After she finished her morning ablutions and dressed, she offered a brief prayer to the Prophets, then walked back into the cabin. She straightened the bedclothes on her sleeping platform before sitting down to think about what next she needed to do. Outside, the clumsy footsteps continued.
After Taran’atar had attacked Kira aboard Deep Space 9 all those years ago, as she had lain on the verge of death while Doctor Bashir and his staff worked to save her, and stabilize her, and replace her ruined heart, she had experienced a vision of the Celestial Temple, and more. She saw herself as the head of an army, pursued by a merciless enemy and inexplicably shut out from her people’s own fortress. In and around that dream, she came to know her place as the Hand of the Prophets, an instrument meant to guide the malleable future into the proper shape.
In the aftermath of that experience, doing what she thought needed to be done, she had pursued both Taran’atar and the crazed Iliana Ghemor. In the end, Kira physically ended up in the Celestial Temple, but not by herself; Ghemor and the Cardassian’s sane, alternate-universe counterpart accompanied her. The Prophets opened up Ghemor’s life for examination, and that life—devastated, broken, pitiable—played out for the trio to witness. The Prophets labeled Ghemor the Fire, and then They extinguished her—or, at least, Kira thought They had at the time. They dubbed her counterpart the Voice and sent her forth from the Celestial Temple to serve as Their Emissary in the alternate universe.
And They reaffirmed Kira Nerys as the Hand. They delivered her back to Deep Space 9, to her newly repaired body, with its replacement heart. It would be nearly another year before Iliana Ghemor and the Ascendants, as prophesied to her, descended on Bajor. Iliana Ghemor, the Ascendants . . . and Taran’atar.
That was almost six years ago, Kira thought. In the line of my life, that was six years ago. But time had ceased to be linear for her, and those events suddenly lay in the future. When she’d been alone in sickbay with Taran’atar, prior to having her first meal aboard Even Odds, she had asked him the current date on Bajor, which he’d calculated for her. She then lied and averred that she’d entered the Celestial Temple just before that time, but it told her what she needed to know: that the Ascendants’ attack on Bajor, and Taran’atar’s death, would occur in less than a hundred days.
And what am I supposed to do? Kira wanted to know—needed to know. The visions she’d endured after Taran’atar’s attack on her had left her believing that she would play a substantial role in protecting Bajor from the Ascendants, and in uniting the forces that would stop them. Instead, she had done very little. The Ascendants had been stopped, but at a price.
Is that why I’m here in the past? she asked herself. To lower that price? To take the proper action now and make up for not doing so then? That sounded like it might be right, despite contradicting Starfleet’s Temporal Prime Directive. Maybe this time, I can save the Bajorans who died. Maybe I can save Taran’atar.
Kira would have to think about that. The Jem’Hadar considered Taran’atar, at twenty-three, an elder among them. It didn’t really make sense to risk so much to save him, since he would likely die from natural causes before too long anyway. Still, it would be worth it to consider saving the Bajorans who had perished. She would also have to ascertain Even Odds’ position in the Gamma Quadrant, as well as its course. Depending on their proximity to the wormhole, she might have to act quickly.
Somebody knocked lightly on the door. “Hello, Captain?” said a male voice Kira did not recognize from the prior day. “Captain Kira? Can you hear me?”
In addition to Captain Dezavrim and the medic, Allo Glessin, she had met several other crew members: a mated Wadi couple, Itriuma and Fajgin, served the ship as art researchers and appraisers; a pair of Ferengi brothers, Feg and Triv, managed—naturally—finances; and a man named Pri’ak, who belonged to an unfamiliar species called the Merdosians, worked as an engineer. Pri’ak had an especially compact body, short and thickset, hinting that he might come from a high-gravity world. He also had transparent teeth, a consequence, he said, of an old Merdosian superstition asserting that the tongue of a liar would change colors. Despite the fallacy of the myth, it had become essentially a tradition for all of Pri’ak’s people to implant clear teeth in their children.
“Captain Kira?” the voice outside the door said again, growing in volume and insistence. “Are you in there? Are you all right? Do you need some help?”
Though she could not remember all the names Jake had told her, Kira recalled several of the Even Odds crew he had described to her. He depicted one in particular as overly friendly and exceedingly talkative, who happened to look like a tokka—what Jake said humans called a dog. Between the skittering back-and-forth steps outside the cabin door and the tireless chatter, she could not visualize a more likely appearance for her visitor.
“Are you having problems, Captain?” the voice asked. “Is there something you need? Can I help in any way?”
Even as question followed question, Kira stood up, walked over to the door, and tapped its control. It withdrew into the bulkhead to reveal a being that, while not exactly the image of a tokka, certainly bore a resemblance: he walked on four legs, had a slim tail, a canine-shaped head with a narrow muzzle, and fur all over his body. The similarities ended there, though; colored the rich green of vegetation, the being had no long tongue flapping inside his mouth, no visible ears, long-fingered hands instead of paws, and a series of slender, flexible spines along his back—not to mention that he could speak. He wore nothing but a plain collar.
“I’m Kira Nerys, and I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
The being appeared to scowl at her, but when he rose up easily onto his two hind legs, he greeted her enthusiastically. “I would know who you are even if you didn’t tell me,” he said. “Even if Dez didn’t tell me. Jake described you to me. Jake Sisko. He spent quite a while with us on the Even Odds.” The tokka-like being offered up the information with a measure of pride.
“He told me about his time aboard,” Kira said, finding the being’s garrulous energy infectious. While she doubted that he truly would have known her based on any portrayal Jake had given—since those days, she had grown her hair much longer, down past her shoulders—she appreciated his friendliness. “Jake described you very well to me,” she told him, “but I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”
“Pifko Gaber,” he said excitedly, as though bestowing some sort of honor upon himself. “You can call me Pifko, that’s really my name. Or just Pif. That’s what most everybody calls me.”
“All right, then,” Kira said. “How can I help you, Pif?”
“Help—?” Pif said, confused by the question. “Oh, no, I’m not here to ask for your help. I came to escort you to the dining hall for breakfast. Dez thought you might want to meet the rest of the crew.”
“I do,” Kira said, “although I’m not sure I’ll meet anybody as interesting as you.” Pif actually wagged his tail, and Kira had to resist reaching forward and petting him on the head.
“Come on, then,” Pif said. “This way.” He dropped back down onto all four of his legs and bolted down the corridor. He disappeared around a corner, only to duck his head back around as he waited for Kira to catch up. They continued on like that—with Pif racing ahead and then impatiently waiting for Kira to join him—all the way to the dining hall.
AT BREAKFAST, KIRA THOUGHT that Pif took great pleasure introducing her to the Even Odds crew, including, in some cases, those she’d already met. According to Pif, a plump humanoid man named Aslylgof contributed to the ship his expertise on weapons both modern and historical; he called himself a Rentician, had no ears, no eyelids, and exposed kneecaps and elbows, along with a full, gray-streaked beard and an air of arrogance about him. Juno Mellias, a Stakoran woman Pif identified as an archeologist and an expert in gems and jewelry, welcomed Kira with a smile. Another woman, a Karemman named Atterace Prees, held the po
sition of chief engineer, assisted—or perhaps guided—by Srral, a fluidic, artificial life-form that lived within the technological systems of Even Odds. Pif presented Srral to Kira by speaking with it via the ship’s internal comm system, then removing an access plate from a bulkhead; Kira peered inside to see a silver, metallic substance that moved among the exposed circuitry almost like Odo when he shape-shifted from one form to another. Neane Tee, a four-armed Hissidolan woman, served as a general researcher of exceptional ability, at least by Pif’s account.
For the most part, everybody offered Kira a warm welcome, although her brief conversation with Srral felt a bit like talking to a computer. Facity Sleedow marked the only exception. The final member of the crew and the ship’s exec and comm officer, she arrived late to breakfast and barely acknowledged Kira when Pif jumped up from his meal to make the introductions. Of all those aboard Even Odds whom Jake had described to her, she had recalled Dez, Pif, and Srral most vividly, but many of the others at least sounded familiar to her when she met them. Sleedow did not, and Kira thought she knew why: Jake had never mentioned her, or if he’d said her name, he’d offered no details about her.
A tall, bosomy Wadi woman, Sleedow confidently and unapologetically exuded sexuality. As soon as Kira saw her, it became instantly clear from whose wardrobe the provocative clothing she’d been offered had come. Jake hadn’t spoken about Sleedow, Kira figured, because to do so would have divulged more about him than about her.
After breakfast, most of the crew withdrew from the dining hall, presumably to tend to whatever duties the ship required of them. When Kira stood up as well, Dez, sitting across from her, remained seated and asked her if she would stay for a few moments. Beside him, Sleedow got up, exchanged a charged glance with Dez, and went over to the replicator to recycle her tray and dishware. “I’ll be on the bridge,” she said flatly. She exited without looking back, leaving Kira in the dining hall with only Dez and Taran’atar. The Jem’Hadar stood off to the side, at attention, as though standing guard. She had seen him in such a pose many times back when he’d first arrived on DS9.
“Please have a seat,” Dez said, and Kira sat back down. “And please forgive Facity. She thinks the Even Odds already has one captain too many.” The reference to Kira’s rank reminded her of her implied lie; while she hadn’t referred to herself as a captain, she also hadn’t corrected anybody who referred to her by the rank.
“Do you two not get along?” Kira asked, and she immediately regretted the question. For one thing, it suddenly seemed absolutely obvious to her that Dez’s relationship with Sleedow went deeper than that of just shipmates. For another, she gathered that Sleedow’s concerns meant that she believed Kira would be staying aboard, at least for a while, which gave Kira pause.
“Oh, we get along well together,” Dez said, his tone casual but telling. “Just some times better than others.”
“Does she think that I want to join your crew?” Kira asked.
“Facity knows I want to discuss the possibility with you, yes,” Dez said.
“Captain—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “Dez,” he said, in a reaction that seemed more habit than anything else. “Before you turn me down, please listen to what I have to say.”
Kira had no intention of becoming a member of the Even Odds crew, nor did she plan to remain aboard for very long. She wanted only to figure out what she needed to know about the ship and its crew, and then return to the Alpha Quadrant so that she could prepare for whatever action she would have to take. Listening to Dez—and anybody else in the crew—might bring her information that would help her puzzle out all of that. “All right,” Kira said.
“First of all, please understand that I don’t know what your situation is,” Dez said. “We found you far from the Anomaly, wearing not a Starfleet uniform but civilian clothes. Now, maybe you haven’t left your position on Deep Space Nine. Maybe you were on some sort of undercover mission, or even on holiday, when you got trapped in the Anomaly.” Dez shrugged. “Maybe you committed a crime and were being chased. I don’t know, and I’m not asking.”
Although he hadn’t asked, Kira noted that he had paid close attention to her reaction to each possibility he mentioned. She did her best to reveal nothing.
“Regardless of your situation,” he went on, “I want you to know that there’s a place for you here, and an opportunity that you might never have considered.” He paused as though expecting Kira to comment or ask questions, but when she stayed quiet, he continued. “I’m sure Jake must’ve told you about what we do on the Even. We call it the ‘retrieval’ business, but that can be a bit of a euphemism. Some people have other names for it. Mostly, we track down items of value that have been lost or stolen—works of art, historical artifacts, precious gems, and such—and we . . . reappropriate them . . . back to the proper owners.”
Kira wondered how often, and in what circumstances, those “proper owners” turned out to be the complement of the Even Odds. Although Jake had clearly come to care about Dez during their time together, the nature of his profession had also troubled the young man. Kira understood why, but she chose to let Dez finish making his pitch, wanting to learn as much as she could about his ship, since the explosion that would eventually tear it apart had never been fully explained.
“We’re really good at what we do,” Dez said. “It can be both exciting and lucrative, and I think you would be a valuable asset to add to the crew.”
“Based on what?” Kira asked, curious, though she suspected she knew why Dez wanted to offer her a position on Even Odds. Despite being a resident of the Alpha Quadrant, she had spent a great deal of time exploring on the other side of the wormhole, and interacting with numerous species there. She imagined that her knowledge of the region could prove helpful to Dezavrim and his crew. Still, Kira wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Based on the fact that you’ve been a Federation captain,” Dez said. “I haven’t had direct dealings with Starfleet, but I’ve heard quite a lot about it, and I certainly know about organizations like it. I also know that you were in the Bajoran Militia, and that, during the Cardassian occupation of your homeworld, you were a terrorist.”
Kira raised her eyebrows, not at the last label Dez had used to describe her, but at how much he appeared to know. She doubted Jake had said much on the subject of the Occupation and her role in it. The information conceivably could have come from Taran’atar, but even that seemed doubtful to her. She suspected that Dez and his crew made it a habit to learn as much as they could about prominent individuals in what amounted to their interstellar neighborhood. A search of Even Odds, she thought, would likely turn up more than a few acquired databases. “We preferred the term ‘freedom fighters,’ ” Kira said, seeking to cover her surprise, “and we called ourselves the Resistance.”
“My point is that you have a wealth of experience, from guerilla tactics to military training and procedures, from space exploration to first contact missions. You’re a proven leader, and obviously good at what you do.”
“Why is that obvious?”
“Because of what we’ve heard from various sources . . . because of what Jake told us . . . because of what Taran’atar has told us . . .” He looked over at the Jem’Hadar, who still stood motionless, like a sentry on duty. “. . . but primarily because, after the life you’ve led and all that you’ve been through, you’re still alive.”
“Survival can be a skill,” Kira agreed, but rather than thinking about her own existence, she thought about that of her people. She began to wonder again if she had been sent by the Prophets into the past to alter events. Maybe the timeline unfolded in a way that it shouldn’t have, she thought. Maybe the Prophets sent me here, to this time and place, to ensure that the Even Odds never makes it to the wormhole.
Or maybe I’m supposed to make sure that it does.
Kira’s mind reeled at the opposing possi
bilities. For all she knew, while she had commanded Deep Space 9, a future version of herself had shaped the events through which she had then lived. Maybe she needed to maintain the integrity of the timeline after all.
She didn’t know. Kira felt sure that she should do something, but that she didn’t have enough information to decide what that should be. But maybe I can get more information.
“If I stayed,” Kira asked, channeling her inner Ferengi, “what would be in it for me?”
“As I mentioned, our business can be profitable, on both an emotional and commercial level,” Dez said. “We also have an exceptional crew in terms of their skills and the way they mesh together.”
“I’m not sure Ms. Sleedow has any interest in ‘meshing’ with me,” Kira said.
“Don’t mind Facity,” Dez told her, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion. “She has an issue with authority. So do I. So do a lot of us on board, actually. Maybe that’s why we’re all here, and maybe that’s why we get along so well. But I can promise you that, if you do join us, Facity won’t be a problem. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the two of you teamed up and took charge of the Even Odds.”
“And wouldn’t that be a problem for you?” Kira asked, already knowing the answer, no matter how Dez responded. People of his ilk could not be pushed into relinquishing command.
“I’d have no problem at all,” he said. “It might even be nice to let somebody else make the decisions for a change.” Kira didn’t believe that, but it also didn’t matter. If she remained aboard Even Odds, it wouldn’t be so that she could take command, but so that she could fulfill her role as the Hand of the Prophets—if only she could pinpoint just what that meant.
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