Daul had traveled a considerable distance on foot; at least twenty kellipates. Such a long walk was rare, a feat he hadn’t undertaken since he was a child. Average Bajorans rarely went anywhere anymore, except perhaps to the nearest food ration lines, and Daul didn’t have to worry much about that, being one of the few who was still gainfully employed underneath the Cardassians. He had more to worry about from another Bajoran than he did from a Cardassian, for he had all the necessary credentials that could get him out of a sticky situation, if he happened to be stopped by a soldier. It was a mostly comfortable position to be in, though a fragile one. But this journey he had taken today was so far out of his comfort zone, he could scarcely fathom why he had chosen it—for he had come here voluntarily. This whole thing, this was his idea.
He was nearly to the place that was once called the Artist’s Palette. It was still called that by the locals, though there was nothing around to suggest its former moniker. At one time, the leaves and flowers on the trees here had been brightly varied in hue; purple and green and pink and orange, from the springtime throughout the fall. Now, the few trees that still produced leaves were uniformly clad in a dull, sickly yellow. The Cardassians had long ago leached the minerals from the surrounding soil, using a process that required an acidic chemical to retrieve the elements used in making certain types of polymers. Those polymers were essential in the construction of Cardassian dwellings. The elements were shipped to a facility on Pullock III where the support structure for the dwellings was manufactured, which were then shipped back to Bajor and combined with other parts, things made on many other worlds, using Bajoran raw materials to power the transport ships—ships built from Bajoran metals and fueled with Bajoran fuel. None of it made a bit of sense, really, when one started to consider it, but Daul supposed there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Yes, there is.This thing he was doing right now.
Three people were approaching. Three Bajorans. A teenaged girl and a pair of adults, a man and a woman. Were these the people he was waiting for? The palms of his hands felt slick and cool. Perhaps these people were about to kill him for being a collaborator. Perhaps I deserve it.
“Are you here to speak to me about…Gallitep?” Daul said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his anxiousness.
The young girl turned to her companions. “Aren’t we supposed to have a code word?” she murmured, just loud enough for Daul to hear.
Daul remembered quickly—the man he had spoken to had suggested a code word. “I almost forgot,” he apologized. “Ah, rah-vu sum-ta.”It was Old Bajoran, a word that meant something almost like “child of night”—the classic poetical name for a cadge lupus.
“That’s right,” the older woman replied. “Okay, then. Tell us what we need to know.”
Daul cleared his throat and began to speak, his words tumbling out. “I suppose you are familiar with the setup of Gallitep, the physical characteristics of the camp—”
“Yes,” the man said. “It’s impossible to approach.”
“Except from inside, yes.”
“From inside?” This was the woman.
“Via transporter. I am to be taken to Gallitep in a few days, and I think there may be a way to transport a few more people in after me. There is a transporter code that will allow for it, and I think I may have gotten access to the correct code.”
“But…” The teenage girl looked at her companions. “How would we get access to a transporter?”
“You thinkyou may have gotten access?” the man said, speaking over the teenager.
Daul held up his hands. “I believe I have,” he corrected himself. “It is risky, but I believe it can be done. There is an industrial transporter at the Bajoran Institute of Science, not far from here. This transporter could not only get people into Gallitep, it could get them out, as well. If someone who can operate a transporter was able to lock on to a large group of people, that person could perhaps transport them out of the camp, and possibly to a place of safety—”
“I don’t like all this perhapsand possiblythat I’m hearing,” the man said.
“I only want to emphasize that there are risks,” Daul said. “But please believe me when I tell you that the goal is worth the risks. I have been inside the camp, and although I only saw a fraction of what I suspect goes on there, I didn’t have to see much to understand that Gallitep is the worst place Bajor has ever seen.”
“We can do it,” the woman said confidently. “I’m sure we can.”
“Why…how did you get inside Gallitep—and then back out again?” the teenager asked.
“Shh,” the older woman shushed her. “It’s not important.”
“No,” Daul said, inexplicably wishing to be honest with these people. “It’s all right. I work at the science institute. I was conscripted to develop the computer system that runs the camp.”
The girl’s mouth hung open for a moment and then snapped shut. “Oh,” she replied, and then looked away.
“Yes, I helped to design it,” Daul went on, “and now, I will help put a stop to what it is intended to do. But I don’t suppose that will redeem me. Still, maybe I can at least look at myself in the mirror again.”
“Maybe,” the woman said, and though she tried to remain neutral, she could not mask the tightness in her voice. She despised him, he could see it on her, hear it in that single word.
“I have brought you an isolinear rod with more details. More importantly, this rod will allow you access to the Bajoran Institute of Science. You must wait until nightfall, when everyone has gone home, and you will be required to enter a code to deactivate the security system.”
The woman and her companions nodded, listening closely now. At least they could set aside their hate for something so important. At least there was that.
“I will be at the camp when it happens, working on the system. I will purposely delay the work so that I am still there when you arrive. At a given time, I will program the system to simulate a mining accident, which will force the Cardassian guards to corral the workers in a common place. That is where you will come in—someone will have to transport into the camp in order to create a lock-on target for the transporters. The transporters can be programmed to lock on to Bajoran targets only—the procedure is outlined on the datarod. When it is done, when the Bajorans are safe, I will initiate the computer system to destroy the camp. The self-destruct system should kill any remaining Cardassians. At that point, you will have to transport me out as well.” He said the last part hopefully.
The man nodded. “I think we can handle that,” he said.
Daul started to remark on the second part of the task, but then he remembered something. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You’ll need these.”
The three Bajorans looked curiously at the four little comm devices he produced, relics he’d stolen from a vault at the institute, where examples of Bajoran technology were stored for later study. “These are old, but they still work. They’ll be necessary for you to project a signal that can be locked on to by the transporter. You can also use them to communicate with each other, even over great distances. And they operate on frequencies the Cardassians haven’t monitored since the Militia was disbanded.”
“I know what a combadge is,” the man said, a little curtly. He took the devices and pocketed them.
Daul went on. “I suppose your leader told you that I am asking for a favor, in return for this information?”
The woman cleared her throat. “What is this favor, exactly?”
“I would do this myself,” Daul explained, “but I won’t have the opportunity before I leave, and I have no plans to return to the institute after I’m transported to Gallitep.” He hesitated, sensing impatience from the three nameless rebels, and he went on, “Do you have the ability to hack into a computer system, including high-security files?”