When they’d arrived at the winery, they’d all been assigned rooms in the wine-production facility, not currently in use as the summer fruit crops had not yet ripened. Fed had even obtained a blanket and bedroll for her before the others poached them all. Touched by his kindness, Rena had thanked him profusely, for the first time during the long day feeling relaxed and hopeful that the worst was behind her.
Until the present moment.
Rena was filling her water mug when she became aware of hot breath, sour with wine and hasperat, on her neck. “Little missy want to come over and join us for a game or two?”
Squeezing between the buffet table and the riverman, she politely declined. “I’m not much for shafa.”
“We don’t have to play shafa,” he persisted, trudging along behind her, hovering too close for Rena to feel comfortable.
Turning on her heel, she looked him square in the eye. She considered, briefly, whether or not she should play a round of shafa in the hope that it would placate her tagalong; he didn’t have a malicious air about him. But from appearances, they had more than enough players, including a few women who worked as servers in the rest-and-sip. Rena wouldn’t be missed. “No, thank you. Perhaps another time,” she said, smiling congenially.
“Look at her!” one of the crewman shouted, pointing. “She smiled at you, Ganty. She likes you.” This pronouncement sent the group into gales of cackling laughter.
“Get back to the game, Ganty,” Fed said, materializing by Rena’s side. Placing a hand on Ganty’s shoulder, he leaned over and whispered loud enough for Rena to hear, “I think Volvin is cheating. You’d better check your icons.”
“That reptile!” Ganty proclaimed, and tottered off.
She exhaled slowly, releasing tension that she didn’t know she had. Whatever remaining appetite Rena had was overtaken by exhaustion. Noticing this, Fed suggested she call it a night. No new word had come from the provincial rangers. There would be no traveling before dawn at the earliest. She received his suggestion gratefully—as she did his companionship when he walked her back to her closet room. At her door, she paused, studying the unusual man who’d been keeping her company. Besides his obvious good looks and genial manner, Fed carried himself with an earnest seriousness she didn’t often find in her peers. Who are you, she thought, and realized she didn’t yet know his name.
“So,” he said.
“So.” Rena took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes, and said, “We probably should exchange names. I’m Rena.”
“I’m Jacob.”
“Jay-cub,” she said, trying to reproduce the “uh” sound the way he said it instead of as an “oh” sound the way she was inclined to do. “Thanks for…for being my steward for the day.”
Jacob grinned at her, a mischievous quality in his smile.
Like an idiot, Rena grinned back. A nagging voice in her head reminded her that a bedroll and relative quiet awaited her, but her feet remained fused to the floor. “How does a human barge worker with a background in archeology learn to write fluent Bajoran?” Rena said, thinking aloud. She rested a hand on her cocked hip, tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not who I would have expected to find in this obscure corner of Bajor.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I consider myself more a writer by profession than a barge worker or an archeologist.”
A writer, too? Next thing he’ll be telling me that Kai Opaka’s his distant cousin. What was it with Jacob that piqued her curiosity so? Peel back one layer, find a fascinating discovery only to find yet another intriguing bit beneath the first. As much as she was inclined to sit and talk with him for a while longer, she knew she ought to be going to bed and she said so.
“I’ve got some work to do, first,” he said, removing a padd from inside his jumpsuit.
“A story?” she said.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You’ll have to let me read it.”
“If I can see your sketches.”
“Fair enough.” Impulsively, Rena leaned up and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, hoping he would know how much she appreciated his kindness, and slipped into her room without a second look. The sight of the duranja on the floor triggered a wash of guilt; she immediately regretted her parting gesture. I have nothing to feel bad about. I’ve done nothing wrong. I keep my promises, Topa.
She prepared for bed, stripping down to her chemise, cleaning her teeth and brushing her hair. Just as she was ready to dim the lights, she decided she ought to visit the ’fresher.
As she exited into the hall from her closet, she heard the boisterous shouts echoing from the ongoing “games” Ganty had been intent on her joining. She discovered evidence from their most recent visits pooled on the stone floors—wine, possibly urine—a few doors down from her closet. A chilling scream stopped her. Soundless, she stood and listened. The laughter resumed and she breathed easier, relieved that whatever had prompted the scream hadn’t been too serious. Nevertheless, she walked more swiftly, wanting to avoid any more encounters with Jacob’s inebriated crewmates. Turning the corner, she nearly tripped over Jacob, leaning against the wall, padd on his lap, mouth gaping open in sleep. Why would he be out here? He has a room of his own. This doesn’t make—
In an instant, what seemed to be random pieces clicked into place, especially his odd behavior at supper: Jacob’s reassurances to the contrary, her ongoing safety concerned him. Her initial disappointment at discovering the true motivation for his attentiveness quickly gave way to anxiety. She shivered, perceiving Ganty and the others anew. The sooner she could be asleep behind her own locked door…
Her door didn’t have a lock.
She slept in a seldom-used storage closet intended to house nothing more valuable that empty bottles and crates. If anyone for any reason wanted to get into her room, nothing could stop them—save maybe a self-appointed steward armed with a padd and a good heart. If Jacob had reason to worry, she ought to be worrying. Her heart slammed in her throat.
Rena turned back to her room, pulled her clothes on, and packed up the few possessions she had removed from her knapsack. The noise from the revelers grew louder, increasing her sense of urgency. Her fingers trembled as she fastened up her boots, her mind racing through her options. She had no idea where she would go—back toward the River Road, probably. It couldn’t be as bad as the rangers claimed it was. If she moved quickly, she could reach the bridge crossing to Mylea before dawn.
Hefting her knapsack onto her back, she turned on her heel to leave, spinning smack into Jacob. Startled, she jerked back with a shudder. “You scared me.”
“I’m going with you,” he said, bleary-eyed, obviously still fuzzy from sleep. “Just wait for me to get my gear.”
Rena shook her head. “I’ve lived in this province my whole life. I know the back roads and the dangers better than you do,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Without waiting for Jacob’s reply, she started off down the hall, going toward where she remembered the entrance as being. Unsurprisingly, Jacob was beside her within moments, carrying his own gear.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he said.
“How do you know?” Rena snapped, her nerves getting the better of her.
Taking her by the shoulders, he looked her hard in the eye. “I know we barely know each other and there’s no reason why you should trust me, but I need you to believe that I’ll help you get wherever you’re going. You’re facing treacherous weather and terrain and you’re at least six hours from daylight. You’re in as much danger out there as you are in here.”
She broke eye contact and slumped forward, the need for sleep aching in her bones. Heavy-limbed with exhaustion, she rested her forehead against his chest for a fraction of a moment. “Fine,” she whispered.
Jacob slipped an arm around her waist and propelled her forward. How they wound their way through the halls and stairs of the winemaking facility, Rena couldn’t precisely say. Once she heard the drumming rain and smelled the f
resh, stirred-up scents of soil and the esani she remembered seeing growing beside the main doors, she knew they had found their way. Renewed energy filled her. They stepped out onto the porch.
As Rena’s will supplanted her fatigue, she became acutely aware of Jacob’s hand splayed against her waist and the warmth of his body beside hers. She disentangled herself and stepped out onto the rickety wood steps, immediately losing her balance on the slippery surface. Jacob caught her by the elbow and helped her upright. As she straightened herself, she glanced up at the dusky sky in time to see beams of moonlight fanning through the mist.
Jacob was a nimble-footed traveling companion, Rena discovered. Swiftly, they moved in tandem toward the River Way, avoiding mud slicks and water-filled divots in the few paved spots. Occasionally, the saturated ground gave beneath their weight, forcing them to scramble to avoid a fall or an injury. Within a kilometer, Rena had settled into her traveling mode, in spite of the problematic terrain. The eerie wine-colored sky prevented darkness from eclipsing their path. Eyes drilled ahead, she glanced infrequently at him, wanting to avoid the intimacy she felt creeping between them earlier. Instead her gaze meandered from the Pah mountain range in the distance on her right, where the dark silhouettes of former volcanoes stood on the edge of the rocky valley floor near Mylea, to the tabletop-flat grasslands spread as far as the eye could see on her left, down to the Sahving Valley, where she’d come from.
The loamy scent of rain-soaked peat and the gingery perfume rising off the reeds and marsh roses saturated the air. She knew they would join the River Way shortly when she heard the rain’s steady hiss on the Yolja’s glassy surface as the river rambled toward the ocean, but Rena didn’t mind the weather. The sweater she’d knit last year proved sufficient insulation from the light rains. Rena imagined that Jacob, having spent time on the river, felt similarly. Up over a slight rise in the landscape, they would find familiar territory. She nearly wept with relief when they took their first steps onto the pathway paved by the ancient Bajora. Relieved of the burden of watching each step, Rena increased her pace to a gentle jog; Jacob followed suit.
As they drew nearer to the coast, sour marsh gases gave way to brine-tinged winds. The road no longer gently rose and fell, but instead sloped steadily downward. Bowed clusters of willow trees gave way to bedraggled shrubs, half-hidden by drifting sands. When white, water-polished boulders began appearing, Rena knew they would shortly arrive at the crossroads and the bridge to Mylea. She almost didn’t recognize the junction when she saw it, having never before seen the intersection marked with a placard written in both Federation Standard and Bajoran. Another sign of change, she thought wistfully, wondering if this road would feel the same the next time she passed through, or whether it would be the way everything else in her life seemed to be: transitional, shifting like the shore dunes.
Rena mentally calculated how long it would take her to reach Mylea after the bridge, especially without the barges to take them out and around the peninsula, then into Mylea Harbor. She didn’t care. She’d walk until she collapsed on the bakery’s front step. She raced down the roadway to the bridge, her legs nearly running away with her. The rushing river waters called to her, urged her forward…
“Rena!” Jacob shouted.
She almost didn’t see the collapsed bank in time to stop her from running off the ledge. Only Jacob, who had approached this last stretch before the Yolja with more caution than she had, had seen how the ground where the bridge joined the land had given way. As she stuttered to a halt, she tripped over a fallen tree branch and fell forward onto her face. The force of her fall split open her knapsack, spilling the contents, including her precious sketchbook, into a muddy puddle.
Her sketchbook. The only part of her university life she’d brought home with her. Her canvases, her paintings—all of them had remained behind in the student studio when she left school to return to Mylea. She left believing she would never see those artworks again, that symbolically, she needed to leave them behind if she were to truly embrace the path she was destined for. The only memory she allowed herself to keep was her sketchbook. Now she watched the dirty water soak the pages through, irrevocably destroying months of charcoal, pastel, and pencil memories. She beat her fists against the ground, teeth clenched. Though she felt that remaining in her prostrate position fit her circumstances, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, pulled her legs up into a kneeling position, finally righting herself by the time Jacob reached her. Tersely, she brushed aside his offers of assistance, ignoring the smarting cuts and bruises on her knees and forearms as she paced.
Cursing, she screamed at the sky, screaming as if she believed that the Prophets themselves could hear her, demanding they hear her. “I’m doing what you asked! I walked away from my life to follow the path laid out for me! Do you hear me?” She stamped her foot angrily, her hands balled into fists. “If I am submitting to all the demands placed on me—all of them!—why can’t you make it easier? Do you hear me, dammit?! Answer me! Send your Emissary or your Tears, but answer me!” Rena continued screaming her diatribe until she was hoarse, her throat sore from exertion. The storm’s tempo picked up, and soon she was soaked through.
Throughout her display of temper, Jacob had stood off to the side, leaning against a road marker and respectfully averting his eyes from Rena. Abruptly, he took a few long steps forward, pointing at the river. “There’s something out there—I can see the light on the bow.”
“They’ll never see us through this storm,” Rena said, coughing. Heavy with discouragement, miserable from cold, she could see no way out of their predicament; she plopped to the ground, prepared to spend the night in the downpour.
Not to be dissuaded by her negativity, Jacob unfastened a pocket on his gear bag, fished around, and removed a wristband with a small circular object mounted on top where a chrono face would be. He thumbed a switch and a brilliant light beam burst out of the side. Holding the light before him like a signal beacon, he ran down as close as he could to the riverbank, trying to draw the attention of the boat. Minutes passed. Then: “It’s changing course! Rena! You can go home!” He let loose a loud whoop of joy.
In spite of all that had gone wrong, Rena couldn’t help smiling. Steward, indeed.
8
Girani
As she marched toward the examination room, Dr. Girani Semna suspected that one thing she wouldn’t miss about working in Deep Space 9’s infirmary was all the Cardassian instrumentality. Most of the medical staff had grown accustomed to it over the years, herself included. Her patients—the Bajorans, particularly—were another matter. They tended to become uncomfortable in this place, beyond their natural aversion to going to see a doctor at all. Despite the fact that the entire station shared the same design elements and seemed no longer to trouble most of the residents, the infirmary made them particularly uneasy. All things considered, that was no surprise. This was, after all, where they felt the most vulnerable.
Her newest patient, she suspected, was going to be no exception.
“Commander Vaughn,” she said as she entered the exam room. “What an unexpected pleasure this is. How nice of you to drop by.”
Keeping his arms tightly folded over his exam tunic, Vaughn said, “Spare me the sarcasm, if you please, Doctor, and let’s get this over with. I have duties awaiting me.”
Girani snorted as she prepped a mobile standing console near the biobed. “Now, Commander, you’re not suggesting your duties should interfere with the execution of mine, are you?”
Vaughn smiled at her appreciatively, and she knew she’d scored a hit. “Where would you like to begin?”
“The usual way. Just lie back on the biobed and breathe normally while the medical scanners take a read.”
Vaughn complied. Girani keyed the exam program to commence, and the ceiling-mounted diagnostic array hummed to life. A narrow stripe of blue light slowly crept back and forth over Vaughn’s body. While he lay staring up at the array, he said, “I u
nderstand you’re leaving us.”
“That’s right.”
“If it isn’t too forward of me…may I ask why?”
Girani shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time. And with the station becoming all-Starfleet, it seemed like a good time to make a clean break.”
“Have you considered staying aboard—joining Starfleet?” Vaughn asked. “I know you’ve been an asset to the station since before I joined the crew. Everyone here thinks very highly of you, especially Dr. Bashir. Your application would likely sail through.”
Girani blinked. This was the last thing she expected. “That’s kind of you to say, Commander,” she told him.
“Is it something you’d be open to?”
Girani hesitated. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way…but joining Starfleet simply doesn’t interest me. I find my service in the Militia very fulfilling, and I want to continue it. I can still do that on Bajor. Besides, with so many of my people switching over as it is, the Militia needs experienced officers now more than ever.”
A frown crossed the commander’s features. “Does it concern you? The migration of so many Militia personnel?”
“Concern me?” Girani shook her head. “No, it’s the logical evolution of Bajor’s relationship to the Federation. It only stands to reason that some Bajorans will welcome the opportunity to serve in Starfleet, while others choose to stay with the home guard. Both are important to Bajor, after all.”
Vaughn seemed to appreciate hearing her take on the subject. She wondered if he was encountering some bitterness about the changeover down on the planet.
Girani began to check the current scans against Vaughn’s medical file, displayed on a nearby monitor. “Oh, before I forget…happy birthday, Commander.”
Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine® Volume Two Page 28
