by S. D. Perry
So I’m at 4, 7. Istani could have meant Level 3, corridor C. Three and four, and…something between the 24th and 25th sets of rooms? It was simple, undoubtedly too simple, but she found herself jogging back for the turbolift, anyway, silently urging it to hurry after she pressed the call button.
It was ridiculous for her to get her hopes up, but as she stepped off the turbolift on three and walked quickly along C, she hoped anyway. She’d been overthinking the numbers, trying to make a complicated code out of what may have been Istani’s simple reminder to herself.
Even as she reached the rooms, she knew that she’d figured it out. Running the entire distance between the designated doors were a series of small removable maintenance panels, angling up from about a half meter off the floor to about a half meter from the height of the corridor. Environmental control overrides, for the quarters on this level.
Tense but exhilarated, Ro measured up what she imagined to be a meter and a half from the floor, the most obvious application of 1.5, and popped the panel loose. Behind the narrow rectangle was a circuit insert next to an empty space, room to reach in and manipulate the wires. There was nothing else—but there was something behind the panel directly to the left of her first choice. The dark bundle stuffed behind the panel was perhaps the most welcome sight she’d seen in a long time.
I did it, I figured it out! She felt deeply satisfied, almost giddy with it.
She considered running back to the office for a tricorder for about two seconds, then reached in and carefully pulled the bundle free; if it was a bomb or equivalent, she would at least die having solved the mystery. Narrow and weighty, about the size of two padds side by side, the object was wrapped in some kind of pounded fiber cloth.
Grinning, Ro looked up and down the corridor, wishing there was someone to share her excitement with before she unwrapped the package. It was a book, and a very old one, practically falling apart. The thick, leathery covers were pitted and stained, but unmarked by writing. She turned it over in her hands, brushing at the soft covers, noting the uneven ruffle of aged parchment pages sticking out.
This is from B’hala. It was too old to have come from anywhere else. In spite of her general agnosticism, Ro felt a tiny thrill, aware that she was handling something probably thousands of years old. She carefully opened it, a faint scent of cool dust emanating from the tattered but sturdy root-paper pages…and frowned, disappointed. Even to her untrained eye, she could tell that it was written in ancient Bajoran.
Well, obviously. It didn’t matter, anyway. Although a few of the particulars had yet to be resolved, she now held the reason for Istani’s murder in her hands, she was sure of it.
Except…why had Istani hidden the book, unless she’d thought someone would come after it? Ro turned a few of the uneven pages, saw that many were loose, and that others had been ripped out or lost to time. While it might be historically valuable—though considering the hundreds of artifacts being uncovered every day at B’hala, even that seemed unlikely—the shabby tome couldn’t be worth much as a collector’s piece, no matter how old it was.
Maybe it’s the text itself that’s valuable. A bizarre thought; anyone could copy words out of a book, or even replicate the thing. So what was so important here that two people had died for it?
Ro closed the age-worn covers and rewrapped the book slowly, thinking about her promise to Kira. About going to her as soon as she turned anything up.
But really, I don’t know what I’ve got here. It could be a book of recipes, for all I know—and Kira will have it translated, anyway….
There had to be a translation program somewhere in the station’s network; Captain Sisko had been the Emissary, after all, supposedly off living with the aliens now, and he’d spent a fair amount of time playing around with the Bajoran religion. The discovery of B’hala was even attributed to him. If she told Shar that the book was part of her investigation, which it was, and asked him to pass it quietly through the system…
…I could take the translated text to the colonel. I wouldn’t be breaking any promises, just running a thorough investigation.
Her mind made up, Ro tucked the book under one arm and went to find Shar, sure that she could count on his discretion—and feeling quite pleased with her resourcefulness. She’d found the answer to Istani’s death; now, all she had to do was figure out what it meant.
Chapter Seventeen
“So…what’s up, Doc?”
Vic was smiling as though he’d told a joke, and Bashir smiled back at him, having learned a long time ago that asking the lounge singer to explain himself usually wasn’t worth the effort, his references period-specific and occasionally unimaginable. Bashir liked hearing them regardless, charmed by the “hip” sound of each alien allusion.
They sat together at one of the small tables near the stage, Bashir drinking tea, Vic drinking something he called cuppajo that smelled very much like coffee. It was morning, the lounge empty except for a handful of casino workers at the bar who had apparently just finished their shifts. Bashir had been relieved to see that Vic was up so early; since his program had gone full-time, there was always the risk now of waking him up, or finding him preoccupied with something else.
“Lots of things, I suppose,” Bashir said, noting that his friend was making a point of not asking outright the reason for his early visit—as if he didn’t already suspect. Vic Fontaine was remarkably tuned in to people when it came to relationships, particularly romantic ones, but he also didn’t interject without being asked. The hologram was special, and not just because he was self-aware, or could transfer his matrix into other programs at will; Vic Fontaine knew about women and what they wanted, he knew how a man’s heart worked, and he was willing to share his thoughts on either subject without seeming didactic.
Vic sipped at his cuppajo. “I guess so. A few people who came to last night’s second set were telling me that one of those Jem’Hadar goons turned up. Bad pennies, you know?”
Bashir nodded, although he had no idea. Mid-twentieth century Earth was a complicated time. “Yes, one did, and he made some fairly amazing claims. Ezri is assessing him even as we speak, to try to see if he’s telling the truth.”
“Because of all that Starfleet investigation hubbub, right,” Vic said. “It was the first thing I heard about when we came back on, after the power short. That and the Aldebaran, those poor kids.”
Bashir started to ask who’d told him, but since Vic could access the station computer without much trouble, he’d probably just tapped in to see what was happening after his program had blinked. Vic was definitely exceptional. Even Miles hadn’t been able to figure out how he worked, not entirely.
Bashir nodded again, thinking about how to start the conversation he wanted to have, thinking about his and Ezri’s discussion the night before. They had both apologized, but hadn’t talked any further about the incident itself—
“So, doll-face is running the talking cure with a Jem’Hadar,” Vic said, casually leaning back in his chair. “That’s quite a gig. Say, you two still making the music?”
Bashir had to smile at the man’s seemingly innocent segue, matched by a guileless expression. “I think so,” he said. “Things are good, overall…but I guess you could say we’ve run into a bit of dissonance.”
“Stepping out bad?” Vic asked, frowning.
Bashir shook his head, not sure. “Ah, hurt feelings bad.”
“Yours or hers?”
“Both. We were—there was a problem, and she didn’t seem to care about how it affected me, and I got angry about it.”
Vic ran a hand through his silver hair, his handsome features set in an exaggerated wince. “Ouch. You make it up to her yet?”
Bashir sighed. “Yes. We both apologized…but we haven’t really resolved the issue. I started to bring it up, but she changed the subject. We’re having dinner tonight, though, and I thought I might try again.”
Vic drank more of his beverage, a thoughtful look on
his face. “Sometimes things don’t get resolved until you’re ready to resolve them, pallie. And even then, they don’t always shake out the way you expect.”
Bashir wasn’t so sure he liked the sound of that. “You think she doesn’t want to work this out yet?”
The singer grinned brilliantly. “Hey, you make it sound like a bad thing. The beauty of the long-term is that you get some elbow room, a little time to breathe—and taking it doesn’t have to mean you’re ready to call it quits.”
Bashir nodded slowly, accepting the information and feeling better. Vic had a way of quickly uncovering the core of a problem; Ezri just needed some time to herself. That was fair, wasn’t it?
Fair to her, since I’m the one who doesn’t know what’s going on.
The spurt of petty anger surprised him by its intensity, and he decided immediately that it was juvenile—but he couldn’t entirely discount it. As much as he wanted everything to be good again, there was a part of him that felt disregarded. And childish or not, he was angry that she hadn’t noticed.
I’m sorry and angry. And I want to fix it, but I don’t.
“Crazy thing, love,” Vic said. “All kinds of twists and turns, a real Coney ride.”
Bashir thought he could grasp that one from context.
…and considering the subject’s doubtful ability to experience guilt, the computer’s interpretation of frictive patterns and syllabic emphasis points can not be relied upon to detect truthfulness (extension subtext 4).
In short, beyond the brief personal history he supplied upon request (extension subtext 2), I am unable to offer any information about Kitana’klan that he has not volunteered, or that isn’t already widely understood about the Jem’Hadar’s cultural psychology….
Wonderful. She hadn’t really thought that Ezri—or any counselor—would be able to figure out whether or not the Jem’Hadar was trustworthy in a single session, but Kira had hoped, regardless. Sighing, she scanned the rest of Ezri’s summary, seeing pretty much what she expected—until they knew more, they couldn’t know what to do with him. Ezri did suggest that he be moved to a secure area other than the holding cell, pointing out that even such a small extension of trust might help things along later. Assuming he was telling the truth.
Kira dropped the padd on her desk and rubbed her eyes, wishing she knew what to do about their surprise guest. Not so much what to do—putting him in one of the reinforced cargo bays, under guard, and letting Ezri work with him was a plan, at least until Admiral Ross showed up—as what to think. If only Kitana’klan had managed to hang on to that transmission chip from Odo—
“Nerys?”
Startled, Kira looked up—and saw a tall, dark-haired vedek standing in the doorway, smiling at her with an easy familiarity. He looked so different that it took her a second to place him, even though they’d worked together for a couple of years. Yevir Linjarin.
“Yevir—Vedek Yevir,” she stumbled, and stood up, grinning. It was strange to see him wearing the robes, but they suited him. He looked tanned and healthy, and beamed with that inner radiance that so often accompanied late faith. She’d heard the stories after he’d left the station, and could see now by his open, glowing face—so different than the solemn Yevir she’d known—that he had truly been Touched.
“Please, Yevir will do just fine,” he said. “It’s what you always called me. May I come in? If you’re busy…”
“No, not at all,” she said, stepping around her desk to greet him. He must have come in on the early shuttle, which had docked only thirty minutes ago. “It’s so good to see you!”
He opened his arms, and Kira embraced him readily, vaguely amazed to find herself hugging Yevir Linjarin. The man she remembered had been pleasant enough but extremely reserved, even awkward. It was good to see him; she didn’t know that she had ever felt really close to him, but she had considered him a friend. And at the moment, she could use a few friends—and cynical though it made her feel, she couldn’t help but think of his political standing. Reestablishing contact with a man favored to be kai someday—perhaps soon—could be beneficial for the station.
She stepped away, motioning for him to join her at the long, low couch at the office’s far corner. “So, what brings you back to DS9?”
Yevir smiled, dropping comfortably onto the padded bench. “Part business, part pleasure. I don’t know if you were aware of it, but I’m with the Vedek Assembly now—” At Kira’s nod, he continued. “—and with everything still so unsettled on Bajor—politically, I mean, with the First Minister still on Earth, and no kai, and the government caught up with the Cardassian aid project…well, I suppose you could say the business aspect of my visit is to see how things are going here, at least on behalf of the Assembly.”
He gazed at her sorrowfully now, and with great empathy. “We were all shocked and saddened by the news of the attack, of course…and by the death of Istani Reyla. It must be a difficult time for you.”
Kira nodded again, not sure how to respond. For the depth of the friendship they’d had, she didn’t feel right discussing her personal feelings. But he was a vedek now, and from all accounts, an inspired one. Even sitting close to him, she could feel a kind of spiritual electricity emanating from him, as though his pagh was too vast to be contained.
Like Benjamin, after the pagh’tem’far that led him to B’hala. Which was also when the Emissary had spoken to Yevir, and forever changed his life. A miracle of the Prophets.
“It’s been hard for all of us,” she said finally, giving in to her instincts, and to a lifetime of faith. Vedeks counseled, and she couldn’t imagine hiding anything from one who had been Touched. “Reyla’s senseless murder, then the attack…people I knew and cared about were killed. And now the Federation is coming because they believe the Dominion was behind it.”
“But you don’t…?”
“My gut tells otherwise. And this morning we turned up a shrouded Jem’Hadar soldier hiding on the station, who insists it was a rogue aggression.” Kira shook her head, feeling very tired. “Unfortunately, he’s not what I’d call a credible source of information.”
He continued to hold her gaze, his own soft with kindness and understanding. Again, she felt mild disbelief—Yevir Linjarin, of all people—but she also felt encouraged to continue.
“I’m feeling a lot of stress these days. It’s not that any single thing I do is that hard—dealing with a difficult member of my crew, keeping the relief ships on schedule, making sure repairs are made—individually, any part of my daily routine is just something I have to get done. But when I think about running the station, I feel—overwhelmed sometimes. As though it’s something much harder than the sum of those individual parts. Does that make sense?”
Yevir nodded. “It does. Because this is also your life, Nerys. And no matter how important the station is to you, you can’t make it your entire life. You can’t, because what will happen—what is happening—is that even the thought of it will become a terrible burden. It will make you tired and discouraged, and that’s not how the Prophets meant for their children to live.”
She took a deep breath and blew it out heavily, nodding. It was what Kasidy had been trying to tell her—and Ezri, and Julian, and even Tiris, in a way. Why was it so hard for her to grasp, that she needed to maintain a more balanced life?
“Forgive me for my presumptuousness,” he continued quietly, “but may I say that the Prophets have blessed you with great strength and courage. Everyone I’ve spoken to within the Assembly agrees that you are managing Bajor’s interests here wonderfully. However difficult things may be, I hope that knowing you have our full confidence is some small comfort to you.”
He smiled then, his expression compassionate and caring. “As I hope our friendship will be. I know it’s been a while, and that thinking of me as a vedek might take some getting used to…but when I heard about Reyla’s death, I wanted to come and see you. It’s one of my personal reasons, I suppose—to offer my prayers for y
ou and for those recovering from the tragedies that have occurred here. I’ve already spoken to Vedek Capril, and he’s agreed to let me lead services this evening. I hope that you’ll attend; I mean to speak from Songs of Dusk.”
A lovely, lyrical meditation on age and dying. Kira’s face broke into a smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Of course I’ll come. It’s an honor for the station.”
“And perhaps, afterwards, we could talk some more,” he said, standing. “I have to admit, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the Emissary. About what his life and transcendence have meant for Bajor…and what it was like to work with him.”
Kira stood also, noting with a touch of amusement that he suddenly seemed a little shy. She could understand; although she and Captain Sisko had finally developed a good working relationship, separating her commanding officer from the Emissary…she supposed she’d never managed to do that, not with any consistency.
“His son was on the shuttle, you know. I took his presence as a positive omen for my—”
“Jake?” Kira couldn’t help interrupting. “Jake’s here on the station?” Kas will be so happy… And Nog, and Dax, and a half dozen others, not least herself.
Smiling, Yevir nodded. “I gather you didn’t know he was coming.”
“No, but it’s wonderful news, we’ve really missed him around here.” Kira shook her head, delighted.
“I would imagine. He is the son of the Emissary,” Yevir said, still smiling—and although Kira didn’t say anything, she felt the faintest whisper of irritation.
He’s also his own person. But of course, Yevir hadn’t really known Jake, or the captain, and it was only natural that he felt some reverence for the man who’d led him to the Prophets. A lot of people felt that way about the Emissary, even though Benjamin had done his best not to encourage it.
Yevir slowly raised his hand to her ear, and Kira remained motionless to allow the touch. He closed his eyes, and after a moment, the hand withdrew. He smiled gently at her. “Walk with the Prophets, Nerys.”
