by Andy Mangels
“Wait a minute. What are you saying?” Asarem demanded. “Are you telling me that, even though Bajor is now a member of the Federation, we could be excluded for half a year from taking part in the shaping of policy that could impact us? And that issues Bajorans are concerned about may not be raised until the next council session?”
“That’s the short of it, yes,” Ledahn said. “Unless we get a new councillor to step in quickly in five days.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that?” Asarem asked angrily. “I couldn’t get my first nominee passed because the damned Chamber of Ministers was more worried about sending a ‘team player’ who would make friends on the council than someone who would take a stand for Bajoran interests. I only agreed to go with Rava because it was clear Sorati Teru didn’t stand a chance. Now you’re telling me we’re back to square one, and we’re out of time.”
“It’s not quite the disaster it seems to be,” Ledahn said.
Asarem sat back and folded her arms. “Tell me how.”
“Under the rules of Chamber, in the event of the death of a Bajoran offworld representative, the First Minister has the right to appoint an interim representative of her choice without Chamber approval. I looked it up. The appointment is only effective for one year. After that it comes up for review by the Chamber, which may choose to allow the appointment to continue for the full term, or it may require you to submit a new nominee. But by that time . . .”
“By that time the interim councillor will be thoroughly immersed in the job,” Asarem realized. “And if she does well, the Chamber wouldn’t dare revoke the appointment. Magistrate Sorati can be our Federation Council representative after all.”
“Yes. And ironically, all it required was the untimely death of Rava Mehwyn.”
“Where are you now?”
“With my family in Tamulna.”
“Can you be in my office early this afternoon? I’d like you here when I call Sorati with the news.”
Ledahn grinned. “I’m on my way, First Minister.”
Asarem cut the comlink, then keyed her aide. “Theno, please cancel my match with Minister Rozahn and extend to her my apologies. Then send me all the contact information on file for the children of Rava Mehwyn.”
“At once, First Minister.”
Asarem sat back, shaking her head in amazement at the unexpected turn of events, the twist of fate that brought forth opportunity out of tragedy. Like springball, she reflected. Even during the worst moments of an apparently hopeless match, the ball might suddenly move in just the way it needs to in order to turn the game completely around.
She had been concerned for some time about Bajor starting its marriage to the Federation from a position of weakness. She’d believed it was imperative to establish from the onset that Bajor was ready and determined to be an active player in the astropolitical arena. To have a strong voice in the shaping of Federation policy, particularly as it pertained to the still-important Bajor sector, which not only encompassed the wormhole, the Alpha Quadrant’s gateway to the Gamma Quadrant, but also bordered on Tzenkethi space, the Badlands, and the shattered remains of the Cardassian Union.
Rava Mehwyn, while a competent diplomat, had not been her first choice for the job. Asarem felt she lacked the edge, the strength of character, and the sheer presence necessary for the role of Bajor’s first Federation councillor. Rava might have been a likable ambassador and reasonable negotiator, but Asarem had secretly feared she might also be too accommodating, too eager to avoid confrontation, too willing to subordinate the good of Bajor to political expediency. She had been the safe choice, the moderate one, the one that the Chamber of Ministers had been willing to approve.
Now the ball has changed direction, and the move that could decide the game is mine . . . if I’m nimble enough.
5
Rena
The relentless rattle of the rain on the corrugated metal roof smothered the sounds inside the rest-and-sip. Rena observed customers scrape their stool legs along the rock floor, saw an open mouth cheer after a triumphant round of shafa, winced as a glass slid off a waiter’s tilted tray and shattered on the ground; she heard little of it. Only the storm.
She nestled into the notch at the back of the corner booth, for the moment content to be an observer instead of a participant in the surrounding cacophony. If circumstances required her attention, she would know it. Hadn’t Vedek Triu said, only a few days ago, that her path would be revealed as she walked it? Prophets willing, Triu’s advice had been inspired and Rena’s presence in this place had a purpose. In this moment, Rena wasn’t sure what that purpose was; she doubted the answers to Topa’s mysteries were hidden in the smoky half-light of a rest-and-sip. But Rena had to believe that if she allowed herself to learn from all possibilities she would find her path.
Her meditations, unfortunately, had been little help in that regard, and that troubled her. Restlessness was an alien state of mind for her and she wasn’t sure how to cope. Typically, Rena could linger for long hours over minute details from the subtle gradations of color in the throat of a climbing lana flower to the patterns on a beetle’s back. She enjoyed being allowed to float atop the surface of her life, propelled by the currents of chance.
But not today. Not yesterday, either, now that she considered it, or rarely since she’d returned from university. Easygoing Rena must have stayed behind in the Dahkur Institute of Art while Compulsively Responsible Rena had returned home. I have promises to keep, she thought. I have kept the first by going to the Kenda Shrine to honor Topa. I need to return to Mylea to keep the others. Circumstances, however, appeared to be conspiring to prevent her from attending to her duty.
Late that morning, an unexpected cloudburst had unleashed mudslides, forcing a temporary shutdown of the River Way, an ancient road that bisected Kendra Province, starting in the northernmost peninsula, then paralleling the Yolja River to the sea. Rangers had escorted all southern-bound travelers—including Rena—into the neighboring villages to wait until the repair crews had done their work. A rapid rise in the river necessitated that all water traffic stop as well. With Mylea still more than thirty tessijens away, Rena had no choice but to wait out the storm.
Time had slipped by. She’d eaten a hot plate of batter-dipped tetrafin, caught up on the local gossip, and taken a short nap. Now, the sweltering sourness of many bodies being squeezed into a smallish space for long hours combined with deep-fried fish stink saturated the air, while the lethargic orange-gray beams creeping through the windows warned of the aging day. What had been tolerable at midday had grown tiresome. Instead of enjoying the respite from her journeying, Rena struggled to keep frustration in check. Not that she was eager to assume the responsibilities waiting for her at home; more like she had better ways to spend her time than alone, eating bad food in a middle-of-nowhere dive as a veritable hostage of an overeager public servant who worried about a little mud.
She scanned the crowd, searching for Sala’s distinctive curly red hair, but couldn’t find him. This many customers must be keeping him running, she thought. Draining the dregs from her mug, she signaled Vess, a waiter she remembered from her stop here a week ago, to bring her another. She listened to the rain, seeking a sign of when it might pass, but the storm gave no indication that it had exhausted its pent-up energy. Vess swung by, sending her drink spinning off his tray onto her table, leaving behind a trail of foam until the mug slowed to a stop in front of her. She gulped the ale without fanfare, then picked through a bowl of breadsticks until she found one that seemed less stale than the others. The warm brightness of the alcohol gradually softened her frustration, and she decided she might as well settle in. She might be drunk in another hour, but intoxication might make being stuck more bearable.
Rena swung her feet up onto the bench and leaned back so she was flush against the wall, her bedroll cushioning the small of her back. She reached into her knapsack, searching for her sketchbook. One of her peers at the university had tried
converting her to a paddlike sketch unit that could be used with a programmable stylus capable of mimicking brushstrokes, re-creating the texture of charcoal or chalk—even reproducing the drip patterns of ink. The technology was fun, but Rena hadn’t been convinced: too much work to learn a new way when the old way sufficed. Besides, she liked the feel of the pebbled parchment beneath her palm, how colored pigment stained her fingernails, reminding her of what colors she’s used last.
She unwrapped her sketchbook from the waterproof cloth she stored it in. Skirt draping off her bent knees, she propped it against her thighs and studied the rendering she’d done last night. She gazed at the charcoal smudges for a long moment, examining the curves and figures that had seemed inspired by warm spring moonlight. She frowned. Why she had thought that such a design would be a fitting memorial for Topa’s grave marker? She’d have to start over. Again. Maybe. She might be succumbing to the tyranny of perfectionism that inevitably derailed her projects. For once, you need to finish something, Rena, she scolded herself. Time to make good on all that “promise” and “potential” you’re supposed to have.
Or maybe your first instinct was correct and this design is a disaster.
Resignedly, she ripped the sketch out of her notebook, balled it up, and tossed it toward a tray full of glasses perched on an empty table across from her booth. The trajectory of the balledup drawing drew her gaze toward a table of rivermen who sat nursing mugs of shodi, nonchalantly checking out her legs. Following their blurry-eyed gazes, she smoothed her skirt down over her calves toward the tops of her boots. Discontented grumbles and slurred complaints resulted, but Rena ignored them. Sorry, gentlemen, show’s over, she thought, reasoning that one of these days, Sala ought to hire a band or some dancing girls if his customers were so pressed to find entertainment that they’d resort to attempting to sneak a peek up a girl’s skirt. But there was one in the crowd at the table who didn’t appear interested in her underclothing; Rena realized he wasn’t one of the regulars.
He wore a riverman’s requisite soil-smudged jumpsuit, but his brown face lacked the wrinkled, chapped roughness that the wind-whipped rivermen developed over years of pushing barges up and down the Yolja’s lower curves. Black stubble covered his chin and cheeks, but it was obvious to Rena’s eye that the younger man had only lately decided to sport a beard. The haze made it difficult to determine whether he was Bajoran; he wasn’t wearing an earring. He must have felt her gaze, because he looked up from his drink to meet her eyes. He wore a kind, openly friendly expression, and because he hadn’t been trying to look up her skirt the way the others had, she smiled; he reciprocated. As they maintained eye contact, she briefly considered signaling for him to come over and sit with her, though she wondered about the propriety of the gesture, considering her—her—situation. Is that what I’m calling it now? But she’d been traveling alone for the past four days—ever since she left the Kenda Shrine—and the sound of a friendly voice not her own would be welcome. She wasn’t asking to buy him a drink or to share a dance, gestures that might be misconstrued for obvious reasons. Before she could act, a waiter had tapped the young man on the shoulder, diverting his attention. It’s a sign. Decision made, she thought, wondering what it said about her that she felt a twinge of regret.
She returned her focus to her sketchbook and the empty page in front of her. The same dilemma faced her now as had faced her when she first learned, that before he died, Topa had made three requests of her, his only living grandchild. The first request was that she go to the Kenda Shrine to obtain a duranja from the vedeks. Topa had never explained why a duranja from Kenda was important save only that a vedek from that shrine had helped him immeasurably during the Occupation. Whatever his reasons, Rena wouldn’t deny a dying man his wish.
His second request seemed on the surface to be simpler, especially for an artist: design his grave memorial. For Rena, asking the Emissary himself to preside over Topa’s death rites might have been easier than granting that request. How to express a remarkable life in a couple dozen centimeters of metal! How to show Topa’s bravery, his kindness . . . If they had satisfied her, she could have resorted to the usual labels—resistance fighter, devoted father and husband, advocate for Bajoran independence. The labels failed to explain Topa. His nimble mind, always spinning ideas; even in his final days, confined to his bed as his immune system cannibalized his central nervous system, he would order Rena’s aunt Marja to keep the Ohalu book on playback. Vedek Usaya would stop by and feign mortification that Topa would pollute his faith with the radical text, and heated debate would ensue. She remembered how, before he was sick, he would stand in the middle of the stone-paved street in front of his bakery—the bakery that had been his father’s and his father’s father’s. Eyes closed, head tipped back, he would turn his flour-powdered face to the sky to be warmed by the sun. Once, as a little girl, Rena had seen him standing in the street swaddled in fog, his face up. Pragmatically, young Rena had pointed out that the sun was in hiding. Topa hadn’t budged, saying only, “But I know the light is there. When it finally breaks through the mist, I’ll be ready.” The metaphor was lost on the child, but not on the adult Rena, who wondered if she was the one now patiently waiting for the light, or whether she’d given up and retreated into the shadows.
“Excuse me?”
Roused from her reverie, Rena realized that the unfamiliar riverman stood at the edge of her booth. His youth surprised her; he had to be close to her age. From his smooth hands, which bore evidence of recent lacerations, she surmised that he couldn’t have long been in this line of work. And he was definitely human—a handsome human, with an engaging smile. Maybe a recent Federation transplant. She looked at him questioningly.
“I noticed you had some hardcopy,” he said, gesturing at her notebook, “and I was wondering if you could spare a sheet.”
At university, she’d been subjected to her share of creative pickup lines from men wanting to make her acquaintance, but this was a flimsier attempt than most. “You have a sudden desire to sketch one of your comrades?”
He shrugged sheepishly. “There’s a lady over there”—he nodded in the direction of the barkeep—“who’s offered to transmit a message to my family for me. I just need to write it down for her.”
Ripping a sheet out of the binding and passing it across the table, Rena said, gesturing, “Have a seat. You need a stylus too?” She unfastened a knapsack pocket and removed a writing instrument.
He nodded and scooted into the bench opposite her. Rena watched as the Federation boy—“Fed,” as she’d started to think of him—scribbled out several rows of Bajoran characters. As he wrote, he explained, “There’s no transmitter on the barge—there’s definitely not one here—and I don’t expect I’ll be to Mylea for a few more days.”
“You have business in Mylea?” Rena asked, curious. She’d heard gossip that her friend Halar had met an alien boyfriend who’d been doing dockwork over the winter and wondered if this Fed boy might be him.
“Not so much business as it felt like the right place to go when I took off from home a week ago. I figure I might be able to catch a shuttle or transport out from there. If I like it, maybe there’s a fishing outfit that could use a hand.”
The stylus flew across the hardcopy with a fluency Rena found highly unusual for an offworlder. Since the end of the Occupation, a number of students from all over the quadrant had dribbled into Bajor’s universities, including the one in Dahkur. In her limited experience with them, she’d found that the majority were translator-dependent; few of the aliens spoke Bajoran and none of them could write in it. Odd. She supposed he could be a local. A few Federation citizens came to Bajor when Starfleet stepped in to help the provisional government eight years ago. “So you haven’t signed on to work the river for the summer?”
“Nah. Linh was going to let me off at the next stop anyway. Someone back in Tessik told me about a must-see archeological site—Yyn?—that she thought I’d like. I kind of h
ave some experience in archeology so I thought I’d check it out on my way to Mylea.”
“You won’t have much luck at Yyn for another week—the site’s only open to the public during the days leading up to the summer solstice,” she said, wondering about the story behind his archeological experience.
Before she could ask, three quick chimes announced a message coming over the comm system. The chatter in the room subsided as the crowd waited expectantly. Rena hoped for good news.
“Due to ground instability and the risk of flash floods, the Provincial Ranger Units have decided to close the River Road and the Yolja barges indefinitely.”
A collective groan—of which Rena was a part—pronounced the crowd’s opinion on this development. She looked over at the bar, where the uniformed ranger spoke into the communication unit, and determined that he was far too cheerful about ruining their day.
He continued, “Arrangements have been made for all of you to be hosted in the adjacent village. My deputy will inform you of your housing assignment.”
“You—”
Rena twisted around to see a uniformed deputy pointing at her.
“And you,” he said, pointing to Fed. “Will be assigned to the Daveen Vineyards with the rest of the rivermen from your crew.”
Rena rose, preparing to protest being lumped together with the motley barge crew, but when she considered the other dour, sneering faces in the place—some of whom appeared to be more intoxicated than Fed’s crewmates—she sat back down. With a sigh, she started packing up her art supplies and arranging her pack so it would be easier to carry.
