Keiko had had no trouble filling the posts that had been left empty, at finding people willing to come out to this remote part of the planet. There were still too few places like Andak on Cardassia; too few places where such highly trained people could use their skills, and live an almost normal life, rather than scratch around for survival. And, these days, Andak was a byword for success. It signified hope. It signified the future. Keiko looked around the square again, at the gardens and the labs, at the kids playing and the people working, at the grove and at the mountains, and she felt proud of all that she could see, of all that had been done and would be done. She thought of the rain that would fall in the morning, sweet and clear…. And, before she could quite stop herself, she thought too, as she still sometimes did, of that day when it looked like everything would be lost; the day when the whole place seemed about to go up in flames….
Keiko turned back to the girl still working alongside her.
“That should be enough for now,” she said. “We’ll come out and water them again tomorrow.”
* * *
A file is closed and set upon a table. “Well, gentlemen. I think that’s done.”
* * *
“Fade to black…and hold…and cut.”
About the Author
Una McCormack discovered Deep Space Nine very late in its run, but loved it immediately for its politics, its wit, its ambiguity, and its tailor. She enjoys classic British television and going to the cinema, and she collects capital cities. She lives with her partner Matthew in Cambridge, England, where she reads, writes, and teaches. She is the author of the short story “Face Value”, which appeared in the DS9 tenth-anniversary anthology Prophecy and Change, and she hopes to return to the worlds of Deep Space Nine very soon.
Andor
Paradigm
Heather Jarman
To my sisters and girlfriends: they are one and the same.
Laurie, Jane, Julie
&
Bethany, Dena, Kirsten, Mikaela, Susannah
Acknowledgments
First, to the rangers at Capitol Reef National Park, Torrey Utah: Thanks for answering my questions. Second, I drew much inspiration for Andor’s neoromanticism from The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien and other biographical and scholarly writings on Oxford’s Inklings. The films of Hayao Miyazaki and Akira Kurosawa provided visual and cultural context.
Thanks to my fellowship of writers, especially Andy Mangels, Mike Martin, and Danelle Perry, who provided a wonderful setup for this story in their novels Cathedral and Unity. Keith DeCandido, as usual, was a dear friend and should consider a second career as a therapist. High fives to Terri Osborne for joining the crazy gang and giving me another girl to hang out with at Shore Leave. Special thanks to Dean Smith, Loren Coleman, and Kris Rusch for giving such great advice.
Besides being a soulmate, Kirsten Beyer provided me with brilliant insights into this alien world of Andor and the best beta-reading a writer could ask for. Bethany Phillips provided invaluable support all along the way.
There wouldn’t have been a book without my honorary big brother, my Jem’Hadar boy, Jeff Lang, who, on a daily basis, held me together and offered this wise admonition: “Put one word in front of the other.”
The deepest thanks to my family, who endured simultaneous remodeling and novel writing coupled with piles of laundry and no food in the house. My incredible husband Parry is a candidate for sainthood. My daughters are the light and joy of my life. No woman is more blessed than I am.
And a special thanks to my editor, Marco Palmieri, who is friend, counselor, cheerleader, and an all around good guy. Lunghi in tensione e prosperano!
Historian’s Note
This story is set in November, 2376 (Old Calendar), approximately four weeks after the conclusion of the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel Unity.
We all begin with good intent
Love was raw and young
We believed that we could change ourselves
The past could be undone
But we carry on our back the burden
Time always reveals
In the lonely light of morning
In the wound that would not heal
It’s the bitter taste of losing everything
That I’ve held so dear.
Though I’ve tried, I’ve fallen…
—Sarah McLachlan
From The Tale of the Breaking:
Thirishar rose up with sword in hand and challenged the gatekeeper of Uzaveh, saying, “I have done as your Master commanded. The tasks are completed. Now let me pass or face the same fate as those who were sent forth to stop my quest.”
But Uzaveh the Infinite, watching from the Throne of Life, was amused that this creature, made of little more than the dust of the universe, dared demand entry at the gates. To spare the gatekeeper from the warrior’s death-blade, Uzaveh bid Thirishar enter.
Thirishar walked proudly down the Path of Light, believing that as the first to complete the tasks of Uzaveh, the Empty Throne beside the Infinite, the Throne of Secrets, now belonged to the Greatest Among Mortals. Had Thirishar not earned the right?
But wise Uzaveh, omnipotent and omniscient, Eternal and Infinite, knew that the warrior possessed the power and knowledge to conquer all challenges, save one.
Uzaveh held up a hand, and Thirishar halted.
“Are you Whole?” whispered Uzaveh in a voice that shook the universe.
But the warrior did not understand the question. “I am Thirishar. I claim the Empty Throne.”
“No,” answered Uzaveh. “You are unworthy, for you are not yet Whole.”
Thirishar trembled and knelt before the Uzaveh, for the first time understanding the arrogance and the vanity that had misled the mortal to this moment.
Still, Uzaveh had mercy.
Death was not to be Thirishar’s fate.
“Instead,” decreed Uzaveh, “from one, there shall be four.
“To one shall be given wisdom to be a protector—the cunning warrior who shall fight for the future.
“To another shall be given strength, providing a foundation upon which the others can build.
“One shall be given blood, the river of life that shall flow among the others, providing nurture and sustenance when the flesh longs to yield.
“And to the last shall be given passion, for the flame of desire will bring change to the others and warm them when the chill is bitterest.”
So Thirishar became four: Charaleas became wisdom; Zheusal became strength; Shanchen became blood; Thirizaz became passion. Together, the four are the First Kin.
Uzaveh banished the four to the farthest reaches of the kingdom and upon seeing them there, so far from the Thrones and utterly alone, appointed for each a guardian.
For Thirizaz, the Fire Daemon fed the soul-consuming passion. Loving Shanchen became a vessel for the Water Spirit, forever bound to the Eternal love flowing from Uzaveh’s Throne. For strong Zheusal, Earth became protector. For wise Charaleas, the Stars became guides, their light defying darkest night.
“When you are Whole, as I am Whole,” Uzaveh said, “then shall you return to my presence and assume your place at my side.”
—From The Liturgy of the Temple of Uzaveh;
Third-Century Codex
1
At the crossroads of the universe, Prynn Tenmei looked up and suddenly felt insignificant.
From its broad sloping base on the docking ring to the tiny airlock port suspended nearly a half-kilometer above, the great arching tower of upper pylon one began as an enormous wall of metal, narrowing dramatically as it curved up and away from Prynn. Its gray plated surface stood out in stark relief against the angled light of Bajor’s distant sun.
Now, that would be a zero-g walk to remember, Prynn thought before she reluctantly tore her attention away from the station and back to the matter at hand.
Striding slowly across the hull of the Defiant, Prynn decided that she’d found the one place where no one wou
ld look for her. “No one” being Shar. If he couldn’t be bothered to show up for their date—their holosuite reservation, she was quick to amend—then she couldn’t be bothered to hang around Quark’s waiting for him. Having spook parents proved to be good for something, after all: over her lifetime, she’d developed a finely honed sense of how to disappear, and going EV was one sure way to do just that. The odds of her accidentally running into anyone (Shar!) in the vacuum of space—not exactly the station’s hot spot—were next to nil. Besides, the Defiant needed her. She’d noticed an anomalous reading the last time they’d taken the ship out. If she waited for the engineers (who’d said it was nothing) to see it her way, she’d be tapping her toes until B’hava’el went cold.
Prynn wasn’t one who liked waiting.
Halfway across the ship’s topside, she stopped and adjusted the settings on her gravity boots, allowing for enough pull that she wouldn’t drift off into nothingness but enough give that she could practice acrobatics. A little bounce in her step when she was in zero g made the occasional somersault and standing back tuck much easier. She had a hard time understanding some people’s phobias about extravehicular operations. Sure, there were minor worries about damaged air supplies and being set adrift, but such mishaps occurred maybe one walk in fifty. And last time there had been a problem, the transporter chief was able to beam her aboard before hypoxia set in. From her perspective, the pleasures of zero-g work outweighed the risks; she relished the feeling of near complete liberation from terrestrial constraints. Given the choice between going out in a work bee or a space suit, she’d take the latter every time. Besides, the Defiant was her baby. As senior flight controller, she knew the starship’s needs better than almost anyone—including the engineers, who liked to believe that they knew better. When she’d told them about the temperature fluctuation on hull grid Z-47 and how she thought an extravehicular diagnostic was in order, they’d waved her off. Actually, Senkowski had waved her off. She suspected that he was the kind of engineer who didn’t get the fun side of EV repairs.
The first time the fluctuations appeared, she’d explained to Senkowski how she believed she’d be able to identify the problem if she saw it up close. He’d blanched (and for a pale guy, that was saying something) and muttered about recalibrating the sensors. During their last patrol two days ago, the same readings in the same grid showed up on her board. When she confronted him, he had told her the fluctuations were statistically insignificant and to stop being so neurotic. Okay—he didn’t use the word “neurotic” but she could tell he was thinking it. Noting the look on his face, she figured the prospect of an EV repair shift scared him. Statistically insignificant fluctuations my ass. Coward.
Prynn bent down and caressed the starship’s skin. A visual scan of the ablative armor didn’t immediately yield any evidence of a problem. But she had a pretty good idea of what was ailing the old girl and where she should start, so she took a step, somersaulted, touched down on the starship’s surface on the toe of her boots, and somersaulted again. Much faster—and more fun—than walking the remaining distance. Still…this time it wasn’t as much fun as it normally was. Orbital skydiving in the holosuite would have been better.
More like, orbital skydiving with Shar, dammit.
Ditching their plans wasn’t his style. Nog had been known to occasionally shop around for a better offer, but not Shar. He usually arrived early whenever they had plans. Which was why Prynn had been so taken aback when he didn’t show up tonight—without so much as a page! She’d been sitting on the balcony level of Quark’s, nursing a Core Breach, then another, not really thinking about how much time had passed, when it occurred to her to check the time; Shar was forty-five minutes late. Trying to reach him over the com turned into a waste of time; he wasn’t accepting her calls. Then Treir had materialized, prepared to take a third order, and exuded something suspiciously like pity. Prynn had taken the cue, thumbed her bill, and hightailed it out of there. Her ship needed her, even if Shar didn’t. Prynn was once again reminded why she typically avoided relationships: stable, rational individuals resorted to mind-boggling, time-travel-paradox-level logic to justify their behavior. And she was done with it. Done.
Maybe it was males in general. Once, in outraged humiliation after a roguishly handsome cadet she thought was interested in a relationship with her—not just sex—made it clear she was just another conquest, she’d screwed up her courage to approach a fellow pilot: a female cadet. She’d reasoned that perhaps the romantic problems she’d had thus far might not be colossal bad luck but more like an irreparable defect in the entire male gender. Males tended to be emotionally stunted when it came to romance. Avoid the gender, avoid the defect. Reasonable thinking. When an opportunity had come up to ask the woman out, Prynn found herself saying, “Can you believe what a jackass that Jack DiAngelo is?” and they’d sat at the bar having an all-night bitch-’n’-bull session about their relationship horror stories. She’d concluded from that experience that the old adage—Men: can’t live with them, can’t kill them—would follow her to the grave.
She was loath to admit it, but she’d cherished an unexpressed hope that Shar, being a male (of a sort) member of a different species, wouldn’t exhibit the same obtuse stupidity she’d come to expect from males of every skin color, planetary affiliation, and physiological variation.
The odd part was that up until tonight, he’d been perfect. She’d never sensed that he was uncomfortable with their evolving relationship. Predictably, a brief awkwardness ensued when Prynn had first raised the idea of a romantic liaison a couple of months ago, but they’d quickly overcome it, moving into a rhythm of shared meals, gym and entertainment time, and holosuite visits.
After a few weeks of Prynn doing the asking, he’d started taking the initiative, tonight’s holosuite appointment being his idea. He seemed to enjoy her companionship, gradually opening up about himself. More recently, he’d shared his feelings about losing Thriss and why he’d let his bondmates return to Andor without him. Her heart had swollen painfully in her chest as she listened to him; she understood what a gift of trust he offered. Prynn couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt as close to someone as she’d felt to Shar in those moments. Their losses and their messed-up family lives gave them plenty to talk about, but it was a sense of being known as you could be known only by one who had passed through—and emerged—from suffering that bound them together. He mattered to her now. A lot, she admitted to herself. And it irritated her to realize it. I can’t believe I’ve let myself get in this deep, she thought, unclipping the tricorder from her hip and beginning to scan the Defiant’s hull. If I’ve let it progress to this point and am just figuring it out, what’s Shar feeling?
Pressured. Trapped maybe. And after she’d reassured him that all she expected from him was friendship? Don’t kid yourself, Tenmei: You saw this holosuite time as a date; he sensed it and he didn’t want to hurt your feelings so he conveniently “forgot.” She hissed a curse, clenched her teeth, and sighed in self-disgust. She deserved to be stood up. Self-imposed exile in space was suitable punishment. You’re stupid, stupid, stupid, Tenmei.
She found the section her tricorder identified as grid Z-47, squatted down, and initiated a scan. Submicroscopic pores had opened up in a two-centimeter-square section of the ablative armor, making the metal more susceptible to microfractures. Technically, Senkowski was right: such a small vulnerability wouldn’t impact the Defiant’s performance any time soon. Prynn knew, though, that this section would become more porous over time and would have to be replaced. She grinned. She loved being right.
She performed an in-depth scan of the damaged plating, mapping every micrometer so that Senkowski, Leishman, and the others could perform the repairs.
“Prynn.”
She flinched. That was Shar’s voice over the comm in her helmet. She was debating whether or not to ignore his call when a shadow moved over the hull in her field of vision. Startled, she spun around and saw an
other figure in an EVA suit standing behind her. The glint of blue behind the faceplate told her all she needed to know to identify her visitor. She stiffened. “What are you doing here?”
“It seemed like a nice time of day to go for a walk.”
“Very funny.”
“Nog’s teaching me sarcasm. Apparently utilizing such an inflection is a critical component of Ferengi interpersonal communications.”
“How clinical of you.”
They stood facing each other for a long, silent moment. Prynn refused to give in to her impulse to ask him what the hell he was up to.
“While the view of the Denorios Belt is lovely from here, could we move inside to continue our conversation?”
“Conversation. Hmmm. I was working. You intruded.”
“I apologize for my earlier lapse. It was unintentional….”
“No big deal. Like I said, I had work to do. Pores in the ablative armor.”
“That can be serious. Is it safe to take the Defiant out?”
“For now…and about”—she paused, gulping, feeling ridiculous—“another six months.”
“I’m glad you took care of it tonight. Since it was clearly so urgent.”
Prynn exhaled through gritted teeth. “Give the sarcasm a rest, please. I’ll tell Nog you’ve mastered it and can move onto something new—like pseudosincerity.”
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