to make fashion statements. They had to have some meaning. Maybe Seska would know.
The tunnel floor really was about as unpleasant a surface to sleep on as B'Elanna could imagine and it lived up to her expectations when she rolled up her vest to make a pillow and settled down. They'd turned off all the lights and each picked a spot to lie in, spreading out down the tunnel far enough apart to limit the noise from each other's breathing and shifting of positions. With the sounds of talking and digging fallen off, low creaking noises could be heard from above as if the mountain itself was moving.
It likely was. Once an avalanche or a landslide had occurred, secondary slippages were common among the unstable debris. That would be just typical: to clear a way out only to have it blocked again at the last moment.
She rolled onto her right side and pushed her right temple into her makeshift pillow. The leather was cool, at least initially, and the pressure eased the throbbing in her head, but the lack of support for her neck in that position forced her to roll back onto her back after a while. From somewhere in the darkness came a sneeze followed by a bout of racked coughing that echoed off the walls. Her stomachs gurgled, the meagre meal from five hours earlier had long since been digested.
They should have been back on the Val Jean by now. Chell would have cooked what passed for a feast as he always did for returning away teams. There'd be rice or pasta, high-carb staples that the Maquis obtained in bulk for their long shelf lives and easy availability. Chell would have thrown in some spices (hopefully not too many) and whatever tinned or vacuum preserved vegetables were on hand. Depending on which planets the ship had most recently visited, there could be fresh produce as well. The settlers on Delavi had offered a crate of moba fruit and two of potatoes in return for the weapons and medical supplies that the Maquis had run through a Cardassian blockade. Chell would likely have boiled some of those up as well. The Bolian wasn't the best chef in the Galaxy, but undoubtedly there were worse to be found.
After the incident at Quatal, B'Elanna had suggested to Chakotay that Chell be asked to wait until an away team had returned fit and well before preparing the food. It seemed in bad taste to enjoy a large meal when not all of those who'd disembarked for the mission had come back unharmed. Chakotay disagreed, saying it wasn't good for morale to put too much emphasis on the possibility of a mission resulting in casualties. Pessimism was a distraction that cost lives. But right now, the crew on the ship would be staring at pots of steaming food laid out in the small mess hall. Or perhaps, by now, the food would have grown cold, their comrades with little appetite mulling around wondering just what fate had befallen the missing seven. Anyhow, the ship would have moved on from the rendezvous point, too risky to stay when the away team could have been captured and forced to divulge the coordinates.
Only B'Elanna, Vance and Sahreen knew those coordinates. They were the only three capable of piloting the shuttle, so in the event that all three of them were incapacitated or killed, knowing the location of the rendezvous point would be useless to the other four. Should the Cardassians manage to eliminate the Val Jean, the Maquis would be struck a significant blow. The ship carried an unusually large crew complement for a Maquis raider, with a high percentage of skilled personnel. It was an asset that had to be protected by any reasonable means.
Someone started to snore, just as B'Elanna felt the first hint of sleep upon her. She cursed inwardly, though at least it meant that one of them had dozed off. The snoring continued in an intermittent drone. Hopefully, the fact that no cross words had been issued forth meant that the others were all sleeping too. The culprit had to be Vance. If it were one of the others, he'd never be able to refrain from calling out and cursing them. Unless Vance was a really sound sleeper. The whole team would have to be really sound sleepers not to be disturbed by that racket. And she was sure Jor was a chronic insomniac. The other woman was often to be seen out of her bunk room during the ship's night cycle, even between missions. Come to think of it, Jor was often accompanied by Tabor at those times. The Bajoran certainly had plenty to keep him awake at night. In between the nightmares.
Checking her wrist chrono with its luminescent face, B'Elanna noted that merely half an hour had elapsed since lights out. There was still plenty of time to try to get some sleep.
..._ _ _...
Day two
0600
"You know," Vance started, "the longer the shuttle is out there, the more chance the Cardassians will detect it."
"Well there's not a lot we can do about that other than keep digging, is there?" Tabor countered.
They'd stopped for another five minute break to patch up their mistreated hands with the dermal regenerator and take on yet more foul water. Torres had reluctantly given the order that they should use the device as even with their makeshift protective coverings, each person's skin was being shredded by the sharp debris and the risk of infection was more of a concern than the risk of using more electricity.
The sleep had done little to refresh Nelson. He'd drifted off for perhaps ten minutes at a time with long intervals of wakefulness in between. The situation with Jor and her injuries had played on his mind in a continuous loop, and Dalby's snoring had carried down the tunnel and jerked him out of those short naps on several occasions. Not that Nelson wished a disturbed sleep on anyone, but he hoped one of the others had heard and would pack Dalby off far from the rest of them when it came to the next sleep period.
"If the Cardassians come, I will not be taken alive," Dalby said. "And I'd like to take some of them with me if it comes to it. I think …" he looked to Torres, "… if it's all right by you, we should discuss what we're gonna do in that eventuality."
"How do you mean?" Torres asked him.
Dalby gestured to the stack of weapons that Jor had neatly arranged earlier. "Phaser fire could bring the roof down on all of us. The decision to go out shooting or surrender … well, I figure we all have to make that for ourselves."
"If the Cardassians come, what's to say they won't use energy weapons themselves," pointed out Tabor.
Dalby nodded. "Fair point. I just thought we should have a plan. They could be waiting for us when we break out."
It was all very well to make such grandiose statements now, but, when it came down to it, would they all have the bottle to effectively take their own lives? The thought of being taken prisoner by the Cardassians made Nelson feel sick. He'd heard the stories, some confirmed and others only plausible rumours. In principle, he would far rather be killed than captured, but the instinct to survive was hardwired into every living being. If the Cardassians were in the mood to take prisoners – for information, or for sport – one moment of indecision could be all that was needed for them to disarm their victim.
Torres spoke up. "I'm not going to waste my energy thinking about it. If the Cardassians find the shuttle and explore the surroundings, they'll realise we're in trapped in here. They won't be relying on crappy technology like us. Their sensors will get around the magnesite. Do you think they'll waste their efforts on trying to get us out? They'll just leave us to die."
"And if they did try blasting through to us, we won't be around too long to worry about being taken alive," said Tabor. "Believe me, I know very well how the Cardassians treat prisoners, but B'Elanna's right, we can't worry about every possible thing that could happen."
"By tomorrow, our warp trail will have dissipated. Then there'll be nothing to point them toward this system," said Sahreen.
Vance had said nothing since his initial – unhelpful – insight. He'd just stood back and watched the discussion play out in front of him, his eyes hovering on Torres for much of the time. For her part, she appeared – or at least she acted – oblivious to his interest, maintaining her focus on Dalby. Now Vance turned to Tabor. "Unless they've surveyed this system in the past and they know about these tunnels. Let's face it, the Cardies could have this system on one of their patrol routes, and, knowing about the tunnels, they might swing by and take a gander even without picking up any warp trails. Like you said, these tunnels are the ideal place to hide supplies or a listening post. Or just to hide out."
Vance really was determined to pile on the shit. And stir it. He gave Torres a challenging stare. She returned it before taking the dermal regenerator offered by Dalby. Even in the dim light Nelson noted the four small crescent-shaped indents Torres bore in each palm. After running the device briefly over her palms and fingers, she wordlessly shuffled back up to the face, the others arranging themselves into a line behind her. Back to work.
Nelson found himself at the rear with Vance ahead of him. Seska's intel on Vance was rather lacking – or, she wasn't sharing (but that seemed unlikely) – and the man himself, though certainly a talker, had very little to say regarding the subject of his past. Known facts were: he was a volunteer not a mercenary; a qualified pilot, but not ex-Starfleet; and he hailed from New Woolwich. When that colony world had started suffering Cardassian intimidation, and looked likely to be handed over to Cardassia in the treaty, most of the colonists had gladly agreed to resettlement on New France. Those colonists were a rare exception to the rule, but New Woolwich had never exactly thrived; it barely qualified as class M and the colony had never achieved self-sufficiency. The agricultural opportunities on New France were far better.
Whether Vance had had a personal run in with the Cardassians somewhere along the line was unknown. Perhaps he had nowhere else to go, nothing better to do than to join the Maquis. When they ran weapons drills against static targets he was always up there with the best of them. He did seem to enjoy using a phaser rifle, but he didn't have the reputation for savagery of that creepy Betazoid guy, Suder.
"You got something to say, mate?" Vance grunted, as he trudged into view and caught Nelson staring.
"Not to you, mate," Nelson answered, startling himself with his own petulance. His foster parents would not have appreciated that kind of tone.
Vance's thick eyebrows rose in surprise. "Probably wise," he said, handing off his load.
Vance's most recent display of disregard for Torres had only lowered Nelson's opinion of him further. Which led Nelson to make another interesting observation: for someone who could be so difficult to get along with herself, Torres had a remarkable ability for inspiring loyalty. And that couldn't be a bad thing for someone tasked with command.
..._ _ _...
1300
Despite what B'Elanna had said to the contrary, Dalby's pronouncement had got her thinking. Fighting to the death was a very Klingon philosophy. She recalled the stories her mother had subjected her to of Klingon warriors that surrendered bringing dishonour upon themselves and their families for three generations. Of a death that took with it an enemy's life being the most honourable passing that one could have. Honour wasn't really a prime consideration here, but B'Elanna couldn't help spending a fleeting moment wondering how her mother would view her daughter's current activities and the possibility that B'Elanna, who had made every effort to ignore or belittle everything Klingon, might die in battle. Would her mother be proud? Upset? Surprised?
Despite their government being a signatory of the Seldonis IV Convention, the Cardassians were notorious for their ill-treatment of prisoners of war. When it came to those they considered unlawful combatants – and therefore not entitled to POW status – such as members of the Bajoran resistance and now the Maquis, there wasn't even that paper-thin promise that a detainee could hope to be treated humanely.
Dalby had learnt first-hand just how depraved the Cardassians could be, so his concerns were unsurprising. He'd been working as a mechanic in a remote farming community on a planet on the Bajoran frontier. One day he'd headed into town for parts, not knowing that, as he left the settlement, the neighbours whose respect he'd worked hard to earn and the woman he'd settled down with were about to endure a brutal attack by a gang of Cardassian thugs. The Cardassians always picked the outlying communities for their intimidation attacks, leaving the more heavily defended spaceports and commercial hubs alone. When Dalby returned to his village, he found neighbours slaughtered in the fields as they worked, slumped over their farm machinery. Others had been lined up beside the irrigation ditches and shot in small groups. Picking up his pace, Dalby had raced towards the cluster of buildings that accommodated the farmers and associated workers. The Cardassians had left a handful of witnesses alive to recount the full, horrific details of the assault to the other colonists. Not that any of the survivors were in a fit state to do so immediately.
Dalby's boss, a stern, robust man in late middle age, was one such survivor. Dalby found him babbling hysterically and incoherently outside the schoolhouse, his clothes soaked with blood, but with no visible injuries. A couple of others – Tora Meru, the elderly Bajoran lady who doubled as both medic and teacher, and Liu Chang, the teenager whose parents looked after the Rigellian cattle – huddled together in the central courtyard, both ashen-faced and dumbstruck. Dalby had burst into his own home to find his girlfriend bleeding out on the living room floor. He'd barely recognised her, holding out hope for a few seconds that it was some other poor woman and not her. But it was her. She was unconscious, though still breathing faintly. He'd had to leave her in order to summon help. When he returned to her side a few moments later, she was dead.
The authorities, such as they were, had arrived from town, managing to coax some of the details out of the three shell-shocked villagers. Those three and Dalby were the only four left alive from a community of fifty people. The bodies of the Bolian family were never found.
Pained as he was by every retelling of the tale, Dalby was quite willing to share the reason he'd joined the Maquis. It was vital to him that the extent of the Cardassians' depravity was made known. In leaving live witnesses to this atrocity and others, the Cardassians had hoped to scare away the remaining colonists. Instead, they had provided more ammunition for the Maquis to use in their recruitment drive.
B'Elanna shuddered involuntarily. No, when that was how the Cardassians treated civilians, there was no hope that any captured Maquis would be spared the same abuse.
Dalby had only one fate in mind for himself. He had no illusions that he was going to grow old and die in his bed, an old man. The Maquis couldn't win this war as things currently stood politically. Unless the attitude of the Federation changed or a third party intervened, there would be a perpetual stalemate. The Maquis as a group would survive, but the life expectancy for individual members was never going to be long.
There were numerous ways that B'Elanna's time in the Maquis could end. She could be captured by Starfleet or killed by Cardassians. She could be the victim of an accident, like Forel who'd been blown up by the bomb he was planting. She could die from sickness; Federation-quality medicine was a rare thing out here on the frontier. Or by starving in a dirty hole on the ground, through her own ineptness.
Nobody retired from the Maquis. Anyone who talked of leaving was looked upon extremely suspiciously by their fellow fighters. The information on tactics and past missions that each held would be tempting to Starfleet or the Cardassians, even worth money on the black market. Most wouldn't dream of betraying their comrades, but not everyone was in it for the cause. The Maquis were forced to recruit mercenaries on occasion; pilots were particularly hard to come by, especially those skilled enough to navigate the treacherous Badlands and evade patrols.
There was no going back to the Federation now. Even if she risked it, her activities would eventually catch up with her and she'd be arrested, charged, tried and convicted before landing up in one of their rehabilitation centres. And with a criminal record, she'd never get any decent, honest work on a Federation planet or Federation registered ship.
The greatest thing the Maquis had given her was a purpose. Yes, she'd made friends too, but the cause, a reason to get up in the morning, activity to fill her days without the rigidity of the Academy, that was a gift. It was unfortunate that that gift only existed because of the misfortune of millions of people.
When she'd walked off that San Francisco campus for the last time with no particular destination picked out, it had occurred to her that if her mother wanted to get in contact, there was no available forwarding address. It hadn't seemed too important at the time. That last argument had still been fresh and raw in B'Elanna's memory. Any overtures on the part of her mother would not have been welcomed then. And now, over a year later, with things being as they were, any attempt to make contact with her mother would be unwise. But the thought that if she were to die out here and her mother would never know her daughter's fate … that was unsettling. Perhaps there was some way she could get a message through. Something neutral in tone. Factual, but without revealing anything compromising. She certainly had many hours ahead in which to think about it.
..._ _ _...
0000
Torres had decided that another sleep period was necessary. She gave the order to stop work with a reluctant sigh, but hands were fumbling and feet were tripping, and the pace of work was suffering for it.
Nelson couldn't sleep. He'd lain uncomfortably for a solid hour, his heart hammering and his mind unable to switch off. It was hard to forget that the gates, walls and roof of their temporary prison held the potential energy to blow them all into tiny pieces. He was simply too agitated to rest, compelled to move his body in some way, even if it was merely a long walk along the tunnel and back. Edging his way downslope until he was clear of the others, he turned on his headtorch and strolled past the latrine area, which, despite infrequent use, was starting to smell overwhelming, to the junction where the east and west branches met. He chose east and as he picked up his pace to really burn off some of the anxiety he was feeling, a point of light approaching from the distance caught his eye: Sahreen, his pack laden with refilled water bottles, on his way back to the group.
"Aren't you tired?" Nelson asked him as they paused together.
"A little."
Nelson's eyes narrowed. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
A faint smile graced Sahreen's lips, gone as quickly as it had manifested. "No," he admitted. "I didn't."
Sahreen had finally removed his vest. For some reason he eschewed the leather that the majority of the Maquis wore – almost like a uniform – in favour of knitted wool. Even in the heat he'd barely broken a sweat, but finally it seemed the conditions were starting to wear on him too. He set down his pack and lowered himself to the floor to sit cross-legged. Nelson accepted the older man's invitation to join him. Some company would be good.
"I can't sleep either," Nelson said, rather unnecessarily. Sahreen handed him a flask. They'd long since stopped worrying about which water container belonged to whom. Compared to the muck they were swallowing, what were a few germs?
They talked for a while, Nelson pressing Sahreen for his knowledge of uridium mining and Sahreen recounting everything he knew on that subject. And then the conversation moved on to politics: the significance of the wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant and the strategic value of Deep Space Nine, the Bajoran Provisional Government and from there, naturally to Cardassia.
"Why … why do you think they're like they are, the Cardassians?" Nelson broached. It was a question that he'd mulled over frequently in recent times, yet had never found anyone with whom he felt he could actually discuss it sensibly.
Sahreen regarded him. Uncomprehendingly. That was irregular. Nelson took it to indicate a poorly worded question on his part. "Aggressive. Indiscriminately cruel," he added.
"I'm sure they're not all like that. In fact … I know they're not," said Sahreen, a flash of something Nelson couldn't quite grasp crossing the other man's features.
Nelson laughed bitterly. "You've met a … nice Cardassian?"
Sahreen held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, slowly.
"When?"
"It was a long time ago. Before the Border Wars."
Nelson's eyes widened and before he could stop himself he blurted, "How old are you?"
"Older than I look and younger than I feel," Sahreen answered, saying nothing more specific on the topic. Nelson made some quick calculations, cross-referenced the answers with the dates he recalled from his Federation History classes, and concluded that he needed further information before he could make any assumptions. He reverted to his original line of questioning.
"Then … those good Cardassians … why don't they do something to stop the others – the gangs that terrorise the colonists in the DMZ, or those who perpetrated the atrocities on Bajor?"
"You know your Earth history. World War Two, World War Three … the conflicts in between … There was genocide, slavery, war crimes of every variety. Sometimes atrocities were carried out by a small minority, at other times they were state-sanctioned. Cruelty isn't a trait unique to Cardassians."
"No, of course not," Nelson conceded before letting Sahreen continue.
"You must have known cruel humans – bullies – and when you get a few people like that together, they spur each other on and dominate whoever's around them. The others follow like a herd of sheep."
Nelson could most certainly recall mob rule in the school yard, the charismatic kids who others blindly followed without thinking about the rationality or morality of what they were doing. He'd stood by and watched as names (or even objects) had been flung at unfortunates, even to his now shame finding a sadistic amusement in some of the practical jokes that had been played on those unlikely to hit back.
And in Earth History class, he'd studied the rise of fascism in 20th century Europe, the long-lived communist dictatorships of East Asia, and, going back further, the centuries of human history where slavery had not just been tolerated, but had been the foundation on which whole societies relied.
Sahreen went on, "After a while, their violent behaviour becomes normalised, or people turn a blind eye, pretending not to know what their neighbours are up to. Blissful ignorance. It's safer not to know or not to care, at least. Certainly not to speak up. They're frightened." He paused to take a long draft of water. "Cardassia isn't like the Federation. The news that's disseminated to the general population is heavily government-controlled. They don't have a good reputation for the way they treat their own citizens."
Nelson got the distinct impression that Sahreen was holding something back. Many things, perhaps. Which was, of course, his prerogative. With Seska's way of wheedling information out of people – without them even realising they were giving it up – it paid to be cautious about sharing anything one wanted to keep confidential with anyone. Thank God, Seska wasn't Betazoid. Though Nelson wouldn't have minded the benefit of telepathy himself these last few months.
"Do you think they'll ever change?" Nelson asked. "The Cardassians as a whole."
Arching an eyebrow, Sahreen thought for a moment. "I hope so. Something dramatic might have to happen to their society first though. There'll always be violent elements. I don't see Cardassia emulating Vulcan in that regard. We all have that capability within us, for extreme behaviour. Members of the Maquis included. Perhaps especially. It just takes less provocation for some than others."
And on the subject of Betazoids … "Some like … Suder?" Nelson ventured, regretting the comment an instant later when Sahreen's neutral expression turned ever so slightly disapproving.
"I'd prefer not to speculate regarding specific individuals," Sahreen censured.
Which presumably meant that the rumours were true. If Sahreen believed that Suder was innocent of any brutality, he'd more than likely defend the Betazoid.
It was via Seska that Nelson had heard of an incident a few months back, where Suder had been part of a Maquis team sent to attack a recently-established Cardassian colony on Portas IX. The assault was supposed to send a message: that the Maquis would not let the Cardassians (whether government-sanctioned or vigilante) commit violence and even murder without reprisals. According to Seska, the Maquis team was supposed to issue a warning to the Cardassian colonists giving them an hour to evacuate before they would be forcibly evicted.
The Cardassian colony was inhabited by civilians, with no troops stationed for their defence. A couple of passenger vessels left just before the hour deadline expired. But sensors showed Cardassian lifesigns remaining on the planet after the time had elapsed. Atmospheric conditions precluded transporter use, so Suder and a dozen other fighters had taken a shuttle down to the planet with orders to restrain the remaining Cardassians. They would be ferried to a neutral planet and let free.
Most of the Cardassians – scientists who refused to leave their botanical research – had soon been subdued, but several, armed with disruptors, had resisted capture. Eventually, seeing that they were outnumbered, the armed scientists had voiced their desire to surrender. Suder and Navarro had (allegedly) cornered one of them in a blind alley, the Cardassian with his hands on his head and his disruptor safely laid on the ground a few paces in front of him. Whilst Navarro was taking a set of wrist restraints out of her backpack, Suder had slit the Cardassian's throat, claiming that the soon-to-be prisoner was moving towards his weapon.
Unfortunately, Navarro had perished soon after, when she'd (allegedly) failed to observe the proper safety procedures when repairing one of the Val Jean's airlocks and been sucked out into space. In any case, few of the Maquis were interested in there being any kind of inquest into the death of a Cardassian.
But Nelson kept his fingers crossed that he'd never end up alone with Suder. There was something very off with the man.
Feeling a little uncomfortable now that he'd said the wrong thing, Nelson politely thanked Sahreen for the chat and decided that he would try again to get some rest. Sahreen said that he'd stay where he was for a while and bring the rest of the water along by the time the sleep period was over.
Nelson wandered back towards the others, accompanied by the loud grumbling of his neglected stomach.
Above and around him, the mountain creaked and groaned in sympathy.
..._ _ _...