by Andy Mangels
From the day of its discovery, the wormhole had excited him, captured his imagination. For the Celestial Temple to manifest itself in such a manner, it could only mean that the Prophets sought to be understood in ways apart from the wisdom of the prophecies. Or so Hovath believed. Come, he felt the Temple beckon. See what I am.
After the death of the old sirah, Hovath’s life walked two paths. On one he was the faithful storyteller of the village, Keeper of the Paghvaram and Foe of the Dal’Rok. On the other path he’d become a contemplator of Their Manifestation, seeker of secular truth, and student of the architecture of the Temple. He had believed that these two paths, while seeming separate and parallel, would in time converge into a single path of Truth on which he could guide his flock in Sidau, and perhaps others, toward a new enlightenment.
Now a different Truth was upon him, and it stood revealed as his own folly and arrogance.
He shook his head and pushed the padd away. “This is nothing.”
“I very much disagree,” the woman said. “I find it quite compelling. Your imaginative approach to theoretical physics is not merely unexpected, but inspired. You believe the wormhole is not what it seems to be.”
“No,” Hovath said tightly. “I believe it is more than it seems to be.”
“Explain.”
Hovath brought his fist down on the table. “If you’ve read my work, you already know the explanation.”
“Indulge me.”
Hovath said nothing.
His captor addressed the Nausicaan, who still stood next to the screen showing the image of Iniri. “Space her.”
10
Rena
The ranger patrol craft met them a few dozen meters down river from the bridge landing. Rena wasn’t surprised to see the fearmongering officer from the rest-and-sip commanding the boat; she was too tired and irritable to argue with his lecture on the risks involved in recklessly disregarding his organization’s dictums. Her reward for enduring the speech was a promise to deliver her to Mylea Harbor before midday. He would transmit any messages she wanted to send in an effort to reassure any concerned relatives.
Afterward, a female lieutenant brewed hot tea for both Jacob and Rena and escorted them belowdecks to small, interior cabin furnished only with a bunk bed. She had left them both with victims’ aid packs, each of which included a set of lightweight, one-size undergarments (loose shorts and T-shirt), plus some personal-hygiene supplies. The lieutenant had also laid out a pair of green forest-ranger work-duty jumpsuits, faded from age and use, as well as giving them a few extra blankets. Jacob started stripping off his sopping clothes as soon as the lieutenant left. Indignant at his presumptuous behavior, Rena huffed, turned her back, and waited for him to give the all clear that she was safe to start changing her own clothes. Once she had changed, she scrambled up the ladder and leaped into the upper bunk, snuggling beneath the blankets without a word to Jacob. She waited for sleep to come.
From Jacob’s breathing below, she could tell that sleep hadn’t come to him either.
“Rena.”
She debated answering him for a moment, then, knowing it wasn’t fair to punish him for her bad luck, said, “Yes?”
“Your sketchbook . . . I’m so sorry. I know how I’d feel if I lost my work.”
“I’m sure it’s just the Prophets letting me know they’re aware of my rebellious heart, in spite of my outward obedience.”
“Why would the Prophets take your art away?”
The finer nuances of Bajoran theology were always difficult to explain to nonbelievers, so Rena pondered carefully how to answer Jacob’s question. “The Prophets aren’t taking my art. More like, the Prophets have put Bajor on a path. As a result all Bajorans are on a path. When we follow our path, our lives unfold in a way that brings us confidence and peace. When we resist our path, we find chaos and uncertainty. We demonstrate our faith by how we live. As you can see tonight, my faith isn’t doing so well or I’d probably be asleep safe in a hostel somewhere instead of on a patrol boat, lucky to be alive.”
“Or maybe this is where your path is supposed to take you.”
Rena snorted.
“Seriously, Rena. Last year, I thought I lost my father,” Jacob said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I believed that if anyone could find him, I could. So, believing I was doing the right thing, I went searching for him.”
“You said your father was living farther up in Kendra, so I take it he wasn’t dead.”
“No. He wasn’t. But I didn’t find him. I ended up on a wild-goose chase, having some crazy adventures, visiting places I never imagined I would, and ended up bringing several someone elses home with me. None of it made sense. Looking back, I know that what seemed like a mistake at the time was just part of a larger pattern that I couldn’t see while I was in it. My hopes came true—my father came home—but not the way I planned. Maybe that’s where you’re at.”
Rena, still puzzling over the image conjured by the term “wild-goose chase,” understood the spirit of Jacob’s words and wished they could be true for her. She allowed his words to hang in the air while she contemplated what she should disclose in return for his confiding in her. “My grandfather died several weeks ago, before Unity Day,” she began, slipping back into memories. “He had a degenerative illness that could have been cured if he’d received treatment in his youth, but the Cardassians didn’t care about helping Bajorans. So he lived out his last years enduring excruciating pain in a body that betrayed him. He was so miserable and yet so brave that when he asked me to leave university to help my aunt take care of him, of course I left immediately. Before he died, he made me promise some things. So far, I’ve only been able to honor one of my promises—going to Kenda Shrine. I need to go home to Mylea to finish the others. Right now, it just feels like my life isn’t going to start until I honor my promises to Topa, so I just want to get on with it.”
“He didn’t ask you to give up your art, did he?”
She could sense the disapproving look on his face. “Oh no,” Rena said, smiling. “But he asked me to commit to building a life that would honor Bajor, to preserve what is unique about us in the face of all this change . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want to offend Jacob by expressing uncertainty about the Federation. Like most Bajorans, she supported joining but she had her concerns as she watched the generation younger than hers being plied with holovids from Risa and recreational technology she couldn’t have even fathomed. Would their fortune in being born in a time of prosperity—without the demons of Cardassia and the Occupation haunting them—change what being Bajoran meant to future generations? She sighed. “I can best honor Bajor by living in Mylea. After my aunt retires, there is no one in my family to run the bakery. The unique way Myleans have worked, recreated, lived for thousands of years feels like it is on the cusp of slipping away unless some of us try to hold on to our traditions.” The lower bunk creaked; Rena assumed that Jacob was making himself more comfortable, but moments later his silhouette appeared at the foot of her bed.
“I hate not being able to see your face when we talk,” he said by way of explanation. “If you really mind me being here, I’ll go back down.”
Sitting up beneath her covers, Rena gestured for Jacob to sit down. He assumed a cross-legged position at the foot of her bed. “I know what you’re saying, Rena, but from the way you’ve talked about your grandfather, I have a hard time believing he would want you to give up your art studies.”
“I won’t give up my art exactly. More like, instead of finishing at university, I’ll help Marja with the bakery and when I have time, I’ll pursue my painting as I always have.”
In the half-light, his inscrutable expression made her nervous. She knew, without him saying, that he disagreed with her choice.
Crossing her arms across her chest, she said, “Look, nothing against you Federation people, but you don’t have tens of thousands of years of history to protect. I owe it to Bajor.”
�
��You owe it to yourself to paint.” Leaning closer to her, he rested a hand on her knee. “I saw you out there, screaming at the Prophets, more angry than almost any person I have ever seen in my lifetime, and considering that I’ve seen Kira Nerys angry, that’s saying something.”
Rena’s mind caught on something. Kira Nerys? The Kira Nerys?
He raced ahead before she could answer. “You weren’t screaming about preserving Bajor, you were screaming like someone who was having her soul—her pagh—torn out of her,” he whispered. “Tell me again that you need to give up your art.”
Swallowing hard, Rena formed the words, in her mind, but her mouth opened soundlessly, then closed. Her eyes burned with the beginnings of tears. She’d been wrestling with this conflict since returning from school, torn between her past and what she imagined her future to be. My promises to Topa. He devoted his life to raising me; I promised him I would help save Mylea for his grandchildren. She clasped a hand against her breastbone, took a deep breath, and said, her voice quavering, “I’ll do what I have to . . .” Her shoulders quaked with silent sobs.
Before she could finish speaking, Jacob had folded her into his arms and was rubbing her back as if she were a small child. He spoke gentle, quieting words in her ears. She was too tired and overcome to question whether or not this was right or wrong. Real and true in this moment were his strong arms and the compassion flowing from him. And as she drew comfort from being close to him, barriers that had held back other feelings gradually dissolved, feelings that had hovered around the edges of her emotions since she first saw him in the rest-and-sip.
Beside her, Jacob accidentally pulled her bedcovers away when he shifted, allowing their legs to touch; Rena’s heart jarred into a quickened rhythm. A long pause. He moved his leg away. She still felt the ghost of his touch. And she liked it. Unthinkingly, she moved her leg back toward his, heard his sharp intake of breath, felt satisfaction that she evoked in him what he evoked in her.
She couldn’t clearly see his face; she didn’t have to. Tentatively, he traced the line of her jaw, tangled his fingers in her hair, touched her lips. She inhaled sharply in blissful shock and drew closer.
He kissed her.
Rena knew she should stop this. She had made promises—some of them implied, but promises nonetheless. The late hour, the charged emotionality of the night, never mind the huge risk she took being with an alien stranger this way—all of it warned of foolishness. But Jacob felt neither alien nor stranger: rather familiar and comfortable and home. So she yielded to Jacob’s wordless entreaties, parting her lips, allowing the kiss to deepen. He wound his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and she aided him by draping her leg over his, pulling their bodies flush. The first kiss blurred with another. Kisses gave way to tender caresses and more kisses until Rena joyfully abandoned all reason.
After a time, they collapsed in drowsy oblivion. Drifting off to sleep, they spooned together, Rena noted ironically as she dozed off, with the comfortable familiarity of experienced lovers.
* * *
A knock on their door roused Rena from a sound sleep. “Wha-what-what is it?” she said, half-yawning. Beside her, Jacob mumbled something incoherent.
“Mylea Harbor in twenty minutes,” came the muffled announcement.
Home.
Disentangling herself from Jacob’s arms, Rena sat up in bed and ordered the lights illuminated. She rubbed her eyes and yawned again, realizing that she had no idea what time it was when the gradual recollection of what had happened last night began returning to her. She flushed hot. Swinging her legs over the side, she dropped down to the floor.
I have to get out of here. She found the pile of her damp clothes where she had shed them the night before; they remained too filthy and wet to be practical to wear. Her mud-coated knapsack, its disheveled, dirty contents spilling out the sides, served as a reminder of the miserable night of traveling.
Another groan from the top bunk reminded Rena about the rest. She quickly donned her discarded undergarments, as well as the oversized ranger jumpsuit, gathered up the rest of her victims’ pack, and left the quarters in search of a ’fresher. The facility she stumbled on provided a brief refuge and an opportunity to regain some semblance of normalcy, but once she had performed all the cleanup rituals she had the tools for, she knew she had to go back and face Jacob. She had no idea what to say.
Rena had never been one to toy with male emotions. More than a few of her classmates would think nothing of a few stolen kisses and most likely would have few regrets about a drunken night of sex with a stranger if it was pleasurable. Rena didn’t behave that way; she didn’t kiss men casually, so she had no experience to draw from in determining what to say. She decided on the truth.
With trepidation, she tapped in the door codes and discovered upon entering that Jacob was already awake, dressed, and repacking what few possessions he had gotten out when they’d arrived. The tender expression on his face quickly became wary when he saw her. She cursed her inability to hide her emotions but perhaps, in this case, her readability had served to soften the blow.
“Don’t tell me,” he began, shaking his head. “It was a mistake, you want to be friends—” He stuffed his dirty clothes into a pocket of his gear bag.
“No. It wasn’t a mistake,” she said, reaching to touch his arm. “I chose—we chose, and it was right because we both needed the comfort.”
He jerked away from her. “Comfort? You make me sound like a favorite pillow.”
“I can’t make this more than that.”
“Why not? Because I don’t fit into Topa’s plan? I’m not from Mylea? What, Rena? Tell me, since I don’t have the benefit of having the Prophets lay my path out for me,” he said bitterly.
She could hardly blame him. “If I could, I would ask you to come home with me when we get off this boat. I would invite you to stay in our family’s apartments and we’d see what could happen between us. But we can’t.”
Recognition lit on his face. “There’s someone else. Someone that Topa wanted you to be with.”
“Yes. And no.” She clenched her teeth, exhaling sharply in frustration. “Before I went to university, there was an understanding between me and someone I’d known since I was a child. I was prepared to break it off when I first came home a few months ago, but when I saw how happy Topa was, I felt like I owed it to my grandfather to see if I could make it work.”
In one swift, exaggerated gesture, Jacob fastened his bag and hefted it onto his shoulders. “Fine. Far be it from me to stand in the way of your path.” He pushed past her without another word.
For a long moment, Rena stood in the middle of the room, too miserable to move. What she was more miserable about—violating her implied commitment or hurting Jacob—she couldn’t honestly say. Watching him leave had been crushing. She had consciously pushed down the impulse to chase after him, to beg for his forgiveness and the chance to start fresh without any secrets. His words to her and his understanding about her art—his kindness—the way she felt when he kissed her—all of it had touched a deep place inside. What she would give to have one of those orbs here to help her know what she should do next.
The deep baritone horn announcing the patrol boat’s arrival into the inner harbor disrupted her thoughts. Can’t hide anymore, Rena. Time to face your life. She configured her knapsack the best she could before starting up the stairs to the upper deck.
Rena stood on the opposite side of the railing from Jacob. Unsurprisingly, he wouldn’t look at her. Soon, as the boat drew closer to the docks, Rena saw a few familiar faces in the waiting crowds: Halar, her fair-haired childhood friend, clad in her study robes, and rugged, muscular Kail, the person she thought that, once upon a time when she was a girl, she was supposed to marry. Now she wasn’t so sure.
When the gangplank descended, Rena waited until Jacob had made his way off the boat before she left. Her feet had barely touched the dock planking when Halar had thrown her arms around her a
nd squeezed her enthusiastically.
“You’re safe! Oh Rena! We were so scared when we heard about the storm.” Halar indicated Kail as being part of the “we.” “You must have been terrified!”
“I’ve had easier trips down the valley,” Rena confessed. Kail assumed his place beside her, his clothes saturated with the oil smoke from the foundry fires where he worked. She managed not to cringe when he hugged her.
Apprenticed to an artisan, Kail hadn’t always worked the fire room, but a recent falling-out with his supervisor had resulted in a demotion. Rena had tried to listen with a sympathetic ear, but she struggled to reconcile Kail’s indignation at what he perceived as mistreatment with the belligerence and complaining she’d seen in him since she first returned home. Taking care of Topa during his final days hadn’t allowed her to spend much private time with Kail, but from what little time they had shared, he seemed like he’d changed. In that regard, she was grateful that she hadn’t accepted any betrothal agreement, hoping that with more time they would get used to each other again; oddly, she hadn’t even missed sleeping with him since she’d been back. There had always seemed to be a reason why making love didn’t feel right, whether it was the long hours she spent nursing Topa or working in the bakery. With Topa’s death, Rena had wanted to be alone to grieve. In light of what happened with Jacob, Rena saw her reticence with Kail and wondered if her reasons for avoiding intimacy were more than circumstantial. She sighed and moved a bit away from Kail, loosening his grip on her waist.
Jacob’s height made him easy to spot in the crowds of Bajoran fishermen and aquaculture workers on the docks. He walked confidently, even in this strange place. Remembering the first time she saw him—had it been only a day since the rest-and-sip?—she decided that was what had caught her eye: his being comfortable in his own skin. Rena followed him with her eyes until she felt Halar’s gaze on her.
