Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®: These Haunted Seas, page 76
“Since the Yrythny didn’t evolve naturally, it’s possible that whoever augmented Vanìmel’s primordial soup intended these instincts to play out.” She shrugged. “Maybe there are chromosomal mutations or weaknesses in the helices.”
“Maybe there aren’t,” Shar argued.
“For example,” Ezri went on, “what would happen if every Yrythny were allowed to reproduce? Could the planet sustain that kind of population explosion?”
“It may not,” Shar conceded. “On the other hand, perhaps it can. I’ve seen no evidence that anyone has yet attempted to answer the question. But even if it can’t, science might solve that problem, too.”
Ezri sighed. “Maybe these social customs, as repulsive as they may seem to us, serve a purpose not immediately obvious to the outsider. That’s why examining their history is crucial. Tracing the origins of this social order might help them course-correct. If you pull out a weed without killing the root, the weed will grow back.”
“Yes, sir,” Shar said. He set down his pastry, his appetite withering.
“You should know something of restrictive social customs and how they relate to physiological and biological realities from your own experiences.”
Shar looked away uncomfortably. He knew that over the course of Dax’s eight previous lives, knowledge about Andorians that was unknown to the majority of outsiders had entered into Dax’s purview. How much knowledge and how explicit that knowledge was, he couldn’t say. Shar hadn’t yet probed Ezri’s recollections or allowed her to probe his, but he did know Dax wasn’t speaking carelessly. He considered what she had said for a moment longer before responding. “But it’s my opinion, Lieutenant, after years of studying the interrelationship between sociology and physiology among my people, that it is the rigid structure of our customs that have, in part, landed my species in the predicament it now faces.”
“You’re saying that the Yrythny adherence to a rigid caste system might be leading them to a similar fate as the Andorians?” Lieutenant Dax said, skeptically.
“I am saying I believe we need to ask the scientific questions in addition to the historical and cultural questions.” Shar knew he could prove it to her, given the chance.
Her face softened and she offered him a half-smile. “I don’t disagree with you, Shar. But let’s look at this realistically. To conduct a proper scientific inquiry, you’ll need enough time and cooperative research subjects to create a viable statistical sampling. Otherwise, your conclusions might be specious to the Yrythny.”
“Their universities must have databases—”
“We have finite time. Finagling access to those databases could be difficult, especially since the decision to admit me as a mediator was hardly unanimous. Not everyone likes—or trusts—us.”
“Respectfully, sir, I am not questioning your decision to pursue the angles we’ve worked through so far. What I am asking is whether I can tackle some of the scientific questions. I’ll complete everything you assign me and pursue those issues on my own time, if you’d rather.”
She paused, resting her hand against her lips as she studied him. “All right then, Ensign. I can agree to that, but if I believe you’re neglecting my assignments, I’ll ask you to desist.”
“Yes sir.” A fair enough compromise, he thought.
“Any word from Commander Vaughn?”
“Not since yesterday. I know he said that he expected they would reach the Consortium today, but circumstances—”
“I know, Shar.” She gazed up at Luthia’s clear ceiling, starlight refracting through the panels, spraying faint rainbows on volcanic rock facades adorning the surrounding buildings.
Shar knew she worried, though Vaughn hadn’t given her any specific reason to be concerned during his regular check-ins. Shar might not have a lover on Defiant as Ezri did, but after weeks of working closely with his shipmates, he’d grown accustomed to having them around. Not a day had passed without Shar turning to ask Nog for input on what tools might be more effective in his inquiry on Yrythny genetics. Each time he gazed out Luthia’s windows, he wondered how long it would be before Ensign Tenmei persuaded Commander Vaughn to let her try surfing on Vanìmel. He’d also come to know Dr. Bashir on the trip. It had become a private game for Shar to see if he could beat Bashir at anything, be it darts or data recall. So far, Shar had lost every time. The sooner Defiant resumed its journey, the better. On this, Shar and Ezri agreed.
At last, Ezri said, “We should go. I’m sure they’ll be waiting.”
She predicted rightly.
The Aquaria’s excellent acoustics allowed the hollow dissonance arising from the Assembly officers milling about to be heard several streetways down from the entrance. Shar and Ezri descended a flight of coral stairs to discover that not a single empty seat remained in the amphitheater. She climbed back up the stairs where she could view the gathering.
Shar waited for Dax to indicate where she wanted him to sit, but with a minimum of five officials dogging her, he assumed she’d appreciate his taking care of himself. On the landing across from her, he noticed an open spot beside a plant bed, swollen with speckle-throat roses and vines twisting over and under small trees. There, he could listen and observe Dax and stay out of the way. Gazing through the Aquaria’s transparent floors at Vanìmel’s whorled cloud cover, he watched shuttlecraft streak back and forth between the planetside Houses and Luthia’s ports. He was intrigued by the illusion of being able to free-fall, through the floor, into the atmosphere. He enjoyed how the Yrythny incorporated awareness of their planet into their living spaces; Luthia felt like an extension of their world, not something separate.
“On the morning agenda—” Ezri began loudly.
Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from Vanìmel and listened—or tried to listen—to Ezri. Officers continued their discussions, ignoring her.
She cleared her throat. “We’re discussing civil rights issues.” A pause. The chatter continued. She linked her hands behind her back and rolled back and forth on her shoes a few times before asking loudly, “Can we please focus on the issue at hand?”
Shar looked on helplessly, knowing nothing he could say or do would make them pay attention.
Skin pockets quivering, Rashoh ringed the room, forcing his associates into chairs. Other senior officials, including Jeshoh and Keren, followed suit. Shar was reminded of his zhavey’s favorite plant, a leafy tree that refused to accept pruning. Trim a branch, within hours a new shoot had sprouted.
Ezri climbed atop a stool, put a finger in each side of her mouth and whistled.
Pained by the shrill tone, Shar winced, his antennae curling.
But the chattering stopped.
“You and you,” she pointed at Jeshoh and Keren. “Select small groups of trusted associates because from now on I’m dealing only with representatives of each Assembly. It’s the only way we’ll accomplish anything. And if you want to schedule a meeting, a discussion, or a visit, you will first clear it with my assistant, Ensign ch’Thane.”
His initial gratitude at regaining control over their schedule dissipated slowly as the implications of his new assignment gradually dawned on him. The Yrythny officials stampeding toward him with their demands represented minutes, hours—possibly precious days—where research would be rendered impossible. Dax knows what she’s doing, focusing our time on her chosen issues, Shar reasoned. After all, hadn’t she been Curzon Dax, one of the most renowned diplomats in recent Federation history? Removing a padd from his pocket, he organized petitioners in a line and patiently took down their requests for appointments.
Since his night with Keren’s underground, Shar had burned with a yearning to help these people. He simply had to believe, to trust, that Dax knew the best way.
8
“You might try shusha herb packs for the swollen ankles,” Kira said, tipping back in her chair and resting her feet on the console in front of her. “Apparently the leaves contain some chemical that helps the tissues shed any water they’re retaining. Julian doesn’t like them because he can’t prove in his lab that they work, but most Bajoran women swear by them.” She took a sip of her raktajino and waited for a response from the viewscreen.
Kasidy Yates, sitting in a loose lotus position on a braided rug in front of her fireplace, wrinkled her nose. “You think those will work for a human woman?” She yanked strands of blue yarn out of a skein and was winding them into a ball in preparation for knitting…something. Baby footwear, Kira supposed.
Kira shrugged. “Humans and Bajorans have enough in common that what works for us usually works for you. Give it a try. Couldn’t be worse than having to stay off your feet.”
“True enough,” she conceded. “You look tired, Nerys. Still haven’t taken any time off, have you?”
Dropping her feet to the ground, Kira leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “I’m fine.” Shrugging off Kasidy’s dubious expression, she reiterated her stance. “Really. With all the VIPs around, the tempo around here’s a little more crazed than usual. But I’m staying on top of it all, though I’m still working on the fine art of balance. The captain had it mastered.”
“True. Ben could throw a dinner party in the middle of a crisis—or take time to visit his land when he faced a serious decision,” she said while focusing her gaze on the length of yarn she’d just pulled out. “Sometimes he’d go out in the back where the porch is now, pull out the baseball bat, and whack some balls. Made him feel better.”
“Are you saying that taking up a hobby will better my leadership skills? Or are you guilting me into coming to Bajor?” Kira chuckled.
“You caught me.” Kas smiled, allowing the yarn to roll off her lap. She looked up at Kira. “I’d like the company. Someone who knows me for me and not merely as the Emissary’s wife and mother of the Avatar. And don’t forget the farmers are bringing in the katerpods over the next few weeks. You don’t want to miss that!”
Memories of dark, smoky autumn nights nudged their way into the present. Kira sighed, feeling pangs of longing for those few simple moments her people had stolen from the Occupation: walking winding farm lanes with lighted copper lanterns to ward off the inky darkness, and singing the harvest melodies, thanking the Prophets for another year of bounty, even though that bounty might be little more than a handful of katerpods.
“I know you want to visit,” Kas said. “I have your room all ready—it has a lovely view of the river. They’re starting the sugaring in a few weeks….” Her voice trailed off, her tone teasing and tempting.
“All right, all right! You’ve convinced me.” Kira held up a hand in good-natured protest. “I’ll talk to my staff and see what works best into the station’s schedule.”
“If you’re structuring your plans on the station’s schedule, you’ll be here about the time my child’s grandchildren are born,” Kasidy snorted.
…and that may be how long it takes for my fellow Bajorans to start speaking to me again, all things considered, Kira thought ruefully. “Work before play, Kas. You know the drill.”
“Yeah, I do.” Kasidy nodded. “But that doesn’t stop me from trying. We’ll talk next week?”
“Sooner if we have word from Jake. I promise.”
Kasidy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “And please let there be word from Jake,” she said, invoking whatever powers the universe might use to bring him back home.
“Prophets willing, Kas,” Kira said earnestly. She straightened up, slapped her thighs and smiled to lighten the mood; she wanted to end their conversation on a positive note for Kasidy’s sake. “Besides, I’ll want you to tell me how well the herb packs worked on those swollen ankles. Without having Julian around to tell you how it’s all just a bunch of folk hokum, you don’t have any excuse not to try them.”
Kasidy smiled. “Yates out.”
Before Kasidy’s face winked out, Kira noted that it had started to exhibit that soft roundness characteristic of mid-pregnancy. Her hand dropped to her own belly and she ran her fingers over her flat stomach, remembering what it felt like to carry a life inside her. She wondered how Kirayoshi liked Earth, if her presence even shaded his memories.
Enough, Nerys, this is the part where you look at your endless to-do list and come up with meaningful reasons why you won’t be tumbling back to your quarters until after midnight. She gave a cursory glance to a half dozen padds sitting on her desk. Ro’s mostly informational report on the Ohalavaru trinkets left on her doorstep awaited her attention. In moments of morbid curiosity, she watched reports from the Bajoran news feeds, read the opinion pieces cropping up in the journals; the furor had yet to die down. She wanted desperately to believe that the late-night visit to her door was only a misguided gesture by some well-meaning individual. But in her heart she feared it was a portent of things to come…things she herself had set into motion by making the banned Ohalu text public.
Stop it, she told herself. This is getting you nowhere. Before diving into Ro’s report, she decided to scroll through the list of music selections in her personal database: Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughn…Hmmm. I have to remember to ask Elias if there’s any relation. She mulled over the list, figuring something among the unfamiliar titles would help her to relax. They were all Captain Sisko’s choices: a gift to her some years ago on the occasion of a Terran holiday, she couldn’t recall which one. The memory made her wish she’d made as much of an effort to share Benjamin’s culture as he had always made to share hers.
“Computer,” she said finally. “Play Sisko Jazz Compilation Number Nine, track seven: ‘Yardbird.’”
A wailing alto saxophone pierced the stillness, its clear, passionate notes lulling her into passivity as she contemplated the vast canvas of stars outside her great eye of a window. I could stand here and dream all night, except for that nagging sense of duty that never goes away. Even if I put off the reports, I still have one last bit of business that won’t wait. But then what? Catch up on latest Starfleet regs. Call it a night, take a late supper in quarters.
Or not.
She hadn’t felt this restless for a long time, plagued by the feeling that she had a forgotten task. Unknown anxiety twisted her stomach. Not with anticipation so much as apprehension. What’s next? If I had a friend close by, I’d go for a walk. A stroll along the Promenade balcony would be a perfect distraction. Maybe Kasidy was right: time for a hobby. A new sport like orbital skydiving. Plant sculpting or cultivating orchids. She could start knitting something for Kasidy’s baby.
Or…I could figure out what the Cardassians are up to.
Now it was out there. She dared to think it. For the bulk of the day, Kira had ignored Macet’s surprise visit except in the most superficial terms. Avoidance wasn’t her usual method; tackling conflict head-on was more her style. Considering how she’d allocated her time these last months, Kira realized she’d spent little—if any—on Cardassian matters. Outside of keeping the supply line of humanitarian aid flowing to Cardassia as the ships came through the station, and the brief interaction she’d had with Macet during the Europani evac, Kira had pushed Cardassia far out of her train of thought. Let someone else worry about them for a change.
Hadn’t she done her part, training Damar in “Resistance 101”? To her knowledge, she was the sole Bajoran hiking through Cardassia’s bombed-out ruins after the Founders meted out their punishment. What do they want from me? From us, she amended quickly. This wasn’t personal. Whatever Macet and Lang had come for, it wasn’t about Kira Nerys. All that was required of her was to serve honorably as commander of Deep Space 9. Follow orders, make sure nothing blows up, protect the public trust, end of story. Her chapter in the Cardassian saga ended with her testimony to the Allied Tribunal negotiating the Dominion War Accords. Period.
Her stomach growled and Kira wondered if it might be time to replicate dinner. Aching muscles up and down her spine begged for attention. She ignored her discomforts. “Computer, search main library database for references to knitting with yarn.”
“Two hundred ninety-two thousand, seven hundred sixty references. Narrow search parameters.”
“Maybe I should just call Kas back,” Kira muttered.
“Input not recognized,” the computer intoned.
“Never mind. Cancel search,” Kira said irritably. The computer issued a bleat of acknowledgment before falling silent. Her musings ended abruptly when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the indicator light on her desk that signaled the arrival of a turbolift into ops. She checked the time; too early for her last appointment. Kira turned toward her office doors, looking through the windows and across ops to see who her visitor was. When she saw him, she found herself fighting down the instinct to go for her phaser.
He descended the stairs into the pit with slow, steady steps, past the situation table and toward the opposing stairs that led up to her office. She could see several of the ops crew reacting to the new arrival, looking to her for orders. In response, Kira steeled herself and touched the control on her desk that would open the office doors to admit her visitor. No ghosts tonight. No ghosts. She mouthed the words, intent on believing them.
He paused before stepping over the threshold. “Colonel Kira. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
Kira couldn’t suppress the grim smile that came to her lips at the Prophets’ sense of humor. “What can I do for you, Gul Macet?”
