Shakaar nodded, but his expression was grave. The knots of tension in Kira’s stomach tightened as she realized that if Bestram had taken the western route, he would have beaten her here by a healthy margin. He’d either taken cover somewhere else, or—
Or he didn’t. Kira took another breath, tried to think of something she could say or do to sound encouraging, but nothing came to mind.
“So they found you,” Mobara said.
“Yes,” Kira said. “But what were we going to do? We’ll starve in here. We have to be able to get to the village for supplies—”
“We’ll do that when it becomes absolutely necessary,” Shakaar said firmly, “and after we’ve rigged a way to transmit false life signs, or some kind of a shielding device…”
“I’m working on one right now,” Mobara said. “It should be ready within a week. If you and Bestram had just waited to speak to us about this…” His tone was uncharacteristically scolding.
Kira said nothing, feeling mildly defensive, but mostly afraid for Bestram. She’d feel responsible if he didn’t come back, even if it washis idea to go out in the first place. But why, then, had she been able to go out by herself earlier this week, with no sign of a Cardassian anywhere? When she’d told Bestram about it, he’d been eager to sneak out past Shakaar, believing the enemy patrols had been redeployed elsewhere. But he was wrong. The Cardassians had found them anyway.
Gantt spoke up in a low voice. “We’ve gotten more bad news since you’ve been gone,” the stoic medic informed her. “The comm chatter says Li Nalas has been killed.” Stunned, Kira looked to Shakaar for confirmation.
“Is it true?” she asked him.
Shakaar’s voice was solemn. “It’s what they’re saying on the comm—that his entire outfit was wiped out three days ago, somewhere in the outback.”
This was the fifth report they’d gotten of a cell being taken out completely. The cells in Jalanda, Renday, and Elemspur were also said to be gone—not a single member left.
Shakaar continued. “There was a report…someone claims that Jaro Essa is confirming he heard it was a new Cardassian detection grid.”
“Is that what’s taking down the raiders?” Mobara wanted to know.
Again, Kira looked to Shakaar. She hadn’t heard anything about raiders. He looked as surprised as she did.
“The Kohn-Ma cell have lost five of their aircraft,” Mobara explained. “Five of their men.That’s more than half their cell.”
“When did you hear that?” Kira asked with some urgency. She had become friendly with one of the Kohn-Ma cell members…
“I heard it an hour ago, from Tahna Los,” Mobara said. “The rest of the Kohn-Ma are still in the city, and Tahna put in a call to me to see if we were still here.”
“I heard reports of other raiders being shot down, as well,” Shakaar said, his voice troubled. “But I didn’t hear that Jaro Essa said anything about it…. I thought it might be another of their propaganda plants…”
“We shouldn’t take any chances,” Gantt said.
Shakaar nodded. “We won’t be launching any of our own raiders anytime soon. At least, not before we know what happened with the Kohn-Ma’s ships,” Shakaar said.
“So what should we do?” Kira asked. It wasn’t enough for her to sit here and listen to all the frantic gossip coming from the comm. She wanted to act—to get outside and confirm what was happening.
“We’ll do nothing until we’ve gotten more information. First thing, we wait for Bestram. We give it the usual fifty-two hours before…” He trailed off.
“Before the search party?” Kira finished for him.
Shakaar shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “This time…I think this time will have to be different.”
Kira swallowed hard and met Mobara’s gaze, found fear there, too. She had the distinct sense that things were changing, big things.
“We can’t just stay in these caves forever,” Gantt pointed out. “If there’s a system monitoring Bajoran movement, we’ll all have to go back to the city, get fake papers—blend in, somehow…”
“Not me,” Kira said firmly. “I’ll stay here.”
“I’d rather stay here, too,” Mobara said. “I think I can figure out a way to temporarily mask our biosigns so that we can get from place to place, at least in the short term. With careful planning, we can still—”
“But how are we supposed to plan full-scale attacks with temporary masks?” Gantt argued. “If we’re being targeted at this location, we’ve got to leave.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to figure that out later,” Shakaar said. “For now, we gather information. We work on getting in touch with the rest of the cell, making sure everyone is all right.”
Kira swallowed. “What about the Kohn-Ma?” she asked.
Shakaar shrugged. “They can do what they want,” he said. “But if there are only four of them left, they might just feel as though it’s over for them.”
Kira felt her resolve harden. “No,” she said. “They won’t feel that way.” Kira didn’t know Tahna Los especially well, but she did know that he wouldn’t give up, even if he was the only one left in his cell. She knew it because it was how she felt about the Shakaar.
Quark was less than thrilled that he’d had to give up such a large quantity of gold-press latinum to the pompous Cardassian who ran this place. It was a lucky thing he’d had that emergency stash at the bottom of one of the crates Gart had unceremoniously unloaded when he’d marooned Quark. Buried under a quarter-ton of rotting vegetables, the latinum had been safely shielded from his nosy shipmates. He remembered the way the prefect’s eyes had widened when Quark had presented him with a full brick, despite his obvious revulsion to the smell coming from it. It pained Quark to leave it on the gul’s desk, but he took comfort in knowing that he’d made a sale.
Quark grinned, thinking of the possibilities. He’d left home a lowly freighter cook, driven from the beautiful swamps of Ferenginar by a ridiculous accusation that was, sadly, true. But he’d been listening, from the beginning, from his very first day boiling the morning snail juice for Gart’s idiot crew. Listening for that faint, come-hither breath of opportunity, seeking out the entrepreneurial brave—and now she had come panting after him like a two-strip dabo girl, and he had the lobes to take action.
He patted the vest pockets containing his remaining strips and slips, and settled down in a chair in his new quarters, his grin souring slightly. The Cardassian hadn’t gotten all of it, but the loss had hurt. And yet, what other recourse did he have? Where else could he possibly go? Dukat obviously didn’t want him here, but latinum bought welcome, he’d found. Even with Klingons, to some degree. It was too bad Dukat hadn’t wanted the perishables, but Quark already had an idea or two.
He’d known about the occupation, of course. No self-respecting businessman would travel the starry seas without knowing who had the power where. In the B’hava’el system, the Cardassians carried the big stick. They’d run over some backward agri planet to “borrow” most of their resources, to boost a sagging economy at home—not a bad business plan, considering the payoff, though not so hot for the Bajorans. He’d seen plenty of Cardassians, but until his little tour of his new home this morning, he’d never seen a Bajoran before, not up close. In some of those pale faces he’d read crazed desperation, barely concealed; in others, utter, total defeat.
He’d been sent by a gaunt-faced “merchant” to his newly assigned lodgings, to find not much at the far end of a bleak, curving corridor—a bunk, a table, basic replicator, outdated computer console—but it was comfortable enough for someone who’d just been ejected from a tramp freighter. Quark was in no position to complain—he hadn’t expected Risa.
He quickly set about contacting his family on Ferenginar to inform them that he was still alive, but of course his fool-headed mother was apparently too busy with some trivial female pursuit to answer a transmission from her beloved eldest son. He left her a message, and then one for his idiot brother Rom, and then he waited. There wasn’t much he could do now, not until he’d arranged for his funds to be transferred. He didn’t have a padd; he had virtually no assets besides his few crates of delectable odds and ends— milcakemix, sargamfilets, caviar, pickled plomeek—and his brilliant business acumen. Which was awesome, of course, but it didn’t pay the bills, not yet. There were his personal effects—at least Gart had tossed out Quark’s bag along with the refrigerated, “poisoned” containers—but nothing he could consider much of an asset. At least not among Cardassians.