This Gray Spirit
Page 8
Vaughn sighed. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Dax. Your ‘outside perspective’is going to be viewed by these people as guidance. They already see you, you’ll pardon the expression, as a prophet. Someone who’s come to impart otherworldly wisdom. That just seems like the wrong place to begin a relationship with the Yrythny. If there’s to be a solution to their internal dilemma, wouldn’t it be more meaningful for them to find it, rather than as a pronouncement from on high?”
“The Yrythny are facing crises on many fronts,” Ezri persisted. “We’re already working with them to develop a defense against the Cheka. How is what I’m proposing to do any worse? And besides—if Julian’s right, the Yrythny species owes its very existence to outside intervention. Hell, we all do, don’t we? As individuals and as entire species, the people of the Federation are who they are today because of how they’ve influenced each other. That’s not interference, that’s life.”
Vaughn rubbed his temples. “God, I hate arguing about the Prime Directive.” He looked across the room. “Well, Doctor? You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet this evening. Do you have an opinion on this?”
From the look on Vaughn’s face, the commander knew precisely what he was doing in asking for Julian’s opinion. Without meeting Ezri’s eyes, Julian cleared his throat. “I think there are valid points on both sides of the argument,” he said neutrally. “If we go forward with this idea, I believe the best course would be simply to make the Yrythny aware of their options by showing them historical precedents from our own databases, and then leaving the decision up to them as to whether any of those is right for Vanìmel.”
Vaughn looked back at Ezri. “That actually sounds reasonable to me. Dax?”
Ezri was frowning at Julian. “If it comes up tomorrow, sir, I’ll follow the plan we’ve discussed.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Vaughn said, rising from the couch. “I’m going to check in with Nog before I call it a night. Get some rest, both of you. Tomorrow will be a long day.” He let himself out the balcony door.
Julian steeled himself, waiting for Vaughn’s footsteps to fade away, knowing as soon as they did…
“Thanks for your support there, Doctor!” Ezri slouched into an overstuffed armchair designed for the long-legged Yrythny. Her feet dangled above the floor.
“Let’s distinguish between my support for you as my first officer and my support for you personally—”
“Don’t you dare hide behind our relationship! You should have more confidence in me!”
“What are you talking about? Of course I have confidence in you. But what does that have to do with…wait a minute.” Julian stared hard at Ezri; he could almost see her mind spinning a plot. “You think you could mediate this conflict, don’t you?”
Ezri didn’t answer.
“You do!” Julian exclaimed. “I can’t believe this. You really think you can do it, don’t you? No challenge is too great for Ezri Dax.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Julian said. “This whole thing started when Commander Jast was killed. Ever since then, you’ve been relying more and more on your past lives. This isn’t you, Ezri!”
“And just how the hell would you know?” Ezri snapped. “Let me clue you in on something: Before I was joined, I was a damn good officer. Maybe not as stellar as the superhuman Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, but as Ensign Ezri Tigan I was levelheaded, assertive, even ambitious. Then I become the unplanned ninth host of Dax, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know who I am anymore. That’s the Ezri you got to know, my love. And now, when I’ve finally figured out how to integrate my past lives and apply them to my own personal evolution, you think I’m not myself. But what you’re not getting is that the Jadzia you were getting to know that first year, the one who hesitated, and got nervous and spacesick all the time—she wasn’t me.”
Julian looked away for a moment, then forced himself to meet her eyes. “You said Jadzia,” he said quietly.
“What?” Ezri snapped.
“You referred to yourself as Jadzia just now.”
Ezri stared back uncertainly, obviously replaying the conversation in her mind. “That was an honest mistake.”
Julian nodded. “I know it was. Because as a doctor who’s spent years studying Trill symbiosis, I know that in an unplanned joining, it can take quite a while for the host to find her equilibrium. So I’ll ask you just one question, and then I’ll let the matter drop. Do you really think you’ve found yours?”
When Ezri declined to answer, Julian wondered if he’d made a mistake confronting her with this tonight. “Look, it’s been a stressful day for both of us. Maybe we’re both not ourselves tonight. We’ll be more clearheaded in the morning. Let’s go to bed.”
“Excellent suggestion.” She shuffled off to the sleeproom.
Julian waited for a proper interval to pass before following after her, knowing he probably wouldn’t be counting her spots tonight. He heard her toss her combadge on a table, kick off her boots, unfasten her uniform. Now would be good. When he reached the doorway, Ezri was waiting. She threw a cushion at him.
“What?” He clutched the pillow against his chest.
“Get some rest. Captain’s orders,” she said, and locked the door.
Shar tripped on the uneven floor gratings. Every other step, he bumped into cloaked Yrythny, streaming out of homes and work. The Old Quarter hummed with night activity. Shar and Keren descended a wide stair into a central plaza, joining the sea of people flowing in and out of archways. Shoppers lined up at merchant stalls and booths; artisans and performers squeezed into spaces not occupied by food carts boasting leaf-wrapped fish grilling over sage-fragrant coals or ropes of bulbous root vegetables dangling on hanging racks. A hidden puppeteer manipulated his carved, brightly painted creations for a group of enraptured children, while a lute-playing musician accompanied his tale. With their hoods up and in the poor lighting, no one noticed Shar or Keren.
He followed Keren to a tapestry shop tucked in a crooked back alley. Pushing aside the weighty rug-door, Keren and Shar ducked inside the dusky shop. With tables and cabinets piled high with fabric wares, Shar could barely see around the pyramids of dry goods emanating mildew and dust. The Yrythny attending the virtually empty store ignored them, continuing to enter information into a computer terminal on his countertop. Keren picked through hanging tapestries lining the back wall, lifting a particularly worn-looking one, examining a price marked on the back and moving to the next one. What she hoped to accomplish by taking him shopping wasn’t yet clear to Shar. He opened his mouth to tell her so, when, after she’d studied a massive, wall-size tapestry with rotted out fringes, she vanished. Peering under the tapestries on both sides and behind him, Shar failed to locate her. He duplicated Keren’s actions: lifting a corner of the massive, moss-green tapestry, tilting his head to read the price and—swoosh—the floor spun, and he found himself standing in a corridor crammed with Yrythny, cloaked like him.
Uncertain as to what he was supposed to do next, he hung back until he felt Keren’s hand gripping his arm. The crowd propelled them into what must be the tapestry shop’s warehouse, where the Yrythny sat on a dozen or more metal benches. Other than the scrape of bench legs on the floor, the rustling of cloaks and the occasional whisper, the room was quiet. Though the mottled light obscured his ability to distinguish bodies, Shar guessed there were almost a hundred in the room.
He and Keren secured a spot near the back, and waited as the seats slowly filled to capacity. Finally, when it appeared that not one more body could be squeezed into the musty room, an individual seated close to the front rose.
“Aliens have come to Luthia,” the leader began. “We have been assured that these strangers are not agents of the Cheka, and there are those who believe the strangers—one in particular—have been brought here by the Other to help us find peace with our Houseborn siblings. I for one am skeptical. This could very well be yet
another Houseborn attempt to lull us into passivity so they can find our group and institute a crackdown. We need to have a strategy in place for dealing with either possibility.”
A woman in front of Shar stood up. “We should at least consider the possibility that the situation is exactly as it’s been described to us—that these aliens have come to us in need after being caught by one of the Cheka traps meant for us. As strangers to this region of space, they’re uniquely positioned to view our dilemma impartially. Perhaps the Other did indeed lead them to us. In which case, the rash actions our people took when they arrived may have already damaged our cause. Perhaps as they learn more about our plight—”
“And how precisely will they do that?” someone else jeered. “The strangers won’t be allowed to see us. The Houseborn will keep them away from the Old Quarter because it is squalid and dirty. The strangers won’t talk to the house servants and the shmshu herders and the fishers. They’ll be trotted around to the intelligentsia who, fearing the loss of their lifestyles, will minimize the seriousness of our plight.”
For the first time, Shar wondered who from the mob was in the room. He hunched over, tucked his feet under the bench and hoped his alien presence would go unnoticed. His antennae twitched with the conflicted emotions in the room.
A new speaker began, “I came out of House Fnorol in the East Sea. Until twenty years ago, the Elders eviscerated Wanderer females as they came of mature age, justifying their actions because it prevented them from joining their ‘superior’ Houseborn sisters in the spawning waters.” Shar could hear the sneer underlying his bitter words. “Those that weren’t maimed, died. There’s no way our esteemed Assembly Chair will share that part of our history with the strangers.” And he sat down.
“What about the burnings! They came through our villages and burned them to the ground!”
“Our younglings were starved—”
“—beaten with clubs when they were found to be Wanderer young—”
One after another, speakers rose, testifying to mutilation and slaughter with such matter-of-factness that Shar could barely imagine the scope of their experiences—their histories. As quick as his mind was, Shar found himself struggling to process what he heard. He searched for something inside himself that would allow him to understand such atrocities.
“Information about atrocities committed against us can’t come from us directly,” the meeting leader argued. “The Upper Assembly can discredit it as the ranting of militants, and not history. The fact that we can’t carry arms or defend ourselves, even when we serve on starships—is obvious. Starvation, repression—during the Black Time, slavery—those things will be even harder to bring to light.”
A Yrythny sitting several benches away from Shar sprang to his feet and rushed to the front of the room, his body quivering with anxiety. “I say we forget about the strangers. They’re of no consequence. We may have another Black Time if the Cheka barricades don’t come down soon. The Houseborn will starve us to save their own, be sure of it.”
“Or they’ll kill us. Round us up and slaughter us so our hungry mouths don’t take food from theirs,” another agreed.
The last comment provoked a wave of whispering, stopped only when the meeting leader demanded order by rapping a scepter against the podium. “Enough! We have eyes and ears in many places. Mass murder won’t come upon us unawares, but the Houseborn may appoint these strangers to decide our fate before tomorrow if we aren’t careful.”
Keren stirred beside him. Shar wasn’t surprised when she worked her way down the row, through the center aisle and to the front. She threw back her hood, revealing her face. Audible gasps sounded from every corner.
“I make no pretense as to my identity. You all know I am one of you,” she said, calmly. “I believe that the strangers coming may be for our good. We have struggled since the Archipelago Wars to wrestle rights away from the Houseborn and we are still far from finding equality with them.” She paused, directing her gaze at the floor for a moment before returning her attention to the crowd. Her eyes moved from row to row, seeking personal contact with each listener as she spoke. “My time to go into the waters is coming, but because I am a Wanderer, I will be denied that opportunity during the Homecoming fifteen days hence.
“Instead, I will present myself to the physicians, receive my injection and go about my life pretending that I don’t want or need to go into the waters,” Keren’s steady voice was heavy with sorrow. “And I will be living a lie. I deserve to take a consort, to add to the next generation. I believe our contact with the strangers may make that and many more things possible.”
“How do you know they can be trusted?” the leader asked.
She stepped behind the podium. Resting a hand on each side of the rostrum, Keren surveyed the crowds. “I’ve dealt with them. They don’t even come from this part of our galaxy. They live tens of thousands of light years from here. Knowing nothing of our history, they can look at both sides impartially. Who else among those that we trade with, that we exchange culture and knowledge with can make that claim? None.” Her eyes finally found Shar, willing him to lift his eyes and meet hers; he complied and held her gaze, unwavering.
“Who knows if these strangers have been brought here by the Other? There’s no question that we face perilous times. The blockades may turn Houseborn against Wanderer after centuries of relative peace. We have neither the arms nor the resources to fight them, but we are being swept by currents that will decide our fate, one way or the other. The strangers may be our last chance.” Keren spoke as if to Shar directly, as if she sat at his elbow and whispered her words for him alone. He was transfixed.
4
When the turbolift doors closed, Ro requested the Promenade. She scowled at the universe in general, wanted to bang her forehead a few times, but settled for resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes. Seeing Gul Macet, Ambassador Lang and their “delegation” of soldiers had triggered a brain stem reaction: being hunted like prey. That her next turn would find her face-to-face with a resettlement camp guard prepared to clamp holding irons on her wrists and haul her off to be beaten. It was easier with the Maquis because she’d rarely had to stare down her enemy; the covert, anonymous nature of their war assured that. Now, she counted on the traveling time between the outer edge of the Habitat Ring and her upper core office to cushion her jangling nerves.
Conditioned response, Ro reminded herself. The reason her advanced tactical instructors gave repeatedly while drilling the class through every permutation of every worst-case scenario conceivable—so when you’re staring your worst nightmare in the face, your training, not your instincts, takes over.
“Welcome to Deep Space 9, I’m Chief of Security, Lieutenant Ro,” she recalled saying as she nodded a courteous greeting to the Cardassian, Macet. Kira wasn’t kidding about the family resemblance. When he opened his mouth to speak it was every propaganda holovid from her childhood. The same elongated syllables she’d heard announcing “the unfortunate need for ration cuts” or that “strained resources forbade the distribution of vaccines to afflicted provinces.” And she pushed back an instinctual inclination to spit at his feet.
This. Isn’t. Dukat. She’d repeated the words in her mind each time she found herself staring at him. She tried focusing on the tufts of hair on his chin, as if the cosmetic difference could trick her psyche into accepting Macet. Her mouth had parroted all the proper polite inquiries she’d heard employed on occasions such as these. Maybe she’d picked up niceties via osmosis from Troi and Picard. The whole Enterprise crew had been so damn polite! “I hope your trip went well.” “Radiation in the Denorios Belt often sends false sensor readings this time of year.” “We’ve secured quarters in the habitat ring for the senior members of your party—oh no, it isn’t any problem. More convenient access to the meeting rooms than having to come down from the docking ring every few hours.” What she wanted to say was “Get the hell off my station and stay off.”
Give her a day alone with him. Hell, give her an hour alone with him and she’d figure out the truth. Assurances from the Ghemor regime and DNA tests might support Macet’s claim to be who he said he was, but in a universe that already contained changelings, mind-altering entities, and even less explainable phenomena, how could anyone ever be truly sure of him?
Ro’s stare must have lingered on Macet for a long while before she noticed the small, slender figure clothed in a vivid periwinkle blue gown standing beside him. She didn’t recoil from Lang’s proffered hand. The gesture surprised her: Cardassians didn’t, as a rule, shake hands. In Ro’s experience, such a greeting came more commonly among Federation types than from the austere Cardassians. Clasping both her hands around Ro’s, Lang thanked her for accommodating them on such short notice. Strangely, the ambassador’s fingers on Ro’s wrist recalled the pleasant touch of cool water. In her experience, cold Cardassian hands usually meant death, or at least the promise of it.
Lang had issued the order to Macet’s men to disarm before she would permit them to continue beyond the airlock. Ro had witnessed their puzzled expressions as Macet walked down their line, equipment satchel proffered—their barely camouflaged resentment when he sealed the bag and sent it back into the Trager with one of his men. Understanding that Macet could have just as easily disarmed his men while shipboard, Ro recognized the gesture for what it was: a move to placate her defenses. They had submitted, Ro imagined resentfully, to Lang’s demand for absolute silence while the party moved from the disembarking area to the habitat ring. As she guided the group through the least traversed corridors, Ro observed the ambassador surveying each doorway and dark hall ahead of them. And while Lang’s hands rested, deceptively relaxed, at her sides, the tension in her thumb and forefinger indicated she wasn’t quite as willing to embrace the passivity she required from Macet’s men; Ro would bet the house that hidden beneath the rustling folds of her gown, Lang had a weapon. She’s on as high alert as we are. She’s as concerned about Bajorans coming un-hinged as Kira is about possible Cardassian treachery. Ro had made a conscious decision to let her guest’s infraction of protocol pass without comment—carrying weapons aboard the station was forbidden save for Militia and Starfleet personnel, and authorized visitors.