The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1)

by ROVER MARIE TOWLE

  “Garak.” Julian sits cross-legged in the grass next to the rock. “Enjoying the sunset?”

  “As much as any Cardassian can enjoy the retreat of the sun. It seems sunset is the only time I can get out of the office to take in any sun.”

  “You should still keep taking your supplements then. Improper sun exposure can wreak havoc on the Cardassian immune system, not to mention the production of certain neurotransmitters.”

  “I'm well aware.”

  “You know.” Julian licks his lips. “You might have done a genuinely good thing for them by bringing them here. . . What I can't figure out is why you did it.”

  “I told you, doctor. All of our best people are dead. And since the Federation doesn't see fit to take advantage of an incredible untapped resource because of one minor, isolated incident—”

  “They tried to hand the alpha quadrant to the Dominion!”

  “—I decided to use what they won't for the good of Cardassia.”

  “So, you're outsourcing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the government is okay with this? Having humans on the payroll?”

  “Cardassia has found it easy to give up their species chauvinism when there isn't enough clean water to drink.”

  “Tell that to Kiltar,” Julian mumbles.

  “Who?”

  “No one.” Julian rests his chin on a flat corner of the rock slab. “You know, you could've just told me why I needed to wait.”

  “And you would've believed me? 'Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Bashir, but I can't take you to see my alleged hostages until Patrick picks out the perfect buttercream recipe. You understand.'”

  “Buttercream?” Julian's eyes light up. “Is the cake really going to have buttercream frosting?”

  “If their numerous trial runs are to be believed.”

  “That's brilliant. I love buttercream. Though I suppose they know that.”

  “They know. . . an alarming amount. Still—” Garak stretches on the rock slab. “—you have them quite nervous about what you'll tell Dr. Loews and Starfleet. Apparently, that is the one thing they can't predict.”

  “Right now, neither can I. But. . . if I find that they can have a home here—a real home, where they're safe and a part of society. . . then I could not in good conscience return them to the institute.”

  “You care for them.”

  “I'm a doctor; I believe the least restrictive environment is always best for my patients.”

  “You care for them.”

  Julian stares off into the Cardassian sunset. “More than I should.”

  “They have that effect, don't they?”

  Chapter 9: Better than Just You, Better than Just Me

  Ezri rests her chin on the cold, stony edge of the pool, watching the symbiont swim in its milky waters, jumping to the surface and diving back down, sending out electrical impulses with no one there to receive them. “I can't believe how big it's gotten,” Ezri murmurs.

  “Neither can I,” Lenara says, leaning her side against the pool. “From what I've been told, it can take years—even decades—for symbionts to grow this large. To see one mature so far in only a month is unprecedented.”

  “Maybe the holodeck is able to synthesize a more nurturing environment.”

  “Maybe. As far as I can tell, the program isn't plagued by the same nutrient fluctuations as the symbiont's natural environment—even with the Guardians tending to the pools.”

  “Or it could just be fat.”

  Lenara chortles. “Could be.” She glides her finger over the surface of the water. “Although I think it's far more—” The symbiont sends out a current and she yips, pulling her hand away.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine.” She rubs her belly. “It felt like—what's the human expression?—lepidopterans in my tummy?”

  “Butterflies in your stomach?”

  “Yes. A little fluttering.” She lays her hand on the spot where Kahn is joined. “Right here.” She ducks her head, hiding a half-smile. “The same feeling I get when I look at you.”

  Ezri reaches over, covering the hand on Kahn with her own. “Me too.”

  “I've never felt that before I—”

  “Ladies,” Vic calls, stepping down from the stage. Ezri pulls her hand away. “It's good to see you two in here. This might sound a little crazy, but I think the little worm is feeling lonely. Maybe you oughta think about getting it some company.”

  “That's phase two of our plan,” Ezri says, getting up from the floor.

  “What's phase one?”

  “Uh. . .”

  “You might want to work on that.”

  –

  Ezri folds her hands in her lap, smiling benignly at her afternoon appointment. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  Jake sits silently, slumped down in his chair, more the picture of the sullen teenager Jadzia saw on occasion than the self-assured young man Ezri knows. Kasidy speaks up for him. “There has been some. . . tension between us lately. We've both been reluctant to discuss the problem.”

  “Well, it's good you came to me,” Ezri says. “Tension within the family can be hard to address, usually because people are afraid of hurting their loved ones' feelings. But here we can talk about it openly in a safe, neutral environment. Now, Kasidy, when would you say the tension started?”

  “Uh, about a month and a half ago. Right around the time Julian left for Cardassia.”

  “And do you think this has anything to do with Julian leaving?”

  “No, if anything, it has to do with me spending more time with the Bajoran women on the station.”

  Jake sighs. “It's not that you're spending time with them. I don't mind if you spend time with them. I just. . . why do they have to bring food over all the time? They're acting like my dad is dead or something. He's not dead; he's coming back.”

  “They're just trying to be nice, Jake,” Kasidy says.

  “They can be nice without bringing over casseroles like we're in mourning or something.”

  “But aren't you in mourning?” Ezri asks. “Your dad may not be dead, but he's still not here.”

  “I don't know.”

  “Kasidy, what do you think about this?”

  “Honestly,” Kasidy starts, “I think Jake is acting incredibly selfish right now. The people bringing food for us know what it is like to go hungry. For years, many of them went from one day to the next not knowing when their next meal would be. The only thing that got them through that time was faith, the belief that the Emissary, your father, would be coming.”

  “And you think the Bajorans are trying to help you get through this time?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Look,” Jake says, “I know they're trying to make things easier for you—for both of us—but sometimes I have to wonder whether they're doing this because they care about us—Jake and Kasidy—as people, or just as the Emissary's family. And, honestly, I'm a little sick of being the Emissary's son.”

  “How so?” Ezri asks.

  “I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm not allowed to be sad or angry that my dad is gone, like people expect me to be some big religious figure who can handle all this stuff. But I'm not. I'm just a regular guy.”

  Kasidy barks out a laugh, hand holding her pregnant belly as she dissolves into chuckles.

  “What? It's not funny.”

  “I know, I know.” Kasidy wipes a tear from her eye, still giggling. “I felt the same way. I thought I had to be this strong, stoic woman like Ruth or Naomi. I thought that's what the Bajorans wanted me to be. But then they started bringing me dinner and trashy holo-novels and aroma therapy candles and mani-pedis.”

  Jake joins in the laughter, clearly relieved at someone understanding his pain. “What's a mani-pedi?”

  Ezri commbadge chirps. “Dax here. I'm in the middle of a session.”

  “Cancel it,” Kira says on the other end. “You're gonna want to see this.”


  –

  Once out of the sound-proofed confines of her office, Ezri hears the dull roar of chatter beneath her, coming from all sides of the lower level of the Promenade. She wonders briefly if there's another Bajoran festival she forgot about (the festival of. . . verisimilitude, maybe? That's a thing, right?), but her first look over the balcony reveals not Bajorans filling the Promenade but Trill. Hundreds of Trill. Of all ages and genders congregated in groups of twenty or less arguing, debating, looking over their shoulders expectantly as if waiting for something or someone to appear.

  Then it does.

  Or rather Ezri does.

  A man in the center of the crowd—whom Ezri has never seen before in any of her lives—points up to the spot where she's standing and yells, “It's Dax!”

  And suddenly the eyes of hundreds of Trill are on her. Ezri's entire body stiffens, frozen with shock and fear, all except for her right hand which gives a wave that’s awkward even by Tobin standards.

  With the crowd silent, expectant, waiting for her to say something, Ezri can hear the footsteps behind her and Lenara's muttered Trill invective as she joins her at the banister. “I am going to kill my brother,” Lenara says, smiling and waving at the crowd below.

  “Bejal?” Ezri asks. “He did this? How?”

  “From what I gathered between his pleas for forgiveness, Bejal told a few of his friends at the expatriate colony on Andor that you and I were considering—”

  “Oh, no.” Ezri grabs her stomach, reeling in spacesickness over the anticipation of where this most definitely is going.

  “—leading a political uprising. Those friends told some of their friends who told some of their friends and now—”

  “Everyone knows.”

  “Or, at least, the entire Trill diaspora.”

  “So, they decided to come here? Now?”

  “Apparently, someone chartered a transport vessel to gather Trill in exile across the quadrant.”

  “What do we do?”

  Lenara stares down at the throngs of people below, taking a deep breath. “Whatever we think Kira would do.”

  “Right. Okay.” Ezri takes Lenara's hand in her own, squeezing tightly. “Think Kira. Think Kira. . . we should probably go down there and not run away as quickly as possible.”

  Lenara squeezes her hand back. “That sounds like a plan.”

  They take off hand-in-hand to the spiral staircase, descending it to the main floor of the Promenade, where they are immediately mobbed by four Trill whose features indicate membership in four different ethic groups from four different areas of the homeworld that splintered off into the four major cultures of the diaspora: Rylanit, Gheryzanit, Manevan, and Kem'altan

  One of them—a middle-aged Rylanit woman—thrusts her hand forward. “Jihima Kif, Rylanitian Committee for Social Change, honored to meet you.”

  Before Ezri can shake her hand, three other hands are there waiting, belonging to: “Athia Trune, Manevans for Equality, so glad to finally meet you,” “Xiran Hanses, Kem'altan'ai Freedom Party, here to serve,” and “Yla Stro, Gheryzanita Center for Justice.”

  Lenara and Ezri scramble to get to each outstretched hand, greeting each with a muttered, “Ezri Dax, Deep Space Nine Council of [indecipherable mumbling]” or “Lenara Kahn, good to pleased to meet you.”

  “We spoke on the transport here,” Yla says, “and agreed that Deep Space Nine would be the perfect place to consolidate our power.”

  “That is. . .” Ezri starts, “exactly what we were thinking.”

  “Great!” Athia clasps her hands together. “My constituents will be pleased to hear it.”

  Ezri waits for her to leave, before realizing. . . “Oh, you want me to tell them. Okay.” Ezri backs up a few steps on the staircase and coughs, before projecting, “Hello. Hi. If we could. . .” The Promenade hushes. “Great. Hello. I'm Ezri Dax. Welcome to Deep Space Nine.” A whir of applause. “I've conferred with a few of your representatives and we've agreed that DS9 would be the perfect base of operations where we can, uh, where we can. . . Sorry. I don't really have a statement prepared. I didn't even know you were all coming until I stepped out of my office five minutes ago. It kind of threw me. I mean, one minute I'm doing family counseling and the next I'm staring down at hundreds of Trill, wondering, 'What are these people doing here?' Which I guess is the question of the hour. I mean, what are we all doing here? Why are we here? What do we hope to accomplish here?

  “I don't know about all of you, but my partner and I—we're here because, after several lifetimes, we've finally had enough. We've had enough of limiting who we love based on the fear of exile and the death of our symbionts. We've had enough of arbitrary and prejudiced rules deciding who has 'earned' being joined, as if symbionts were trophies rather than sentient beings. We've had enough of the Federation sitting by and doing nothing while our homeworld gets away with horrific, systemic discrimination that would be the cause for sanctions on any other planet. When it comes down to it, we've had enough of the Symbiosis Commission. And we think we can do a lot better without them.”

  “How?” a lone voice shouts from the crowd.

  “What?”

  “How can we do without the Symbiosis Commission?” The woman, a Manevan if Ezri isn't mistaken, steps forward. “We don't have a reserve of symbionts. We don't have Guardians to raise them if we did. As far as I can tell, all we do have is a lot of talk.”

  “We have a lot more than just talk. I can guarantee you that.”

  “Then what do we have?”

  “I can't say.”

  “Then I can't stay.”

  Apparently spellbound by the accidental rhyme, the crowd begins to chant, “You can't say, we can't stay. You can't say, we can't stay.”

  Ezri is losing them quickly, their need for definitive proof of the revolution's viability battling with Ezri's need for not publicly revealing a secret that could get her and Lenara carted off to the fifth moon of Trill Prime for the rest of their lives.

  “Listen,” Lenara yells, voice cutting through the Promenade. “You can't expect us to reveal every detail of our plan in public to people we barely know. Any one of you could be an informant for the Symbiosis Commission. We understand that you can't trust us on our word alone; we can't trust you on yours either. We need time before some of the more sensitive details of our plans can be shared with all of you. In the mean time, I think we have enough people now to properly establish a donor registry. If you are joined and would like to will your symbiont to a member of the resistance in the event of your death, line up on the left wall and Jihima Kif and Xiran Hanses will take down your information. If you would like to be joined with a willed symbiont, line up on the right wall and give your information to Athia Trune and Yla Stros.

  “If you've decided already that you haven't a shred of confidence in what we're doing here, then you are invited to leave.”

  The crowd soon divides into four more or less equal parts: those standing around chatting, those heading to the donor line, those heading to the recipient line, and those heading to the ticket agent to book passage for transport home. A quarter is more people than they can afford to lose. . . even if those people are behaving entirely unreasonably right now.

  “Hey!” Ezri shouts. “Hey! Yes, uh, thank you. Thanks. Um. . . I know you don't have a lot of reasons to believe in what Lenara and I are trying to do here. We're not revolutionaries; we don't have any experience in toppling over governments. We have no guarantee that this will work, that you folks aren't just getting your hopes up for nothing. I understand that. But if you can't believe in us, at least believe in Deep Space Nine.

  “This isn't just a space station. These walls have seen the victory of Bajorans over the Cardassian occupation, the discovery of the universe's only known stable wormhole, the unlocking of the celestial temple, the rise of a strong, independent Bajor. . . In Quark's bar, a nobody who no one believed in became the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar. Upstairs, in that conference room, t
he glory-seeking head of the Klingon Empire was deposed and replaced by a general half-blinded by the Dominion, born to a common family. I fell in love here, I got married here, I died here. But I came back and I fell in love again, because DS9 is about rebirth and second chances and people that everyone has forgotten about finally getting a place where they can be the people they were meant to be.

  “This is a special place that will change your life and the lives of all Trill. All you have to do is stay. Which, believe me, I know is one of the hardest decisions a person can ever make, but you will be rewarded in ways you can't even imagine. So, I'm asking you, please give DS9 a chance. You won't regret it.”

  The tide of people flowing to the ticket counter stems, trickling down to just three or four disgruntled Trill as the rest join the donation and recipient lines. Ezri breaths a sigh of relief.

  “Great speech,” Kira says, coming down the stairwell, “but where are we gonna put all these people?”

  –

  Lenara steps over a snoring Bejal and his tossing-and-turning wife, tip-toeing around her nieces and nephews giggling in the dark, before settling down on the pallet where Ezri lies awake.

  “On the bright side,” Ezri whispers, resting her head on Lenara's chest, “your family seems to accept our relationship now.” Above, on Ezri's bed, Lenara's mother starts talking in her sleep. “Of course, on the downside, they're all living in my bedroom until Kira can free up enough quarters.”

  “And then,” Lenara whispers, “at best, my family will move out of your bedroom and into your living room once those Rylanit find somewhere else to stay.”

  “Hey, I'll just be glad to have a clear path to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

  “Even if you have to share it with eight other people?”

  “I'm used to it. Tobin had twelve siblings and his parents were very much into that family bed thing, so this isn't that bad.” Lenara's father lets off a particularly ripe and percussive bit of flatulence. “On second thought. . .” Ezri and Lenara duck under the covers to avoid the smell. Ezri rolls her eyes. “The glamour of being a revolutionary.”