by Andy Mangels
Ro stepped carefully around the debris, taking in the view of the fog-shrouded valley beyond the village’s crumbled outer wall. “They were an odd bunch,” she observed.
Lenaris’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
Ro hesitated for a second or two before elaborating. “There’s little about them in central archives, but from what I gather, they were a pretty insular community. Out here in the middle of nowhere, shunning outside contact for the most part. And, supposedly, they had a strange annual tradition in which they believed they fought off a Dal’Rok, of all things.” Ro shook her head as if she found the mythical spirit’s very name laughable. She turned away from the view and shrugged. “As I said . . . an odd bunch.”
“They were Bajorans, Lieutenant,” Lenaris said quietly, but with more intensity than he meant to project. “That they were perhaps more eccentric than most, and not as modern as you or I, is irrelevant. Whoever these people may have been—or not been—they deserve better than to be remembered as objects of scorn.”
Ro blinked. “I assure you I intended no disrespect, General.”
“I’m not sure I give a damn what you intended, Lieutenant,” Lenaris said. “What I know is how you came across: arrogant, dismissive, and contemptuous.”
Ro’s gaze shifted to one side for a moment, the way it often did when she was contemplating a cutting response to someone challenging her. Lenaris had grown quite familiar with the look during those first few weeks after she’d returned to her people following the end of the Dominion War. But then her expression softened, and when she spoke again, her voice lacked its previous edge. “You’re right,” she said. “That was completely inappropriate. It won’t happen again, sir.”
Lenaris nodded, letting her know he considered the matter closed. A small part of him, however, was mildly amused that Ro Laren, of all people, was learning restraint. He wondered darkly if he was meant to take that as an omen.
Ro asked, “Has the Militia confirmed how the accident took place?”
“Not exactly,” Lenaris said, just as he spied a figure sprinting toward him from the mobile command center at the edge of the village. Wearing a red Militia uniform like Lenaris’s own and holding a padd in one hand, the officer kicked up ash and soot with his boots as he ran. Captain Jaza. Right on time.
“You asked for a copy of this, sir?”
Lenaris thanked the captain as he accepted the padd. He spoke as he keyed on the display. “Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet Captain Jaza Najem, one of my scientists. Captain, Lieutenant Ro Laren.”
Jaza nodded. “A pleasure, Lieutenant. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Really?” Ro said. “Why is that?”
Never lifting his eyes from the padd, Lenaris explained, “This is Captain Jaza’s last week under my command. He’s decided to join Starfleet.”
“I submitted my transfer application a few days ago,” Jaza elaborated. “I was told to report to the evaluation center in Ashalla next week for an interview. I understand you and Commander Vaughn are overseeing the review process?”
“Initially, yes,” Ro confirmed. “The commander and I are primarily evaluating career Militia personnel who qualify for direct transition to active Starfleet duty. I expect Command will be sending instructors for those requiring additional training, and recruitment officers for civilians wishing to enroll in Starfleet Academy. In fact, it was to discuss those very matters that I came to meet with General Lenaris. Are you hoping to remain in-system, Captain?”
“Actually, I indicated a preference for starship duty on my application,” Jaza said. “I realize there are no guarantees, but I’ve grown a bit restless on Bajor.”
Ro smiled. “I know the feeling. I’ll remember we spoke when your application hits my desk.”
Jaza’s delight was apparent. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Lenaris said, finally looking up from the padd. “That’ll be all.”
“Yessir,” Jaza replied. He nodded at Ro. “A pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant. I look forward to speaking with you again,” he said, and marched back toward the MCC.
Ro nodded, watching him go. When he was out of earshot, she said to Lenaris, “He seems like he’ll make a fine addition to Starfleet.”
“Captain Jaza is one of my best officers,” Lenaris said. “He’d be an asset wherever he went. I’m sorry to lose him.”
Ro turned and looked at him. “I imagine you’re experiencing a lot of that these days, aren’t you?”
Lenaris shrugged as the two of them started walking toward the MCC. “It isn’t exactly unexpected. We’ve known all along that some Militia personnel would be absorbed by Starfleet once Bajor joined the Federation. But I’m seeing transfer requests from people I never imagined would want to leave Bajor, not after fighting so hard to win our world back from the Cardassians. And I never stopped to consider how many young people would want to attend Starfleet Academy. My sister’s children—a girl and two boys—all plan to report to the recruitment office in Ashalla the day it opens next month. It’s a lot of change to accept at once.”
“They’re good changes, though,” Ro said.
“Are they?” Lenaris asked. “I thought so too, at first. Then this happened.” He gestured expansively at the ruin around them.
Ro frowned. “What does what happened here have to do with—?”
Lenaris held out the padd to her.
“What’s this?” Ro asked as she took the device.
“The revised incident report, based on an investigation my people conducted after some anomalies showed up in the initial findings.”
Ro frowned as she thumbed through the text. After a few moments, she looked up at him. “Deliberate?”
“That’s what the evidence is telling us.” Lenaris watched as Ro took another few seconds to absorb the details from the padd, items he’d already committed to memory: residual traces, at the epicenter of the destruction, of triceron, a volatile compound used in some incendiary devices; satellite data showing a single skimmer departing the region shortly after the explosion, headed toward Jalanda, followed shortly thereafter by a Besinian freighter lifting off from the city’s spaceport . . . a ship that had arrived on Bajor only hours earlier.
“Son of a—” Ro slapped her combadge. “Ro to Brahmaputra. Patch me through to Captain—”
“Kira already knows, Lieutenant,” the general cut in.
Ro looked at him. After a few seconds, Lenaris heard the runabout’s onboard computer prompt Ro to restate her request. “Cancel,” Ro said into her combadge, cutting the connection with another slap. She waited for Lenaris to continue.
“We confirmed the new findings only an hour ago, while you were still en route to Bajor,” the general explained. “I notified Deep Space 9 immediately, of course; once the freighter left the system, it was out of my jurisdiction. My understanding is that the Defiant set out in pursuit of the Besinian ship immediately, even though the trail was already two hours old at that point.”
“What do we know about the ship?”
“Very little. It was a freelance courier. Having found ourselves unable to verify the authenticity of the credentials they presented when they first requested permission to land, we’re proceeding on the assumption that they transmitted forgeries in order to cover their real agenda.”
Ro shook her head. “But what kind of agenda would anyone have against these people?”
“That, Lieutenant, is why our meeting wasn’t canceled,” Lenaris told her. “Captain Kira expects you to investigate the matter personally.”
4
Asarem
With the early-morning light of B’hava’el pouring through the enormous bay windows of the first minister’s residence, Asarem Wadeen nibbled at a warm slice of makapa bread spread with moba jam while she read through a padd containing her morning brief, the Bajoran global situation report.
The number-one item in the brief was the incident in Hedrikspool, t
hough apparently nothing new had come to light since she’d gone back to bed after first being apprised of the matter, four hours ago. It was intolerable that an alien ship could come to Bajor and cause such death and turmoil, and then escape. Kira Nerys, to her credit, had been determined not to allow the perpetrators to get away, but realistically, Asarem knew the odds were against the captain. The ship had come and gone too quickly, before anyone had completely understood what had befallen the isolated hamlet, for even the Defiant to have a reasonable hope of catching those responsible. The bottom line was that the security monitoring the traffic to and from Bajor had failed, and would need to be reevaluated if such despicable crimes were to be prevented in the future.
Item two: The new figures from the Ministries of Trade, Agriculture, and Cultural Exchange were encouraging. Bajoran educators and artisans, musicians and writers, designers, builders, and farmers were highly sought after on a number of Federation planets. In addition, exports of every kind were on the rise, including, Asarem noted with amazement, authentic Bajoran cuisine and ingredients, which had apparently earned quite a reputation since the Occupation ended. Less than a decade ago, her people were coping with the threat of famine. Since then, Bajor not only had become completely self-sufficient again in feeding its own people, but was ready to meet offworld demands for native produce and prepared foods. Several planets with interest in Bajoran exports would be reciprocating with resources of their own, not the least of which was Coridan, whose abundance of dilithium would help facilitate a new era of Bajoran colonization.
Item three: On the foreign-policy front, she saw that once the Federation Council convened its new session, hearings were expected to be scheduled on the matter of the Trill government’s unilateral handling of the parasite affair, possibly to determine if criminal charges needed to be filed. A footnote on the revised death toll from the recent civil upheaval on the Trill homeworld gave Asarem pause. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that the Trill were already paying dearly for their subterfuge, the very fabric of their society needing to be rewoven. As angry as she still was about the manner in which they had exposed the threat to Bajor, the fact remained that they had exposed it, making it possible for her people to take steps against the remaining creatures. Asarem made a note to herself: Although her government would favor holding specific individuals accountable for any crimes committed in the parasite affair, she would also make sure Bajor voted against any punitive action against the Trill people. Bajor had nothing to gain by making the situation on the Trill homeworld any worse.
Item four: A report on the continuing aid to Cardassia Prime concluded that inadequate health care was still the number-one problem there. It made her recall with shame her farcical meetings with Cardassian ambassador Natima Lang months ago, when Shakaar—or rather, the parasitic alien masquerading as Shakaar—had instructed then-Second Minister Asarem to keep the Cardassians at arm’s length. Lang had practically begged her for Bajor’s compassion, and Asarem had been required to withhold it, despite the way in which it tore at her to do so. Thankfully, Vedek Yevir’s maverick act of interfaith diplomacy had rallied popular support for Cardassian rapprochement, which Asarem had been able to officially endorse as first minister once the Shakaar-thing had been exposed. She made a note to pass the report on to Councillor Rava so she could put it before the Federation Council, and to set up a meeting with the Bajoran minister of health to discuss what additional medical support Bajor could offer Cardassia.
Asarem set the padd down for a moment and rubbed her eyes. Her interrupted sleep was going to make the day that much harder to get through. She was supposed to meet Minister Rozahn later in the morning for a springball match, which was to be the setting for the two women to discuss an old proposal of Shakaar’s, found among his files, to invite the Federation to establish a Starfleet shipyard within the Bajoran system. She glanced across the room at the ministerial portrait of her predecessor above the fireplace, and wondered how often he felt as smothered by the job as she did right now. She smiled at the painting, thinking that perhaps he’d have been pleased with how Bajor was faring overall. Shakaar looked back at her from the canvas, his expression hopeful. The portrait had once resided in the office of his personal assistant, Syrsy, who had withdrawn from public service after Shakaar’s violent death. I haven’t spoken with her since the memorial service, Asarem realized. I should get in touch with her, see how she’s doing . . . .
Making another note in the padd, Asarem finished her slice of makapa and then reached for the cup her aide had filled before he’d left her to eat her breakfast in private. She took a single sip and winced. “Theno!” she shouted.
A moment later, her aide entered the residence. Theno was older than she by perhaps thirty years, slight of build, somewhat wizened in appearance, but possessing the most pronounced rhinal ridges she’d ever seen. His gray hair was combed back from his forehead, and his soft voice always failed utterly to disguise his complete impertinence. “You screamed, First Minister?”
“If I did, you have only yourself to blame,” Asarem said. She held up the cup. “What is this?”
“Cela tea, First Minister,” Theno said as he approached. “I asked the kitchen to prepare some for you.”
“No, no, no!” she said, setting the cup back down. “How long have you been my aide, Theno?”
“It seems like forever, First Minister,” Theno drawled.
“Then you should know by now that I only drink cela tea from Rakantha Province. Wherever this came from, it wasn’t Rakantha.”
Theno picked up the abandoned cup and sampled the tea for himself. “It tastes passable to me.”
Asarem pointed at Theno and pounced. “You see, that’s the problem. Right there. That attitude. The idea that ‘passable’ should mean ‘acceptable.’ Bajorans don’t strive for ‘passable.’ Our culture and our civilization weren’t built because our ancestors satisfied themselves with what was ‘passable.’ The growers in Rakantha are an ancient order of monks who have been cultivating cela plants specifically to make tea for centuries. They’ve elevated it to art, producing a leaf that surpasses the quality of cela grown elsewhere.”
Theno frowned in distaste. “Isn’t this the same group that campaigned a few years ago to have Cardassian voles declared a protected species?”
Asarem folded her arms. “For your information, despite the ecological problems the voles created when they were first introduced to Bajor decades ago, their droppings have been found to have had a remarkable restorative effect on our damaged farmlands since the end of the Occupation. The cela-growing monks in Rakantha were the first to recognize this. Because of them, there are now entire farms devoted to the refinement of vole fertilizer, which has greatly reduced our dependence on offworld soil-reclamation technology.”
“But . . . they’re voles,” Theno said.
“You’re missing the point. The monks who came to understand their value weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, to look at things from an unpopular perspective, and to speak up in order to make things better rather than be satisfied with what was ‘passable.’”
“My ignorance shames me, First Minister,” Theno said. “Shall I arrange to have myself taken into custody?”
Asarem glared at him before returning to her morning brief. “Just get that swill out of here and bring me some kava juice.”
“As you wish. Would you like one vole dropping in that, or two?”
Before Asarem could fire off a scathing retort, Theno’s right index finger went to the tiny comlink receiver affixed to his left ear. He looked up at her, all trace his customary insolence gone. “It’s Second Minister Ledahn. He says it’s urgent. He’s standing by on comm channel nine.”
“Thank you, Theno. That’ll be all,” Asarem said automatically, moving to her companel as Theno exited the residence and keying the proper channel. The face of Ledahn Muri winked into existence. “What’s happened?” she asked without preamble. “More news about Sid
au?”
Ledahn shook his head. His strong features, Asarem noted, seemed accentuated since he began shaving his scalp. “Not yet,” he said. “It’s something else. Rava Mehwyn is dead.”
Asarem blinked, unwilling to believe at first that she’d heard him correctly. Rava was Bajor’s newly appointed first representative to the Federation Council. She’d left Bajor only a week earlier. Thoughts of assassination and new political turmoils, foreign and domestic, raced through Asarem’s mind.
“How did it happen?” she asked. “Who’s responsible?”
“What? No, no one!” Ledahn said. “There was no foul play. Rava had a heart attack in her sleep at the Bajoran Embassy, her second night on Earth. She was found dead by one of her aides the next morning, too late to be helped. The embassy physician confirmed it was natural causes. I’m sorry, First Minister, if I led you to think—”
“No, that’s all right, Muri,” Asarem said, relief and sadness forming a peculiar mixture in her mind. “I guess I’ve gotten into a bad habit of automatically assuming the absolute worst.”
“That’s understandable, especially after all we’ve been through lately,” Ledahn said.
“I can’t believe it. I know Rava wasn’t young, but . . . I’m sorry, this is quite a shock. I take it her remains will soon be returned to Bajor? We’ll need to make sure her life is honored properly. Have her children been notified?”
“Not yet. I thought you’d prefer to contact them yourself. They all live in Dahkur.”
“Thank you, yes, I’ll do that right away.”
“Before you do,” Ledahn said, “there’s the matter of selecting Rava’s replacement to discuss.”
Asarem was taken aback. “Can’t that wait? Prophets, Ledahn, the woman just died—”
“I’m afraid it can’t, First Minister.”
“Why not? We spent a month wrangling with the Chamber of Ministers over the selection of Rava. The next one will take at least as long.”
“No it won’t. Or rather, it musn’t. The Federation Council has been in recess for over three weeks. The new session convenes in five days. Under its charter, new member planets must have representation at the start of a session. If we don’t have a councillor there for Bajor at that time, we’ll have to wait for the next session in order to take part in new council business. Six months from now.”
