Rachel toddles across the meticulously child-proofed sitting room, settling down beside a highback chair to fuss with Jake’s shoelaces.
“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Julian says.
“I know. It all goes by so fast. It’s hard to believe that she was born in this house nineteen months ago—or however long it’s been on Cardassia.”
“One year and two days.”
“Oh, we should have came earlier. We all could’ve had a little Cardassian birthday party for her.”
“You didn’t miss much. Typically, Cardassians don’t celebrate on the day of their birth.”
“I should’ve figured Cardassians wouldn’t throw birthday parties.”
“No, they do. They’re just never held on their actual birthday. You see, traditionally, the anniversary of one’s birth is meant to be spent in quiet contemplation over one’s changing role as a citizen. The day after is spent honoring one’s parents. And the day after that is when the birthday party is held.”
“So, two days after the birthday?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“You don’t have anything planned, do you? Because I’ve put you out enough with all the extra guests tagging along.”
“It’s fine; don’t worry about it. I was just a little surprised earlier.” Julian stretches his legs out in front of him on the carpet, reclining back on his elbows. “As for any Cardassian birthday parties that may or may not be in the works, you really ought to be talking to Jack, not me. After all, I’m not Rachel’s godfather.”
“Still bitter, Bashir?”
—
“I’m not surprised I didn’t win,” Jake says, keeping an eye on Rachel playing with his shoelaces.
(She’s at the age now where anything is fair game to be stuck in her mouth, her nose, her ears. Ezri hopes this is just normal human curiosity that Rachel will grow out of and not a Torias-type fixation. It took perforating an eardrum with a self-sealing stembolt for Torias to stop jamming objects in every hole in his head for the amusement of others. As Ezri recalls, it wasn’t so much the pain or the blood or the temporary hearing loss that made Torias kick the habit, but rather having to explain to a doctor why he, a twenty-four-year-old graduate student of Trill’s most prestigious physics program, shoved a stembolt in his own ear. That conversation seemed to put things in perspective for Torias.)
Jake continues, “The Flamel Prize is basically the Carrington Award of journalism. No one who’s been in the field for less than half a century even has a shot at winning.”
“Still,” Ezri says, “it must’ve been nice to be nominated.”
“Yeah.”
“Perhaps you would have won if your topic was more interesting,” Worf says.
“Sorry you found the liberation of my people so dull,” Ezri says.
“I did not say it was ‘dull.’ I simply meant that Jake’s next article might make a better impression on the nomination committee if it featured a stronger central character: a hero, one of an honored legacy fighting against terrible odds to win glory and honor for themselves and for their people. Someone like Alexander.”
Ezri chuckles, softening at Worf’s earnest pride in his son. “If you think Alexander’s such an epic figure, why don’t you write him a poem or something?”
Worf stares at her, agog. “A Klingon father does not write his son a poem.”
“Are you sure?” Ezri smiles mischievously. “Because I think it would mean a lot to him.” Ezri sits up in her chair, looking across the room to the corner where Alexander, Lenara, and Ambassador Troi watch Nulat give little Barin Troi an impromptu rian’kora lesson. “Hey, Alexander,” she calls.
“Dax!” Worf hisses.
“Your father—”
“No, do not—”
“—wants to—”
“I am an ambassador for the Klingon Empire and I demand that you—”
The lights turn off, saving Worf from any further embarrassment as the room fills with the harmonic buzz of a pitch pipe, followed by perhaps the loveliest rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” Ezri has heard since Marilyn Monroe visited Vic’s.
With the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, the dimmed lights obscure little, acting more as a formality in a human tradition Dax rather enjoys.
Joseph wheels out a two-tiered cake topped with one glowing candle. Jack, Patrick, Sarina, and Lauren flank him, singing so intimidatingly well that only Lwaxana dares join in. (She is, unsurprisingly, not a very good singer.)
When the song ends, Jake holds Rachel up to blow out the candle, telling her to make a wish. After a few puffs, the flame flickers out and—
A light brighter than white envelops the room for a half-second, like the flashbulb of an old camera, and fades away.
Ezri panics just for a moment, thinking some kind on neutron bomb detonated in the city.
And then she sees.
“Ben!” Kasidy gasps.
Benjamin is wrapped in hugs on all sides from his father, his wife, his son, a daughter he’s never met, and a particularly hands-y stepmother.
Even as he grips his family tight (with the exception of Lwaxana), Ben glances around the room, completely disoriented. He looks to Dax, a constant in his life for decades now. “Where am I?”
“Cardassia,” she answers.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not,” Garak says. “Although I’m sure the religious and socio-political repercussions of your reappearance on our shores will be most dire, I’d like to think the look on Colonel Kira’s face when she finds out will be of some, small consolation.”
Ben sighs. “I hadn’t even thought of how much this would upset the Bajorans.”
Ezri smiles. “Maybe next time you leave linear time, you’ll reappear in a more considerate location.”
Ben kisses the top of Rachel’s head. “Oh, I’m not leaving again. The Prophets couldn’t drag me away if they wanted to.”
Ezri smiles at Lenara across the room. “I know the feeling.”
More books are Coming Soon in the Series
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE: LONDON CALLING
The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 26
