by Andy Mangels
Rena sighed. Sitting and drinking all evening, even in this old haunt of her younger days that was built on Mylea’s docks, wasn’t what she’d had in mind for tonight, but then again anything would be better than skulking around the bakery hoping to avoid Jacob.
So far she’d succeeded: she hadn’t seen so much as a hair on his chin since that horrible, awkward encounter at Fofen’s. He obviously wanted to avoid her as much as she wanted to avoid him. Every time the door chimed, Rena would suddenly find something to clean in the back room. Marja hadn’t commented on her flurry of productiveness, though Rena had noticed tenderness bordering on pity in Marja’s expressions as the days wore on.
She looked around the table to see how the others were doing, wishing that they’d give up waiting for Parsh and just plan the trip. But Kail, an ugly drunk, had lapsed into bellicose behavior, leaning across the table toward Halar, emphatically making a point about whatever it was that he was on about at the moment. They all tolerated Kail’s behavior because they knew the alcohol-infused persona would eventually vanish and the good-natured friend would return. Rena wasn’t feeling as patient with him tonight. She knew she was tired, knew that her judgment was suspect, but she suddenly realized that she had been looking at Kail all night and trying to figure out, Have I changed so much or has he? Being away at university for a year shouldn’t have made so much of a difference. Kail’s working full time in the foundry shouldn’t have made so much of a difference. Perhaps it was Topa’s death. Something in her had changed, and Rena knew herself well enough to know that she had been working very hard all evening to avoid seeing it.
Jacob, a little voice inside her whispered. Jacob is part of it.
She told the voice to shut up and go away.
Again, she shifted her focus outward, studying her friends with new objectivity. Halar, the one whom Rena had always thought of as her best friend—what had changed there? She was still as sweet, still as sincere and forthright, as she had ever been. She worked in her mother’s shop now and spent a lot of time with her family at shrine services while she began preparations to become a prylar initiate. Outwardly, Halar had generally found a rhythm to her life that Rena recognized that she had not yet attained. And how do I feel about this? Rena asked herself. Am I happy for her? Do I envy her? She had to confess that she while she didn’t begrudge her friend’s contentment, she was jealous that Halar had found her peace in Mylea while Rena still struggled to find hers.
Dropping her head to the table, she touched her forehead to the cool, slightly sticky surface and felt her hair tumble down around her ears. What am I doing here? she wondered, and knew that the word “here” could apply to Yvrig Tavern, Mylea, Bajor, or the universe itself.
What you’re doing here is keeping your promises to Topa, the little voice said. Or what you think those promises are.
Rena wished the local band doing bad covers of the latest techno hits from Betazed would play loud enough to drown out her conscience.
She should order another drink—something nonalcoholic and hydrating. But that would mean attracting the waiter’s attention, and she was loath to bring him into range considering the current bent of Kail’s commentary. Despite her musings, one part of Rena’s mind had been keeping track of the trail of Kail’s ramblings. He had grown bored with disparaging his friends and enemies (he had fewer of both than he thought), his parents (two lovely people, really), and his shop supervisor, and had moved on to verbally abusing strangers, primarily non-Bajorans. First on the list had been some of the other customers in the bar, but he had quickly grown bored with the students and youthful vagabonds who populated the tavern, so he had moved on to abusing their waiter, a human, who had stopped over in Mylea on his way to Rakantha Province and never left. Rena had served him at the bakery and found him to be fond of all things sugary and always willing to offer a toothy grin in thanks. He didn’t deserve Kail’s ignorant abuse. He’d never been this way before, had he? True, she was seeing him with the perspective of time and distance between them, but Rena also knew that she wouldn’t be attracted to someone who berated others the way Kail was doing now—or in the past.
Looking back, she recalled thinking that no one had seemed to understand how exciting the times were. Bajor had been on the verge of joining the Federation; they would be the first generation who could enjoy all the benefits and responsibilities of becoming true galactic citizens. And what had her peers obsessed about? They wanted to know how long it would be before their parents would get the newest replicator technology. When would the most cutting-edge holonovels become available? The ones who had really driven her crazy were the parasites who tried to figure out the minimum work they would have to do to be given full citizenship rights. Didn’t they understand what they were being offered? Not that Bajor was a provincial world, disconnected from the rest of the galaxy, but becoming full Federation citizens meant so much more than finding out what the kids on Earth were wearing. It meant providing hope to those, like Topa, who had been born with degenerative, genetic ailments that could be cured with Federation medicine and the educational offerings on worlds Rena had only dreamed of visiting. It also meant showing the Federation’s other worlds the best of Bajor: its art, literature, music, architecture, philosophy, history, and people—all the unique things Bajor had to share that could have a reciprocal influence on the community of which they were now a part.
Her schoolmates who hadn’t become obsessed with what benefits they would receive from Federation citizenship were the ones who wanted to stay in Mylea. Instead of pursuing glamour careers in Starfleet, or studying exotic sciences on strange planets, or teaching other worlds about Bajor, these kids would primarily end up working in foundries, in shops, in restaurants, on fishing boats, or in the aquaculture fields. Rena respected these schoolmates, because she saw them as those who would preserve what was unique about their planet—its culture, rhythms, and traditions. In them she placed her greatest hope that Bajor could hold on to its uniqueness and still progress as a Federation world. And where did Rena fit?
Not properly in either category, she reluctantly admitted.
Maybe another ale wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. Which brought her back to the present and the problem with calling the waiter over to take her order: Kail being an idiot.
“Bunch of old people—offworlders!—signed some papers a month ago and suddenly we’re all supposed to do our jobs without getting paid,” Kail snarled. “Now the flat-noses are everywhere, all of them acting like they own the planet.”
“Kail,” Rena hissed, appalled. “Hush! Who’s been acting like that?”
“You know who,” Kail said. Craning his neck, he scanned the dim interior of the bar until he locked his gaze on the waiter, who was standing next to a table across the room taking an order. His customers—a trio of women a year or two older than Rena—were obviously enjoying his attention.
“He isn’t doing anything, Kail,” Halar said in low tones. “Except waiting tables.”
“And why would he?” Kail muttered. “Not like he has to. Not like anyone has to do anything anymore.”
Parsh appeared through the tavern’s smoky haze and scooted into a chair beside Halar. “Sorry I’m late, but the sonic showers went offline again. Jacob was supposed to meet us here. Have you seen him, Rena?”
She shook her head and amended mentally, Thank the Prophets.
“You know the Federation economy doesn’t work that way, Kail,” Halar said. “No one gets a free ride. Everyone has to do something, but no one gets left behind. No one starves, no one is cold, but not everyone gets their own holoroom.”
“No?” Kail asked. “Sounds like you understand all the new rules, Halar. I wish someone would explain them to me. Why should I work down in that hot, noisy foundry seven hours a day when in a little while anyone who wants to can replicate anything I can make by punching a few buttons?”
“You should do it,” Rena said, “because you want to. Like we do
in our bakery and Halar does in her mother’s dress shop. And, besides, you know replicators aren’t always the right way to go. Replication takes power and some things you can do cheaper and, yes, better, than a replicator. You know this, Kail. Why are you being such a jerk about it?”
“I’ve been reading some of the material posted on the comnet,” Halar said. “I wasn’t so sure about the idea of Bajor joining the Federation for a long time. I thought it would mean that we . . .” She swept her arm over her head to indicate that “we” meant them, Myleans, the “we” she understood. “I was worried we would disappear. But that won’t happen.”
“Why won’t it?” Kail asked, his tone too aggressive. “How different are they really from the Cardassians?” Rena heard the slur in his voice and wondered how much ale Kail had drunk. He had been obnoxious before, but something had tipped him over the edge. “Cardies had guns. The Federation has holonovels. What’s the difference?”
Even Parsh must have sensed the difference in his friend’s tone. Attempting to distract him, he asked, “Hey, did you see the hoverball finals? I wouldn’t want to have to play against Vulcans. Man, those guys have some moves . . . .”
But Kail wouldn’t be distracted. “They’re not so tough. There’s one thing different between Cardassians and the Feds. Least when the Cardies wanted something, they just came and took it. They were tough. The Feds, they’re just cowards.” He stared into the bottom of his mug, apparently insulted that it should be so empty. “Every single one of them.”
“You think the Emissary is a coward too, Kail?” Halar challenged. Though normally reserved, even cheerful, Halar could be quite forthright when she felt her religion was being insulted.
At the mention of the Emissary, Rena sank deep into her seat, wishing she could disappear. I wonder how she would feel if she knew about me and Jacob Sisko?
Rolling his eyes, Kail asked, “The Emissary? Fine, let’s talk about the Emissary. Let’s start with how convenient it was that he showed up at just the time the Feds wanted to make a favorable impression on the gullible masses. I mean, there couldn’t have been any political motivation for that, could there?”
At university, Rena had heard variations on this theme: how convenient it had been that the Emissary had come at the moment the Federation wished to display its good intentions. Not that there hadn’t been doubts in every level of society, but how long could doubts stand in the face of a living, breathing example of prophecy come true? And then, not quite a year ago, Kira Nerys had broadcast the Ohalu texts that had predicted the coming of the Avatar. Then, surprise! A few months later, the Emissary had returned and his second child had been born. For her purposes, Rena had accepted what had happened without attempting to assign motive or meaning to it. Knowing Jacob, though, she’d spent the past few days considering the Emissary, attempting to sort the facts from the fictions and gain more clarity on the matter. She’d even cracked open Topa’s copy of the Ohalu prophecies to read them for herself. She’d concluded that if the Emissary was anything like Jacob, he couldn’t be capable of the political machinations Kail and many others accused him of.
Without consciously deciding to speak, Rena said sharply, “Why don’t you just shut up, Kail?”
Shaking his head like a great shaggy syba who suddenly realized someone had cut off his antlers, Kail said, “Wha . . .? What did you say?”
Releasing the emotion she’d repressed felt so, so . . . liberating. “You heard me,” Rena said, eyes blazing. “What do you know about about the Emissary? You haven’t cared about the prophecies since you were little. You hardly know anything.”
Kail’s mouth went slack, and his brow dropped down like a hood over his eyes. The muscles in his thick upper arms clenched as he gripped his empty mug. “You’re not exactly the portrait of piety, Rena,” he said leeringly, glancing from Halar’s prim tunic to Rena’s bare shoulders and the skirt belted low on her hips, exposing her midriff.
She crossed an arm across her chest, resting it on her collarbone. Kail had always complimented her when she wore this outfit. The tone he’d used just now made her feel cheap. Gritting her teeth, she leaned toward Kail, prepared to lambaste him . . .
But Kail wasn’t finished. “Faking sick to get out of shrine services so you could meet me at the docks so we could have—”
“We’re done, Kail,” Rena said, shoving back her chair. “I thought this could work. I wanted this to work for Topa’s sake. But I can’t do this—not even for my grandfather.”
Halar’s mouth fell open. “Rena! Listen to yourself!”
Parsh stared at the floor.
“You going to go find yourself a Federation boy now, Rena? Us Myleans not good enough for you?” Wobbly-legged, Kail stood. In the hand opposite Rena, he held the nearly empty ale mug. A thin stream of liquid dribbled out onto the floor as Kail lifted the mug higher. Rena risked taking her eyes off Kail for a split second to see if Parsh was seeing what she was seeing and, obviously, yes, he was, but was paralyzed by indecision. This is all happening so quickly . . . .
Rena scanned the room, searching for an escape route for herself and Halar. How did I get myself into this stupid situation?
“I’m leaving now, Kail. Don’t bother following me. Don’t come to the bakery tomorrow with your apologies.”
Kail snarled, and stepped into her path, and his arm began to swing.
16
Hovath
“Wait!” Hovath screamed.
The Nausicaan’s hand was poised over a switch. The underling looked at his master, who said, “Stop. Is there something you wish to say, Hovath?”
Shaking, Hovath stared down at the table, clutching at his hair with both hands. “Please don’t kill her. Please! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t kill my wife.”
“Then we have an understanding?” his captor asked.
Hovath nodded.
“Begin, then. Tell me your thoughts about the wormhole.”
Hovath pulled his trembling hands away from his head and placed them atop the table. “The Temple does not behave like an ordinary wormhole,” he began slowly, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Its stability alone is proof of that, but it also has an interior. It is a continuum unto itself, outside normal space-time.”
“Bajoran and Starfleet scientists have known these things for years,” his captor said impatiently.
“They study the wormhole as it appears to them,” Hovath said. “Their minds do not venture beyond what their instruments can measure. I began with a simple question: Why does the wormhole open to the Gamma Quadrant? Answering that requires an understanding of the thoughts behind the Temple’s makers, the Prophets, who exist within it, outside the linear continuum.”
“You attempted to reconcile the theology surrounding the Temple with scientific inquiry into the wormhole.”
Hovath shrugged. “I learned early in my life that I have an aptitude for both, and I have tried to keep a balanced perspective.” He recalled his private arguments with the old sirah on that very aspect of Hovath’s personality. Sitting here now, he wished he had listened more, seen the wisdom of focus and selfless obligation that his mentor had tried to impart.
“Bajoran theology is usually consistent with the physical universe,” he went on. “The question for me became whether that meant it could offer any new clues about why the Temple behaves as it does, and whether the science of the wormhole could lead to new insights into our faith.” Hovath looked up for a moment, once again trying to discern something more about the silhouette facing him. The heat and glare of the light forced his gaze back down to the table. “Bajorans do not question why the Temple opens above our skies. We merely accept it, and see it as validation of our connection to the Prophets. After all, it is upon us that their Tears have fallen, and it is for us that the Emissary was sent.”
He paused, remembering the controversy during that first year. “But to learn that the Temple opened in two
directions puzzled us,” he said. “At that time, there was no discernible reason, from a theological perspective, for why it also opened in the Gamma Quadrant. It left us to wonder if Bajor was as unique as we had believed.
“I considered what was known and observable about the wormhole. We know it is stable, but it is not fixed in space; though its distance to B’hava’el is constant, the wormhole’s Alpha terminus moves through the galaxy with Bajor’s star. The Gamma terminus, we have since learned, is somehow anchored to the star Idran in much the same way.
“I asked new questions. What if the Alpha and Gamma termini of the wormhole were not the only points in this continuum on which the wormhole opened? What if they were merely the first two? What if the Prophets’ interest in our universe was not confined to Bajor, but extended to other worlds as well? The return of the Eav-oq to this continuum at the wormhole’s Gamma terminus is at least consistent with that assumption. But what if it does not end there? What if the Temple has not two endpoints, but many?”
“How many?”
Hovath shook his head. “Who can say? Perhaps an infinite number.”
“Meaning that the wormhole could, under that assumption, open anywhere in the universe.”
Hovath stared down at the table. “Yes.”
“How can that be? The termini we know about are triggered at an event horizon. If the wormhole had an infinite number of endpoints—”
Hovath shook his head. “The Alpha and Gamma openings are unlocked. My speculation is that while the Temple may have an infinite number of doors, most of those are locked from the inside.”
“Which suggests you would need a key to open them.”
“No such key exists,” Hovath said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. “Don’t you understand? My ideas were little more than flights of fancy. They have no credibility within the scientific community, nor within the theological one. They are unsupportable. Without a way to test my hypotheses, they are merely philosophy, not theory.”
