Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

“Acknowledged,” Kira said. Macet nodded, and then his image vanished from the screen. Kira thumbed the channel off, then contacted ops.

“Selzner here, Colonel,”came the reply.

“Ensign, give Gul Macet clearance to dock when the Tragerarrives,” she said.

“Yes, sir.”

Kira slumped back in her chair. She hoped Macet’s willingness to assist in Bajoran operations was genuine, and that his motivations were of a charitable—or at least diplomatic—nature. She remained skeptical, and criticized herself for the feeling. She had fought her entire life to free her people from the tyranny of the Cardassians and, thank the Prophets, they had been freed. But how full, how rich, would that freedom be if the people of Bajor could not escape the tyranny of their own fear and hatred and racism?

Kira peered across her office at the bookshelf where When the Prophets Criedstood, and recalled the passage in which Vedek Synta counseled her people to embrace their enemies as they would their friends. Such noble sentiments pervaded Bajoran canon, but had been little espoused during or since the Occupation. How can you wrap your arms around somebody who is torturing or raping you, or working you to death, or simply killing you?

Memories and anger threatened, and Kira pushed them away. She knew she was destined always to be a soldier, but she commanded Deep Space 9 now, and that made her a leader, and even a diplomat. Even after everything that had happened in the last decade, from the end of the Occupation to the Ascension of the Emissary, Kira could not help thinking that Bajorans faced a critical juncture in their history right now.

She considered Admiral Akaar, his question to her about Bajoran aid to Cardassia, and his informing the Cardassians that the Europani would be returning to their world from Bajor. And all that,she thought, after the first minister had asked the Federation to reconsider Bajor for membership.She wondered if Akaar had come here to make the final determination about that, perhaps along with Councillor zh’Thane. And if so, would Bajor’s relationship with Cardassia be a factor?

Kira suddenly felt very tired. She stood up and headed out of her office. The doors slid open, and as she descended the stairs into ops, the eyes of the few crewpeople—and of Taran’atar—turned toward her. “Good night,” she said, and the crew—but not the Jem’Hadar—returned her farewell. She walked around the upper level and into the turbolift, then turned, facing back into ops. “Habitat ring,” she said, and then specified the section where her quarters were.

As the lift started down, Kira saw a young Bajoran man—Corporal Aleco Vel—working at a console on the far side of ops. Kira realized that, like her, the young man had never known anything but contempt for the Cardassians. She remembered her father telling her of a time, back when he had been a boy, when Bajorans and Cardassians had coexisted in a peaceful relationship. And the generations older than that of her father surely could recall such times as well. Because of that, she thought it might be easier for them to see a future in which Bajor and Cardassia could once again live together in peace. But for people like Kira, and like that young man in ops, the Cardassians had only ever been the enemy.

The turbolift finished the vertical part of its journey and moved laterally, out toward the habitat ring. In a way, Kira supposed, the Cardassians presented a more difficult problem for Bajor now than they ever had. Fighting’s easy,she thought. Acceptance and accord are hard.

All the way out to the habitat ring, and then around to her section, the sight of Corporal Aleco stayed in the front of her mind. When the turbolift reached its destination, Kira still wondered if her generation would ever be able to reach into the future, away from the Occupation and toward embracing the Cardassians. She thought that now, finally, she was ready to do that, but as for her Bajoran sisters and brothers, she was not so sure.

9

The main square in Brintall sat at the city’s edge, tucked beneath the tallest mountain in a range that stretched to the horizon in either direction. Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane stood on a balcony perched above the square, one story up in one of the many low buildings that bordered three sides of the public meeting place. The fourth side lay open to the mountain, a vast, verdant wall towering above the city. Charivretha’s eyes rose with the land, past the timberline and along cold, gray rock, up into the azure Bajoran sky. Wisps of cloud flirted with the mountaintop, their bright whiteness almost indistinguishable from the snows decorating the summit.

Charivretha, not easily impressed, appreciated the vista before her. A balmy breeze, no doubt born above the ocean only a hundred kilometers away, floated through her floral hairstyle, ruffling her white, petaloid locks and caressing her antennae. The day had been hotter earlier—too warm even for an Andorian—and, knowing that the summer months had arrived here in the southern hemisphere, Charivretha had anticipated an uncomfortable stay in Brintall. Despite the lightweight fabric of her floor-length dress—a lustrous gray that set off her cerulean skin and matched her eyes—she had expected the temperature and the thousands of people who would pass through the square to make this a long and difficult day. But as morning had faded into afternoon, the Bajoran sun had hidden behind the great mountain, releasing the city from its potentially torrid clutches. Now, what could have been the hottest time of the day had transformed into a soothing, prolonged dusk.

“I love the summer afternoons here,” said the person to Charivretha’s right, as though commenting on the councillor’s thoughts. The woman had to raise her voice a bit to be heard above the susurrations of the crowd that filled the square below. “It’s one of my favorite places.”

Charivretha looked away from the mountain and over at Asarem Wadeen. The Bajoran second minister stared out over the landscape like a young cheiregarding his zhavey.Charivretha recognized that expression. Though not from Thirishar, at least not in a very long time,she thought, not without some acrimony. “You’re from here, aren’t you?” she asked, also speaking up a touch so that she could be heard.

Asarem looked up—she stood a dozen or so centimeters shorter than the councillor—and smiled. Over tan slacks and a white blouse, the minister wore a tailored maroon jacket that fell to the tops of her knees and demonstrated her familiarity with the area’s temperate summer weather. “Yes, I am,” she confirmed. “Well, actually, I’m from a little town farther north—” She pointed to the right. “—called Lecelon. But I think of this whole area as my home.”

“And yet you reside in the capital?” Again, Charivretha thought of her chei,so far from Andor—and from his bondmates—for so long now.

“I do,” Asarem said. “With the Chamber of Ministers convening there, and the Vedek Assembly, and all the work I do with the first minister, it just made more sense to live in Ashalla than here,” she explained. “But I visit when I can.”

Even that—an occasional trip home by Thirishar—was something with which Charivretha could have coped. For so long now, her cheihad obstinately refused to face his obligations, to her, to his bondmates and, most distressingly, to his people. Since she had last seen him on Deep Space 9 a few weeks ago, she had seriously contemplated the possibility of employing her considerable influence to see him reassigned within Starfleet, specifically to a posting on Andor. Europani and Bajoran matters had kept her occupied since she had accompanied Admiral Akaar here, but even one or two well-placed subspace communications could have begun the process. She probably would not have approached Akaar—she was unsure how he would have reacted to her request, in light of the complex relationship he had with his own people—but she knew many other admirals in Starfleet Command. Perhaps an even more effective resource, though, would have been Commander Vaughn; Elias had always proven himself to be somebody who could get things accomplished, swiftly and thoroughly. And only six days remained before Thirishar departed aboard a Starfleet vessel, bound on a dangerous mission that would, under the best of conditions, keep him away for months.

None of that would have been effective, though. Charivretha had realized after contemplating such a plan that it would not have resulted in Thirishar returning to Andor. Her young cheiwas stubborn and willful, and when she had reflected on their last conversation, she had concluded that he would sooner resign from Starfleet than go back home. That was why it had been necessary for her to set another course of action in motion.

“You have a lovely planet, a lovely city,” Charivretha said, her diplomatic instincts continuing the dialogue, even as her mind traveled other paths.

“Thank you. I think so,” Asarem said. “I’ve never been to Andor, though I have heard some interesting things about it. What’s it like?”

I’m not the only politician here,Charivretha reminded herself, and her thoughts moved automatically down the avenues she would have to send the conversation to deflect Asarem’s inquiry. But before she spoke again, the glass doors leading out to the balcony parted in the middle. Green, patterned curtains covering the glass on the inside swayed as the doors folded inward. First Minister Shakaar and Admiral Akaar stepped outside, an improvised communications center visible in the room behind them—behind Shakaar, anyway; because of his size, it was difficult to see anything past the admiral.

Like Asarem and Charivretha herself, Shakaar had dressed today in a more formal manner—in an olive jacket and matching slacks, with a russet shirt—than he had during the meetings the three of them, along with Akaar, had conducted these past weeks. When Charivretha and the admiral had first arrived, pomp and custom had seen each of the quartet in ceremonial attire, but as the days of their informal summit—held without their staffs—had grown longer and more complicated, they had all resorted to casual togs. Well, all of them but Akaar. Starfleeters,Charivretha thought. They never want to give up their uniforms.But the admiral had at least forgone his dress wear during their meetings, in favor of what he wore for regular, everyday duty. Today, though, he was back in full dress.

“They’ve begun,” Shakaar pronounced, and Charivretha and Asarem both turned to peer out at the square. Since receiving notification yesterday that Europa Nova had been rendered habitable again by the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, Bajoran officials had organized the efforts necessary to return the Europani to their world. That coordination, led by the first minister’s industrious assistant, had begun here in Brintall, where one of the smaller refugee groups, numbering only in the thousands, would be the first sent home; this group consisted of core personnel, including government leaders, physicians, disaster workers, and law enforcement. Later, and in the days ahead, the remainder of the three million refugees, currently housed all over Bajor and on Deep Space 9, would follow.

Charivretha looked to the four corners of the square, and then to four other areas surrounding a beautiful fountain in the square’s center. Eight triangular zones had been roped off in the corners and around the fountain, set aside, she knew, as the places from which the refugees would be transported onto the ships waiting in orbit. The crowd milled about somewhat anxiously—Charivretha’s antennae detected the heat output of the humans and conveyed their anticipation to her—but everybody seemed to respond dutifully to the members of the Bajoran Militia controlling the operation. Not only did the crowd seem particularly well behaved, Charivretha noted, but they were also relatively quiet, their combined voices a mere hum. She supposed that their excitement at going back to Europa Nova must have been tempered by their knowledge that, although decontaminated, their world would still bear the scars of the crisis they had endured. The civilization of the Europani had been saved, but now they would have to tackle years of rebuilding.

As Charivretha watched, Bajoran Militia personnel directed refugees into the designated areas. Silver, cylindrical devices—the councillor recognized them as pattern enhancers—stood atop tripodal bases at the three corners of each zone. Lights at the upper tips of the devices indicated their operational status. The enhancers, she knew, would facilitate transport from such a congested area.

After Charivretha saw a group of Europani dematerialize in a coruscation of white light, she turned to Shakaar. Behind him, voices emerged from within the building, some with the tinny character that distinguished them as emanating from communications equipment. The ad hoc comm setup provided a means of harmonizing the efforts of the ground-based personnel with those of the crews on the ships above. “Congratulations,” Charivretha said, offering her compliments. “The completion of this operation will be a notable achievement for the Bajoran people.”

“Thank you, Councillor,” Shakaar said. “We’re pleased that we’ve been able to help the Europani.”

“Bajorans know something about losing their homes,” Asarem noted. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to help prevent that from happening to these people.” She swung her arm out over the edge of the balcony, taking in the throng below.

“And we are very grateful for that.” The voice came from just beyond the first minister and the admiral; from their reactions, it seemed that neither of them had heard anybody come up behind them. The two men moved aside, revealing the speaker, whom Charivretha knew at once. The woman, an older human with lines etched deeply into her face around her eyes and mouth, smiled broadly. “Iam grateful,” she added. With short, curly hair as white as Charivretha’s, the woman looked almost like an albino Andorian, though few Andorians lived long enough to develop loose folds of flesh hanging from their neck, as this human had.

The woman reached her right hand out to the first minister, who took it in his own. “President Silverio,” Shakaar greeted her warmly, but she raised the index finger of her left hand to stop him. “Grazia,” he corrected himself, honoring the woman’s preference to be addressed by her given name, something Charivretha was aware of from the time she had spent with the Europani leader prior to the crisis.

When Silverio’s hand parted from Shakaar’s, she took a stride past him and reached out to the second minister. “Grazia,” said Asarem, stepping up and clasping the offered hand. Charivretha did not require her antennae to identify the genuinely cordial relationship between the Europani president and the two Bajoran ministers.

“And of course,” Silverio went on, turning toward Charivretha and Akaar, “we’re thankful to the Federation for all they’ve done for us.” As Charivretha shook the Europani president’s hand, the admiral made the traditional Capellan gesture of salutation. Silverio dipped her head to acknowledge Akaar, then asked, “Would you mind if I addressed the crowd from up here?” She looked around to apparently include all of them in her request. In turn, Charivretha, Akaar, and Asarem all looked toward Shakaar.

“Please,” the first minister said. He walked forward, slipped his hand around Silverio’s elbow, and escorted her to the solid wooden railing surrounding the balcony. Both Charivretha and Asarem retreated to make way for the Europani president. As she backed up, Charivretha noticed the design carved into the wood of the railing, a series of mountains, one much higher than the rest, clearly meant to evoke the surrounding geography.

Silverio raised her arms and her voice, motioning and calling to her fellow Europani. Charivretha heard Shakaar duck back inside and speak to the technicians in the communications center, asking them to tell the members of the Bajoran Militia in the square to halt operations while the president spoke. Silverio’s voice, which Charivretha found relatively loud for such a small, old woman, could nevertheless not carry enough to drown out the sounds of the crowd. But as the people nearest the balcony heard her asking for their attention, they turned toward her and quieted, and like a ripple in a pond, the silence washed out from the balcony in an expanding semicircle, until all eyes were on Silverio.

“My fellow citizens,” she began, “while we head today for home, we must stop to thank the United Federation of Planets and Starfleet for their steadfast help in evacuating our people to safety.” Applause welled up within the square, a sound like a breeze rustling through leaves. When it diminished, Silverio continued. “We must also thank our Bajoran hosts for their help and for their gracious hospitality.” Again, applause rose up. The Europani president smiled at the crowd, and Charivretha expected that she would step back after a moment, the political gratitude of her people—gratitude no less genuine for being political—appropriately expressed. Instead, she resumed speaking. “But we must thank the Bajorans for more than that. First Minister Shakaar tells me that their katterpod harvest this past year was a particularly strong one, so strong that the Bajoran government has agreed to send several shipments to Europa Nova to help us—” Applause swelled once more, but now raucous cheers joined it. Charivretha heard the rest of Silverio’s words—“as we recover from the effects of radiation on our crops”—only because she was standing so close to her.

The announcement was a revelation to Charivretha. Not only had she been unaware of the development, she had not even suspected it. Considering the amount of time she and Admiral Akaar had spent with the first and second ministers since arriving on Bajor, she wondered when such an arrangement could have been negotiated. Perhaps Kaval put the deal together,she speculated, thinking about the Bajoran minister of state. But no,she thought. For all of the conventional wisdom that held to Shakaar’s distaste for politics and public life, it seemed to Charivretha that the first minister involved himself in virtually all Bajoran matters of government, particularly those concerning off-world issues. Despite intelligence passed to the Federation Council—including excerpts from Captain Sisko’s reports to Starfleet—that purported to make plain Shakaar’s dislike of his job and his preference for an easier, more isolated life, Charivretha simply could not countenance such a notion. In her experience, it required more than mere commitment to successfully discharge the duties of high office; it demanded desire.

The applause and cheers continued for a few moments, and then Silverio went on. “The first minister has also agreed to provide us generous shipments of kavanuts and pooncheenfruit,” she said, mentioning two more Bajoran staples. Again, the crowd erupted.

Charivretha felt a tingling in her antennae, a by-product of her surprise. She turned and gazed up at Akaar. He made eye contact with her immediately, but for a long moment it seemed as though he would not react to President Silverio’s announcements. Finally, though, the edges of his mouth curled up in a smile so slight that she would likely have missed it had she not known him so well.

These past few months, as the subject of Bajor’s entrance into the Federation had been revisited, one of the issues that had arisen had concerned the readiness of the Bajorans to join a larger community. Their remote location at the edge of explored space had not only left them vulnerable throughout their history—at least, throughout their recenthistory—but had also contributed to a practical isolationism, even if they had never set out to segregate themselves from the greater interstellar population. The Bajorans certainly had a deserved reputation as a spiritual, artistic, and gentle people—at least when not dealing with their longtime oppressors, the Cardassians—but their capacity to readily establish cooperative relationships with the people of other worlds had been questioned by some in the council, including Charivretha herself.

She turned back toward Silverio just as the woman concluded her short address. “We owe the Bajorans our fervent gratitude,” Silverio said, “and we humbly offer them our heartfelt friendship.” This time, Shakaar and Asarem applauded with the crowd, moving to the balcony on either side of the Europani president. The three political leaders stood there for a few moments, basking, it seemed, both in the positive feelings of the assemblage below and in each other’s company.

When Silverio, Shakaar, and Asarem finally turned and stepped away from the railing, Charivretha wondered if the foodstuffs going to Europa Nova were examples of largesse or trade. In either case, she knew that the reduction in Bajor’s available stockpile of food would have an effect on the aid they were sending to Cardassia. Assistance would continue to come from Federation and other worlds, of course, and she assumed the effort would still be managed by personnel on Deep Space 9, but she would have to examine the impact this would have on the Cardassians. Probably negligible,she guessed, since the use of Bajoran personnel and territory to stage the humanitarian efforts outweighed the importance of the relatively small amounts of food Bajor was contributing. Still, she would have to look into it.

The two ministers flanked the Europani president as they walked past Charivretha and Akaar. “I’m happy that Bajor could play a role in rescuing your people from disaster,” Shakaar said to Silverio, “but I’m even happier that those efforts have resulted in a new partnership between our worlds.”

“I am too.” Charivretha watched as Silverio– Grazia,the councillor joked to herself—reached up and slid her arm into Shakaar’s.

Charivretha and Akaar followed as the group went back into the communications room. The first minister told the Bajoran Militia personnel stationed there that the transport of the Europani could resume. “We’ll be in the conference room,” Shakaar added, and he and Asarem escorted the Europani president out.

Behind them, Charivretha stopped, appreciating the diplomacy she had just witnessed. Akaar halted beside her, and she looked up at him. He said nothing, but smiled again in that almost imperceptible way. She considered saying something about the implications, about the meaning, of what they had just seen, but then realized that they did not need to discuss it right now. She started walking again, and the admiral fell in step beside her, both of them, she was sure, having taken appropriate note of Bajor’s continued growth within the Alpha Quadrant community.