by Peter David
"Because they want to know what it is as soon as possible," his wife replied. "They want to know if it's dangerous, if it'll have an impact on the ecosystem …"
Her voice trailed off. There was silence for a moment.
O'Brien pushed some of the food around on his plate. Molly had stopped eating and was watching with wide-eyed interest, looking a little scared. He needed to regain his self-control before things turned ugly.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"The next transport leaves tomorrow," Keiko answered. "I've already booked passage." A pause. "I'm sorry, Miles. I don't want to leave so soon, but there's no other way."
"It's just three weeks, Daddy," Molly offered.
Bless her heart, thought O'Brien, she was trying to play peacemaker. Unfortunately, she was much too young to be subjected to that.
He smiled at his daughter. "You see, angel, just a week feels like a very long time when you're not here to keep me company. Three weeks is like … like …"
It was like forever. But he didn't say it out loud. He only shrugged.
"We'll be back as soon as we can," Molly assured him, sounding mature beyond her years. She turned to Keiko. "Right, Mommy?"
Keiko smiled tenderly. Then she turned to her husband.
"I'll talk to them," she assured him. "One week, no more. We can both live with that, can't we?"
Her eyes didn't leave his. They seemed to be pleading her argument on a quieter level.
O'Brien wanted to see her happy—but not necessarily at the price of his own happiness. Then again, if it was only a week …
No, he insisted inwardly. It'll be a week here, a week there, and before you know it she'll be gone all the time.
Still, what could he do? How could he stop her?
"Go," he spat. "Study your bloody weed. Abandon me every time they snap their fingers."
Keiko's eyes grew hard. "You mean the way you go running every time they blow a circuit around here? There are other engineers on the station, Miles. They can change a chip once in a while without you."
O'Brien stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over. "I have a responsibility to this station," he told her. "That's the job I agreed to, the job I signed up for."
He was furious. He wanted to say more. But he saw Molly out of the corner of his eye and bit his lip.
"Suddenly," he rasped, maintaining control as best he could, "I don't have much of an appetite."
Turning, he left their quarters. For a while, he was too angry to pay attention to where he was going. Thoughts careened through his mind, crashing and merging so quickly he had no idea what he was really thinking about.
Bajorans. Weeds. Molly's smile. All images imprinted on his mind as he tried to sort things out, calm himself down.
It was no surprise that when he did slow down, O'Brien was near Quark's. Grunting, he walked in and ordered himself a beer.
At least there, he thought, amid the noise and the gaudy lights, he could let off some steam. Then, when he was in control of himself again, he could return to his quarters.
And help his wife pack.
After all, he was determined not to let her leave the station angry at him. He needed her to come back.
CHAPTER
2
IT STARTED SLOWLY, and it began with the animals.
The celebration in the Paqu village had died off, because, of course, there was only so long anyone could sustain such festivities. Nevertheless, there was an overwhelming feeling of joy and contentment.
One of the more popular of the grazing animals among the Paqu was a largish creature called a Rinta. Rintas were not highly regarded for their intelligence. They were slow-moving and rather benign. Their fur color ranged from light to dark red, and their eyes were large and unblinking.
Rintas tended to stay by the river; their need for water was copious. When fed the proper grains, which, thankfully, the replicators were capable of reproducing, they generated a milk that was high in a variety of vitamins essential for proper Bajoran growth and nutrition.
The replicators could have produced that milk as well, of course, but there was only so far they could go in producing the proper taste and texture. And the Bajorans tended to be picky when it came to Rinta milk.
So it was rather surprising, even disturbing, when Varis Sul was summoned from a meeting with village elders one day, not too long after the time of the great feasting. A young farmer named Tres had come to alert Varis to some troubling news: two of the Rintas did not seem to be in especially good shape.
"Rintas never get sick," Varis told him.
This was a sweeping generalization, but fairly accurate. Rintas were long-lived.
So the ill health of one was unusual enough, in and of itself. To learn that two seemed afflicted with some sort of problem bordered on the alarming.
"It's true, Sul," said Tres, and the tetrarch had no reason to doubt his words. She followed the young farmer to the site where Tres's Rintas grazed. As they came over the small hill, Tres was in the lead, and Varis heard him gasp in shock. The tetrarch drew alongside Tres, and her eyes widened in astonishment.
One of the Rintas had collapsed.
It had tumbled into the river and was just lying there, its great chest heaving. The other Rinta looked on with what appeared to be infinite sadness in its large eyes. Varis and Tres ran quickly over to the fallen Rinta, Varis wading into the water to lift the creature's head.
"Help me get her back up onto the shore!" said the tetrarch, and Tres tried his best to comply. But the Rinta seemed to weigh half a ton, and despite Varis and Tres's best effort, they were helpless to hoist the creature out of the water.
"Get help!" barked Varis, and Tres ran.
As the water rolled past them, Varis crouched down and looked deep into the creature's eyes, trying to get some glimmer of understanding as to what the animal was going through.
The great eyes stared at her in a manner that was—what? Confused? Betrayed? Varis couldn't be sure of what was going through the creature's very simple mind.
A thick dark liquid trickled from the Rinta's mouth. Could it be blood, she wondered? Or some sort of bronchial fluid that had collected in the animal's lungs? It dribbled into the river and flowed away. "What's the matter with you?" Varis demanded, as if she could expect the animal to respond with a detailed list of its symptoms and possible illnesses.
And then Varis heard a low animal moan … but it wasn't coming from the Rinta whose head she was cradling in the rushing river. Instead it came from the second Rinta, and Varis turned just in time to see—to her alarm—the animal stumble into the river and fall flat into the rushing water.
It generated a huge splash that drenched Varis from head to hips. She stared in disbelief as the Rinta flopped over and over in the water, writhing as if possessed by some inner demon.
By the time Tres arrived with help, it was too late. One of the Rintas had already died, and the other was clearly in its death throes.
Keiko had just emerged from the bedroom with the last of her research tools when O'Brien's combadge chirped. The chief frowned as he tapped it.
"O'Brien here."
"This is the captain," said Sisko. "Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but we've still got that power flux in the data circuits—and it's registering near the med labs now. This isn't going to help anyone get those reports finished."
O'Brien sighed. "Acknowledged, sir. Be up in just a few minutes."
Molly looked at him patiently. She had long ago learned to stay quiet when Daddy began talking to the air.
"Thanks, Chief. Sisko out."
Suddenly Molly hugged her father fiercely. Lifting her into his arms, O'Brien swallowed hard. He was afraid his little girl would return a teenager and he wouldn't know her. A foolish thought, maybe, but one that afflicted him with increasing frequency.
Packing the last of her belongings, his wife looked at him with mixed emotions on her face. "I'll miss you," she said.
"I'll
miss you, too," he assured her.
Keiko walked over to him and hugged him just as hard as Molly had. Miles held the two of them.
"You be good on Bajor," he told his wife. "And be successful as well."
"We'll be back before you know it," she promised.
She had said almost the exact same words when she left the last time. And that became six whole months. If she found something equally intriguing, who knew how long she might be down there?
O'Brien hugged his family a little tighter. He savored their warmth, their breath, their nearness. Then, reluctantly, he let go.
"The captain's waiting for me," he said softly.
Keiko nodded. "We'll be fine. And if I know the captain, he'll keep you so busy you won't realize we're gone until we get back."
The chief grunted. "No doubt," he said, though without much conviction. He leaned over, kissed his wife on the lips, and tousled Molly's dark hair. Then he kissed her, too.
Molly giggled. It made him smile. He decided that was the image he wanted to remember until they got back.
"Go," Keiko advised gently.
"I'm going," he replied.
With a last look at his wife and daughter, O'Brien left them and headed for the infirmary.
Downriver from the Paqu, in the Navot village, residents were using the river as they always did: for bathing and for drinking, though not at the same time, of course. They were unaware of the fluids secreted by the Rintas upstream in the Paqu village, unaware that there was any possible hint of danger.
The Navot crops had been better in the past year than those of the Paqu, a good fortune that the Navot did not question. They wished ill to no one, but their old rivalry with the Paqu couldn't help but give them a feeling of superiority—a sense that they were blessed by the Prophets above all others. For truly, wasn't their life—despite the unrest on Bajor—basically a good life?
Imagine their surprise when their Rintas began to look somewhat under the weather. By the time that happened, however, Tres the Paqu farmer had fallen ill . . . .
"You must speak to them!"
Kai Winn stood with her back to Ompar Tenzil. Ompar was a rather large, singularly aggressive member of the Bajoran government. He was the primary liaison between the secular and the religious order, and Kai Winn found herself wishing for someone who was more … sedate, somehow.
Ompar frequently behaved as if he were playing to the back row of a theater. He had just come from speaking with the council of Vedeks, and now he was venting his spleen to the Kai.
But Kai Winn was barely listening to his continued exhortations that she take action. The Bajoran holy woman was instead staring out the window. The view of the countryside that she had always taken for granted looked tainted somehow, though she had no idea how much of it was her own imagination.
"What would you have me say, Ompar?" Kai Winn said tiredly after a time.
"You are the Kai!" he reminded her. "We of the provisional government are trying to prevent a panic from spreading among the people, and are looking to you to help us! You must tell the people," he said, making vague gestures of frustration. "You must tell them this is a test! Yes, that's it!" he continued, thinking quickly as he spoke. "You must tell them this is a test given them by the Prophets!"
As Ompar had no doubt wished all along, the Kai turned and looked at him. "A test?" she repeated in an astonished tone.
"That's right," said Ompar. Having taken a position, he seemed to feel the need to defend it. "It's a test."
"Of what?" asked Winn.
"Their belief," he told her.
"Their belief?" The Kai made a soft clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth. "People and animals are dying, Ompar. What sort of test is that? What sort of belief is being challenged?"
He frowned. "With all due respect, Kai, I think you are overstating the situation …"
"With all due respect to you, Ompar, I believe I am giving a perfectly accurate assessment," Winn shot back. "There is some sort of disease out there. We've traced its origins to somewhere in the farm lands, but it's spread rapidly beyond that. More and more cases are being reported with each passing day … each passing hour, it seems."
She snapped her fingers with a sound like a rifle shot.
"And you're telling me this is supposed to be some sort of test from the Prophets? What are they testing, Ompar? The religious fortitude of our Rintas? Or the resolve of babies, perhaps? It's the babies that drink the most Rinta milk. They and nursing mothers. How is this test administered, and how in the name of heaven are we supposed to pass it?"
Ompar was silent a moment, and then he said darkly, "Perhaps … it is not a test, then." And then he paused before adding, "Perhaps … it is a punishment."
She looked at him. "For what?"
"I don't know," admitted Ompar. "Do you?"
"Me?" The Kai gave a derisive laugh. "You're asking me to come up with reasons to support your theories."
He gestured helplessly. "Kai … we must do something …"
She sighed. "I want you to do two things, Ompar. You are in a position of authority; it should be easy. First, I want you to track down the origin of this disease. Saying that it originated in the farm lands is not enough. I have been studying maps, tracking down all the information I can. As near as I can tell, the first reported instances of the disease occurred in the Paqu village. That would be Varis Sul's territory."
She paused, thinking of the aggressive and occasionally headstrong young tetrarch. "Check with Sul, find out if anything unusual was introduced into the village. Report back to me as quickly as possible, for as soon as I have some sort of useful information, I will be consulting with Captain Sisko."
"The Emissary?" said Ompar, making no attempt to hide his disdain. "This is a Bajoran matter …"
"These are Bajoran deaths," Kai Winn corrected sharply. "If there is any chance that Deep Space Nine can provide us with aid, then it would be unconscionable of me not to explore that option."
Clearly Ompar did not agree, but he saw that it was pointless to argue. After a moment, he asked, "And the second thing you would have me do, Kai?"
"Inform the government," she said slowly, "that we will be holding global prayer meetings. We will pray for strength. We will pray for guidance. We will pray for our doctors to discover a cure for this hideous affliction. And we will pray for the mercy of the Prophets. You will attend to that, won't you, Ompar?"
"At once, Kai Winn," he said, clearly quite pleased. Surprisingly, he seemed joyous, even uplifted.
The Kai looked at him. "All things considered, Ompar, you seem to be in good spirits."
"I was thinking we could use this crisis to pull our fractured people together. To refocus their energies in the direction of spirituality and worship." Ompar snorted. "I'm not saying anything is worth the life of innocent Bajorans … but if it leads to some degree of cooperation, of unity, perhaps some good will come of this after all."
"I see," said the Kai deliberately. "In other words, you hold with the Terran saying I have heard—about it being necessary to break a few eggs if an omelet is desired."
Ompar shrugged. "Cooking is not my strength, Kai. I will defer to your judgment on that subject."
Winn nodded and indicated with a gesture that he should take his leave—which he did quickly enough. This left the Kai alone with her thoughts.
Ompar's suggestion that the plague was some sort of "punishment" cut far more deeply into her than she would have liked to admit. For Kai Winn carried her own emotional baggage, her own guilt deep within her.
The Kai was supposed to be the personification of the religious purity of Bajor. She felt herself, rightly or wrongly, to be the standard against which all manner of religious matters must be measured.
She had done many things in the pursuit of consolidating her power. They had been done, she felt, for all the right reasons—or so it had seemed at the time. But now those decisions were coming back to haunt her.
Normally, she had utter confidence in what she did.
But now she was wondering. She was doubting. She thought in particular about the dealings she had had with the Circle.
But it seemed I'd done the right thing …
She thought about her actions in attempting to assassinate Vedek Bareil …
But I'd done only what was necessary …
Slowly, carefully, Winn began to examine, to scrutinize every action she had taken over her career as Kai. A pattern began to emerge in her mind. It was subtle, but it was there. A pattern, she now began to feel, that suggested selfishness. Power-grabbing. Wrongheadedness.
And was it beyond the realm of possibility that the Prophets were taking her to task for these things? That she had contributed to a sort of deep soul sickness within Bajor? That she had led her people into an abyss from which there might be no escape?
Looking out on the Bajoran countryside, the Kai prayed to the Prophets for guidance.
Unfortunately, if the Prophets heard her supplications, it appeared they were disinclined to provide any sort of response. Unless, of course, one considered death to be a response.
For even as the Kai prayed, Bajorans died—more and more of them all the time.
Captain Benjamin Sisko sat back in his chair, considered the blank monitor screen on his desk, and sighed.
He liked a great many things about his position as commanding officer of Deep Space Nine. But there was one thing, above all, that he did not like—and that was the paperwork.
The very term suggested arcane and antiquated practices, designed to blunt the mind and deaden the soul. Of course, paperwork no longer involved the use of paper, per se. That had gone out with the invention of the computer some four hundred years earlier.
However, the concept of the bureaucracy had managed to survive and Starfleet was as good an example of it as any. And there wasn't anything more bureaucratic in nature than the monthly report.
Of course, that was precisely the thing demanded of Sisko at this moment. If he waited much longer, he would receive a subspace scolding from Starfleet Command.
