This Gray Spirit

by Heather Jarman

  Dizhei knew that Thriss meant well; she didn’t want to hurt anyone. If Dizhei could believe Thriss, their lives would be considerably simpler. But Dizhei had spent too many years following behind her, mending whatever Thriss had carelessly broken, to accept her bondmate’s word. She thought about pursuing the conversation further but after taking note of the time decided they needed to move on. A quick hug would have to suffice.

  With a gentle, but firm hand on the small of Thriss’ back, Dizhei steered her toward Matthias’s office. Keeping Thriss focused on most pressing concerns had always been her role and Dizhei anticipated it would take her soft-glove discipline to assure that they all ended up back on Andor as soon as possible.

  Word of the proposed exhibit spread quickly through the station community. Daily, dozens of private petitions filled Kira’s message queue before lunch, variations on requests that the art be placed as far away from/as close to, their quarters/place of business/place of worship as possible. As she considered the list of spaces available for the Ziyal exhibit, Kira concluded that no option would please everyone. A curator from the Bajoran Museum in Ashalla would be arriving tomorrow, but Kira, who had the final decision, planned to consult with the expert before making a public announcement. At least that way, she would share the blame.

  As much buzz as was floating around the station regarding the exhibit, the peace talks figured even more prominently in conversation. Kira’s curiosity was piqued—she hoped to find the time to drop by and see the delegations in action—but snarls in the implementation of yellow alert protocols often required her personal attention. On the surface, those who saw Deep Space 9 as a spaceport understood the importance of increased security, but the pragmatic reality of changing plans, rescheduling deliveries, changing course or having cargo inspected inconvenienced more than a few ship captains. People tended to be very accommodating—as long as they didn’t need to do the accommodating. Until her day-to-day duties became less laborious, Kira had to be satisfied with ops gossip if she wanted to stay updated on the battle of wills between Lang and Asarem.

  Because the talks weren’t public, the only record of the goings on came from individuals who had been in attendance. Eavesdropping on two Militia corporals, Kira learned that the first few days of talks had accomplished little. She hadn’t expected that the gulf separating Cardassia and Bajor would be bridged overnight, but she thought that Asarem would at least take a step. Find consensus on something, like come to an agreement about when to come to an agreement! From what she could gather, Lang’s methodically planned agenda outlined discussions on issues ranging from sharing medical technology to assuring the rights of Bajoran nationals while on Cardassia. Asarem’s approach had been to nitpick every detail and definition Lang raised.

  The days allegedly played out thus: Lang would explain Cardassia’s concerns, what their position was on the issue and where they wanted input from Bajor. She would then look to Minister Asarem to elucidate the Bajoran response. So far, the breadth of Asarem’s commentary consisted of variations on: “That sounds reasonable. I’ll take it under consideration. What else would you like to discuss?” That Asarem was listening was positive; that she wasn’t engaged in dialogue was puzzling. During her days in the Chamber of Ministers, she’d had a reputation as a tenacious debater and orator. To sit in a chair, hands folded in front of her, watching impassively—didn’t sound like Asarem. It was distinctly possible that the minister’s approach wasn’t being fairly represented.

  This, Kira knew, having based her suppositions on snippets of second-hand accounts, was a situation she planned on remedying as soon as possible. Because she anticipated being busy with the curator in the morning, she planned on dropping in at the end of her shift. As seemed to be the case every day, a situation arose that prevented her doing as she’d planned. Irregular Core readings troubled the engineering staff and they requested she remain in ops, should an emergency decision be required. Since the Core transplant, the engineering crews had been especially vigiliant, always on the lookout for the one item they might have overlooked; Kira appreciated their thoroughness. When the diagnostics concluded, the acting chief engineer was satisfied, allowing Kira to escape. Though the hour was late, it wouldn’t be unprecedented for the delegations to still be working.

  Rounding one of the last corners before the conference room, Kira encountered the retinal scanner and voice imprint unit Ro had felt so strongly about installing. Lang had repeatedly reassured them that such precautions weren’t necessary; she felt as safe as she could under the circumstances. Though safety was a concern, Kira knew Ro’s primary motive in installing a checkpoint wasn’t to protect the diplomats. She reasoned that if someone wanted to assassinate a member of either delegation, they’d have easier access from a location other than the conference rooms. No, Ro intended to monitor who went in and out of the conference rooms at all hours, should questions arise. Those authorized to pass had been approved by Lang, Shakaar and Kira. No one else needed access. Unauthorized personnel attempting to maneuver past the checkpoint would be stopped and interrogated.

  On her way down the hall, she passed by a cleaning team—a couple of Bajorans she recognized as having worked in the Habitat Ring public areas—but otherwise, the sector was utterly silent, save the sound of her footfalls.

  The talks must be over for the day, she thought, disappointed. Kira resolved to return first thing in the morning, when an odd scent attracted her attention. Ozone. Burnt synthetic materials—not organic. Maybe one of the nearby labs had a waste disposal problem, sending the aroma wafting through the air ducts. She resisted the impulse to call for an environmental systems diagnostic, choosing to investigate the situation herself. Scorch permeated the air the closer she came to the conference room. Wondering if a replicator was malfunctioning inside, she deactivated the door lock, grateful when a billow of smoke didn’t greet her.

  Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimmed lighting. When they did, she scanned the room for evidence of anything amiss and saw that most everything seemed to be in place…

  …Save the silver, green, and sand-colored Cardassian flag draped over one of the chairs, stripped from the pole behind it, scarred with angry, carbonized wounds. The gleaming edge of a knife blade glinted in the starlight, stabbed through the heart of the chair.

  Cursing, she stepped back into the foyer, instinctively touching her combadge. “Kira to security. We have a situation on level 10, section 65, conference room 4. I want a team up here now.”

  13

  Shar tingled with anticipation. He had never believed in fate or luck, but if this day turned out the way he hoped, he might be persuaded to change his mind.

  Two hours before, Shar and Keren had entered the farm country of the Hebshu Peninsula. Carved out by a glacier millions of years ago, the region suffered from none of the geological dangers afflicting most of the continental masses; the closest active volcano was hundreds of kilometers away and there hadn’t been an earthquake recorded in centuries. The peninsula enjoyed mild winters, rich soil and a long growing season. It was also one of the rare spots on Vanìmel (or Luthia for that matter) where Wanderers and Houseborn lived side by side on their farms. Mingling herds and sharing farm equipment wasn’t unheard of. Keren had explained that because most Yrythny didn’t consider living off the land a natural inclination, the Yrythny who ended up choosing to live here were nonconformists. Farming and ranching attracted a quirky, independent breed that followed their own rules, refusing to adhere to any but the barest caste frameworks.

  Since they’d met on his first day in Luthia, Shar learned that Keren rarely acted without an ulterior motive. The trip to Hebshu proved to be consistent with her pattern, though he suspected where she was taking him concerned his research. They’d wandered down the lanes, chatting with the locals as they encountered them.

  They’d eaten a basket full of berries offered to them by a group of younglings combing the forest for the tangy treasures, and Shar had
his first real encounter with Yrythny children. Like most children, they were inquisitive, and spent a great deal of time studying Shar, touching his skin and hair, climbing him as they grew bolder, and laughing delightedly when he made his antennae move.

  Not long after that, Shar encountered his first shmshu, the primary suppliers of the hairpieces most Yrythny wore to indicate rank and caste position. Different breeds of shmshu provided hair in varying qualities. Shar had stood by a fence, watching as Yrythny carefully combed out their coats, waving over the animals from head to toe with a handheld version of a sonic shower. As diverting as the domesticated animals had been, Shar was ready to move on. They’d been walking for more than an hour when Keren finally explained why she’d brought him here. And when she did, Shar concurred that it was well worth skipping the meetings he was to supposed to have attended.

  Hidden here in Hebshu were the most comprehensive records of Wanderer genetics on Vanìmel. For obvious reasons, genetic research was tightly controlled and kept secret. Hebshu’s rural, out-of-the-way personality made it easy to conceal equipment and files without attracting government attention. Most of the research was performed during the winter months when the ground lay fallow and the shmshu grazed in the fields instead of in the hills. Repairing equipment, reading and indoor pursuits grew tiresome. Intellectually rigorous scientific inquiry kept minds sharp and hands busy. From generation to generation, the equipment and records were passed down, with Kremoroh being one of the newest custodians.

  Kremoroh descended the cellar steps first. He activated the light panel, inviting Shar and Keren to join him.

  Shar’s initial disparaging thoughts quickly dissipated when he considered how much painstaking work it must have taken for these scientists to labor with antiquated equipment, limited time and few resources. Most of what he saw crammed into corners and spilling out of boxes would have been current in the Federation two hundred years ago. Still, he couldn’t help smiling, imagining these tall, gawky farmers hunched over cellular scanners, squeezing into these small underground labs, customarily used for off-season vegetable storage.

  Taking a seat by one of the filing cabinets, Shar pulled open a drawer where he discovered dozens of neatly labeled, clear-lidded containers filled with data chips. Another drawer revealed identical contents. “Your records?” he asked.

  Kremoroh nodded. “Those go back hundreds of years. Every Wanderer who finds their way to Hebshu ends up being mapped.”

  “Mapped?” Shar asked, wanting to make sure he understood the usage.

  “Gene maps.”

  A miniature, cruder version of what existed in the Andorian genome database. Shar couldn’t help but be impressed. With very little training—and no assistance—they’d tackled a sophisticated area of study. Looking around him, he imagined how these scientists had made do with ill-fitting parts and poor tools with which to assemble them. Everything in the room had been designed and built using whatever technology was available. Shar admired their creativity.

  “The original idea was that we were going to figure out how to identify what House the Wanderers were supposed to be from and prove to the high-thinking Houseborn that the Wanderers weren’t really wandering,” Kremoroh explained. “Storms, water temperature, predators—any number of things could set a hatchling off course.”

  A variation on what I said to Dax, just yesterday. When this thought occurred to Shar, he looked over at Keren who sat, smiling serenely. She knew what she was doing bringing me here, this is all part of her plan. After years of watching the machinations of the Federation Council, you’d think I’d be a little less trusting. Shar turned to Kremoroh. “Since you’re still here and Keren is still in the Lower Assembly, I take it you haven’t been able to draw any meaningful conclusions.”

  “First, we had to figure out what part of which chromosomes did what. Without Luthia’s computer power or the right splicers and scanners, it’s been hit and miss about what techniques work, and avoiding contamination. What I’d do for a decent computer!”

  They need more than tools… The nucleus of an idea formed in Shar’s mind, but he needed a bit more information to assure it was feasible before he could propose it out loud. “And as a comparison group? The Houseborn?”

  “The other major problem. Not many Houseborn want to be part of a Wanderer genetic study. We can compare our DNA with our own kind, but we don’t have the same basis of comparison for the Houseborn. We have a smattering from those Houseborn who’ve lived here on the peninsula, but not enough to draw conclusions.”

  Surveying the room, Shar realized some of the filing cabinets stood two and three deep, with drawer after drawer filled with variations on data chip storage. These farmer/scientists appeared to have accumulated thousands of different samples. “This is your main storage facility, I take it?”

  “No. We have labs like this scattered all around here. Makes it easier to go unnoticed.”

  “Have you put all these into an aggregate database?” Shar said, hoping.

  “In fact, that was last winter’s project.”

  Keren perked up. “Is it possible—”

  “The Sagan. It has the computing power—”

  “And the Houseborn samples?”

  “Medical records? Or we could take some ourselves from their drinking glasses—”

  “Tonight! At dinner!” She jumped off her chair, clapping her hands.

  Kremoroh scratched his head. “Excuse me? But I think I’ve missed something.”

  “You’d better come up with a new project for next winter, because I have a feeling that what Thirishar accomplishes with your data could change things—for all of us!” Keren beamed.

  The cumulative datafiles were stored several farms over—a quick stop as they set out to return to the Sagan. Keren carried the bulk of the chips in her pack. Shar wanted to make the best use of his time so he planned on working as they walked, relying on Keren to prevent him from stumbling into trees. He reached for his tricorder, planning on formulating a few basic equations as he tried to frame the parameters of the statistical sampling.

  “Ensign ch’Thane!”

  Shar turned, and saw Kremoroh moving toward them from the farm. He had a youngling with him. And not just any youngling, Shar saw, but one of the ones he’d encountered earlier, who had shared berries with him and Keren. “Is something wrong?” he asked as Kremoroh caught up with them.

  Kremoroh nudged the youngling forward. “Do it,” he said sternly.

  The youngling looked unhappy, but at Kremoroh’s urging stretched out his arm, holding up Shar’s combadge.

  Shar’s eyes widened. He accepted the combadge with a sincere word of thanks. “Where did you find it?”

  “Tell him,” Kremoroh told the youngling.

  “I took it while we were playing with you,” the child admitted. “I’m sorry.”

  “I accept your apology,” Shar said kindly. Idiot! he chastised himself. How could you not realize it was missing?

  “My apologies as well, Ensign ch’Thane,” Kremoroh said. “Oh, and I feel I should tell you: a voice was coming from the device earlier; that was how I became aware that Cosho here had it. Whoever it was sounded angry, but it’s since stopped.”

  Oh, no…“Thank you, Kremoroh. I’m very grateful to you.” Kremoroh and the youngling departed, and with Keren looking on in concern, Shar steeled himself and pressed his combadge. “Ch’Thane to Dax.”

  “Shar, where the hell are you? Why haven’t you answered until now?”

  “I apologize, Lieutenant. I had a bit of a mishap involving my combadge—”

  “Where are you?” Dax repeated.

  Shar swallowed, recalling that he hadn’t explicitly asked for Lieutenant Dax’s permission to come planetside. “I’m with Delegate Keren, sir,” he said evasively.

  “But where? Someone appropriated the computer terminal in our office and used it to send an illegal communication to the surface. That wouldn’t happen to have been you?” />
  “No sir. Actually, I’m here, planetside. On the Hebshu Peninsula. Part of my fact-finding, Lieutenant.”

  “I assume you have the Sagan with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get airborne immediately and lock onto my signal. I want you to fly over my position and be prepared to pick up the away team.”

  “Understood, sir. I’m on my way.” Shar swore and established contact with Sagan’ s onboard computer. “Ch’Thane to Sagan, two to beam back on this signal. Energize.”

  * * *

  “He’s just not being reasonable!” Nog growled. Frustrated, he threw the padd down on the floor. He fisted his hands and kicked the broken tablet aside.

  Rahim, Gordimer and M’Nok, who were sharing ration packs from Defiant, stopped talking when the padd skidded across the floor and crashed into M’Nok’s shoes. Huddled in the corner, Shavoh, Tlaral and Ensign Senkowski halted their review of conduit repair specs when Nog spoke. The three engineers exchanged concerned glances. One by one, every person in the room looked up from what they’d been doing to see what might have prompted Nog’s uncharacteristic entrance.

  Realizing he had the room’s attention, Nog scooted off to sit on his sleeping bag, dropping down cross-legged, making a deliberate point of sitting with his back to the group.

  Chief Chao’s fork, loaded with pasta primavera, paused midway between mouth and pack. “Excuse me, sir?” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  Though he felt Chao’s placid gaze on him, Nog kept his back turned. “Commander Vaughn! He isn’t taking the threat of the Cheka weapon seriously enough. He wants to leave without a working defense against the web weapon! And we just don’t have the resources or the manpower to handle repairs like this again, especially if we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.”