by S. D. Perry
“Yes and no,” Cyl said. “We found rumors, as I said last night—that there was some real connection between the parasites and the symbionts, a very long time ago. There aren’t any government records, though, and none of my current contacts have been able to find a trace of shared history.”
“Current contacts?” Ezri was surprised, but only for a few seconds. From Cyl’s very presence, it seemed inevitable that there would be a fairly extensive network . . . and something he’d said a moment ago sunk in, about a leave of absence. Did the government even know he was here? “How many people know about this?”
“Not many, but enough to keep watch,” Cyl answered, matter-of-factly. “You asked yesterday, if I knew this was coming . . . again, the answer is yes and no. I never doubted that we’d hear about the parasites again, even before their infiltration of Starfleet. There was already a watch group in place, though we were lucky to catch it; the attempt wasn’t common knowledge, and Trill wasn’t the obvious target. Since then, however, the watch has kept a constant vigil, keeping an eye on military movement in the quadrant, and monitoring incoming inquiries and outgoing files, anything pertaining to Trill security and defense . . . . There are a number of red flags we look out for, but we’ve never really gotten a hit—until just over five months ago, when someone on Shakaar Edon’s ship started sending us the wrong kinds of questions. Shakaar was traveling through Federation territories at the time, lobbying for Bajor’s admittance into the UFP . . . though we still haven’t been able to pin down where he was prior to his first contact with Trill officials. It was Shakaar asking, though. One of our people insisted that he give his credentials before we would send him anything.”
“Does the TSC know about you?” Ezri asked.
“Not officially.”
“Then how did you manage to intercept Shakaar’s queries? And why haven’t you gone public?”
“I said not officially,” Cyl said. “We have a few low-level people inside . . . but as you may remember, the TSC wasn’t all that excited about Audrid’s discovery of the parasite, and the government backed them. Ambassador Gandres is a good example—I’ve been trying to talk him into going before the commission, demanding a united action, but he’s terrified, doesn’t want anything to do with any of this. He has his hopes pinned on the Federation making it all go away, and I have little doubt that the rest of our government is firmly behind him. As I said yesterday, I only told him what he needs to know . . . and he’s fine with that.”
“And the governing council? The TSC?”
“Those at the very top know about what’s happening,” Cyl said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Unofficially. Ezri felt a trace of disdain for the leaders of her homeworld, and tried to let it go. She hadn’t behaved much better, as Audrid or since.
They’re scared, that’s all. Just as she had been, and still was. The very concept of being taken over by some malevolent creature . . . it was something that went beyond mortal terror, a fear that was primal and deep-seated, perhaps particular to a joined species . . . doomed to feel what the creature wanted you to feel, the host completely lost, forced to bond with the parasitic mind, its life memories torn away . . .
Cyl glanced into the security office, then back at her. “We should talk to Gard. He’ll be able to tell you more about Shakaar.”
Ezri frowned, feeling a sudden knot in her belly. “I thought—I thought he hasn’t been talking, since his capture.”
Cyl gazed at her evenly, his face a blank. “Gard is part of our organization. I thought you would have gathered that by now.”
“I—no, I didn’t know,” Ezri stammered, not sure if he was telling her what it sounded like he was telling her. She might have suspected it, but that meant . . .
“Are you—did you send him to kill Shakaar?” she asked.
“No,” Cyl said immediately, and though his tone was firm and even, he dropped her gaze for a beat. “We needed Shakaar to be monitored, by someone who knew what to look for. Gard had the security credentials to escort Ambassador Gandres to Deep Space 9 for the signing, he volunteered for the job . . . and once he’d ascertained that the First Minister was infected—and well past the possibility of salvation—he made the decision himself.”
“But you support that decision,” Ezri said, not sure how to feel, what to do with the information.
“Don’t you?” Cyl asked. “The letter that Audrid wrote to Neema . . . You know what they’re capable of.”
Ezri nodded absently. She knew. But assassination, hiding in an underground network, operating outside the government’s line of sight . . . it just wasn’t what the good guys did.
But the good guys were supposed to be the TSC, the council, people like Seljin Gandres—and they’ve done nothing. They destroyed evidence, they turn a blind eye to the issue, they avoid action. How else can the watchers function, with a government that doesn’t want to participate?
But . . . if they don’t want to help . . .
“What will happen to Gard?” she asked quietly.
Cyl’s face seemed to harden slightly. “I’ve asked Gandres to lobby for his release, for remand back to Trill, but he refuses. The Council is behind him, they’ve already promised full cooperation with the ‘investigation’ into Shakaar’s death, and that includes leaving Gard in Bajoran custody. President Maz agrees.”
Gard was stuck with his assassin title, at least until the truth about the parasites came out . . . and afterward? There might be some leniency, considering the circumstances, but he would be prosecuted. He’d worked for an unrecognized and possibly illegal agency on Trill, he’d plotted and carried out the murder of another planet’s leader, he’d planned to escape. Even knowing that Shakaar was infected, the Federation would have to do something, to show Bajor that they didn’t allow such reckless disregard for the lives of its citizens.
So Gard is left taking the fall, even though this is something our people should have been prepared to handle without a shadow group resorting to such tactics. Gard must have known what could happen to him, if he were caught . . . and she wondered what kind of man he really was, to accept such a risk.
“Ready to speak with him?” Cyl asked.
Ezri nodded, wishing she felt as on top of things as she needed to be, feeling absolutely uncertain about everything.
* * *
Hiziki Gard was resting, lying on his back and staring up at the blank, featureless ceiling of his cell. It was cold, which he actually didn’t mind—for a Trill, he’d always been prone to overheating—and he was bored, which he minded very much. Taulin Cyl had filled him in on the station’s situation when he’d arrived from Trill, and updated him once . . . but past that, he’d had no visitors except Akaar, the aging Starfleet admiral, who’d attempted to intimidate him into revealing information. Ro Laren had tried to engage him on a few occasions since his capture, usually when she brought him meals, but he couldn’t talk to her, not about what she wanted to know. He shouldn’t have talked to Akaar, either, but at least the admiral had known about the parasites, from the comet incident . . . and there had been a Federation ship on its way to Trill at the time Akaar had come to him, a parasite in control.
Gard sighed. Nothing to do, nothing to see. The immediate disaster had been averted, the Gryphon stopped in time, and since he hadn’t been authorized to talk, he’d kept his mouth shut since. Cyl was still trying to maneuver behind the scenes, to see how much Trill could help without becoming a focus for the investigation, and Gard didn’t want to make things harder for him.
Goes with the territory, he thought idly, glancing at the seemingly open space at the front of his cell. He was a Gard, after all, and no Gard had ever bothered overmuch with self-interest, not when it came to doing what was right. The problem was, there was still a problem . . . and instead of making it home to plot the next course of action with his fellow watchers, he’d been caught. He’d been restless at first, and frustrated that there was nothing he could contribut
e to stop the rapidly unfolding crisis—but now he was just bored. No matter how bad things were, he wasn’t going anywhere, he had nothing to say and no one to say it to. Being frustrated was a waste of energy.
The door to the outer security office opened. In walked Taulin Cyl and a short, attractive female Trill, slightly younger than Hiziki. Ro escorted them in, but after a few low words with the woman, she left them alone.
Gard stood, straightening his rumpled jacket, nodding politely at his visitors as they pulled chairs to the front of his cell. Once they were seated, he also sat, studying the woman. She was joined, and openly curious about him, studying him in turn. He knew her instantly. He’d kept tabs.
“I remember you,” Ezri Dax said without preamble.
Gard nodded. A few years back, he’d heard that Dax’s memories of Joran had resurfaced, memories that had been medically suppressed almost a century before. The mistaken matching of Joran Belar to the Dax symbiont had created a serial murderer, whom Gard had been sent to hunt down.
“You remember Verjyl Gard,” Hiziki said. “My symbiont has a very long history of . . .” How to describe what he did? “ . . . ah, seeking out criminal elements within Trill society.”
“And without, so it seems,” Dax said.
Cyl finally spoke up. “Gard has never done anything else. I’m surprised Audrid didn’t know about him; the TSC called Gard in whenever there was evidence of a bad joining.”
Bad. That’s an understatement. Though it didn’t happen often, a “bad” joining meant anything from suicide to serial murder. Throughout all of Gard’s lifetimes, its hosts’ specific training had always been to seek out these extremely rare joined killers. Cyl had approached a retired Verjyl Gard shortly before Gard had gone on to Hiziki, nearly twenty years ago . . . and both hosts had found merit in the loose organization of watchers, particularly considering the government’s blatant denial of its necessity. In a way, the parasites represented the ultimate in joined killers.
Dax nodded. “There weren’t any mismatches in my time on the board, though.”
Gard said nothing. The TSC kept secrets from itself, too, but he saw no reason to disillusion her.
“How much do you know?” Gard asked, turning to the more immediate situation.
“All of it, I think,” Dax said, and Cyl nodded. “You’ve been watching for the parasites, they finally showed up, and you came here to deal with it . . . but why kill Shakaar? Why not just turn him over to security, let the Federation in on it?”
“It’s better that the reason for his assassination remains unclear,” Gard said. “The night before the signing ceremony, he sent seven separate coded messages to Bajor, from his private quarters here on the station. I think the parasites have taken root down there, and I also think they’re organized enough that Shakaar’s capture would have spurred them to action.”
“What action?” Dax asked.
Gard shrugged. “Terrorism. Mass infection. At the very least, they might have gone deeper underground. Right now they suspect we know, but they can’t be sure. That’s my belief, anyway.”
Dax looked back and forth between the two of them. “Do you really think that the Council and the TSC aren’t capable of handling this information? About what your organization has been doing? Someone has to know something about this mysterious genetic link, and it might be key to figuring out how to deal with the parasites. If the Federation were to approach the president—”
“—then they’d be met by hysteria and denial,” Cyl cut in. “I think it is a genetic thing, Ezri, in more ways than one. I saw it on your face, outside—something about the parasites creates an acute discord in our people, a revulsion, a fear so ingrained that no one wants to go near it.”
“You both did, and the people who’ve watched with you,” Dax said. “And I admit that there’s something about the concept, something deeply disconcerting . . . but I’m not going to walk away from this.”
“Audrid did,” Cyl said, a trace of bitterness in his tone, so slight that he obviously wasn’t aware of it. “And Dax’s hosts since.”
Dax flushed, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I should have pushed harder, that’s true. But I didn’t know. And whatever mistakes I made, I’m here now.”
Gard decided that he liked her. It was a rare person who could accept that they’d fallen short without trying to defend their actions in the same breath.
“I think most of it is the evolutionary connection,” he said, drawing their attention toward himself, addressing Dax. “It’s obvious to anyone with a DNA scanner that the parasites and our symbionts are related. We don’t know precisely how, but it’s also obvious that Trill doesn’t want to know. They don’t want to become central to this parasite investigation, don’t want to be connected to these creatures, in any way.”
Dax started to say something and then closed her mouth, her jaw clenching slightly. Yes, he definitely liked her. She had idealism, but had also been around long enough to understand the reality of how people dealt with fear and stress. As one of his hosts always liked to say, Just because it’s the truth doesn’t mean anyone wants to know about it.
After a moment, Dax sighed and looked at Cyl. “This isn’t going to go away this time, you know. Even if we get past the immediate crisis with things getting any worse . . . Trill’s leadership will have a lot to answer for, to Bajor and the Federation. I want to report this to Colonel Kira.”
Cyl looked at Gard, who nodded once. She was right. Keeping secrets at this point was counterproductive, and if it meant exposing their watch organization, what of it? It had served its purpose. Trill might even thank them for it, one day . . . though he was no longer optimistic enough to hope for it. He hadn’t been that optimistic in a long, long time.
“Any chance I could get out of here?” he asked, smiling because he doubted that there was, too restless not to ask. “Or at least get computer access? Limited, of course.”
Dax smiled back at him. It was small, but sincere. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, why don’t you tell me how you knew that Shakaar was infected?”
Gard started in, going over the physical manifestations first, the slight trembling of the fingers, the tendency to rapid eye movements, a sudden propensity for Klingon and Ferengi cuisine—both of which included vermiform invertibrates. Ezri Dax sat and listened carefully, asking the right questions at the right time, and by the end of their little meeting, Gard felt like they might have a chance of getting things under control, after all. Dax was a ninth-host symbiont, and had lived long enough to be flexible; she’d do what was necessary, even if it meant compromising Trill’s strangely insistent denial.
After they left, Gard lay back on his bunk, gazing unseeing at the ceiling once more, wondering if his suspicions about Trill’s history would be proved right or wrong. If he was wrong, no harm done. If he was right, no Trill would be the same again . . . and their society as a whole might never recover from the truth.
6
AFTER SHE TAPPED OUT FROM THE HOLOCONFERENCE, KIRA SAT BACK IN her chair, absently drumming her fingers on the console in front of her. It seemed that for every step forward they made in dealing with the parasite crisis, less was being resolved.
It was definitely a mess, but surprisingly, Kira felt better equipped to handle it than she had for days, even weeks.
Maybe I should take up sleeping on couches, she thought, although she knew better. It had been the company, and the emotional release that had done it. She’d felt strangely light this morning, as if someone had scraped out her insides, washed them, and put them back in place. When she had finally woken, Opaka had been meditating in the adjacent room, so Kira had simply slipped out, hurrying back to her own quarters to shower and change. She didn’t think the older woman would mind . . . and also felt a bit awkward after her display the night before, not sure if she should apologize, or pretend it hadn’t happened, or what. A deeper part of her understood that all was well—that she had needed to let
down her barriers, and Opaka had been more than fine with letting her do so—but she still felt vaguely uncomfortable, as though she’d burdened the former kai with her tears and distress. Understanding didn’t really help; some neuroses were harder to get past than others.
She’d cleaned up and gone on duty, only to be visited by Ezri and Cyl barely an hour after she made it to ops. Though it had already seemed clear that there was a genetic connection between the symbionts and the Trill, her conversation with Dax and Cyl had strengthened the foundation. The general’s nameless underground watch operation had been organized enough to spot Shakaar and send Gard to investigate. This suggested that there was more information to be had on Trill . . . but it seemed that except for a select and dedicated few, Trill’s government and people didn’t want to know about any of it; that they would, in fact, be quite opposed to further investigation, possibly resisting Federation inquiries.
Kira had set up a four-way conference as soon as Ezri and the general left her office. Akaar, predictably, had been livid, as had Councillor zh’Thane, and both had given First Minister Asarem their assurances that the Federation would not be deterred from pursuing the full truth of the matter, no matter where the trail led.
Kira stared out into ops, thinking about the Federation. Asarem at least seemed satisfied that the UFP itself wasn’t at fault for what had happened, and the Chamber of Ministers would follow her lead. Bajor’s entry into the Federation was back on stable ground.
But Kira herself had doubts, more of them than she would have expected. Federation membership had been the goal for so long, but Bajor had been put through so much . . . and now the Federation had Starfleet locking things down, frightening the citizens and letting, encouraging Cardassian participation. Of course they were helping, extending resources and aid, putting themselves in a position to absorb the impact of a parasitic invasion . . . but never in her life had Kira felt so claustrophobic, either.
