Ro had found her guest’s wariness reassuring: at least neither party labored under the pretense that a meeting between former enemies was anything normal.
Lang must have noticed Ro’s scrutiny because she had quickly said, “Reconnaissance is an old habit. You don’t live most of your adult life under the threat of arrest or assassination without assuming an enemy with a weapon lurks in every shadow.”
“I know something of that myself,” Ro had answered.
Lang’s expression had softened, a touch of humor in her eyes. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
A smile crossed Ro’s face now as she replayed the scene in her mind, realizing that was the moment she decided that she liked Lang. Once their mutual mistrust had been established, Ro had felt freer to make small talk, mention Lang’s previous experience on the station. Traversing a particularly obscure access tunnel crossover bridge, Lang had recalled how she used this route to deliver confidential reports to her underground contacts. Ro made a mental note to add semiregular sensor sweeps of the corridor to the surveillance profiles. In her turn, Ro reciprocated with an anecdote or two about her Maquis days. Lang had laughed at more than a few of her tales. Fringe rebel groups, regardless of ideology, tended to have characteristics in common.
Macet had remained quiet for the duration of their walk, something Ro felt grateful for. He must have sensed her reaction whenever he spoke; she hoped she didn’t physically recoil for that would be an undeservedly rude response to a guest. But until the cadence and timbre of his voice stopped causing her blood to boil, she was glad Macet kept his mouth shut.
Upon arriving at their quarters, Ro had briefed Lang and Macet on the extra security precautions Kira had ordered. Neither seemed particularly surprised; they exchanged a glance that informed Ro the Cardassians had contingency plans of their own. Layers upon layers of fear would have to be peeled away before her people and their former oppressors could have uninhibited rapport. Whatever mission Alon Ghemor had assigned Ambassador Lang must be critical to Cardassian interests. Otherwise, how could he justify a high-profile visit while relations between the two worlds remained tenuous at best? Shakaar’s humanitarian initiatives had been a solid first step toward finding common ground, but Ro wasn’t sure they were prepared to expand past them, especially with the Federation talks underway. Damn Cardassians always have the worst timing.
A metallic hum overtook the almost silent whirr of the turbolift. Ro turned toward the sound to see Taran’atar shimmering into visibility.
Ro frowned. “Don’t I recall an order coming down from the colonel about your being shrouded in public places aboard the station? Namely, that you aren’t supposed to be?”
“The enemy is here. I needed to assess them,” he said, checking the charge on his phaser.
Ro shook her head. “The Cardassians aren’t our enemies any longer. They’ve never been your enemy. Your people served alongside them in the war.”
“Do you know their minds?” he asked, returning his sidearm to its holster.
“Bajorans aren’t telepaths, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ro said, hoping her glib answers would irritate Taran’atar enough that he wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning.
If Taran’atar sensed Ro’s discomfort, it didn’t stop him from peppering her with questions. “Do you have knowledge of their goals—their strategy?” he persisted.
“I’m assuming they’re here to meet with the First Minister, but outside that, no, I haven’t tapped into their database or spied on their private discussions.”
“Then they are your enemy. The unknown is always the enemy, Lieutenant,” he said as if there was no arguing with his conclusions.
Much as his cold pragmatism felt far too absolute for these “enlightened” times, Ro had to admit she agreed with him. How else had she survived during her years with the Maquis? Most of her Maquis friends had been slaughtered by Cardassians or arrested by Starfleet. And yet, by the grace of some unknown power that she refused to believe was the Prophets, she stood here, in a Bajoran uniform, alive, free and physically unscathed. It was her steadfast refusal to trust anything or anyone that saved her. Or so she believed.
“All possibilities exist until a choice is made,” Taran’atar continued, accepting her silence as a tacit endorsement. “Until the moment of choice, it’s strategic to anticipate and plan for any potential outcome. It’s how survival is assured.”
“The odds of Bajor obtaining a safe, beneficial outcome will decrease if the Cardassians think we’re luring them into a trap,” she said, playing the opposition card.
“You are naïve, Lieutenant, if you assume that the Cardassians aren’t luring you into a trap.”
A soothing voice announced their arrival at the Promenade. Ro turned to look at the Jem’Hadar before she exited the lift. “Do you have business here? Or do you have more innocent civilians to spy on?”
“There is nothing here that concerns me. I will report my observations to the colonel at a later time.” He appeared to be conducting a quick weapons assessment before, presumably, shrouding again.
How could he assume that blatantly disregarding orders was fine? Taran’atar was breaking a dozen rules Kira had laid down for him. “I’m telling her about your clandestine operation during my end-of-shift security briefing.” She felt like an older sister tattling on an errant sibling.
“Do you think I would have showed myself to you if I had not wanted you to inform the colonel?”
Damn it all if he didn’t just make me look stupid, Ro thought. The turbolift doors closed, leaving Ro a little bit grateful she didn’t know where the Jem’Hadar was headed next. She didn’t know whether to be comforted that someone, namely Taran’atar, on her side had sidestepped propriety for expediency, or annoyed that she hadn’t had the guts to do it first. As she wove through the Promenade crowds toward her office, she continued contemplating his words. The unknown is always the enemy, he’d said. These people weren’t unknown…but everything she knew about them told her they were the enemy.
Sergeant Etana thrust a stack of reports into Ro’s hand as she passed through the doors of the security office; Ro barely acknowledged her. Making peace with her own confused thoughts proved harder than wrestling down a Vicarian razorback. She hated admitting that Taran’atar more or less espoused her own suspicions. All her training, her years in Starfleet were supposed to have quashed her xenophobia. Nice to know her enlightened education amounted to something. She found her chair by rote, tapped in her passwords and called up her workfiles.
Inwardly, Ro sighed. She sorted through the memos queued up on her viewscreen. Opening those designated “urgent,” she shuttled the others away until she was in the mood to deal with them. She’d always been cynical toward the old Federation philosophy about forgiving and forgetting because there were rarely assurances ahead of time that the enemy had replied in kind. Even the great negotiator himself, Jean-Luc Picard, had been deceived on occasion because he believed that those across the table from him told the truth simply because he told the truth. Hadn’t she seen his dangerously trusting nature on their first mission together? And hadn’t she herself exploited it on their last?
What a strange day this had become! A philosophical alliance between a Bajoran lieutenant and a Jem’Hadar soldier wasn’t something Ro could have predicted a year ago. What isn’t known is the enemy until proven otherwise. Ro had little experience to prove to her that Cardassians weren’t the enemy. Even this group had yet to provide any details about why they had come.
She called up Lang’s file to amend it with information about her present visit. Ro now had a lilting alto voice accompanying her mental picture of Lang. The viewscreen picture failed to capture Lang’s incisive intelligence, her graceful carriage or ability to elucidate her hopes for the future of her people.
Ro would be lying if she didn’t admit to enjoying her brief chat with Lang. After a few minutes of animated discussions with the ambassador, Ro consider
ed that her own view of Cardassians as an aloof, calculating and cruel people might warrant an exception. Lang had a sense of humor; she questioned her people’s nearly universal adherence to officially sanctioned views of government, religion and ethics. Her misgivings about Cardassians weren’t entirely unlike Ro’s concerns about the Bajoran tendency to mindlessly accept whatever the vedeks passed down to them without critically thinking through the rightness of those edicts. She found herself nodding in agreement with Lang’s ideas without pausing to consider that these ideas came from a Cardassian.
In an impulsive moment, before she’d left the Cardassians to settle into their quarters, Ro had asked Lang to join her for drinks at Quark’s sometime after dinner. She conceded her own naughty curiosity about Quark’s reaction to seeing his old flame, elegant and beautiful as ever. But there was also her hope, however small, that she could, once and for all, eliminate the bitter taste of suspicion from her mouth, by proving Taran’atar, herself, and all those who lived in a place of mistrust and ignorance, wrong.
Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane sat taller in her chair, hoping to create the impression that she was listening attentively to the Bajoran trade minister. Her seasoned experience in surviving such meetings aided her attempts to focus, but enduring Minister Kren’s nasal monotone for extended periods of time required more than her usual self-discipline. Unwilling to risk appearing impatient, Charivretha deigned to check the time; she guessed Minister Kren’s accounting of Bajor’s trade relationships with non-Federation worlds had been going on for two hours. His proposed solutions to amending those trade relationships once Bajor entered the Federation would account for another two hours. A suggestion to Second Minister Asarem Wadeen, who peripherally supervised Bajor’s monetary and trade policies, that Minister Kren submit his remarks in text for subsequent sessions might be in order. Charivretha’s two dozen or so counterparts appeared to be focused on the speaker. Perhaps it was the dual impact of Kren’s nervous energy and vocal tones on her Andorian senses that made her restless. Or perhaps not: out of the corner of her eye, she noted the meeting’s chair, Trill ambassador Seljin Gandres, dozing off in spite of Gandres’s years dealing with the Pakleds on behalf of the Trill diplomatic corps.
Charivretha’s antennae alerted her to her aide’s presence; Thanis’s relaxed energy patterns were distinctive in this tightly wound room. He whispered something in her ear, stepped back and waited for her response. Damn. We’re already working on the station instead of Bajor to accommodate my personal circumstances, she thought. If I keep asking for favors, I’ll prompt more questions and curiosity—exactly what I’m trying to avoid. But this situation can’t be helped. She raised her placard, asking for recognition from the chair.
Gandres started, too relieved at Charivretha’s interruption to be properly discreet. “Excuse me, Minister Kren, Councillor zh’Thane has asked to be recognized.”
“A matter of personal concern has come to my attention. I’d like leave for the remainder of the hour, with the chair’s approval,” Charivretha asked.
Gandres picked up his wand and tapped the bell sitting on the table before him. “Chair calls a recess for all delegates. Session to be resumed at 1330.”
While her colleagues and their aides milled around her, some lining up at the replicators, others starting preparations for their own remarks, Charivretha gathered her things and followed Thanis to the wardroom’s antechamber where her visitor awaited.
Uncharacteristically, the usually composed Dizhei paced the length of the room. Her antennae tense, eyes bright with worry, Dizhei flew to Charivretha’s side as soon as her elder entered. Before Dizhei could speak, Charivretha raised a hand for calm. “I’m assuming we have a situation with Thriss.”
“It’s not a situation, Zhadi, it’s the ongoing situation. I’m so sorry to disturb you, but there was an incident with the cloth merchant an hour ago and I’m uncertain how to proceed,” Dizhei said through short bursts of breath.
Sighing, Charivretha took a seat on one of the benches lining the waiting room. She patted the spot beside her, indicating to Dizhei to join her. Charivretha rested a hand on Dizhei’s shoulder, making small, soft circles on her back. “Slow down, Dizhei. You’ll faint.”
Clenching and unclenching her hands, Dizhei leaned closer to Charivretha, allowing the young one to whisper her concerns. “I thought a distraction would help. She’s done little but taunt poor Anichent about the lack of progress in his research—if you were to ask me, I think she’s tampering with his data just to see if she can make him as irritable as she is, but I have no proof to support such allegations and even Thriss tends not to be cruel—”
“Dizhei, shri’za,” Charivretha implored, hoping her use of the endearment softened what she imagined was her own impatient tone. She also hoped it reminded her son’s bondmate that they were not alone in this place, that discretion was paramount. “When your students misbehave, are you always so flustered?”
“I’m sorry, Zhadi. I see more than mere misbehavior from Thriss, and I fear where I see these behaviors leading.”
“Explain,” she prompted.
“We went out shopping today. I had read in the station announcements that a group of craftsmen from the Musilla province would be displaying their wares. I thought it might take her mind off—” she paused “—everything. She likes mingling with those of other cultures. Her zhavey is a textile artist and I thought she’d find an outing pleasant.”
“And…?”
“She found a piece of cloth—handwoven, exquisitely rich in color and detail. Seeing that it pleased her, I asked the merchant discreetly for a price—I thought I would surprise her with it as a gift. When he tried to take it away from her, telling her at my request that it wasn’t for sale, she raged at him. ‘How could he deny a soul her burial shroud? Was cruelty to widows part of his way of doing business?’ I paid him the litas you left me and removed her from the shop as soon as I could.”
“You did well. What do you require of me?” Charivretha squeezed Dizhei’s leg affectionately.
“I believe we need to reconsider our plan to wait here until Shar returns,” Dizhei answered confidently. “Anichent agrees.”
Charivretha imagined how long Anichent and Dizhei had been planning on bringing this proposal to her before Thriss’ behavior forced the issue. The intimate associations of bondmates…I miss them, she thought, remembering her own experiences. But sometimes bondmates lacked the objectivity to perceive the wisest course of action. “Didn’t we all decide that being here when Shar comes back will improve the chances of his returning to Andor for the shelthreth?”
“Thriss is pained by the reminders of Thirishar that surround us, and yet she wallows in them. She, of all of us, insists on sleeping in his bed every night,” Dizhei shook her head. “I can’t help but think that perhaps, if we go home, Thriss can lose herself in her studies. Complete her medical training and start her residency sooner.”
Charivretha considered her child’s mate, imagining not for the first time how effective Dizhei must be in dealing with her pupils’ overly concerned families. Not one for impulsivity, Dizhei had the most responsible nature of the four of them. She could be counted on to be rational under the most trying circumstances. And yet, here she sat, her flushed forehead and bloodshot eyes tangible evidence of emotional distress. If gentle Dizhei felt this undone by her predicament, Charivretha could hardly fathom what the moody Thriss might be capable of. One misstep and Shar’s future could be jeopardized. The stakes could hardly be higher. I wonder if all zhavey s go through this…
As much as she appreciated the honor of Shar’s being matched with a bondgroup, Charivretha found herself wishing, not for the first time, that Shar’s DNA might have been compatible with one less volatile than Shathrissía zh’Cheen. Yes, Thriss’s willowy fragility, unusual by Andorian standards, suited Shar’s tendency for appreciating the unconventional. He enjoyed being unique, embracing the less obvious choices, and Thriss
certainly embodied that. Together, Shar and Thriss brought out the best and worst in each other. At the time she met Thriss, a scrawny, wide-eyed thing of seven, Charivretha had no idea what a force to be reckoned with was sweeping into her life.
It was during Shar’s Heritage studies. The students were learning the first forms of an ancient festival dance, one they’d be called on to perform at the Time of Knowing. Sitting in on her chei’s class, Charivretha had remembered her own Knowing ceremony—the subsequent celebration after she’d learned the names of her bondmates; her life had been redefined during those hours. She had recalled her own youthful excitement while observing her chei and his classmates, including Thriss, standing off to the side in the shadows. Considering the group as a whole, Charivretha had noted how Thriss’s plainness, her homeliness, distinguished her from the rest. And then, on her cue, Thriss had assumed her place in the form, had risen up onto her toes and had curled her arm over her head with such delicacy and loveliness that Charivretha’s breath caught in her throat. Dozens of pairs of childish eyes had focused on the ethereal Thriss, each wondering if she would someday belong to them.
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