Текст книги "This Gray Spirit "

Автор книги: Heathe Jarman

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“That’s not legal, either,” Shar observed. “The taboos for crossing castes are as old as your recorded history.”

“True. Houseborn males breaking the law are executed. Some pairs, however, are willing to take the risk. They can’t have an official union so they take a chance and share the one thing they can.”

Shar exhaled deeply. “This I understand.”

“What do you mean?” Keren asked.

“The lengths your sisters take to be with the one they love. The one they choose to love. How trying it must be for you.” He flashed to a memory of his own Time of Knowing, when he received the identities of his bondmates, how terrifying and exhilarating it was to find out who he would be bonded to. What if it was someone he hated? Or someone dull-witted and stupid? In hindsight, his youthful fears seemed simplistic.

“Ah! Ensign ch’Thane has a consort waiting for him back in the Alpha Quadrant,” Keren teased. “Tell me about it while we walk.” She dragged him to his feet and they resumed walking up the hillside.

“It’s a long story. Something we don’t usually talk about outside our species.”

“But you seem to come from such an open society,” Keren said.

“True, but even my people are unique within the Federation. Our physiology, our rigid social customs dictate that we keep to ourselves those issues relating to family life.”

“I’ve heard Ensign Juarez use the word ‘family,’ is that like a House?”

“A smaller unit-where adults nurture young who are usually related to them. Because most humanoids where I come from carry their offspring within them until they are ready to live semi independently, the identities of the parents are rarely in question. Such children can’t properly develop apart from their parents, unlike Yrythny.”

“It would be as if I returned from my year in the water to live with the consorts who laid me,” Keren clarified.

“Yes. Exactly,” Shar said, thinking for a brief moment that being raised in a large group—like the Yrythny younglings were—might be easier than being tied to a parent. Pleasing his zhaveywas complicated, but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her.

“What about your family, Thirishar?” Keren prodded gently.

From his first night on Luthia, Keren had openly shared her life with him. The underground. Her career. Shar’s sense of fair play dictated that he ought to reciprocate. After all, wasn’t he prying into the most intimate threads holding their society together? He took a deep breath. “On my world, we don’t have ‘pairs,’ we have quads. I have three bondmates.”

“Three?” Keren looked surprised.

“Shathrissía, Thavanichent, and Vindizhei,” he said, seeing their faces flash before him as he said their names. “You have two sex chromosomes. Andorians have four sex chromosomes—we have four genders. It’s challenging for most two-sex species to delineate the physiological differences between us, so we accept being called

‘he’ and ‘she’ rather than try to explain why those pronouns are an oversimplification.”

“What areyou supposed to be called?”

Shar smiled and rapidly reeled off a series of Andorii words, enjoying the confused expression on Keren’s face as he said them.

“Do you mind if I think of you as ‘he’? Like Jeshoh is a ‘he.’” Keren asked sincerely, “I don’t mean any offense by it.”

“I’ve spent so many years away from Andor that I rarely think about it anymore. Sometimes, I even think of myself as ‘he.’”

“I don’t know what’s harder—not having any parents—as we Yrythny—or having four.”

Shar agreed, but felt that was a discussion for another time. “Among my kind, producing offspring isn’t as simple as a female laying eggs and a male fertilizing them, as it is with your people.”

Keren considered him thoughtfully. “I can imagine. Tell me about it. We have a long way to go.”

They had cleared another stretch of trail as they walked; Shar admitted to himself that talking had made the hike go faster. Why not?“In recent times, my people endured a horrific biological holocaust, resulting in wide-scale chromosomal mutations. More zhaveysmiscarried; more offspring were born with trisomy or hexsomy complications. In short, reproduction became much more difficult, when it was learned that the window of an individual’s fertility had narrowed to a scant five years.

“Our scientists initiated a comprehensive gene-mapping project. Every family’s genetic history was decoded, recorded and added to a database. The scientists’ intention was to track genetic drift, to note when mutations occurred and to repair what abnormalities they could.”

“I see why the Other’s Turn Key is so fascinating to you,” she said.

Shar nodded. “It might be that the genetic engineering that allowed the Yrythny to successfully evolve might also be applied to shoring up Andorian chromosomal problems.”

Keren latched onto this idea of gene mapping, peppering Shar with questions. The more he talked to Keren, the more he hoped that this trip would help him locate the information he needed to help the Yrythny. Intuitively, he knew he’d find their answers written into the elegant helices of deoxyribonucleic acid, though gene mapping hadn’t readily yielded any solutions for his people. He explained this to Keren.

“In spite of science’s efforts to prevent or correct genetic disorders,” Shar went on, “our reproductive problems persisted; population numbers continued slipping.

“Another approach was taken: instead of trying to genetically engineer a way out of the problem, scientists used the database to match mates with the highest likelihood of success. When I was born, my genetic profile was matched with those of three compatible bondmates.”

Incredulous, Keren clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You didn’t choose your consorts?”

Shar shook his head. “And once the matches are made, our focus is on providing a stable homelife for a child, placing the child in a community where he can grow up naturally with his bondmates. Without knowing I was bound to them, I’d worked side by side with my bondmates in school—since I was two and three years old.”

“For all the trouble your people went to, I hope it worked.”

If only you knew how complicated that statement was,Shar thought, recalling years of classwork, all-night study sessions, papers and days on end of lab work, focused on just that question. But Keren didn’t need to know how the answer to her question had shaped his life. This time was about her world—not his. “Our population stabilized for a time, but in recent generations, new genetic ailments appeared. Weaknesses in certain chromosomal segments left us vulnerable to a host of maladies; these new mutations proved elusive to identify and fix. Bondmate matching has becoming merely a stopgap measure.”

“And so…” the sober expression on Keren’s face revealed that she expected what Shar would say next.

“Barring a permanent solution, we face extinction.” Why is it easier to say these things to Keren, a stranger, and not Nog or any of my other Starfleet colleagues?It felt good to say the words aloud, especially since he usually checked every word he said, being careful to shield his people from outsider curiosity. Not once had Keren made a face or snickered; Shar couldn’t say the same for several of his Academy roommates.

The unique dynamics of Andorian sexuality meant the most intimate parts of their lives could easily be misunderstood or exploited. In truth, Andorian familial structures demanded a far more conservative approach to sexuality than most humanoids employed. Shar had been amazed by the number of partners humanoids “tried on” before finding the right fit. Because his gender identity wasn’t easily quantifiable to those enmeshed in cultures that defined reproductive relationships by twos, it had been easier to rebuff interest expressed by his peers, either as a potential romantic partner or in his unusual physiology, than try to explain himself. Modesty was a natural outgrowth of his culture. Keren seemed to understand that.

The telling of his story lasted the duration of the hike and they arrived at Valley Gap about the time he’d finished. Finding a relatively dry spot in a hollowed-out tree root, they broke for lunch; Shar ate another ration bar, Keren brought bread and fruit. Sunshine broke through the towering evergreen forest canopy, dappling the scrub brush and carpet of fallen leaves in light and shade. Occasional wind gusts rustled the highest boughs sending dried needles and flaking bark scattering to the ground.

Keren turned to Shar, studying him. “Just so I understand what we’ve been talking about for the last hour, your life is oriented around creating a new life with your bondmates? Having offspring?”

“It’s supposed to be. Every choice was made to better facilitate my contribution to creating a child.”

“Supposed to be?”

“I have rather…radical ideas about how to help my people.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She offered a toothy grin. “But surely such sentiments aren’t unique among your kind? Many must feel as you do.”

“Feeling as I do and acting on those feelings are very different things. I want to be brave enough to ask every question.” ‘But the answers are at home, with theshelthreth,’ Zhaveyhad said. And risk losing an unprecedented opportunity? He recalled a story about a pharmacologist seeking a treatment for the neztiflu. Months in the lab yielded nothing. To clear his head, he’d taken a vacation. And while on that vacation, he discovered a rare plant that made the difference in developing a cure. To Shar, life was about countless intuitive choices, and listening to his inner voice had guided him surely. Choosing between Defiant’s mission and the shelthrethwas choosing between two correct choices. Shar had followed his intuition here, to Vanìmel. He now had to trust that in time he would find the answers.

“I can only imagine your claustrophobia,” Keren said.

“When I was younger, the stories my zhaveytold me were moralistic parables and fables, praising the virtues of living for the needs of the Whole over the needs of the individual,” Shar said, walking beside Keren. “My life’s purpose is to live for the Whole. And yet, I believe that as an individual I can still make a contribution to the Whole.”

“In this area, Shar, we aren’t that different,” Keren said finally. “I’ve never known anything but a collective life. Now I want to know something else. I want to choose my own destiny. What I wonder, though, is why you haven’t done what your people want? Go home, start a family—and then once those obligations are met, you’re free.”

“Because no matter where I might go, I’d still be bound. My child’s life, my bondmates—the only way I can have the life that I choose”– maybe a life with Thriss,he amended mentally —“is if I help solve the problems facing my people.”

“I see,” Keren said. She pointed out the road ahead. “We’re only a short way from the valley now.”

From the gap, the whole valley panorama spread out like patchwork; neatly groomed fields, rows of vegetables, farm buildings in miniature, herds of shmshugrazing. A ribbon of water snaked through the land, reflecting silver in the noon sun.

“I think, Ensign ch’Thane, that the Other did bring you,” Keren said, quirking a half-smile.”

Shar didn’t feel compelled to respond, though his antennae vibrated inexplicably with an excitement. There are answers here,he thought.

Through an archway of densely foliated tree branches overhanging the road, Shar and Keren began their descent.

One advantage in dealing with Ferengi was their sense of pragmatism. Whatever was needed to do the deal was accepted without question. Nog hadn’t so much as creased his forehead when Vaughn had interrupted a trying diagnostic with a request for a private conference off the Avaril.He’d delegated the remaining tasks to Permenter and Leishman, and followed Vaughn down to the Core.

In a dark corner of the crowded casino, Vaughn waited for the server to fill his drink order before raising a finger to indicate that he wanted Nog to refrain from speaking. Taking out his tricorder, Vaughn surreptitiously ran a scan across the booth and table before relaxing. He pulled a chip-size device from a hidden fold in his jacket, pressed a button that started a light flashing and placed it between them on the bench.

“A signal-jamming device?” Nog guessed.

Vaughn nodded. “I couldn’t find any indication that there are listening or visual sensors in here, but if you’ve got good tech—”

“You won’t be able to detect them,” Nog finished for him.

“Right. This is a little something Starfleet Intelligence uses sometimes to annoy the Tal Shiar.” Vaughn accepted the drinks and a basket of snacks from the server, paid her with currency that M’Yeoh had provided them and turned back to Nog.

“Before I forget,” Nog said, “I wanted to tell you I sent our report to Colonel Kira this morning. It’s about three days late, but she’ll understand why when she reads it.”

“Good work. And Ensign ch’Thane’s letter?”

“Piggybacked it on the transmission. Ops will be able to extract it, no problem.”

“Nice to cross one thing off our list, considering how many items still remain.” Vaughn sipped his drink.

“I take it your meeting with L’Gon didn’t go well?”

Vaughn scanned the crowd—the dancers strutting down a catwalk, anonymous faces hunched over drinks and games of chance. Through loud chatter of the cooling system gears and the music, he doubted their conversation could be eavesdropped on, but he still wanted to be cautious. “He wanted the cloaking device.”

Nog’s eyes widened. “He didn’t! We’ve had Defiantunder surveillance since the first day. No unauthorized personnel have been in or out of the bay without my sensors recording it.”

“Then we need to start looking at the authorized personnel,” Vaughn said, “because someone is leaking information to the Cheka and I want to know who. What about the Yrythny engineers?”

“Why would they deal with the Cheka?” Nog picked through the appetizer basket, arranging the geometric-shaped crackers in patterns on the table. “I thought something was up the day we went to the Exchange.”

“How so?” Vaughn sipped off his wine spritzer.

“I listened very carefully to Runir’s explanations. Even did some independent reading on the subject to cover the subtleties.”

Vaughn laughed.

“I’m a Ferengi!” Nog reminded him unnecessarily. “It’s my moral obligation to take any and all opportunities that further the advancement of commerce. I paid close attention to what happened on the Exchange and from what I could tell, our bid was successful.”

Vaughn allowed the meaning of Nog’s suspicions to sink in. “You think our load went to L’Gon just so he could deal with us for the cloaking device?”

“Probably. Maybe whoever wants the cloak was willing to share it with L’Gon and his fellow Cheka if L’Gon was willing to front the deal.”

Vaughn considered Nog’s hypothesis. “It fits. We have to stay one step in front of whoever it is. How long before the Defiantcan fly?”

“Without the femtobot defense? Not more than a day or two.”

“I’ll let the Yrythny leadership know we’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“But sir, I have serious concerns about trying to leave this region without a defense against the web weapons.”

“I’m sure you do. But we may have to take our chances.”

Nog paused, pushed crackers around with his index finger, and pursed his lips together.

“Lieutenant?”

Dropping his eyes guiltily, Nog said, “Why not deal with L’Gon? If I can prove he has what he says he has, I say we get the load from him and be on our way.”

“Out of the question.” Vaughn frowned, willing Nog to meet his eyes.

“We’re in a bad place, Commander.”

Who am I seeing?he thought, studying the Ferengi for evidence of artifice. The Starfleet officer striving to protect his crew or the Ferengi willing to deal no matter what?Through the pulsing red neon, Vaughn watched a scuffle over a prostitute break out across the casino. Law enforcement rushed in through the back door, hauling off a group of inebriated miners in restraints. “You might say that, Lieutenant,” he said, polishing off his drink. Throwing some of M’Yeoh’s currency on the table for a tip, he waved Nog in the direction of the door.

Ezri pulled herself up the rungs of the ladder and heaved through the hatch onto the bottommost deck of the hydrofoil. She craved a hot steamy drink—maybe a Tarkellian tea because she was missing Julian—but first a shower. The wetsuit had been comfortable enough, but she still felt chilled from the water. She eagerly peeled the clammy thing off and went hunting for her boots when she noticed—

A pair of armed soldiers guarded each entrance to the room. All the Yrythny who had accompanied her on her underwater journey to Tin-Mal knelt silently, hands at their sides. Candlewood, Juarez, and McCallum, all pale and with wet hair dripping into their eyes, stood next to Jeshoh.

“What’s going on?” Ezri said finally, since no one seemed eager to provide her with an explanation.

“There’s been an attack on an aquaculture village,” a soldier said gruffly. “Explosives were set off by a signal from this vessel—shortly after another transmission was sent here from your workstation on Luthia. Everyone on this vessel is to submit to questioning.”

“Surely you don’t think that I know anything about this. My people and I have been away from my office all day.” Then it hit her. Shar.Ezri touched her combadge. “Dax to ch’Thane.”

No answer.

“There’s a logical explanation for this, I assure you,” she said. She tapped her combadge again, repeating the call and still, nothing. Dammit, Shar, where are you…?

12

Kira heard the gasps, the whispered questions and sensed waves of confusion spreading through the crowd, but the tears pooling in her eyes blurred her view. Her breath caught in her throat with each ragged intake. Closing her eyes, she allowed silent tears to wash down her cheeks, grateful for how the dimmed lighting obscured her face. Her intently focused seatmates gave no indication they noticed her struggle; her emotional shock could pass without comment, and for that she was grateful. She needed to feel this alone.

From the center of the room, the hologram, a deceptively lifelike child-woman shifted in her chair, her gaze directed at the unseen person capturing her image in photons and force fields. She dipped her head and laughed shyly. “My name is Tora Ziyal and I’m an artist,” she said, trying to sound confident. “Or I’d like to be. My teachers—they say I’m promising. That’s why they asked me to make this introductory holovid so that they can have something to present to the art council when they petition to have me included in the upcoming new talent exhibit at the Cardassia Institute of Art.” She paused, squeezed up her shoulders, unable to repress her excitement. “I still can’t believe they think I’m good enough!”

Kira had held up the drawing, impressed by the combination of simple forms executed with confident, elegant lines; the composition was thoughtful and expressive. Peering at Ziyal over the drawing notebook, she saw a young woman, anxious to please, and smiled. “These are lovely! Such serenity. You can really see Vedek Topek’s influence in the texture of the shading over here,” she pointed out the variegated, monochromatic tones of the rocks, “and in the geometric choices over here.”

Ziyal had clasped her hands together with childish glee. “I’m so happy you like them. Do you think my father will like them?” she had asked.

“I’m certain he’s very proud of you.” Kira had hoped Ziyal didn’t notice her smile tightening or her eyes glassing over at the mention of Dukat. Whatever her feelings for Dukat, Kira felt nothing but genuine affection for Ziyal. That Dukat was Ziyal’s father was a curse of luck and genetics. The ability to sire a child and be a father weren’t always mutually inclusive. She wondered, not for the first time, how such a monster could have helped create so lovely a soul.

“I wish I could say that there’s some deep meaning I was trying to impart from my work.” The hologram Ziyal shrugged. “I don’t know that Iknow what each piece means, but if I talk about what I was thinking and feeling when I created them, perhaps it might help the committee discover whatever it is in my art that pleases my teachers. I just draw what I feel and somehow, it just comes out as art.”

Wide-eyed, Ziyal had gazed lovingly between Kira and Dukat, relishing being between the two people she adored most. “It’s a chance to show that Bajorans and Cardassians look at the universe the same way,” she had explained to them. “That’s what I want to do with my work: bring people together.” The passion imbued in her guileless words broke Kira’s heart.

Dukat had stood by, playing the proud parent, having convinced himself that he deserved credit for Ziyal’s sweet sincerity. Kira had quelled her disgust for Ziyal’s sake. Her loathing for Dukat needed to be kept from his daughter. Insulated from his crimes, Ziyal could continue to see him as her heroic rescuer; she deserved to see her father that way because that was how daughters were supposed to see their fathers. Kira understood that in her naïve fashion Ziyal believed she could bring Cardassia and Bajor together in her own world by casting Kira in the maternal role opposite her father. How could she comprehend what she hoped for? She had stood there, with Ziyal as the apex of their triangle, and hated Dukat for encouraging Ziyal’s misplaced optimism. He had gone along with his child, allegedly being supportive, but in reality he was exploiting Ziyal to perpetuate some sick fantasy.

Kira shuddered, remembering. In light of what she now knew about her mother and Dukat, she understood that after a fashion, in another lifetime or reality, she and Ziyal could have been sisters. Damn you, Dukat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gul Macet, eyes trained on her. She swiped at her tears with her fist and fixed her gaze forward, pretending she didn’t feel Macet’s eyes drilling into the back of her head. She didn’t know how much of her history Macet was aware of, but she wasn’t about to give him any reason to go nosing around.

Holo-Ziyal rested her chin in her hand. “I think some of the reason why I draw—or paint—is because I’m looking for ways to make sense of my life. See, I don’t entirely belong to either part of my heritage,” she said, her voice cracking. The hologram swallowed, bit her lower lip and sighed. As Ziyal smoothed her skirt, twitched nervously—whatever business she could distract her hands with while she struggled to push down her emotions—the guests sat in awkward silence, uncomfortable voyeurs of her pain.

Kira watched her friend’s shoulders shake. Trembling, she fought the illogical impulse to rush to her side and cradle the girl in her arms.

Kira had threaded her fingers through Ziyal’s cold ones, searching for any sign that the life force, thepagh she cherished, lingered. No vedek attended the body and where was the family to remove the Tora earring that by rights, Ziyal should have worn? The only family she had, her father, was in no condition to mourn. He rocked back and forth in his prison cell, prattling on about buying her a new dress or taking her home to visit, seemingly unaware of her death. To Dukat, she remained alive and Kira knew, after a fashion, she was, but where? What happens to thepagh of a child that no one will claim?

Holding Ziyal’s hand, feeling the warmth dissipate from her fingers, Kira refused to accept the notion that whatever energy it was that made Ziyal the vibrant, creative person she was had died with her. That all had been lost and that none of her lived on.

And now Kira sat in this place, predominantly surrounded by strangers, and knew, of a certainty, she hadn’t been wrong. Something of Ziyal yet lived.

“I remember looking up into her face and wanting to have my mother’s smooth skin. It looked so clean!” Ziyal whispered. “When I was very little, I tried scrubbing my face with the harshest cleaner, believing that I could wash this gray, this tint, from my skin. My mother had to mend all these scratches I’d given myself. Then she cried.”

Covertly, Kira glanced at those sitting in front of and beside her; eyes glistened and sober faces abounded, stonelike with melancholy. She felt some satisfaction. Finally, the grieving! And who cares if these are strangers. Ziyal deserved this!

“And the relief I felt when I saw people who looked more like me—like my father.” She gnawed her lip absently, contemplating what she would say next. “But I don’t think I looked enough like him to please his people either. In my art, it was all me. In my world—where I was every shade of gray—life made sense. I hope it can mean something to someone else, though who, I don’t know.”

The projection paused and the lights raised. Ambassador Lang, serene, assumed a place in the room’s center, the flags of many worlds hovering above her. Shoulders squared, she turned her gaze over the room’s perimeter; she spoke without notes. “In a less enlightened time, with the vision of Bajor’s kaiand the political wisdom of Vedek Antos Bareil, Bajor and Cardassia negotiated a peace treaty. Alas, we were unprepared to honor our promises,” she said, her voice tinged with regret. “We have a new opportunity in this postwar era to prove that we can be an honorable people. It’s for this purpose I’ve come to Deep Space 9—to seek a meaningful, lasting peace between our worlds.”

Deafening stillness overtook the stunned crowd. Kira knew everyone in the room, save perhaps the Cardassians, questioned the veracity of their understanding of Lang’s words. She blinked back her own surprise. Lang wants to normalize relations with Bajor. She’s here, asking that Bajor recognize Cardassia as a co-equal partner in this corner of the quadrant. Can it happen?

Lang continued. “But we understand why both the Federation and the people of Bajor might be skeptical. The leader of our provisional government, Alon Ghemor, believes we needed to offer a token of goodwill, to make a gesture that would both symbolize our hopes, and set the tone of our new relationship.”

A dozen Cardassians filed in from the side doors. Each carried a large, flat, draped object, all in various geometric shapes. They lined up behind Lang, and waited, perfectly still. Kira tingled expectantly, knowing better than anyone in the room what was about to be unveiled.

Lang walked down their line and one by one, removed the coverings, revealing framed and mounted drawings. Some exhibited abstract qualities offering no discernable subject but rather studies of color and line; others were monochromatic pencil and ink still-life drawings of native Bajoran flora. A notable exception was a cubist study, all in gray tints and shades that showed the discernable profiles of two faces, welded together at the picture’s center. But even the “face” painting and the unique personalities of the other pieces were unified by a consistent tone.

In a gallery covered wall to wall with a hundred artists’ work, Kira would have recognized these pieces. Was this, then, where Ziyal’s pagh now resided?

Waiting for the buzz of comments to simmer down, Lang resumed speaking. “The final days of the war destroyed many of Cardassia’s monuments and historical treasures. Thankfully, the underground archives of the Cardassia Institute of Art in the capitol city survived the worst of the attacks. The head of our government devoted some resources to finding what could be salvaged from the Institute in the hopes that any surviving artwork might reignite a sense of Cardassian identity—that my people could heal not only their bodies, but their minds. Holocaust, by definition, goes far beyond physical parameters, something my people have now learned.

“During our search, we discovered an archive in which the work of Tora Ziyal, daughter of Tora Naprem, a Bajoran woman, and Skrain Dukat of the Cardassian military, had survived. You see its contents here—her introductory holovid, her art portfolio. Understandably, it struck a chord with those seeking a different sort of healing—those who feel that the gaping wounds between Bajor and Cardassia must be healed before either of our peoples can move forward, Bajor into the Federation and Cardassia into wholeness.”

Shakaar leaped to his feet with applause. Less speedily, Minister Asarem joined him with the entire Bajoran delegation following suit. Kira scanned their faces, noting some discomfort but recognizing their reluctance to appear to be questioning Shakaar’s enthusiasm. Kira stood, though in her heart she stood for Ziyal. Gradually, other members of the audience continued the ovation, the Starfleet personnel being the first to stand behind Bajor’s gesture, with the Federation diplomats following almost immediately.

Smiling, Lang raised both of her hands and brought palms downward, asking for her audience to be seated. She continued speaking. “Symbolically, Ziyal embodies both the horrors of the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor, how women were taken from their homes and made to serve the military as concubines, and the possible glories that can come from a true alliance of our peoples. Our worlds cancome together and create something beautiful. We see this in Ziyal’s art.

“As a token of goodwill and a symbol of hope for the future, the people of Cardassia are giving a collection of Tora Ziyal’s artwork to the people of Bajor to serve as memorial honoring the past, but recognizing the potential future we might find if we can find a way to see past our differences.”

Another round of applause erupted, even louder than before. By now, the back walls were lined with Quark’s servers and on-duty Militia and Starfleet personnel, crammed into every corner not filled with chairs, banquet tables, or bodies. Cheers rang over the steady clatter of applause. Lang nodded humbly, threading a trembling arm through her aide’s proffered elbow.

Admiral Akaar nudged Kira, urging her out of her chair. She staggered up, her energy spent on emotion; she leaned against the table for support. The towering admiral bent down and asked her to accompany him to see Ambassador Lang. Kira followed, barely able to keep up with the admiral’s strides that were nearly twice the length of hers. Standing in the circle around Lang, Kira fervently hoped she blended in; she had no desire to detract from Shakaar’s moment.