By GustavoLeao / 15:16, 9 April 2008 / Trek Books

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Author and reviewer Jeff Ayers sent to TrekWeb this exclusive excerpt of the upcoming Deep Space Nine novel Star Trek Terok Nor Night of the Wolves, written by S.D. Perry and  Britta Dennison, on sale in May. Have a good reading.

STAR TREK TEROK NOR: NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

by S.D. Perry & Britta Dennison

2346

The man's name was Thill, Thill Revi, and he was as coarse and unappealing as most Bajorans. Natima could have interviewed him for the story over her office's secure line, but there was also going to be a minor "summit" at the base where Thill was in protective custody, a conference of all the base commanders in the Rakantha province; the Information Service needed a representative there. Her supervisor hadn't wanted to send her-the military base and the small Cardassian community it protected were near a heavily forested area in Rakantha, not a secure area in spite of the heavy concentration of soldiers-but most of his male reporters were on assignment, and she was one of his best filters, fast and clean. He'd assigned her a recorder and a travel permit and told her not to linger.

As though I'm on vacation, she thought, looking into the narrow, damp face of Thill Revi as he studied her press badge. They sat in one of the base's small meeting rooms, thankfully heated but otherwise unpleasant, bare, and ill-lit. Her "escort," a base garresh, leaned against the far wall looking entirely bored. She was glad to be covering the conference; it would stream as a lead piece, worth the price of the last-minute travel, a cramped transport full of leering soldiers, a tight deadline . . . But another interview with one of them took some of the shine off.

Thill handed back her hardcopy pass, his expression too alien to understand. Suspicion? Anger? The Bajoran had graying hair and thin lines around his nose and mouth. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and nasal.

"You say you want to know about Mesto?" Thill asked. "Write a story about it?"

Natima nodded and spoke with a patience she didn't feel. "Produce it, actually. As I said when I contacted you last week. I'm doing a piece about the Bajoran approval of Union annexation, focusing on men and women-like yourself-who've accepted our presence here, and have chosen to help us, in spite of the risks from Bajoran insurgents."

Thill's narrow face grew narrower. "Well, I don't know about that," he said. "All I did was tell our town liaison about Mesto Drade. He told the commander here, and they arrested him."

Natima checked the recorder, adjusted the angle slightly.

"He's your neighbor, is that correct?"

"Farm next to my outfit," Thill said. His tone was sullen. "Don't know that that makes him a neighbor."

"Tell me how you found out what Mesto was doing," Natima said. Usually such an open-ended invitation started them talking. Most of the Bajorans she'd interviewed were only too eager to explain themselves, to convince anyone who might listen that they weren't really like the others, the collaborators.

Thill folded his arms. "You hear things. Drade, he thinks-he thought he was better than me. Farmer's no better than craftsman, though, no matter what anyone says. We're the same on the wheel."

D'jarras, she thought. The caste system. She stifled her distaste at the ignorance of his beliefs, reminding herself that he'd been raised into hs cultural superstitions; it wasn't his fault. "Mesto was hiding the parts of a nearly complete warp reactor in his barn, along with stockpiles of chemical explosives. Your decision to turn him in probably saved lives."

Thill looked sour. "Ruined mine, though, didn't it? It's not just the rebels, you know. None of them-my ‘neighbors'-none of them ever treated me real good. My family D'jarra, Ke'lora, is low on the wheel, see? I'm a tanner, come from a long line of tanners. It's a respectable position, you know, working the skins. ‘And as the tradesman plies his wares, so the tanner scrapes the hides, so the ranjen studies the Word.' That's a direct quote from the Book of Seasons, isn't it? But all those high-caste types, they don't want to shake hands with someone like me. Same with my da, an' his da before him. Good men, treated poor."

His expression darkened. "Since I told about Mesto, though, no one will even look at me. I went to the market day after the soldiers came, and they wouldn't even sell me a drink of water. I should have expected as much. They say they believe the Word, but when Drade stopped farming, when he openly shunned his Fate, they all looked the other way. Someone had to stop him, that's all. "

His mouth pinched ever tighter. "Never thought they'd do what they did to me, though."

Natima nodded along, trying to appear empathetic. It was a common story. Even after all this time, the Bajorans ostracized, harassed, even threatened "collaborators." Thill was at the military base because a week after he'd informed on Mesto, someone had tried to burn his house down, with him inside of it. He'd come to the base for protection. Usually informants weren't offered any kind of shelter, but the station commander had personally benefited from the seizure of the warp core and explosives; he'd granted Thill a temporary sanctuary.

Not that he deserves it, she thought. Thill hadn't been trying to help the Union, turning in a plotting terrorist; it was all some petty revenge, over hurt feelings and ridiculous cultural tenets. Still, she'd get nothing further from him by sharing her thoughts on the matter.

"It's . . . commendable, that you chose to see Mesto Drade brought to justice," Natima said, glancing down at her notes.

"His name has been on a list of people with possible ties to the terrorists for some time, but his priority status was low. As I said, your decision undoubtedly saved lives . . . "

She waited for him to pick up, to detail his story, but he only stared at her, his lined, hard face as still as stone. She resisted looking at her chrono, aware that the first meeting of the Rakantha base commanders would soon begin, if it hadn't already. It was being held in the  main building, behind the barracks. Her feature on "helpful" Bajorans wasn't due for another week, but she'd be up late tonight, filtering footage from the conference. There would be material for the civilian net on Cardassia, sound bites for the propaganda channels, other strings that would be sent to high-ranking members of Central Command; best she be there to record it.

Wrap this up, then. She'd get no help from Thill, but she had more than enough footage of Kubus Oak, droning on about brotherhood between the races. She'd cobble something together from the other interviews.

"Well. I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Thill . . . "

There was a sudden, heavy rumbling sound, stilling her words. Natima recognized the sound instantly; she'd spent long hours watching feeds of terrorist attacks. An instant later, they heard shouts, heard the keening whine of phaser fire. The garresh who'd taken her to meet Thill had snapped to attention, was talking low and fast into his comm. Natima and Thill both stood, the Bajoran's long face and darting gaze giving his fear away.

The conference. The base had been attacked, was perhaps still under attack. The explosion had come from behind the barracks, she was sure of it. Natima scooped up her recorder, turned to the door. She was too excited to be afraid, thinking of the footage she might be able to capture. The garresh stepped in front of her, physically blocking her way.

"We'll stay here until we get the all clear," he said sharply.

"I'm a reporter and qualified filter for the CIS," Natima said, meeting his tone. "And I'm aware of the risks. I could-"

"You could die, Miss," he said. "I'm assigned to keep you from harm, and my orders stand. You're not going anywhere."

"What if they come for me?" Thill said, his voice high, his eyes moving, moving.

The garresh sneered at him. "Then we'll let them have you, Bajoran."

Thill sat down again with a low moan of terror. Natima glared at the soldier, frustrated, aware that if she'd been a man, he would have let her go.

If I were a man, I wouldn't have an escort in the first place.

The garresh's face was set. Outside there were more shouts, but no further explosions, no more weapons fire. A hit-and-run, probably, like most of the terrorist attacks on Bajor. The rebels were cowards, they were fools with firepower, randomly attacking anyone and anything Cardassian. Natima hoped that no one in the settlement had been injured. There were families there, wives and children of soldiers, civilian scientists . . .

They don't care who they hurt, she thought, sitting back down, and finally felt a whisper of fear for herself. In another few moments, she, too, would have been at the conference.

Thill had his head in his hands, was mumbling to himself, repeating something over and over. She leaned in, caught his plaintive whisper.

"I don't want to die, please the Prophets, please don't let me die, I'm sorry I did it, I'm sorry about what I did, please don't let me die . . . "

Natima leaned away from him, unable to hide her own sneer. Praying to gods that didn't exist, to absolve him for turning in a terrorist...So that he might be saved from another terrorist, one of his own kind. And outside, soldiers had surely been injured, perhaps killed. She'd tried to keep an open mind since coming to Bajor, but what a miserable, self-serving people she found them to be, never content, reckless and violent and primitive.

She held her recorder tightly, waiting to be told it was safe.