Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

Moving carefully, Vaughn maneuvered down the mound of debris. Several stones tumbled from the pile, but he managed to avoid a similar fate. Minutes passed, until finally he reached the ground.

Vaughn looked down at himself. His coat was filthy. His uniform, torn open in a few places and covered with dirt, resembled, but did not match exactly, his uniform after the tower collapse back on the Vahni world. Cuts laced his hands, blood seeping from the wounds. He reached up and felt at his temple, his fingers coming away tacky with blood.

Vaughn circled the heap of rubble, looking this time not for Bowers and Roness, but for Ventu. He waved his way through the thick cloak of dust enclosing the scene. A third of the way around, where before he had come across Bowers and Roness and the other Vahni, this time he found nothing.

He continued walking. Farther along, he discovered the body of Ventu. The Vahni lay along the side of the tower wreckage, about three meters up. His tentacles draped lifelessly across the broken stone. Cuts and abrasions covered his body in numerous places, marring his beautiful red-and-blue flesh. And something had clearly fallen onto the headlike projection atop his frame; ichor oozed from a gaping wound that split the ring of his eye.

Vaughn pulled his tricorder from his coat, grateful that it had not been lost. He scanned the inert form of Ventu. The sensor readings confirmed the body as Vahni; there were no signs of life.

A tremendous sense of loss flooded over Vaughn, threatening to pull him down into its dark depths. Despite being convinced that whoever or whatever sprawled dead before him was not truly Ventu, the fact remained that Ventu had perished—not now, not here, but a week ago, on the Vahni world. Ventu, and three thousand other Vahni, and then Ensign Roness, all gone.

Vaughn stepped back away from the wrecked tower, then turned and made his way back to his supplies. He sat down on the roadway beside them, facing toward the wreckage, but averting his gaze, looking down instead. He pulled off his coat, opened one of the water containers, and wet a corner of the fabric. Gently, he wiped the blood from his forehead, then applied pressure to the wound there. He held his hand like that for several minutes, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

Unable to stop himself, Vaughn thought about the Vahni Vahltupali. Such a lovely species of beings, they embodied what Vaughn had hoped to discover out in the universe. The Vahni stood as the antithesis of what the circumstances of Vaughn’s life had left him exposed to. They were bright and joyful, peaceful and calm. Truly, he could not have hoped for a better experience on his first exploratory mission.

And yet I was so anxious to leave,he recalled. While the rest of Defiant’s crew had expressed their desire to spend more time with the Vahni, Vaughn had looked ahead, to the next discovery, the next wonder, that they might come across. Charging through the mission as though it were an intelligence operation,he realized: checking off one objective and immediately moving to fulfill the next, without reflection or satisfaction, but only the intensity for completion. The crew had met the Vahni and embraced them, enjoyed their time with them, as Vaughn had simply categorized the encounter as a success and sought to move on to the next goal, the next discovery. Where had his own joy been, he wanted to know, his own sense of wonder? Somehow, he had missed the whole point of his own desire to explore, and now the cruel truth of that left him feeling empty.

Vaughn withdrew the section of coat he had kept pressed to his forehead. He dabbed at his wound with his fingertips to see if the bleeding had stopped; it had. He looked up and regarded the fallen tower. He felt very much like the ruined structure, shaken until it had torn itself apart.

“Stop it,” he said aloud. As he so well knew, he could do nothing about the mistakes of the past. He could only look forward. For now, the chance to explore had gone, leaving a mission in its place. He had to reach the source of the pulse and find some way to save the Vahni Vahltupali. Those were his next goals, and he had to concentrate on accomplishing them.

Vaughn stood up and packed up his few provisions once more. He circled the wreckage twice, searching for his phaser, which he had dropped on the roof before the tower had come down. He didn’t find it.

Not wanting to use up any more time, Vaughn put the mass of broken stone behind him, headed once more toward the mysterious pulse.

48

Kira worked the control pad set into the bulkhead. “These will be your quarters while you’re on the station, Minister,” she said as the door coasted open.

“Thank you,” Shakaar said. Kira had met the first minister at the docking bay and escorted him here. Their conversation along the way had been limited to official matters, and had been somewhat strained. It only underscored Kira’s feeling that Shakaar had put some distance between them.

Until today, they had not spoken in more than six weeks, since she had returned to the station via the Iconian gateway. And their last significant communication, not too long after she had been Attainted a few months ago, had been contentious. At that time, he had let her know that her excommunication could easily threaten her position aboard Deep Space 9. Although he had never suggested that he wanted to remove her from command, he had tacitly warned that, whatever struggles arose for her, she would have to weather them without him. Since then, she had done just that.

“I’ll see you tonight at the reception,” Kira said, ready to return to her office.

“Of course,” Shakaar said. “Would you like to come in for a few minutes?”

The invitation caught Kira off-guard. Shakaar must have seen her hesitation, because he added, “Unless you really need to get back to ops.”

“No,” she said, curiosity replacing her surprise. “Not at all.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass, then followed her into the cabin. The door hummed closed behind them.

“It’s good to see you,” Shakaar said, moving past her and farther into the room. “Nerys,” he added, with a smile. “You can still call me Edon,” he told her, “or have things degenerated that badly between us?”

“No, of course not,” Kira said immediately, although she really had perceived an iciness in their relationship. She had initially believed that the distance growing between them had only been natural—they had stopped seeing each other romantically a couple of years ago—but she had lately come to believe it a result of Shakaar’s political life. Now, apropos of that, she said, “Unless there are some Bajorans listening to us. Maybe then we’d better argue with each other.”

Shakaar laughed, a sound Kira had not heard in a while. “That might actually work best for me,” he said. “I think you’ve got more political enemies than I do.”

Kira smiled, but Shakaar’s jest bothered her. So far as she knew, the only real political opposition she had came from Vedek Yevir and his followers, who had been the ones to Attaint her. Well, and maybe from Admiral Akaar,Kira amended.

“May I get you something to drink?” Shakaar asked, crossing over to the replicator in the small dining area.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “All right.” He looked at the replicator for a moment longer, as though deciding whether or not to get something for himself. Then he walked around the dining table and over to the sitting area. “Please,” he said, indicating an easy chair, “have a seat.”

Kira walked over and sat down in the chair, and Shakaar sat on the sofa across from her. “You’ve been well, I hope,” she said.

“I have,” Shakaar told her. “Busy, but well. I trust the same is true of you.”

“It is,” Kira said, and realized that she meant it. Despite all of the difficult times she had undergone in the last few months, and notwithstanding the potentially tumultuous days approaching for Bajor, she felt strong in her own life. She recalled the swarm of locusts that had infiltrated her sleep last night, but the concerns fueling her dreams she held not for herself, but for her people. Feeling somehow unburdened by the insight, she returned to her thoughts of a moment ago. “Can I ask you about Admiral Akaar?” she said. She saw what she perceived as hesitation in Shakaar’s features, and she quickly added, “Off the record.”

Shakaar nodded his head slowly as he seemed to consider this. He leaned back on the sofa, spreading his arms wide. “Off the record, certainly,” he said. “What can I tell you?”

“What do you think of him?” Kira asked.

Shakaar shrugged. “He’s a Starfleet admiral, like all the rest. Perhaps a bit more serious than some, a little more…” As he searched for a word to complete his thought, Kira offered her own observation.

“Secretive?” she said.

“I would’ve said… guarded…but yes,” Shakaar agreed. “Has that been a problem?”

Kira shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a vague uneasiness about the admiral.” The apparition of the locusts flew across her mind again, and she wondered if their presence in her dream represented a shadow she felt Akaar might somehow cast over her people.

“Are you sure your feelings are about the admiral,” Shakaar asked, “and not about the prospect of Bajor joining the Federation?”

Kira thought about the question before answering. The Prophets only knew that she had been asking herself similar questions for days. But she arrived at the same answer now as before. “I think I’ve come to terms with Bajor’s membership in the Federation,” she said seriously. “I even believe that it will benefit our people. But I also think that for those in our generation, so many of whom have been horribly wounded by the Occupation, this step might be exceedingly difficult.”

“I understand,” Shakaar told her. He pulled his arms in and stood up. “I’ve had similar thoughts. But I’m confident that we can do this, and that it can be a great boon to all of Bajor.”

“I think so too,” Kira said. “It’s just that, with all the rapid changes Bajorans have experienced in the last century—even in the last decade—we’ve had to struggle to retain our character. I just wonder what will become of our…unique identity…once we become just one small part of something so much bigger.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Shakaar asked, walking back over to the dining area as he spoke. “That Bajor will join the Federation and become somehow homogenized? Because my experience is that their member worlds are very different, one from another.”

“I don’t know,” Kira admitted. “Yes, that does worry me. But I also think I’m even more concerned about Bajor notjoining the Federation.” If the locusts had represented Akaar to her, Kira realized, then perhaps the shadow that had so frightened her in her dream had not been the Federation descending on Bajor, but Akaar separating Bajor and preventing its membership.

“I’ve been dealing with this issue for months,” Shakaar said. “Believe me when I tell you that there’s nothing to worry about. Everything is proceeding exactly as I’d hoped.” They were mere words, Kira knew, and perhaps even hollow promises, but despite the prickliness of her recent dealings with Shakaar, she still trusted him. “We’re going to need you in the next few days and weeks, and past that.”

“I’ll be here,” Kira said.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, pointing at the replicator.

“No, I’m fine,” she said.

“Mobajuice,” Shakaar ordered. Kira could not see the device past him, but she heard its hum. Shakaar turned back toward her after a moment, a tall glass of the purple beverage in one hand. He sipped from the glass, and then said, “There’ll be a great deal of work beyond Federation membership. We’ll want to diversify, to enhancethe usefulness of Deep Space 9, especially once the wormhole is reopened to commercial and exploratory traffic. I imagine the Klingons and the Romulans may push for a bigger role in those affairs this time.” He started back across the room.

Kira could only imagine how troublesome it would be to have to deal with both Klingon and Romulan officials as permanent residents of the station, but she also understood why those powers would want a hand in occupying such an important area of space. Even discounting any possible threat from the Gamma Quadrant, Bajor and the wormhole had become a virtual crossroads of the galaxy, a place where everybody’s interests could be impacted.

Shakaar sat back down on the sofa. He talked about other governments who had expressed a desire to be represented on DS9, rushing through a list that included the Ferengi, the Tholians, and the Gorn. At one point, she thought he even mentioned the Breen—allies of the Dominion during the war, and a people who had shown nothing but animosity toward Bajor and the Federation, even since hostilities had ended—but realized that she must have misunderstood him. Eventually, Shakaar said, “I did ask you in here for a reason, though. Actually, I wanted to ask for your opinion.”

“About what?” Kira asked.

Shakaar put his drink down on an end table beside the sofa, then leaned forward. “I wanted to know who you favor as the next kai.”

“Oh,” she said, not prepared for the question. “Well, I guess it’s a foregone conclusion at this point that Vedek Yevir will be elected.”

“I’m not asking for a prediction,” Shakaar told her. “I’m interested to find out who you believe would best serve as Bajor’s spiritual leader. Or did I misinterpret you, and you think that Yevir is the best person for the job?”

“No,” Kira said, too quickly, she thought. Her discomfort with Yevir as kai had less to do with his call for the Attainder and more to do with whyhe had done it. “No,” she went on, “I don’t think Yevir would be a good kai.”

Shakaar regarded her for a few seconds, his eyes peering into hers. Finally, he sat back on the sofa. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s not that you don’t think Yevir would be a good kai; it’s that you think he’d be a bad one.”

Kira sighed. “Yes, I do think he’d be a bad kai,” she confirmed. “More than that, I think that he might actually be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Shakaar said. “How? Like Winn?”

“No, not like Winn,” Kira said at once. She could still grow agitated and angry when she thought of the former kai, a woman who had been motivated by ego and ambition, a political animal far removed from what Kira considered to be a server of the faith. “I don’t think Yevir is driven by ambition,” she explained. “He truly has a strong faith and a real commitment to our people. But I also think his faith is…voracious.”

Shakaar looked at her with a quizzical expression. “Surely you don’t object to somebody having a passion for their devotion.”

“No, of course not,” Kira said. “But Yevir’s passion is unbridled… unthinking.He believes so fully that the Prophets guide his every decision that he doesn’t really consider the consequences of his actions.”

Shakaar nodded slowly, offering a nonverbal sound of understanding, although Kira could not tell whether he agreed with her assessment. “All right, so not Yevir,” he said. “Then who? Ungtae?”

Kira could feel herself making a face, no doubt an expression that conveyed both her affection for the old vedek and her reservations about him being elected kai. “I like Ungtae,” she said. “He’s a good man, with a long record of good service…”

“But?” Shakaar asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s a man of great faith, humble, maybe even wise, but he’s just so…plain.”

“What’s wrong with plain?” Shakaar asked.

“Nothing, really,” Kira said. “And I’d probably be perfectly happy with Ungtae. It’s just that I would rather see a kai who didn’t just satisfy the Bajoran people, but inspired them.”

Shakaar smiled at her. “Somebody like Opaka,” he said.

“Yes,” Kira said, returning his smile.

“You really held her in high regard.” It was not a question.

“All of Bajor did,” she said. “But yes, I think she was an amazing woman. Gentle but strong, self-possessed but humble. She was a genuine leader, somebody we could all look to for spiritual guidance.”

“I liked her too,” Shakaar said.

“I know you did.”

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” he said. “If not Yevir or Ungtae, then who?”

“If I had to choose right now?” Kira asked rhetorically. The irony of the notion vexed her, since the Attainder would prevent her from voting for the next kai. “Vedek Pralon.”

“Pralon?” Shakaar repeated, reaching for his glass of mobajuice. “Really?”

“You don’t think Pralon would make a good kai?”

Shakaar sipped from the glass, and then said, “Oh, I think Pralon would be a fine choice, but I just wonder how she would be in dealing with other governments.”

Other governments?Kira thought, and realized that he must mean the Federation. The reason he was seeking her opinion became clear; Kira probably had more experience with the Federation, at least in the guise of Starfleet, than any other Bajoran. He must also believe that membership was imminent. “I don’t know if Vedek Pralon has had much contact with the Federation,” she said. “But I think she could handle it.”

“I’m not talking about the Federation government,” Shakaar said. “I’m talking about—”

A message over the comm system interrupted him. “Ops to Colonel Kira,”came the voice of Ensign Ling.

“Go ahead,” Kira replied.

“Colonel, the Alonis ambassador is asking to speak with you,”Ling reported. Kira had greeted Tel Ammanis Lent, the Alonis ambassador, over a com channel when her ship had arrived at the station earlier. Because of the environmental suits that the aquatic aliens required in an atmosphere, Lent had chosen to remain aboard her vessel until the reception.

“Tell her I’m on my way,” Kira said, standing from her chair.

“Aye, sir,”Ling responded.

“Kira out.” To Shakaar, she said, “I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Of course,” he said, standing up as well. “Maybe we can continue this later.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll see you this evening.” Shakaar nodded his acknowledgment, and Kira headed for the door. She thought that the impromptu meeting had gone well, but as she strode out into the corridor, she found herself surprised that Shakaar still valued her opinion.

49

Bashir reexamined his preparations. Every tool aboard ship that he could conceive of needing, whether it be a device, a drug, or a member of his limited staff, now populated the medical bay. This time, he would be ready for whatever happened to Ezri. This time, he would not permit her life to be endangered.

“Are you all set?” Bashir asked as he checked her condition on the medical display. In addition to all of the other measures he had taken, he had also primed Ezri for her second contact with the object. He had insisted on being allowed a couple of hours to design a treatment that would fortify those areas and processes within her body that had previously been threatened. Now, as he stood beside the diagnostic bed on which she lay, he felt confident that he had provided Ezri the medical reinforcement to safely withstand the coming trauma.

“I’m ready,” Ezri said. She peered up at him, an expression of determination set into her features. Bashir thought that he also saw a speck of fear in her eyes, an observation that actually pleased him. No matter how strongly Ezri believed that she had to take this course of action, her fear indicated that she had not made the choice without the proper consideration. Indeed, her decision to proceed despite her fear seemed heroic. As he looked down at her adorable round face and into her beautiful deep eyes, an intense feeling of pride surged within him. The emotion filled him up, and all he could think was how much he loved this woman.

“All right, then,” Bashir said. He reached up and tapped his combadge. “Bashir to Bowers.”

“Bowers here.”

“We’re ready to begin,” Bashir told him. As long as Ezri remained in the medical bay, and Commander Vaughn on the planet’s surface, Bowers would be in command of Defiant.

“Acknowledged, Doctor. Keep me informed,”he said. “Bowers out.”

Bashir looked across the room to where Nurses Richter and Juarez sat at neighboring consoles. During Ezri’s contact with the object, Richter would monitor the condition of the Dax symbiont, and Juarez Ezri’s condition, both backing up Bashir’s own observations.

“Well, then,” Bashir said. “Let’s get started.” He reached to a shelf beside the bed and retrieved a tricorder. “I’m lowering the containment field.” On the other side of the bed stood the portable stand, and atop it sat the mysterious object. After the attempt to transport the object had failed, Nog had devised a means of physically moving it via a magnetic containment field. The operation had been delicate work, but an engineering team had managed to remove the object from the Jefferies tube and load it onto the stand.

Bashir worked the tricorder, which Nog had configured as a control interface for the containment field. Around the object, a curtain of blue pinpoints flashed into view, accompanied by a low buzz. In a second, the pinpoints and the hum had gone, as had the containment field.

He looked back down at Ezri. He felt a sudden urge to stop her from doing this, but he fought the impulse. Last time, Ezri’s contact with the object had been accidental and unexpected. This time, he would be with her from the very beginning, and that and his careful preparations would see to it that she made it through the experience.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said, and smiled.

“You bet you will,” he responded, forcing his lips into a thin smile of his own. He thought to say something more, but phrases such as Pleasant journeyand Bon voyageseemed insufficient. Instead, he simply said, “Good luck.”

Ezri reached up, found his hand, and squeezed. He squeezed back, and then she let go. She took a deep breath, lifted her other hand, and reached out above the portable stand and the object. She glanced up once more at Bashir, then lowered her hand. Although the dark substance appeared liquid, no movement rippled across its surface as Ezri’s hand came to rest within it.

Immediately, a rush of air escaped Ezri in a grunt, her eyes fell shut, and her head lolled to the side. Bashir looked up at the diagnostic panel. As he watched, Ezri’s heart rate decreased and her respiration slowed, and her neural activity started to ebb. Juarez called out the changes from his console.

“I see,” Bashir said, more to himself than to Juarez. I see, and I’m ready.He set the tricorder back down on the shelf, exchanging it for a hypospray he had previously prepared. Out of habit, he checked the drug in the ampule—delactovine, a systemic stimulant, since cordrazine had not been completely effective last time—as well as the dosage setting. Then he turned his gaze back to the diagnostic panel, set to act once Ezri’s readings had fallen beneath a certain threshold. But that did not happen. Both her heart rate and her respiration reached a plateau, leveling off well above where they had during Ezri’s first contact with the object. Again, Juarez reported the changes.

Bashir watched the readings remain stable for a few more minutes, then set down the hypo. He checked Dax’s readings, and saw that they remained within a normal range. Bashir’s preventive measures appeared to be working. He would have to keep an eye on Ezri’s neural activity, but at the moment, neither host nor symbiont seemed to be in any danger.

Bashir inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly, releasing some of the tension in his body. He peered down at Ezri’s inert form, at the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and wished that he could do something more for her. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Bashir paced. He moved back and forth past the foot of Ezri’s bed, his gaze shuttling between her face and the diagnostic panel. During the past hour, her vital signs had begun to slip again, though not yet in a way that threatened her health. The most significant changes had been in her neural activity and isoboramine levels. Bashir had worked to keep both from diminishing too much, employing a cortical stimulator and a round of benzocyatizine injections. The measures had succeeded in slowing, but not stopping, Ezri’s decline. Soon, if the decreases continued, he would put an end to this.

He stopped, then walked forward until he stood beside the head of the bed. He picked up the tricorder from the shelf, then peered down at Ezri’s soft face. Her skin had paled, he saw, leaving the ribbon of spots down the sides of her face and neck contrasting starkly with her pallor. The cortical stimulator sat affixed to her forehead, the blinking green and red lights of the small device indicating its functional status.

“Neural activity down another tenth of a percent,” Juarez reported from across the medical bay.

Bashir glanced up at the diagnostic panel and confirmed the reading. “Acknowledged,” he said, and looked back down at Ezri.

He hated seeing her like this. Even though it had been her choice to take this action, it troubled him. He understood that if her interpretation of events had been correct regarding her first contact with the object, then Ezri’s declining neural processes and isoboramine levels coincided with Dax’s mental contact with—

With what?Bashir asked himself in a burst of anger. With a pool of unimpressive slime that somehow extended into other dimensions? He felt his jaw clench and his hands tense. How could she have done this?he thought. How could she have so obviously risked her life—and her life with him—for this speculation?

Bashir squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly furious with Ezri. And with himself, he realized. Why had he agreed to this? For Ezri? For the Vahni? The Vahni would not be served by the unnecessary and avoidable death of Ezri Dax.

Pain coursed through his palm. He looked down and saw his hand gripped so tightly about the tricorder that his flesh had gone white. He opened his hand and dropped the device back onto the shelf, where it rattled among other equipment. A hypospray skittered off and fell to the floor.

He stared at his hand. Indentations decorated the fleshy part of his palm, tinged red now as blood flowed back to the areas. He tried to bring his anger under control, but instead, his ire rose, and he imagined sweeping his arm across the shelf in front of him, knocking everything to the floor. No, not the shelf,he thought, and looked over at the stand, and at the bizarre object resting upon it. He saw himself pulling Ezri’s hand from the substance, and then upending the stand…aiming a phaser…

Bashir raised a hand to his face, wiping it across his eyes. He felt pressure in his temples, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep. If he could just—

“Doctor,” Juarez called, and Bashir recognized the note of concern in the lieutenant’s voice even before the alarm sounded. Bashir dropped his hand and opened his eyes. He looked up at the diagnostic panel, the source of the warning tones, and saw that Ezri’s neural activity had dropped precipitously, her other vital signs following it down. He acted at once, almost without thought, a product of his training and abilities. He reached for the hypospray of delactovine, but could not locate it on the shelf. He quickly crouched and looked on the floor, recalling the hypo that had fallen, but he did not see it.

“Edgardo,” he called, standing back up, “prepare a delactovine injection.” As Juarez acknowledged the order, Bashir pulled the tricorder from the shelf. He did not even realize the decision he had made until he reached across the bed and pulled Ezri’s hand from the object. He lowered her arm down beside her body, then worked the tricorder. The haze of blue dots that indicated the activation of the containment field buzzed on around the object.

Juarez raced over, a hypo held up in his hand. Bashir took it, verified the drug, and set the dosage. Quickly, he applied the nozzle end of the hypo to Ezri’s neck. The short hiss of air was a welcome sound. He peered up at the diagnostic panel, waiting for the changes that would come. And they did come: heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, and numerous other readings. And still her neural activity remained dangerously low, so low that her autonomic functions could be endangered. If her brain ceased to function above a certain minimal level, Ezri’s body would no longer sustain itself: her heart would cease to beat on its own, her blood would cease to flow through her veins, her lungs would no longer expand and contract.

Bashir reached up to the cortical stimulator and touched a control. At once, the blinking of the green and red lights sped up. He looked to the diagnostic panel again, but after a few seconds, only a marginal increase marked Ezri’s neural activity. Bashir shook his head, a calmness settling over him as he considered the next steps he would have to take. He reached for the hypos and other medical equipment on the shelf by the bed. He had prepared for this contingency. Now he could only take the actions he had planned, and hope that they would be enough to save Ezri.