by S. D. Perry
She shook it off, aware that she was projecting some of her anger and fear onto the Federation. The truth of it was, she was afraid that whatever relationship Bajor had with the UFP would be forever tainted by Shakaar’s death. Seeing a man she had admired, had once loved, slain in front of her . . . She hadn’t had time to address what it had done to her people, let alone to her personally.
And then there are the Cardassians, she thought, her gaze wandering to the two soldiers posted by the lift. Both stood very still, staring straight ahead; as with the others on board, they were doing their best to keep a low profile, keeping to themselves . . . but they couldn’t help what they were, what they represented to Bajor. It made a difference that the Orbs had been brought home, and that Yevir was standing by the new Bajoran/Cardassian bond that had sealed their return; according to Asarem, that and the confusion over Shakaar’s death were the only things keeping the people from attacking the small but incredibly visible Cardassian presence, on the surface and on the station. But even Kira felt a shiver of bad, angry feelings, seeing the small handfuls of soldiers scattered about, armed and expressionless . . . and she knew the real reason they had come. If only someone could get through to the people, could ease the escalating tensions . . .
Someone like Opaka.
Kira felt a flutter of hope, thinking of the former kai’s calming influence. She’d talked to Asarem first thing, and both had agreed that the news of Opaka Sulan’s return should get out as quickly as possible, to distract the populace from the ongoing parasite scans . . . scans still being passed off as security checks. But if Opaka is willing to do more, to get everyone looking elsewhere . . . maybe even to encourage cooperation . . .
Kira’s combadge chirped. As she tapped it, still looking out, she saw Kaitlin Merimark turning toward her office wearing a perplexed expression.
“Colonel, Gul Macet has just called in,” Merimark said. Her voice came a fraction of a second after she mouthed the words. “It seems a shuttle from Bajor has been intercepted just outside the planet’s orbit . . . and the passengers are insisting that they be let through.”
After yesterday’s events, it sounded like Macet was erring on the side of caution. “Who are the passengers?”
“Ah, apparently there are three vedeks aboard . . . and one of them is Yevir Linjaren. He’s . . . Gul Macet says Vedek Yevir has made it very clear that you’ll want to speak to him.”
Yevir? Kira felt an abrupt pounding at her temples. Shortly after the assassination, he and his entourage had taken the Orbs to Bajor, and she’d hoped not to hear from him for a while. He’d done a great thing for the people, certainly, but she couldn’t help her personal feelings. She was consistently irritated by his self-righteousness, particularly in the face of her own loss; he continued to stand behind her Attainder with no doubts, acting as though she should accept the punishment meekly, accept that he somehow knew best. The current schism in the faith wasn’t making things any better. He wasn’t Winn Adami, thank the Prophets, his leanings truly spiritual rather than political, but that didn’t mean he was flexible or empathetic.
And as if I don’t have enough to contend with.
“Ask Macet to stand by, and have Yevir commed through to me,” Kira said.
“Yes, sir.”
Kira turned to the screen on her desk, waiting for Yevir, wondering how good the picture would be. Visuals had been sketchy since the lockdown. A few beats later, Yevir Linjaren popped onto the screen, surprisingly clear and obviously excited. He was flushed and smiling, a tuft of hair sticking up behind one ear as though he’d been running his hands through it, a nervous habit of his that she actually remembered from his days as a Militia officer aboard the station. She hadn’t seen it in a long time.
“Colonel,” Yevir said quickly. “I understand that Opaka Sulan and Jake Sisko are both on the station. Is this true?”
Not interested in small talk, it seemed. “Yes, Vedek. And I’m sure—”
“You must allow us to see them,” Yevir said. “Myself and vedeks Bellis and Eran have come to welcome them home.”
Kira did her best to look patient. “Vedek Yevir, are you aware that this station . . . that all Bajoran space, in fact, is currently at a lockdown status because of First Minister Shakaar’s—”
“Yes, yes,” Yevir interrupted again, his own impatience showing in his too-bright smile. “I understand. But surely this doesn’t apply to Opaka Sulan, or the son of the Emissary . . . ? They belong on Bajor, and I’m here to see that they have proper escort. I haven’t spoken to her directly about this, but I can assure you that First Minister Asarem will cooperate fully, with whatever security measures need to be taken. They must be allowed to come home.”
“Vedek, are you certain that they wish to leave the station with you?” Kira asked mildly, aware that he couldn’t possibly know. She wasn’t in the mood to be lectured about what must be done.
Yevir’s smile hardly wavered. “I’m sure that if I have a chance to see them, to explain to them . . . I have no doubt they’ll want to return with us. Colonel, think of what this means for Bajor! In such turbulent times, the son of the Emissary returning our former kai to us . . . it’s surely a gift from the Prophets.”
Although his enthusiasm wasn’t catching, the idea wasn’t bad. Hadn’t she just been thinking that Opaka might be able to divert attention from what the Federation was up to? It would undoubtedly be safer for them on Bajor than on the station, their status demanding Militia protection . . . and it would definitely be a gift to both Jake and Kas, particularly with Kas already past her due date.
She sighed inwardly, looking at Yevir’s shining visage, then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Vedek. If you’ll stand by, I’ll ask that Gul Macet escort your vessel to the station. There will have to be a security check—”
Yevir was beaming. “Of course. You’re doing the right thing, Colonel.”
Having gotten what he wanted, he tapped out, leaving her with a blank screen. She hadn’t expected his gratitude . . . which, it seemed, had been a good call.
Kira arranged the escort and then glanced around her desk, at the reports she still needed to look over, remembering that she had to meet with Nog at 1000 hours to talk about the Defiant, reminding herself that she wanted to meet with Vaughn and Bowers before they left for Bajor. A half-dozen additional tasks came to mind, schedule coordinating and reports that were waiting to be filed . . . but it would all have to wait, at least for a few minutes. She wanted to stop by the lab, see how Julian was progressing . . . if he was getting a lot done, maybe working out the parasitic communication basics, she might have something to show Akaar at the next meeting. And, much as she would have liked to keep them around, she needed to tell Opaka and Jake that they now had a ride back to Bajor, if they were ready . . . and before they left, she wanted to tell Sulan how grateful she was for the peace she’d received the night before, however temporary. Opaka probably didn’t need to hear it, but Kira needed to say it.
* * *
Julian inserted the tissue samples from Shakaar Edon’s limbic system into the scanner and waited, tired from lack of sleep but too involved in what he was doing to allow himself to rest. The work was fascinating. His colleagues had done a competent initial rundown, but they hadn’t followed through on the extent of the neurotransmitter/receptor control that the parasites wielded, particularly the acetylcholine levels.
While the samples were being tested, Julian picked up the padd with the serpentine receptor numbers, so involved with the delicate changes in the transmembrane structures that he didn’t notice Kira until she was practically standing next to him.
“How are things going?” she asked.
Julian blinked up at her, ignoring the reflexive tug of impatience he felt at being interrupted. They were alone in the small mid-core lab, the majority of the team still working with the Cardassian volunteers in medical. “Good, I think. Nothing yet on the Cardassian immunity, but I’ve been able to better clar
ify how the parasites control their hosts.”
Kira nodded. “How?”
Julian translated automatically, from how he understood it to how someone with a nonmedical background might. “Chemistry. They tap into the sites of synthesis for every neurotransmitter used in the host body and direct the flow of neuropeptides, which mediate sensory and emotional response.”
“So it’s mind control,” Kira half asked.
“Yes, but they also dominate the host’s acetylcholine levels—that’s the transmitter used at the neuromuscular junction. It’s a control that extends to every part of the carrier body.”
“What about the time window?” Kira asked. “How long before the union becomes permanent?”
“Dr. Girani was right—it depends on the host species,” Julian said carefully, thinking of Ezri’s story from the night before, feeling a pang of random anxiety that he quickly stifled. Vod and his parasite had been inseparable by the time Audrid and Pike had returned to Trill, less than a day after they’d been joined . . . . and it could have happened in less time than that, as the Federation ship they were on hadn’t had the equipment to properly monitor Vod. Maybe it only took minutes . . ..
Kira was waiting. “And how quickly the parasite can affect the specified mutation of each individual’s synapses,” he added. “A synapse is where the axon of the presynaptic neuron terminates on the postsynaptic neuron—”
At her rising frown, he cut himself off; he was more tired than he’d thought . . . or more anxious, but again, he carefully steered himself away from acknowledging the fact, noting that Kira had apparently heeded his advice about getting some rest. She still looked strained, but also about a thousand times less so than the day before.
“With Shakaar, twenty to thirty days, as Dr. Girani said,” he said, getting back to her question. “It’s a process. I can’t say with any certainty that all Bajorans would have the same window—the first minister’s is the only advanced case available—but the simulations do suggest it.”
“And the hosts in stasis?” Kira asked. “They’re stable, aren’t they?” Julian saw her microexpression of distaste at having to use the word “host,” thinking that he, too, disliked the term. “Victim” seemed more apt.
“They should be fine,” Julian said. “They were all detected well within the window. We’re watching them closely for any sign of advancement, but from what we’ve seen so far, stasis will hold indefinitely. Again, though, I should stress that each species the parasite encounters will probably react differently.”
Kira studied him, her gaze unreadable. “How do you think the Trill species might react?”
Julian didn’t answer immediately, wondering if Ezri had talked to her, wondering what he should say . . . and felt that pang of anxiety become the fear that he’d managed to put aside for the hours he’d been working. Ezri’s story had frightened him, for entirely selfish reasons; he simply loved her too much not to worry.
He reminded himself that his overriding concern had to be finding a solution to the parasite crisis, that every bit of information needed to be available to those working on the problem . . . but except for the apparent rapidity of the symbiont-parasite bond, there weren’t any useful particulars in the story of Audrid Dax that hadn’t already been reported by Starfleet.
And I wouldn’t betray her trust, in any case, he affirmed to himself, a surge of protectiveness sweeping over him. He could talk to her later about what information she wanted to pass along, but he meant to support whatever decision she made.
“There’s no scientific data available,” he answered neutrally, and truthfully. “Because the Trill have evolved to host a similar life form,” I would hazard to guess that the time window might be much shorter . . . and that the parasite might be capable of bonding to the host and the symbiont.”
Kira definitely knew something, he could see it in her sharp and careful gaze, but she chose to let it drop. “Have you found anything on how the parasites communicate?”
“Not yet. When Dr. Crusher encountered them, she documented the ‘mother’ or queen connection—that is, a single master female that commands those closest to it telepathically, and possibly with occasional bursts of pheromones—but until I can get a living specimen of one of these females, I won’t know for sure. The scans of those in stasis suggest that the ‘soldier’ parasites are passive receivers . . . unless the psychic link is more evolved than we know. At this point, we can’t be certain. There is some rudimentary evidence that suggests a high sensitivity to light, at least while not in a host body, but again, we don’t understand yet how this might apply.”
Kira nodded slowly. She seemed on the verge of asking more, her longing for useful information etched across her face, but she obviously didn’t know what else to ask. They’d already agreed that he wouldn’t waste time giving scheduled reports, instead going to her when he found anything with practical applications . . . but there was still a lot to do before they would get to that stage, and he was eager to get back to it.
As he thought it, the scanner beeped that it was finished with the samples.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, smiling slightly, as though recognizing his offhand impatience.
“And I’ll let you know what I find,” he said, tapping up the reads before Kira made it to the door, falling back into his fascination and his need to find answers. As he’d assumed, the limbic system’s 5HT serotonin receptors had been dramatically altered, in a way that complemented the mutations of the CNS synthesis sites for most of the tyrosine transmitters . . . .
Julian let the work absorb him, engage him, and take away his fear, at least for a little while. Ezri was safe, and he would find the answers.
* * *
They had knelt by Thriss’s stasis chamber throughout the long night, sharing their grief as much as they could, Shar feeling very much alone in his own despair . . . and in the morning, he’d done the right thing. It had ripped at his mind and spirit to do it, but it was best for both of his mates.
Dizhei and Anichent would return to Andor without him, to meet with the zhen mates who might carry their offspring, to choose one . . . and they would also meet with the chan s his zhavey had found, his own possible replacement; the chan would add his gamete to Dizhei’s, already fertilized by Anichent, then Dizhei would transfer the zygote to the zhen’s pouch.
Thriss, it should have been Thriss. He had dreamed of her often, gravid with child. She would have been beautiful.
When he’d put forth his decision, they had fought him . . . but not for long, and not very hard. It hurt him to see, but he felt no resentment. Whether he meant to or not, he had injured them, he had taken Thriss from their lives, stealing the future they had all imagined. The very least he could do was suggest that they start over with mates who had not behaved so badly.
It was not an ideal situation, for anyone; without Thriss, there was no ideal. But Dizhei and Anichent could still parent, at least, and perhaps care for one another through the worst of the pain that Shar and Thriss had created. And they had made him promise that if they couldn’t find a compatible chan, Shar would return to Andor to fulfill his duty. At least there was that.
Shar sat on a plain bench in his living area and stared at the closed front door, exhausted, listening to the slow, deep breaths of Anichent, finally asleep in one of the padded chairs. Dizhei had gone to speak to Charivretha, to inform her of their decision and to see if immediate transport could be arranged. Shar had little doubt that it could be, even with the lockdown . . . and though he, too, was very tired, he resisted sleep, waiting for Dizhei’s return. He’d had no desire to speak with his zhavey, and was grateful that his mate had volunteered.
She returned only seconds after he thought it, meeting his gaze as she walked in, dropping it almost immediately.
“We can leave now,” she said quietly, moving to sit by him. She kept her voice low, gazing at Anichent, curled in his heavy sleep. “As soon as clearance is autho
rized, actually, but Zhadi said she’d already discussed the matter with Admiral Akaar and Colonel Kira, and there will be no delay. She’s giving us the use of her private transport.”
“And Thriss?” Shar asked, his voice dull to his own ears.
“We’ll have her transported aboard,” Dizhei said, finally looking him in the eye, holding it. “Would . . . Have you reconsidered your position? I’m sure that your zhavey could explain the necessity of your leave.”
No explanation would be necessary, coming from a Federation ambassador . . . but Shar wasn’t staying merely because he felt obligated; that was only a small part of why, and Dizhei knew it.
What’s the human euphemism? A clean break. He would only remind them of what they’d lost.
Shar reached for her hand. “I think I should stay,” he said.
Dizhei’s fingers lay limp in his, and though her words were angry, her tone was as lifeless as her hand. “If punishing yourself is your reason, you punish us by it. We’ve all lost Thriss.”
Yes, and some part of you will always blame me for it, Shar thought, understanding that for as wise as she was, Dizhei wouldn’t accept that. She would insist that it wasn’t true, but Shar had seen it in her, in the helpless anger that had stained last night’s tears. Punishing himself was incidental.
“The decision is made,” he said, and as she turned away, it was all he could do not to blurt out the truth—that he loved her, that he loved them both more than anything; that he wanted desperately to be with them, to run away and hide with them and cry for Thriss until there was no more sadness, forever.
What stopped him was also the truth. He could no longer afford the luxury of selfishness; his morality wouldn’t permit it.
Without another word, Dizhei stood and walked to the bedchamber, picking up both her own and Anichent’s traveling satchels on the way. She would pack, and wake Anichent, and though Shar would walk them to the airlock and embrace them and wish them well, they’d already said their farewells. Unspoken but no less powerful, their mourning for Thriss had said it all.
