Part 3 (1/2)

Gel didn't move. He kept one hand on his weapon, the other casually draped over Cadema. As he spoke, he smiled, so that anyone watching would think they were still discussing cold remedies. ”Bajorans are dying,” he said.

The trader shrugged. ”You were warned there might be some casualties.”

”Some,” Cadema said. ”We thought that meant only those initially involved. Your boss misled us.”

The trader's gaze flickered toward the street and then back to them. They were the last Bajorans out, and there were no more Carda.s.sians. Curfew had started. In a few moments, they all would be in trouble.

”People in your business,” the trader said, ”should not be soft.”

Gel's grip on the pistol tightened. He knew he was being goaded, and he would not let the trader get to him. All of the people he had dealt with, everyone who worked for the person-or persons-who had theoretically developed this perfect biological weapon to fight the Carda.s.sians had been as cold and unfeeling and cruel as this trader. All of them. They were only in it for the money. Gel's resistance cell had spent the last of its reserves getting this weapon, and now it was backfiring on them.

”Soft, weak,” Gel said, ”those are all subjective terms. We're not talking about our ability to fight, or our own willingness to die for our beliefs. But this disease has spread beyond our cell, to the innocents. Our children have been dying. It's not a pretty death.”

”You didn't buy a pretty death,” the trader said. ”You bought something a bit more destructive than that.”

”My people are getting sicker faster than the Carda.s.sians.” Gel had to struggle to keep his voice down. Cadema was looking to make sure they were still alone on the street. They were. So far.

”The disease incubates longer in Carda.s.sians.”

”Not good enough,” Gel said. ”You owe us more than that.”

”We owe you nothing.”

”You lied.”

”What are you going to do? Turn us in? Which government will prosecute us for violating the local commerce laws? What remains of the Bajoran government? Or the Carda.s.sian warlords?”

Cadema put a hand on Gel's chest. She knew how close he was to killing this bug.

”We have done what we promised,” the trader said. ”You wanted to get rid of the Carda.s.sians. We offered you a way, and now they are dying. What more do you want?” ”The Bajoran antidote for the plague,” Gel said. The trader smiled. It was a cruel, empty smile. ”What if we turn you in to the Carda.s.sians and tell them you're working for the person who started this plague?” Gel asked.

”And who's going to tell them? You, the great rebel leader killing his own people?” The trader laughed again, this time louder, his voice echoing down the empty street.

”We have kept complete doc.u.mentation of all of our dealings with you, including surveillance of all of our meetings.”

”You have never dealt with the same person.”

”It doesn't matter. We have the conversations and the promises. We have it all.”

”All except the names of the people you've really been dealing with,” the trader said.

”That's not hard to find,” Gel said. He was bluffing, but it was getting dark. He was getting desperate. He had thought this meeting would go better. ”Give me the Bajoran antidote.”

The trader smiled. ”You think you are so courageous.” He crossed his arms. ”You believe you are so powerful, so smart. You don't like the idea that you've been tricked.”

Cadema glanced at Gel. He knew what she was thinking, and he shook his head slightly, but she spoke anyway. ”We will pay for it,” she said.

The trader's ridged cheeks puffed out. Gel had worked with enough Jibetians to know that to be an expression of surprise. ”Really?” he asked. She nodded. ”You have no money. You used it all to pay us.”

Gel felt cold. Perhaps they had been dealing out of their league.

Cadema let go of him and grabbed the trader by his long cloak. She pulled him close. She had surprising strength in those thin hands.

”We are losing our children, our families, the very reasons we are fighting the Carda.s.sian dogs.”

The trader stared at her for a moment. Cadema had let the veneer of civility drop. She had let him see their desperation. Gel thought he saw pity in the Jibetian's eyes. ”There is no antidote,” the trader said. ”What?” Cadema let him go. ”There has to be.” It hadn't been pity Gel had seen. It had been disgust. The look intensified. The Jibetian straightened his lapels. ”My boss hates weakness. If you couldn't stomach the deaths, you should not have bought our services.”

Gel brought out his laser pistol, aiming and firing as he moved. But he didn't get to see whether or not his shot hit its target. The Jibetian already had his pistol out. A shot caught Gel in the chest, smas.h.i.+ng him back against the wall. His own pistol fell out of his grasp.

He didn't feel any pain, not yet anyway. He knew, somehow, that wasn't good.

Cadema clove out of the way, but the Jibetian turned toward her. The street was still empty. Why wasn't there anyone on the street? Why didn't anyone see this?

He tried to reach for the pistol, but he couldn't move his arms.

A second shot hit Cadema. She twitched once, and then didn't move, arms splayed, legs at an unnatural angle. The Jibetian pushed at her with his booted foot. She didn't respond.

Gel couldn't. His body wasn't obeying his commands. It had slumped down the wall until he was lying on his back, his neck shoved uncomfortably against the brick. Odd that the only discomfort he felt was in his neck. But he really couldn't feel much at all. And he seemed to have control of nothing more than his face. His breathing was short and uneven. He couldn't really take a deep breath at all. The pistol the Jibetian had used had scrambled Gel's systems. If he didn't get help soon, he would die here, on this street, just like Cadema.

Without the antidote. Without being able to tell his resistance cell there was no antidote. All those deaths, on his shoulders.

The Jibetian leaned over him. That look of disgust was in his eyes again. He nudged Gel with his booted foot, and like Cadema, Gel didn't move.

”Trust me,” the Jibetian said softly. ”I've done you a favor.” ”No,” Gel whispered.

”Ah, but I did,” the Jibetian said. ”I gave you the only antidote to the plague.”

And then he laughed. Gel closed his eyes, and the laugh followed him as he felt himself slip away into final blackness.

Chapter Six

THE BAJORAN MEDICAL SECTION of Terok Nor lacked everything the Carda.s.sian medical section had. No quarantine fields, no biobeds, nothing except field medicine kits set up in comers, half a dozen of them, many of them without the most important equipment. Kellec Ton had been negotiating with Gul Dukat for more equipment when this plague hit, and then it became a minor consideration. Ton could barely keep up with the patients, finding them beds, making them comfortable. He couldn't worry about the lack of equipment.

He didn't have time.

The stench in this area was so foul he could almost touch it. The uncomfortable Carda.s.sian heat, combined with the poor environmental systems, made the smell even worse. He tried to do an old-fas.h.i.+oned quarantine field: separate the sick from the healthy by placing the sick in a large room away from everything, but he had a hunch he was doing too little too late.

He bent over a teenage girl in the last stages of the disease. She lay on a cot he had found in one of the sleeping sections. She was moaning and clutching her stomach. All he could do was ease the pain, but even with the highest doses the pain slipped through. It was all he could do not to overdose these victims. He had to cling to some kind of hope that he would find a way to cure the disease before they all died.

His medical a.s.sistants, also people he'd had to fight for with Gul Dukat, had all been exposed. Kellec Ton had a hunch it was only a matter of time before they fell prey to this thing too. Before he did.

He had no idea what the incubation period was for this virus, but he knew it was longer than he had initially suspected. What research he had been able to do mostly by word of mouth with the people who had fallen ill-revealed that they had felt fine for the last few weeks, and the illness had caught them by surprise. It was the secondary wave he was looking for, the people who had been infected by the earlier carriers. He had only spoken to a few, too many of them hadn't come in when they first noticed they weren't feeling well.

All of his training in the psychology of serious illness had prepared him for that, but he hadn't really expected it. If he knew something serious was happening on the station, and he felt poorly, he would have gone to get help immediately. Most people, however, entered a serious denial phase based on fear. Yes, the reasoning went, my best friend has this disease, and I took care of her, but I'm strong. I never get sick. I am just out of sorts, making things up. I really can't be ill.

By the time most of the second wave had come to him, they were so ill they couldn't talk. In fact, someone usually carried them in. All he could do now was watch them die. He hated this.

He hated it as much as he hated the thick metal walls and the dim lighting, as much as he hated the way the Carda.s.sians penned the Bajorans into these sections as if they were animals instead of people. Most of the Bajorans on Terok Nor already had weakened immune systems. They had been worked so hard that they were half dead on their feet. Their rations were meager, their hygiene poor. The close quarters made the spread of easily curable disease rampant. He knew that a virulent virus, like this one, would probably have found its way through the entire population already.