Unity

by S. D. Perry

  Ezri nodded, glancing around at the emptying conference room. “Let’s walk,” she said quietly.

  Together, they headed toward the habitat ring, walking closely but not touching. Ezri chewed at her lower lip, troubled, collecting her thoughts. Julian held his peace, knowing that she would tell him when she was ready—and as they neared the lift, she started to speak, her voice low and even.

  “A little over a hundred years ago, Audrid Dax was married to a man named Jayvin Vod, another joined Trill,” she said. “She was on the Trill Symbiosis Commission, a doctor and a specialist in symbiont biology, and Jayvin was a professor of xenobiology . . . . We had two children, Neema and Gran. They were very young when Jayvin died.”

  Julian took her hand as they stepped into the lift, holding it lightly, saying nothing. She had slipped into first person without realizing it, something she rarely did anymore.

  “The commission was contacted by Starfleet sometime around Stardate 12 . . . something. Hard to remember exactly. They had news about a comet that was headed toward Trill. It was due to pass us in thirty years or so, there wasn’t a danger of collision . . . but a Starfleet probe had brought back data concerning a unique biosignature located within the comet, a biosignature that closely resembled that of a joined Trill. Starfleet didn’t know that at the time, hardly anyone knew that we were a joined species, then, but they knew that the reading was similar to that of a particular few of us. They asked if we would be interested in joining a scientific investigation of the comet.

  “On Trill, the debates about the simultaneous evolution of host and symbiont had been raging for decades by then, so Starfleet’s invitation was accepted with no little enthusiasm . . . though it was kept quiet. The commission wanted to see what was there before they said or did anything. And between the political connections and the science backgrounds, Jayvin and I were selected as the logical choices to join the landing party.”

  The lift had come to a stop, but Ezri hardly seemed to notice as they stepped off, continuing their slow walk, Julian leading them toward his quarters. He noted that there were very few people about, although it wasn’t all that late. Most of them seemed to be in a hurry, too, walking quickly to wherever they were going.

  “We were beamed aboard a Federation ship a few days later, and made it to the comet in short order,” Ezri went on. “Myself and Jayvin, as well as four human men, all Starfleet, took a shuttle to the surface—there was kelbonite present, we couldn’t transport—and started to take our readings, following the faint biosignature into the comet’s winding caves.”

  Ezri seemed to shiver slightly. “Even in the envirosuits, it was cold,” she said softly. “Cold and dark and airless. There were these veins of bioluminescent ice all throughout the caves, and we—Jayvin and I—detected a symbiont pulse in one of them, an electrical flash that unjoined symbionts discharge when they’re communicating with each other. We were thrilled, though we kept it to ourselves. Like I said, no one outside of Trill knew about the symbionts. We wanted to protect them . . . and we thought, we hoped that we were about to find one, thirty years from home, coming from some distant world to tell us about ourselves, about our history. We even had a cover story worked out if we found a symbiont, that it was a primitive life-form from Trill’s ancient past. The Starfleet scientists wouldn’t know that it was intelligent . . . if I remember correctly, their equipment hadn’t even picked up the communication pulse in the ice floe.”

  Julian felt his muscles tensing. “It was a parasite, wasn’t it?”

  Ezri looked up at him, her blue gaze far away. “Yes. We made it to a chamber, deep inside the comet, and found what we thought was a symbiont pool, like the Mak’ala pools, only a small one, filled with that greenish glowing ice. Jayvin was so excited when we picked up the life reading inside . . . not a symbiont, it was smaller, the shape different, but genetically the match was near perfect.”

  She looked away, folding her arms tightly. “It tried to communicate with us, with me first, I think, and then with Jayvin. There was this intense pain, like a knife sliding into my head . . . but it stopped after a second or two. Jayvin was closer to the pool. The alarms in his suit all started to go off, and he leaned over the pool, and . . . and it broke through the ice and then broke through his face shield, and in a matter of seconds, he wasn’t Jayvin anymore.

  “I remember screaming his name. He grabbed one of the men’s phasers and killed three of the Starfleet team, just like that. He injured the team leader, as well, I thought he was dead, too, though he survived—it was Fleet Captain Christopher Pike—but I was already running.”

  They’d reached his quarters and stepped inside, Ezri still speaking in a low monotone, remembering. Julian didn’t interrupt to ask about Pike, a legend in Starfleet, though he was amazed anew at how many exceptional people Dax had interacted with through its lifetimes. They moved to the padded seat by the window and sat facing one another, both of them intent on her story.

  “It came after me,” she said. “For what seemed like hours, I stumbled through the caves, trying to find a way out . . . and the creature followed, speaking to me in Jayvin’s voice, saying terrible things, horrible . . .”

  For the first time since she’d started, Ezri seemed to feel what she was saying, her gaze turning wet, her chin trembling. She blinked back tears, looking at Julian but seeing something else.

  “I heard him dying. Not Jayvin; I think, I hope he was gone as soon as the parasite took him—but the symbiont, Vod. I heard this thing, this monster ripping its memories to pieces, somehow breaking apart the continuity of Vod’s lifetimes. Finding the anger and pain in each host’s separate voice, and using those feelings, that rage, to express itself.”

  “What did it say?” Julian asked gently.

  Ezri took a deep breath. “That it was coming. That it was leading the way for its species, to find us, to find Trill . . . maybe humans, too, I don’t know, but it definitely knew about the Trill. It called us ‘the weak ones’ and said that its kind would obliterate us.”

  Julian frowned. “How did it know about you? About the Trill?”

  “I don’t know,” Ezri said. “And I was too busy trying to survive to ask it any questions . . . but it was a nightmare, listening to what was left of my husband spew out that thing’s hatred, in Jayvin’s voice. It seemed to go on forever. Finally, it managed to corner me, I was caught in a dead end . . . but before it could act, Pike showed up and knocked it out.

  “Somehow, we carried Jayvin’s body back to the shuttle, and Pike got us back to the Federation ship. We warped for Trill immediately. I wasn’t able to tell much from the Federation’s equipment beyond seeing the parasite itself, clutching at Jayvin’s brain stem . . . and though I knew it was unlikely, I held out hope that Vod might still be alive and whole.”

  Julian nodded. The unexpected loss of a host was a tragedy, of course, but to the people of Trill, the loss of a symbiont was beyond tragic. Lifetimes of memories, gone . . . .

  “When we got home there was a transplant team standing by, and a waiting host. The symbiosis between Jayvin and Vod was lost, both were dying . . . but knowing what I’d seen and heard on that comet, I couldn’t let Vod be transplanted. I ordered a scan of its neural patterns . . .”

  “ . . . and they had joined,” Julian finished. “The parasite and Vod.”

  Ezri nodded, almost angrily. “There was no choice, we had to let it die. We covered it up, of course. Starfleet wasn’t happy with us, either—we immediately sent ships to destroy the comet, and disposed of the parasite and Vod. I didn’t have anything to do with the decision, but I can’t say I was surprised, either. We still had our damn secret to keep, that we were a joined species . . . and we had another secret to keep from our own people, about a genetic connection between our symbionts and that . . . that thing. I thought that looking for the connection would become a priority for the Trill, that the other members of the Commission and the government would want to find out what the
y could, to prevent a future attack . . . but I was wrong. They buried it, and I went along.”

  “What about Pike?” Julian asked. “Didn’t he know what had happened?”

  “Yes, and he didn’t approve of Trill’s actions, but he did what he could for us. He had enough pull with his superiors to keep the whole matter classified. We agreed, he and I, to exchange what information we could find, but nothing like that ever came up again.

  “I tried to contact him more than once, but he had that accident a year later, and disappeared soon after that . . . and as far as I’ve known, there’s been no further contact with the parasites since.”

  “Except this incident at Starfleet HQ,” Julian said.

  Ezri shook her head slightly. “Today’s the first I’ve heard of it. I guess they were determined to keep it quiet, too.”

  “And Cyl?”

  Ezri actually smiled a little, but there was no humor in it. “Right. That was the point of my story to begin with, wasn’t it? When it happened, I told the children that their father had been killed . . . but that the Vod symbiont was still living. I thought it would make things easier for them, and maybe it did, for a while—but when she got a little older, Neema found out. She was a smart girl, she got hold of my personal access code and went digging. She discovered that Vod had been allowed to die, at my recommendation.”

  “The cause of your estrangement,” Julian said.

  “Yes. We didn’t talk for something like eight years, during which time her brother Gran died of an unrelated illness, and Neema was joined to Cyl. I was too guilt-ridden to approach her, guilt that I let turn into self-righteous anger, for her prying into commission business . . . but when I retired—”

  Ezri blinked, seeming almost startled. “When Audrid retired, she wrote a letter to Neema, explaining everything and taking her rightful share of responsibility for the rift between them. Neema accepted Audrid’s apology, and they were actually starting to mend their relationship, by the time Audrid died . . .”

  She looked at Julian. “Dax went on to Torias, and Neema . . . I never knew what happened to her, or Cyl. But she’s the only person outside the TSC and the governing council who knew the true circumstances, the only one Dax ever told.”

  And now me. Julian reached out and touched her soft cheek, feeling a surge of love for her . . . and more than a trace of fear. If the parasites could take hold so quickly and completely of a joined Trill, she wasn’t safe. No Trill was, but apparently the parasites hadn’t reached Trill, not yet. Ezri would be especially vulnerable.

  “Did Cyl tell you how he became involved in all this?” he asked.

  “There wasn’t time,” Ezri said. “But he knows more than he’s telling, and I think he’ll talk to me about it tomorrow morning, when we see Gard.”

  “May I ask . . . how is it you know Gard?”

  Ezri sighed. She looked worn and weary. She met his eyes and offered up a strange smile, one that he couldn’t remember seeing on her face before.

  “He killed me,” she said.

  * * *

  They didn’t speak until they were almost back at Shar’s quarters, Zhavey walking stiff and silent at his side. As they reached the corridor that led to his rooms, she paused, turning to face him.

  “Thavanichent and Vindizhei both await our arrival,” she said.

  Shar heard the unspoken, that Shathrissía also waited, and didn’t answer. He’d avoided dwelling on it, dreading the mental picture of Dizhei and Anichent expecting him, watching over Thriss’s cold and lifeless form, but he could avoid it no longer. It was Andorian tradition; until the surviving bondmates could mourn together at their fallen member’s side, there would be no death rites.

  Assuming that they were still in contact with their offspring, it wasn’t uncommon for one’s own zhavey to attend such things, though Shar had entertained vague hopes of meeting, of mourning with his bondmates alone. His zhavey, however, was not one to withdraw over minor considerations such as privacy . . . though she also wasn’t one to struggle with words, which she seemed to be doing, standing there, frowning as her gaze wandered in thought. Shar waited.

  “I know of your tezha with Shathrissía,” she said finally.

  Shar closed his eyes. Of course. Perhaps Thriss had confessed it before she’d died, or perhaps his astute zhavey had drawn her own conclusions after Thriss’s death. It had been one of his most cherished memories, so perfect in his mind’s eye that he brought it out only rarely, afraid that it would lose its tender glow; now the tezha was his true shame, the one shame that he could not deny or rationalize. That his beloved Thriss had killed herself was terrible enough, for all of them; that she had apparently done it because she’d fallen into despair over his choice to leave . . . that was still something he hadn’t chosen to accept as his own. He’d promised to go back to Andor after the Gamma Quadrant mission, to bond with his three mates and produce offspring as they all wanted, as their society demanded; Thriss could have waited, she could have decided to live.

  Except . . . could she? To have bonded with her privately, to have secretly embraced the physical, chemical, and emotional ties of tezha—that had made them closer to one another than to Diz or Anichent. The ritual was supposed to be performed by all four at their shelthreth, to bind them as mates, but he and Thriss hadn’t waited. If they had, would it have prevented her death? Would she have been better able to cope with his absence? There was no way to tell.

  But I was trying to save us all, a part of him protested. I had reason to leave.

  Yes, and does it matter, now? His own mind answered, quieting the rational. His self-righteousness had no place in mourning the loss of their zh’yi.

  “Do they know?” Shar asked quietly. There was no need to specify who.

  His mother looked worn, much more than when he’d last seen her, the lines of her face more defined. For the first time in his memory, she seemed old. “Of course they know, my chei,” she said. “They’ve always known.”

  Shar could think of nothing to say. The painful inevitability of his position was what it was. He’d known for weeks that he would have this conversation, that he would have to face his surviving bondmates and his zhavey . . . and he’d suspected that some, perhaps much of the blame for Thriss’s suicide might be directed toward him. But he could only be sorry, and sad that she was gone. Beyond that, they—Dizhei and Anichent—would have to tell him what he could do to help.

  And where can I turn for help? he thought, staring into his zhavey’s eyes, she who bore him, seeing the anger and frustration and pain there, feeling threads of his own. Haven’t I lost anything? He’d loved Thriss, had wanted to stay with her always, and would miss her until the end of his days. Did he not have a right to pain?

  Zhavey seemed to be waiting for something, searching his face, but whatever she saw, it wasn’t what she wanted. Her mouth pressed to a thin line, she started for his quarters again. Shar followed, feeling that he could barely carry the weight of his own limbs.

  The door slid open, a comforting blast of warm, humid air enveloping them as they stepped inside. Dizhei and Anichent were waiting, seated in the dining area, both draped in the loose robes of ritual mourning. He saw another, folded neatly on the table, and felt heavier, the weight of unhappiness bearing down on him as he looked to his promised mates. Both rose at once, Anichent stepping forward immediately, Dizhei only a step behind.

  A welcome shock ran through him as they silently embraced him, both touching his face and hair, accepting him home. The weight lifted a bit, allowing him to breathe, to feel gratitude and some small hope in his sorrow. Shar hadn’t realized how afraid he’d been until then, that they would shun him or turn away, holding him accountable for what had happened to poor Thriss. His feelings of doubt, of self-reproach and fear, were swept away in the caresses of his beloveds.

  After too short a time, the embrace ended. His bondmates stepped away, Anichent still holding his hand, Dizhei sitting again. His mother did the
same, crossing behind Shar to sit on one of the plain benches of his room. Shar didn’t know what to say, where to start, and so began with the most simple of truths.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to control the depths of feeling that the words inspired. “I am so sorry that she’s gone.”

  Anichent held his hand tightly . . . and Shar could see the bleared glassiness of his gaze, the telltale sign of sedation. “As are we, Thirishar.”

  “She couldn’t wait any longer,” Dizhei said, and was there a trace of the accusatory in her voice? “She was afraid that you would stay away. Or that you wouldn’t go with us when you did return.”

  “With reason,” Zhavey said. She didn’t sound accusatory, only tired. “His responsibilities to the Federation will keep him here.”

  Both of his mates watched him, a dawning expression of hurt on Anichent’s face, a flicker of anger on Dizhei’s.

  “Only for a short time,” Shar said. “I said I would return to Andor when I got back, and I mean to, if . . .” He trailed off, if you’ll still have me dying before it reached his lips.

  “When?” Dizhei asked, her voice, always warm and loving, now chill, unknown. “When, exactly?”

  Shar felt helpless. “I . . . don’t know. I’ll leave as soon as I can. I’ll—they need me here now, but I won’t wait for permission to leave. We can decide now, all of us. A matter of days. Perhaps a few weeks. At most.”

  Dizhei, his rational, reasonable, forgiving sh’za, looked at Anichent with an expression of vast sorrow . . . and scorn. Anichent let go of Shar’s hand and shuffled back to his seat, sitting heavily. Had he been sedated since her death? The question wasn’t worth asking; of course he had been. Both had fasted, too, living on injections and water, he could see it in the narrowness of face and frame, had felt it when they’d touched him. It was expected of those in mourning . . . and as terrible as Shar had felt, he hadn’t needed drugs, hadn’t stopped eating or sleeping, determined to act as a proper Starfleet science officer. Fresh pain unfurled inside of him.