Title : Caste Out Author : Rob Morris Contact : brightfame66(at)webtv(dot)net Archive : www.southroad.com/brightfame Series : DS9 Type : Prehistoric look at Bajoran and Cardassian relations Characters : Gul Terol Emek, Cleric Noar Felem Part : 1/1 Rating : PG Summary : Hideous ties that will extend into the far future are forged in a time before wars, but not without injustice. ========================================= Caste Out by Rob Morris Perhaps ironically or perhaps coincidentally, it was almost precisely two thousand years to the day before the Federation ship USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-B, answered a distress call from a small warp-capable trading craft from a world called Bajor, opening a first contact like few others. But at this time, Earth was perhaps known to the Iconians, if it was known to anyone at all. One figure of note named Constantine had yet to even recieve a dream of victory. Well away from such fractiousness was Bajor, shining center of civilization for as long as anyone could remember, and for quite a long time after that. The legends tell of this time and its hardy traders, solar-sailing heroes who sought out the final frontier during an era when even Vulcans thought that all of space was a concave dish filled with giant demons. Yet legends ignore reality, and really, they have to in order to function. It was only in the time of the overt post-Winn depoliticization of the Kai's Office under Yarka Faitos that the real truth of the traders' lives would begin to be accurately seen. But we may step around all that. Gul Terol Emek of the Space Inspectors Guild always welcomed the sight of the large solar sailing vessels out of Bajor. Their multitudes of sails were a sight to thrill the soul, and a relief from the endless trading of real estate that was Cardassian life. The orbiting space docks were lonely places, a paranoiac defense against enemies that never came and never would, until invited in by Cardassia itself. "Begin docking sequence." Dark Clouds. That was what many of his people derisively called the SIG's people, and it hurt. They were charged with inspecting the Bajorans' cargo, but they were appreciated not at all. The superstitious fear of space overrode admiration for those that braved its edges. "Clearance is granted for station leave for all Bajoran traders." If this seemed overly quick, it was in fact a recognition of reality. Emek knew all these traders. They were, to his mind, better people than most of his own family members. His own hard-working people were similarly regarded by the Bajorans. But one name on the list did surprise him. Leaving his office to begin hands-on inspections, he sought out the person who held that name. "Felem? Captain Noar?" It was in fact Noar Felem he found. But his uniform was gone, replaced by what were obviously a cleric's robes. Oddly, they did not look like any Emek had seen in the twenty-five years he had been part of the SIG. "Terol, my friend. It is good to see you. I have those jellied Kiulayeri peppers you love so. A specially aged batch. I have not forgotten my debts." Emek smiled. "I'd be shocked if you ever did. But what are you and your family doing here? I thought you were to at last rotate to your estates on Bajor." Noar closed his eyes. "We were informed by the Vedek Council's Legate Committee that leaving our ship-bound life would be a violation of D'Jarra." Emek had to think for a moment. "Your social status system? But your function as trader is the result of a contract made within your lifetime--by you, no less. It is not an ancestral thing by any stretch of the imagination." The two moved to sit down and have a strong variety of tea that even traders and inspectors only downed when the docking was first done with. "The Committee has declared our function a neccessary and vital one, and of such long-term that it falls under D'Jarra by 'the obvious will of The Prophets.' Our estates are ours no longer. Space-trading clans do not have need of lands." Emek shook his head. "So you have turned to religion as a comfort? I hope that the Prophets offer a better explanation for all this than their mortal intermediaries." Noar looked at the Gul with stony eyes. "Do they still call your amazing force 'Dark Clouds', old friend?" When Emek frowned, Noar put his hand on his shoulder. "I will preach before my people tonight. Will you hear me?" "I would be honored, of course." An evening with a good Bajoran preacher beat blazes out of listening to the Land Ministries latest round of assurances that inside speculation would be brought at last under control. The truth Emek faced was walking out the airlock when he retired. Too much of his land was locked out of his own personal use in rigid portfolios that somehow never netted a profit for the wrong people. He would have no place to live, or even to be buried in. But for this evening, he thought as he sat down two hours later, his spirit could go someplace else. He had no idea. Noar Felem began his talk quietly. "Our friends at The Space Inspectors Guild must exclude from their recieved cargo items that are dangerous, damaged, or rotten. We traders-for such we will now always be-must exclude payments made from unreliable accounts or untrustworthy individuals or institutions. For commodities are things, and may be excluded." Simple enough, thought Emek. "But are people commodities? Are we mere things to be traded and cut away and relabeled as other merchandise to suit new theories of commerce and the needs of a select few customers?" Emek was on the verge of quietly excusing himself from this familiar lecture on economics and morality when shocking words left his friend's lips. "I say that of course, that is exactly how it is. We are things. Commodities. Items, excluded at will and at whim. And this is not a new thing. It has ever been thus. And never by our choice." Terol Emek honestly never imagined that the gentle professional trader was capable of words like these. He was instantly compelled to hear more. "We are told how we shall live, even when an occupation is in no way listed in the books of D'Jarra. We are commanded, not by Prophets but by men and women more like us than not, to endure the heartbreak and loneliness of space. For us, Bajor is to be a foreign land we visit and are never to stay in. Yet are the Prophets not to be held to account? Why do they not intercede on our behalf, when so casual and petty a wrong is done to us?" Emek lost all desire to leave. The words were now feeding a part of his mind, and parts of his soul. Parts he had forgotten for their legally sanctioned dormancy. "I will say to you that the answer lies in alliance not with those Prophets--but with others ruthlessly excluded. Our social position may be the weakest of all--but our Pagh is strong--and with those others who have been excluded--we will be at last made strong, and throw out those who dwell in palaces and temples while we are crowded into caves!" Suddenly, Emek saw all that he needed to do. For himself. For his career people, caught in the same undertow. Information. The SIG held the records of all the out-planet transactions for every man, woman, and child on Cardassia. From these vast reams of statistics and personal profiles could be derived. This knowledge could be used against some, and in favor of others. Those who had been excluded would, perhaps very soon, decide who wielded power. He stood up, chanting with the others. "Our Place Is Weak, But Our Pagh Is Strong! Our Place Is Weak, But Our Pagh Is Strong! Our Place Is Weak, But Our Pagh Is Strong! Our Place Is Weak, But Our Pagh Is Strong! Our Place Is Weak, But Our Pagh Is Strong!" The Pagh. The core of creation. Self-interest, called for what it was without frilly words and phrases and poems. To do to others what they surely could and had done to you--but to do it first and best. Emek smiled, and swore that he saw the eyes of his friend Noar turn red. He grinned as that same red traveled straight into his own eyes. ======================================== ONE YEAR LATER The auditor was clearly not satisfied with Emek's explanations. "What do you call the fact that everyone under your jurisdiction now owns outright enough land to live and to be buried on?" "Hmmm. Good fortune? That is a goal of those that live on our world, isn't it?" The auditor slammed his hand down on Emek's desk. "I say that you have deliberately misused information gained through your office to bribe, threaten and extort a whole host of government officials and business people. Did you thieving Dark Cloud Guilders think you could hide all this? That kind of prosperity isn't meant for such as you. Be prepared for my report and the indictments that will surely follow it!" Emek calmly looked at the auditor. "Actually, we here have our own little name for the SIG. We never liked the Dark Cloud Guild. There are no clouds in space. But there is darkness, and there is a sort of calm, a lack of the precise chaos caused by sentients." The auditor chuckled contemptuously. "So what do you call yourselves?" "We call ourselves what we are. The true gods of Cardassia. The holders of all knowledge, and knowledge is power. The keepers of cold dark space. We are the Obsidian Order." Emek raised a blaster, erased the auditor, and smiled. "And you have just been excluded."