“Yes, sir. She’s at the Tozhat settlement.”
“Well, then. I imagine your time on the surface will probably not be spent climbing mountains.”
Damar grinned foolishly. They stopped outside the bridge, the gil obviously hesitant to assume an invitation, and Dukat gestured for him to step ahead, feeling generous.
“The ship is approaching our new home, Gil. Would you like to come to the bridge?”
Damar positively glowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Let’s go and have our first look at Terok Nor.”
Lenaris Holem had given up trying to keep his right leg from cramping. It was the moisture in the weather today, the swollen clouds above him threatening to spill their contents. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in this line, and since he didn’t have a timepiece, there wasn’t any effective way to be sure without asking someone else. He knew better than to ask the woman sitting on the ground behind him—old Thera Tibb was a notorious jabberbox, and the last thing Lenaris needed was to be trapped listening to her endlessly embroidered anecdotes about her children. Anyway, Lenaris was fairly certain she was asleep, which gave testament to how slowly the line was moving.
Lenaris looked at the man in front of him. He was approximately the same age as himself, in his late twenties or early thirties, with very sharp ridges on his broad nose, and a wild tangle of uncut curly hair. His clothes were rough, even shabbier than Lenaris’s own. He most likely didn’t have a timepiece, either. Still, Lenaris was so bored and uncomfortable, he thought he might as well strike up a conversation.
“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been standing here?” he ventured. It was always a little ill-advised to speak to strangers when one was away from home. If the person you spoke to happened to belong to a higher D’jarra,he or she might take offense at your attempt to engage in conversation, depending on their caste. But many Bajorans—Lenaris among them—held those things in much lower esteem since the effects of the Cardassian occupation had become more widespread.
“I believe we’ve been here since first morning prayers.” The man nodded at the glint of B’hava’el, piercing a thin ray through a break in the cloud cover overhead. “So, assuming my knowledge of the sun’s position is correct, we’ve been here for at least six hours.”
“Six hours!” Lenaris exclaimed. “I knew it had been a long time, but—”
“I could be overestimating,” the stranger admitted, “but if I am, it’s only by half an hour or so. I’m certain first morning prayers were going on when I got in line, and you didn’t come along much later than that.”
Lenaris folded his arms and sighed. These food ration lines were getting more intolerable by the day. His stomach was empty, aching from the days since he’d had a substantial meal. “I can’t believe the spoonheads put us through this, day after day,” he muttered, “and still have the gall to claim that they’re trying to help us.”
“The…what? Did you say… spoonheads?”
Lenaris cleared his throat. It was unwise to throw around such a blatant slur, when there were collaborators everywhere. “I mean, uh…”
The other man laughed. “I don’t know if I’ve heard that before,” he said. “Spoonheads. It does suit the Cardies, doesn’t it?” The stranger stuck out his hand. “My name is Ornathia Lac, by the way. Or just Lac.”
Lenaris took the man’s hand and shook it. “Lenaris Holem. Where are you from, Lac? I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Ornathias.”
“Oh, I’m not from around here.” He seemed not to have any inclination to speak further, but Lenaris was bored. He eyed the other man’s earring.
“A farmer?” Holem asked carefully.
The man nodded, but said nothing else.
Lenaris went on, trying to put Lac at ease. “My mother came from farmers. She married outside her D’jarra.” He chuckled, and then clutched at his stomach at a mild twinge caused by the laughter. He was pretty sure he had been working on an ulcer for the better part of a year. “She always had a rebellious streak, which my father says I inherited. She was from the farmlands near the northern Relliketh province—is that where you come from?”
“No,” Lac told him. “I come from inland of the Tilar peninsula, across the channel.” He held out his hand, palm up, and looked toward the sky. “Did you feel a drop?”
Lenaris shook his head. “By the vineyards? What are you doing all the way over here?”
“The vineyards are part of my family’s old estate,” Lac answered, conspicuously ignoring the latter part of the question. “Though the Cardies took part of it over a decade ago, when they were still trying to colonize, my family still controls some of that land.”
Lenaris nodded, curious as to how Lac had come to be at Relliketh. The only way to get across the channel was to go by Cardassian ferry or skimmer, and he wondered why the farmer would go to such trouble and expense. The man didn’t offer any further explanation, however, so Lenaris thought he’d do best to let it lie.
“So,” Lac said, after a moment of silence. His eyes flicked to Lenaris’s earring, a rather plain one that did not include his family’s caste designation. “What’s your D’jarra?”
Lenaris was a bit taken aback; it had once been considered impolite to inquire about a person’s D’jarra,if he didn’t display it on his earring, or offer the information when introducing himself. But times had changed, and Lenaris supposed there wasn’t any reason not to tell the man. “Va’telo,”he said.
Lac’s eyebrows did a little jump. “You’re a pilot?” he asked, sounding hopeful. Most Va’telowere pilots, though some were boatmen, and in the old days, many had driven the groundcars.
“I wasa pilot,” Lenaris corrected him. “I used to do some transport work before the spoon—er—Cardassians shut down the textile mills along the channel. Times have been lean for a long while, though. I had to…sell my ship.” It pained him to speak of it even now, two years later.
Lac nodded sympathetically. “The Cardies have disrupted nearly everyone’s life, I suppose. My family still farms some of our land, but production is down to a tenth of what it was—and then the Cardies take most of it anyway, to meet quotas. It might seem backwards for a farmer to be standing in a food ration line, but—”
“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Lenaris agreed.
Lac was quiet again, and Lenaris wondered if he hadn’t said something wrong. The farmer was difficult to read. Lenaris shook his cramping right leg back awake again, not sure if he should continue the conversation.
“Have you ever flown a warp vessel?” Lac suddenly asked.
Lenaris laughed sharply. He’d been barely a boy when the Cardassians started to restrict warp travel. “How old do I look to you?” he said, then instantly regretted what might be perceived as unkindness in his tone. “No,” he said. “I haven’t. My father, of course—but he’s long gone.”
“Did your father ever tell you anything about flying a warp vessel?”
Lenaris swallowed. “A few things,” he said. He looked down at his feet as he thought of his father, who had died from a simple untreated infection when Lenaris had still been in his teens. The Cardassians had placed a week-long block on travel between provinces after a terrorist strike, with no exceptions. Hemmed into a particularly remote area in Relliketh, Lenaris Pendan had died before a medic could get to him. Another indirect casualty of the occupation.
Lac nodded. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he offered.
“No—it’s all right, it’s just—I don’t particularly care to think about my father.”
“Oh,” Lac said. “Was it…Cardies?”
Lenaris shrugged slightly. “More or less.”
Lac looked apologetic. “I don’t mean to sound so…forward. It’s just that…well, I think I’ve heard your name before—and then when you said you’re a pilot—”