Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Plagues of Night

by David R. George III

  All at once, the optimism with which Picard anticipated the joint mission faded, replaced by a feeling of dread, and a concern about the true aims of the praetor.

  20

  Vedek Kira Nerys walked through the murky lighting of the habitat ring on Deep Space 9, inundated by memories. It had been some time since last she’d visited the station, but her many experiences there remained vibrant in her mind. That had always been her way. She certainly could not recall every moment of her youth, but she could still visualize so much, from her time as a girl in the Singha refugee camp to her days as a teen in the Resistance. For fully a quarter of a century—for the first twenty-five years of her life—she lived within the cruel reality of the Cardassian Occupation. Because she knew nothing else, that harsh existence had long defined her, during its thousands of interminable days, and in the days that followed.

  In the aftermath of the liberation, Kira had clung to her anger and to her hatred—both emotions well justified. She initially came to Deep Space 9—the erstwhile Terok Nor—as the Bajoran liaison to the Federation contingent there, who took over the operation of the station at the request of the barely functioning provisional government. At the outset, Kira viewed the UFP as merely another usurper, perhaps not as ruthless as the Cardassians, but to her way of thinking, just as invasive. Over time, though, the situation changed, or her understanding of it did, and eventually she also changed.

  Kira recalled Aamin Marritza, the Cardassian file clerk who’d served at the notorious Gallitep forced-labor camp on Bajor. Years later, aboard DS9, he impersonated the brutal commandant of the camp, allowing himself to be captured as a war criminal, in the hope that he—and by extension, all of Cardassia—would stand trial. Horrified by the merciless treatment of the Bajorans at Gallitep but powerless to stop it, Marritza suffered terrible guilt for what he considered his cowardice. He wanted not only to atone for his personal inaction, but to lay bare the sins of his people in occupying Bajor.

  Marritza had been a tortured man, and perhaps he’d even been right to condemn himself for not risking his own life to save those interned at Gallitep. But Kira vividly remembered coming to recognize and appreciate the quality of Marritza’s character, to realize that despite the occupation of Bajor by the Cardassian Union for decades, she could not rationalize painting all Cardassians with the same brush. Whatever small amount of wisdom she might have gained in the course of her life, she traced its beginnings to her interactions with Marritza.

  Well, and to my time with the Emissary, she thought.

  Seemingly surrounded by her past, Kira turned a corner into another shadowy corridor, at last approaching her destination. It amazed her to think that she had spent nine years on Deep Space 9. For such a long time—for all her life to that point—she truly believed that she would never stop battling the Cardassians, even after they left Bajor. But when she met Marritza, when she came to understand him, she finally foresaw a time when she would lay down her sword. After that revelation, she came to feel that she would never leave DS9, which became a home for her in a manner that no other place ever really had.

  But then Benjamin had ascended into the Celestial Temple, and even when he’d returned, he’d never gone back to the station, other than to visit. And even though Kira rose to the highest position on DS9, even though her term as its commander fully satisfied her, it also brought new challenges. By sending Taran’atar, a Jem’Hadar soldier, to reside on the station, Odo boldly attempted to change so many things: the nature of the Alpha Quadrant’s relationship with the Dominion, the Founders’ view of their interactions with “solids,” the very character and self-identity of the Jem’Hadar. Other complications arose, including the parasite invasion and the death of First Minister Shakaar. The Eav’oq reappeared after millennia, the Ascendants rose, and Iliana Ghemor wove a thread of madness from Cardassia to Bajor, from Idran to Deep Space 9. Kira remembered well Taran’atar’s betrayal—though he had not committed it of his own volition—and she surely would never forget his final, fevered act, which had transformed everything.

  All of which had led Kira to pursue true peace and understanding for her own life. None of her experiences—struggling just to survive in the refugee camp, shedding the blood of Bajor’s occupiers, wrestling with her place in a free society, and even commanding Deep Space 9—nothing she ever did in her life made her think that her path would lead her to religious service. At Singha, a friend of her parents, Istani Reyla, introduced Kira as a child to the teachings of the Prophets. From that time forward, she always believed, always found strength in her faith, but it never occurred to her to even consider becoming a novice.

  Until the day that it finally did occur to me, Kira thought with a smile. As the old adage went, “The path the Prophets lay out for you may not be straight.”

  That was almost six years ago, Kira thought with a sense of wonder. Sometimes, it felt as though her life hurtled by at warp velocity. As she got older, the speed with which time passed only seemed to increase.

  Upon deciding to join the Bajoran religious order, Kira had resigned her commission from Starfleet and had gladly turned over command of the station to Elias Vaughn. She took up her official religious studies at the Vanadwan Monastery in Releketh Province, in some ways far more scared than when she stormed Dominion Headquarters on Cardassia Prime during the war. But she committed to her newfound calling, and her personal journey took her to places within herself that she never knew existed. She felt tranquil and happy, and to her surprise, she also felt of greater service to her people than she ever had before that, even as a freedom fighter or as the commanding officer of Deep Space 9.

  Finally arriving at the quarters to which she’d been heading, Kira reached up and touched the control panel set into the bulkhead. A moment later, the door slid open. Kira stepped inside, over the raised threshold.

  Although the furniture in the sitting area had been rearranged since the last time she’d been there, the cabin looked much as she recollected it. On one bulkhead, a large, abstract clock, composed of metal sheets and rods—more a work of art than a timepiece—ticked away the seconds of the twenty-six-hour Bajoran day. On that same bulkhead, on the other side of the room’s replicator, three prints hung in silver-gray frames, all of them presenting an image of a Starfleet vessel: Mjolnir, Sentinel, and Defiant. A mobile hanging from the overhead in one corner depicted Bajor and its five moons. Various other pieces of art, most of them kinetic in nature, adorned the rest of the space. Kira also saw a number of framed pictures on tables and shelves, some of them showing the faces of people she knew, including Kalena Hoku—the captain of Mjolnir—and Elias Vaughn.

  Dressed in her uniform, Lieutenant Prynn Tenmei stood in front of the sofa, a padd depending from one hand. “Vedek Kira,” she said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “It’s good to see you, Prynn,” Kira said, taking another step forward, allowing the door to glide shut behind her. “And we’ve known each other too long for formalities. It’s Nerys.” She glanced down at the simple, earth-toned pantsuit she wore, not particularly immodest, but flattering. “This isn’t exactly a vedek’s robe.”

  Light shined from Tenmei’s eyes as though reflecting tears. Then the lieutenant moved, extracting herself from the sitting area and reaching her arms out to Kira. The two embraced.

  “Thank you for coming, Nerys,” Tenmei said.

  Kira waited until her friend pulled away, and then she said, “I’m only sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I was at a retreat, teaching young acolytes.”

  Tenmei laughed, though Kira saw no humor in her expression. “Believe me, there’s no hurry.”

  “Well, good,” Kira said. “I’m glad to be here.” When she’d received Tenmei’s message asking if she intended to visit Deep Space 9 anytime soon, Kira had replied with the dates of her earliest availability. She did not know why Tenmei wished to see her, but she could guess.

  After Tenmei offered refreshments, and then retrieved two steam
ing mugs of raktajino from the replicator—Kira’s extra hot, with two measures of kava—the two women moved into the sitting area. Kira sat on the sofa, and Tenmei took a comfortable chair opposite her across a low, oval table. They both sipped at their mugs before Kira said, “How are you, Prynn?”

  “I’m all right,” Tenmei said with a flat smile. Kira imagined that she wore that expression often these days in a futile attempt to disguise her emotions.

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Kira told her lightly. Then, soberly, she said, “I know how difficult it’s been for you to deal with your father’s condition.”

  “Yes, it’s difficult,” Tenmei said. Kira felt grateful that at least she could admit that. “When I’m on the station and not away on the Defiant, I spend time with my dad every day, usually before and after my duty shift.”

  Kira counted back in her head and calculated that Vaughn’s injuries had occurred two and a half years earlier. She thought that spending so much time with a patient who suffered from a traumatic brain injury—with, essentially, a lifeless body—must have been terribly debilitating for Tenmei. “Has your father shown any improvement?”

  “No,” Tenmei said. “And Doctor Bashir says that there’s really no hope.”

  “I’m sorry, Prynn.”

  “Thank you,” Tenmei said, and she swiped a hand across her eyes. “It’s been a year since we removed my dad from his respirator. The only things keeping his body alive are a feeding tube and a hydration line.” She picked up her mug, raised it almost to her lips, then set it down again without drinking from it.

  More than anything, Kira thought, Tenmei looked like somebody acting on automatic pilot. She seemed sad and alone and lost. Kira hoped that, for whatever reason Tenmei had wanted to see her, she could help.

  “I called you vedek before because that’s the capacity in which I need to speak with you,” Tenmei said. “I mean, you’re my friend—I wouldn’t have contacted you otherwise—but … it’s just—”

  “Prynn, it’s okay,” Kira told her. “I want to be here for you. What is it you need?”

  “I … I’m not really sure,” Tenmei said. “But I recently decided to have my dad’s feeding and hydration tubes removed. For so long, I’ve been holding so tightly to the idea that, someday, he’ll just wake up and be himself again. But that’s a lie. A lie I chose to believe because I love my dad so much. And because, even when we were estranged, there was always that possibility that we would reconnect. I don’t think I knew it back then, but I wanted that possibility—I needed it. I guess I still do.” She looked to the side, and Kira could see her fighting back tears once more. When she spoke again, she did so in a whisper. “But I know that my dad’s not coming back this time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kira said again. She wanted to say more, but she knew from bitter experience that words could provide only so much salve. At that point, just her presence in the room with Tenmei probably meant more than anything she could possibly say.

  The lieutenant inhaled deeply and slowly, her nostrils flaring, and she appeared to gather herself. “My dad wasn’t religious,” she said. “He didn’t hew to any particular creed, he didn’t believe in a deity. But he thought about life a lot, thought about his place in the universe, and how he could best fulfill himself while also making a positive contribution. In that way, I consider him a spiritual man.”

  “Your father and I grew pretty close during our time together here on the station,” Kira said. “He talked enough about his ambitions to be an explorer that I could tell that he’d been dreaming of such a life for a long time—probably since he was a boy. But I also know that he spent the majority of his career in Starfleet as an intelligence officer. I never got the sense that he disliked his work as an operative until maybe the end, but I could tell that missions like Defiant’s three-month exploration of the Gamma Quadrant satisfied him much more.”

  “He loved taking the ship and crew on that mission,” Tenmei said, her face genuinely brightening for the first time since Kira had seen her. “A lot happened, and we all faced our share of dangers, but I don’t think I’d ever seen him happier up to that point. He reveled in those eleven direct first contacts.”

  “Don’t forget the exchange of friendship messages with sixteen other civilizations,” Kira said.

  Tenmei continued to smile, which altered the contours of her face considerably. Without the wide, joyful expression, she could look so serious, even in the best of times. “You were right about my dad, Nerys,” she said. “About his wanting to explore the galaxy back when he was just a boy. When I was young, he talked a lot about it. His mother taught him about the stars in his own youth, and I always got the feeling that’s where his passion for space travel came from.

  “But his other work—his intelligence work—got in the way,” Tenmei went on. “I guess, when you don’t foster your dreams for a while, you lose sight of them. But do you know what brought him back to wanting to explore?”

  “His Orb experience?” Kira asked, knowing the answer.

  Tenmei’s eyes widened. “He told you about it,” she said. “I’m glad that he did, but I’m surprised. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it much. I think maybe because he couldn’t explain it … maybe because he doubted the reality of the experience.”

  “No, I don’t think he doubted,” Kira said softly. “I don’t want to contradict you about your own father, Prynn—”

  “No, go ahead,” Tenmei said, a note of excitement seeping into her voice. “If you know something about him, I’d love to hear it.”

  For just an instant, Kira worried about betraying Vaughn’s confidence. But Tenmei was right: he was never coming back. And Kira thought that if she could somehow ask Vaughn’s permission to share that particular piece of information about him with his daughter, he would gladly allow it.

  “Actually, your father had two Orb experiences, and I don’t think he doubted either one of them,” Kira said. “When he found the Orb of Memory on a Cardassian freighter lost in the Badlands, just before he first came to Deep Space Nine … I dreamed about him finding it.”

  “What?” Tenmei asked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “I essentially saw your father aboard the freighter,” Kira said. “I saw him find the Orb of Memory. And yet we’d never met, and he was out in space, and I was here on the station.”

  “And you told him about your dream?”

  “I did,” Kira said. “I confirmed some of the details of his time aboard the freighter before he revealed them to me.”

  Tenmei seemed to consider Kira’s story, and then, in something approaching an awed tone, said, “Wow.”

  “I know,” Kira said. “Orb experiences can be like that.”

  “It’s no wonder you two became close friends.”

  Kira nodded. “I certainly think that connection helped set us on that course.”

  Again, Tenmei grew quiet as she appeared to think about what Kira had told her. Then she said, “You mentioned that my dad had a second Orb experience. Was it like the first?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kira said. “We only talked about it once, though I asked him about it more often than that. I don’t think he liked to talk about it because … because it involved you and your mother.”

  “Oh,” Tenmei said, evidently surprised, though she didn’t seem upset. “Would you tell me about it?”

  “I can’t tell you much, because your father didn’t tell me much,” Kira said. “But when he experienced the Orb of Unity, he confronted the guilt he felt for the loss of your mother. And for what he did to you.”

  Tenmei nodded. Kira had thought that her friend deserved to hear the truth, and that it might someday help her, but she’d also thought that what she had to say would likely distress Prynn. But that didn’t seem to be the case.

  Unexpectedly, Tenmei chuckled. “You know, it’s funny,” she said. “When people learned about the troubles I had with my dad, and about my childhoo
d and about what happened to my mother, they almost always drew the wrong conclusions. It didn’t matter what I told them; they heard a few facts, ignored a few others, perhaps didn’t understand the complexity of it all. Maybe I just didn’t explain it properly.”

  Tenmei laughed again, louder. “Of course, until a few years ago—until my dad and I were on the Defiant’s mission to the Gamma Quadrant—I didn’t entirely understand it myself. My dad didn’t either, not really. But what happened out there … we figured it out together.”

  The smile on Tenmei’s face faded. “And then when we found my mother … when we found what she had become … and my dad had to … had to …” She stumbled over the words, and tears began to run down her face. Kira rose, intending to go to her, but Tenmei held up her hands. “I’m all right,” she insisted. “I know what the Borg did to her, why she had to die again … because that wasn’t her, and never would be.”

  Kira thought about what had happened to the Borg Collective, and wondered if Tenmei ever thought about the possibility that, had her mother survived long enough as one of their number, she might ultimately have gained her freedom. If she did, or had, she gave no indication. Still crying, she continued to speak.

  “People always thought my dad was a bad father when I was a child,” Tenmei said. “They thought that he was always absent, off on one mission or another, leaving my mother and me at home. Except that sometimes my dad stayed and my mother left. And sometimes we were all together. When we weren’t, we all looked forward to when we would be. I mean, I missed them when they weren’t there, but … I had a happy childhood. I was loved, and nurtured, and supported.

  “Later, when my dad sent my mother off on her mission … on the mission she never returned from … people always thought I blamed him for that,” Tenmei said. “And probably I did to some degree. But I knew that he loved my mother, that he wouldn’t have willingly sent her on her mission if he knew that she wouldn’t come back.