Текст книги "This Gray Spirit "

Автор книги: Heathe Jarman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Ston’yanstill in pursuit with weapons off-line,” Bowers said. “Correction, Ston’yanweapons are back on-line and attempting to lock onto us.”

“Target destination in fifty seconds,” Permenter said. “Twenty seconds until femtobot shield augmentation activated.”

The Defiantshuddered.

“Direct hit. Shields at sixty-five percent,” Bowers reported.

Permenter looked at Tenmei. “The femtobot augmentation can be activated all the way down to fifty percent, but I strongly suggest we try not to put that to the test.”

“Course locked in,” Prynn said. “Here we go.”

Though still hot on the Cheka’s tail, Ezri eavesdropped on Shar’s medical explanations to Jeshoh, discovering she had a new problem.

“According to my scans,” Shar said, “she has a subdural hemotoma. A blood bruise on the brain. I could attempt to treat her, but my paramedic training is limited, and I fear I don’t know enough about Yrythny blood chemistry.” His tone wasn’t hopeful.

His calm evaporating, Jeshoh slammed a fist into a compartment.

“We can help her, Jeshoh,” Ezri said. “Dr. Bashir on the Defiantis one of the finest medical practitioners you could ask for, and he has a fully equipped medical bay. He’ll stabilize her until we can get her to your people.”

“No!” he shouted, breathing ragged. “We’ll never be together if we go back now.”

Ezri said simply, “If we don’t go back, she’ll die.”

“You don’t know that! Shar, treat her now,” Jeshoh snapped, pacing the small compartment like a caged animal.

This has gone on as long as I can allow,Ezri thought.

“Help Keren,”she whispered gruffly. Her body was perilously close to caving in to stress; her shoulders ached from sitting, tightly wound, for so long. Fatigue and hunger would soon blur her ability to focus and if her calculations were right, in less than a minute, all the rules of this fight would change again. She dared to glance away from the flight controls to meet Jeshoh’s eyes. “Please,” she begged. “Do this for her. I’ve watched you stand against your leaders, your culture—all because you believed in doing the right thing. You know what you have to do, Jeshoh. Do it now.”

“Thirty seconds. Activating shield augmentation,” Permenter said.

“Ston’yanone thousand kilometers and closing,” Bowers reported. “Weapons charging.”

Trusting that her crewmates would back her up, Prynn drifted into a mental place where the conn became an extension of her fingers, responding instantaneously to her thoughts. Just a little closer….The bridge crew snapped reports back and forth. Prynn ignored them. Almost there…we should be crossing the threshold…. NOW.

A blinding, brilliant flash consumed the darkness. Prynn pulled all the power she could from the engines, determined to fly through the descending web weapon’s net. The tactical readout confirmed that the Ston’yanhad been caught in the weapon’s perimeter. For one terrifying moment, she wondered if the Cheka had friend-or-foe technology that would allow them to escape, but she had to hope that overconfidence would be their downfall.

“It’s working,” Bowers said. “The femtobots are preventing the nanobots from penetrating the ship!”

“We aren’t out of the woods, yet,” Vaughn cautioned. “Keep it together, Ensign Tenmei.”

Because the Ston’yanremained tight on the Defiant’sheels, Prynn wasn’t sure the web weapon had caught their pursuer. In one last evasive tactic, Prynn piloted the Defiantinto a sharp seventy-five degree pull-up, banking in front of the Cheka ship, flipping over and flying back the direction they’d come, over the top of the Ston’yan.

“The web got them!” Bowers shouted. “Ston’yanis no longer in pursuit.”

“Status of the femtobots?” Vaughn asked.

“It worked,” Permenter confirmed. “Nanobots were all neutralized.”

Prynn’s elation enhanced the adrenaline coursing through her veins. What a rush.

“Sir,” said Bowers “the Saganis hailing us. Audio only.”

“Put them through.”

“Defiant, this is Lieutenant Dax. Permission to bring in theSagan.”

“By all means, Lieutenant. Bring her home.”

Julian raced into the shuttlebay, eager to be the first to greet the Sagan.Impatience wasn’t his usual style, but he needed to know that Ezri was all right.

The shuttle doors hissed open with Shar jumping out first, standing aside while two Yrythny exited; the tall, handsomely dressed male cradled an unconscious female in his arms. All three passengers trudged toward him as if heavily burdened.

“Doctor,” Shar called. “We have a medical emergency.”

Thoughts of Ezri temporarily forgotten, Julian pulled out his medical tricorder and scanned the wounded Yrythny. “We’ll need to operate. It may take me a few minutes to synthesize her blood, but she should be fine,” he said to the Yrythny he now recognized as Jeshoh. “Shar, take our guests to sickbay. I’ll be right behind you.” Tapping his combadge he said, “Bashir to Richter. Prep for surgery. We have a Yrythny with a subdural hemotoma. I’ll be there presently.”

With the distraction of a new patient, Julian hadn’t heard Ezri exit the shuttle. He stopped when he suddenly heard:

“Hey. Can I walk with you?”

He paused, smiled broadly and reached for her proffered hand. All of him relaxed at her touch. For a moment they said nothing. Her appearance worried him, dark circles around her eyes, porcelain skin paler than normal, her shoulders hunched with fatigue.

“What exactly happened in there?” Julian asked, concerned.

She smiled weakly. “Ask me later. I just…I just want you to know I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said simply, deciding it would be best not to press her for explanations now. They were back together. For now, that was enough. Julian draped an arm around her waist, and together they headed for the medical bay.

20

“Computer, lights at full illumination,” Shakaar ordered. He dropped his travel bag on his desk and began rooting around inside.

Kira waited for him to toss out some clothes and his other personal belongings before deciding to interrupt him. “I hope all is well on the Gryphon.”

Startled, he spun around. “How did you—?”

“You may be First Minister of Bajor, but this is still my station, Edon.”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?” he asked.

“No,” Kira said simply. She walked over beside him, braced herself against his desk and watched him sort through his travel bag.

Shakaar thumbed on his desk screen, perused a memo or two and replicated a glass of pooncheenee.Kira watched sedately, following his every move with her eyes. Finally, he motioned for her to take a seat; he dropped into his own chair, a rare occurrence since he preferred standing.

Electing to perch on the edge of his desk, she peered down at him. “Yesterday, Lieutenant Ro discovered that the Ziyal exhibit had been brutally vandalized.” Brutal understated the degree of calculated destruction. Twisted, maybe. Depraved, better.

His eyebrow shot up. “Have the culprits been identified?”

“No. But the damage was extensive.” Acids melting paints off canvases, water smudging delicate charcoals, knives slashing obscenities…as if Ziyal, through her work, had been tortured incrementally, murdered anew.

“Can the artwork be repaired?” Shakaar asked, putting away personal items from his bag.

“The curator can restore some of the pieces—it could take weeks.” Assuming she can be persuaded to stop crying at some point,Kira thought ruefully. “But there are a few that are beyond repair. Those pieces might be holographically reproduced, but the originals are irreparable.”

“Tragic,” Shakaar muttered, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with his thumb. He took another sip of his juice, pausing to peer over the glass at Kira who remained fixed where she sat. “You didn’t have to make this report in person.”

“I didn’t,” Kira admitted. “But I felt like what happened tonight at the exhibit can be attributed, in part, to a station environment hostile toward Cardassians. And I think you’re feeding that hatred, Minister.”

Mustering indignation, Shakaar spouted off a biting retort, but Kira dismissed it. “You know what I’m talking about, Shakaar. Don’t play coy with me.”

Lips pursed, he glared at her. Kira had known him long enough to recognize his shift into tactical mode as he tried to ascertain whether she was friend or foe. She sat, unflinching, while he appraised her. Finally, he said, “Go ahead. Get it off your chest. You’ll feel better.”

“You told Asarem to back out of the talks,” she said, modulating her anger by infusing her voice with syrup.

“Straight to the point, Nerys,” he smiled grudgingly. “I always liked that about you.”

“You don’t deny it, then?”

“You’ve never asked me for my position on the talks, you’ve only complained about Minister Asarem’s behavior and asked me to use my influence on her,” he rationalized.

“Don’t mince words with me, Shakaar,” Kira growled. “You knew what I was asking.”

“You wanted Minister Asarem to be nice to your Cardassian friends. I told Asarem to be less confrontational. I did what I said I would.”

“You have a chance to help Bajor and you run away like a deserter.”

“Part of being a leader is choosing between equally good options. Forging peace with Cardassia, as a Bajoran nation, is a good choice. But a simpler path—one that recognizes that our relationship with Cardassia will be normalized when we join the Federation—is also a good choice. Why choose the more complicated option?”

“Because we aren’t whole, as a people, without closure. As Bajor, sovereign and independent,” she argued. “You’ve always fought your own battles and now you’re turning the biggest one of all—the one that wins the war—over to someone else?”

Shakaar continued his oratory as if Kira weren’t even in the room. “Consider their gift, even. How like them, to remind us of our humiliation.”

“What?”

“All those pretty pictures, Nerys, they came from Dukat’s bastard. Because Dukat took a married woman from her home and children and raped her, a great artist was born. I’m not one who believes the ends justifies the means.”

“What does Ziyal have to do with peace negotiations?”

“The Cardassians don’t really want peace. They came here, with their gift,”he spat the word, “to remind us exactly who we are to each other. They’re the masters and we’re the slaves. Not while I’m First Minister of Bajor. Never again.”

“Ziyal was Bajoran, too!” she protested.

He laughed, dismissing her with the indulgent mien of a wise teacher amused by his student’s naïve assertions. Sipping his juice, he studied his desk screen and continued to putter about his office, blithely indifferent.

He’s misdirecting you. He wants to provoke you, make you lose your temper so he can discredit your accusations.Kira called on memory for strength. Holding the soft, cool hand of her dying friend against her cheek…Cackling voices from her childhood hissing that Cardassians were withoutpagh …The smell of her mother’s hair as she said good-bye….

Lies. Shakaar lied.Trembling, Kira dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and rushed through a silent prayer. “Lending your support to the talks—giving Minister Asarem the go-ahead to negotiate—will help you let go of the past, Edon,” she pleaded softly. “Let it go.”

His face softening, Shakaar tenderly took her by the wrists and one hand at a time, pried her fingers off her palms, feather-tracing the remaining angry red indentations with his index finger.

A searing wave of bile scalded her throat. Who are you?

Jerking her hands away from Shakaar, she clenched them into fists and thrust them at her sides, sending his travel bag and the metal box he had just unpacked, clattering onto to the floor. The box opened, but nothing spilled out.

Utterly unruffled, he dropped to the floor to retrieve the empty box, gather up the bag and a few clothes, and return them to the desk. Smiling kindly, he said, “You need to relax, Nerys. I’m worried about how stressed you are. You should take some time off. Go away. Clear your head.”

She stared at him, still clinging to the one idea that made sense to her. “You don’t know—you couldn’t have—there’s no way—” she stammered.

“Yes?”

“The vandalism. The veiled threats at the Cardassian delegation. You didn’t have anything to do—?”

“Come now, Nerys—this is me you’re talking to,” he placed his hands on his chest. “Listen to how ridiculous you sound! I’m the First Minister of Bajor. I don’t deal in criminal conspiracies. Besides, I wasn’t even here tonight. You knowme, Nerys. Almost better than anyone.”

Kira shook her head in disbelief. “You know, logically, you’re right. And I am under a lot of stress. But I don’tknow you anymore,” she confessed. And it hurt to say it. Who she was resulted from, in no small part, the time she had spent with Shakaar. To have arrived at a place where she could even fathom making an accusation against him…. Her convulsing world left her unbalanced, disoriented. “But if Ro’s investigation uncovers even the smallest link to you, Minister, nothing will protect you from me.”

“I’ll submit myself to your lash if I’m found guilty of skulking around Deep Space 9 and terrorizing its residents,” he said sarcastically.

The door chimed; Sirsy announced Vedek Nolan, who became distinctly uncomfortable upon seeing Kira as he entered the office. His beady eyes darted between her and the minister. “Late night shrine services, Minister. You asked for an escort?” he questioned.

“Yes, I wanted an update about how the station’s religious community was faring in these troubled times,” Shakaar explained to the confused vedek who clearly was wondering what Kira was doing here when business hours had ended earlier. “I think we’re done here, aren’t we, Colonel?” he asked Kira mildly.

Their word battles had been punctuated with dueling glares; this last round proved not to be an exception. This time, Shakaar looked away first.

Kira knew he could afford to lose because circumstances provided him the perfect snub. He’s going to services. He’s actually going to services and I can’t! And he enjoys that.“Yes, we’re done.”

Shakaar nodded and launched into animated dialogue with the vedek as he swept past Kira and out of the room.

“For now,” she said softly.

They still hadn’t answered her calls, even though she’d started signaling at their door five minutes ago. And that was after three failed attempts to contact Thriss from her office, once Dr. Girani had told Phillipa about the latest incident. Phillipa believed herself to be a patient person—except in an emergency. Present circumstances certainly qualified.

Over the course of their sessions, Phillipa had pieced together Shar and Thriss’s history. By calling in a few favors, she’d been able to gain access to an Andorian database that explained in academic terms the physiological processes Thriss had described. Shar and Thriss had initiated tezha,a facet of sexual intimacy, but not in the conventional sense that most humanoids understood. Tezhaliterally created a tangible, biochemical attachment between bondmates; bodies became tuned to each other, with brain chemistry and endocrine balances responding to the unique combination of sensory markers that identified the bondmates. It wasn’t unlike imprinting between young and their parents. When bondmates ventured into intimate associations before the shelthreth,the overall cohesion of the bond wasn’t assured. Bonds between segments surpassed bonds within the whole group. Because Thriss’ attachment to Shar surpassed what she shared with the others, Phillipa worried that Anichent and Dizhei wouldn’t be adequately attuned to Thriss to provide her the emotional support she needed to weather this crisis.

Phillipa rolled back on her heels outside Shar’s quarters, wondering if Thriss would answer a direct call if she used her combadge. Before her hand reached her chest, the door hissed open, revealing Anichent.

“Good day, Counselor. Have you anything new to report from Colonel Kira? Perhaps a letter from Shar?” he said, his tightly tensed antennae betraying more about his frame of mind than the lackadaisical way he leaned against the door frame. As if he’s trying desperately to appear casual in order to mask his emotional state. Nice try, Anichent.

“Dr. Girani told me what happened. I’m here to see Thriss.” She took a step toward the threshold, but Anichent made no move to get out of her way. Not being one for words, he resorts to physical intimidation,she reasoned. If worst comes to worst, I’ve mastered the Vulcan neck pinch. I could have him on the floor in a second. And Dizhei? I could take her, no problem.Phillipa only pondered violent impulses—she never seriously considered instigating a fight. But she took comfort knowing she was equally matched with most who might threaten her. Nobody ever expects the counselor to kick ass.

“Thriss is resting now. You can see her in the morning,” Anichent said, folding his arms. “I understand why you’re here. We appreciate your concern. But this is a family matter and Dizhei and I will handle it.”

“She almost assaulted a patient, Anichent,” Phillipa said. “A child. That’s completely uncharacteristic of her. Adults? Yes. Children? Never. Her disppointment at not receiving a letter from Shar could be triggering a serious relapse.” She hadn’t had time to read the whole report, but she’d read enough to worry her.

A primary schoolchild with a fracture received during exercise period had come in to have the bone mended. A routine procedure Thriss had performed many times. Busy with an OB exam, Girani had asked Thriss to assist Ensign Mancuso, the nurse. While Mancuso prepped the fracture repair kit, Thriss had grown frustrated with the child’s persistent tears and had screamed at her, thrown a tray of medical tools across the room and scared the wits out of the child.

“We’re all saddened by not hearing from Shar, but there’s always next time. We’re here for Thriss. We’ll help her cope with this.”Anichent wouldn’t budge. “We’re waiting to confirm our decision with Councillor zh’Thane, but I believe we’ll be leaving for Andor tomorrow. It’s what’s best for us.”

Phillipa shifted her weight to one hip. “This persistent focus on ‘we,’ while admirable in its loyalty fails to acknowledge Thriss’s needs as an individual. She might not be as well-equipped to deal with this as you are, Anichent.” When Thriss had become Phillipa’s patient, she had spent hours scouring the database for any helpful information. A portrait of a species intent on protecting the needs of the whole over the one had emerged. Not an easy obstacle for a therapist to hurdle when one of the parts of the whole was broken. “You’re making a mistake,” Phillipa reiterated, hoping Anichent would relent.

“You come from a species that has the luxury of considering the needs of the individual first. We do not,” Anichent said quietly. “Our social customs are complex, Counselor. I think we’re the best first line of defense for Thriss. Out of deference to you, we’ll bring her to your office first thing tomorrow, before we leave for good.”

Perceiving Anichent as immovable, Phillipa backed away from the threshold of ch’Thane’s quarters and watched the door close in her face.

As much as she wanted to help Thriss immediately, believing that one could bleed to death as easily from a slow hemorrhage as from a severed artery, she would compromise rather than cause conflict among the bondmates. Their relationship had the deceptive fragility of crystal: smooth and hard to the touch, but quick to be crushed with any measure of applied force. Phillipa refused to push, lest she be the one to finally shatter Thriss.

With deliberate concentration, Thriss lifted her head from the pillow. “Is Counselor Matthias out there? I thought I heard her voice.” The room heaved and swayed; she tried merging the two Dizheis rushing toward her with her eyes but her bondmate moved too quickly and the effort made her dizzy. Collapsing into the covers she willed her weighty limbs to float, to dissolve into boneless liquid. Her joints ached; their burning tightness cinched tighter like a thousand pinches in her hands and knees and hips and feet.

Dizhei smoothed her hair with a dry, cool hand. “It’s all right. Don’t push yourself. I know it’s been a hard day.”

She rolled her face down into her pillow and sought the anesthetic of memory. Shar came to her unbidden, and she eagerly allowed the room to recede from her senses as she willed her mind to recall the soft brush of his lips mapping her face. The tone of his voice that he reserved for quiet, dark moments when she molded herself to his back, absorbing with her own body the heat he radiated. Nestling her nose in his chest, inhaling the myriad of scents that were Shar. Breathing came easier as she drifted into dreams. She could almost hear him whispering the silly endearments that they’d invented as aliases, to avoid their clandestine meetings and notes from being discovered.

She missed him. Every part of her was meant to fit with him and without him, she felt adrift. Somewhere among the lights of a billion worlds he wandered where her net couldn’t draw him in. Frozen darkness, like the void of space, extinguished any warmth she could cull from her dreams.

He was lost. He had forgotten her. Since he was far away, she had passed from his memory. He wasn’t coming home. He’d never come home. Not truly. Not to her.

In the haze of sound and light, she imagined she heard Anichent and Dizhei’s voices, elongated and garbled. Home, we need to return home,she heard one of them say. She tried to explain that Shar wasn’t home so it didn’t matter, but it took more strength than she could muster. And Zhadiwas here? That couldn’t be. Thriss squinted at the wall and thought she saw Zhadi.Only Zhadiwore such bright, gaudy colors, colors that Shar thought were ridiculous. But it couldn’t be Zhadi:she was away and wouldn’t be back for days. Unlike Shar, who would never be back.

She wanted sleep. She wanted the dark numbness of sleep so she pushed past the disappointment and the pain and the useless aching prison that was her body…her body that would never carry Shar’s child…and willed it all to fade away into nothingness.

Kira picked her way past the crime scene barriers and into the nearly desolate gallery. A few of Ro’s people and the curator’s staff sorted through the disarray, searching for evidence, and gently handling the remains of Ziyal’s artwork. No one smiled.

Had it been only a few days since she’d walked here with Macetas they both sought to find a workable solution for both their peoples? In spite of the brawl and in spite of Minister Asarem closing down the talks, Kira had remained hopeful until her encounter with Shakaar. Try as she might, she couldn’t understand his untenable machinations. Yes, postponing the normalization of relations until after Bajor joined the Federation made pragmatic sense, but ethical sense? Though they’d had their disagreements—and Kira had found herself increasingly on opposing sides with him—she had always believed Shakaar to be a man of honor, a man who saw his role not only as a policy leader, but as a protector of the people’s integrity. Kira couldn’t see where the integrity was in his present course of action.

She shuffled past hateful words carved into the walls and paintings, over puddles of red paint still drizzling off benches and walls. Beneath the sadistic violence lacerating the room, Kira sensed Ziyal’s spirit—it was weaker, but it lingered. Kira’s eyes watered. Her friend’s paghhad been given a chance to live anew; after a lifetime as a fugitive, she had found a place to rest, where she could be safe from the cruelties of bigotry. And we couldn’t even shield her here,Kira thought sadly.

She wandered from space to space, lost in her thoughts, so when she stumbled upon a civilian she was slow to fix on her identity. This is a closed area. Authorized personnel only,she prepared to say until she recognized she stood face-to-face with Minister Asarem.

They considered each other awkwardly, neither knowing what to say or how to begin. That Asarem had chosen to come here now, to witness this tragedy, spoke well of her to Kira’s way of thinking.

The dullness in Kira’s chest receded, replaced by warmth. Maybe there was a reason why her feet brought her here instead of instinctively guiding her back to her quarters. After that distasteful meeting with Shakaar, she longed to shower, wash her hands of him, but instead she’d ended up taking a different turbolift and walking across the Promenade and now, Asarem Wadeen stood before her, hands laced behind her back, waiting, watching.

Kira didn’t believe in coincidences.

They exchanged civil greetings, words about the shocking nature of the crime and then, again, lapsed into awkward silence. Neither woman moved to leave.

“Minister, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?”

“Do you have another lecture for me?”

“No, more like an apology. I talked to Shakaar.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding.

“The situation is just as you said,” Kira admitted. “But you have to know that in all the years I’ve known Shakaar, to choose such a course isn’t like him.”

Asarem nodded. “We don’t always come down on the same side of things, the first minister and I. He tends to be more progressive while I feel safest with a more conservative, traditional approach. But even knowing our stylistic differences, the way he chose to handle this situation with Ambassador Lang surprised even me.”

Moved by Asarem’s gracious frankness, Kira felt ashamed by her own hasty judgment. “I’m sorry. For what I’ve said. For how I’ve behaved.”

“If I were in your place, I would likely have done as you did,” Asarem said graciously.

“Shakaar did say he thought we’d find we had a lot in common if we had a chance to get to know each other.”

“I believe that as well.”

They continued walking, avoiding looking at each other until Kira stopped. “I know as things presently stand, talks won’t resume. You can’t call Ambassador Lang and start things up again without going against Shakaar’s orders.”

“True,” Asarem conceded.

“But if you knew, in your heart, that Shakaar was wrong and that he was walking contrary to the path the Prophets have set for Bajor, would you go against him?”

“What are you asking?”

“Please. Can we sit?”

They found a small, mostly unsoiled section of carpet in front of a maintenance closet. Pushing aside a broken piece of bench and other dusty refuse, the women dropped down cross-legged to the floor. Kira fumbled around for the words, seeing her own confusion reflected on Asarem’s face until she fell back on the oldest convention of storytelling: start from the beginning. Haltingly, she asked, “Have you ever heard of the Ravinok?”

And from there, Ziyal’s story, as Kira recalled it, tumbled out. She related her own conflicted emotions upon finding Dukat’s illegitimate daughter in the Dozarian system, Dukat’s willingness to murder Ziyal, in cold blood, rather than risk her existence being discovered by his family or the Cardassian government, and Kira’s forcing him to accept responsibility for the unwanted child. Details that faded from her recollections due to the passage of time flooded back to her and Kira found herself explaining Ziyal’s uncomfortable initiation into Bajor’s art community, the prylars who grew to treasure her, and her tentative exploration of a relationship with the Prophets. How Ziyal had come to love Garak, much to the dismay of her friends on the station. Of her final days, when Sisko and Starfleet prepared to retake the station and Dukat was forced to flee or be taken prisoner, how Damar ultimately completed the murder Dukat had originally intended and how it felt to see her lifeless body. And as she spoke, Kira knew her cheeks were wet with tears and that she’d shared thoughts and impressions she’d never before voiced aloud to a virtual stranger, but she felt compelled to continue. When the last words left her lips, Kira felt she’d finally arrived at the place the Prophets intended her to, and the restlessness that had haunted her since Macet’s arrival finally abated.

Asarem said little in response and Kira understood why. What else could be said? Knowing she had done as she should, Kira decided to leave. She had decisions to make and now she might be able to make them with a peaceful heart. Wishing her good night, Kira started toward the exit when Asarem called after her.

“So what will you do next?”

Kira shrugged. “I don’t know. Keep pummeling Shakaar until he relents. Help Ro. Go to Bajor. I’m not sure.” She hovered between exhaustion and collapse—a change of scenery could allow her to refuel, gear up for the next challenge. But Ro had two critical open investigations—the Promenade riot and the still unsolved vandalism; responsibility effectively tethered her to the station.

“Walk with the Prophets, Colonel,” Asarem said.

“So she finally fell asleep,” Phillipa announced, flopping backward onto her bed. She ordered the lights dimmed and sighed. Punching and pulling her pillow succeeded in reconfiguring lumps, but not much else; her neck muscles felt like knotted cords. She rolled over onto her stomach, dangling her feet over the side of the bed and watched her husband undress.

“Rubbing her back works every time. Mireh drops off like that—” Sibias snapped his fingers.

“And how did you figure that out?”

“Works with you.”

“You’re just a little too sure of yourself, smart man. I don’t think a little pressure between the shoulder blades is going to work for me tonight.”

“That a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

“Tough day?”

“Oh yeah,” she groaned. After she’d returned to her quarters, she tried contacting Thriss several more times before her family’s needs pressed her into temporarily forgoing her professional concerns. She and Sibias helped the children with homework, played Kadis-Kot and wrapped up the evening with a chapter from Arios’s latest favorite, The Adventures of Lin Marna and the Mystery of Singularity Sam.Sibias defused Mireh’s stalling tactics while she took a sonic shower and now, with the children taken care of, she allowed herself to resume worrying about her patient.