“Right. And then what you—she, your friend—has to do is come up with a set of specific demands or goals that will achieve that abstract idea.”
“We have that,” Ezri says. “They have that.”
“Okay, so let me hear it.”
“Well, they want the Symbiosis Commission to revise its policies regarding joining and reassociation.”
“And what else?”
“That's it.”
Kira shakes her head. “That's not a revolution; that's paperwork.”
“To you perhaps,” Lenara says. “But for Trill. . .”
“I'm not saying it isn't a radical or subversive idea, but you have to understand that successful revolutions are broad, idealistic, inclusive movements. If you want this to work, you have to move beyond what people say is possible—what the Symbiosis Commission says is possible.”
Kira starts pacing. “The first step to getting an occupying force out of power is getting them out of your head. Focus on the impossible. What are your wildest dreams for Trill society? What changes need to be made? What changes do other people want to be made? Who are those people? Find them. Get them to join you. Because if you two walk into negotiations with two demands, you'll walk out with one or none of them met. Any gains you'll make that way, will be by selling your soul.”
Kira stands still, facing Lenara and Ezri head on. “I'm not gonna sugarcoat this for you. You two need to toughen up, put down your PADDs and pick up some rocks, be ready to shed some blood for this.”
–
The door slides shut and Ezri crumples to floor with an overblown sigh. “So that was fun.”
Lenara walks around her, heading straight to the symbiont and her tricorder. “Kira certainly doesn't beat around the bush.”
“No. She wouldn't be Kira if she did.” Ezri stares up at Lenara's hands shakily holding the stasis tube and her tricorder. “Are you okay?”
Lenara shakes her head wordlessly.
“What's wrong?” Ezri scoots closer to her, rubbing her hand along the back of her calf.
Lenara fumbles with the tricorder, taking a reading of the symbiont. “I feel incredibly foolish for thinking this would be easy, for thinking six lifetimes of experiences could prepare me for this, when, if anything, they make this even harder.”
“I know.” Ezri gives Lenara' leg a squeeze. “Together, we've got seven centuries of conditioning telling us this is wrong. But we can fight against it. I know we can.”
“That's easy for you to say. You've got a little Curzon inside you. None of Kahn's hosts have ever been so. . . irreverent as him.”
“You're right. But none of your hosts have been field docents like Curzon or Jadzia.”
Lenara nods. “And none of my hosts have been head of the Symbiosis Commission like Audrid.”
“Exactly. We've both got a lot of baggage to work through. But we're joined Trill; we're used to that. At least, you are.”
“I know.” Lenara settles on the floor next to Ezri, setting down the stasis tube and tricorder beside her. “But there's a lot more worrying me than echoes from my past hosts.”
“Like what?”
“How far do you think we'll need to go to get our demands met?”
Ezri swallows. “As far as we have to.”
“That's what concerns me.”
“It may not seem like it now, but when the times comes, we'll be ready and willing to—”
“I'm already ready. I'm already willing. I have been since walked onto this station, and that terrifies me. I'm not. . . I'm not like Dax. I don't throw myself into another destiny every time the wind changes. I don't have your passion.”
“I don't know. You seem pretty passionate to me.”
“Yes, about you. About Nulat. About everything that is wrong on Trill. I've cared more deeply, more fully these past two weeks than I ever have in Kahn's life. And, frankly, I'm frightened of where that emotional investment will lead me.”
“You don't have to be frightened when you're with me,” Ezri murmurs. “I'm here for you. For whatever you need.”
“But what happens when you're not here? What happens when the Symbiosis Commission drags you away to the fifth moon for questioning? I won't lose you again.”
Ezri takes Lenara's hands in her own. “Then you do whatever you have to do to get me back. And I'll do whatever I can to get back to you. I promise.”
“I'm willing to do things—for you, for Nulat—that I'm not sure I can live with.”
“You'd be surprised what you can live with. If I learned anything from the war, it's that. . . . And that Vulcans make for great baseball players, but that's besides the point.”
Lenara smiles. “You're too cute, you know that?”
“I've been told so on occasion.”
“And so humble.”
“I think humility is the first thing to go when you hear someone say, 'Oh, Ezri,'” she moans breathily, rubbing her hands over her breasts, “'you're the best!' every night.”
“Then I guess I should stop saying that.”
Ezri leans forward, resting her hands on Lenara's thighs. “I'd like to see you try.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“For me?” Ezri drops a kiss just below Lenara's left ear. “Or for you?” And another below her right ear.
Lenara whispers, “For both of us,” before pulling Ezri on top of her.
–
Ezri rests her head on Lenara's tummy, both of them flush with sweat even on the cold floor. “So, who's the best?” she murmurs, tracing patterns on Lenara's skin with her finger.
Lenara snorts, her stomach muscles flexing under Ezri's head. “You cheated.”
“I won fair and square. You said it.”
“I was coerced. You threatened to leave me to a cold sonic shower.”
“Aw, you don't think I'd really do that to you?”
“I know you would. You've got a sadistic streak a hundred parsecs wide.”
“I'll show you sadistic.” She blows a raspberry on Lenara's belly, sending her into a fit of giggles.
“Ezri!” Lenara gasps, her head rolling from side to side. “Cut it out! Ezri. . . Stop.”
Ezri pulls away. “Are you okay?”
Lenara nods. “Look.”
Resting beside them, seemingly watching them, is the symbiont somehow broken free of its stasis tube.
“Oh my god.”
Chapter 6: A City of Strangers
On Cardassia, everyone rises with the sun, rejoicing in the warmth on their skin, the banishment of the cold night. Everyday starts with a celebration, a greeting of the sun, a reaffirmation of one's loyalties to the State.
Except in the volunteer compound, where mornings and nights have no correlation to the relative movement of the sun, but are rigidly scheduled and parceled out based on one's work assignment. The volunteers may sleep in the capital city, but their sleep patterns are localized to their volunteer site. Some people wake as soon as the sun sets over the capital to scarf down breakfast and transport to the other side of the world. Every hour, on the hour, another group is woken, dressed, inspected, fed, and transported away to a part of the planet where the locals rejoice in the rising sun.
Julian is fortunate; he and Alexander are assigned to a northern continental village at roughly the same longitude as the capital city. At the very least, his sleep schedule won't interfere with his investigations in the city, where Garak no doubt works and resides.
Even so, waking at sunrise is no party—no matter what timezone you're in.
“This has officially stopped being fun,” Julian says, watching a watery oatmeal-like substance drip off his spoon back into the bowl.
“It's not supposed to be fun.” Alexander chugs down a glass of something that might be orange juice, wincing at the aftertaste. “This is service.”
“Yeah, but aren't we supposed to be gaining valuable, life-changing experience? So far, all I've learned is twelve different ways to greet a gul.”
“Things should be better now that we're done with training.”
“Yeah, we'll actually get to start helping people now. Make a difference.” Julian puts down his spoon and gazes off into the distance (which, in that cramped of a space, is just a wall half a meter from them). “You know, for as long as I've been practicing medicine, I still get that same feeling deep in my chest when I've helped a patient and they look up at me like I'm. . .”
“God?”
“No, no,” Julian chortles. “Nothing so divine. An angel, maybe. Or a messiah.” He picks up his spoon. “I suppose none of your patients look at you like that, being Klingon and all.”
Alexander shrugs. “It's probably a good thing; we killed our gods.”
“Well, I imagine when we do get out into the field, you'll find our Cardassian patients will be much more grateful.”
–
“So, you're the Federation swine the capital sent to help us?” a woman spits, literally the moment Julian and Alexander materialize in the village square.
The citizens greeting the sun immediately stare up at them, some openly sneering, some muttering things in Kardasi Julian can't understand, all thoroughly unimpressed.
Julian manages a smile. “Yes. I'm Dr. Julian Bashir.”
“The mutant,” the woman says loud enough for everyone in the square to hear. “They sent us the mutant.” She looks Alexander up and down. “And you must be the Klingon half-breed.”
“Quarter-breed, actually,” Alexander corrects.
“Even better. A Federation pig and a Klingon targ.”
Julian steps forward. “Ma'am, I realize that you may not have the best opinion of the Federation or the Klingon Empire, but Alexander and I are here to help. Not as mutants or quarter-breeds, but as people.”
“How touching. And, as people, how much experience do you have treating Cardassians?”
“Seven years worth, actually.”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many Cardassians have you treated?”
Julian purses his lips. “Three.”
“And how many of them are still alive?”
“One.”
“And, you, boy, how many Cardassian children have you delivered?”
“None, ma'am,” Alexander says.
The woman turns away from them, addressing the crowd. “You see? This is exactly what I have been telling you. The capital has taken all the professional, Cardassian relief workers with experience for themselves and are sending us amateurs!”
“That may be the case,” Julian says, “but Alexander and I are still here to help any way that we can.”
“Really?” the woman says. “And you think your Federation ego can handle that?”
“Ma'am, in all matters, my 'Federation ego' takes a backseat to the health, wellness, and safety of my patients, specifically the people of your village.”
This is how Julian signs himself up for digging a well by hand in the heat of the midday sun. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“Need a break, human?” asks Limuk, the local engineer supervising the dig.
“No.” Julian picks up his shovel, thrusting it deep in the ground. “I'm just not accustomed to working in this kind of heat.”
Limuk chuckles. “You're lucky you weren't assigned to the southern continent. It's summer there.”
“This—” Julian foists his shovel out of the ground, throwing the dirt into a pile aboveground. “This is winter?”
“Yes. Can't you feel the chill in the air?”
“Are putting me on, Limuk?”
Limuk claps him on the back of the head, a typical friendly Cardassian gesture. “It is not our custom.”
“To mess with the new guy?”
“To tell him when we are.” Limuk takes Julian's shovel from his hands. “Take a break.”
“No.” Julian reaches for the shovel, which Limuk hides behind her back. “I'm fine. I can make it to midmeal.”
“Doctor, if you die down here, you'll contaminate the well.”
“Fine.” Julian laughs, pulling himself up and out of the half-dug well. He crawls to the shade, resting against a yucca-like tree. “How long have you been doing this?”
“This well?” Limuk sends a shovelful of soil to the surface, spraying Julian's face with a mist of dirt as it hits the pile. “A fortnight.”
“I mean, in general. How long have you been an engineer?”
“Thirty-four years.”
“Really? That's extraordinary. Where did you go to university?”
“I didn't. I trained on the job while I was in the military.”
“Is that common?”
“For people from this continent, yes. Most of the positions at the universities are unofficially reserved for legacies; you have to be someone's daughter to get in. The best shot people around here have at getting an education is apprenticing or enlisting in the military and hoping you'll be placed in the right field. The one engineer my village had was killed in a terrorist attack after she was conscripted to reinforce supply lines in Bajor. So, I enlisted and was lucky.”
“You served on Bajor?” Julian asks, trying to use as neutral terms as possible.
“Until the occupation ended. After that, I was discharged and sent home. With no more terrorists blowing up their own planet's infrastructure, the military didn't need as many engineers, and they certainly weren't going to keep me on the payroll when guls' nieces and daughters and cousins needed positions.”
"At least you got to come back home. Serve your people, mentor the next generation of engineers."
"For a while, yes. But then the war began and all of our young people were sent to fight and defend the Dominion. Even engineering apprentices. The Jem'Hadar required a lot of support staff to do their engineering work for them. I don't know why the Founders chose to make them all male; none of them were born with a head for science." Limuk looks up over the edge of the well. "No offense, doctor."
"None taken." Julian stands up, stretching. "I've been insulted much worse for being genetically engineered and. . . er. . ." He tries to think of a term to explain 21st century human racism to a 24th century Cardassian. ". . . for my lineage than I've ever been for my gender." He drops back down into the well. "So, I don't pay any misandrist slights much mind. . ." He grins at her mischievously. "But call me an Augment menace to society or a dim, and I'll thwack you over the head with that shovel."
Limuk elbows him playfully in the stomach. "Are you putting me on, Dr. Bashir?"
"It's not human custom to tell."
She cuffs him on the back of his head. "Get back to work."
He takes his shovel and resumes digging. "So what did you do during the Dominion occupation, if you don't mind my asking?"
Limuk drags her shovel over from the shaded area, pulling it down into the well. “Upkeep, mostly. Even before the Dominion started leveling whole cities, the occupation was destroying our infrastructure just by diverting resources to the war front.” Limuk gets a good shovelful of soil and throws it over her shoulder. “The Dominion promised prosperity for Cardassia, but not a single new building was built during the occupation. Everything that was there before they invaded started to crumble from neglect. I did everything I could to keep Tocat in tact, but during the last days of the occupation. . . We were lucky compared to Lakarian City, but our electrical grid is offline, streets are destroyed, the ground water is contaminated—”
“Contaminated?” Julian asks. “Still?”
Limuk nods.
“Then why are we digging?”
“Kiltar has devised methods of decontaminating the water. It's time and labor intensive, but it affords us more water than the monthly supply drops deliver.”
“Kiltar? Is she another engineer?”
“No. A chemist.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
"You already have."
"Hmm?"
"Ki
ltar was the woman who gave you and your friend such a warm welcome to the village."
"On second thought, I don't think I look forward to meeting her again."
"I'd like to say she'll warm up to you, but she's not the kind. . . She never wanted you people coming here in the first place."
"Why? Besides her theory that the capital is hoarding all the competent relief workers for themselves."
Limuk wipes a bit of dirt from her forward. "Kiltar is wary of having outworlders on planet, especially ones the capital invited. The last time that happened, things didn't turn out so well."
"We're not the Dominion; we're here to help."
"Just like we were there to help the Bajorans. Don't gape at me like that; I might have been a military grunt, but I never let my loyalty to Cardassia mask my perception of what was happening on the ground."
"Yet you continued to serve."
She shrugs. "I didn't have much of a choice. I could either rot here or learn a trade on Bajor and send my pay back to my family. Not that I was paid very much, but it was more than what I would have made working three jobs here."
"I imagine the Jem'Hadar could say the same thing."
"Of course. That's the nature of the universe. There's always someone with something you need who can make you do whatever they want to get it."
"It's not like that everywhere. I mean, it doesn't have to be that way."
"I find that hard to believe. These eyes have seen too much. . . But there are people—people who've never strayed far from Tocat—who believe things could change. Kiltar among them.”
“Really? She didn't strike me as particularly optimistic.”
Limuk stops working and stares at Julian, quirking her head to the side. “Why not?”
“Well, the only time I've spoken to her, she was standing in the middle of the town square, yelling about how awful things are.”
“What else would she be doing?”
“I don't know. Laughing, smiling, talking hopefully about the future.”
“Ah,” Limuk says, returning to digging. “That's where humans and Cardassians differ.”
“Just there?” Julian smirks.
“When a human is optimistic, he laughs, he smiles, he does a little happy dance—”
The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 6
