by Andy Mangels
Maybe the powers that be will have to see to it that some secrets remain buried, Dax told herself unhappily as she struggled to maintain focus on the here and now rather than allowing hypothetical calamities to drive her to distraction.
After the president finished her address, Dax walked to the observation window that faced the speaker’s platform. She looked down at the crowd, which had grown steadily throughout the president’s speech as people arrived by hovercar, skimmer, antigrav bus, or on foot.
She glanced toward the president, who had slumped limply backward into her chair, her eyes closed in apparent fatigue while Julian hovered nearby, examining her with a small medical scanner. Neither the president nor Julian seemed to be paying any attention to the storm gathering outside.
Beside the president’s desk stood Gard, who continued watching his wrist-mounted comm unit intently.
Dax’s heart sank when Gard cast a brief glance her way. His appalled expression spoke volumes about what must be going on all across the planet as a result of the president’s speech. There were already thousands of confirmed dead; if all the unjoined were rising up now to bring still more blood and fire to the streets, then millions more could follow.
Then, as he continued studying the information scrolling on his wrist, Gard’s expression shifted to one of stupefaction. Dax walked quickly toward him.
He grinned at her a moment later, then pressed a button that opened up an audio channel. Dax had expected to hear screams, catcalls, slogans, epithets. Instead she heard an unmistakable rhythmic sound, like the susurration of a waterfall punctuated by sharp, enthusiastic whistles.
The people outside weren’t rioting. They were cheering. Amid the bursts of applause rose a chorus of voices, repeating the newly unjoined president’s birth surname in a rolling, ebullient chant: “Durghan! Durghan! Durghan!”
“It might be a little soon to jump to any conclusions,” Gard said, still grinning. “But I think your speech could have gone over a whole lot worse, Madam President.”
Suddenly overcome by an enormous sensation of relief, Dax broke with protocol by letting herself sag into a sitting position on the corner of the president’s wide desk.
After having endured so much intense upheaval so quickly—and after having been subjected to so many centuries of casual, unacknowledged oppression—Trill’s disaffected majority could finally look forward to a new era of hope.
17
Stardate 53779.6
Walking between Julian and Gard, Dax wearily picked her way across the Senate Tower’s lobby, guiding the trio through the small clusters of arriving office workers. As they headed in the general direction of the landing pad where the runabout Rio Grande was parked, Dax found herself avoiding Julian’s searching gaze. Instead, her eyes roamed across the wide, vaulted ground-floor chamber.
Almost immediately, she saw a familiar face.
“Ranul!” Ezri shouted as she ran toward him. She hadn’t expected to see the massive Guardian again so soon, given the previous day’s chaos at Mak’ala. “What brings you to the Senate Tower?”
“I was hoping I’d see you again before you left Trill,” Ranul Keru said, giving her a firm but gentle hug.
Dax suddenly realized that Julian and Gard had flanked them. Julian was regarding her silently, with an expression that blended curiosity with impatient anticipation.
“Sorry, Julian,” she said, disengaging from the Guardian. “Ranul Keru, meet Doctor Julian Bashir, also from Deep Space 9. And Hiziki Gard, a special officer of the Trill Symbiosis Commission. If not for Ranul’s help, I might never have made contact with the elder symbionts.”
“You’re one of the Guardians,” Julian observed after momentarily scrutinizing Keru’s utilitarian brown tunic and slacks.
“For now,” Keru said with an enigmatic half-smile. “I’ve only been working with the symbionts for the past couple of years. It’s been very restful and therapeutic for me.”
“At least up until the last couple of days,” Dax said, smiling. She felt some curiosity as to precisely why Keru had felt the need for therapy, but didn’t want to pry into his personal affairs; she wasn’t his counselor, after all.
The big Guardian returned her smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I haven’t seen so much action since before I left the Enterprise. Didn’t think I’d ever miss it. Or that I’d start questioning whether I was really cut out to be a Guardian for the rest of my life.”
After pausing to smooth a wrinkle on his dark civilian jacket, Gard frowned slightly. “Sounds like you’re seriously thinking about going back to Starfleet.”
Keru shrugged, smiling. “Maybe, someday. If I found a good reason to make another big life change—and if I thought Starfleet needed me more than Trill does. The symbionts now need the Guardians more than ever. And not just the younger ones, either.” He switched to a hushed, confidential tone. “The ancient symbionts you contacted have been taking on a lot of memories from their dying brethren. They’re going to need our help as well.”
“And you have a chance to learn more about them than ever,” Julian said, a familiar knowledge-hungry expression blossoming across his face. “So little is understood about that phase of the symbiont life cycle.”
Dax winced, hoping Julian’s natural curiosity wouldn’t be misunderstood.
“I think maintaining the seclusion of the Annuated will be a far higher priority than studying them,” Keru said evenly, a small scowl visible beneath his bushy mustache.
Julian nodded, obviously realizing his gaffe. “Of course. I apologize if I caused offense.”
He’s so very young, Dax thought, studying Julian’s sincere, earnest face. Such an innocent, in so many ways. After everything she had seen and experienced over the past day or so, Dax felt as old as the Mak’relle Dur legend itself.
Gard cleared his throat, apparently eager to move the conversation elsewhere. “Overcurious scientists will probably be the least of the symbionts’ worries for the next few years. I’ve already spoken to members of the Symbiosis Evaluation Board, and they’re telling me that not all of the Trill initiates are taking the president’s symbiosis moratorium very well.”
Keru nodded, his expression grave and knowing. He obviously either already knew a great deal about Gard’s function in Trill society, or had intuited it from the other man’s bearing. “You security people will probably be as busy as we Guardians are for however long this thing lasts.”
“At least as busy,” Gard replied quietly, evidently speaking to Dax as much as to Keru. “If there’s another potential radical leader lurking among all the thousands of disappointed pre-joined initiates, we’ll have to work harder than ever to get out in front of the problem.” And with that, Gard bid the group good-bye and turned toward the turbolifts, presumably to apply himself to the arduous tasks that lay ahead. With no new joinings in the offing, Gard would have to seek his monsters and aberrations elsewhere.
Speaking to Dax, Keru said, “I’ve been told that the Senate has scheduled additional hearings into the symbiont/parasite affair and the bombings. They’ll start taking official testimony in a few weeks, after things settle down a bit.”
Dax nodded. “The original reason I came to Trill was to testify at those hearings. The Senate will probably want to ask me some follow-up questions. It looks like I’ll be coming back to the homeworld a lot sooner than I’d originally planned.”
“I’ve been asked to speak at the next round of hearings as well,” Keru said. “Maybe I’ll see you then. You can update me on everything that’s been happening in Starfleet since I left.” Then the big man made his farewells, leaving Dax and Julian standing alone together while office workers continued to arrive, dodging and weaving around them as they headed for the bank of turbolifts along the south wall.
As she watched Keru walk away, Dax’s thoughts turned to the thousands of eager young initiates from whom the bright prospect of symbiosis had been summarily withdrawn. Thanks to the memorie
s of most of her symbiont’s previous hosts, she was well acquainted with the rigors of a Trill initiate’s life. Fair or not, each symbiosis candidate was subjected to a grueling winnowing process that culminated in joining only for a select few. Her symbiont retained the memories of each initiate who ultimately became its host, even though Ezri Tigan had never endured an initiate’s trials. Dax felt she understood the bitter taste of disappointment that every not-yet-joined initiate on the planet must be experiencing right now; she could never forget that Jadzia’s first application for joining had been torpedoed by no less a personage than Curzon himself. The experience had been absolutely ego-crushing.
How hopeless life must seem now for the initiates, she thought. Though Ezri Tigan had never desired joining herself, Ezri Dax now felt unutterably sad for those whose yearning for the completeness of symbiosis had abruptly come to nothing, as though the Symbiosis Evaluation Board had summarily declared every applicant to the program unfit.
Dax’s eyes followed Keru’s steps as he reached an exit on the far side of the lobby. As the Guardian disappeared from sight, it occurred to her that not everybody expected to benefit materially from an association with the symbionts. Unlike each year’s eager young crop of initiates—or unjoined malcontents like Verad Kalon—Keru and the other Guardians were content to give of themselves freely to assist the symbionts. And every member of the Guardian order was unjoined.
Maybe Trill’s best hope lies with people who have the strength to stand apart from whatever advantages symbiosis might offer them, she thought. People like Ranul Keru, or President Lirisse Durghan.
Or even Ezri Tigan, the person I used to be before Dax came along.
“Excuse me?” Julian said, his eyebrows buoyed by curiosity. Dax suddenly realized that she must have spoken at least part of her reverie aloud.
“I was starting to wonder,” she began, slightly flustered at having been caught woolgathering. “Would I have had the courage to give up my symbiont the way the president did?”
“The president probably worked hard for years to prove herself worthy of the Maz symbiont,” Julian pointed out. “Remember, you joined with the Dax symbiont initially because that was the only way to save its life.”
He just doesn’t get it, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Sure, I didn’t choose to be joined, but I’ve been joined for almost two years now. Ezri Tigan and Dax are a permanent part of one other now. And my life and career will never be the same again because of that. Ezri and Dax have made memories together that we’ll share for the rest of this lifetime. And Dax’s next hosts will be able to dip into my experiences the way I benefit from those of Curzon, or Torias, or Emony, or any of the others.”
He took her hand gently between both of his; he appeared to notice for the first time that she’d had her phaser burn treated at some point since leaving Mak’ala.
“Isn’t that the nature of symbiosis?” he said.
She pulled her hand away, gently but insistently. “Yes. It’s a wonderful thing that I didn’t even want at first. And now I get to keep it, even though none of the people who really do want it get to join the club now.”
“I think I understand, Ezri. I believe you’re experiencing something called ‘survivor’s guilt.”’
“Thanks, Julian,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “But I am a trained counselor.”
“Then you should understand that plenty of others are now in the very same position you are,” he said, apparently unfazed by her irritation. “Every other joined Trill—”
She interrupted him. “Every other joined Trill is just running out the clock, as of this morning. And if this joining embargo goes on long enough, every last one of the remaining few hundred joined Trill hosts will die. Their symbionts will end up back in the pools, without any prospect of entering a new symbiosis. With no chance of regaining their eyes and ears and arms and legs. Maybe for decades, or centuries. And every humanoid on Trill will be cut off from everything the symbionts know. They might even forget why we bothered to join in the first place. Even people who revere memories can forget what’s important, Julian. Trust me, I know.”
Julian seemed to be nettled as well, though his words remained persistently sympathetic, perhaps out of habits stemming from his medical training. “You have perhaps another century of life ahead of you, Ezri. Surely the current symbiosis crunch ought to be resolved long before then.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
“Because I intend to help any way I can,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner.
Though Julian’s words reassured her, at least somewhat, that Trill’s symbiosis problems might be resolved sooner rather than later, they did little to assuage her “survivor’s guilt,” if that was indeed what she was experiencing.
Unbidden, her thoughts drifted again to one of her previous hosts. She recalled an occasion when Julian had all but summoned Jadzia’s departed spirit during the throes of lovemaking with Ezri. Though the incident had occurred months ago—and only once—it tended to haunt Dax whenever her relationship with Julian seemed unusually strained.
When he looks at me, who does he really see? Ezri? Or Jadzia?
She tried to brush the thought aside, at least for the moment. It was time to focus on the future—and on the reports that would have to be written during the days-long voyage home that lay ahead. As she resumed moving purposefully toward one of the exits, Julian walked at a brisk pace alongside her.
Neither of them said another word until long after they had reached the runabout.
Stardate 53785.4
The runabout Rio Grande, now on course for Deep Space 9, had left Trill more than fifty hours ago.
Fifty extremely quiet hours ago, Bashir thought, seated in one of the cockpit chairs—though not in the one closest to Ezri.
He wasn’t sure how to go about breaking the seemingly interminable silences that stretched between their shared meals, their uncomfortable, largely separate sleeping intervals, and their brief flurries of report writing, duty-related conversation, and innocuous, superficial personal chitchat. Busy now at the pilot’s console, Ezri no longer seemed to want or need to discuss her homeworld’s symbiosis moratorium or its aftermath. In fact, she seemed utterly disinterested in talking about anything.
He, on the other hand, could scarcely contain himself. There were still aspects of this messy business he had questions about. For instance, were the parasites really gone for good? Or were there more out there, somehwere beyond Federation space, waiting for the right opportunity to try again?
But now didn’t seem an appropriate time to discuss such things. Bashir remained silent, though he thought the quiet tension that had built up in the cabin over the past hour could have repelled a quantum torpedo attack.
Idled by the uncomfortable stillness in the runabout’s cockpit, his mind again wandered back to the heavy-handed manner in which Ezri had conducted the mission on Trill. Though subsequent circumstances had largely vindicated her actions, he still felt a lingering resentment about it, as livid and painful as a bone bruise.
Since she seemed unlikely to bring up this subject—or any subject—he decided it was up to him to do it.
“Ezri, we have to talk.”
She continued staring straight ahead at the ever-shifting star field for several seconds before noticing that he’d spoken. “Hmmm?”
“Ezri, I want to talk to you about the mission.”
She turned her pilot’s chair so that she faced him. “You’re right. I suppose we could append a few more details to the initial reports we sent to Kira.” She started to rise from her chair.
He laid a hand on her arm, gently preventing her from getting to her feet. “DS9 is less than half a day away. I wanted to talk to you before we get back and end up getting swept into yet another crisis.”
She nodded. “You want to talk about the mission?” As reticent as she still obviously was about rehashing her world’s history with him, Bashir thought she was hopin
g she wouldn’t have to discuss anything else.
“Only peripherally. It’s really about, ah, the way you handled certain aspects of the mission.”
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her in a classic display of defensiveness. Her dazzling blue eyes narrowed. “Trill was attacked by a clandestine global terror network, Julian. Under the circumstances, it seems to me that the mission was as successful as anybody could have hoped.”
“I can’t argue with that, at least in retrospect.” Feeling she was beginning to tie him in knots, he decided he’d better simply come out with his point. “But I think you may have been a bit . . . high-handed when you went off to Mak’ala.”
Judging from the puzzled look on her face, he might have just sprouted a second head. “‘High-handed,’” she repeated.
“When I tried to point out that it was a risky thing to do, you simply brushed me off.”
“Going diving at Mak’ala was risky, Julian. You didn’t have to tell me that. But it turned out to be the right thing to do.”
He nodded. “Yes, but only in retrospect. At the time, it was as though you had no regard whatsoever for my input.”
It was her turn to nod. “Ah. So this isn’t really about the mission. It’s about your evaluation of my command style.”
His frustration finally boiling over, he rose from his chair and stepped to the rear of the cockpit before turning once again to face her. “Dammit, Ezri! Don’t trivialize this! I’m not trying to defend my delicate ego. Each of us took wholly opposite approaches to the crisis. Doesn’t that bother you?”
