As a man of action, waiting was never Quark’s strength. Under circumstances such as these, he failed to understand why he, Chairman of the Promenade Merchants’ Association, wouldn’t be given due deference, VIP admission, a priority position. One of the downfalls of Federation philosophy that Bajor was so hot on embracing was the misguided notion that social status should, for the most part, be irrelevant. Otherwise, he’d be at the front of the line instead of waiting with all the other plebeians to see the exhibit.
And who decided not to charge admission? Talk about a missed opportunity. Maybe he could come up with a promotional tie-in for the bar. Hmmmmm…
On the plus side, the longer he waited, the more time he had to spend with Laren. She wasn’t in a terribly talkative mood tonight, not like he could blame her after breaking up a midnight riot and subsequently having little or no sleep. She seemed content to watch the people in line instead of gazing at him. He needed to fix that.
“Um, Laren?”
“Yeah, Quark?”
“Thanks again for getting everything paid for. There was no way I was going to ask Rom to float me a loan while I argued with the colonel.” Gratitude, real or feigned, tended to grease the conversational wheels.
“It didn’t take much convincing. I think part of her regrets the way she treated you that night at the reception. But paying the repair bills for the fracas is as close to an apology as you’re likely to get.”
Quark held up his hands. “I’m not complaining. As nonapologies go, I could do worse.”
“Expecting coverage for the yarmok sauce was pushing it, though.”
“A Ferengi can try. The 10th Rule of Acquisition: Greed is eternal. I wouldn’t be me without it.” He grinned amiably. “So you got me the latinum. You have any pull with making this line move?”
“You complain about waiting again, I’m going home.”
“Right, right,” Quark said quickly. No need to make his tired and cranky companion more tired and cranky.
The line trudged forward a few steps, brushing against the line ropes as another group was admitted to the exhibit. A pile of program cards outlining the exhibit’s contents sat in a stack. Ro removed one and began reading while they walked.
When they stopped again, Ro turned to Quark and studied him thoughtfully. “You knew Ziyal, didn’t you? Who was she?”
In his mind, Quark conjured up a picture of the wide-eyed child-woman. He wasn’t one to be sentimental about much—life and death happened in the course of business—but Ziyal had a genuine sweetness that couldn’t help but touch you. “She was a good kid. Really. Good isn’t generally a word I use to describe Cardassians—ruthless, cold, predatory, devious—all qualities I can appreciate, to be sure—but good? Except Natima, and you already know she’s amazing. But, Ziyal. She was special. Never could figure out how a bastard like Dukat popped off a kid like her.” Quark tsked as he thought of the former prefect.
“What do you remember most?” Ro asked.
“She called me ‘Sir’ or ‘Quark,’ instead of ‘Hey you, Ferengi,’ like most Cardassians. She’d sit on her stool, talking with Jake or the colonel—even drink root beer with him—and they’d yammer on about holovids and games and such.” Had it only been a few years since she died? It felt like another lifetime when all of them had been together on the station…Jadzia, Odo, Rom, Leeta, O’Brien, Captain Sisko, Jake, and…Quark stopped. No, Ziyal had her weakness. “The only thing she did that didn’t make much sense was falling for Garak. If Ziyal was good, Garak was just wrong. You could never really trust him, except to be himself, and that was the problem, because no one ever really figured him out.”
Ro nodded. “I’ve learned a lot about Garak since coming to the station.”
Quark grunted. I can only imagine. Odo must have kept quite a file on Garak. But Garak never got to Ziyal. No, I think she got to him. Ro continued looking at him expectantly, probably waiting for him to expound further on Garak. He shrugged. “I think Ziyal’s death changed Garak. Who knows? Maybe that’s what finally snapped whatever loyalties he still had to the old Cardassia. You just never knew with him.”
Their group reached the entrance. A security officer scanned their retinas and then waved a tricorder over them, searching for weapons. Satisfied with the results, he waved them in.
The guests wound past a wall screen scrolling through an official welcome from the Bajoran government. Whatever chatter had been underway when guests entered dissolved promptly when they were presented with the first painting. A deferential hush filled the room, more like at a place of worship than an art exhibit. Even Quark, who prided himself on being a connoisseur of any and all valuable art commodities from the famous and infamous, found himself lacking any words to describe what he felt.
Suspended from the ceiling was an oil painting on matte black canvas. Monochromatic tints and shades in juxtaposed violent and graceful brush strokes carved the one-dimensional surface as surely as a sculptor’s chisel would stone. A straight-on perspective of a face dominated the center, with two sharply geometric side profiles adjoining the central face at unwieldy angles. Surrounded with tempestuous swirls of gray and whites, shiny black triangles, presumably hair, sprayed out in wakes behind the heads.
Ro had immersed herself in reading the biographical texts scrolling across the monitors lining the walls, but Quark remained fixed in front of the painting, pondering. He grabbed Ro by the elbow.
“What?” she said, puzzled.
“Look.” He nudged his head toward the painting.
“I did.”
“No, look. That’s the answer to your question. Who is Ziyal. Look.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Quark while the other guests milled about, Ro contemplated the painting. Quark watched her eyes following the eruptions of color, the soothing organic forms mingled with the stark triangles and squares. Nodding her head almost imperceptibly, she leaned closer into Quark and gave his hand a tight squeeze.
They stood together until another guest, hoping to obtain a better view, asked them to move along.
Her step buoyant, Kira passed through the security checkpoint, headed down a hallway and turned a corner…Wait a minute, she thought, puzzled. Ambassador Lang, Gul Macet and several of Lang’s aides huddled tightly together. The schedule indicated that the lunch break wasn’t due for another hour. Why would they be…unless…Tense with uncertainty, Kira strode toward the Cardassians. They parted when they recognized who was approaching.
“Colonel, please join us,” Ambassador Lang said, opening her arms.
Kira took a spot beside Lang. “What’s going on? I thought you all would be in the conference room. I’d heard opening statements were scheduled to begin an hour ago and—”
Macet interrupted her. “Minister Asarem announced that Bajor would be withdrawing from any diplomatic proceedings until after completing its probationary period for joining the Federation.”
A mountaintop avalanche inundating her path might have shocked Kira as much as Macet’s revelation. Maybe she was still asleep. Maybe this was some stress-induced bad dream…“What? That’s not how things were supposed to go. At least, Minister Shakaar never said anything about postponing the talks. I thought Minister Asarem would take a more open approach, not shut things down altogether.” Her head spun with the implications of Macet’s words.
“Apparently, Minister Asarem believes that binding Bajor to a path independent of the one Bajor is forging with the Federation is a waste of time,” Lang explained patiently, whatever shock she might have felt gradually giving way to the sadness brimming in her eyes. “Existing treaties between the Federation and Cardassia will apply equally with Bajor—there’s no need to negotiate something separately.”
This is ludicrous! Kira refused to accept this turn of events. “You’ve talked to First Minister Shakaar, Ambassador? He can’t have signed off on this.” She scanned the lobby, peered down the hall, hoping to see evidence of a Bajoran presence, but found no
ne. Cowards turned tail and ran.
Sullen-faced, Lang said, “I’m told Minister Shakaar is currently unavailable.”
Kira took a deep breath and started pacing. “All right. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that Asarem’s position really is what’s best for Bajor. Why not wait until after the transition to settle this—why now? Why push it?”
“Ironically, our situation isn’t unlike Bajor’s was seven years ago,” Lang replied. “The allies govern our territories while Cardassia Prime struggles to rebuild and redefine itself. A single epidemic and what remains of our civilization could be brought to its knees.
“We can’t rebuild without outside help, we can’t secure outside help unless we prove we can be trusted. If we fail to obtain the assistance we need, our world will revert to the same principles that led to our downfall. We are fated to repeat history unless we can prove we can move beyond the place where Cardassia began to go terribly wrong—and that’s with the Bajoran Occupation. If we can start again with new Cardassia forging ties with new Bajor, my people stand a chance.”
And the only way my people stand a chance, for all the same reasons.“I’ll do what I can,” Kira said, intending to go straight to the minister’s office and demand to be seen or block Asarem’s door way until she agreed to see her. Kira tolerated the vagaries of politics because she understood that government’s rigidly defined rules and protocols had to be navigated somehow, but this kind of game playing didn’t serve anyone. She shot off down the hallway, back toward the security checkpoint.
“Colonel, we don’t expect you—” Lang began, walking after her.
Kira stopped. “No, I know you don’t expect it, I expect it of myself. Asking another generation to fix this is wrong—for both sides.” In her gut, Kira knew she spoke truth. Her mind was clear, she believed the Prophets guided her. “This ends here. This thing between us will end now.”
After a brunch stop, Phillipa had come into her office to find that Dr. Girani had left a list of individuals he was recommending for anger management counseling. She’d encountered a few of the more surly characters during her time helping out the previous night so she had expected some referrals, but this many? If she followed standard Starfleet protocol for anger management therapy, she’d have half her daily appointment schedule filled with Girani’s recommendations alone. But because there were disciplinary and incarceration issues pending, Phillipa recognized how vital her services were. What she wouldn’t give for the odd, criminally insane schizophrenic or even marriage counseling to provide a little diversity. She sighed and ordered the computer to search the database for all the latest research on anger control issues. Maybe there was something new and exciting she could use to throw a new spin on her therapy sessions. She’d just reached the good part of “Guided Imagery and Brain Chemistry,” about the effectiveness of role playing in holographic scenarios, when a chime notified her that she had visitors. Knowing that she didn’t have any appointments scheduled until after alpha shift, she ordered the door open, hoping yet another crisis hadn’t erupted.
Hand in hand with Dizhei, Thriss entered. Phillipa smiled reflexively. Thriss had progressed from small, subtle steps like remembering her appointments without reminders and choosing to eat breakfast with her bondmates to more noticeable moves forward such as pride in her physical appearance. No longer dull and listless, her straight white hair, interspersed with small braids, shimmered. She chose elegant, attractive clothing instead of rumpled, careworn caftans and smocks. When she walked, she took long, purposeful strides instead of allowing Dizhei or Anichent to pull her along. Her antennae relaxed, responding to pleasure, not just anger. Some excellent progress with this patient and we started after she instigated a fight at Quark’s. I can only hope I have such good luck with the other night’s rioters, she thought.
“I know I don’t have an appointment,” Thriss began apologetically.
Dizhei maintained a placid demeanor, smiling indulgently at her bondmate’s earnestness. Phillipa had discovered that while Thriss tended to be emotionally obvious, Dizhei was the opposite. Yes, she was sweet-natured, always talkative, eagerly discussing her bondmates, but more reticent about herself. But from time to time when Thriss began rhapsodizing about Shar, Phillipa observed that Dizhei’s smile tightened noticeably. There’s obviously subtext here…I need to get her in for a session. She has the too-bright smile on now. Interesting.
“Don’t worry about it. Have a seat,” Phillipa gestured for her Andorian guests to make themselves comfortable in the visitors’ chairs or the therapist’s couch facing her. Thriss hadn’t been sitting a minute before she started wiggling her foot, twisting it around the chair leg. Whatever it is, she certainly is anxious today.
“This isn’t really about therapy either,” Thriss said. “I probably shouldn’t be here, but I didn’t know who else to ask and—”
Phillipa shushed her. “Ask.”
Thriss exchanged looks with Dizhei and took a deep breath. “I heard a rumor that ops downloaded communications from the Defiant today, but with all the problems last night, no one has the time or inclination to check. Councellor zh’Thane is away with Admiral Akaar on Bajor so she can’t ask.”
“You want Shar’s letter,” Phillipa grinned. “No problem.” She tapped a few commands into the computer, entered her authorization codes and was able to ascertain from the communications logs that indeed, a Gamma Quadrant transmission had been received an hour before. “It’s here, but it’s above my clearance level. Colonel Kira has to review and disperse the information, but I could check and see when that might happen.”
“Would you?” Thriss scooted to the edge of her chair expectantly, placing her hands, palm down on the desk and drumming her fingers. “I don’t want to cause problems.”
“Relax. It’ll be fine.” Phillipa touched her combadge, “Counselor Matthias to ops.”
“This is Ling. Go ahead.”
“I have Shathrissía zh’Cheen, Ensign ch’Thane’s bondmate, in my office. I was wondering when the communiqués from the Defiant would be distributed?”
“Colonel Kira reviewed them some time ago, and to my knowledge, all the personal messages went out to individual databases.”
Thriss’ incessant finger drumming suddenly stopped; she eased back into the chair, molding her shoulders to the curved backrest. In contrast, Dizhei remained poised, her antennae soft and flexible.
Phillipa reached across the desk and rested her hand over Thriss’. “Is it possible to check with the colonel to see if there was any word from Ensign ch’Thane?” she said to Ensign Ling.
“The colonel has asked not to be disturbed except in an emergency, but I’ll relay your inquiry at the earliest opportunity.”
“Thanks. Matthias out.” Thriss shrunk before Phillipa’s eyes. She tucked her legs beneath her and dropped her head on the armrest. Were it not for her shallow, ragged breaths, Phillipa might have worried that she’d stopped breathing.
Phillipa tightened her grip on Thriss’ hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Thriss. There might be something embedded or included in Commander Vaughn’s datablock. Be patient. Colonel Kira has a lot to deal with right now.”
The two bondmates exchanged a rush of whispered Andorii; Dizhei did most of the talking, finally resting a possessive hand on Thriss’ knee. “Thriss has a shift with Dr. Girani. If you want to contact her, she’ll be there until late this afternoon. Shall we go, zh’yi?”
“Wait.” Phillipa looked between both Andorians, but directed her words at Dizhei since she believed Dizhei would need persuading. “Why doesn’t Thriss stay here for a few minutes? We can talk a bit, and then I’ll take her down to the infirmary.”
But Dizhei had left her chair and was guiding Thriss along with a hand placed in the small of her back before Phillipa had finished speaking. The decision had been made, though how much input Thriss had was questionable. Once more, Phillipa reiterated her offer for on-the-spot counseling, but Thriss shoo
k her head weakly and waved a good-bye.
Absently twirling a lock of hair between her fingers, Phillipa sat in her chair staring at the words filling her desktop screen like white noise. She filtered the last fifteen minutes through years of academic and field training, plus a healthy dose of intuition.
Not one logical interpretation of the scene she’d witnessed reassured her; every extrapolation she worked through had negative connotations. So she resolved to sit there and spin every potentiality until she came up with a positive outcome. She turned off her desk screen. There had to be a positive outcome somewhere. There had to be. For Thriss’ sake. For all four of them.
Kira had no intention of calling ahead to warn Minister Asarem that she was on her way. She’d followed protocols and niceties until her mouth ached from trying to smile away her frustration. No more. The minister’s office door slid open obediently on her order. Sitting behind her desk studying a tome of Bajoran law, Asarem appeared legitimately shocked to see her. Kira relished the advantage of surprise for only a second before walking right up to the side of her chair. She didn’t want anything between them when she had this conversation.
“I don’t recall that we had a meeting, Colonel,” Asarem said, turning her chair toward Kira and offering a serene smile.
Good recovery.“We didn’t. I let myself in.”
“So I noticed,” she said dryly.
“One of the few fringe benefits of being in command around here: there’s no place on this station where I can’t find you.” After her conversation outside the conference room, she’d had the computer track Asarem’s every move on the station.
Asarem tipped back in her chair, throwing her legs out in front of her as if she were stretching post-nap. “Manners and civil liberties never figure into your games of hide and seek?”
“Don’t be clever with me, Asarem,” Kira snipped. “We’re both old hands at this. We can trade barbs and witticisms until we’re hoarse, or we can have an honest discussion.”
This Gray Spirit Page 40
