by S. D. Perry
“Miles, you didn’t,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and sighed, stepping closer. “I tried to get out of it, I swear I did, but Kira said that Nog was working on some kind of weapon scanner, that it’s not picking up a certain biosig, and asked if I could take a look, and I said—”
“I don’t care what you said,” Keiko snapped, and was instantly sorry when she saw the flash of hurt in his eyes. His shields were up an instant later, she could see them go, but the damage had been done.
“What am I supposed to do, Keiko?” he asked, shrugging his arms wide. “I’m still in Starfleet. It’s my duty to help, and I owe Kira, we both do. If she’d asked you, what would you have said?”
She didn’t answer, only turned back to the children. Jake was swinging Molly around by her arms. Yoshi sat in the dirt, giggling, his grubby hands reaching out for a turn. Kirayoshi. Of course he has to go.
He touched her shoulder, his voice softening. “I am sorry,” he said.
“I got a call from the I.A.A.C.,” she said, not turning to look at him, surprised to hear herself say it, just like that. She’d made no decision to tell him, but knew, as she spoke, that there had never really been a choice. They were married. “Right before we left. They offered me a position.”
Miles turned her around, smiling broadly, a touch of confusion in his happiness for her. She’d applied to the Interstellar Agricultural Aid Commission soon after their return to Earth, had waited for months to hear back from them. They were technically private-sector, but worked closely with the Federation. “That’s great. Where’s—Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I turned it down,” she said, only able to meet his gaze for a second, her feelings in a muddle. “I turned it down, but now—I don’t know.”
Miles shook his head. “I don’t understand. What’s the job?”
In spite of her upset, telling him made her proud. “Only to head the botany team on a planet renewal,” she said. “Crops, season patterning, new irrigation systems, everything.”
“That’s wonderful! I thought you weren’t even going to apply for a lead position, you were so sure you wouldn’t make it,” Miles said, beaming at her. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Keiko smiled, felt her eyes well with tears at the same time. “You don’t understand. I’d—we’d have to move there, for at least two years.”
“Well, where is it?”
“Cardassia.”
Cardassia. The word hung between them, stilling his excitement, painful to even say aloud. How many old wounds did he have because of them? How many times had he expressed his distrust of them, as a people? How often had he complained about their technology, been appalled—as she had—by aspects of their society? He’d come to a grudging tolerance for them through the years, had even learned to respect a few select individuals, but want to move there? With the children? How could she possibly expect that of him?
Because I matter, too, that whisper of thought. My career matters, too.
To her surprise, he didn’t immediately scoff, didn’t throw off a line about how she’d been right to turn the offer down. He only stood there, looking vaguely stunned, uncertain.
“There are a number of offworld projects starting up there, to work with the survivors, to help rebuild,” she said quietly. “We wouldn’t be the only humans.”
“You’re seriously considering it,” he said, almost wonderingly, his face flushing slightly. “Without even telling me.”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t even think about it,” she said, her own defenses rising. “You hate Cardassia.”
“I don’t remember you ever expressing any particular love for it,” he retorted. “Anyway, you said you already turned it down. What does my opinion matter?”
“I turned it down because we just moved, because you just started teaching,” she said, hearing the sullen note in her voice, unable to keep it out. “How could I even ask?”
Miles stared at her, that look that drove her crazy, that suggested she’d lost her mind. “So now you’re mad at me because you didn’t ask me something you thought I’d say no to?”
Keiko sighed. This was going nowhere. “No, I’m not mad,” she said. “Or maybe I am, but it’s not your fault. I just . . . I feel like all the big decisions we’ve made have been about your career, about what I’d have to sacrifice. Don’t misunderstand, I agreed to those things at the time, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Would you have considered it? Really?”
He frowned, thinking, and in spite of her distress she felt a rush of love for him, for his ability to set aside the quarrel, to see that she wasn’t trying to make things bad between them.
“Moving to Cardassia?” He smiled a little, shaking his head. “Of all the planets . . . I don’t know, Kay. I’d like to say that I’d be a hundred percent behind you, whatever you want, but there? I really don’t know.”
She sighed again, but nodded. She could always count on him for honesty.
“We should talk more about this,” he said. “But I told Kira . . .”
“ . . . That you’d be right there,” she finished. “I know. You’ll be careful?”
“Always,” he said, and stepped in to kiss her, to hold her briefly in his strong, warm arms. “And I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”
“Stop promising me things,” she said, and though she meant it to come off lightly, she felt a slight distance come up between them even before he stepped away.
He went down to tell the children and Keiko watched him walk away, watched Molly run toward him, Yoshi toddling behind. They would talk later, that was something . . . because in the course of their brief discussion, she’d realized that she wanted the Cardassia job, wanted it with all her heart.
* * *
“Are you prepared?” Opaka asked, smiling at Vaughn. He knelt in front of the ark on a small pillow, anxious and expectant, a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight playing across the floor, casting the intricate carvings on the small casket in bright relief.
Vaughn nodded. He was nervous, but she could feel his readiness, too, feel how open he was to the experience. They were alone, in one of the larger meditation rooms. She’d wanted to take him to the underground chamber, to see if another Orb called to him, but was told by a smiling young prylar she’d never met that the current security standards wouldn’t allow for it. She’d noted an air of tension in the past few days, and hoped it would soon pass. It seemed strange to her, that even a former kai apparently wasn’t to be trusted in the turbulence following Shakaar’s assassination. A pair of monks had brought the Orb of Unity up from the chamber instead, at her request. Unlike the prylar, they hadn’t smiled.
“You’ll stay?” Vaughn asked, not for the first time.
Opaka nodded. Direct communion with the Prophets was considered to be the most private of experiences for a Bajoran, but he wasn’t Bajoran—and it seemed to ease his mind, to know that she’d be with him. She could watch without participating, use the time for her own reflection. Even being near an open ark was an experience, in itself—not as powerful, but still quite moving.
“I’ll be here,” she said. She moved behind the ark, made herself comfortable on the small padded bench that she’d placed there, and reached around the Prophet’s Tear. She could feel its wondrous energy, had felt it like a warm embrace when it had been brought in, and had marveled anew at the Love They shared with Their children, the opportunities They offered for self-awareness. It struck her yet again, how unnecessary Yevir’s concerns were, his fear for the Bajoran people’s spiritual context; the Prophets were Many, One, and All. Whatever form They took, however They were perceived . . . it was all Truth. It was the faith that mattered, faith that carried men and women through the Great Tapestry, through good times and ill.
Faith, and an open heart, she thought, smiling anew at the man in front of her, a man who reminded her of the Emissary, just a little. Human, troubled, seeking answers without
really knowing the questions . . .
“Walk with the Prophets,” she said, and opened the doors.
15
HERS WAS THE FACE THAT HE LOVED, THE FORM, THE VOICE AND MIND and soul. As he pointed the weapon at her, at her beloved form, her gaze pleaded for mercy, for understanding . . . for life.
“Please,” she whispered, and he heard her pain, and ached, and said nothing. Only took careful aim at his wife, at the mother of his only child, and squeezed the trigger.
Her beautiful, beseeching eyes turned to glass, turned cold and dead even as she crumpled, falling back and away, and he had murdered her, his fault, his. There’d been no good reason, no justification in the world that could make what he’d done acceptable. The revolver was heavy in his hand, the sound of the discharge still echoing in his shocked mind, and in the time it had taken to pull the trigger, he knew that he was damned for all eternity.
He was holding the gun . . . and she was gazing at him again, alive, her eyes bright and begging for her life.
“Please,” she whispered, and he took careful aim, his heart beating in anguish and fear. Fired. Watched her die, and understood that it would never, never end as she sat up again, her eyes wounded and afraid, that breathy, lonely plea on her fine, trembling lips.
He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to scream—
—and Eli was awake and in the dark, the low sound of thunder rumbling outside, overlaid by rain pattering on glass. He didn’t scream, only stared at the blank, unfamiliar wall next to his cot, eyes wide and unblinking. The small window near the ceiling cast a patch of watery street light across the floor, the bars of shadow that cut through it gray and insubstantial.
But solid, he thought vaguely, and was both disturbed and comforted at once. All of the windows had bars at Riverdale, or so he’d been told. Tomorrow, when he joined the general populace, he’d see for himself.
Ruri was dead. His family was dead. Pria had come to the trial, but only for the sentencing . . . and the single look she had spared him had been so full of rage, so hateful and hurt, he understood clearly that she, too, was lost to him. He deserved it, just as he deserved the nightmares, as he deserved the windows with bars.
He watched the shadow rain drizzle across the floor, feeling the night cold of the lonely room settling into him. Someone, somewhere not too far away, started screaming, a wail of madness and despair. Eli listened but couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman before it stopped, an abrupt, choking halt that surely came from an orderly’s club or fist. Another deranged mind, another damned soul, perhaps hoping for redemption during the day even as he or she screamed in the night. Did they hope for freedom? The concept was no more for Eli. He might be released, someday, but the dream would always be there. The memory of what he’d done.
After a very long time, he slept. And his wife was waiting for him in the dark.
* * *
“ . . . group sessions three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Friday,” the nurse said, looking up at Eli as they walked, her wrinkled face carefully set in a placating smile. It was a kind face, but understandably wary. He was a new inmate, an untested quantity.
“We’re quite progressive here, but we also find that most of our patients enjoy some structure,” she said, leading them down a long, silent corridor that smelled like disinfectant. The walls were an industrial shade of mild green; the linoleum was worn but reasonably well maintained. “We have meals at the same time every day, as well. You’ve already had your breakfast, but from now on, you’ll be eating with the other people from your ward. Lunch will be at twelve o’clock sharp, dinner at five-thirty. Someone will show you the way to the dining hall. If you’re hungry in between those times, speak to one of the orderlies and they’ll take care of it.”
Eli glanced behind them. The young Negro man following sneered, one hand dropping to the billy club tucked into his belt.
“I’m sure that will be fine,” Eli said, quickly looking away.
“That’s very accommodating of you, Mr. Underwood,” the nurse said, her smile still in place. She was very short and getting on in years, and seemed nice; she’d led him away from his solitary cell, was taking him to the room where the other inmates—the ones not intent on hurting anyone, he presumed—whiled away their days. He couldn’t recall her name, though she’d told him . . . . Susan? Sue-Lynn?
They rounded a corner and came to a stop in front of a closed door.
“Samuel?” the nurse asked, and the young man stepped forward with a ring of keys, his expression boyishly innocent as he worked the lock. Eli was careful not to stand too close, afraid to incur any ill will. He’d only arrived yesterday, after the sentencing; he’d been searched, deloused, and sent to solitary for his first night. So far, he’d had no trouble with the staff, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Samuel-the-orderly pulled the door open and stepped inside first, taking in the room before standing aside for Eli and the nurse. It was a big room, long, with a row of windows opposite the door they’d come through, another door at the far end to the left. There was another nurse inside, and two more orderlies; the three of them stood near one of the windows, smoking. Eli counted eight, nine people wearing the same uniform as his, the once-white material a soft shade of gray. Most of them sat together near the center of the room, their cheap wooden chairs loosely arranged, though a few were standing or walking by themselves, mumbling quietly, their faces slack with drugs or insanity or perhaps one of the barbaric treatments he’d heard of and didn’t want to think about. In all, though, it was much less horrible than he’d imagined; no one was screaming or crying or tied up, and he saw no bruises or other signs of abuse.
The nurse walked him to the gathered inmates as Samuel joined the other staff members, a cigarette already in his hand. One of the men, another Negro, stood up as they approached, a wide, friendly smile on his dark face. Eli attempted to summon a smile of his own and fell short, his insides too ravaged for it.
“Benny, this is Eli Underwood,” the nurse said, her manner relaxing as she spoke, an apparent familiarity between her and the tall Negro. “Eli, this is Benny Russell. He’s something of a . . . trustee, I suppose you could say. I’m sure Benny would be happy to introduce you to the others and help you get situated. Won’t you, Benny?”
Benny’s smile widened. “My pleasure. It’s nice to meet you, Eli.”
He extended his hand and Eli took it, surprised at the warmth and strength he felt in Benny’s grip, realizing suddenly how much he’d missed the touch of another human being in past months. It had been too long since anyone had touched him, even a simple handshake. It made him feel like crying.
“Same here,” Eli said.
“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,” the nurse said. “Benny, I hope we can talk later . . . ?”
She said this almost with an air of deference, enough that Eli took notice. Benny nodded at her, and she smiled, then walked away, disappearing through the door to the left, her soft white shoes creaking faintly against the faded floor. Eli looked around at the others in the room, doing his best not to stare as he studied the faces of his fellow inmates.
There were several men and women, some brown, some white; everyone sat together, which was fine by Eli. He thought Thurgood Marshall had the right idea, pushing for an end to segregation. He had worked with and fought alongside a number of colored soldiers in Korea, and though he hadn’t been particularly prejudiced before the war, he’d never given much thought one way or another for the Negro race, either. Afterward, though, after watching so many good men die during the liberation of Seoul—men of all colors—he’d found that he could no longer smile at the hateful jokes, even listen to the ridiculous bigoted rhetoric he so often heard since his return to the states, casually spewing forth from the mouths of ignorant whites. There were certainly cultural differences between Negro and white, but only in the same way that there were between Italian and Jewish, Irish and Greek, any two peoples from different places.<
br />
Apparently the insane get to be more enlightened than ordinary folk, Eli thought wryly. In spite of his self-proclaimed worthlessness, his half-believed vows to never find comfort again, he was glad to be in a “progressive” place.
“Let’s get you introduced.” Russell casually slipped an arm around Eli’s shoulders and turned him to greet the others. Again, Eli felt grateful for the friendly touch, was surprised by the depth of his feeling.
“Mr. Underwood, this is . . .”
The names that Russell gave him mostly slipped past Eli, though the faces would stay with him. A petite, dark-haired young woman with wise blue eyes; an androgynous young man with dreadlocks, an older man, almost a giant, physically, named Leo—and wouldn’t he give Samuel and his buddies something to worry about?—with a cool, appraising look on his rugged features. There were several others, and when they had finished with the inmates, Russell walked him over to greet the nurses and orderlies . . . a tall, curvaceous nurse with green eyes, an unsmiling but attractive woman named Laura or Lauren, an orderly named Terrence who moved like the soldiers Eli had fought alongside—and against—during the war. Each acknowledged Eli in some way . . . though as with the inmates, most seemed more interested in Russell’s attention than in Eli—smiling at Russell after a cursory nod at Eli, eager, somehow, for the attention of the tall, dark man. Eli felt almost privileged when, after the brief introductions, Russell led him to one of the windows, pulling up two chairs so that they could sit together.
The bars he’d expected were on the other side of a square of smudged glass that overlooked a parking lot, ringed with dripping hedges. It was still raining, staining the late-summer sunlight a mournful, shadowy gray, but it was warm inside. Eli felt a few seconds’ pleasure, sitting cozily by a rainy-day window, and then felt the guilt again, the guilt that was his near constant companion, his lonely twin.