STAR TREK: DS9 - The Lives of Dax

by Marco Palmieri, Editor

  Lela nodded. That made sense to her. But it seemed so logical, it made her wonder why she hadn’t thought of it herself.

  T’Pau was watching her, dark eyes unfathomable.

  Lela folded her hands together. “Why would you want to talk with me? You know I’m in disgrace.”

  “I know your people have much to learn when it comes to other species. That includes understanding that your search for knowledge is Trill’s only salvation.”

  Lela turned. She didn’t know why she trusted this calm woman, but she did. Not with state secrets, only with her own. “I contacted the L’Dira after I sent a message to you. I asked them if they were in trouble. Did I do something that might have provoked their attack?”

  “No,” T’Pau said. “It is as I said in my message. They are an impatient people, even when negotiations are ongoing.”

  Lela felt her shoulders relax. She didn’t realize until that moment how much she feared that the attack was her fault.

  “You have great courage,” T’Pau repeated, “and vision as well. You do not fear to imagine what lies ahead. Do not allow others to extinguish that quality within you. You must always do what you believe to be right.”

  “Odan says I’m too young to know what’s right.”

  T’Pau seemed to consider Lela for a moment. “In this universe we are all young, Lela Dax,” she said at last. “That is the subtle truth that often eludes so many promising life-forms. Youth contains the potential for growth. Once an individual—or a culture—forgets that, the growth stops.

  “Your world needs people like you, Lela Dax. Never doubt that.”

  Before Lela could respond, T’Pau rose from her chair, apparently satisfied that she had accomplished what she had set out to do. She held up her right hand, paired fingers parted, thumb at rest.

  “Live long,” T’Pau said, “and prosper.”

  It seemed to have more meaning than a simple sentence. But Lela did not know how to respond.

  “Th-thank you,” she said.

  Then T’Pau turned away, and let herself out of the apartment.

  Lela watched her go. What Lela’s people saw as a character flaw, T’Pau saw as a survival trait. And maybe they were both right.

  For the first time since her indictment, Lela smiled.

  A short time later, a runner knocked at her door. “The council has made a decision,” he said. “You’re to come with me.”

  She did.

  Her meeting with T’Pau had left her calmer, ready to face whatever came at her, no matter what the cost.

  The runner led Lela through a side corridor that went down, not up. He was taking her to the chamber floor. Her hands started to shake. She wouldn’t be allowed to return to her desk.

  They were going to throw her out of the council. Her political career would be over.

  The runner opened a small door that led to a passageway under some of the desks. Then he swept his arm forward, indicating that she should go through.

  At the door stood Lytus and Odan. She couldn’t tell from the expression on their faces what the verdict was.

  “Stand in the center of the floor, please,” Lytus said.

  She walked past him without a word, to the spot he had indicated. His podium was slightly to her left. He did not stand behind it. Instead, he waited on the periphery, like Odan. The other council members filled their seats. They looked tired, and the room had a faint scent of sweat and rotting food. They had spent a lot of hours here, debating her fate.

  Her fate and, in its own way, that of Trill. Condemning her for trying to act when they would not would mean that, despite the resolutions they passed, they had no intention of learning about any other species.

  “Lela Dax.” The voice belonged to the sergeant at arms. “You have been tried on the charges of treason. The council has delivered its verdict. You shall stand and hear.”

  She stood straighter, but she couldn’t turn to see the councillors behind her. The ones in front could not meet her gaze.

  “Lela Dax,” The sergeant at arms continued. “You have been tried on charges of treason, and found not guilty.”

  She let out a small breath.

  “But because you have violated resolutions made by this august body, you must bear the consequences.”

  A shiver ran through her whole body. She wasn’t guilty of treason. Odan had argued for her. And done well.

  “Lela Dax. The council has issued a formal reprimand that will remain upon your record throughout all of the Dax symbiont’s lifetimes. Should you ever act against council resolutions again, you shall face a harsher penalty. Do you understand your punishment?”

  There was a small silence before she realized she had to respond. “Yes.”

  “Have you anything to say in your own defense?”

  She stepped toward the podium. Odan’s eyes widened and he shook his head slightly. Clearly, he didn’t want her to speak.

  Lela placed her hands on the podium, and felt it slowly rise, until it was in the center of the room. Then the podium spun, slowly. “I have nothing to say in my defense,” she said. “But I do need to speak.”

  She surveyed the council. The members were watching her, their attention rapt. She thought she saw Odan stiffen, as if he was afraid she would undo all of his good work.

  “I have learned much these last few days,” she said. “I have learned, painfully, my own limitations. I have not yet realized how to look outside myself, and in failing that, I have not learned how to look outside my own culture. For that, I ask the council’s forgiveness.”

  Several members were nodding. Odan blinked, looking faintly surprised.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for being lenient with me. I will do all I can to regain your trust.”

  Then she turned to Lytus. “And now you need to tell me how to get down.”

  Laughter rippled through the council chambers, and it sounded to Lela like relieved laughter. Lytus touched a small button near the base, and the podium came down on its own.

  Lela left it. Lytus touched her arm. “You may take your seat again.”

  Lela smiled, but did not thank him. Then she walked back toward the door. She was still shaking, but she felt stronger than she had for a long time. Maybe stronger than she ever had.

  She stopped in front of Odan. “I owe you my career,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  He studied her for a moment. “I didn’t do this for you,” he said. “I did this for those who died. You weren’t the only one who didn’t know how to look outside our culture. The council—and perhaps Trill itself—had the same flaw. Only you tried. And if we had listened to you, lives would have been saved.”

  “Perhaps,” Lela said. “A wise woman recently told me that it’s not logical to expect yourself to act differently in hindsight.”

  “That’s true,” Odan said. “But it’s important to examine your mistakes so that you won’t make them again. I can’t change what we did or how we handled the L’Dira. But I could change how we handled you.”

  She smiled slightly at the idea of having to be handled at all. “Still,” she said. “I owe you thanks and more.”

  “Then do me one favor,” Odan said.

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t let this incident cause you to lose your passion.”

  “I thought you disapproved of it.”

  His lips thinned, and it took her a moment to realize he was suppressing a smile. “I think I may have envied it, maybe even feared it. But I’ve grown to understand it. Your passion is your strength.”

  “And my weakness,” Lela said.

  He nodded slightly, then said, “In most things I probably won’t be your ally.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be.”

  “We’re too different.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’ve taught me that differences can be a strength, too.” He turned toward Lytus, who had watched the entire exchange. “We should send for the emi
ssary from Vulcan now.”

  Lytus frowned. “This is happening too fast.”

  Odan glanced at Lela, and this time he did smile. “Some would say that this didn’t happen fast enough.”

  Lela knew better than to get into the middle of that argument. Let the old-timers worry about the swiftness of change. She was glad that it was happening at all, that the doors were opening. She could scarcely wait to hear what T’Pau had to say about the stars, about the other species, about the minds who dwelled on distant worlds. Perhaps some day, in this lifetime or a different one, she would have a chance to see these exotic places for herself, to breathe their air, to speak with their people.

  But for now, learning about them would be enough. Learning about them, and helping her world open its doors to the universe.

  TOBIN

  “Painfully shy, introverted, a certain lack of confidence ... just the kind of person who would begin looking for ways to dazzle people with his ‘magical’ abilities.”

  —Julian Bashir

  “Rejoined”

  Jeffrey Lang

  Jeffrey Lang is the author of Star Trek: The Next Generation—Immortal Coil; the co-author (with David Weddle) of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—Section 31: Abyss; and the upcoming (with J. G. Hertzler) DS9 arc, The Left Hand of Destiny. He is also currently working on a long-form comic project called Sherwood. Lang lives in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Katie, his son, Andrew, and a dog named Buster, who insists on being walked too darned often.

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Jeffrey Lang

  A TINY, DARK craft fell through the void, tumbling and twisting wherever the solar wind carried it. No running lights burned, no thruster flared. It looked dead, but it was not. It was waiting, watching for ripples in space the way an angler watches the surface of a pond.

  Within, two spoke softly, heads bent together. “Do you see?” one said, pointing at a scanner. “Here. And, again, here—nearer the star cluster.”

  “Yes. It is as the scientists said it would be.” He tapped a key on his com panel and said, “Prepare the device.” Without looking at his comrade, he said, “If we do not succeed, it would be better to plot a course into the heart of the nearest sun and hope that our families remember us with some honor.”

  “That would be faster,” the other replied without humor, “than some of the alternatives.”

  His associate sighed, then said, “Faster. Yes, much faster.” He tapped the scanner. “But not as fast as this. Look at it. Clumsy, badly armored, no doubt piloted by a coward and captained by an idiot, but look. Faster than light.” He shook his head in wonder and disgust. “They could control the quadrant if they wished, but instead they squabble and argue among themselves, every voice raised, a cacophony of fools.” He looked down at his hand and was surprised to see that he had clenched it into a fist. He uncurled it, then touched the scanner again. “But we will see, won’t we? Even the fleetest can be tripped if you know where to place the snare.”

  Thrusters sparked for the first time in many days, nudging the craft onto a new heading. Something tumbled out of the ship’s hold—something dark and spherical, less than a meter in diameter. The ship moved off, and waited.

  The snare was set.

  Tobin Dax extended the fan of pasteboard rectangles toward the only other person sitting at the table and made the traditional petition: “Pick a card, any card.”

  His dining companion, Skon of Vulcan, lowered his padd the two centimeters necessary to look Tobin in the eye without actually having to move his head. He was a picture of reserve, of calm acquiescence, but there was something in his tone that betokened a hint of impatience, perhaps even exasperation. “Why?” he asked.

  Tobin, who was attempting to maintain the “cheerfully winning” expression recommended by 99 Great Card Tricks You Can Learn in Your Spare Time, was momentarily taken aback. The grin slipped and his features drooped back into what appeared to be—judging by the well-worn spray of worry lines around his eyes and mouth—the expression that fit his face most comfortably: anxious confusion. “Well,” he stammered, then faltered, Adam’s apple bobbing. Rhythm broken, Tobin patted a pair of stray hairs back over his bald spot and knew he was blushing. “Well, uh, because—because if you don’t then there won’t be a trick.”

  “A ‘trick?’ ” Skon asked. “You intend to ‘trick’ me?”

  “No,” Tobin said, feeling tiny drops of perspiration trickling down from under his armpits. “Not trick you, but, uh, entertain you. I’m performing a trick. It’s an illusion, a sleight-of-hand.” He was familiar with this sensation, though had only recently learned that the Terrans had a name for it (Terrans, amazingly, had a name for every uncomfortable, miserable, or otherwise unwanted emotional state); they called it “flopsweat.” You’re flopping, Tobin, said a tiny semi-rational voice inside his head. And you’re having an anxiety attack in front of a Vulcan. This is considered to be in bad taste.

  Tobin had been on board the Heisenberg, a ship owned by the Cochrane Institute of Alpha Centauri, for just longer than three weeks. His shared meals with Skon, who had boarded the ship a week after he had, were the closest thing he had to a personal relationship since leaving Trill. Most of the twenty-odd passengers and crew were, like Tobin and Skon, physicists or engineers who had been enlisted by the Institute to work on a project that would, they believed, revolutionize the exploration of the galaxy. Unlike Tobin and Skon, however, all their shipmates were humans, mostly from Alpha Centauri, but a few from Earth and Mars, as well. Tobin had uncharacteristic confidence where the project was concerned, possibly because his own seminal work in the field was what had caught the Cochrane Institute’s attention. But that didn’t change the fact that living and working on a ship full of humans—generally considered the loudest of the known sentient species—while bouncing around the quadrant to pick up other members of the team on the way back to Alpha Centauri, was more than his overtaxed nerves could take.

  Tobin liked the quiet, reserved Vulcan mathematician and greatly admired his work in quantum phase variance. So, typically, Tobin’s way of demonstrating his respect and admiration was to annoy him with card tricks. No doubt, Tobin decided, Skon would subtly rearrange his schedule and take the rest of his meals in perfect, blissful solitude.

  Tobin began to fold up the fan of cards (which had begun to grow sticky from his sweaty fingers), but before he could finish, Skon set his padd on the table, reached out, and took a card. “What should I do with it?”

  “Uh, put it on the table,” Tobin stammered, surprised. Skon did as he was told. The card was an eight of clubs. “Now take another,” Tobin said. Skon took another card and set it down on the table. It was an ace of clubs.

  “Is there some significance to the symbols?” Skon asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Tobin said. “When Captain Monsees gave me the deck and the book of tricks, she didn’t give me any reference material about the history or sociology of the cards themselves. She just said, ‘Here—something to keep your hands busy. You fidget too much.’ ”

  “ ‘Fidget?’ ” Skon repeated.

  Tobin shrugged. “Terran languages are full of words like that. It means I’m too, oh, ah ...” He groped for a word that wasn’t too unflattering. “Nervous,” he settled on.

  Skon picked up his padd and softly spoke a few words in his native tongue. Tobin knew that Skon was asking it to search the database for references and that he would check them later when he had a free moment. He placed the padd back on the table and asked, “Are we finished?”

  “No,” Tobin said. “Take another card.” Skon did. It was the eight of spades. He placed it on the table next to the other two cards.

  “I assume, then,” Skon said, “that the next card will be the ace of spades.”

  “If I do it correctly,” Tobin said.

  “Do what correctly?” Skon asked.

  “It’s called a force. I’m making you choose particular cards.”

 
Skon paused and pondered this for a moment. Then, he said, “When you tell me that you are trying to make me do something, do you not run the risk that I might attempt to resist whatever you want me to do?”

  Tobin considered this, feeling his spots flush with embarrassment. “Well, yes. So I have to account for that in my tactics—knowing that you know that. That’s the trick then, isn’t it?”

  Skon, who had been reaching for another card, pulled his hand back, and stopped to study Tobin’s determinedly blank—but “cheerfully winning”—expression. Then, he reached toward the fan, selected his fourth card, and set it on the table beside the other three.

  Jack of hearts.

  “Well,” Tobin said, sounding disappointed, but not terribly surprised. “More practice.”

  “Indeed,” Skon said, retrieving his padd. “Perhaps next time you should not inform your subject that he or she is being ‘forced’ to pick particular cards.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Tobin said, slapping his forehead and pulling out the worn hardcopy of 99 Tricks. “I forgot—I should have been running patter to distract you while you pick your cards. I’m supposed to tell you the story of ‘Wild Bill Hickok and the Dead Man’s Hand.’ ”

  Skon’s eyebrow raised a fraction of a millimeter. He lowered his padd again, interested despite himself. “Explain.”

  “It’s an Earth legend,” Tobin said, flipping to the correct page. “The tale of how one of their law enforcement officials was murdered. He was playing a game called poker—”

  “I am familiar with the game,” Skon said.

  “—And was shot in the back by a criminal. After he died, Hickok’s companions checked his cards and discovered he was holding two black aces and two black eights. Since then it’s been called the Dead Man’s Hand.”

  “Why would his companions check his cards?” Skon asked.

  Tobin shrugged. “How should I know? They’re humans. Who knows why they do anything?”

  Skon’s eyebrow climbed even higher, acknowledging the validity of Tobin’s comment, then raised his padd again and resumed reading. Tobin smiled faintly, glad that he had amused Skon, or whatever passed for amusement among Vulcans. Tobin had known other Vulcans and found most of them brusque and haughty despite their espoused views about diversity. Perhaps Skon was different because, as Tobin had learned, his father had been a diplomat. Tobin suspected that having a diplomat for a father would make one pretty accepting of other people—even humans. From a point just to the left of the center of his being, an amused voice said, Even pesty little Trills with too much time on their hands.