“And the Kurlan genocide,” he said, knowing he was finishing her thought. Ezri answered with a somber but affirmative nod.
Bashir had found the tale of Trill’s hidden history almost incredible when Ezri had briefly summarized it for him immediately after her return from Mak’ala. Now the most powerful person on the planet knew the long-buried secret of why the parasites had harbored such an abiding hatred for the symbionts—as well as the fact that their malice was entirely understandable, given what the ancient Trills had done to them. It reminded him of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, whose eponymous scientist had abandoned his monstrous creation and thereby earned its undying enmity.
“How did the president react?” he asked.
Ezri laughed, but without a trace of humor. “Pretty much the way I expected. She didn’t want to hear it. At least at first. I really can’t say I blamed her for demanding to see some proof.”
“I don’t suppose anyone could ask for better proof than what came back with you from below the surface,” he said. Ezri had told him that once the immediate threat to Mak’ala had ended, Maz had, at Ezri’s urging, traveled to the pools to commune with the caretaker symbiont Memh, who had escorted Ezri safely back from the Annuated. By now, the creature was probably already back in the seclusion of Mak’ala’s deepest recesses, where it had no doubt returned to its task of caring for its even more ancient charges.
Now that the president had heard Ezri’s story—and had experienced compelling evidence of its veracity—she was about to deliver a speech to Trill’s entire population. Bashir could only hope that whatever she said would ultimately bring peace to Trill rather than further unrest.
He thought about the operation he had finished just before coming to the Senate Tower. That any joined Trill would voluntarily undertake such a radical procedure was remarkable, to say the least. He hoped that the fact that the patient in question had been President Lirisse Maz boded well for Trill’s future.
As he followed Ezri out of the observation deck, he realized with more than a little trepidation that they were about to find out, one way or the other.
Entering the third-level speaker’s platform immediately behind Ezri, Bashir saw that the president had already taken a seat behind a wide desk fashioned from dark, dense-looking wood, apparently from Trill’s low tropics. Standing on the other side of the desk, a serious-miened Hiziki Gard was speaking with her in low tones even as the president shooed a trio of aides out of the room. Bashir reflected again that for a man so accustomed to operating out of the shadows, Gard didn’t seem at all uncomfortable working in the very center of his world’s power structure. Maybe he had been forced to step into the breach because so many other government functionaries had been injured or killed during the previous night’s chaos. And perhaps Gard’s very high-profile assassination of Shakaar Edon, and his subsequent pardon for the deed, had permanently altered the man’s formerly covert way of doing business.
Or maybe he’ll just maintain his vigil as he always has, just like every Gard before him. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.
Bashir turned his attention back to the president. Though she looked determined, her face was drawn and haggard, prompting Bashir to reach for the plisagraph he had borrowed from the hospital. Fortunately, the president’s vital signs were reading strong and steady; though he was still concerned about her physical well-being, he was relieved to see that the cause of her current distress was more political than medical.
“It’s still a powder keg out there, Madam President,” Gard was saying, clearly fearful of inciting hysteria among the citizenry. “It might not be prudent to reveal absolutely everything Lieutenant Dax discovered at Mak’ala. Maybe you should consider parceling it out in a series of appearances over the next few weeks.”
To Bashir’s eye, the president looked almost adrift, as if she were badly in need of advice. It was clear that her world was approaching one of the most critical turning points in its lengthy history. And it was equally clear that the most powerful person on Trill was still making up her mind as to how to approach that fork in the road.
“Facing difficult truths is one thing, Madam President. Simply giving in to the symbionts-for-everyone crowd is quite another,” Gard continued after a thoughtful pause. “Now more than ever we have to hold on to our most important traditions.”
“Of course,” the president said without affect. “Tradition.”
Which on Trill always seems to involve tamping down ugly truths until they eventually erupt like volcanoes, Bashir thought. He was sorely tempted to say something out loud.
Fortunately, Ezri beat him to it. “Madam President, the Federation Council is going to expect your government to answer some very pointed questions about the treatment of the unjoined. And to offer redress of their legitimate grievances.” Bashir noticed that Ezri’s ice-blue eyes blazed with a determination that must have once belonged to Curzon.
Gard shook his head sadly. “I think the terrorists may have already undermined whatever moral legitimacy the unjoined majority may have had.”
Bashir found he could no longer hold his tongue. “Rubbish. The people who set off the radiation weapons were only a tiny handful of extremists among the unjoined population.” He gestured toward the broad balcony window, through which the milling crowds were visible. “There’s no question that the people out there have been wronged, and that the injustice has gone on for centuries. How can you blame them for being angry after they’ve learned that they’ve been denied symbiosis based on a lie?”
Gard took a single step toward Bashir, at whom he directed a highly toxic scowl. “They’ve also been denied symbiosis out of necessity, Doctor. The symbionts aren’t lida fruits to be picked from the trees. They’re rare and precious beings who have to be protected.”
Bashir had to concede that Gard was right, at least in part. But he also knew that the fragility and scarcity of the symbionts had long furnished Trill’s privileged and powerful with an entirely too convenient excuse for excluding people from symbiosis arbitrarily.
Ignoring Gard, Bashir addressed Trill’s chief executive officer directly. “Madam President, I think it’s clear that your world’s unjoined humanoid majority will no longer meekly accept second-class citizenship, however it’s justified by the ruling minority.”
Ezri nodded in somber agreement. “And the Federation Council probably won’t look kindly on a planet that collapses into civil war over its age-old hidden social problems.”
“I agree,” said Bashir. “Trill’s membership in the Federation might even be in jeopardy. Everything could well depend on your ability to maintain your world’s social stability, Madam President.”
“Or on how the unjoined react to whatever you decide to tell them,” Gard said to the president.
A line from a very old piece of oratory sprang unbidden into Bashir’s mind; he decided it needed to be spoken aloud. “ ‘The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.’ Those words belong to a man named Lincoln, who led one of my homeworld’s nations through a bloody civil war five centuries ago.”
“Those are insightful words, Doctor Bashir,” said Gard. “But Trill isn’t Earth. Do you really think we can afford to reveal absolutely everything about our past, and still have any hope of getting things back to normal?”
Bashir turned on Gard again. “Mister Gard, the old status quo is clearly no longer a viable option for Trill. Surely you know that even better than I do.” To the president, he said, “But I believe Mister Gard is correct in recommending caution. The people outside this building might not be rioting or setting off bombs at the moment, but emotions are still running pretty high out there. I’ve seen it up close myself.”
Ezri frowned at Bashir. Returning her gaze to the president, she said, “But that doesn’t mean that you owe the Trill people anything less than the whole truth, Madam President. We’re a pretty tough bunch; we can stand ai
ring the whole truth about the Kurlans and the parasites. It’s the best way I can think of to properly honor the ancient memories of those times—and to start healing all the damage our civilization is suffering right now as a result of what happened back then.”
“Revealing the whole truth right away is just too dangerous,” Gard said. “We need time—”
Ezri rolled right over him, though her words were for the president. “It’s too dangerous for us to be seen as trying to keep the truth buried.” She pointed toward the balcony. “We’ll never settle the chaos out there as long as the people think we are continuing to lie about our past, Madam President. Or our present. Maybe we can’t give a symbiont to every unjoined person who wants one, but we can stop lying to them about their suitability for joining. We destroyed a whole world once, then lied to cover it up. We can either break that entire pattern of deceit, or risk destroying another world today.”
Gard shook his head, his expression a commingling of righteous anger and pitying condescension. “Taking in too much truth too quickly is like trying to drink from a tidal wave, Lieutenant Dax.”
Bashir had to restrain himself from murmuring a curse. Both Ezri and Gard were right. And as much as he despised the Symbiosis Commission’s mendacity on the issue of symbiotic compatibility, Ezri’s position was sounding increasingly reckless to him. Perhaps an intermediate, incremental approach would be better.
He felt thankful that the decision about how much to reveal, and how soon to do it, wasn’t his to make.
Leaning back wearily in her padded chair, the president stared in quiet contemplation at the balcony window. In the distance, the crowds milling about in the golden early-morning sunlight seemed to be expanding. Faces were turned up toward the balcony, perhaps in eager anticipation, perhaps in righteous anger.
After a seeming eternity during which no one spoke or moved, the president spoke in a quiet yet determined voice. “Perhaps you’re right.” Bashir wasn’t at all certain to whom she had spoken.
Drawing herself erect in her seat, the president silently motioned for everyone to back away from the visual pickup that was mounted on her desk. It was obvious that she had reached a decision.
Withdrawing with Ezri and Gard to a far corner of the chamber, Bashir watched as a red light activated on the desk, signaling that the president was now addressing the entire Trill humanoid population, including the surviving members of the Senate, via the planet’s civilian and military comnets. The lighting around her grew in intensity as the polarization of the balcony windows adjusted to make the president conspicuously visible from the street. For Bashir the moment became elastic, and felt supercharged with uncertainty.
He knew only one thing for sure: it was a damned dangerous time to be the president of Trill.
Dax thought her heart might try to climb out of her throat as the president began speaking to the entire planet. She was surprised, though pleased, when the president began by dealing with the neo-Purists’ accusations—not by denying them, but by essentially corroborating most of them. Yes, the president explained unflinchingly, the Trill government had for many centuries concealed the close relationship between the symbionts and the alien parasites. She accepted culpability for continuing the dishonest policies of her twenty-two government predecessors, all of whom had known the truth.
Those earlier Trill governments knew the truth because of what Audrid and Jayvin discovered in that comet, Dax thought, feeling guilt because of Audrid’s complicity. And they were able to keep it hidden for as long as they did because Audrid kept silent.
Then the president went a step further, explaining that ancient Trill scientists created the parasites millennia in the past—and that they also were forced to try to destroy them, though without complete success. That failure, she said, not only had doomed millions of Trill colonists on Kurl, but had also given rise to the ancestors of the modern parasites.
Dax glanced over at Julian, whose dark eyes seemed riveted on the crowds visible through the balcony windows. She followed his gaze and noticed that the distant clusters of people outside were moving. Arms were flailing in what appeared to be angry gestures.
Switching to a respectful, almost hushed tone, the president said, “This ages-old cover-up has led us all to a precipice. While we do not as yet have accurate figures, we do know that the worldwide humanoid death toll is already in the thousands. The radiation casualties among the symbionts alone have been equally severe; as a result of the neo-Purist bombings, the symbiont population has suffered a terrible ‘crash’ in terms of its overall numbers, which have been reduced by upwards of ninety percent.”
Genuine anger crept into the president’s tone. “You may rest assured that the terrorists responsible for this atrocity will be apprehended and punished. Several of the neo-Purist ringleaders—those who weren’t killed by their own weaponry—are already in custody.”
Dax looked at Gard, whose attention was absorbed by the silent comm unit on his wrist. A text message, Dax thought.
Gard’s wide eyes and pallid cheeks told her that the news he was receiving couldn’t be good. Fear gripped her soul with sharp-bladed fingers. Perhaps Gard and Julian had been right to counsel caution. Had she just succeeded in persuading the president to say entirely too much, and to do it far too soon?
Gard quickly tapped several commands into his comm unit. The president paused momentarily in her speech as she glanced at her desk console; she was evidently now in possession of the same information Gard had just received.
Though Dax couldn’t see Gard’s text message from where she stood, she had a pretty good idea of its contents. They’re beginning to riot again. The people have heard the truth, but they’re just too angry to deal with it appropriately.
What have I just done?
The president felt shaken to the core by what Gard had just told her. Once again the streets of Trill’s most populous cities, from Gheryzan to Tenara, were erupting in spontaneous violence—and the revelations she had just made were the most obvious cause.
The president quietly shook herself; now was the time for leadership, not paralysis. Somehow, in spite of the deep emptiness—the utter aloneness—that she felt, she found the strength to continue with her address.
“Because…because of the terrorist attacks, the symbiont population has been greatly reduced. It will no doubt take many years—perhaps many decades—before the symbiont breeding population is once again large enough to allow any symbionts to be spared for symbiosis.
“I must therefore issue the following emergency proclamation: the Symbiosis Commission shall authorize no new joinings, and shall suspend all pending joinings, until further notice and after senatorial and executive review. All symbionts currently living in conjoined status with humanoids will be returned to the breeding pools at the end of the lifetimes of their current hosts, and will not be reassigned to new hosts at that time.
“This indefinite moratorium on joining constitutes a wrenching change for our world, to be sure. But this change is dictated by absolute biological necessity. Replacements must be bred for the symbionts who died in the attacks, and those who were injured and left without hosts will require time to recover, as well as to breed. No healthy joined person’s symbiont will be taken away. But every available symbiont will be taken to the spawning grounds to help the species increase its numbers as quickly as possible. The symbionts must survive. They must be protected, if Trill humanoids are ever again to hope to benefit from the long lives, the shared experiences, the accumulated wisdom—and the tandem immortality—gifted to us by our sister species.
“As radical—and perhaps frightening—as this change is, it also affords us a unique opportunity. While we are waiting for the symbiont population to replenish its numbers—and thereby to become ready once again for symbiosis—the distinctions our society has drawn between the joined and the unjoined will shrink and vanish, as will the number of joined Trill citizens who live among us.
“We
will put the lie to the charge that only the joined rate positions of power and influence in this society, while recognizing that we have erred badly in this regard in the past. We will re-mold our civilization into something more all-inclusive than has ever existed on Trill before. No longer will the topmost strata of Trill society be dominated by a tiny minority. In a manner of speaking, we will all be unjoined sooner or later.”
This is it, she thought, pausing in her oratory. She wished she felt as confident about her next action as she had when she had originally conceived this plan.
Of course, she had still been joined then.
With all the conviction and dignity she could muster, the president rose from her chair. As she stood behind the desk, she imagined she could feel the delicate wings of a nest of yilga moths fluttering inside her abdominal pouch. She had yet to get used to its strangely flattened condition.
“I cannot issue such a sweeping proclamation without including myself,” the president said, opening her charcoal-colored jacket, along with the lower portion of the formal white tunic she wore beneath it.
She knew that her visibly slack abdominal pouch was now exposed to the entire Trill comnet.
“Because you have entrusted me with the power of this office, I have presumed to lead you. And since I am bringing about changes such as Trill hasn’t seen in millennia, I must lead the way there as well. This morning I underwent an experimental medical procedure that successfully interrupted the symbiosis between myself and the symbiont to which I have been bonded for nearly all of my adult life.”
She tried to push back a sudden emotional squall, and a haze of tears told her that she hadn’t quite succeeded. She bulled onward in spite of it. “I am now no longer Lirisse Maz, but Lirisse Durghan. The Maz symbiont has already been taken back to Mak’ala, where it will participate in the Guardians’ efforts to restore the symbiont population to safe levels. I am now, like most of you, unjoined.
Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine® Volume Two Page 20