He shrugged sheepishly. “There’s a lady over there”—he nodded in the direction of the barkeep—“who’s offered to transmit a message to my family for me. I just need to write it down for her.”
Ripping a sheet out of the binding and passing it across the table, Rena said, gesturing, “Have a seat. You need a stylus too?” She unfastened a knapsack pocket and removed a writing instrument.
He nodded and scooted into the bench opposite her. Rena watched as the Federation boy—“Fed,” as she’d started to think of him—scribbled out several rows of Bajoran characters. As he wrote, he explained, “There’s no transmitter on the barge—there’s definitely not one here—and I don’t expect I’ll be to Mylea for a few more days.”
“You have business in Mylea?” Rena asked, curious. She’d heard gossip that her friend Halar had met an alien boyfriend who’d been doing dockwork over the winter and wondered if this Fed boy might be him.
“Not so much business as it felt like the right place to go when I took off from home a week ago. I figure I might be able to catch a shuttle or transport out from there. If I like it, maybe there’s a fishing outfit that could use a hand.”
The stylus flew across the hardcopy with a fluency Rena found highly unusual for an offworlder. Since the end of the Occupation, a number of students from all over the quadrant had dribbled into Bajor’s universities, including the one in Dahkur. In her limited experience with them, she’d found that the majority were translator-dependent; few of the aliens spoke Bajoran and none of them could write in it. Odd. She supposed he could be a local. A few Federation citizens came to Bajor when Starfleet stepped in to help the provisional government eight years ago. “So you haven’t signed on to work the river for the summer?”
“Nah. Linh was going to let me off at the next stop anyway. Someone back in Tessik told me about a must-see archeological site—Yyn?—that she thought I’d like. I kind of have some experience in archeology so I thought I’d check it out on my way to Mylea.”
“You won’t have much luck at Yyn for another week—the site’s only open to the public during the days leading up to the summer solstice,” she said, wondering about the story behind his archeological experience.
Before she could ask, three quick chimes announced a message coming over the comm system. The chatter in the room subsided as the crowd waited expectantly. Rena hoped for good news.
“Due to ground instability and the risk of flash floods, the Provincial Ranger Units have decided to close the River Road and the Yolja barges indefinitely.”
A collective groan—of which Rena was a part—pronounced the crowd’s opinion on this development. She looked over at the bar, where the uniformed ranger spoke into the communication unit, and determined that he was far too cheerful about ruining their day.
He continued, “Arrangements have been made for all of you to be hosted in the adjacent village. My deputy will inform you of your housing assignment.”
“You—”
Rena twisted around to see a uniformed deputy pointing at her.
“And you,” he said, pointing to Fed. “Will be assigned to the Daveen Vineyards with the rest of the rivermen from your crew.”
Rena rose, preparing to protest being lumped together with the motley barge crew, but when she considered the other dour, sneering faces in the place—some of whom appeared to be more intoxicated than Fed’s crewmates—she sat back down. With a sigh, she started packing up her art supplies and arranging her pack so it would be easier to carry.
“They aren’t bad guys,” Fed said, as if reading her mind.
Rena flushed hot, wishing she weren’t so obvious. “I’m sure they’re fine. I’m feeling a lot of pressure to get home and this delay isn’t welcome.”
“Emergency?”
“Responsibilities.”
“Ah,” Fed said. “That I understand.” He scooted out of the bench and she marveled at his height—nearly two meters. “I’ve gotta go get my gear, but I just wanted to offer to, you know, walk with you if it would make you feel more comfortable.”
Mildly amused, she looked at him, blinked, and looked longer, uncertain if she should bow in response to his unexpected chivalry or if he would be offended if she laughed—good-naturedly, of course. Manners and rural Bajoran rest-and-sips rarely came together: too many years of eking out survival under Occupation conditions had made these outposts respites for hermits, homesteaders, and other independent types who wanted to be left alone. Seeing genuineness in Fed’s face, her impulse to laugh gave way to a smile. “Looks like I have myself a steward.”
He arched an eyebrow in question.
“Back in the days of djarras,highborn ladies traveled with specially trained protectors called stewards.”
Bowing deeply, he looked up at her and with a broad grin said, “Accept my services, m’lady?”
This time Rena couldn’t help laughing. “If I must,” she said with mock annoyance and slipped her pack onto her shoulders. In truth, however, as she followed behind Fed’s crewmates lurching toward the door, Rena knew that any sense of safety she felt came from Fed’s presence by her side.
Ro
Whoever they were, Ro decided from her temporary workstation in the Militia’s mobile command center, they knew exactly what they were doing.
To the standard orbital sensor sweeps and the security cameras at the Jalanda spaceport, the Besinian freighter was unremarkable. The medium-powered commercial ship—a nondescript cargo carrier capable of warp five at best—had arrived with an empty hold ostensibly to meet with Bajoran exporters within the city. The export company named in their transmitted request for landing clearance confirmed that the owners of the ship had made an appointment for this very morning three weeks prior, but it was never kept.
Their credentials, as Lenaris suspected, were forgeries. No record of the identities provided by the crew existed anywhere. Nor did the ship’s registry. Ro managed to verify that a Besinian freighter fitting the description of the one that landed on Bajor had been purchased anonymously at auction from a Yridian salvage dealer on Argaya just over a month ago. That, along with the appointment made with the Bajoran exporters, made it appear more and more as if this was something long in the planning.
Only two occupants of the craft ever left the ship, and they had carefully avoided the cameras at the spaceport. They did a fine job of making it look inconspicuous, but Ro wasn’t fooled. There was intent behind everything these killers had done. They’d even arrived with their own skimmer.
Satellite imaging had shown the heat trails of thousands of similar surface craft knotted in and around Jalanda, hundreds in the countryside beyond, and scores leading into the mountains to the southwest. But only one had cut across the nature preserve to the north, toward the site of the village. It was a three-hour journey in either direction, and the satellites had shown both transits. Those travel times fell precisely between the Besinian freighter’s landing, the destruction of the village, and the ship’s departure, leaving little doubt about the connection. They were on Bajor less than seven hours, and when they were gone, nearly three hundred people were dead. But while assembling a reliable chronology of events had been a fairly simple matter, the whos and whys of the crime remained elusive.
Ro rubbed her tired eyes while she spoke to her console. “Computer, search telemetry from Deep Space 9 for information on all incoming and outgoing traffic in the Bajoran system for the past twenty-six hours. List any non-Bajoran and non-Starfleet vessels, and pull any scans taken of those craft.”