by Andy Mangels
“Not especially, Julian. It was my call, and I made it.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “And maybe that’s what’s really bothering you—that I’ve stepped into a role you’re not comfortable with.”
“That’s not true,” he said, waving his hands dismissively. “I’ve always supported your decision to switch over to a command-track career.”
“Even though it came as a bit of a shock, at least at first.”
He felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I prefer to think of it as a surprise, and Daxes are nothing if not surprising. But again, this isn’t about your becoming a command officer.”
Ezri, however, wasn’t smiling. “Then is it about me being your commanding officer on this particular mission?”
“Ezri, you were above me in the Defiant’s chain of command all those weeks we spent exploring the Gamma Quadrant. That wasn’t a problem for me then, and it isn’t now.”
She sighed wearily. “Then what exactly is this about, Julian?”
As he paused for a moment to compose his thoughts, he began to realize how difficult a question she had posed. “It’s about whether or not my expertise is important to you. My judgment. My advice. My experience, even though I admit I don’t have a backlog of eight other lifetimes of memories to tap into.” He hesitated a beat before plunging on to the real crux of his complaint. “It’s about whether or not I’m important to you.”
All of the exasperation abruptly drained from her face, and she looked stricken. “And you think you’ve become less important to me since I started wearing this red collar.”
His response was nearly a whisper. “It seems that way, yes. At least sometimes.”
She rose from her chair, put her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. He returned the embrace, which seemed fueled more by regret than by passion.
They stood that way for a long time, in silence, while the runabout’s autopilot carried them inexorably homeward.
“Jadzia,” Ezri said finally, her head lying against his chest.
He partially disengaged himself from the embrace so that he could see her face. Unshed tears stood in her wide, cerulean eyes.
“Sorry?” he said.
She finished dismantling their embrace, then resumed her place in the pilot’s seat. She stared straight ahead at the shifting star field as she spoke. “You were in love with Jadzia.”
“I don’t really see what that has to do with anything,” Bashir said, feeling defensive in spite of himself.
“You loved her,” she repeated, turning to face him. “You don’t have to be embarrassed to talk to me about it. Worf may have arranged a place in Sto-Vo-Kor for her, but she’s still right here.” She placed a hand on her abdomen, where the Dax symbiont stored the memories of all its previous hosts.
And she’s in my heart as well, he thought. And always will be. He slumped into the seat next to Ezri’s, knowing he was beaten.
“All right. I did love Jadzia. What of it?”
“You were in love with her, but you lost her to Worf before you could do anything about it. And you lost her again when she died. Then Ezri Dax blundered into your life. Suddenly, you had a second chance at Jadzia. And now, here we are.”
“I love you, Ezri. Not Jadzia’s ghost. Don’t you believe that?”
She nodded, the tears in her eyes sparkling like distant quasars. “I do believe you, Julian. But I’ve always wondered if the only reason for that is because you loved Jadzia first.”
He was feeling adrift; when he’d decided to air his grievances with her, the last thing he’d expected was for her to reciprocate. “What’s your point, Ezri?”
“My point is that we came together under some pretty strange circumstances. There was the emotional baggage you had with Jadzia. The Dominion War. The final battle for Cardassia. We became a couple not knowing whether we’d even survive the first day.” Tears began painting wide stripes down both her cheeks.
All at once he saw precisely where she was heading. And he was more than a little surprised when he realized that she was making perfect, if painful, sense.
“And none of that bodes well for a stable relationship,” he said quietly. He suddenly noticed that his own cheeks were damp as well.
“It isn’t that you’re not important to me, Julian,” she said. “You’re a dear, sweet, man. A good man. But the part of me that’s just plain old Ezri wonders if we’d have been drawn together at all if I didn’t see you through Jadzia’s eyes . . . or if you didn’t see her in mine.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped himself. Was it egotistical to acknowledge that he might not have developed feelings for Ezri if not for her symbiosis with the renowned polymath Dax symbiont—and the link to his beloved, dead Jadzia that had come with it?
“I suppose we’ve both changed quite a bit over the past year,” he said finally, knowing that his words communicated little of value even as he said them.
“Me especially,” she said, gracefully permitting his obvious dodge as she chuckled through her tears. “And now we’re two very different people.”
We’ve matured together, he thought. I don’t think we could have had this conversation just a few months ago. At least not without a good deal more shouting.
They sat together in silence, watching the stars. Holding hands.
“I suppose we’re done now,” he said at length. “As a couple, I mean.”
They faced each other. He studied her eyes, just as she was clearly studying his. The truth now stood revealed as obvious.
“I hope you don’t mind my telling you that I still love you,” he said, fixing his eyes back on the interstellar void ahead. “I think I always will.”
Her fingers felt cold against his as she squeezed his hand. “And I’ll always love you, too, Julian.” A brief sidewise glance told him that her gaze now faced front as well.
Very gently, he released her hand. She withdrew it. Whatever cord had connected them romantically seemed to snap with that gesture. They were friends now. Dear friends, and colleagues.
The Rio Grande continued hurtling homeward, mere hours away from Deep Space 9. And though Ezri remained seated beside him, the blackness of space seemed not nearly so deep and cold as the gulf that now yawned between them.
About the Authors
Andy Mangels is the coauthor of several Star Trek novels, e-books, short stories, and comic books, as well as a trio of Roswell novels, all cowritten with Michael A. Martin. Flying solo, he is the best-selling author of many entertainment books including Animation on DVD: The Ultimate Guide and Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Characters, as well as a significant number of entries in The Super-Hero Book.
He has written hundreds of articles for entertainment and lifestyle magazines and newspapers in the United States, England, and Italy. He has also written licensed material based on properties from many film studios and Microsoft, and his comic book work has been published by DC Comics, Marvel Comics, and many others. He was the editor of the award-winning Gay Comics anthology for eight years.
Andy is a national award-winning activist in the Gay community, and has raised thousands of dollars for charities over the years. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his long-term partner, Don Hood, their dog Bela, and their chosen son, Paul Smalley. Visit his website at www.andymangels.com
Michael A. Martin’s solo short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He has also coauthored (with Andy Mangels) several Star Trek novels (including the forthcoming Titan: Books One and Two; Star Trek: The Lost Era 2298—The Sundered; Star Trek: Deep Space 9 Mission: Gamma Book Three—Cathedral; Star Trek: The Next Generation, Section 31—Rogue); Star Trek: Starfleet Corps of Engineers #30 and #31 (“Ishtar Rising” Books 1 and 2); stories in the Prophecy and Change and Tales of the Dominion War anthologies (as well as in the forthcoming Tales from the Captain’s Table anthology); and three novels based on the Roswell television series. He lives wi
th his wife, Jenny, and their two sons in Portland, Oregon.
Bajor
Fragments and Omens
J. Noah Kym
For Mom
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, deepest gratitude to Paula Block for her support, her enthusiasm, and her suggestion of this story’s villain.
Muchas gracias also to Heather Jarman and Jeff Lang, scribes extraordinaire, whose help and inspiration were invaluable to the crafting of this tale.
A big shout out to all the folks who make Star Trek, on screen and in print, for all the worlds and characters they continue to create.
Finally, a tip of the hat to my editor, Marco Palmieri, for inviting me to explore the world of Bajor.
Historian’s Note
Chapters 1, 2, 11, and all the “Rena” portions of this tale unfold over the three weeks immediately following the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel Unity. The rest of the story transpires during a single day at the end of that period, in late October, 2376 (Old Calendar).
There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.
—OSCAR WILDE
The whole world is an omen and a sign.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
1
Sisko
Eyes closed, Benjamin Sisko listened to his wife’s slow, steady breathing. Inhaling deeply, he began a mental list of the smells: lemon-scented laundry soap, Kasidy’s face cream, mother’s milk, baby powder. Oh, my, he thought, but that takes me back. How many years? Jake was—twenty-one? Could that be right? And I thought I’d left baby powder far, far behind me.
Only a meter from Kasidy’s side of the bed he heard a faint stirring no louder than a mouse kicking in its sleep. In response, under his arm, Sisko felt Kasidy’s arm spasm and she mumbled something low and unintelligible. “Don’t worry,” Sisko murmured, eyes still shut. “I’ll get her.”
He opened his eyes and watched the blades of the ceiling fan churn the early-morning air. Kasidy had installed the fans shortly after she’d moved into the house, one of the many changes she had made to his original design that made their home seem as wonderfully strange as it was familiar. After the years upon years he’d spent in perfectly modulated environments on starships and starbases (and the even less perfectly modulated spaces of Deep Space 9), a ceiling fan seemed a delightfully anachronistic detail. What a wonderful idea. He was glad Kasidy had thought of it.
The mouse in the tiny crib stirred again, sighed, and made a wet sound. Lifting his head, Sisko, the Old Campaigner, the Experienced Dad, sniffed, then drew a breath and held it. Ah, yes, I remember this, too.
The tiny creature in the crib voiced her displeasure with the recent change in her comfort level. Kasidy’s head rose minutely. “Sorry, love,” he said, rolling out of bed. “I’m going.”
“She’s going to be hungry,” Kasidy muttered into her pillow.
“Of course she is,” Sisko said as he reached into the crib and scooped his daughter up into his arms. Check for leakage, the Old Dad instincts told him. Structural integrity may be compromised. All appeared to be well, though Rebecca’s distress level was sharply rising. Lowering his daughter gently onto the changing table in the corner, Sisko unfastened the diaper, tossed it into the recycler, smiled briefly at the tiny, perfect derriere, then gave it and all other visible parts a thorough but gentle wiping. A spray of powder, then a new diaper, and voilà, all was sealed and in place, and the proud papa stopped only long enough to inspect his daughter’s rounded belly. The baby, whose face had been in danger of scrunching up for a howl, suddenly became aware that something significant had changed; she stopped and considered. Ah, the face said. Better. But all is not well. The lips pursed and Baby Rebecca, Princess of All She Surveys, screwed up her face in a yawp of discontent.
“Well,” Sisko said, and carried the unhappy child to her waiting mother. “I can’t help you with that.” Kasidy slid down the corner of her gown, nestled Rebecca next to her breast, and then covered them both again. The mouth searched, Kasidy guided her head, and then there came a coo of satisfaction. Sisko bent down and pressed his face into his wife’s neck, inhaled again: yes, all still there—face cream, milk, powder, love.
Kasidy wriggled away from his rough cheek, smiled, asked sleepily, “What time is it?”
“Early. Go back to sleep.”
“You go back to sleep. You were up past two last night talking to Jake and here you are up again with the birds.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re never tired.”
Grinning, Sisko stroked his wife’s hair. “The Prophets didn’t believe in getting up early. And they’re very leisurely about how they spend their mornings. Slippers. Sweatshirts. Two cups of coffee before they even think about what’s for breakfast. And then naps all around in the afternoon.”
Kasidy stroked the baby’s fine curls. “Sounds like it would drive you mad, Mr. I Must Be Up and Doing.”
“That’s why I had to come back.”
“Oh, right,” Kasidy said. “That was why.”
Sisko straightened and listened to the morning. The shuff, shuff, shuff of the fan drowned out a lot of noise, but he was fairly certain no one else was stirring around the house. Birds out in the hedgerow were busily tending their own families, adults making sure their almost-grown chicks were ready to fly. “Coffee,” he said aloud, knowing Kasidy didn’t hear him; she was already asleep again, Rebecca snuggled close. The baby had stopped nursing, asleep, but her mouth was still firmly attached to her mother’s nipple, close, close, so close. Closer to Kasidy than any other human being ever would be. Sisko touched the child’s cheek and said, “This is why.”
* * *
As Sisko stepped from the bedroom, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his robe. Summer came on slowly in Kendra, evidenced by the cool air from the northern mountains mingling gently with the breezes blowing off the Yolja River. This morning was warmer than the one before and tomorrow would be even warmer, but for an old New Orleans native like himself, anything below thirty Celsius warranted a wrap. Still, Sisko did not wish away these cool mornings. Each graduated environmental change bespoke time passing and he savored the sense of being reconnected to its flow.
Enjoying the way the flesh of his arms prickled slightly in the cool air, Sisko strode into his kitchen only to be greeted by the whiff of overripe garbage. I thought I’d asked Jake to take that out to the compost pile. Searching his memory, Sisko had to admit that he could only remember thinking about asking Jake. After all, between the two of them, they had drunk two bottles of the good spring wine last night and he, Sisko, had probably downed more than his share. The nursing Kasidy would only wet her lips with it during dinner. And Jake . . .
Where was Jake? On the floor next to the couch were signs of his nest, a loose roll of blankets and a well-scrunched pillow. The shades that had been drawn over the sliding door to the garden had been pulled aside. Sisko padded softly to the door and looked out.
Shoulders hunched, his son was standing in the garden staring into the south, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets, shadow long behind him, morning dew soaking into his boots and pant legs. Lost in thought, Jake did not hear his father as he pulled the sliding door open. Glad for the opportunity, Sisko stood and regarded his son as dispassionately as he could. He’s grown up to be a fine-looking young man, the father thought. Or maybe I need to stop saying “young man.” He’s a man now. No “young” about it. Sometime in the past week, Jake had decided to stop shaving, and the unruly stubble of a couple of days past had already become a thick tangle. Everyone had teased Jake about it for a day or two, but Jake had known the change was blessed when his stepmother had run a hand over his chin and commented that all the Sisko men looked better with beards.
But what is he thinking about? Sisko wondered as Jake absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Never an early riser, this one, not unless he has something on his mind. Sisko amende
d the thought. Or when he’s working on a story, but then it’s not getting up early; he just doesn’t sleep. But Jake had not been working on a story or, near as his father could tell, much of anything since Rebecca was born. Considering it now, he realized that Jake had been looking restless the past couple of days. Thinking about the past, he concluded. And thinking about the future. Thinking about anywhere but here.
“Hey, Jake-o,” Sisko called. “Aren’t your feet going to get soaked?”
When he heard his old nickname, Jake’s shoulders slowly stirred and he shook off his reverie. Turning toward his father, he smiled the familiar old smile, the happy grin of open, unaffected pleasure, though Sisko felt a peculiar nostalgia creep over him seeing the smile through the beard. It was like when Jake was ten and had just discovered stage makeup. Marveling that he had not thought about it in over ten years, Sisko remembered that summer—the pancake makeup, the spirit gum, the hair appliances, Jennifer chasing a half-denuded werewolf out of their bathroom. How many bathroom towels had the boy ruined?
“Hey, Dad,” Jake responded, though not too loud. He looked down at his drenched boots, then lifted each one off the ground in turn. “Too late.”
“Then no reason to hurry in,” Sisko said. “Unless you want to help me make breakfast.”
Jake’s eyebrows lifted. “French toast?”
“Do we have sourdough?”
“I made a loaf yesterday.”
Sisko beamed. “I brought you up right, didn’t I?”
Jake shrugged, and Sisko saw the smile turn down a little at the corners. Then, in a moment, it was gone and Jake replied, “Yep, you did.” Looking again into the south, Jake pointed out across the rolling hills and asked, “Do you know what’s in that direction?”
