by Emily
"Yes. When Odo joined the Founders, he brought with him experiences unknown to mem. The Great Link is in contemplation of Odo's life; it is ... thinking, and surely does not know even now what has happened here. At this time, the Founders wish only to remain in reflection."
Kira glanced back at Ro, and saw on her face the same skepticism that she was feeling—but she didn't seem as openly incredulous as Kira would have thought, and she realized that Ro was also uncertain. Kira didn't like the Jem'Hadar as a species, and trusted Kitana'klan about as far as she could pitch him one-handed—but his story actually made sense.
"Can you prove any of this?" she asked, turning to look at him again.
Kitana'klan shook his head. "I cannot There was a transmission of introduction and explanation given to me by Odo, but it was destroyed along with my ship and crew."
Of course it was. He's lying.
He's telling the truth, and the Federation has to listen now; Odo sent him, Odo sent him to me.
Before she could argue with herself any further, Kitana'klan abruptly fell to his knees. Forgetting the force
field, Kira instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, and behind her, Ro was on her feet, pulling her phaser—
—and Kitana'klan ripped at the neck of his uniform, tearing it enough to reveal his ketracel-white cartridge, a small, flat rectangle in a sewn pocket beneath his knobby collarbone. He unfastened the cartridge from the implanted throat tube and pulled it free, holding it up toward Kira.
"I was sent here to serve you. I offer you my obedience and my life."
Realistically, the gesture meant nothing. He was unarmed and in a holding cell, and Ro had said they'd taken his additional white cartridges; his life was already hi her hands—but the symbolic display was effective anyway, because he was Jem'Hadar. They were merciless, competent killers, not prone to drama. Without the enzyme and trapped hi the cell, he would be driven into a useless, murderous rage before dying hi great pain.
"I'm not sure I want either," Kira said. She stepped back from the force field, entirely unsure of what to think. "Keep your white. I'll get back to you."
She looked at Ro, who half-shrugged, obviously as perplexed by the Jem'Hadar's behavior as Kira was.
"Have Dr. Bashir run a scan when he's done with his statement, and... keep a watch on him," Kira said, feeling strangely helpless. For the moment, it was as far as she was willing to go. Whether or not Kitana'klan was lying, his presence on DS9 would be a major factor hi the station's future. If he was telling the truth, there would be no reason for the Allies to go into the Gamma Quadrant—and there would be a Jem'Hadar living on
the station, a disruptive situation at best If it was all a lie, if he came from one of the attack ships or from somewhere else entirely, then there was no telling what he or the Dominion was planning. In any event, it was going to take her a little time to sort through the possible consequences—and to figure out how to prove his story out, one way or the other.
Kira started to leave the area, glancing back at Kitana'klan a final time before she stepped into the corridor. He was still on his knees, and again, that feeling of helplessness hit her at the improbable sight. A Jem'Hadar soldier, claiming a mission of peace. If Odo had done mis, either he had made real progress with the Founders and the Dominion... or his sense of humor had taken a serious turn toward the inexplicable, which Kira could not find it in herself to believe.
16
Although he'd assumed she would be seeking him out eventually—she'd already talked to everyone else on the away team—Vaughn hadn't actually decided to speak to Deanna Troi until she approached him in Ten-Forward, a full day after they'd left the Kamal behind. He'd been enjoying the feelings he'd been having, and felt protective of them, not sure if he wanted them analyzed. He would not have sought her out, in any case—he had too many secrets to ever feel entirely comfortable around a Betazoid, let alone someone he'd known as a Mend's child—but since finding the Orb, he'd also felt open to trying new things. Like talking to a counselor.
"Elias. May I join you?" She stood in front of his table, a small one near a viewport where he'd been sitting alone, remembering all sorts of things. Outside, the Badlands erupted and shimmered wildly. Soon, they'd be on their way to DS9, leaving the plasma storms behind; he'd wanted to get his fill.
"Please," he said, gesturing at the seat across from his, thinking that Ian had been a lucky man; his daughter had grown into a bright, intelligent, lovely person.
Troi sat down, smiling somewhat shyly, a touch of color in her cheeks—and he realized that she had probably detected some of what he was feeling. Only a few days before, his mind had been too preoccupied with feelings of self-doubt and confusion to feel anything clearly.
'Is it uncomfortable for you, to sense how others perceive you?" he asked, intuitively feeling that the question would not be inappropriate.
"That depends on who it is, and in what context."
"How do you mean, context?"
Deanna grinned. "I mean, if they like me, I try to pay more attention."
"Always a good plan," Vaughn said, smiling.
"Does this mean I get to ask you a few questions?" Troi asked.
Vaughn hesitated only a second, thinking of how he'd been feeling since the freighter. Strange and chaotic, definitely, strong memories continuing to appear randomly in his thoughts—but not at all unpleasant.
"You can if you can tell me what I'm feeling right now," he replied, honestly curious as to what she would say.
Troi took a deep breath, studying him. "Confused. Elated and uncertain. Contemplative. You are out of your emotional comfort zone, but not afraid, and... you're still experiencing flashes of your past, aren't you?"
Vaughn nodded. "Excellent, Counselor. And I assume you know why..."
"The Orb experience," she said, and he sensed her excitement now. He could see it on her face. "It was very different for you than for the others,"
"Yes, I think it was," he said lifting his glass of synthale, then putting it back down, not really in a drinking mood. "I had memories on the freighter, too, good and bad—but when it was over, when I closed the door on the Orb, I felt..."
He shook his head. "It's hard to explain. It wasn't so much a feeling as a comprehension, if that makes any sense. For just a second, I... I remembered who I was. Who I am. And just like that, all of my concerns and fears about the future, about my future— gone."
Deanna nodded, looking pleased. "Yes. I can feel some of it even now. I don't know that you had a pagh'tem'far—mat's the Bajoran concept of a sacred vision—but I think you definitely experienced a moment of clarity, catalyzed by the Orb. Perhaps because you were already questioning some aspects of your life, and you were open to a change of direction."
He hadn't thought of it that way, assuming instead that it had been a matter of his proximity to the Orb, but she was right, of course. Ironic, that a spiritually skeptical person like himself could have such an altering experience with a religious artifact
Although there was that Linellian fluid effigy. The dream of small death when you touched it, followed by a brief, brilliant vision of swimming through milky-white waves... He'd been only 24 then, charged with returning the stolen container to the embassy, and hadn't known that such peace could exist....
"These memories you've been experiencing—are
they troubling to you?" Troi asked, watching him carefully.
'No," he said, thinking mat her perceptions were even clearer than he'd first thought "A little distracting, perhaps, but nothing too terrible."
Even as he said it, he realized that she, of all people, would know better. He smiled, shrugging.
"Nothing I can't handle, anyway."
Deanna leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly. "If there was anything you wanted to talk about, I could get a security clearance waiver..."
Vaughn felt a sudden fondness for her, wondering if she had any idea how impossible mat would be for someon
e like him. The past was the past, but promises had been made, orders given mat he could never set aside. There was a saying, something about aging tigers still having teem...
... and it holds true for some memories. Several of those tigers still have very sharp teeth, and claws that could inflict serious injury... As long as they remained in the cage of his mind, there was no danger. He meant to keep it mat way.
Thank you, Counselor, but mat's not necessary. Really, I'm all right."
At her slight frown, he thought again of how lovely she was, how compassionate, and suddenly recalled a clear image of an infant girl he'd held long ago, looking into her sweetly exotic eyes and feeling that his heart was so full it might cease to beat from the weight of his feelings. He concentrated on the memory, knowing that Ian Troi had certainly feh the same way when he'd first held Deanna, and was rewarded with another warm smile from the young woman.
"Of course you are," she said, and stood, still smiling. "Thank you, Elias. I'll leave you to your reflections."
After she was gone, Vaughn turned his attention back to the Badlands, letting himself drift again. Whether it was a Bajoran religious epiphany, or a passing mindset, or some spiritual, emotional truth that he had been destined to learn, it didn't matter; he knew what he wanted, and knew that he would figure out how to get there as he went He'd read a saying somewhere once, about how when you knew who you were, you knew what to do; it was more true man he'd ever suspected. It made him wonder how many people in the universe simply let their lives slide into some comfortable pattern, forgetting that they could do anything they wanted to do, that they could change direction if they could remember how easy it actually was.
Isn't life a strange party, Vaughn thought, looking out at the raging storms and feeling as young and free as a child.
Vedek Yevir arrived early for the shuttle to the space station. His luggage was taken by a pleasant young man who saw mat he was comfortably seated before hurrying off to attend to other duties. The young man— Kevlin Jak, he'd introduced himself as—said that the shuttle would be full, a contingent of Militia technicians having booked flight two days before hi addition to a number of regular passengers. Remembering how boisterous Militia folk could be in company, even this early in the morning—he'd been one himself not so very long ago—Yevir settled into his chair and closed his eyes, taking the opportunity of his early boarding
For a few moments of silent meditation. It would be his first trip back to Deep Space 9 since he'd left to pursue his calling, and although he felt mostly positive about his return, he was not calm. Even the reason for his trip could not dampen his excitement.
And why shouldn't I be excited, considering what happened for me there? Behind his closed eyes, he remembered—the touch on his shoulder, warm and strong. The soft voice, ringing with truth. The sudden complete awareness of his own path, and the tranquility that had enfolded him, mat had surrounded him ever since.
It was a story he'd told time and again, to anyone who wanted to know why he'd walked away from his old life to embrace the teachings of the Prophets—and it unfolded to him now like a story, almost as if it had happened to someone else. Perhaps because he'd told it so many times, or perhaps it was because his younger self was so very different from who he was now that he could no longer relate to nun. No matter; the story of his life was an inspiration, and one he was proud to own.
Yevir Linjarin, Lieutenant in the Bajoran Militia. A man barely 40 at the end of the Occupation, his family dead and gone except for an aunt he'd never known, assigned to the small but industrious Bajoran off-world operations office on Deep Space 9. He'd been a minor administrator in a sea of minor administrators following the Cardassian withdrawal, his specific task to help relocate some of the thousands of Bajorans returning home—families and individuals who'd managed to flee before or during the Occupation. It was gratifying work, he supposed, but he'd taken no real joy in it He
had been a lonely man, a man with plenty of acquaintances and no real Mends, a man who ate his dinners alone. It was a gray life, not the constant celebration he'd promised himself all those years in me camps; it was the life of a survivor, who'd forgotten how to do anything but survive.
He'd had faith, of a sort, attending weekly services along with everyone else—but he'd never really felt or understood the nature of the Prophets, even after Benjamin Sisko had come to the station. His relationship with Them had been perfunctory, Ms feelings for the Bajoran Gods a kind of vague, mental appreciation; he likened it to the way some childless individuals felt about children—glad that they were there, but only because mat was the appropriate response to children, whether or not one actually enjoyed mem. The Emissary's arrival was just another "prophecy" fulfilled mat would make no real difference in his life, interesting but essentially inconsequential.
Except he was the Emissary...
One day, shortly after B'hala had been rediscovered, in fact, Lieutenant Yevir had been on his gray, unassuming way to the station's Replimat for something to eat when he'd been caught in a crowd of his people— and seen light in their eyes, their faces glowing as they watched the Emissary walk among them, touching them, telling them what the Prophets whispered in his ear. Yevir hadn't known the captain beyond being someone to nod to, but on that miraculous day, he'd seen and felt the spiritual power of the man for the first time. It had radiated from him like heat, like a thousand bright colors, and Yevir had understood mat something was going to happen, something vast and wonderful.
The Emissary told an aging couple not to worry about the harvest, and everyone in the crowd had known it was the truth—and suddenly, the Emissary had been standing in front of him, in front of him.
And he touched my shoulder, and I felt the power. "You don't belong here," he said, and I understood that my life was gray and wasted. "Go home," he said, and 1 knew the truth. I knew that I would serve; I knew that I had been touched by the Prophets through his hand... and I left the station that very night.
The story went on—there was his newfound tranquility, and his acceptance as a religious initiate back on Bajor, and his rapid rise into and through the Vedek Assembly—but it was his contact with the Emissary, that single, life-altering moment of total reality, that was the point It was as though he'd been awakened from a very long sleep, one that had lasted his entire life, and that he would be kai one day was only a natural extension of that rapturous moment.
Is it any wonder that I'm excited to see the station again? To see the people I used to know, to walk through the same places I used to walk, but to see everything through new eyes, through eyes opened by the Prophets' love ?
Just thinking of it, he was pulled from the depth of his contemplation, a slight smile touching his lips. He should enjoy his anticipation; pretending some distant calm he didn't feel was unworthy. It was funny, how he still so often worried about how a vedek should behave—
Yevir opened bis eyes, curious. People had been boarding the shuttle for some time, their shuffle and conversation faint to his ears—but as he tuned back in
to his surroundings, he realized that something had changed. An excited murmur swept through the compartment, men and women talking in rapid whispers, smiling and nodding at one another.
Kevlin Jak, the shuttle attendant, was striding past his seat. Yevir reached out and touched his arm, not even having to ask before the young man happily chattered the news.
"The son of the Emissary has just boarded," Kevlin said, his eyes wide and shining. "He asked the captain if he could sit with the other pilots in front—you know how modest he is, of course—can you believe it? The Emissary's son, on our flight!"
'It's a blessing," Yevir said, smiling at the attendant, sure now mat his decision to travel to the station was me right one. He'd had doubt, mat to so directly involve himself in pursuit of the heresy might not be what the Prophets wanted.
This is a sign, a portent for the righteousness of my cause. His own son, returning from the ruins to share
my journey....
Yevir closed his eyes again, praising Them, knowing Their wisdom in all things. The book of obscenities would be found and destroyed. The will of the Prophets would be served, in this as in all else.
Ro slowly walked the cool, quiet corridors of the Habitat Ring, deep in thought. She could have just as easily done her thinking in the security office, but something about knowing that the Jem'Hadar soldier was close by made it difficult to concentrate. She had Devro watching him at the moment, probably with one hand on his combadge and the other on his phaser,
which was fine by her. She hoped he was scared; she'd had more than a few fights with the Jem'Hadar during the war. Letting one's guard down, even when the soldier in question was behind a good, sturdy, planar force field, was suicidal behavior.
Of course, the soldier in question seems content to stare off into space and wait for Kira to decide his fate. Kitana'klan hadn't said a word since the colonel had walked out, at least during Ro's watch. Which was also fine by her; not only could she not imagine making small talk with a Jem'Hadar, her mind had been otherwise occupied. Even as strange and possibly singular as Kitana'klan's sudden appearance was, the investigation into Istani Reyla's death was still stalled, and she was finding it more and more difficult to think about anything else.
3, 4, 24, 1.5, 25... The scant information from Is-tani's isolinear rod had become an endlessly cycling loop, underlying everything. It was like a game, one that wasn't particularly fun but was entirely addictive: find out where the numbers go. There were three main processing cores hi the station's computer network, environmental controls were polled at level four once each hour, twenty-four variations of hasperat at Quark's; the Habitat levels ran one through five, and there were twenty-five personnel and cargo transporters distributed throughout the station. As soon as she found a place for each number, the cycle started over again— three spokes within three crossover bridges, four work shifts a day, and on, and on. It was tiring and annoying, and she couldn't seem to stop; something had to fit and she knew she would find it, if she could just come up with the right combination.
