Beyond Gloomy
Chaos
| Title: |
Beyond Gloomy Chaos |
 |
| Author: |
Laura Taylor |
| Rating: |
PG-13 |
| Series/Codes |
DS9 (post-WYLB) with some TNG; Q |
| Summary |
Following Sisko's entry into the Celestial Temple
in "What You Leave Behind," the Q find themselves facing a dilemma that
could result in interplanetary catastrophe. Can Picard, Kira and Data
retrieve the mysterious Book of the Resurrection before all hell breaks
loose on Cardassia? |
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DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek
universe and all it contains. This story is a work of fan fiction, and as such
is not intended to infringe on any copyrights. Portions of this story originally
appeared in draft format on ASC under the title "Perein Chaeos Zopheroio" (which
is simply "Beyond Gloomy Chaos" in Greek) in late 1999.
The entire work was published as a novella
(with a magnificent cover illustration by Lauren Francis--go to http://weekelpie.com/trek/bgc.htm
to see it) by Orion Press in October 2000.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the time I am posting this,
I no longer have Internet access. I took a leave of absence from ASC about a
year ago that evolved into a complete LOA from the 'Net so that I might better
dedicate myself to other interests. I would not even be here now, except for two
rather unfortunate circumstances: 1. Orion Press closed its non-TOS franchises
less than 6 months after the publication of "Beyond Gloomy Chaos"; and 2. the
original masters were lost, which means I couldn't pass them on to another 'zine
publisher. Furthermore, before my departure several people had expressed an
interest in reading "Beyond" but were unable or unwilling to fork out the dough
for a 'zine. So, this is for them, and for all those people who were so
supportive of me and my literary aspirations during my time here.
Please do not e-mail any comments to me,
because I won't get them. My mother was gracious enough to allow me to use her
'Net account to post this story while I was in town, and once I'm done I'll be
hitting the road for the 3-hour drive back home. It's not that I wouldn't
welcome the comments or appreciate the time and effort in providing them, but
I'd hate for anyone to think a lack of response from me was a deliberate act of
discourtesy. So, instead, I hope you'll simply read this story, enjoy it, and
encourage others to read it.
Thank you -
"In truth at first Chaos came to be, but next wide-bosomed
Earth, the ever-sure foundation of all the deathless ones who hold the peaks of
snowy Olympus, and dim Tartarus in the depth of the wide-pathed Earth, and Eros,
fairest among the deathless gods....And Earth first bore starry Heaven, equal to
herself, to cover her on every side, and to be an ever-sure abiding-place for
the blessed gods."
Hesiod, "Theogony"
PROLOGUE
In the beginning, there was Chaos, and Chaos was with the
Continuum, and Chaos was the Continuum.
Shouts of anger and outrage, some high-pitched, some low,
rang across the boundless gathering space, filling the void with portents of
foreboding and expectance as storm clouds gathered on the galactic horizon.
"Blasphemy!" one of the assembly bellowed with the fury of a supernova. From
across the room came a loud cry of, "Anarchy!" followed by echoes of
"Treachery!" and "Tyranny!" Underlying them all, like the incessant knocking of
the cosmic metronome, came the steady pounding of a gavel as a solitary voice, a
voice belonging to the one they all knew as their Moderator, called for order
and reason.
In the midst of all this tumult stood Chaos personified, the
glittering in his dark eyes belying his serious expression. Even as he observed
his brothers and sisters arguing amongst themselves unto the brink of violence,
he knew he could command their immediate and undivided attention with the snap
of a finger. Nevertheless, he could well have done without their attention.
Their collective inattention to the affairs of the galaxy
and all its various mortal and sentient species had led to the convening of this
very meeting, after all. Had his brothers and sisters concentrated on
maintaining the preordained order, as they had been obliged to do since time
immemorial, rather than waste their energies on petty, internal affairs, then he
might not have been compelled to step forward and demand their collective
attention. He sighed at the irony: out of Chaos, comes Order.
From somewhere within the assembled ranks a woman stood and
approached him, her haughty demeanor marred by the crease of worry across her
high, sloping brow. "See what you've done, Q?" she asked, arching her sculpted
eyebrows at him.
At the sight of his mate, Q tuned out the cacophony of his
brothers and sisters. "Don't blame me, Q," he objected, pursing his lips in a
vague semblance of contrition. "I'm not the one who started this mess in the
first place."
His excuse was pitiful, and she knew it. "For once."
"At least I'm trying to do something about it," he
sulked.
Q crossed her arms over her chest, allowing her long,
tapered fingers to drum against the inner crooks of her elbows. "No you're
not."
"I am too!"
"No, you're proposing we let that pathetic, underdeveloped,
scrawny excuse for a sentient being resolve our dilemma. That you think we
should ask for help from a Human, of all things, is humiliating enough, but
him?" She sighed. "Well, at least you didn't suggest Janeway. The last thing we
need is her pointy little nose poking around in our business again."
Q grinned and nudged her rib cage with his elbow. "My dear,
I do believe you're still jealous."
"Hmph," was the only reply he would have the satisfaction of
hearing, but for the moment it was enough.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Q?" boomed the voice
of the Moderator, his stentorian tones rolling across the gathering place like a
massive sonic shock wave. In the wake of his question, silence descended on the
unruly assembly with the finality of death. All eyes focused on their wayward,
rebellious brother.
Q pressed his palm against his chest. "Me? Why am I to take
the blame? I didn't start this!" He looked helplessly at his mate, who shrugged
her shoulders in unsympathetic reply.
"No, but you're determined to finish it!" accused one of the
throng, re-igniting the agitation that had smoldered since the call to order.
Once again, insults rained down on Q like a meteor shower. "Just like you've
tried to finish the Continuum for millennia!"
"You're going to ruin us!" another voice cried.
"If it weren't for your meddling in mortal affairs, we
wouldn't even be in this mess!" yet another charged.
Q took a few steps toward his accusers, his eyes wide with
frustrated innocence. "My meddling? I had nothing to do with it!"
His mate tapped him on the shoulder and leaned close. "In
case you forgot, you are the one who first promoted the idea of making Qs out of
mortals," she whispered.
"Once," he snapped. "I tried it once. You saw what a
complete failure that was." He turned his back to her and muttered, "I should
never have put my faith in that overgrown, hairy Boy Scout. I should have gone
for the Klingon. He wouldn't have let omnipotence go to his head, it would've
been dishonorable. Or maybe that android Picard's so fond of. His ethical
programming would've kept him in line."
Q grasped his elbow and spun him back toward her. "Maybe it
was a mistake. You still set a dangerous precedent by acting without considering
the consequences. Didn't it occur to you that someone might try to follow up on
your experiment?"
At the slump in his shoulders, she shook her head. "You
never learn, do you? You didn't learn from your experiment with the Borg, you
didn't learn from the disaster with Guinan, you didn't learn from
I-don't-know-what-you-were-thinking with Janeway...you just never learn, do you?
Now, thanks to you and your foolish experiment with Riker, the P have invited a
mortal-a Human-to join our company."
"Now, wait a minute," Q insisted, shaking his finger at his
mate, determined to make her understand that he was not in any way at fault. "He
hasn't entered the Continuum. He's in the wormhole. That's not the same thing.
And I'm not the one who gave the wormhole to the P to begin with-that was a
decision made by the entire Continuum despite my objections!"
She brought up her hands, temporarily conceding his point.
"All right, I owe you that much-you did argue that giving the wormhole to the P
would prove disastrous, and you've been proven right." As Q's expression
brightened, however, she planted her hand against his chest. "This is no time to
gloat over one small victory, Q. You're still the one-the only one-who thinks
the only way to get that Human out of our ranks is to rely on another Human for
help. If giving the wormhole to the P was a mistake, placing our fate in the
hands of that self-important hairless ape with the tea fetish is an even bigger
mistake."
Q shrugged. "Well, Jean-Luc is very good at that sort of
thing. He relishes the idea of playing the hero, especially if it means he gets
to teach me a lesson or two about moral consequences. He's perfect for the
job!"
Before his mate could agree or disagree, the crowd erupted
in rancorous debate yet again. "Those Humans are a dangerous, unpredictable
race," one of them shouted. "No telling what they might try!"
Q paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his hands
in irritation. "And the P aren't dangerous? They're the ones trying to dilute
our ranks!"
His accuser guffawed. "This from the Q who tried to breed
with a Human?"
"Another one of your harebrained schemes the P emulated,"
another reminded them all. "Can you imagine what they might have done if Janeway
had actually agreed?"
"So the dilution isn't quite as bad as it could have been-at
least Sisko is only half-Human."
"This isn't getting us anywhere," his mate intervened,
addressing her remarks as much to the gathering as to Q. "The truth is, we're
all to blame, and we all have to take responsibility."
"Do you have a solution?" the Moderator asked.
"I don't, but Q does."
"His solution involves a Human!" Q's most vocal opponent
objected yet again.
Q's mate glared at him. "So does our problem. I don't see
any of you coming up with a better alternative."
"We already know the Humans will help us, given the right
incentive," Q reminded his brothers and sisters.
"The right incentive?" one cried.
"All the more reason not to do it again!" another argued.
"Before long, they'll catch on to our weaknesses."
"Don't be a fool," Q said. "The Humans have known about our
weaknesses for a long time. Do you honestly think they believe we're omnipotent?
Nobody's fallen for that ruse since the Age of Enlightenment! In their eyes,
we're as relevant as hieroglyphics."
"Should we just sit by and watch the P grow in power and
influence?" his mate asked the assembly. "How much longer before they start
meddling in Vulcan affairs, or completely eradicate the Cardassians from
existence, or abandon the wormhole permanently and move freely about the galaxy?
If we wait another million years, as you would have us do, then we'll be too
weak to do anything. We've got to act now."
"Your eloquence is as dazzling as your beauty," Q gushed,
blowing her a kiss.
"Quiet, Q," she hissed, then turned back to the gathering.
"We've all known for a very long time what a mistake we made in giving the P the
wormhole, but none of us have stepped forward and offered to do something about
it." She glared at her brothers and sisters as they sat in ashamed silence.
"Their crimes against the galactic order, against two
corporeal races, against us, have gone unpunished for too long. Someone has got
to stop them, and that someone is Q." At the murmur of protest, she raised her
hand, and silence resumed. "Listen to him. His plan is dangerous, I agree.
However, it's the only plan we have."
Back
To Top
CHAPTER ONE
Every April, the air in Provence becomes a veritable
effluvium of aromas, with the intermingling of the clean newness of spring
lambs, the floral essence of lavender and thyme and heather and rosemary, and
the mustiness of freshly-plowed soil, all sharply underwritten with the exotic
scents wafting in on a northerly Mediterranean breeze. These smells could not be
found in the fathomless vacuum of space, or in the pristine sterility of the
corridors and offices at Starfleet Command; these smells testified to the
perseverance of humanity, of mortality, of vitality.
Picard paused in pruning the muscat arbor and closed his
eyes, opening his mind to the welcome assault on his olfactory sense. Tempted,
he opened his mouth and imagined he could taste the roast lamb, braised in thyme
and rosemary, or the as-yet unsowed yams he would grow this summer, or the
soon-to-be fried cuttlefish not yet pulled from the sea, or the barrel of Noveau
Picard Blanc aging unhurriedly in his cellar.
His stomach growled in protest. Picard opened his eyes just
in time to see the first wisps of smoke curling from the chimney resting atop
the cottage at the bottom of the hillside. He chuckled, pleased with himself and
with his housekeeper's prescience. Life was very good to him.
His subconscious sensed the newcomer's presence long before
his optical nerve acknowledged the flash of light, and he groaned inwardly. So
much for life's bounty.
"Bonjour, mon capitain."
"Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" Picard asked, returning his
attention to the gnarled vine with its tender green shoots.
The gentle tut-tutting did not disturb Picard from his work,
nor did he look up when a pair of pruning shears appeared magically and the
interloper took a wayward tendril between his long, slender fingers and snipped
it off. "Tu me vouvoies?" he asked, sounding hurt. "Mon ami, c'etait
longtemps."
Picard tried to contain his sigh. This would not be a short
or uncomplicated visit. "Pas assez de longtemps," he muttered, then turned on
his unwelcome guest and jabbed the pruning shears in his direction. "Q, what do
you want?"
Undaunted by the threat, Q beamed. "Jean-Luc! And here I
thought you didn't remember me." He extended his arms, prepared to embrace
Picard, but Picard ducked under the arbor to escape. When he straightened again,
Q had rematerialized beside him and was frowning at him. "What's the matter,
Jean-Luc, can't spare a little hospitality for an old friend?"
"For an old friend, yes," Picard acknowledged, "but not for
you."
Dropping all pretense at congeniality, Q returned Picard's
hard stare. Only then did Picard notice the supposedly immortal, omnipotent
entity who had hounded, harassed and bedeviled him ever since he first took
command of the Enterprise, over fifteen years ago, appeared...older. Picard
would almost say Q looked haggard and careworn, but such notions seemed foolish.
Q's appearance must have been another one of his childish attempts to mock and
ridicule Human mortality; how else could Picard explain the deep lines in his
face, the gray streaks in his thinning hair, or the slump in his shoulders?
Self-consciously, Picard straightened and squared his own
shoulders, steeling himself for whatever nonsense Q had up his omnipotent
sleeve. "What brings you here, Q?" he asked again, determined to keep his tone
even.
"Not even a 'How have you been, Q,' or a 'My, I sure have
missed you, Q'?" Q asked, his voice uncharacteristically plaintive. "You still
haven't forgiven me for that Borg incident, have you?"
Picard sighed. "All right. If it's the only way to get you
to leave sooner: how have you been?"
"Hurrah!" Q crowed, throwing his hands up with glee.
"Jean-Luc, I thought you'd never ask." He draped an arm around Picard's
shoulders. "The truth, mon ami, is that my life has taken a turn for the worse.
The situation is grim indeed." His eyes grew wide. "The galaxy itself could be
at stake!"
"Really?" Picard asked, at once curious and disbelieving.
"Why don't you just snap your fingers and fix everything?"
"Oh, believe me, I would if I could. Unfortunately, I can't.
Rules are rules, you know, Jean-Luc, even if they are stupid rules." He cast his
eyes upward, and for a moment Picard thought he looked nervous. "Which is why
I'm here, actually."
"What is?"
"Rules, Jean-Luc, always rules. My hands are tied, there's
nothing I can do to stop this crisis." Q leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"You see, mon ami, I'm here because I need your help."
"Thank you, Margaret, that will be all for now," Picard said
to his housekeeper, taking the steaming kettle from her. The old woman peered
nervously at Q out of the corner of her eye, but as Picard remained silent,
waiting for her to leave, she finally nodded in acquiescence and shuffled off.
"I'll call if I need you," he called after her, reassuring himself as much as
her.
As soon as the door had closed behind her, Picard turned to
Q. "Tea--?"
"--Earl Grey, hot?" Q finished for him. "Don't mind if I
do." Before Picard could tip the kettle, Q had already filled both cups to the
rim.
Restraining his urge to make a rude remark, Picard placed
the kettle on a warming plate and sat opposite Q, who was amusing himself by
waving his finger above his tea, causing the steam to curl upward like ivy
climbing a tree trunk. Picard took several sips of his tea-perfectly flavored,
he noticed-while Q continued his miniscule pas de deux, then placed his cup down
and folded his hands before him. "All right, Q," he said, pausing until his
guest looked up at him, "just what the devil is going on here?"
Q leaned back in his seat and studied Picard, his fingers
steepled neatly beneath his chin. Then, smiling, he said, "Ah, mon ami, if you
only knew just how close to the truth you already are. The devil, indeed. The
devil, my friend, is what's brought me here."
"Care to explain?" Picard prodded. As much as he considered
Q's occasional intrusions into his life annoying, there was no question the
entity engaged and challenged him as no other could.
"Hm," Q thought aloud, his fingers pressed against his lips.
"How shall I put it? In Human terms, Jean-Luc, the Continuum has been infected.
A nasty virus, a plague, if you will, has entered our midst and threatens to
destroy us all."
"A plague has infected the Continuum?" Picard repeated, his
mind exploring the numerous implications of Q's circumspect revelation. "I
thought you were omniscient, bound neither by time nor space. Shouldn't you have
seen this plague coming, and taken steps to prevent its incursion? For that
matter, why didn't you use your oft-professed omnipotence to get rid of it?" He
leaned forward, challenging Q. "What does your...disease...have to do with
me?"
Q waved his hand in the air. "We might have detected the
oncoming danger in time, had we been paying attention, except we were a little
distracted at the time."
"By what?" Picard wanted to know.
Q hemmed and hawed, then finally admitted, "A civil
war."
Picard's eyebrows shot up. "A civil war? I thought such
trivialities were beneath the Q."
"They might have been, once," Q harrumphed. "Times change,
people change, immortal entities change. You of all people should know that
change is inevitable. Even the Q are subject to change over the course of
time."
Picard's eyes narrowed. Q was notorious for his ambiguity,
and as a result Picard had learned to listen for what Q was not saying in order
to understand his underlying motivations. This time, however, for all his
opaqueness, Q was being uncharacteristically blunt. On the other hand, he was
also being even more defensive than usual, a sure sign that, whatever trouble he
might be in, he was somehow responsible for creating it. The way he idly played
with the corner of his napkin was proof enough of his culpability.
"You...started this war, didn't you, Q?" He knew by instinct
he would never get a straight answer to that question, and pressed on. "I
presume, by your presence here, that the war is over. Why, then, haven't you
managed to get rid of the disease?"
Q sighed. "Two reasons. First, it was some of our own-not
me, so you can block that assumption from your mind right now-who brought the
plague into our midst." He paused and chewed his lower lip.
"And the second?"
Q sighed again, then mumbled, "And the second is that the
disease is a Human. A Starfleet officer, in fact. Someone you know. Or knew,
rather." He looked up at Picard from beneath lowered lashes.
Despite the vast, cosmos-rattling ramifications of Q's
revelation, Picard's first thought was to wonder who among his fellow officers
had been allowed to join the Continuum. He wondered why he had not been so
honored. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he envied his unknown
comrade-in-arms.
"I like you better just the way you are, Jean-Luc," Q said
softly. Picard started, unaware he had uttered his inner thoughts, and
embarrassed if he had. "You didn't, and you have no reason to be," Q continued,
causing Picard further embarrassment. "It's a natural and perfectly
understandable wish, to want to be part of a race as advanced as ours."
"Q, stop it!" He took several deep breaths, trying to empty
his mind of those distracting thoughts and focus on the crisis at hand. He
wondered if the anxiety and urgency he felt was being projected on to him by
Q.
"My apologies, mon ami. Your mind is just such a
fascinating, unexplored territory that sometimes I can't help myself. Oh, and
no, those are your own, natural, perfectly understandable feelings. This is a
time of great anxiety for us all."
Wondering if he might be taking his life into his hands,
Picard stretched forward and rested his hand over Q's. "Tell me," he ordered
gently.
Q sat silently for a moment, studying the table. Then he
took a deep breath, withdrew his hands from beneath Picard's, and sat back,
crossing his arms over his chest. "You must understand, mon ami, that I wouldn't
be coming to you like this if I had any other choice. If it were up to me,
believe me, I would restore everything to its natural and proper order in the
blink of an eye."
"But you can't."
Q shook his head. "Protocol forbids my intervention." He
gave Picard a lopsided grin. "You see, we have our own version of the Prime
Directive in the Continuum. The Q can't interfere in the affairs of other
immortal, omnipotent species, and we can't take steps to rewrite over a million
years of recorded history."
Picard could not contain his gasp. "Are you suggesting that
I can?" he at last managed to say.
Q snorted. "Not without my help."
"I don't understand."
"You shouldn't. Not yet, at any rate. Given time, however,
even a being of limited intelligence such as yourself should be able to put two
and two together and come up with five."
Picard frowned at the thinly-veiled insult, but gave Q the
benefit of the doubt and continued to listen. "As it happens, Jean-Luc, this
situation is one that can be-that must be-resolved by a mortal, but you'll need
my guidance." He leaned forward and spoke quietly but emphatically. "You'll need
to go on a trip."
"A trip? What kind of trip? Where?"
"To Cardassia."
Picard sat upright, the hackles on the back of his neck
bristling with suspicion and alarm. "Cardassia? Why?"
"I know you haven't had the most pleasant experiences with
the Cardassians," Q said with unfeigned sympathy, "but there's an important
artifact buried deep beneath the surface you must find for me."
"You want me to lead an archaeological expedition? Why don't
you ask Vash?"
Q grimaced. "The last thing I, or you, or anybody, needs is
for this particular artifact to fall into the hands of Orion black marketeers.
The Bajoran Vedek Assembly would be outraged, to say the least."
"The Vedek Assembly?" Picard was even more confused than
before. "What do they have to do with anything?"
"Nothing, if we're lucky," Q said, "and I intend to be very
lucky. If they get wind of what you're up to, however --"
"Why should they care?"
Q mumbled something under his breath.
"What was that? I didn't hear you."
"I said, it's an ancient Bajoran artifact you need to find.
Older than any artifact found to date. Older even than the ruins of B'hala.
Older than Bajoran civilization itself."
Picard needed time to think. He took a sip of his tea, then
grimaced to find it already cold. Unsettled, he rose and crossed to the
bookshelf against the opposite wall, his gaze wandering idly over the titles.
Moby Dick. Horatio Hornblower. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Robinson Crusoe.
Gulliver's Travels. The Odyssey. He stopped at the last and retrieved it, his
fingers running lovingly along the edges of the gilt, dog-eared pages. How many
times had he imagined himself a modern-day Odysseus, condemned by a capricious
deity to wander across the known universe, each day's journey pushing him that
much farther from home? Ten years at war in a foreign land, followed by ten
years of aimless wandering, came to twenty years of homesickness. Picard knew
the feeling well.
Nevertheless, he knew he would be a fool to reject Q's plea
for help. He knew, without Q's having said so, that Q would not have dared ask
unless he were truly desperate. Picard also knew that the mysterious connection
between a Bajoran artifact, Cardassian archaeology, and the 'disease' infecting
the Continuum posed an irresistible challenge. Despite his instinctive
reluctance to go to Cardassia, despite the vague possibility of inciting the
fury of the Vedek Assembly, despite the charm of April in Provence, Picard knew
he would not-could not-say no.
He returned the book to its proper place and turned back to
Q. "I want Data to accompany me," he said.
"Done." Q seemed to have expected the request. "There will
be others joining you down the road, but I can't tell you who yet. The less you
know now, the better. I'll tell you what you need to know only when you need to
know it."
Picard smiled grimly at Q. "Why am I not surprised?"
Q rose and crossed to him. "Jean-Luc, I know you're having
second thoughts. That's only natural. There'll be many more doubts to come. In
the end, though, I promise, you won't regret this."
Picard sighed. "I only hope you're right."
Q laughed. "When have I ever led you astray?"
Back
To Top
CHAPTER TWO
Picard took a deep breath as he mounted the steps to the
station commander's office. The last time he had been to Deep Space Nine, his
mission had been to transfer several officers to then-Commander Sisko's support
staff. Then, the station was still in orbit around Bajor, a world just beginning
to dig itself out from under decades of oppressive Cardassian rule; the wormhole
to the Gamma Quadrant was still just a collection of random neutrino particles
in the Denorios Belt; and Wolf 359 was still a recent memory. So much had
changed.
"Captain, is there something wrong?"
Picard glanced at his companion and smiled inwardly at the
perplexed frown wrinkling the ageless golden skin. "No, Data, nothing's wrong,"
he said. "I was just reminiscing about my last visit to DS9."
"Ah. I see." Picard thought he could almost see the arcing
between Data's artificial synapses as he processed this new information and
stored it for later reference. "Do you need more time to reminisce?"
"That's quite all right. Commander Kira is expecting us." He
took the last two steps in a single bound and activated the signal announcing
their presence. From within the office a crisp, female voice ordered the door to
open and Picard and Data crossed the threshold.
Among the many changes to DS9 since Picard's last visit was
the makeup of the station command staff. Once a Bajoran station under Starfleet
command, DS9 was now run almost entirely by the Bajoran Militia, with only a few
Starfleet personnel assisting in engineering and science. Heading the operation
was Kira Nerys, who held parallel ranks in both the Bajoran Militia and
Starfleet as a symbol of her challenging mission to preserve the often-fractious
alliance between Bajor and the Federation. As Kira rose from behind her desk to
greet her visitors, Picard noticed she wore the gray and red of Starfleet, no
doubt a concession made in honor of her guests.
"Captain Picard, Commander Data, come in," she said,
gesturing to the two seats before her desk.
"Colonel," Picard began, deliberately addressing her by her
Bajoran rank, "there is no need for formality. Jean-Luc and Data will
suffice."
"Really?" she asked, the slight jangling of her earring
betraying her doubt and distrust.
"We are not here in an official capacity," Data replied
before Picard could explain. "As you see, we are not in uniform."
"I noticed," Kira said, her gaze shifting back to Picard.
"Why not?"
"I am aware of the recent tensions between Bajor and the
Federation in regard to Cardassia," Picard began, keeping his voice smooth and
even. "I understand Bajor's reticence to allow Federation observers inside
Cardassian --" Her upraised hand stopped him.
"Bajor has no objection to the presence of Federation
observers on Cardassia Prime," she retorted. "What we do not want is Starfleet
overseeing our rescue and restoration efforts." Clasping her hands before her,
she added, "Cardassia is Bajor's responsibility."
"I do not think Bajor can adequately support Cardassia,"
Data said simply but honestly. "Bajor is still recovering from the
Occupation."
"Perhaps," Kira acknowledged with a tight, thin-lipped
smile, "but the Federation has its own recovery to worry about."
Picard stopped Data before he could respond. "I assure you,
Colonel, that Data and I are aware of Bajor's position on this matter, and that
our intent is not to undermine that position or your efforts toward helping
Cardassia recover in any way."
"Then what do you want?" she asked.
Glancing at Data before answering, Picard said, "We wish to
undertake an expedition of sorts."
Kira's nose wrinkled. "An expedition? What kind of
expedition? What are you looking for?"
"I can't say," Picard said. At her continued silence, he
added, "I don't really know for sure."
"You don't really know for sure," Kira repeated. Leaning
forward to retrieve a spherical object from the top of her desk, she asked, "You
want me to give you permission to enter Cardassian space so you can undertake an
expedition without knowing why or what it is you're after?" The object, balanced
between the tips of her index fingers, seemed to hover in midair. "I'm sorry,"
Kira said, shaking her head, "but you'll have to be more specific than
that."
"All I can say for sure is that I'm not looking for any
thing at this point. My goal is...knowledge. Specifically, knowledge about
ancient Cardassia, perhaps even older than the Hebitian era."
Kira tossed the object from hand to hand as she spoke.
"Sounds like an archaeological expedition."
"It is --" Data said, before Picard again cut him off.
"It might be, eventually," Picard dissembled. "I won't know
until I begin my search."
"Let me guess," Kira said, "you'll know what you're looking
for once you find it."
Picard smiled grimly. "Something like that." At her rolled
eyes, he added, "I would tell you more if I could, but I've already told you all
I know."
"Captain, Commander," she began politely but firmly, "you
must understand my predicament --"
Picard would never have imagined a matter-based being could
move so quickly. By the time he blinked, there was no doubt in Picard's mind
Kira had dropped the object she had been toying with and unholstered her phaser
and aimed it at Q before the brilliant flash of light announcing his arrival had
vanished. "Q," he warned.
"Hush, Jean-Luc, the good colonel-or do you prefer
'Commander'?" he asked the seething woman, "--already knows me."
Picard looked at Data first, then at Kira. "You do?" he
asked, curious.
She nodded, never lowering her weapon or her guard. "He
visited here once, about ten years ago. He was with a woman, a treasure-hunter
of some sort." The snarl in her voice told Picard all he needed to know what
Kira thought of Vash. "She'd better not be anywhere within twenty light years of
this station," she threatened, "or you'll regret it."
Q snapped his fingers, returning Kira's phaser to its
holster. "No need to worry. Vash and I have long since severed our connection.
As it happens, I'm here because Jean-Luc is here."
Kira's gaze slowly shifted to Picard. "He is?" she asked.
She looked back at Q. "Somebody'd better start explaining, and fast, 'cause no
one's leaving this office until I have some answers." Picard clamped his hand
over Q's forearm, forestalling the anticipated gesture. Giving them little more
than a scowl, she went on, "I don't care who goes first, just so long as
somebody starts talking."
Picard turned to Q. "You're the one who sent us here on this
fool's errand," he said. "You're the one who knows why we're here."
"And why the lovely colonel has to join you on your mission
to Cardassia," Q said.
"Excuse me?" Kira interrupted, echoing Picard's own
thoughts.
Q sauntered over to her desk and leaned his hip against the
edge, looming over her diminutive form. "Oh, yes, this mission of mercy cannot
be accomplished-cannot even be attempted-without your help."
"Captain," Data said in the closest approximation of a
whisper he could manage, "I do not recall your mentioning Colonel Kira's
participation in this expedition."
"That's because I didn't know about it myself," Picard
whispered back.
"Dear Nerys," Q was saying, not even acknowledging Picard's
remark, "are you familiar with the Book of the Kosst Amojin?"
The sight of the blood draining from Kira's face alarmed
Picard, and he took a quick step forward, prepared to come to her aid should she
need it, but Q's upraised hand stopped him in mid-stride. After a moment, Kira
licked her lips and nodded. "The Book of the Pagh-Wraiths."
Q mocked her growl with one of his own. "Ah, yes. The Book
of the Pagh-Wraiths." He waggled his eyebrows at Picard.
"What about it?" Kira asked, the strain in her voice
betraying her rising tension.
"Well, it was destroyed...except for the missing chapter,
that is."
Kira's brow wrinkled even more as she stared at Q in
confusion. "Missing chapter? What missing chapter?"
Q sighed and spoke to her as if he were speaking to a small
child, "There was a coda, known as the Book of the Resurrection."
"I've never heard of a 'Book of the Resurrection'," she
protested.
"You've never heard of it because it's been on
Cardassia."
"On Cardassia --?" she wondered aloud. Then she nodded. "Of
course, it must have been stolen during the --"
Q waggled a finger in front of her face. "Ah, ah, ah,
Nerys," he warned. "Jumping to conclusions is a dangerous sport best left to
professionals. Just because a purportedly Bajoran codex is on Cardassia does not
mean it was taken as booty during the waning days of the Occupation."
"Then how else --" she insisted, struggling to rise, but Q's
hand on her shoulder kept her seated.
"History between Bajor and Cardassia extends much further
than your meager humanoid memory can grasp," he said. "For now, suffice it to
say that the Book of the Resurrection is on Cardassia, where it has been for the
past 500,000 years, because it is supposed to be there."
Picard could no longer hold his silence. "If it's supposed
to be there, Q, then why do you want us to retrieve it?"
Q twisted to study Picard, contempt written across his face.
"Who said anything about retrieving it, Jean-Luc?" he asked. "Stop thinking in
such two-dimensional terms! I merely want you to find it."
"What are we to do with it once we have found it?" Data
wanted to know.
"That, my golden friend, will be revealed to you at the
appropriate time."
"Q," Picard growled in annoyance and frustration. Q merely
raised an eyebrow at him.
"How will we know what we are looking for?"
"I think I can answer that question, Mister Data," Picard
said. "We'll know it when we find it." He looked at Q. "Am I correct?"
Q beamed. "Quite so, mon ami! Quite so."
He raised his hand, about to make his grand exit, but Kira
stopped him. "You didn't explain why you need me to go," she said. "Captain
Picard and Commander Data seem quite capable of accomplishing this expedition on
their own, provided I grant them permission to enter Cardassian space."
Q pointed at the PADD on her desk. "You've already done so,"
he said, and with a snap of his fingers the PADD appeared in Picard's hands.
Picard confirmed the official-if unwillingly granted-imprimatur giving him and
Data right-of-passage into Cardassian territory. "As for you, my dear," Q
continued, "you're going because you have no choice in the matter, because I
decided long ago you were the Bajoran chosen for this mission, because it is
your destiny." Before Kira could open her mouth to reply or protest, Q was
gone.
"No doubt," Data concluded to himself as much as to the two
other people still in the room, "Q thinks Colonel Kira will be able to provide a
valuable service in the course of this mission."
"No doubt," Kira grumbled. "Well, one thing's for sure," she
continued, rising, "if he's involved, I'm not about to let you two go unescorted
to Cardassia, destiny or no destiny."
Quark watched Kira drag herself into his bar and ease on to
a stool. Before he could even pour her a glass of spring wine, her usual
post-shift drink, she said, "I need something stronger today. Something with a
little kick to it."
"Problems upstairs, Colonel?" he asked, sidling closer and
waiting for her affirmation to continue. "I know there are a couple of Starfleet
officers visiting the station, and not just your ordinary run-of-the-mill
Starfleet officers, either."
Resting her chin in one hand, she asked, "Oh, yeah, Quark?
And what else do you know?"
He grinned in triumph and started looking through the array
of bottles before him as he considered what would give the lovely colonel just
the right 'kick.' Selecting a short, squat decanter of amber liquid, he said,
"Oh, just that the former captain of the infamous USS Enterprise and his former
operations officer, the only android in Starfleet, are anxious to get to
Cardassia."
Kira rolled her eyes. "That's hardly big news. Half of
Starfleet wants to get to Cardassia. They're going to have to go through me
first to get there, though."
Quark nodded as he retrieved a tumbler and poured two
finger-widths of the amber liquid into it. "True, but has half of Starfleet been
captured and tortured by none other than Gul Madred?" The deepening of the lines
around her mouth told Quark he had her attention, even if she wanted him to
believe otherwise. "It's true. Captain Picard was taken prisoner during a
top-secret mission about ten years ago. I hear Madred did everything he could to
break Picard, but failed before Starfleet convinced the Cardassian government to
release him."
Kira shrugged, but her affected nonchalance did not fool
him. "Name a Bajoran over the age of thirty who wasn't also tortured by
Cardassians," she said. "Madred was no better or worse than any other."
"Add to that the fact that Captain Picard is a respected
amateur archaeologist," he continued.
"Old news, " she snapped. "Quark, if you've got something to
say, then say it. Otherwise, just fix my drink and go away."
"Feeling a bit testy today?" he ventured with a toothy leer
as he added a dash of yellow syrup to the tumbler. "All right, how's this for
something you don't hear every day: have you ever wondered why and how Kai Winn,
Captain Sisko, and Gul Dukat all managed to disappear at virtually the same
instant?" The sight of her suddenly rigid posture was more than ample reward,
not least for the fact that her doing so made her breasts more prominent. Quark
absently rubbed his left lobe and purred. "Aha, it appears I've touched a
nerve."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, slouching back down and
studying the thick, golden concoction he placed before her. "What is this?"
He ignored her feigned indifference for the moment. "It's
called a 'Shapeshifter.' Here, watch." He took the tumbler and turned it upside
down.
"Wait, don't --" she cried, then stopped and watched in
fascination as the 'liquid' coalesced into a single, gelatinous strand and
slowly insinuated its way downward. Long before the tip could come into contact
with the surface of the bar, however, Quark righted the glass and the strand
insinuated its way back into the glass. "How on Bajor am I supposed to drink
something that can do that?" Kira asked.
"Try it and see," was all Quark would say.
Dubious, Kira took a tentative sip, then suddenly started
choking and sputtering. Quark reached across the bar to thump at her shoulder,
to little effect. As soon as the spasms in her throat abated, she scowled at
him. "That's got a kick, all right," she rasped, examining the contents of her
glass. "How do you make it change consistency like that?"
"Bartender's secret," he said with a grin. "Actually, it's
your own saliva that causes the change from semisolid to liquid. Like it?"
Kira shook her head and slid the tumbler back across the
bar. "Too strong. I'll settle for a Black Hole."
"One Black Hole, coming up." He waited for the inevitable
follow-up to the bombshell he had dropped a few moments earlier. Much to his
satisfaction, he did not have to wait long.
"What makes you think there's any connection between all
three disappearances?" she asked without any prelude, drumming her fingers
against the countertop.
"Don't you think it's a little too coincidental to ignore?"
he said. "After all, all three of them disappeared at virtually the same time,
just as the war was coming to an end, and none of them have been seen dead or
alive since."
"That doesn't mean anything. Lots of people disappeared
during the war. That's what happens in wartime."
One of his waiters brought a tray of glasses, steaming fresh
from the washer, and placed it behind the bar. Quark took a cloth and began
wiping them dry, making sure not to miss any water spots. "Ah," he said with a
discerning look, "but Kai Winn had nothing to do with the ongoing war effort,
and both she and Captain Sisko were last seen on Bajor, far from the front
lines."
"And I suppose you're also going to tell me that Dukat was
on Bajor as well?" Kira harrumphed and drained her glass. "Next thing, you'll be
telling me that Dukat kidnapped them and sacrificed them to his little
pagh-wraith cult." She must have repeated what she just said in her mind,
because she paused to stare into space for a moment, her glass tilted in mid-air
toward her mouth, then shrugged the thought away and drank.
Cackling, Quark said, "Oh, I don't know, that sounds a bit
far-fetched even to me. But --" he leaned over the bar, and beckoned her closer
"-- a reliable source tells me that Dukat was indeed on Bajor at the time of the
kai's and captain's disappearances."
Kira snorted. "Dukat on Bajor? Not on your life. He'd have
been recognized and arrested the minute he set foot on Bajoran soil."
"Not if he was in disguise." He smiled to himself at her
frozen expression.
His victory was short-lived, however, because she leaped
over the counter, grabbed him by the lapels, and dragged him to within
centimeters of her face. "What do you know, Quark?" she snarled. "Spill
everything, now!"
With a squawk of alarm he struggled to free himself, but
with the tenacity of a boa constrictor her grip tightened even more. "Colonel,
please, you're hurting me," he gasped. "Let me go and I'll tell you what I
know."
Shoving him with such force he fell against the back
counter, knocking several of the newly-dried glasses to the floor, Kira sat back
and crossed her arms over her chest. "There. I've lived up to my end of the
bargain. Now talk, or I'll personally drag you by your nostrils to a holding
cell."
Quark rubbed at his sore throat and glared back at Kira.
Making sure he stayed well out of her reach, he finally said, "My source tells
me that Dukat had himself surgically altered to look like a Bajoran not long
before the war ended."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Go on."
"And that he managed to worm his way into Kai Winn's inner
circle...possibly even into her bedroom." Kira's face suddenly went pale, but
she nodded for him to continue. "According to my source, Dukat convinced the kai
to open some book of evil spells or something. Soon after that, both he and the
kai, and Captain Sisko, disappeared without a trace."
He was tempted to summon Doctor Bashir; Kira was not only
pale, but trembling so hard she had to sit down rather abruptly. After several
minutes of hard, heavy breathing-which he could not quite bring himself to be
concerned about-she finally looked up at him and asked, "How did you find any of
this out? I thought Winn's apostasy had been kept completely under wraps."
Now he had been caught off guard. "You knew about this?"
Kira nodded. "It was supposed to have been kept secret-not
even the Vedek Assembly knew about it. Only the head of the Central Archives,
who reported her questionable interest in demonography to us in the first place,
the president of the Vedek Assembly, Shakaar and myself knew. Until now." She
looked up at Quark with moist eyes. "Do you realize what this means, now that
the truth is out in the open? This could be devastating for Bajor. That even the
kai, the leader of the faithful, could turn to evil-no one will believe in the
supremacy of the Prophets any more."
Inexplicably worried, Quark took a cautious step closer and
patted Kira's hand. Only too late did he realize his error.
With more speed and grace than a bat'leth slicing through
flesh, she had once again grabbed him and hauled him halfway across the bar. Her
teeth clenched so tightly she was spewing droplets of foam in his face, she
hissed, "If you breathe one word of this-one word-to anyone else, dead or alive,
I'll string you up by your ears, pin you to the sensor array, and use you as a
weather vane. Am I making myself clear?"
"C-C-C-Clear, C-C-C-Colonel."
"And you'd better make sure your 'informant' is clear on
this as well, because if there's even a hint that this little item of slander is
spreading, you'll be the first one I'll come looking for. Got that?"
"G-G-Got it."
"Good." She released him again and wiped her hands along the
sides of her uniform, as if the very feel of him was distasteful to her. For his
part, Quark just lay where he was, afraid to move lest he further incite her
wrath and bring down more pain and humiliation upon himself. With a tense smile,
Kira said, "Good night, Quark. Don't forget what I warned you about." Then she
left.
"Yes, Colonel," he mumbled to her retreating back. Then,
carefully, he eased himself down from the counter and made a half-hearted
attempt to put himself back in order. "Whatever the colonel wants, the colonel
gets," he muttered, slowly beginning to feel better. "Aye, aye, Colonel, yes,
ma'am!" he cackled, giving a jaunty salute to the air.
"Having fun?" a voice asked from the end of the bar.
Quark whirled. "Oh. It's you," he said.
The patron smirked. "Yes, Quark, it's me."
"Did you hear what she said to me? She threatened me, all
because of you!"
"Tsk, tsk, my fine Ferengi friend, what did you expect from
a Bajoran? Did you actually think she'd give you oo-mox in gratitude for what
you told her?"
His lobes tingled at the thought of Colonel Kira giving him
oo-mox. "Can you blame a man for wishful thinking?"
"No, I suppose not," the patron sneered. He tossed a pouch
into Quark's waiting hands. "Here's the latinum, as we agreed. You've more than
earned it."
Quark fished around in the pouch, retrieved a bar, and bit
down on it, to be sure it was genuine. Satisfied, he closed the pouch and
slipped it inside his vest. "There's no favor too small for latinum," he
said.
"That's what makes you Ferengi so useful for stirring up
trouble."
Quark grinned and rubbed his ear. "Speaking of trouble, have
you seen Vash lately?"
Kira went straight to the shrine from Quark's. She needed to
meditate. For the past several weeks restless sleep punctuated with bizarre
dreams had haunted her. Visions of friends, family, loved ones, fading in and
out with the tide of her consciousness, each of them speaking in a language of
encrypted metaphors she could not even begin to decipher. Sisko, her mother,
Bareil, Opaka, Jadzia, all faces she was overjoyed to see again but whose
ghostly visits left her with a lingering sadness and confusion. What was
happening to her?
She was relieved to find the shrine empty. Most of the
Bajorans on the station used it only for community services, but on occasion a
visiting monk might seek solace in meditation after hours. Tonight, however, she
had the shrine to herself.
The glow of the burning candles cast eerie, dancing shadows
on the walls, giving Kira the impression she was not completely alone. Refusing
to give in to her innate superstition, she knelt on the floor before the mandala
and closed her eyes to concentrate on her breathing.
As each breath grew deeper and more even, she felt her
awareness of the surrounding environment grow distant, fading into the
background of her mental landscape. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Open the mind
to the Prophets. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. True understanding comes when
questions answer themselves. Breathe in, hold, breathe out.
Corporeality faded, and the crackling of the flames became
the buzzing of nerve endings. The hard floor beneath her became a lush Bajoran
meadow. Voices, hidden within the hum of the forcefield protecting the resident
orb, whispered to her. The steady, ceaseless thrum of the station core became
the beat of her own heart. Peace and stillness filled the vacuum left by her
fleeing cares and worries.
"Nerys."
The whisper was so soft she almost did not hear it. The
faint sibilance on the final letter in her name, however, was familiar and
unmistakable. It was also impossible. He could not be here.
Kira slowly opened her eyes, only to close them again to
shield herself from the dazzling whiteness surrounding her. The cosmic heartbeat
that accompanied an orb experience echoed in her head.
"Nerys."
No. It cannot be him. Not here. Not now.
She opened her eyes again. This time, she was back in the
shrine, but she instinctively knew it was an illusion. She rose and turned in
place, looking for the source of the voice, hoping beyond hope it, too, would
prove to be an illusion, a trick played by her overfatigued mind. "Where are
you?" she asked, her voice sounding strangely resonant in her head. "Show
yourself."
"Here I am, Nerys." The owner-or borrower, perhaps, or
thief-of the voice stepped out from behind a column and into the dancing
candlelight.
"Dukat," Kira hissed, taking a step backward, her hand
reaching for her absent phaser. He was not the Dukat she remembered, though.
This Dukat was grossly malformed, part Bajoran, part Cardassian, his entire body
blackened as though he had just walked through fire. Only the familiarity of his
voice and the livid blueness of his eyes betrayed his identity to her.
The apparition-or nightmare-nodded. "It's been a long time,
hasn't it?"
She refused to play his-its-games, and ignored the question.
"You're supposed to be dead."
He tilted his head to the side in an all-too-familiar
gesture and smiled. "Dead according to your limited understanding of the word,
perhaps," he said, spreading his arms to indicate himself, "but, as you can
surely see, not truly dead."
"What do you want with me?"
"Ah, Nerys," he laughed, mirroring her efforts to move away
from him, "you've never been the sort to waste time on small talk. No time for
reminiscing about the good old days, is there?"
"What do you want with me?" she repeated through clenched
teeth, trying not to show her fear.
"Great danger lies ahead of you," intoned a new voice. Kira
whirled to see the late Kai Winn-at least, she presumed it was Winn, although
the half-melted appearance of her face made it impossible to be sure-standing
behind her, her hands folded over her ample abdomen. "The path you have chosen
has many obstacles."
Beginning to suspect the Prophets had nothing to do with
this eerie visitation, Kira said, "I'm not afraid." To convince herself she
really meant it, she repeated the refrain: "I'm not afraid."
"You will be," Dukat said, circling Kira to stand beside
Winn.
So much for convincing herself. She felt like a gettle
cornered by ravenous predators. "Why should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't," Winn said. "But neither should you ignore
us."
"The path you have chosen will lead you away from the
Prophets," Dukat said.
"They will try to stop you from straying," Winn said.
"How do I know you're not trying to lead me astray?" Kira
asked. "I know you don't speak for the Prophets."
"The Prophets speak only for themselves," Dukat said.
"They care not for Bajor," Winn said.
Kira snorted. "They cared far more for Bajor than you two
ever did."
"False," Dukat said. "They care only for what they can
take-your world, your devotion, your allegiance...your Emissary."
"No," Kira insisted, shaking her head. "The Prophets didn't
take Captain Sisko, he went to be with them."
"They gave him little choice," Dukat said, stalking Kira.
"Join them, or suffer the same fate as I."
"They could have restored him to life," Winn said with a
solemn nod. "They chose not to."
Kira had no doubt anymore who, or what, her accosters were;
she did not need blood-red eyes or red armbands to identify them as the
embodiment of evil. She felt her pagh recoil in disgust and horror at the
thought the pagh-wraiths had deigned to 'honor' her with a visit. Steeling
herself for the inevitable backlash, she pulled herself to her fullest height
and declared, "I refuse to stand here and listen to this!" Then she walked
briskly between them toward the exit, her head held high, her eyes focused
directly ahead.
As her sole means of escape neared, she began to think she
might also have escaped the pagh-wraiths' wrath. Just as she reached the exit,
however, Dukat said, "If you go to Cardassia, you will die."
With the pagh-wraith's threat echoing in her head, Kira
almost relented. She knew they would stop at nothing to achieve their evil
goals. On the other hand, she also knew they would stop at nothing to tempt her
to stray from the path the Prophets had laid out for her before the dawn of
time. If the pagh-wraiths were so determined to keep her from going with Picard
they would even kill her, then she knew she had only one choice. Without turning
around, she said, "Then I will die." Then she passed through the exit and her
vision, and back into the realm of corporeal affairs.
As soon as Kira was out of sight, Dukat turned to Winn. "Do
you think she bought it?"
Winn folded her arms over her chest. "She might have,
although that crack about dying could have ruined the entire charade." She shook
her head. "I never realized Bajorans were that superstitious. No wonder the P
have grown so powerful."
Dukat nodded. "Now you see why it's so important we stop
them before it's too late." He gave his mate a pleading look. "Can I count on
your good word with the assembly?"
She sighed, but gave him a slight smile. "Yes, Q, I'll tell
them that you've been following our plan to the...letter."
"Good! I knew you wouldn't let me down." He leaned over and
gave her a peck on the cheek. "You'd better go, then, before they start to
wonder. As for me," he looked down at his sorry-looking faŤade, "I want to get
out of this form."
"That makes two of us." In a flash of light seen only by the
dancing shadows cast by candlelight, the two entities disappeared.
Back
To Top
CHAPTER THREE
Picard leaned forward and gazed through the main viewport as
Kira cut the runabout's impulse engines and glided over the Cardassian capital.
From his vantage point, at a kilometer above the surface and descending, the
city, which had been flattened during an eleventh-hour rampage by retreating
Dominion forces, looked to be a vibrant, bustling interstellar metropolis. Most
of the more prominent structures were newly built, their designs revealing a
recent infusion of Bajoran aesthetics. The air, once believed to be the most
polluted in the quadrant, looked clear and unimpeded by haze. Small
orbit-to-surface vessels zipped across the skyline like worker bees in search of
nectar, bringing engineers, craftsmen, social workers and entrepreneurs from
Bajor and points beyond.
As the craft neared the spaceport, however, Picard's
optimism faded. Closer to the surface, beneath the impressive skyline, squalor
and desperation held court among the millions of demoralized, disenfranchised
Cardassians who flocked to the capital in the wake of the treaty, only to find
even less waiting for them than what they had left behind. Inoperable ground
cars cluttered the streets. Storefronts stood unoccupied while street vendors
hawked everything from potable water to narcotics to themselves. Bajorans buzzed
industriously around half-finished building projects while the natives lurked in
alleys, hopeless, directionless.
"It would seem that media reports about conditions on
Cardassia Prime have been greatly understated," Data remarked, and Picard turned
to see him looking out on the same scene. He wondered how much more detail
Data's cybernetically enhanced eyes could make out, feeling in the same instant
a measure of gratitude he was but a mere Human. Better was not always
better.
"It's no worse than the rebuilding of Bajor," Kira said
without looking at either of them. "It'll pass in time, once the Cardassians get
back on their feet."
"If they get back on their feet," Picard said, pitching his
voice low enough so only Data would hear. He knew the android would share the
sentiment with or without his emotion chip.
Picard refrained from further comment, however, as Kira
engaged the retro thrusters and guided the runabout to a waiting landing pad.
Before she had even turned on the engines' cooling fans, he and Data were out of
their seats and gathering their equipment and packs for disembarking. They
waited by the rear hatch while Kira activated the release switch and slung her
single duffel over her shoulder, then the three of them stepped forth into the
hot, humid Cardassian air.
The hosteler narrowed his eyes and studied Picard for
several unblinking seconds. Then, in turn, his gaze shifted to the left first,
then right, as he subjected Data and Kira to the same scrutiny. For a second,
Picard thought he saw a flare of hostility in the Cardassian's face when he
looked at Kira, but in the midst of all those scales and ridges it was hard to
tell the difference between a glower and a leer.
Data's voice broke the silent standoff. "Will you be able to
provide housing for us?"
The hosteler cleared his throat, then keyed several commands
into his antiquated computer console using two of the three remaining fingers on
his left hand to peck among the pads. "Sharing okay?" he asked.
"That will do," Picard said. "We only need a place to
sleep."
"Hmph," muttered the hosteler, then typed in a few more
commands before inserting an isolinear rod into the main data port. After a few
seconds, the computer ejected the rod, which the hosteler then handed to Picard.
"Room 4-beta-7, on the fourth floor," he said. "This'll get you in the front
door after hours as well as into your room. Community bathroom's at the end of
the hall, behind the stairs. Lights out at 0100. I recommend you store your
valuables in my safe," he added.
"Just how stu--" Kira began, but Picard interrupted her.
"We have nothing of value, but thank you for the offer."
The hosteler sniffed. "If it's portable, it can be stolen.
If it can be stolen, it can be sold." He gave Picard a toothy sneer. "For food
and other items of real value."
"Nevertheless, we will not require the use of your
safe."
"Suit yourself."
Data led the way upstairs, and as Picard fell into step
behind him, he noticed Data's phaser, nestled in the holster at his hip, had
been activated. No doubt Kira had done the same with her weapon. Picard began to
wonder if this mission would entail far greater hazards than Q wanted him to
believe.
Once they were in the room, with the door safely secured
behind them, Data took the packs and equipment to one corner and began
inventorying everything, making sure nothing was missing or damaged. While Data
sorted through their gear, Picard crossed to the sole, eye-shaped window and
gazed down on the street below. Now that he could study it near to ground level,
Picard found the devastation almost unbearable. He had seen the worst the
Cardassians had inflicted on Bajor, but this was beyond anything he could have
imagined. What made it even more intolerable was the knowledge that Cardassia
had presumably been rebuilding itself, with Bajoran help, for over three years
now. Cardassia barely qualified as a warp-capable civilization any more.
He could not be sure who he was more angry at: the
Cardassians, for bringing this cataclysm on themselves by waging war after
pointless war against insurmountable odds; the Federation Council, for not
demanding the right to position observers and relief workers in the capital to
forestall such widespread humanitarian rights abuses; or the Bajoran government,
for adamantly refusing outside assistance and almost severing all ties with the
Federation. So much needless suffering, all in the name of pride. Such utter
stupidity, when the solution was so simple and so plain.
"We should try to find someone who knows the city," Kira
said from behind him. Still transfixed, Picard simply nodded. "Even better,
someone who knows a little about Cardassian history."
"Do you know anyone who fulfills those requirements?" Data
asked.
"No," she said.
Picard turned away to look out the window again. Night's
heavy mantle had already descended over the city. Meanwhile, rain had begun to
fall, although it had little more effect than to evaporate into a dense mist
rising from the water-slickened streets and walkways as they reflected the light
cast from lamps and passing groundcars. Even in the relative comfort of the
hostel, Picard could feel the humidity growing more oppressive, leaning heavily
on the people outside as they scurried to keep out of the drizzle.
Across the street, a gaudy sign in the shape of a buxom
woman flashed on and off, then on again, a lurid invitation to lonely men and
women in need of companionship for an hourly fee. Picard watched as a
well-dressed Bajoran approached, then stopped when a scrawny Cardassian girl,
probably not even out of her teens yet, sidled out of the shadows cast by the
wolfishly winking sign. The man spoke briefly to the girl, then she linked her
arm through his and led him inside. The last Picard saw of them was the man's
beefy hand groping at the girl's backside.
Depressed, Picard looked farther up the street, trying with
limited success to block the beacon of Cardassia's humiliation from his vision.
At the corner stood a pub of some sort, or possibly a gaming house-in any event,
it was the only business establishment within view lacking windows or
advertising, yet there was an almost constant stream of Cardassians coming and
going. No Bajorans entered, from what he could see after a minute or two.
"We'll probably be able to find someone there," he said to
no one in particular, pointing to the building as Data neared.
"It appears to be a drinking establishment of some sort,"
Data said.
"I came to the same conclusion. I haven't seen any Bajorans
coming or going, so, if we're lucky, we might find someone who can lead us to
the oldest parts of the city."
"If what we're here to find is even in the city," Kira
commented from behind him.
"That is a reasonable conclusion," Data said. "It is likely
the codex is buried deep beneath the surface, perhaps among the ruins of a
pre-Hebitian civilization."
Picard shook his head in wonder. "Q must be expecting a
miracle from us, if he thinks we can find this 'Book of the Resurrection,'
whatever it is."
"What makes you say that?" Kira asked.
"Q has never been know to present easy puzzles with easy
solutions," Data reminded them.
"Agreed," Picard said. "As far as this particular puzzle is
concerned," he continued, "there's no evidence of a civilization that predates
the Hebitian Empire. None. Which means that either the Hebitians completely
eradicated or absorbed all aspects of the aboriginal culture, or that the people
conquered by the Hebitians lacked any sort of advancement. Either way, the
chances of finding the codex are almost nonexistent."
"Well," Kira said, pulling a long, black cloak from her bag
and standing to drape it over herself, "I didn't come all this way simply to
turn around and go back. Q seemed sure we would find the book, even without his
help. So, instead of standing around wondering how many different ways we can
fail, I suggest we head for the bar and see if we can find someone who can help
us." As she finished, she raised the hood and pulled the drawstring tight around
her neck until her features were completely enshrouded. Unless someone removed
the hood, no one would know the cloak hid a Bajoran inside its heavy folds. "And
the sooner we get started, the sooner we can finish and return to Deep Space
Nine."
Data looked at Picard, who nodded. "You are right, Colonel,"
he said, accepting the pack Data handed him and slipping his arms through the
straps. "If we find a guide tonight, before the curfew begins, then we can get
an early start in the morning." He gestured toward the door, which Data opened.
"After you." Then he followed his companions down the stairs and out into the
night's oppressive gloom.
Back
To Top
CHAPTER FOUR
Too much noise.
Why did they refuse to understand? How could it be so
difficult to make them understand how much the noise hurt? No matter where he
went, sound assaulted him from all directions. Even in the darkest corner of
this tavern, as far from the constant noise of the street as he could get and
still be able to catch the bartender's eye when he needed a refill, his head
throbbed at the tiniest sound. Shouts, laughs, glasses clinking, fists pounding,
footsteps, screams, explosions, curses, phaser fire, all undercut with the
persistent rhythm of his pulse clanging in his ears, all of it drove him deeper
into despair and deeper into silence. He no longer even knew the sound of his
own voice begging them to be quiet. Desperate for peace, he hunkered lower over
his glass and contemplated the mysteries contained within.
Only the unexpected sound of silence drew him away from his
musings. His fog-enshrouded mind sought the cause of the silence, somehow
recalling that it had fallen immediately after three new patrons entered the
tavern. His one unobstructed eye searched for the strangers, eventually finding
them by following the direction of every other gaze in the room.
No wonder the newcomers attracted so much attention. One was
undeniably Human; beside him stood a humanoid male with golden skin. The third,
however, could not be identified, not even so far as gender, thanks to a dark,
hooded cape covering it from head to toe.
Then, as he watched from across the room, as everyone else
remain transfixed by the sight of this strange trio, the hooded figure leaned
forward and whispered in the Human's ear. No one could possibly have heard what
she-as he now knew for certain the third stranger was female-said, but he heard
the sound of her voice, and he knew with a flash of unidentifiable memory he had
heard her voice before. In a city where he knew no one, not even his own name,
on a world where his disfigurement brought him ignominy, he had at last found a
key to unlock the door to himself. If he knew her voice, then surely she would
recognize his.
Ignoring the stares of those around him, he heaved himself
to his feet and lurched forward, his hand stretched out in supplication,
desperate to reach the strange woman from his memory before she left. At the
last moment, however, he faltered, and then one of the patrons stuck a leg out
and tripped him, sending him sprawling. His hands flailed blindly, groping for
something, anything, to slow his descent before his battered head crashed to the
floor.
A gasp resounded in his ears, aggravating the ringing
already there from his collision. Then he realized his face rested on something
soft, and he lifted his head to discover he had not, as he feared, blinded his
good eye, but instead had landed on a pile of black cloth. Confused, he craned
his neck up as far as his disfigurement would allow and found himself staring
into the Human's kindly face.
"Are you all right?" a strangely-inflected voice boomed as
if from a distance. "Are you hurt?"
He saw the clean, well-manicured hand extend toward him and
gratefully accepted its offer of assistance, testing the golden man's strength
as he tried once again to stand.
"You're bleeding," the strange-sounding voice boomed again.
"You should see a doctor."
He paid no more attention to the Human than he did to the
resurgence of noise from the tavern's other patrons. For the first time in as
long as he could remember-which was not very long-his mind shut out all outside
noise, allowing him to focus on the face-the Bajoran face-swimming in and out of
his visual range. He blinked, forcing the fog to dissipate, and took a step
closer. He knew her. Whoever she was, he knew her.
What was her name?
He had to know. He closed his eye, trying to concentrate, to
sort through the jumble of images flashing through his mind. The images slowed,
and a name surfaced. He opened his eye again to be sure she was still there. She
was.
Then, with a determination he had never, until this moment,
suspected he possessed, he took another step forward, grabbed the woman's hands
in his, and croaked, "Ziyal?"
Kira's breath caught in her throat. What were the odds of
someone on this Prophet-forsaken world confusing her with her long-dead friend?
Who would know of the connection? Garak, perhaps, but he would not even speak of
his own relationship with Gul Dukat's daughter, much less hers. What possessed
this badly disfigured vagrant, reeking of filth and sickness, to call out
Ziyal's name? Kira peered closely at the man's face, studying him for any hints.
Underneath the scar tissue covering most of the left side of his face, he bore a
vague resemblance to someone she had once known, a man whom she had despised and
later came to respect. This could not be that man, however; years ago she had
seen his chest torn apart by a barrage of disruptor blasts.
"Colonel, do you know this man?" Picard asked.
She shook her head, feeling an unexpected rush of pity.
"I've never seen him before in my life."
"He seems to think he knows you," Data said.
She had nothing to say to that. Her pity blossoming into
compassion, she continued searching the man's face for clues, hoping to find
something, anything, she could use to help him. Despite her scrutiny, however,
he stood passively, his mouth moving in an inaudible dialogue with whatever
demons possessed his mind while his right eye remained focused on a spot just
beyond her shoulder. Unable to bear the mystery any longer, she finally asked in
the gentlest tone she could muster, "How do you know Ziyal?"
The eye shifted and refocused on her as his mouth opened and
his gray, swollen tongue protruded past his thick lips. "Ziyal?" he
repeated.
"Yes, Ziyal. She was my friend."
"Ziyal. Friend." He nodded.
"Did you know her?"
"Know. Ziyal."
Realizing she was getting nowhere but still determined, Kira
sighed and tried again. "How did you know her name?"
"Know. Name."
"Perhaps we should ask him what his name is," Data said.
Kira nodded, never taking her eyes off the man's face. The
more she looked at him, the more familiar he became. The more familiar he
became, the more her compassion grew. "What is your name?" she asked, pointing
at him.
Her question seemed to distress the poor creature. His hands
reached up and clutched at his ears as he bent forward and began to moan
unintelligibly, the sound issuing forth from his throat little more than a
drone. "Nnnnnnnnnnnnn...." he wailed, crouching lower and lower until his knees
almost touched the floor.
Alarmed, Kira knelt beside him and drew her cloak from where
it had been pulled to the floor to gently drape it around his shoulders, all the
while trying not to touch him any more than necessary. "Sh," she crooned, trying
to reassure him. "It's all right, no one's going to hurt you."
"It would appear that he does not know his name," Data
said.
"Look at his scars," Picard said. "He probably took a severe
blow to the head and has been suffering from amnesia ever since."
"Then he will not be able to help us." They turned to walk
away.
"We can't just leave him here!" Kira snapped with vehemence
that surprised even her. Her companions turned back and stared at her with
matching expressions of surprise and puzzlement. She steadfastly returned the
gaze, trying to will them to agree. "Look at him," she pleaded. "We have to help
him."
"Colonel," Picard said gently, his hand clasping her
shoulder to pull her up, "there's nothing we can do for him. If he's managed to
survive this long without our help, then he can take care of himself."
Kira Nerys was the last person anyone who knew her would
have expected to feel pity for a Cardassian, and the first person to wonder
internally at her inexplicable determination to help the broken man whimpering
beside her. What was wrong with her? This was not normal behavior, no matter how
pathetic he seemed. Yet, despite the utter improbability of her compassion, she
could not allow herself to abandon him. She felt as drawn to him as she did to
the people she loved most, as if removing herself from his presence would sever
her very life-line.
"Just like Cardassia, right?" she asked Picard, wondering
where the thought had originated even as the words were passing her lips.
Feeling pity for a Cardassian was one thing; defending Cardassia was something
entirely different. Nevertheless, she had seen Cardassia in the aftermath of the
Dominion withdrawal, and the devastation that, despite her insistence to the
contrary, outmatched Bajor's after the end of the Occupation a hundredfold.
Picard withdrew his hand. "I beg your pardon?"
Gesturing to the man as she pivoted on her feet to wrap an
arm around his shoulders, Kira said again, "He's just like Cardassia-there's
nothing we can do to help, so we should just leave him alone and hope for the
best. Isn't that the official Federation policy?"
"One might say the same of Bajor," Data said.
"One might," she agreed, nodding emphatically. "Your
Federation couldn't be bothered to help Bajor when we were broken and helpless,
either."
"That is not what I meant," Data said.
"Then what did you mean?" she asked, challenging him with
her defiance.
Her challenge had little effect. Data replied, in the same
evenness of tone he used in all his speech, "I meant simply that Bajor is as
blameworthy as the Federation of denying Cardassia the help it needs."
Kira leaped to her feet, eager to throttle Picard's pet
project and his smooth, unassuming neutrality, even though she knew he could lay
her flat with a single glancing blow. "How dare you --"
Picard grabbed her shoulders and forced her to direct her
fury toward him, not even flinching as her fist made contact with his chest.
"Colonel, this is neither the time nor the place to debate diplomacy. The simple
truth is that there is nothing we can do to help this man, and curfew begins in
ten minutes. If we're to find someone who can help us, we need to do so
quickly." He turned to Data. "Mister Data, if you would--?" Data gave a brisk
nod and walked away to speak to the bartender.
With great effort, Kira managed to wrestle her anger to
within reasonable limits. Nevertheless, she would not concede Picard's feigned
helplessness. They could, and would, help the stranger. Resting her hand on his
shoulder, she insisted, "We're taking him with us."
Picard's brow furrowed. "What?"
She gritted her teeth. "You heard me. We're not leaving him
here, not when he's like this. We're taking him with us."
"Just what do you propose we do with him?" Picard asked.
"In the morning, we can take him to a refugee center. But
we're not abandoning him." She bent down and wrapped an arm around the
stranger's waist, then helped him stand, all the while trying not to let his
overpowering aroma permeate her nostrils too deeply. Cardassians smelled bad
enough, in her opinion, but this man was filthy beyond tolerance. As soon as
they returned to the hostel, she would send him straight to the washroom with
strict instructions to scrub himself until his scales gleamed.
A fusillade of harsh laughter distracted her, and she looked
up to identify what had caused the disruption. As she watched in astonishment,
Data backed away from a corner table, his expression devoid of any semblance of
fear or anxiety, his regress motivated by the steady advancement of a hulking
mountain of a Cardassian. Feeling exposed all of a sudden, Kira inched toward
Picard, even though she knew he could no more protect her than she could protect
herself.
"You dare wave your Federation scrip in my face?" the
mountain thundered at Data, the deep, rolling tones of his voice causing the
bar's other patrons to look up and enjoy the show. "Your latinum means nothing
to me!" He held out his hand, palm up, and with a display of strength Kira had
never before seen, slowly closed his hand around the latinum bars he held until
silvery goo seeped out from between his fingers. Then he reached out and wiped
his messy palm across the front of Data's tunic.
"Sir," Data said, "I believe you misund --"
"There's only one thing I understand, Golden Man," the
mountain rumbled, grasping Data around the throat and lifting him off his feet,
"and that's that I work only for what I can use or sell. I don't work for
Federations, I don't work for Bajorans, and I don't work for you!" Then, with
the ease of a child skipping stones across a pond, the Cardassian threw Data
across the room, until gravity brought him down, heavily, on a gaming table.
How the mountain had heard Kira's gasp in the midst of the
turmoil that erupted immediately following Data's short flight and abrupt
landing was anybody's guess. All that mattered was that he had heard, and
directed his attention to her and Picard. Moving with extreme caution, taking
care she did not back herself into a corner, Kira edged backward, tugging Picard
along with her. Behind them and off to the side, Data was involved in a melee
that only someone with his enhanced abilities could survive; even if such had
not been the case, Kira was far more concerned with saving her own skin at the
moment.
Only too late did Kira realize the Cardassian had maneuvered
her and Picard into the bar; with a rush of fear-induced adrenaline she spotted
the door out of the corner of her eye, four meters away. Too far. She would
never be able to complete a dash for safety. She would have to stand and
fight.
With a single fluid motion, she snatched a bottle of kanar
from behind her, smashed it against the edge of the bar, and waved the jagged
edge in the mountain's face. For his part, Picard had laid claim to a citrus
knife, aiming the serrated blade at the Cardassian's abdomen. "Back off!" she
growled, then spat every epithet she had ever learned during the Occupation.
The Cardassian laughed, the reflection of light on his large
teeth filling Kira with sickening dread. "I've done worse things than eating
Bajoran shit," he rumbled, leering at her. "I've eaten Bajoran pussy, and
nothing tastes worse than Bajoran pussy."
"Colonel..." Picard warned under his breath, anticipating
her lunge.
His admonition proved unnecessary, however; before either of
them could act, the vagrant who had accosted them when they first entered
materialized in front of them and threw himself at the mountain with a loud
war-cry, his fists, feet and teeth a blur as he drove his countryman back, step
by step. Again, from out of nowhere, Data appeared by their side, looking a
little disheveled but otherwise none the worse for wear. "Captain, I believe now
would be a prudent time to leave," he said.
"Agreed, Mister Data. Colonel?"
"You'll get no argument from me," she said, never taking her
eyes of the stranger as he continued to pound at the larger Cardassian with
unrelenting fury.
Dropping his knife, Picard grabbed her arm and dragged her
away from the spectacle. "Then let's go!"
The oppressive Cardassian humidity had never before felt so
welcome to Kira than when it hit her full-blast in the face as she made her
escape. She followed Picard and Data around the corner and collapsed against the
side of the building, her chest heaving.
"That was a close call," Picard panted beside her. "Finding
a guide may not be such an easy task."
"Oh, no," Kira cried, stricken with guilt.
"Is something wrong?" Data asked.
"That poor man-we left him. He saved us, and we left
him."
"No we didn't," Picard said gently.
"What?"
"Look behind you."
"Ziyal," a vaguely familiar voice rasped.
She turned, and with a flood of relief saw the stranger
standing behind her, his face and hands cut and bruised, his ragged clothes
torn, but otherwise in one piece. "You're okay," she said. "Thank you for
rescuing us."
"Captain --" Data said.
"I know, Data. Colonel," he said, taking Kira by the elbow,
"we need to go."
Before Kira could turn, however, the stranger had taken her
by the other elbow. "Ziyal. No go. Come. Come, come." He tugged her away from
Picard and beckoned her to follow with his other hand. "Come. Help."
"But-But," she protested. "We need to go --" she tried to
move in the opposite direction, toward the hostel, but the stranger's grip
tightened.
"No go," he repeated. "Come. Danger. Help. Come."
"Perhaps he can help us after all," Data said. "At the
least, he seems to think there is danger in the opposite direction."
"Yes," the stranger said. "Danger. No go. Come." He pulled
Kira after him as he headed down the street, away from the bar and the hostel.
She had no choice but to go with him or hurt him, an option she found
unappealing at the moment. Her only comfort was that, after a brief conference,
Picard and Data followed soon after. Where the stranger would lead them was
anybody's guess.
Back
To Top
CHAPTER FIVE
The Cardassian led them through several abandoned streets,
then made an abrupt turn down an alley and began a new journey through the
narrow, winding passageways between buildings. It was a side of Cardassia's
capital offworlders seldom saw, although Kira had spent many nights prowling
through alleys like these when she helped Damar's resistance movement sabotage
the Dominion. Even so, she had no idea where they were; the passages bore no
distinguishing markers, and after a while all the buildings looked the same:
dilapidated and abandoned.
To Kira's relief, Picard and Data were able to match the
stranger's breakneck pace, although she could tell from the heavy breathing
behind her that Picard was beginning to tire. She was too, but she had no
intention of showing it. Starfleet weakling, she thought with an inward scowl.
They have the resources to control an entire quadrant, but put them in the field
for any length of time and their weaknesses will come to the surface just as
surely as a Bajoran has nose pleats.
She tried to imagine someone like Picard trying to survive
the Occupation, or even Cardassia in its current condition. The thought almost
made her laugh out loud. Picard was as helpless as a baby without his android
friend to protect him. Quark's 'source' must have been wrong; no chance Picard
survived an interrogation by Gul Madred. He was too soft, too refined,
too...Human. She would have to watch out for him, lest Starfleet send an entire
squadron of investigators to undermine her authority on DS9. As for Data...well,
his abilities were impressive, but he was only a machine. A remarkably lifelike
machine, but a machine nonetheless. She would not trouble herself with concern
for him; from what she had seen, he could fend for himself.
Kira found herself yanked back to the present when her
Cardassian guide stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees to pry at a metal
door built into the pavement. It looked to be the sort of door once used by
deliverymen to access storage cellars, or perhaps it led to an underground
shelter, built by a fearful citizen some time ago during Cardassia's bellicose
past. Whatever the door's origin or purpose, Kira guessed they were in one of
the oldest sections of the capital. She knelt to help the man with the door.
After several minutes of struggle, the door finally opened
with a thump and a screech of rusted hinges protesting the disturbance to their
indeterminate slumber. Kira rose, wiped the grime from the door on her pants,
then pulled a wristlamp from her pack. She activated the lamp and angled it so
the beam cut into the darkness below. A steep ladder, its rungs frayed and
rusted by time and the elements, led from the opening, but she could not see how
far it extended. Kira was not one to let uncertainty or the unknown get the best
of her, however. She strapped the lamp to her wrist, slipped her arms through
the straps on her field pack, and carefully swung her legs over the edge. The
tip of her boot caught against a rung, and she used the toe-hold to maneuver
herself into place.
"Colonel," Picard said. "Be careful."
Without replying, she hooked one arm around a rung and
removed her phaser from its holster with the other. Then, with a small sigh of
aggravation, she descended into the gloom.
She could only estimate how far down she had to climb before
her feet touched solid ground again, but judging from the tiny square of light
far above her head, it was some distance. "Come on down," she called, cupping
her hand beside her mouth and waving her lamp above her head to signal the
others. "It's about thirty meters."
"What do you see down there?" came Picard's voice,
diminished by distance.
Kira grumbled. "Hang on a second," she said. Turning
carefully, her phaser at the ready, she shone the light all around her.
"By the Prophets," she whispered.
Picard could barely contain his excitement as he descended
the ladder. Kira's astonishment carried across the distance more strongly than
her voice, and he was anxious to see for himself what had her so agitated. She
did not strike him as the sort to be surprised by much of anything.
He leaped down from the ladder when he was little more than
a meter from the surface, Data and the Cardassian not far behind. His eyes
widened at what lay before him. Their guide had not led them to an underground
shelter, or even into the city's sewer system, but to a vast subterranean city
that extended as far as he could see. This was no crude footpath he stood on,
but a paved thoroughfare, lined on both sides by solidly-built structures of all
sizes and types. Yet, as far as he could discern, this city had been uninhabited
for millennia.
Picard presumed the stranger called this place home; despite
the gloom and the undercurrent of mildew and decay, anyone in need of shelter
and safety would find it welcome. For his part, however, Picard was eager to
hear what stories the walls and foundations had to tell. "Mister Data, what do
you make of all this?" he asked.
Data, his eagerness to learn more almost equal to Picard's,
had activated his tricorder the moment he stepped off the ladder and was busily
scanning in every direction. "These buildings are over 50,000 years old," he
said. "The architecture is consistent with what little we know about Hebitian
architecture."
"This is a Hebitian city?" Picard almost yelped. To date,
all that had been found of the ancient Hebitian civilization consisted of little
more than a few plundered tombs, although the Cardassian National Museum of
History and Art boasted an impressive collection of pottery and jewelry-all
off-limits to non-Cardassian scientists, of course. Nothing of this magnitude
had ever been reported in any archaeological journal.
Picard sighed. His mentor, Professor Galen, would have given
his right arm to see this. Awestruck, he ran his palm across the faŤade of a
nearby building, hoping to feel a spark of that long-dead culture arc from the
hand-cut stone into his own body, revealing to him in an instant the answers to
all his questions.
"This city looks to be relatively intact, like it was just
abandoned yesterday," Kira said. "What happened to the people who lived here?
Did they just disappear? Why didn't the Cardassians just move in-why did they
build on top?"
By way of answering her, Data angled his wristlamp upward to
shine it on the ceiling. "There is a high concentration of basalt up there."
"Basalt?" Kira and Picard asked in unison, both of them
craning their necks up to see. Then Picard nodded. "Of course. Basalt is an
igneous rock-it came from a volcano. This city was buried under meters of lava
and volcanic ash."
"A volcano did this?" Kira asked, disbelief evident in her
voice. "Then how did these buildings survive?"
"I am not certain," Data said. "It is possible a pocket of
air protected these buildings. We may find an impassable wall of lava and rubble
a hundred meters from here."
"And the people?" she pressed. "Why aren't there any
skeletons?"
Again Data replied, "I cannot say for sure. Perhaps they all
managed to escape in time. Perhaps the heat incinerated their remains. Perhaps
superheated steam boiled them until nothing was left." Both Kira and Picard
shuddered at the image. "There is not enough evidence to say."
"Do you think the Cardassians built their capital here
without knowing an entire city lay beneath their own?" Picard asked.
"That is likely, Captain," he said. "What is certain is that
some of them, at least, know about it now." He removed his phaser from its
holster. "We should proceed with caution."
Nodding in acknowledgement of Data's warning, Picard removed
his own phaser and began walking away from the ladder, confident the others
would follow, impatient to discover what lay ahead, suspecting Q had somehow set
events in motion to bring them, against all odds, to this exact place.
At that moment, the Cardassian, who, in his excitement,
Picard had completely forgotten about, rushed to the head of the line. "Go now?"
he asked, directing his question more at Kira than at Picard. "Come?"
"Do you know where this path leads?" Picard asked,
enunciating each word.
The young man nodded. "Know go. I take. Come, come." Then he
once again took Kira's arm and strode briskly ahead, not even waiting to see if
Picard and Data would fall in step behind him.
Picard looked at Data. "He seems to know where he is going,"
he said.
"As usual, Mister Data, you are correct. After you." They
took off after the Cardassian and Kira at a brisk trot.
Picard walked through the streets of the ancient city in
silent wonder. Human civilization was little more than six thousand years old,
still in its infancy compared to many of the civilizations he had encountered
during his career. To think that, while Humans were still hunting long-extinct
beasts with crude spears, the Hebitians were building cities, working with
precious metals, designing some of the most beautiful pottery ever found in the
Alpha Quadrant, even keeping meticulous star charts, was to stand nose-to-nose
with stark humility.
He wondered what the Hebitians must have been like. Their
level of advancement indicated they were humanoid, but they had not been
inclined toward self-representation; no portrait of a Hebitian had ever been
discovered. Their decorative arts revealed a highly developed aesthetic sense
with a flair for the abstract, but archaeologists lacked a Rosetta Stone that
would unlock the secret to decoding their equally complex hieroglyphics. The
ornate tombs suggested at least a rudimentary belief in the afterlife, but the
nature of that belief remained unknown. What was Hebitian family life like? What
did they eat? What industries had the economy been based upon? So many
questions, yet so few answers.
Above all else, Picard wondered what had happened to the
Hebitian civilization. One popular theory was that they had died out naturally,
perhaps by a series of cataclysms, either natural or man-made. Some
archaeologists argued they might have abandoned Cardassia and colonized another
world, perhaps voluntarily, perhaps as slaves eventually assimilated into
another culture. For an instant Picard thought of the Borg, and could not
contain his instinctive shudder. The most prevalent theory was that the
Hebitians had been conquered and eliminated by the Cardassians, but that theory
posed as many questions as it answered: where had the Cardassians come from?
Were they natives of this world? Had they once been enslaved by the Hebitians?
Were they natural descendants of the Hebitians? Not for the first time Picard
wished Professor Galen were here, to debate the merits and faults of the
numerous theories.
Picard also wondered about their young Cardassian guide. How
he had first discovered and managed to navigate this course with limited visual
acuity, diminished mental aptitude and no light source was beyond Picard's
capacity for guessing. Keeping his attention firmly focused on his feet lest he
stumble on the uneven, rock-strewn path, Picard asked their guide, "Where are
you taking us?"
No answer.
Picard cleared his throat and tried again. "You there. Do
you know where you're going, or are you just leading us on a wild goose
chase?"
The young man's answer was not what Picard expected, but it
was an answer nonetheless. He turned sharply to the right and entered a narrow
passageway between two buildings. The alley dead-ended in front of a low stone
wall, but the stranger neatly hurdled it. After a moment's hesitation, Kira
first, then Data and Picard, followed him.
The wall seemed to border what may have once been a
courtyard; in the center, an immense fountain sat, untouched by time or the
elements. Picard noticed as he passed by that it still held water in its
enormous basin. On the far side of the courtyard stood a long, low building, its
intricately carved entablature supported by a series of massive columns. In
between them Picard saw light flickering through.
The young man seemed unconcerned by his surroundings or the
mysterious light. He ascended the smooth steps three at a time, then turned to
face his companions. "Come," he said, patting the column nearest him. "Home."
Then he turned and entered the building.
Picard instantly recognized the building's ancient role:
whatever the Hebitian religion may have entailed, this had once been a temple.
"Mister Data," he whispered, at the same time wondering why he felt compelled to
lower his voice, "is your tricorder handy?"
"Yes, of course, Captain," he replied in like manner,
removing his tricorder from its pouch and activating it. "But why are we
whispering?"
"No matter." With his lamp extended stiffly before him,
Picard ascended the steps and passed cautiously, almost reverently, between the
columns.
A second set of columns stood between him and the inner
sanctuary. These columns appeared to have been fashioned out of some
unidentifiable type of wood, carved by long-dead artisans into almost
grotesquely abstract fetishes, then lacquered to prevent time and nature from
eroding the material and thereby bringing on the collapse of the ornate roof.
With an ever greater sense of awe Picard crept past the looming totems and into
the main sanctuary.
In the center of the temple a large fire blazed smokelessly.
Who built this? Picard asked himself. And why?
At one end of the temple stood a low table surrounded by
stone benches. Picard headed toward it, eager for discovery. Data knelt before
the table, his tricorder beeping excitedly. "Captain," he said, "there is a
drain beneath this table."
"And blood stains on top," Picard said. "This was clearly an
altar. The drain existed to allow blood and other liquids to escape. It also
means the Hebitians may have had an advanced sewer system," he added, trying to
rein in his growing excitement. "As with many cultures, the priest probably
slaughtered an animal here, using a special libation cup to catch the blood,
opened the carcass to read the entrails, then roasted the remains on that fire
for the temple officials to eat."
"Oh," Data said. Then, "Why would the priest read the
entrails?"
Picard had to smile, despite the gruesome image his friend's
question evoked. "In many primitive cultures, it was believed one could see into
the future by studying an animal's intestines."
"Oh," Data repeated.
Picard could see he was not satisfied. Forestalling the
anticipated follow-up, he said, "Don't ask me why. The practice died out on
Earth a few thousand years ago."
"Yes, Captain," was the disappointed reply.
Only then did Picard realize they were alone. "Mister Data,"
he asked, "did you see where Colonel Kira went?"
Genuine puzzlement creasing his brow, Data looked around.
"No, Captain, I did not," he finally said. He re-activated his tricorder and
scanned the area around him. "There is a residual biosignature matching the
colonel's in the direction of that small building," he continued after a few
seconds, pointing toward a squat-shaped chamber at the opposite end of the
temple.
Picard wondered why he had not noticed the structure before;
its simple, unassuming design made it seem out of place in the midst of such
imaginative dZcor. Perhaps that had been intentional-perhaps the temple's
designers had meant for the chamber to be overlooked. He followed Data.
"This is not what I expected to find," Data said, almost
apologetically, as Picard came around the corner.
For a moment, Picard shared the sentiment. Rather than a
doorway or fourth wall, instead he found a large, marbled pit, shielded from
prying eyes by the structure, its steep sides decorated with images of fantastic
creatures. In each corner, someone-or someones-had neatly stacked crates of food
and water, tools, equipment, anything that might be necessary for an extended
stay in this hidden shelter. But where was Colonel Kira? Where was the
Cardassian who led them here? Had they walked unwittingly into a trap? He
checked the setting on his phaser to reassure himself. He did not relish the
thought of a group of marauding Cardassians taking them captive.
He was beginning to fear the worst when Data, after checking
his tricorder, leaped into the pit. "Look, Captain" he said, indicating a small,
round hole in the center, "there is a drain here as well. Do you suppose this is
where the Hebitians would have sacrificed very large animals?"
Picard knelt down and thought for a moment, rubbing his chin
as he did so. "Perhaps, or perhaps even people. But I doubt it." He followed
Data into the pit and traced his hand along one of the sides. "Do you see these
animals painted along the walls? What do you think the wavy blue lines
surrounding them indicate?"
Data tilted his head to one side as he studied the figures
Picard pointed to. "I do not know," he admitted.
Smiling both at Data's innocence and his own intuitive
realization, he said, "Water, Mister Data. These decorations were meant to
simulate an underwater environment. This pit was built to hold a large amount of
water."
Comprehension glowed in the android's eyes. "Such as a
pool?"
"Possibly, but more likely a bath. The priest would have
wanted to purify himself before conducting any sacrifice, and then of course
afterward he would need to cleanse himself of bloodstains, both real and
imagined."
"Imaginary bloodstains?" Picard believed he could hear
Data's artificial brain shifting into overdrive in an effort to make sense of it
all. "Why imaginary bloodstains?"
"Guilt, mostly." He sighed at the blank expression on Data's
face. "You see, when we...kill someone or something, even if that killing was
somehow unavoidable or necessary, we feel guilty about it. So we do whatever we
can to 'cleanse' ourselves of that guilt."
Data remained silent for a moment or two, absorbing the
information. Then he nodded. "I see. So, when you went to live with your brother
and his family after Commanders Riker and Shelby rescued you from the Borg, you
were --"
"-- atoning for the guilt I felt at having caused so many
deaths, yes," Picard said, feeling a resurgence of that familiar tight, tingling
sensation in his chest. No matter how he tried to expunge it, he would always
carry the guilt of Wolf 359 with him. However, he had long ago learned to live
with the guilt, and not let it paralyze him. "In this case, the priest felt
guilt at having slaughtered an innocent animal, so he would purify himself in
this bath."
"Then why --"
"Because the gods demanded it."
"Interesting."
Picard had to disagree, but he kept his opinion to himself;
he saw no sense in encouraging another round of Data's preternaturally probing
questions. Instead, he knelt down to study an odd crack in the floor. As he got
closer to the irregularity, however, he realized that was not a natural crack in
the marble, but rather a deliberate seam. "Help me with this, Data," he ordered,
trying to slip his fingers between the tiles.
With the precise, unresentful sort of obedience that could
only come from a creature like Data, he knelt at Picard's side, slipped his
fingers through the crack and lifted a large cluster of tiles welded together to
form a false door built into the floor of the bath. Picard held his wristlamp
before him and peered into the darkness. A short ladder led from the opening to
the floor two meters below. He swung his legs over the rim, about to enter the
hidden passageway, when Data's strong grip on his arm stopped him.
"You should let me go first," he said, removing his phaser
from its holster and adjusting the setting. "That equipment was left here fairly
recently. We do not know who or what we may find down there."
"Nor do we know who built that fire. We should proceed with
extreme caution." He waited for Data to descend the ladder, then followed him
down. "I only hope no harm has come to Colonel Kira."
Back
To Top
CHAPTER SIX
Kira had no idea how far the Cardassian had led her through
the seemingly endless tunnel, but she suspected they had long since passed
beyond the limits of the capital city and well into the next day. Picard and
Data were far behind, their progress no doubt delayed by their incessant chatter
about ancient civilizations. For all she cared, they could have been carried off
by a pack of rabid voles, she was so glad to be free of their typically Human
superiority. As far as she was concerned, she felt as if she had been running
from unseen specters for hours on end, only adrenaline pushing her onward. She
had to stop and rest, and as much as she resented their presence, she needed to
give Picard and Data a chance to find them and catch up.
"Wait," she called out to her escort, clutching his arm in
an effort to slow him down. "I can't go on any further. Let's stop here and rest
a while."
The Cardassian gave her a blank look, his lips pursed in a
distorted simulation of deep concentration. "Stop?" he asked. "No go?"
"No go," she agreed, nodding vigorously. Her chest burned as
she sucked in great draughts of air. Shadows danced before her eyes, making her
dizzy. "Food," she said. "I need to eat. I need water." I need to pee, she
thought, but kept that request to herself. "Stop, please, just for a little
while. Rest."
Comprehension dawned in his disfigured face. "Stop. Rest,"
he said excitedly. "Know rest," he continued, once again taking her hand.
"No, please, no more," she begged, trying to pull free. "I
can't go on any further."
"Is okay," he insisted. "Rest. Not far." Then, tugging her
gently, he led her into an alcove neatly secreted off the corridor. Judging from
the blackened pile of stones in the center of the floor and the rags scattered
around it, the alcove had been used as a shelter fairly recently, and fairly
often.
"Is this your home?" Kira asked, wondering why the
Cardassian would choose such a remote and distant place to call home.
"Home, yes," he said, guiding her to the largest pile of
rags and indicating she was to make herself comfortable.
To appease him, Kira made a show of stretching out and
pretending to make herself at home. Once he seemed satisfied she would not
abandon him, he settled himself in the opposite corner without a word.
Kira knew the stranger continued to watch her warily from
his dark corner, waiting for her implicit approval of his meager hospitality.
She was restless, though, and the aroma from her 'bedding' was almost too much
to bear. Easing to a seated position, she pulled her field pack to her and
rummaged through it. From within she retrieved a canteen, two field ration
packets, and a shirt, which she tore into strips.
She attended to her most immediate need first and guzzled
noisily from the canteen until water dribbled down her chin. Once her thirst had
been slaked, she attended to her hunger pangs with a tasteless but filling
ration square. Next she held one of the cloth strips to the canteen's mouth and
gently tipped it forward, soaking the cloth. Then, moving slowly lest she
startle the stranger, she crept across the floor. The Cardassian remained as
motionless as a statue, the light from her wristlamp reflecting in his unscarred
eye as it followed her movements the only sign of vitality.
Kira knelt before him and studied him in silence, wondering
yet again why he seemed so familiar to her. After a few moments she opened a
ration pack, tearing at the wrapper with her teeth and removing the chewy,
tasteless square inside before handing it to her host. Then she waited to see
what he would do.
His response made her smile. First he studied his 'meal,'
turning it over and over to examine it from all angles. Next he sniffed at it,
wrinkling his nose in apparent distaste. Then his tongue poked out of his mouth
and grazed the surface, before disappearing behind his lips and teeth. Finally,
having determined the ration square to be non-toxic, if a bit unpalatable, he
opened his mouth and crammed the entire thing in.
What followed was a litany of loud chewing as his teeth
tried without much success to grind the square into a size and consistency
suitable for swallowing. While he was otherwise occupied, Kira took the damp
rag, wrung out the excess water, and scooted closer. Then, moving with utmost
caution, she leaned forward and stroked the rag across his cheek.
He froze, but to her relief he did not jerk away. She
reached up again and repeated the gesture, aware of his flinch as she brushed
against a bruise he must have acquired in the attack in the bar. On the other
hand, she could already see the results of her efforts to remove the accumulated
dirt and grime. Pleased with her success so far, Kira remoistened the rag,
grimacing at the sight of the blackened water running free as she wrung the
cloth, then set herself to her task with utmost dedication.
For an indeterminate length of time Kira worked diligently,
scrubbing at the man's face and neck, replacing the strips as necessary until
her canteen was empty. When her task was complete, she took out her phaser,
adjusted the setting as high as it would go, and ignited a pile of rocks in the
makeshift hearth, suffusing the alcove with light and warmth. When she turned,
she found herself facing a completely new man-a man she recognized, but could
not name. Most likely they had crossed paths during the Occupation, or perhaps
he had been on Dukat's staff during the Dominion War, but she still found his
familiarity unsettling. Who was he?
Kira gave him a nod of approval and tossed the filthy rags
into a pile, then sat down beside him. He tensed for a moment, still unsure of
himself, then acquiesced and shuffled closer, sitting stiffly erect and looking
straight ahead.
She studied him in silence for a long time, trying to think
of the best way to question him. Finally, she asked, "Was Ziyal a friend of
yours?"
His overlarge head pivoted on his stalklike neck with such
speed Kira feared he might topple over. Instead, he exclaimed, pointing to
himself with exaggerated emphasis, "Ziyal. Friend. My friend."
Kira sighed and shook her head sadly. Pointing to herself,
she said, "My name is Kira. Kira Nerys."
That seemed to puzzle him; he looked away, licked his lips,
and repeated her name several times. After several moments he looked back at her
and asked, "Not Ziyal?"
"No," she said. "Not Ziyal. Ziyal was my friend."
"Not Ziyal," he repeated. The realization that he had been
mistaken seemed to distress him. Then, tentatively, he asked, "Kira friend?"
She tried to reassure him with a smile. "Yes, I am your
friend. I promise to help you."
A broad, childlike smile creased his un-childlike face as he
asked, "Ziyal help?"
Kira sighed again. "No, no, not Ziyal. Kira." A wave of
sadness engulfed her as she said, "Ziyal is dead."
At first, he did not respond, and Kira wondered if he
misunderstood, or if his simple mind lacked the ability to grasp the concept of
death. The melancholy she felt in Ziyal's absence fueled her growing compassion
for this anonymous, shattered man, and she slid closer to rest her hand over his
where it rested atop his thigh. Unsure if she should repeat herself, Kira held
her breath, concentrating all her energy on observing his reaction.
The first sign he had heard, and, indeed, understood, was a
single tear that escaped his eye, paused as it reached the valley of his eye
ridge, then navigated an erratic course through the scales, scars and creases
giving character to his face to drip off his chin and land on her hand. Then he
swallowed rapidly, removed his hand from her gentle clasp, and leaned his elbows
on his knees, folding his hands before him. Still he said nothing.
Still Kira waited, determined to see this through to the
end.
He curled up on his side, facing the warm, glowing rocks,
and watched her as she slept. She was exhausted, he knew; so was he, but his
mind had endured so much stimulation in the past several hours he could not free
himself from the maelstrom of thoughts a