Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

3

The springball struck the front wall high in the white oval. A short, high-pitched bell confirmed the score as the ball rebounded toward the left rear corner of the court. Asarem Wadeen sprinted across the floor, the rubber soles of her sports shoes squeaking on the black hardwood as she changed direction. She instinctively gauged the path and speed of the ball, and realized she would not reach it with a normal effort. At the last moment, she lunged, just managing to backhand the ball before it bounced on the floor a second time. She twisted as her momentum carried her hard into the side wall, her left shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact with a thump that reverberated in the enclosed court. Recovering quickly, she pushed away from the wall and back toward the center of the floor. She crouched on the balls of her feet, her weight forward, her racquet swung back to a forehand position, primed to keep her solitaire volley going. But two deep rings told her that her return shot had gone wide, hitting the front wall beyond the outer foul line.

Asarem straightened and caught the ball in her gloved left hand as it bounced back to her. She could easily have backhanded the ball again and continued playing, but even warming up by herself, she liked to follow the rules the same way as when pitted against an opponent. It better prepared her for games, she felt, both physically and mentally.

Slipping her fingers from the glovelike grip of her racquet, Asarem let it dangle from the cord circling her wrist. She tugged the scarlet gloves from her hands, then unfastened the chin strap of her helmet. Beads of perspiration ran from her hairline down the sides of her face. Despite the coolness of the weather outside—the winter months had just begun, though the temperature never dipped too low here in Ashalla—the air in the court had grown close and warm. Her padded springball uniform, also scarlet, covered her from neck to ankles and offered no relief from the heat, although she would never play the full-contact sport without it. She believed herself a tough competitor, toned and fast, but at just a dozen centimeters past a meter and a half; many of her opponents stood a head taller—or more—than she did. She would never reject a challenge, but neither would she play unprepared or unprotected.

Asarem removed her helmet and cradled it upside down in the crook of her arm, then dropped her gloves and the springball inside it. She wiped the perspiration from her face and forehead with the back of her hand, and headed to the back of the court. Suspended from the cord around her wrist, her racquet swayed back and forth, tapping against her leg as she walked. At the rear of the court, beside the closed entryway, a storage compartment sat recessed into the wall. Asarem poked a finger through the hole in the transparent door of the compartment and pulled it open, its hinges creaking as she did so. She set the helmet down inside and retrieved a small gold locket strung on a delicate, matching chain. Holding the locket flat on her fingers, the chain hanging down, she slid the front panel aside with her thumb to reveal a timepiece within.

It was nearly half past the hour. He’s late,she thought. Again.She shook her head slowly from side to side, her feelings a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. In the five and a half years she had served with Shakaar Edon in the Bajoran government, she had never known him to be late—had never even heard of him being late—for a single appointment. And yet this was the third time in a month that he had kept her waiting.

Asarem closed the locket, then reached into the compartment and placed it in her helmet. She slipped the cord of the racquet from her wrist, wondering what might have caused Shakaar to neglect their meeting. Though she had been looking forward to playing springball—the first minister usually gave her a good contest—she did not mind missing a game. But this meeting was to have been far more than that. In particular, they had planned to discuss Bajor’s renewed petition for membership in the United Federation of Planets; Starfleet’s Admiral Akaar was due to arrive soon, and—

There was a knock at the door, the sound of bare knuckles on wood. The rapping echoed in the court. Asarem tossed the racquet into the compartment—it rattled between the wall of the compartment and the helmet, sending the helmet teetering back and forth—then took a step over to the entryway and pulled open the door. She expected to see the tall figure of Shakaar, but instead she found herself eye-to-eye with Enkar Sirsy, his assistant.

“Minister,” Sirsy said, looking in from the corridor that joined to the changing room and the other two springball courts in the building. Cooler, fresher air drifted in through the entry, a noticeable counterpoint to the heavy, faintly sour atmosphere around Asarem. “First Minister Shakaar asked me to come by.”

“To play in his stead?” Asarem teased. “That doesn’t appear to be a springball uniform.” Sirsy wore a conservative but elegant dark blue sheath, belted at the waist, beneath a charcoal cloak. The outfit contrasted dramatically with Asarem’s formfitting scarlet habiliments.

Sirsy glanced down at her clothes and smiled, several strands of her long, straight red hair falling forward over her face. She looked back up, brushing her hair back into place with one hand. “I suppose not,” she said, then became serious again as she returned to the reason for her visit. “The first minister sends his apologies for missing your meeting. He wanted to know if you’d like to reschedule it.”

Surprised in the first place by Shakaar’s tardiness, Asarem was now disappointed at the suggestion of having to postpone their appointment. Had some of the other ministers done this—almost anyof the other ministers, she amended—she would have ascribed political motives to them, but that did not follow with Shakaar. Since he had been elected first minister, carried into office on the strength of his renowned assaults against the Cardassians during the Occupation, he had certainly been a political force, but that force had always operated in the open, without resorting to deceit or covert manipulation.

But if he was not motivated by politics, then what was happening with Shakaar? For a man who had conducted his incumbency with the punctuality of a general executing precisely coordinated tactics, this third incidence of his lateness was noteworthy. Asarem wondered if he might finally be losing tolerance for his position.

She had become convinced through the years that Shakaar actually loathed holding elective office, that he would rather have withdrawn from public attention to a quiet, secluded life of farming back in his native Dahkur Province. She had come to believe that when the mantle of governmental leadership had been thrust upon him during the uncertain period following the death of the previous first minister, he had accepted it only because he felt an obligation to the Bajoran population to do so. Perhaps now, Asarem speculated, he had finally tired of living his life for other people.

“Sirsy,” she said, “what’s going on here?” She rested her hands on her hips, elbows out. “Is there something I need to know?” The muted sounds of another springball game—the slap of the ball against walls and racquets, the various rings of the scoring bells—floated through the corridor.

“No, Minister Asarem,” Sirsy answered. “The first minister is just running behind today.” Asarem wanted to believe that. Although she differed politically with Shakaar on numerous issues—opponents liked to characterize her as a hardliner, severe and immovable, a description she declined to refute—she also respected him and thought that he had served Bajor admirably.

As certain as she was that Shakaar detested being first minister, it was not as the result of anything he had ever made apparent to anybody; he had carried his burden close to him, far from the perceptions of others. But Asarem had served as second minister for as long as Shakaar had been in office, and while they had experienced difficulties working with each other during the first couple of years of his tenure, they had since developed a strong and fruitful professional relationship. He had never complained about the onerous weight of his position, but there had been times when circumstances and demands for action had combined to allow her to see through the cracks in his armor.

And yet, for all of that, Asarem remained convinced that when Shakaar’s six-year term ended next year, he would seek reelection. Such was his sense of responsibility to the people of Bajor. And as much as she disagreed with some of his views, she would still support him. He was a vigorous, forthright man, dedicated and practical, open to the positions of others, and who had done much to push Bajor away from the painful past of the Occupation and into the promise of the future.

No,Asarem decided. Shakaar is not surrendering. Just late.She smiled, both at Sirsy and at herself. The first minister might not like his job, but she certainly loved hers. She had a talent for detecting the political maneuvering of others, but she also sometimes found herself chasing specters instead of substance. Like now.

“All right,” she told Sirsy. Feeling suddenly matronly, standing with her hands on her hips like a mother questioning a child, she dropped her arms to her sides. “I’ll check my schedule and see when we can set up a new meeting.”

“Thank you, Minister.” The young woman turned to go, but Asarem stopped her.

“Just a moment, Sirsy.” She moved around the door and collected her helmet and racquet from the storage area. She closed the compartment—the hinges creaked again—then left the court, pulling the door shut behind her. Sirsy stepped back to let her out. “Does the first minister have any other commitments this morning?” Asarem asked. She did not want to have to postpone this meeting. She began walking down the corridor, and Sirsy fell in step beside her.

“Um, not this morning,” Sirsy answered, looking up toward the ceiling, as though she might see Shakaar’s schedule printed there. “He has two appointments early this afternoon.” Sirsy’s heels clacked along the stone tiles of the corridor; Asarem’s rubber-soled shoes made barely any noise at all. “But I know that the first minister has several tasks he wanted to complete this morning.”

“What about at the top of the hour?” Asarem asked. “After our springball game would have ended? Is he available then?”

“I’m not sure,” Sirsy said. “I’d have to check with the first minister.”

They reached the far end of the corridor, and Asarem stopped beside the door to the changing room. “Please do,” she said. “I’ll be at his office in three-quarters of an hour. I’m hopeful that he will be able to see me then.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Thank you, Sirsy,” she said, and headed into the changing room.

Asarem made it to the first minister’s office in half the time she had estimated it would take her. She rushed through a shower, tied her shoulder-length, dark brown hair back behind her head, and changed into a simple brown shift and a rust-colored macramé overshirt, rather than the more formal suit she had intended to wear. With the situation with the Federation approaching a resolution of some kind, she was eager for an update from the first minister, and anxious to review their preparations for the imminent arrival of the Starfleet admiral.

Sirsy greeted her with a smile in the anteroom to Shakaar’s office. The room, narrow but long, divided itself by function into two areas. Near the outer door, half a dozen chairs sat arrayed around a low, round table, interspersed with a couple of end tables equipped with companels. Further into the room, beyond the waiting area, Sirsy’s large desk stretched in a wide arc beside the entrance to the first minister’s office. Behind the desk, in the left-hand wall, stood a closed door that Asarem had always assumed led to a storage and supply area.

Though not brightly lighted, the entire place was warmly decorated, a reflection, Asarem thought, more of the assistant than of the first minister. Colorful impressionist paintings adorned the walls at comfortable intervals, complemented by the muted hues of various flowers sprinkled in vases throughout the room. A neutral carpet tied all the furnishings together, and a light fragrance, distinctly floral but not cloying, dressed the air.

Sirsy emerged from behind her desk, clearly pleased to be able to report to Asarem that the first minister could indeed meet with her. The young woman—Sirsy must be nearing thirty, Asarem thought, at least a dozen years her junior—ushered her to the entrance to the inner office. Sirsy tapped on the door with her knuckles, then opened it and leaned in. “Minister Asarem is here, sir.” She stepped aside to allow Asarem to pass.

Shakaar’s austere office sprawled in marked contrast to the anteroom. The bare walls spread in arcs away from the doorway, curving outward until they met the back wall. The bare stone floor, though beautiful, lent the room a hard appearance, and the few pieces of furniture—a sofa and a couple of matching chairs around a low, circular table, and another small table and companel off to one side—did nothing to dispel that impression.

In the wall across from the door, several tall, wide windows marched from one end to the other, interrupted only by another doorway on the left side, this one leading to a balcony hanging from the back of the building. Usually, the windows and doorway provided the room’s only vibrancy, Asarem thought, allowing the lush green landscape stretching beyond the city to adorn the room, like natural artwork borrowed from the countryside. In the springtime, she knew, a few months from now, an explosion of floral growth would dapple the vista with color, further enhancing the otherwise pallid room. Today, though, the windows and doors were shuttered against the cool, murky weather, further contributing to the room’s severity.

Shakaar rose from the far chair, in the same motion deactivating a personal-access display device and sliding it onto the table before him. “Wadeen,” he said, not with the amiability of friendship, but the familiarity of their professional relationship. He crossed toward her, and she moved into the room to meet him. Behind Asarem, the door to the anteroom clicked closed.

“Edon,” she said. He took her left hand in both of his, his left thumb wrapping around hers. He smiled, but the expression seemed flat to her, forced onto his face by courtesy, she thought.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m sorry for missing our game.” Asarem bowed her head, closing her eyes briefly, to indicate her acceptance of his apology. He released her hand and motioned toward the sitting area. “Please.” She passed him and sat down in the near chair; he returned to the chair in which he had been sitting, across the table from her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said. “Have you heard from the admiral?”

“Yes, I have,” Shakaar said. The smile had gone from his face now, she saw, and he seemed distracted. The inconstant glow of an oil lamp wavered over his features. Two large skylights, along with the windows and door to the balcony, usually afforded the room ample illumination, Asarem knew, but with the shutters in place and the cloud cover overhead, several lamps had been lighted instead. One stood in the center of the table between them, its flame flickering within its translucent chimney. “Admiral Akaar contacted me earlier,” Shakaar continued. “He’s arrived at Deep Space 9, and he’ll be coming to Bajor tomorrow.”

Asarem felt a surge of excitement. “That’s wonderful news,” she said. “The Federation must be closer than we thought to making a decision.”

“Even closer than that,” Shakaar offered. “Federation Councillor zh’Thane will be joining the admiral on his visit.”

Asarem frowned. For a moment, she had the sense that they—the Bajoran government in general, and she and the first minister in particular—had all at once lost any control of the situation, that events were suddenly proceeding faster than they would be able to effectively deal with them. But then her self-confidence and her knowledge of their careful preparations for this entire process asserted themselves, and she recognized the impending sojourn on Bajor of the admiral and the councillor for what it was: an opportunity. “I had wanted to review our arrangements for the admiral’s visit,” she said, “but I guess we need to discuss more than that now.”

“Yes,” Shakaar agreed in an offhand way, his preoccupation evident. He stood and paced across the room, from light to shadow to light again, moving from the reach of one oil lamp to another. That side of the room was virtually empty. Asarem had wondered during her earliest trips here how the first minister could possibly function in his position without a desk in his office, but here was the answer. Shakaar had spent most of his lifetime living under Cardassian rule, and a lot of that time leading a guerrilla war against Bajor’s oppressors. For decades, he had been ever on the move, running from place to place, his eyes steadfastly on the ultimate prize: the unshackling of his people. And this office reflected all of that, she had long ago realized: the almost hostile feel of a room with few places to work or rest; the lack of any explicit indication that this space belonged to Shakaar, and he to it; and, when the windows stood open, the distant view of Bajor’s freedom and beauty, beyond immediate reach.

The first minister walked back over to the sitting area. “Yes,” he said, “we have much to discuss.” For the first time, Asarem noticed his casual dress, a basic gray tunic atop workman’s pants, a look very different from the professional one he had cultivated in recent years. He bent and scooped the padd from the table.

“What is it, Minister?” Asarem asked. A flow of air from a heat register in the floor circulated past her.

Shakaar punched a control on the padd and it activated with a tone. He worked its controls and examined the display. Without taking his eyes from it, he said, “The Chamber of Ministers received a message this morning from the Cardassians.”

Cardassians.The word brought Asarem up short, and she thought she understood Shakaar’s remoteness, and even his missing their springball game. Almost eight years after their withdrawal from Bajor, the Cardassians remained a troublesome topic with which to deal. “Which Cardassians?” she asked. “What did they want? More aid, I presume.”

Shakaar looked up at Asarem. “Their provisional government has—”

Asarem made a noise, not exactly a laugh, but a quick exhalation of breath, loud enough to stop the first minister in mid-sentence. “Forgive me, Minister,” she said. “The irony of the Cardassians having a ‘provisional’ government is still…I’m sorry. After all that’s happened, the Occupation, the Dominion War…Bajor sending medicine and foodstuffs to the Cardassians, coordinating additional aid to them…after all this time, it’s still hard to grasp it all.”

“I know,” he agreed. He looked back down at the padd. Asarem thought to say more, but there was too much—too many feelings, too many words. Her own emotions ranged from hatred to pity, from fear and anger to compassion and forgiveness. And her political stands…well, they had changed through the years, and were perhaps still changing. “The communication came directly from Alon Ghemor, the legate heading their government.” Shakaar paused, and Asarem could not tell whether the first minister hesitated because he thought the information he wanted to impart would be difficult for him to say, or for her to hear. She considered urging him on, but chose instead to wait. He stepped around the table and sat back down in the chair, reaching forward and letting go of the padd. The device clattered onto the tabletop. “Ghemor’s message talked about Bajoran aid to Cardassia, and about the relationship between our two worlds,” he finally continued. “Essentially, he’s making noises, signaling his intent. Ghemor hasn’t done so yet, but I think soon he’s going to ask for normalized diplomatic relations between Bajor and Cardassia.”

Asarem felt her jaw drop. For this possibility to arise now, during what she hoped would be the final negotiations with the Federation, would no doubt complicate matters. But whether now or later, when the Cardassians eventually did request normalized relations…differing opinions would divide Bajorans, in the Chamber of Ministers, in the Vedek Assembly, and in everyday society. Shakaar would have to define his stance, as would she, and then lead the people down the proper path.

“I’m going to call the Chamber of Ministers into session this afternoon,” Shakaar said, “just to feel everybody out.” He leaned forward, his face aglow with the light from the oil lamp on the table. She could see the flame fluttering in his eyes. “Wadeen,” he said, “what do you think?”

Asarem wanted to know that herself. It required no effort to recall the brutality with which the Cardassians had occupied Bajor for more than four decades, to conjure the horrors routinely visited upon those innocents interned at places such as Gallitep, and then to deny even the possibility that there could ever be normal relations between the two peoples. But it was also easy to recall that the Cardassians had risen up against the powerful Dominion at the end of the war, and to dwell on the incomprehensible fact that eight hundred million of them had then been put to death—executed, murdered.Asarem thought of all the Bajoran children orphaned during the Occupation—she had lost both parents herself, as well as her only sister—and then of all the Cardassian children orphaned during the war. Somehow, every opinion about relations between Bajor and Cardassia seemed right and wrong at the same time.

“I think,” she said, and stopped, still struggling to organize her many disparate thoughts and emotions, still searching for the words with which to express them. “I think,” she finally went on, “that this is an opportunity for the people of Bajor to demonstrate their strength.”