by Andy Mangels
“Likewise,” Ro said. For all her skepticism of the Bajoran religion, Ro liked Opaka. As kai, she’d given people courage and hope during the Occupation, and her nearly seven years in the Gamma Quadrant seemed to have cultivated that characteristic. Her soft-spoken assurances that Bajorans need not fear to explore their beliefs as individuals had gone a long way to defusing the schism created by the Vedek Assembly’s mishandling of the Ohalu prophecies, which had long been suppressed as heretical.
Vaughn looked around at the memorial appreciatively. “It’s quite moving, isn’t it? When Sulan offered to show me this place, I wasn’t prepared for the tranquility it evoked.”
Ro looked around. It was all right, she supposed. The garden was certainly lovely, but she always became restless in such places. She’d never been the meditative type, and she suspected that she simply lacked the sensibility to appreciate the memorial properly.
Something on the ruined pillar caught her attention: a partial engraving of a Bajoran glyph in the broken stone, still legible. “Was this originally the site of the Taluno Library?”
Opaka nodded. “It was little more than an empty relic by the end of the Occupation, kept afterward out of a desire to preserve as much of Bajor’s past as possible. Not long after the Gates of the Celestial Temple were opened, my friend Tanin Prem, a vedek, lost his life here when a bomb left over from the struggle against the Cardassians detonated, destroying what remained of the building.” She gazed wistfully at the column. “This memorial was just being started when the Prophets called for me to leave Bajor. I’m glad to see how beautifully it turned out. Prem would have enjoyed such a place.”
After a moment, Vaughn said, “Sulan, I must be going. But I want to thank you for a most enjoyable time. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
Opaka inclined her head. “As do I, Elias. Be well. Good day, Lieutenant.”
“And to you, Ranjen,” Ro said.
Leaving Opaka to contemplate her lost friend, Ro and Vaughn made their way in silence across the plaza that separated the memorial from a large park on the other side. As they started to cross a gently sloping meadow, Ro saw dozens of people, mostly Bajorans but a few offworld visitors as well, enjoying the mild summer day. To Ro’s surprise, the commander steered them toward a delicately curved S-shaped bench near a copse of trees overlooking the meadow. Vaughn leaned back and took in the view, watching a group of children working to get an elaborate kite aloft. In the distance, the great copper dome of the Shikina Monastery crowned the hill that rose up from the trees surrounding the park.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Vaughn said. “But it’s such a pleasant day, it seems a shame to waste it in a dreary office, or aboard a runabout.”
“No, it’s quite all right, sir. This is fine.”
“You come from a remarkable world, Lieutenant,” the commander went on, his eyes never leaving the scene before him. “The more I experience Bajor, the more I understand Captain Sisko’s feelings toward it.”
“I’m starting to learn a few things about it myself,” Ro admitted.
Vaughn nodded, then got down to business. “You have a report for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Ro said. She keyed open a file on her padd while she spoke. “I have the current figures on Starfleet’s absorption of Militia personnel.”
“Proceed.”
“Close to one hundred ninety thousand officers and enlisted personnel in all Militia divisions have submitted transfer applications for Starfleet service. We believe the rush has peaked, and that the numbers will taper off over the next few weeks. Civilian inquiries into enlistment and Academy enrollment have already exceeded the mandatory cap.”
“Final estimates?”
“We expect one-quarter million total applications for direct transfer. Two hundred thousand of these will likely sail through, although ninety-five percent of those are expected to require three to six months of retraining and reorientation. Current projections are that ten percent of the remaining direct transfers will be officers. Starfleet enlistment and Academy enrollment are expected to max out with ten thousand new recruits each.”
Vaughn stroked his beard, working through the numbers. “It sounds like I’ll need to meet with something like a thousand duty-ready officers.”
“Right now, the number is still closer to four hundred,” Ro corrected, “but it could easily reach a thousand by the time the preliminary evaluations are completed.”
Vaughn sighed. “I was hoping I’d be able to speak with them individually before they got their assignments, but obviously that’s not going to happen. We’ll have to make other arrangements. Perhaps a welcoming ceremony . . .” He looked at Ro. “In any event, Starfleet may need to set up a retraining facility here on Bajor to handle the bulk of the direct transfers.”
“That recommendation appears in my report, sir,” Ro said, keying the proper page and handing the padd to Vaughn.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Vaughn said.
“Thank you, sir.”
After a moment of silence, the commander added, “You haven’t told me yet how your meeting with Lenaris went.”
“It could have gone better,” Ro admitted. “He’s second-guessing everything now. I did my best to reassure him, but—”
Ro was interrupted by the familiar, quasi-feminine voice of a Starfleet computer. “U.S.S. Brahmaputra to Commander Vaughn.”
“Hold that thought,” Vaughn told Ro before tapping his combadge. “Go ahead.”
“Incoming communication from Dr. Girani Semna aboard Starbase Deep Space 9.”
Vaughn winced. “Very well. Put her through.”
“Channel open.”
“Yes, Doctor, what I can do for you?”
“You’ve missed your appointment again, Commander.”
“And I apologize again, Doctor,” Vaughn said. “Perhaps we can reschedule . . .?”
“Oh, no you don’t. Not this time,” Girani said. “the report on the annual crew exams is due to be filed with Starfleet Medical tomorrow. Dr. Bashir asked me to finish them in his absence, and you’re the last one, Commander. I may not be Starfleet, but I still have the authority to pull medical rank over any member of the station crew. You’re to return to the station immediately and report to the infirmary. That’s an order.”
Vaughn bowed his head in resignation. Ro tried not to smile, but was only partly successful. As his gaze came back up, Vaughn caught her amusement and scowled.
“All right, Doctor, you win. I’m on my way back to DS9. I’ll be on your biobed in two hours. Vaughn out.” He tapped his combadge again. “Damn doctors. If she wasn’t already transferring dirtside—” He stopped, looked at Ro. “That reminds me . . . any progress in finding a new Bajoran MO?”
Ro nodded. “I have several candidates lined up. Their files are available for review at your convenience.”
“Good. Kira’s expecting a recommendation soon, and I can’t blame her. Even more than before, Bajorans will be the primary residents of the station. I don’t want to be without a Bajoran Starfleet physician for too long, especially with Bashir taking time off.”
Mention of Bashir’s absence recalled to Ro the awkward circumstances surrounding the human doctor’s return from Trill with Ezri Dax, ten days ago. They had left as lovers and returned estranged. Although, considering what they had been through on Dax’s homeworld, a strain on their relationship could hardly have been considered a surprise. Nor Bashir’s abrupt decision to finally take some leave time.
“I believe you were about to tell me about your meeting with General Lenaris,” Vaughn said.
“It was complicated by the situation in Hedrikspool, which now looks as if it was a deliberate act of mass murder, by aliens, for reasons unknown.”
Vaughn nodded. “I spoke with Dax a short while ago. She filled me in on the latest.”
“Any word from the Defiant?”
“Only that they think they picked up the scent—a warp signature that’s a clo
se match for Besinian propulsion systems. It was leading toward the Badlands.”
Ro scowled. Any ship in the Bajoran sector intent on evading the authorities inevitably went into the Badlands. Who wouldn’t? Sure, you took your chances getting that close to the plasma storms, but once inside, you were home free. That was what made the area so attractive to the Maquis. She made a mental note to look into the possibility of deploying automated sensor drones between B’hava’el and the Badlands; random sweeps of the region might reduce its effectiveness as a bolthole.
“What has your own investigation turned up?” Vaughn asked.
“Nothing useful yet,” Ro admitted. “I kept hitting dead ends trying to trace the ownership and previous whereabouts of the freighter. One of Lenaris’s men suggested that learning more about the village itself might provide a clue about why this happened. I’m looking into that.”
“I imagine Lenaris is feeling pretty frustrated about the whole situation,” Vaughn went on.
“Having to turn the matter over to Starfleet galled him,” Ro said. “This incident has driven home the downside of the Militia’s reduced role as a purely local defense and security force. He thinks they’re becoming obsolete.”
“He knows that isn’t true.”
“Intellectually, sure. But it’s hard to remember that when you’re standing in the ashes of three hundred people you failed to protect.”
“It wasn’t his failure. And if he believes it was, then it’s our failure as well. We’re in this together.”
“But, sir—” How to put this? “We weren’t always in this together. Bajor liberated itself from the Cardassians, without help from Starfleet, or anybody else for that matter. Most of the Militia is made up of former resistance fighters. It’s a difficult thing for them to accept a reduced role in protecting Bajor.”
“Nearly a quarter million Bajorans in Starfleet isn’t a reduced role, Ro. It’s an expanded one in which Bajorans will be taking even greater responsibility for protecting their world, and others. Bajor chose this, Lieutenant. It requested Starfleet’s help eight years ago, and petitioned for Federation membership. Isn’t that the point your people were trying to make by taking a lead in relief efforts to Cardassia? In harboring the Europani refugees when their world was threatened? That Bajor was more than ready to think outside the confines of one people and one planet?”
“I’m not disputing any of that. But if we’re in this together, as you say, then those who choose not to join Starfleet—who devote themselves instead to service in Bajor’s home guard—still need to have a sense of involvement. They need to know they still count.”
“What are you proposing?”
Ro took a deep breath and took the plunge. “I suggest we reestablish the position of Militia liaison officer on Deep Space 9.”
“That’s the role Kira had before she became station commander, isn’t it?”
Ro nodded. “She interfaced with the Militia and with the government in all aspects of station operations. She was a voice specifically for Bajoran interests within the predominantly Starfleet command structure.”
Vaughn considered the idea. Then, to her surprise, he said, “All right. What about you?”
“Me?”
“I can’t think of anyone better. Kira’s role as starbase CO rules her out, and to date you’re the only other Bajoran who’s worked within both organizations. You’re the ideal choice.”
“Sir, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think what’s really needed is for the Militia to be represented by one of their own on DS9, to have a permamant presence there as a member of the senior staff.”
“That sounds almost like you’re suggesting a token Militia officer.”
Ro bristled. “What I’m suggesting, sir, is the Militia continuing to have input in matters the station deals with that may affect the security of Bajor.”
“Lower your shields, Lieutenant,” Vaughn said. “I think it’s an excellent idea. I’m behind it one hundred percent and I intend to take it to the captain. I just want you to be prepared for how others may react to the idea, both in the Starfleet crew and in the Militia.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem, sir,” Ro said. “After all, if religious Bajorans can adjust to my agnosticism, and Starfleet hardliners can handle my reinstatement, a new Militia liaison shouldn’t be a big deal.”
Vaughn laughed. “When you put it that way, I suppose I can’t disagree. I take it you already have someone in mind for the job?”
Ro reached out and keyed another file on the padd in Vaughn’s hand. The commander started to read, and then noted the time. “Let’s continue this discussion on the Brahmaputra. I need to head back to the station before Girani sends out search teams. Unless you need to stay on Bajor?”
Ro shook her head. “My business here is done for now. I’ll be checking to see if there are any new leads into the Hedrikspool massacre when I get back to DS9.”
They stood up together, and then Vaughn looked at her. “You probably haven’t heard this from enough people in Starfleet, Ro, but I want you to know . . . I for one am glad you put the uniform back on.”
“Thank you, sir. But . . . why?”
“Because I know what really happened on Garon II.” The commander tapped his combadge. “Vaughn to Brahmaputra. Two to beam up.”
7
Rena
“ . . . raka-ja, ut shala moala . . . ema bo roo-kana-uramak,” Rena chanted. In the small confined space—little more than an empty closet—the smoke from the duranja lamp irritated her eyes, but she forced her attention on the benediction to the Prophets to protect her grandfather and guide him on his journey to the Temple gates. “Ralanon Topa propeh va nara ehsuk shala-kan vunek—”
A gentle rap at the door broke her concentration. She shifted out of her cross-legged meditation posture onto her knees and blew out the oil lamp before inviting her visitor to enter.
Unsurprisingly, Fed peered around the corner of the door. “Supper’s ready,” he said.
Rena followed him through a maze of open-beamed hallways to a dark-paneled storage room. From the three-meter-high shelving units pushed back against the rear wall, she surmised that it had formerly been a wine storage area. Their hosts, an elderly couple they’d met earlier, had cobbled together a makeshift kitchen with hot plates warming what smelled like hasperat. Ceramic jugs fitted with spigots provided water or wine. From the raucous laughter, Rena assumed the barge crew had resumed their imbibing from where they’d left off at the rest-and-sip. The group had staked out a corner of the room, sprawled out on the floor, and was playing shafa. Noticing that their hosts weren’t to be found, Rena imagined they had retired for the night. With this group for company, I can’t blame them.
The hasperat was stale. It was served with a sauce that was obviously meant to mask the fact that the flatbread holding it together was about three days past its fitness for consumption. She tried not to let her revulsion show, but Fed hadn’t missed the abrupt clenching of her jaw.
“I’m sorry,” Fed said quietly, reaching for her plate. “I thought most Bajorans like hasperat—”
Rena touched his arm, halting him. “It’s the bread,” she whispered. “It’s way past the point when it should be used this way.”
“Wow. I didn’t even notice.”
“Most people wouldn’t. But my family has run a bakery in Mylea for generations. A lot of things, I don’t know. Bread, I know.” Rena made quick work of finishing her hasperat, then washed it down with a large mug of cold, crisp water. Attending to her needs, Fed hovered nearby. She’d told him repeatedly that he could join his friends, but he insisted on staying with her. Though she found his behavior slightly odd, she didn’t attempt to dissuade him. During their walk of several tessijens from the rest-and-sip to the winery, she had found him to be an amiable traveling companion.
Conversation had been spare. She had learned that he, too, had been an only child until just recently, when his father’s second
wife had given birth, and that he’d lived in the Bajoran sector since his early teens. She deduced, based on the timing, that he must have arrived with the first Starfleet contingent that assumed control of the space station, and Fed confirmed it. They had both lost parents in wartime: Both her mother and father had been arrested and tortured by the Cardassian occupiers of Mylea; his mother had died in a space battle far from Bajor. He offered tantalizing glimpses into his past. His archeological “experience” came from working at B’hala. B’hala! She’d plied him with questions about the Ohalu texts, but he subtly deflected her inquiries. He had answers—she knew it—but she didn’t pry. Long stretches of road had been traversed without words passing between them, and Rena liked that. She’d grown accustomed to the tempo of his steady footfalls, though she had to take a step and a half for each step of his. Having a companion had helped the time pass quickly.
When they’d arrived at the winery, they’d all been assigned rooms in the wine-production facility, not currently in use as the summer fruit crops had not yet ripened. Fed had even obtained a blanket and bedroll for her before the others poached them all. Touched by his kindness, Rena had thanked him profusely, for the first time during the long day feeling relaxed and hopeful that the worst was behind her.
Until the present moment.
Rena was filling her water mug when she became aware of hot breath, sour with wine and hasperat, on her neck. “Little missy want to come over and join us for a game or two?”
Squeezing between the buffet table and the riverman, she politely declined. “I’m not much for shafa.”
“We don’t have to play shafa,” he persisted, trudging along behind her, hovering too close for Rena to feel comfortable.
Turning on her heel, she looked him square in the eye. She considered, briefly, whether or not she should play a round of shafa in the hope that it would placate her tagalong; he didn’t have a malicious air about him. But from appearances, they had more than enough players, including a few women who worked as servers in the rest-and-sip. Rena wouldn’t be missed. “No, thank you. Perhaps another time,” she said, smiling congenially.
