Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine

by Heather Jarman

  And not all of the community had come through. Naithe, for one, had gone well before the year turned. “Frontier life, my dear director,” he had said to her—and to anyone around who was willing to listen—“has turned out to be rather too exhilarating for my tastes, I’m afraid.” Keiko would have liked to think that Naithe had left here a little sadder and a little wiser—but at a conference she had recently attended, she had heard someone say that he was dining out on the story of how, when he was at Andak, he had single-handedly talked down a Cardassian terrorist. She had no idea how he was managing to spin a story like that out of the real events of that day…but some people would never change. At least he was as irrepressible as ever, she thought—and found that she could remember him almost fondly.

  Tela Maleren and Nyra too had gone, of course…bound for the capital, at first, Macet had told her; it seemed that there were many people there who wished to know all that Nyra knew. Keiko had had no news of either of them for months now. For all she knew, they might well no longer be on Cardassia—and she was not sure who, or even if, she ought to ask to find out more. And others had left Andak in their wake—mostly friends of Tela and several among the staff who had been sympathetic to her views. There had been no overt antagonism that Keiko knew of—and certainly there had been no formal requests from others for them to leave. It seemed they had gone entirely of their own accord.

  “We have to be realistic about this, Keiko,” one had said to her, regretfully. “After all that happened—how can we possibly stay here? What credibility do we have? Who would ever trust us?”

  Keiko knew that many people at Andak had welcomed these departures, but she herself viewed them with ambivalence. She was honest enough to admit that on some level she was relieved that the divisions which had once threatened to undermine the settlement would no longer be there. But these losses were the source of her other, main regret too—that all the very different people that had come together at the outset, all with such great hopes and plans, had not been able to reach an accommodation. Not everyone who had made the journey out to Andak had found they had a place there.

  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.”

  Andor

  Paradigm

  Heather Jarman

  About the Author

  Heather Jarman grew up fantasizing about being a writer the way many little girls fantasize about being ballerinas and princesses; she had all the lyrics to the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” memorized by age 6. But in her wildest suburban childhood dreams, she had no idea how Saturday afternoons spent lazing in her beanbag chair watching Star Trek would dramatically impact her lifelong aspiration.

  Indeed, the Star Trek universe played host to her professional fiction debut, This Gray Spirit, the second novel in the critically acclaimed Mission: Gamma series of Deep Space Nine books set after the TV series. She’s also written Balance of Nature, part of the Star Trek: S.C.E. series, and contributed “The Devil You Know” to Prophecy and Change, the DS9 tenth anniversary anthology. With Jeffrey Lang, she collaborated on “Mirror Eyes” for Tales of the Dominion War. She’s also currently writing an original young adult novel.

  She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and four daughters. She rarely finds time to lounge about in beanbag chairs these days, much to her deep regret.

  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 would 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 w
as 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?