“How much more?” I ask.
“Approximately 49.9 percent more, according to Jadzia's doctor at the Commission, Dr. Renhol.”
“That's quite a cover-up. Did Dr. Renhol tell you why the Symbiosis Commission kept those numbers from the public eye?”
“I think she imagined a kind of consumerist relationship between host and symbiont would develop. With the number of potential hosts far outweighing the number of symbionts, she believed the symbionts would become a prized commodity to be fought over rather than a privilege to be earned.”
Considering the Symbiosis Commission's refusal to even read Nulat Otner's application and their neglect of symbionts in reassociated hosts, the conceit of the Symbiosis Commission awarding symbionts to the most qualified Trill to protect the symbiont population is laughable.
The Symbiosis Commission appears more interested in assuring that the “right” Trill are joined than in preserving the lives of symbionts. The intrinsic value of symbiont life is cast aside for their importance in creating a nearly immortal Trill elite comprised those whose achievements, relationships, and biology meets the Symbiosis Commission's approval.
[Editor's note: Wow, Jake.
Author's note: Is that a good wow?
Editor's note: That's a very good wow.]
–
Having to wait for Jake to open the door really dampens the effect of Ezri bursting into his quarters, yelling, “Stop the presses!” But she does it anyway.
Nog stops mid-push-up. “Stop the what?”
“Nothing. It's an old Earth thing. From one of Julian's holoprograms.” She turns to Jake in his recliner, tapping away at his PADD. “Have you sent your article to your editor yet?”
“Yeah.” Jake watches warily as Lenara, sixteen Trill, and three elderly Vulcans flow through his cabin door. “I just got her comments back.”
“Damn. Is there any way you could convince her into including a different ending?”
“Considering my editor for this project is also my stepmother, I'd say I'd have pretty good shot. . . Who are all these people?”
Nog looks Sybok up and down. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” Sybok says.
“I swear, I’ve seen your face somewhere.”
Sybok narrows his eyes at the Ferengi. “No. You don't know me from anywhere. You have never seen my face before. In fact, I was never here. Now leave your quarters and do not return for two hours.”
Nog stands up and pushes through the crowd to the front door. “I'm gonna go.” He looks back at Sybok. “And not because you influenced me telepathically, because you can't do that to a Ferengi, but because something really weird and possibly illegal is going on here and I don't want to get in trouble for it.” The door swishes shut behind him.
“These are my friends,” Ezri says. “And they're going to win you an Intergalactic Peabody.”
–
The Symbiosis Commission portrays itself as the premier institute on the science of joining, but the secrecy necessitated by multiple conspiracies prevents the Commission from sharing fundamental information about joining with their own people. Trill, like Ezri Dax, have to look outside their species for answers, recruiting a trained telepath to study what makes some Trill capable of joining and not others. (Due to the controversial nature of their work, the telepath wishes to remain anonymous and will hereby be referred to as, “Vulcan Love Slave.”)
“From the readings I have taken,” Vulcan Love Slave recounts from an undisclosed location, “the half of the population that is capable of joining is born with negative telepathic qualities. By joining with the positively telepathic symbiont, they become telepathically neutral.”
“And the other half of the Trill population?” I ask. “Those incapable of joining?”
“They are telepaths.”
How could one half of a species be telepathic without knowing? As Vulcan Love Slave explains, telepathy amongst most Trill is deeply recessed out of necessity. With roughly one half of the population unknowingly projecting negative telepathic signals that irritate and even pain psi-positive people, telepaths unconsciously learn to dampen their abilities from an early age. Those who fail to do so stand out as telepaths and are often drafted into the Guardian program, like Chanu Xostro.
With training, Vulcan Love Slave argues, the telepathic half of the Trill population could become as strong and as skilled psionically as any Guardian.
“One half of my species is just a childhood mistake—one failure to learn—away from being sent to die in the Caves of Mak'ala,” Ezri Dax says. “I don't think any of us thought we were so close to the slaughterhouse.”
–
“Journalist wunderkind Jake Sisko crafts an incisive polemic,” Ezri reads aloud.
Avin Xostro shouts across the crowded bar, “For his age, Sisko manages to invoke a muckraking spirit from centuries past.”
“The multifaceted exposé may not leave you totally convinced,” Kasidy reads, “but you will be left far more suspicious than you were before.”
“That's the best we can ask for!” Lenara cuts in.
“'Who is Vulcan Love Slave?' may be the question of our century.” Nog glares over his PADD at Jake. “Tell me it's not—”
Jake zips his lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
Quark sets a root beer in front of Jake. “Another drink from the Trill at the bar.”
Jake looks around Quark's, every nook and cranny filled with happy, drinking Trill. “Which one?”
Quarks points to Ezri, who raises her glass.
Jake toasts to her and takes a chug that sends him coughing. “Does this have rum in it?”
“The Trill at the bar said not to tell your father,” Quark says.
Jake looks out towards the wormhole. “Somehow, I think he already knows.”
Chapter 14: Never Again Will We Live Behind Bars
“So, er. . .” Julian waits until he, Nulat, and Alexander are well are out of hearing range of the cafeteria doorman. “. . . exactly how authentic was that 'traditional Trill breakfast?'”
Nulat pulls a balled-up napkin from her pocket, revealing inside a half-chewed theyat roll. “Worse than synthesized.” She tosses the napkin into a trash can.
“I know as someone whose people eat gagh once a day I'm probably not the best person to be making this criticism,” Alexander says. “But did that songbird taste raw to anyone else?”
Julian nods. “Mine was still singing.”
They turn left into the dormitories’ main corridor, heading down to the transporter room. “Between this morning's breakfast and last night's racket, I'd say this place is threatening to overtake that Dominion prison camp as the worst place I've ever lived.”
“What happened last night?” Nulat asks.
“You didn't hear it?”
“Hear what?” Alexander asks.
“That damn scuffling going on downstairs. Woke me up around twenty-three hundred. I had one hell of a time falling back asleep.”
“I didn't hear anything,” Nulat says.
“Neither did I,” Alexander adds.
“Hmm. Must be my enhanced hearing,” Julian says.
“Or you could've been dreaming,” Nulat says.
Approaching the first security checkpoint for the transporters, Nulat, Julian, and Alexander ready their credentials, flashing their ID cards at the two Cardassian officers stationed at the checkpoint.
“The transporter is out of service,” the taller guard in a tight uniform says.
“Again?” Julian groans. “I thought you resolved this last week.”
“We apologize for the inconvenience,” the short guard in the baggy uniform says.
“Is there any way I can get to my work assignment?” Alexander asks. “My patient is due to deliver any day now. If I'm not there. . .”
The two guards confer briefly, heatedly, in Kardasi before the taller guard says, “A hovercar will be in front of the building to p
ick you up at oh-nine-hundred.”
“Thanks.”
“What about the rest of us?” Nulat asks.
“You have the day off,” the shorter guard says.
Julian waits until they are well out of the guards' hearing range to say, “Something's not right here.”
“What do you mean?” Nulat asks.
“Those guards aren't the same guards who were patrolling the area last week. In fact, I don't think they're really even guards.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, for one their accents are completely different than any other security officer employed here. Those two guards speak the northern continental dialect while the rest speak with a Cardassia City accent.”
“Since when do you speak Kardasi?” Alexander asks.
“I've been working on it since last week. There was an incident.” Julian looks back at the security checkpoint. “It's not just how they speak. Look at how ill-fitting their uniforms are. You know what I think? I think they knocked out two guards, stole their uniforms, and are now posing as security officers.”
“Julian,” Alexander starts, “I'm pretty sure that only happens in holosuite programs.”
“I know it sounds clichéd, but those men are not who they say they are.”
“Why would they pretend to be someone else?” Nulat asks.
“I don't know, but I imagine it has something to do with the noise I heard last night and the transporter outages we've been having.” Julian stops walking and grabs his two companions by the shoulders. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”
Nulat snaps her fingers, turning them into guns pointed at Julian. “I'm on it.” She takes off down the corridor back toward the security checkpoint.
“What is she doing?” Alexander asks.
“I have no idea,” Julian says.
In the distance, Nulat whistles loudly at the two guards and says something that sounds like, “You two know where an unjoined Trill can get a kanar?”
Alexander raises his eyebrows. “Theatre people are weird.”
–
“Ah, Leeta.” Garak closes the conference room door behind them. “How generous of you to meet with me on such short notice.”
“I'm just lucky I had the time.” She smiles artificially. “Thank you for clearing my schedule for me.”
“It was nothing. Come, sit. A glass of water? You must be dreadfully parched in this arid climate.”
“Water would be grand.”
Garak pours her a glass. “I'm terribly sorry the weather has become so unexpectedly hot. You and your charges must be melting away.”
“Actually, it's not that—”
“I hope you will forgive me. In the past week, I have done my best to keep you from the regions where the heat wave has struck most profusely, but since then the warm front has spread to Cardassia City. Had I known Cardassia City would become so inflamed, I would not have invited your group to come at this time.”
The corners of Leeta's lips turn downward. “Not that you mention it, the streets have been a little hot.”
“Almost as hot as Bajor during the summer of 2369.”
Leeta sets her glass down on Garak's desk, resting her hands on her lap. “Ferengi are used to cold, rainy weather; I don't think it would be healthy for my group to stay here much longer.”
“My thoughts exactly. Perhaps you could visit us again during the colder season, whenever that may be.”
“Perhaps.” Leeta stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I'll have the Nagus' personal cruiser here by tomorrow morning. Are there any special dignitaries who would like to visit Ferenginar?”
“I will let you know.”
“You have my comm frequency.”
Garak sees her to the door. “It was truly lovely seeing you again. I wish things could have worked out differently.”
“That's how life goes sometimes.” She shrugs. “Some weather changes are inevitable.”
The door swishes open. As soon as Leeta has cleared the entrance, Bashir bursts through. “What the hell is going on in the city?”
“Ah, my dear doctor. You're just in time for lunch at our favorite restaurant.”
—
Barely a sliver of light from the Cardassian noontime sun casts through the opening door when the housemates swarm around it, shouting their questions at Garak still outside.
"What's happened?" Lauren yells, as if she didn't already know.
"Has the government fallen yet?" Jack asks.
"Do we still have jobs?" Patrick asks.
With one powerful shove, Garak swings the door open, pushing Lauren and Jack along with it, trapping them between the door and the foyer wall. "I will tell you if you get out of the way." Garak stomps his way through Patrick and Sarina, taking a deep breath and—to Julian's amusement—straightening his tunic. "Now then. What has happened? A minor bout of civil unrest throughout the planet that is coalescing in the city. Has the government fallen yet? As far as I know, it has not. Do you still have jobs? For tonight, yes. But I wouldn't count on it tomorrow." Garak pats the sides of his head, assuring that his hair remains in place.
Either Jack or Lauren slams the front door shut (barely missing Bashir's backside) as they stalk out from behind it, suddenly predatory.
"Someone's upset," Lauren says.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Jack asks. "Huh? Isn't it?"
"You gave the northern continent everything they needed to foment an insurrection." She smiles at Julian. "Access to Federation ideals. Easily hackable and instantaneous transit to the city."
"The dormitory's transporters," Julian murmurs.
"You should be happy," Jack says. "Don't look a gift coup in the mouth."
"Are they saying what I think they're saying?" Julian asks Garak.
"That depends entirely on what you think they are saying," Garak says.
"As coordinator, did you design the volunteer relief program with the intent of inciting a citizen's revolt?"
"No. Of course not. My plans for the volunteer program merely contained a few elements that would gradually enable a transition to a more equitable government. That is all. Although. . . I must admit somewhere along the line the timeline became a bit compressed."
"A bit? As far as I can tell, the rebels have complete run of the volunteer dormitory. That's a government building, is it not?"
"It is. And one that should not have fallen into their hands so quickly. I don't know how they found an engineer willing to override the transporter protocols."
Julian thinks back to sweaty days spent digging wells with someone vastly overqualified. "I have a fair guess."
"Care to share?"
"Can you promise they won't be summarily executed?"
"By me, yes. I can make no promises for whatever government we will have next week."
"There's a woman at my work site who learned engineering from the military. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't know about her already."
"Yes, well. . . The Obsidian Order is not what it was."
"I don't think anyone will miss it," Sarina says.
"You're quite right," Garak says, lowering his gaze. "Operatives don't leave behind people who will miss them."
Patrick speaks up. "Are they going to execute you?"
Garak looks at him, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned in a reassuring smile weighed down by reality. "Not if I work quickly." He glances around the room at Jack and Lauren. "Although I am afraid I cannot make the same guarantees for your safety. I have, however, arranged safe passage off-planet, leaving tomorrow morning."
"If we leave Cardassia," Lauren starts, "can you guarantee we won't be thrown back in the institute?"
"No. I can't."
Lauren, Patrick, and Jack lock eyes for less than a second. "Then we're not leaving," Lauren says.
"And you two?" Garak glances between Sarina and Julian.
"I can't leave without knowing you—they will be safe," Julian sa
ys.
"If they're staying," Sarina says, "I'm staying."
"Very well," Garak says. "I hope you two will enjoy your front row seats to the further crumbling of our once proud civilization."
"What about the other volunteers?" Julian asks. "Will they be evacuated off-planet?"
"Yes. Not by the government, of course. Every resource is being allocated to quashing the growing rebellion—not that the State is even acknowledging the existence of a rebellion. Sufficeth to say I have arranged alternative transport for the volunteer corps."
—
Designed for use in shifts, the volunteer dormitories lack a space large enough to address the entirety of the corps, so Garak ends up standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the volunteers watch from the building’s front steps.
“I have some unfortunate news,” Garak says, through a megaphone helpfully handed off by one of the security officers. Or whoever is pretending to be a security officer, if Bashir’s theory is to be believed. “Due to the repeated transporter failures, all volunteer assignments have been suspended indefinitely. I know this is disappointing to so many of you, but I do have an exciting announcement that may console you. In gratitude for the excellent examples of selflessness and charity you have given the Ferengi Volunteer Program, the First Lady of Ferenginar has offered you all a trip to Ferenginar tomorrow morning, which is incidentally the same time the dormitories must be vacated for routine fumigation. I encourage all of you to take the First Lady up on this most generous offer and arrive at the city’s shuttle terminal as early as you can tomorrow morning to ensure your seat.”
Garak lowers the megaphone, scanning the audience for staff who clearly did not belong. (Julian was right; those uniforms fit dreadfully. No officer of the State would dare go out dressed like that.) Garak pointedly makes eye contact with each of them.
“Before we say goodbye,” Garak says, “I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your service. The work you have done for our fair planet cannot be overstated. As a man who grew up watching his mother—a maid born not too far from where we stand—carry crates of market goods on her back, haul delicate fabrics down into the damp cellar for handwashing, clean the highest windows and the lowest drains, I understand what it is to labor for so little reward. Our undying gratitude cannot even begin to repay the hours you have spent working to make Cardassia, if not as she was before, then perhaps better than she has ever been. As a man of the people—of my people—I thank you.”
The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 18
