by S. D. Perry
“Is it—” Jake started, just as the baby started doing what she thought of as the vibrating dance, throwing in a few solid nudges for good measure. The expression on Jake’s face as he watched her belly was beautiful, a dawning understanding that there was life inside of her, that it was real and coming soon.
Kas smiled, watching him, grateful that he was there. At least now she had someone to wait with her, to help her until Ben came home . . . someone as special to her as if he’d been her own.
* * *
Kira was just finishing up a meeting with Vlu and Macet when Ro signaled, wanting to meet. Kira asked her to come to ops and then wrapped up the coordination briefing, Macet disappearing from the console screen a moment before Vlu took her leave. The defense perimeter was solid, according to Macet, and Kira was relieved to hear from Vlu that the Cardassians on board seemed to be comfortable enough, in spite of the overall negative reaction they’d received. The news from Bajor wasn’t quite as good—Macet said that his people had reported that many Bajorans were still avoiding cooperation, but Vaughn, at least, was doing everything in his power to smooth things over and keep the operation going as quickly as possible.
The office doors parted, Ro striding in with a look of triumph on her face. She dropped a padd on Kira’s desk, a tight grin breaking through her usually detached composure.
“Found it,” she said.
Kira picked up the padd, not sure what she was looking at; it appeared to be a random list of planets.
“Found what?”
“First Minister Shakaar was infected by a parasite on Minos Korva,” Ro said with certainty.
Kira felt her heart skip a beat. “Are you sure?”
“As certain as I can be, considering it’s all long-distance leg-work,” she said. “Starfleet’s been looking at all the places Shakaar stopped on his way home from the Sol system. They’ve managed to cancel out two of the small stations closest to Earth, but still have nine to look at . . . except there are really only five.”
“Why only five?”
Ro leaned across the desk, and with a go-on nod from Kira, called up a star chart of Shakaar’s route to and from Earth on the computer. She highlighted a number of planets and a few bases.
“These are where he stopped on his way back,” Ro said. “Note that Betazed is third, after Deneva. Based on the reports from the Enterprise on the Starfleet infiltration, a full Betazoid would probably be able to detect a parasite mind. And Shakaar was there for over a week.”
Kira frowned, trying to remember the counselor’s report. Ro supplied it. “Deanna Troi was ship’s counselor—still is, I believe—and is half Betazoid; she sensed that something was being hidden. It’s not hard evidence, but I doubt very much that if Shakaar had been infected by then, he would have dared it.”
It made sense. “So, that rules out Deneva, New France, and Betazed,” Kira said.
“Right. And Gard finally passed on something useful yesterday, after Dax and the general spoke with him—a time frame.”
Kira blinked. “You know, then . . .”
“About the Trill watchers,” Ro said, nodding. “And I know when they decided Shakaar might be a threat . . . . About two weeks after Betazed was when he first contacted them, claiming that he wanted additional information about Trill as part of his lobby run.”
Kira peered at the chart. “Which would eliminate at least the last planet on the list, Xepolite.”
“Probably Lya, too,” Ro said, “though I didn’t rule it out immediately. I spent most of last night cross-checking Federation arrival and departure logs with what we got from his ship’s computer . . . and Minos Korva has to be it, third after Betazed. There are Federation starbases on either side, both set up with heavy surveillance; every moment of his time would be accounted for. But on the planet, he was taken on a scenic tour of their western mountain ranges that lasted for four days. Low population, a lot of isolated territory. There had to be infinite opportunity for infection.”
Kira stared at the chart another moment, feeling a smile of her own forming. “Ro, this is amazing. Really excellent work. I’ll contact Akaar immediately.”
“What about Gard?” Ro asked. “I couldn’t have done this without him . . . will you pass that along?”
Kira wished it were that easy. “I’m not sure what Gard told you,” she said carefully, “but I’m guessing it’s at least part of what Ezri told me . . . and the thing is, the Federation doesn’t know about his role in what happened. Not yet.”
Ro frowned, an edge in her voice. “Why not? Maybe he went about it the wrong way, but he did what was necessary, they’ll have to see that.”
Killing Edon was necessary. Kira felt a stir of despairing anger, but pushed it away.
“It’s political and complicated,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t do any better than that . . . but if and when this all comes out, I’ll do what I can for him.”
Ro’s jaw tightened, but she only nodded.
“You’re doing a good job, Ro,” Kira said. “Even the admiral will have to concede to that.”
Ro almost smiled. “It seems to me, he doesn’t ‘have’ to do anything.”
Kira sighed, shaking her head slightly. “I know, he can be difficult. But he’s just doing what he thinks is best.”
“Absolutely,” Ro said, that edge still in her voice. “Permission to be excused?”
“Granted,” Kira said. “But just let me say . . . I hope you’re still considering your options, regarding your resignation?”
Ro’s face was a blank. “I’ve been busy, Colonel. I’ll give it all the consideration it’s due, when I have the time.”
Kira thought about telling her that she wasn’t the only one who hoped Ro would reconsider, that the lieutenant still had an ally or two in the Federation . . . but her carefully crafted, barely civil answer made it clear that now was not the time.
“Excused, Lieutenant,” Kira said, slightly exasperated with the woman’s constant defenses. Every time they made progress as coworkers, one of them managed to rub the other one the wrong way.
Ro retrieved her padd and walked out without looking back, leaving Kira to steel herself up for another conversation with the admiral.
* * *
Vaughn commed off from Kira and sat for a few moments, staring at the blank console. Reports had officially been exchanged. He’d spent the day rescheduling and reassigning the scan teams, working to keep most of the Cardassians at the main camp, out of civilian sight; Lenaris had agreed it was a necessary tactic. Vaughn had reported to Kira that he was looking into setting up a temporary transporter system between the central compound and the busiest of the smaller camps, at least using the runabouts’ systems, and that they’d managed to clear four more “possibles,” a family from the Hill province. There had been no luck tracing Shakaar’s final transmissions to Bajor, not from his end. Kira reported in turn that Ro Laren had figured out where Shakaar had been infected, and that the news had been passed along to Akaar; she’d sent Dax and the general to Trill, to dig through files, and Bashir was developing theories on the parasites’ telepathic link . . .
. . . and we’re not really accomplishing much of anything. He felt hopeless, like that saying about closing the barn door after the livestock had escaped. Everything they were doing, everything they could do wouldn’t be nearly enough. There was no question that there were a number of infected, both on the station and on the planet’s surface, and they hadn’t managed to uncover even one more case.
Kira had asked after his health before signing off, studying his face with a scrutiny that suggested he didn’t look well. He’d brushed it off with a crack about the plush accommodations, but she hadn’t seemed convinced . . . and having stared in the ’fresher mirror for a few minutes that morning, after yet another restless night, he wasn’t surprised. The dark hollows under his eyes, the pallid complexion, the lines around his nose and mouth . . . he looked like someone recovering from a lengthy illne
ss, the kind that usually killed.
I’m not, though. In fact, it feels like I’m just getting started. Things were getting worse, not better. All he’d seen in his dreams for the past two days was Ruriko or Prynn, one or both of them screaming or in danger, and in his dreams, he wouldn’t help them. He meant to, he wanted to, but for some reason, he just stood and watched, cursing himself, overwhelmed by guilt and inaction as the only two women he’d ever loved continued to scream, to die. It was terrible. And though he was performing his duties, taking care of what needed to be done, he spent a great part of his waking hours thinking about it.
“This has to stop,” he said, the thought of it so deeply embedded in his mind now that he didn’t notice he’d spoken. Why was he having such a difficult time shaking this?
Without actually making the decision, he reached out and tapped at the console board, speaking his code—he was one of the few lucky enough to have one that allowed a direct access, though it meant he was scanned up to six times daily—and got through to Nguyen on the station. He made his request and she logged it, connecting him straight through to Prynn’s quarters.
Be home, please be home, he thought, watching the cursor pulse at the bottom of the screen, vaguely astounded that he was calling, not caring if it was selfish. He wanted, needed to see her, to tell her again how sorry he was—
Prynn’s face flashed onto the screen, open and pleasant—until she saw who was calling. Her features closed immediately, like some flower that drew in on itself with the setting sun, her gaze narrowing, her lips pulling tight.
“What do you want?” she said, her voice as rigid as she could make it.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Vaughn started, his heart growing heavy as he looked into her anger, his feelings of helplessness growing. “I—just wanted to see you, to see how you were.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You’ve seen me. I’m fine—and I’m really very busy, so . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said, blurted out without caring about his stupid pride, without caring that the words were nothing to what he’d done, that they might even insult her. “I’m sorry about everything, Prynn. Please believe that, you have to believe that much—”
“I have to go,” she said, one hand darting forward, the screen going blank.
Vaughn sat and stared, feeling like it was all he was good for, remembering that he used to be stronger, less affected by these things, these emotional troubles that had sometimes cropped up in his life. Killing Ruriko had done something to him, and though he’d only just started to gain Prynn’s acceptance before the killing, he felt its absence now far more than he thought was possible.
It had to stop, it had to, he was on a downward spiral that he couldn’t control. The thought repeated itself again and again as Vaughn dragged himself to his feet and went to find Lenaris, to plan the next day, to do his duty.
10
IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS NEWEST SCRAMBLE BREAKER PICKED UP THE transmission between the Trager and DS9, Quark put a call in to Ro. He simply told her that he knew, then sat behind the bar on a high stool, his feet pulled up, nervously scanning the floor for movement while he waited for her. Those long moments were a spin through the Vault of Eternal Destitution; not only was there a possibility of evil alien attack, the dinner crowd was horrifically light, less than a dozen patrons—a full twenty percent drop from the night before. And they weren’t tipping, either. To top it off, the Jem’Hadar and his little gray girlfriend, Wex, were hanging around out front again, probably scaring off the few customers that hadn’t been taken over. When Ro hurried in a few seconds later, it was all he could do not to start shouting curses. That bug that had attacked Macet outside of Trier’s quarters hadn’t been an escaped lab experiment, after all. There were parasites aboard, and they were obviously eating his patrons, and no one had bothered to tell him.
To Destitution with the patrons, what about me? No, they’re perfectly happy to watch my business die a pale and listless death, then wait and see if the things have a taste for Ferengi. Which they surely would. Ferengi flesh was said to be quite tender.
Ro approached the bar with a look of vague irritation on her face; it was nothing to what he was feeling.
“You know, I expect as much from Kira, but why didn’t you tell me?” he spat, still hardly able to believe it. “Who else knows?”
Ro glanced to either side before addressing him, keeping her voice low. “Very few. Keep it down, if you wouldn’t mind. How did you find out?”
“I have my resources,” he said. “And no, I didn’t tell anyone. I guess we have that in common, don’t we?”
She at least had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Orders. I didn’t have a choice. I am sorry, but until we get a fix on who’s who—”
“What do you mean?” Quark asked, wounded. “Do you think I’m one of them?”
Ro sighed. “If you were, you wouldn’t have called to tell me that you’d found out, would you?”
“So instead of telling people that they’re in danger, the powers that be have decided to make it a conspiracy to keep Bajor out of the Federation,” Quark said acidly. “Like anyone is going to believe that.”
Ro cocked an eyebrow. “You did.”
“Yeah, well, now I don’t. And if you don’t think anyone else is going to figure it out—”
“They will . . . given the right equipment,” Ro said, watching him closely. She was fishing. Quark didn’t blink. “But right now, we’re buying time.”
“Time is latinum,” he shot back. “How many people have they gotten? Is that why my revenues are down?”
Ro shook her head. “Not that many. Ten, now, all in stasis. Business is bad because people are scared, by the lockdown and the possibility of anti-Federation terrorism.”
“And if word were to get out, that there is no terrorist threat?” Quark asked, quickly warming to the idea. “That being in a crowd is actually safer than staying in?”
Ro scowled. “You let it leak, you’ll be up on charges, Quark. I mean it.”
Quark was unfazed. Jail time was a definite drawback, but on the pro side, he was looking at vastly increased profits—which outweighed even the very worst of cons. Everyone on the station would pack together like slugs in a tin, and where better than the most popular dining and gaming establishment on the Promenade? And the biggest? “It’d be worth it. Look around. How can things get any worse?”
Ro leaned in, her scowl deepening. “I can make it worse, Quark. Count on it.”
As always when she was close, and irritated, Quark felt a chill run through him, from his lobes to his toes . . . though probably not the kind she intended. “Come on, Laren,” he said, grinning, inviting her enthusiasm. “The truth will come out soon enough, anyway. Why shouldn’t someone profit from it?”
Ro’s face had fallen carefully blank. “Because the parasites might very well target you.”
That was a definite con. “You’re kidding, right?” Quark said, reflexively pulling his feet up higher.
“No. Think about it—this is one of the few places on the station that’s open to everybody. You’d have half the station in here, crowded together, under your direct influence. Who’d make a better host?”
Quark stared at her, not sure by her cool expression if she was lying. “But—I’d be safe, surrounded by all those people . . . .”
Ro’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping even lower. “You’d have to sleep sometime.”
Another beat of cool silence, and Ro straightened up. “Besides, I’d never speak to you again.”
An out, and an opportunity. Quark took it. “That, I couldn’t bear,” he said, letting his romantic-charm grin resurface. “The secret is safe . . . but only if you’ll keep me in the loop. As much as possible,” he quickly added.
Ro nodded, standing. “You’re doing the right thing, Quark.”
And the safest.
“Anything for you, Laren,” he said, with such sincerity that he beli
eved it himself, for a second or two. He mentally amended that to anything priced reasonably, but saw no reason to spoil the moment with such details.
Ro seemed to soften slightly. “Is there anything you need?”
The possibilities were infinite, but he settled for the most nagging. “Could you get that alien monster and his new friend to move?” he asked, pointing at the Jem’Hadar and the gray alien. “They’re scaring people away.”
Ro followed his gesture, gave a small shrug. “I asked Taran’atar to keep an eye on the bar, for exactly the reasons we’ve been discussing,” she said. “Wex is from the Gamma Quadrant. If she decides to spend part of her time in his company, his presence will be less disruptive. Be grateful.”
Quark looked exasperated. “Grateful for what? She’s got an expression that could turn back time. Would you at least ask her to try smiling once in a while?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She promised to try and make it in for a midday meal the following day, and then was gone, pausing for a moment to ask the gray girl—Wex, her name was—to cheer up. As soon as she walked away from the unlikely patrons, Wex shot a look in at Quark that suggested she might also like the taste of Ferengi flesh, and not in a nice way. Quark glared back at her until he saw the Jem’Hadar glowering in his direction, and quickly turned back to studying the ruins of his dinner business.
He sighed again. The news would get out soon enough, he supposed; secrets didn’t last too long on the station. Until then, he’d have to try and make the best of it.
At least I never got rid of those old vole traps, he thought, brightening. If there were parasites running around, he could at least make it a bit more difficult for them to get to him . . . though what to bait them with?
He started to get up, then thought better of it, reaching toward the signal light for the kitchen. Why leave the safety of his nice, high stool? Grimp could head down to the dark, shadowy storage compartment for the traps; after all, what was he paying them for, if not to make his life easier?