by S. D. Perry
Chapter Sixteen
Although he’d assumed she would be seeking him out eventually—she’d already talked to everyone else on the away team—Vaughn hadn’t actually decided to speak to Deanna Troi until she approached him in Ten–Forward, a full day after they’d left the Kamal behind. He’d been enjoying the feelings he’d been having, and felt protective of them, not sure if he wanted them analyzed. He would not have sought her out, in any case—he had too many secrets to ever feel entirely comfortable around a Betazoid, let alone someone he’d known as a friend’s child—but since finding the Orb, he’d also felt open to trying new things. Like talking to a counselor.
“Elias. May I join you?” She stood in front of his table, a small one near a viewport where he’d been sitting alone, remembering all sorts of things. Outside, the Badlands erupted and shimmered wildly. Soon, they’d be on their way to DS9, leaving the plasma storms behind; he’d wanted to get his fill.
“Please,” he said, gesturing at the seat across from his, thinking that Ian had been a lucky man; his daughter had grown into a bright, intelligent, lovely person.
Troi sat down, smiling somewhat shyly, a touch of color in her cheeks—and he realized that she had probably detected some of what he was feeling. Only a few days before, his mind had been too preoccupied with feelings of self-doubt and confusion to feel anything clearly.
“Is it uncomfortable for you, to sense how others perceive you?” he asked, intuitively feeling that the question would not be inappropriate.
“That depends on who it is, and in what context.”
“How do you mean, context?”
Deanna grinned. “I mean, if they like me, I try to pay more attention.”
“Always a good plan,” Vaughn said, smiling.
“Does this mean I get to ask you a few questions?” Troi asked.
Vaughn hesitated only a second, thinking of how he’d been feeling since the freighter. Strange and chaotic, definitely, strong memories continuing to appear randomly in his thoughts—but not at all unpleasant.
“You can if you can tell me what I’m feeling right now,” he replied, honestly curious as to what she would say.
Troi took a deep breath, studying him. “Confused. Elated and uncertain. Contemplative. You are out of your emotional comfort zone, but not afraid, and…you’re still experiencing flashes of your past, aren’t you?”
Vaughn nodded. “Excellent, Counselor. And I assume you know why…”
“The Orb experience,” she said, and he sensed her excitement now. He could see it on her face. “It was very different for you than for the others.”
“Yes, I think it was,” he said lifting his glass of synthale, then putting it back down, not really in a drinking mood. “I had memories on the freighter, too, good and bad—but when it was over, when I closed the door on the Orb, I felt…”
He shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. It wasn’t so much a feeling as a comprehension, if that makes any sense. For just a second, I…I remembered who I was. Who I am. And just like that, all of my concerns and fears about the future, about my future—gone.”
Deanna nodded, looking pleased. “Yes. I can feel some of it even now. I don’t know that you had a pagh’tem’far—that’s the Bajoran concept of a sacred vision—but I think you definitely experienced a moment of clarity, catalyzed by the Orb. Perhaps because you were already questioning some aspects of your life, and you were open to a change of direction.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way, assuming instead that it had been a matter of his proximity to the Orb, but she was right, of course. Ironic, that a spiritually skeptical person like himself could have such an altering experience with a religious artifact.
Although there was that Linellian fluid effigy. The dream of small death when you touched it, followed by a brief, brilliant vision of swimming through milky-white waves… He’d been only 24 then, charged with returning the stolen container to the embassy, and hadn’t known that such peace could exist….
“These memories you’ve been experiencing—are they troubling to you?” Troi asked, watching him carefully.
“No,” he said, thinking that her perceptions were even clearer than he’d first thought. “A little distracting, perhaps, but nothing too terrible.”
Even as he said it, he realized that she, of all people, would know better. He smiled, shrugging.
“Nothing I can’t handle, anyway.”
Deanna leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly. “If there was anything you wanted to talk about, I could get a security clearance waiver…”
Vaughn felt a sudden fondness for her, wondering if she had any idea how impossible that would be for someone like him. The past was the past, but promises had been made, orders given that he could never set aside. There was a saying, something about aging tigers still having teeth…
…and it holds true for some memories. Several of those tigers still have very sharp teeth, and claws that could inflict serious injury… As long as they remained in the cage of his mind, there was no danger. He meant to keep it that way.
“Thank you, Counselor, but that’s not necessary. Really, I’m all right.”
At her slight frown, he thought again of how lovely she was, how compassionate, and suddenly recalled a clear image of an infant girl he’d held long ago, looking into her sweetly exotic eyes and feeling that his heart was so full it might cease to beat from the weight of his feelings. He concentrated on the memory, knowing that Ian Troi had certainly felt the same way when he’d first held Deanna, and was rewarded with another warm smile from the young woman.
“Of course you are,” she said, and stood, still smiling. “Thank you, Elias. I’ll leave you to your reflections.”
After she was gone, Vaughn turned his attention back to the Badlands, letting himself drift again. Whether it was a Bajoran religious epiphany, or a passing mind-set, or some spiritual, emotional truth that he had been destined to learn, it didn’t matter; he knew what he wanted, and knew that he would figure out how to get there as he went. He’d read a saying somewhere once, about how when you knew who you were, you knew what to do; it was more true than he’d ever suspected. It made him wonder how many people in the universe simply let their lives slide into some comfortable pattern, forgetting that they could do anything they wanted to do, that they could change direction if they could remember how easy it actually was.
Isn’t life a strange party, Vaughn thought, looking out at the raging storms and feeling as young and free as a child.
Vedek Yevir arrived early for the shuttle to the space station. His luggage was taken by a pleasant young man who saw that he was comfortably seated before hurrying off to attend to other duties. The young man—Kevlin Jak, he’d introduced himself as—said that the shuttle would be full, a contingent of Militia technicians having booked flight two days before in addition to a number of regular passengers. Remembering how boisterous Militia folk could be in company, even this early in the morning—he’d been one himself not so very long ago—Yevir settled into his chair and closed his eyes, taking the opportunity of his early boarding for a few moments of silent meditation. It would be his first trip back to Deep Space 9 since he’d left to pursue his calling, and although he felt mostly positive about his return, he was not calm. Even the reason for his trip could not dampen his excitement.
And why shouldn’t I be excited, considering what happened for me there? Behind his closed eyes, he remembered—the touch on his shoulder, warm and strong. The soft voice, ringing with truth. The sudden complete awareness of his own path, and the tranquility that had enfolded him, that had surrounded him ever since.
It was a story he’d told time and again, to anyone who wanted to know why he’d walked away from his old life to embrace the teachings of the Prophets—and it unfolded to him now like a story, almost as if it had happened to someone else. Perhaps because he’d told it so many times, or perhaps it was because his younger self was so very different from w
ho he was now that he could no longer relate to him. No matter; the story of his life was an inspiration, and one he was proud to own.
Yevir Linjarin, Lieutenant in the Bajoran Militia. A man barely 40 at the end of the occupation, his family dead and gone except for an aunt he’d never known, assigned to the small but industrious Bajoran off-world operations office on Deep Space 9. He’d been a minor administrator in a sea of minor administrators following the Cardassian withdrawal, his specific task to help relocate some of the thousands of Bajorans returning home—families and individuals who’d managed to flee before or during the occupation. It was gratifying work, he supposed, but he’d taken no real joy in it. He had been a lonely man, a man with plenty of acquaintances and no real friends, a man who ate his dinners alone. It was a gray life, not the constant celebration he’d promised himself all those years in the camps; it was the life of a survivor, who’d forgotten how to do anything but survive.
He’d had faith, of a sort, attending weekly services along with everyone else—but he’d never really felt or understood the nature of the Prophets, even after Benjamin Sisko had come to the station. His relationship with Them had been perfunctory, his feelings for the Bajoran Gods a kind of vague, mental appreciation; he likened it to the way some childless individuals felt about children—glad that they were there, but only because that was the appropriate response to children, whether or not one actually enjoyed them. The Emissary’s arrival was just another “prophecy” fulfilled that would make no real difference in his life, interesting but essentially inconsequential.
Except he was the Emissary…
One day, shortly after B’hala had been rediscovered, in fact, Lieutenant Yevir had been on his gray, unassuming way to the station’s Replimat for something to eat when he’d been caught in a crowd of his people—and seen light in their eyes, their faces glowing as they watched the Emissary walk among them, touching them, telling them what the Prophets whispered in his ear. Yevir hadn’t known the captain beyond being someone to nod to, but on that miraculous day, he’d seen and felt the spiritual power of the man for the first time. It had radiated from him like heat, like a thousand bright colors, and Yevir had understood that something was going to happen, something vast and wonderful. The Emissary told an aging couple not to worry about the harvest, and everyone in the crowd had known it was the truth—and suddenly, the Emissary had been standing in front of him, in front of him.
And he touched my shoulder, and I felt the power. “You don’t belong here,” he said, and I understood that my life was gray and wasted. “Go home,” he said, and I knew the truth. I knew that I would serve; I knew that I had been touched by the Prophets through his hand…and I left the station that very night.
The story went on—there was his newfound tranquility, and his acceptance as a religious initiate back on Bajor, and his rapid rise into and through the Vedek Assembly—but it was his contact with the Emissary, that single, life-altering moment of total reality, that was the point. It was as though he’d been awakened from a very long sleep, one that had lasted his entire life, and that he would be kai one day was only a natural extension of that rapturous moment.
Is it any wonder that I’m excited to see the station again? To see the people I used to know, to walk through the same places I used to walk, but to see everything through new eyes, through eyes opened by the Prophets’ love?
Just thinking of it, he was pulled from the depth of his contemplation, a slight smile touching his lips. He should enjoy his anticipation; pretending some distant calm he didn’t feel was unworthy. It was funny, how he still so often worried about how a vedek should behave—
Yevir opened his eyes, curious. People had been boarding the shuttle for some time, their shuffle and conversation faint to his ears—but as he tuned back in to his surroundings, he realized that something had changed. An excited murmur swept through the compartment, men and women talking in rapid whispers, smiling and nodding at one another.
Kevlin Jak, the shuttle attendant, was striding past his seat. Yevir reached out and touched his arm, not even having to ask before the young man happily chattered the news.
“The son of the Emissary has just boarded,” Kevlin said, his eyes wide and shining. “He asked the captain if he could sit with the other pilots in front—you know how modest he is, of course—can you believe it? The Emissary’s son, on our flight!”
“It’s a blessing,” Yevir said, smiling at the attendant, sure now that his decision to travel to the station was the right one. He’d had doubt, that to so directly involve himself in pursuit of the heresy might not be what the Prophets wanted.
This is a sign, a portent for the righteousness of my cause. His own son, returning from the ruins to share my journey….
Yevir closed his eyes again, praising Them, knowing Their wisdom in all things. The book of obscenities would be found and destroyed. The will of the Prophets would be served, in this as in all else.
Ro slowly walked the cool, quiet corridors of the habitat ring, deep in thought. She could have just as easily done her thinking in the security office, but something about knowing that the Jem’Hadar soldier was close by made it difficult to concentrate. She had Devro watching him at the moment, probably with one hand on his combadge and the other on his phaser, which was fine by her. She hoped he was scared; she’d had more than a few fights with the Jem’Hadar during the war. Letting one’s guard down, even when the soldier in question was behind a good, sturdy, planar force field, was suicidal behavior.
Of course, the soldier in question seems content to stare off into space and wait for Kira to decide his fate. Kitana’klan hadn’t said a word since the colonel had walked out, at least during Ro’s watch. Which was also fine by her; not only could she not imagine making small talk with a Jem’Hadar, her mind had been otherwise occupied. Even as strange and possibly singular as Kitana’klan’s sudden appearance was, the investigation into Istani Reyla’s death was still stalled, and she was finding it more and more difficult to think about anything else.
3, 4, 24, 1.5, 25… The scant information from Istani’s isolinear rod had become an endlessly cycling loop, underlying everything. It was like a game, one that wasn’t particularly fun but was entirely addictive: find out where the numbers go. There were three main processing cores in the station’s computer network, environmental controls were polled at level four once each hour, twenty-four variations of hasperat at Quark’s; the habitat levels ran one through five, and there were twenty-five personnel and cargo transporters distributed throughout the station. As soon as she found a place for each number, the cycle started over again—three spokes within three crossover bridges, four work shifts a day, and on, and on. It was tiring and annoying, and she couldn’t seem to stop; something had to fit and she knew she would find it, if she could just come up with the right combination.
After Kira’s peculiar conversation with Kitana’klan, Ro had spent several frustrating hours scanning recorded images from the station’s security monitors, trying vainly to trace the movements of the prylar and the mysterious thief. Thanks to the upgrades, the ODN lines for the monitors had been on a revolving track, the only constant surveillance on engineering, ops, and the Promenade—so while she’d been able to get clear images of the murder and subsequent “accidental” death, there were several time spans completely unaccounted for, most for Istani. She’d been on the station almost a full 52 hours longer than her killer.
And she spent a fair amount of that time in the habitat ring—but not all of it in her quarters, according to the reads from her door monitor. And there was no way to tell where, exactly. Of course. So Ro walked, counting her steps, counting doors, running through the few facts she had and theorizing wildly.
The killer had yet to be properly identified, a frustration unto itself. He had booked passage from Bajor under the name Galihie S., from the Laksie township just outside of Jalanda, and listed his reason for coming to the station as personal business—in
other words, shrine services. A lot of Bajorans came to be near the Prophecy Orb. His ID card was apparently a forgery, since there was no one at the Laksie township with his name—the Bajoran net listed 227 Galihies on-or off-world, only 17 with the given initial S, and every one of those were accounted for. The woman who sat next to him on the shuttle said he was uncommunicative and seemed preoccupied. And Dr. Bashir’s autopsy report listed him as a healthy Bajoran male, approximately 41.5 years of age, no distinguishing marks. He’d obviously worn an earring, probably for his entire adult life, but none had been found…and he hadn’t eaten anything for at least 12 hours before he died. Ro had sent tissue sample scores to the Central Archives, but with their backlog, it was going to be another twenty-six hours minimum…and that was assuming that he was on file somewhere.
So, Istani Reyla, an archeologist with a spotlessly clean history, came to the station with something valuable, perhaps even stolen, and she’d been chased by Galihie. Istani had been working at B’hala…although it was hard to imagine that a prylar would take anything from the holy ruins without permission. On the other hand, why would she have any dealings with someone like Quark, unless she’d been up to something less than legal? And why would Galihie S. have gone to such pains to hide his identity, unless he’d meant to perform some criminal act? Maybe the two of them had been working together, some kind of smuggling operation, a partnership gone bad…
22, 24, 25…
She was on level four of the habitat ring, corridor E, when the first glimmering of an idea struck her; she stopped in front of the next schematic she saw posted, scanning it. In the Bajoran alphabet, the analog of ‘E’ was the seventh letter; the fourth was ‘C’.
