“It’s not the same note,” Kov said. “It’s—higher, I think, than either of the other ones. We’ll have to feed them into the computer when we get back, see if we can find the connection.”
Gard shook his head. He could feel time slipping away, and the need to know was like a fire in his mind. “Do it now, here. Do you have the specs?”
Kov barely hesitated before nodding. He produced his notepad and picked up an overturned chair, sitting in front of the computer as Gard walked back across the ravaged office, talking almost to himself.
“No one uses the sh’uk, no one. Executions, goal-oriented, not process, but he records the process, he breaks everything in sight but it’s not real, it’s like he’s deliberately ...”
Gard froze.
Lying. Creating a false biography.
It all fell into place, and Gard ran through the lies one at a time, discovering the reality at the base of each.
The murder weapon, so appealing because it’s so rare, so emotionless ... a blind alley, and a disguise for his true rage. The special care given to the plants ... a detail he wanted us to notice, because he’s not a noted botanist. The murder sites, seemingly the work of a clumsy, rampaging beast ... a dancer instead, or an athlete, someone capable of precise movement.
And why, why invent a false background of hosts to mislead ... unless you knew that someone would be investigating a joined murderer, which you could not know—
—unless you served on the Commission at some point.
As if to punctuate the enormity of his realization, the room fell silent, the note snapping off. Kov stared at the screen, seemingly awestruck.
Gard hurried over, already knowing the nature of what he would see if not the specifics.
Connection, completion. It’s about completion, somehow. ...
“They’re notes,” Kov said softly. “The first three of a pentatonic scale, five tones in all.”
There, on the screen—five dots, three of them highlighted. The computer had arranged them in a circle.
“Ouroboros,” Gard breathed. Kov looked up at him, frowning. Gard elaborated, feeling his heart pound with the truth of it.
“A human myth. The serpent that devours its own tail. It symbolizes the cycle of change and continuance, of past and future, united. Think of it—a joined killer, experiencing himself as the rebirth of his symbiont, creating death as he is born.”
Gard grinned, and not a trace of humor lived in his smile.
They had him.
It was almost midnight when Temzia let herself into Joran’s apartment, excited by the feeling of daring that flushed through her as she punched his entry code into the door panel. He hadn’t exactly tried to keep it to himself, had he? Besides, she had waited over a cooling meal for hours; he’d promised to meet her after his recital, and she was unaccustomed to being denied. If she interrupted him in the middle of something private, well, it was his own fault, wasn’t it?
The rooms were dark, the only sound that of the pattering rain at the windows. Enjoying the thrill of her intrusion, she let the lights stay off, moving as quietly as a thief. There was a little light coming from the wide, unshuttered window in his living room, the thin and watery moonlight adding to her sense of stealthy purpose.
She circled through his bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, returning to the tastefully decorated living room when she realized that he wasn’t home. Disappointing, to say the least. Stay or go? She decided to stay, at least until she got bored. Joran was worth it.
The environment was elegant, if a trifle cold; Temzia wandered through the room, studying his collection of instruments, peering at his wall of antique instruments and lightly touching the paintings and prints that he’d collected, probably as Joran Belar. It was strange, being with a joined man; no one in her immediate family had been implanted, and most of her friends were musicians, far from the math-science types who usually sought candidacy. She liked it; she liked him, and as she ran a nimble finger across a row of hard-copy texts, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be in love with Mr. Joran Dax—
“Oh!” The sound was startled out of her as the line of the shelf jumped into her hand with a soft click. She grinned, at her own surprise as much as at what she’d found.
“Secrets,” she whispered, still grinning. A secret room. Maybe he kept his mistresses there, hidden away from prying eyes. Joran would laugh at that when she told him. ...
Temzia slipped into the room, her gaze adjusted enough to the dark to see the syn lara that dominated the otherwise empty chamber. A work room, obviously—no decorations, nothing to distract a composing musician. She loved that he was so dedicated to his music; she’d never met anyone as impassioned as Joran, or as talented.
He probably wouldn’t like me nosing around in here. ...
Her grin returned. He probably shouldn’t stand her up, then.
She walked to the syn lara and perched on one corner of the bench, her gaze running over the use-polished keys. She saw the control box for a holo projector sitting on the raised lip of the instrument and, still smiling, turned it on. Probably scenes of nature, or some such, one of her profs had recommended using visuals for inspiration, and—
—and her smile faded as part of a chord filtered from the projector’s speakers, and two images sprang to life, both dramatically bright in the darkness. Two rooms, other than these; two strangers, a man in an empty hall, a girl holding a bag, both turning toward her, twin expressions of shock on their faces. Both of them screaming wordlessly, the haunting notes erupting from their opened mouths as Joran stepped into their rooms, Joran holding something shining and sharp—
Temzia sucked in a breath and scrambled backward, falling off of the bench, unable to look away from the horror unfolding in front of her. Oh, oh, that’s Mehta, that’s Mehta Bren and he’s, what is he doing—
She backed into the living room, stumbling, scarcely able to breathe—
—and a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that leapt into her throat. She struggled wildly, but only for the second it took her to see the weapon held up in front of her rolling eyes.
Gard could feel the girl’s rising panic in the flutter of her heart, in the tension that ran through her body and made it tremble against his own.
“Where’s Dax?” He whispered against her ear. The girl shuddered violently, her breath coming in hot gusts against his fingers, her limbs twitching. She was too afraid, he had to calm her down or she’d start screaming the second he let her go.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, doing his best to sound reassuring, aware that Joran could be moving toward them now, sliding through the dark with a weapon of his own, something much deadlier than a stunner. “You’re in very real danger, and I’m here to help, but you have to tell me where he is.”
The girl seemed to understand. She nodded against his hand and he let her go, quickly scanning the room as she collected herself enough to respond.
“I don’t think he’s here,” she said, her eyes wide and bright with tears. “I didn’t—”
Across from them, an explosion, a black shape hurtling through the window with a thundering crash, the high squeak of splintering glass an assault in the whispered dark. Gard threw himself to the floor, pulling the girl down with him, doing his best to shield her from the rain of glass as the shape, Dax, fell across them both.
Gard tried to bring the stunner up and a sharp pain slashed across his wrist. Instantly, his fingers turned dumb, the weapon clattering away. Joran held a thick, daggerlike piece of glass in one bloody hand, as shining as the demented grin he wore.
“Nice work. Fast. Now you and the girl, and it’s all over,” Dax said, and slashed again with the glass. Gard reeled back, narrowly avoiding the cut, praying that Kov had heard, was coming, praying that the girl would survive.
Screaming wordlessly, Dax lunged forward, striking at Gard’s throat—
—and the scream was cut short by the solid thunk of b
lunt instrument against skull. Dax crumpled forward, the girl standing behind him, the sharp end of his dropped sh’uk grasped in both of her hands.
“No!” Gard snatched at the monster, desperate to save him, to finally have the answers to the questions that he’d spent centuries following, why—
—as Dax fell against his own makeshift dagger, the weight of his body forcing the glass deep into his chest.
Gasping, Joran Dax rolled onto his back, resuscitated by the pain of his impalement. Dying.
The pain was everything. It was the world, and just like that, Joran felt something inside of him break.
Don’t leave me, Dax ...
“The circle’s not finished,” Joran rasped, not sure who he was talking to, not expecting an answer from the agent who’d orchestrated his death.
“It is for you.”
Temzia was crying, somewhere. Joran couldn’t see.
“I ... still am ... Dax,” he whispered, and knew that it was true, that the circle was the truth. Never ending. Dax was alive, and he was part of Dax now, in harmony with the symbiont, forever.
That cool voice, from out of the dark. “No. You’re Joran Belar, and you’re dead, and no one will remember.”
Joran felt a burst of fear, of terror, and it was the last thing he felt, the foul eulogy from the stranger the last sound he heard as the dark joined around him, taking him away from the eternal and into silence.
Gard wasn’t in the mood to jog but he went to the park anyway; the sun was out, and although he was tired, the light felt good. Cleansing.
He wasn’t a bit surprised to see Kov waiting for him by the path, even though the agent probably hadn’t slept yet. Gard had had only a few hours himself, but he felt okay.
The younger man fell into step, and together, they walked slowly toward the woods.
“How’s the wrist?” Kov asked.
Gard smiled. “Good as new. My fingers are a little numb still, but it should pass in a couple of days. Is that why you came to visit me?”
Kov smiled in turn, staring off into the distance as he spoke. “The procedure was successful; the new host has no memory of Joran. I thought you might like to know.”
“What about the records?”
“There never was a Joran Dax. Joran Belar was killed yesterday while trying to escape the scene of a murder—”
“The murder of Dr. Hajan,” Gard finished. “Because Hajan recommended his expulsion from the program.”
Kov smiled a little, but said nothing.
“What about the pilot? What about Mehta?”
Kov shrugged. “There’ll be questions for a while, but in the long run ...”
He didn’t need to finish. The TSC was all about handling the long run; Gard knew that as well as anyone. Better than most, in fact.
They walked for a few moments without speaking, and Gard decided that it was too nice a day for the discussion that could have been sparked by the events of the past few weeks, particularly of the past few hours. About what the TSC was doing, and the apparent lack of feeling they had for the unjoined. About who they were helping by refusing to admit to the world that sometimes, even after all of their careful measuring and planning, things went wrong; the need for Gard’s existence was proof of that.
But there’s only one of me. Maybe that’s it’s own proof, that things are never as dark as they seem. Maybe.
“What’s the new host’s name?” He asked suddenly, not sure why he wanted to know.
“Curzon,” Kov said. “He’s going to be a diplomat.”
For some reason, that made Gard laugh out loud. The two men continued their walk, enjoying the quiet, the park seeming fresh and new as it always did after a storm. Gard knew that he would remember Joran Dax, even if no one else would—and perhaps that was as much a reason for his existence as the rest of it.
After a few moments, Kov left him without saying good-bye; he never did.
CURZON
“I think one of the reasons I liked him so much was that he had more faults than the usual, socially acceptable Trill.”
—Benjamin Sisko
“Dax”
Steven Barnes
Steven Barnes is a novelist, screenwriter, columnist, lecturer, and personal performance coach. He has written fifteen novels, including several in collaboration with award-winning science fiction writer Larry Niven. His television credits include The Outer Limits, The New Twilight Zone, Baywatch, and Stargate; his Emmy Award-winning episode of The Outer Limits, “A Stitch in Time,” was also nominated for a Cable ACE Award. For five years he was a columnist for Black Belt magazine, and for three years host of the Hour 25 radio show on KPFK in Los Angeles. For six years he was one of the most popular instructors at the prestigious UCLA Extension writing program.
Barnes created the acclaimed Lifewriting seminar and audio course to help writers at all levels improve both their writing and their lives by examining Joseph Campbell’s model of the Hero’s Journey. Visit his Web site at www.lifewrite.com. He can be reached at [email protected].
“The Music Between the Notes” marks Barnes’s second foray into the Star Trek universe. His previous project was the novelization of the acclaimed Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode “Far Beyond the Stars.”
Barnes lives in Longview, Washington, with his daughter and his wife, novelist Tananarive Due.
The Music Between the Notes
Steven Barnes
THE AZZIZ SHIP approached Pelios Station like a great, glowing diatom, a crystalline testament to a technology long rumored, but rarely seen in Federation space.
The shape was unmistakably organic, like something found in the depths of an ocean. It most resembled what it truly was: a construct extruded, not constructed. Grown, not built.
I was an ensign then, not yet graduated from the Academy, and adjunct to the great Curzon Dax, who stood beside me. I say great with the accuracy of memory, although that and other words ran through my mind at the time. Some of them were oddly contradictory: aged and ageless, pompous and frivolous, brilliant and oblivious.
My thoughts of him ran to dualisms, perhaps in part because of his symbiotic nature, which I admit confused and perhaps even repelled me at first.
At the moment we both stood at the greeting dock of the Federation’s Pelios Station, a diplomatic and defensive satellite in the Pelian system, a double-star cluster home to several mining colonies and the planet Bactrica, a world friendly to the Federation but not yet within her fold. Bactrica, with just over two million arable square kilometers and a population of forty million souls, was governed by a hereditary theocracy.
A world of beauty, grace and wealth, four times within recent history Bactrica had been invaded by a mysterious people called the Tzenkethi, who in later years would launch a brief but bloody war against the Federation. Three times Bactrica had repulsed the Tzenkethi by her own efforts, and a unique energy-weapon technology. The most recent invasion had required Federation intercession. During it, Bactrica’s reigning monarchs had died. The line of succession was clear, there was no crisis of leadership, but the Bactricans had finally decided that there was strength in numbers.
They were a species very similar to Asiatic humans in appearance, with a stolid, mildly androgynous grace of motion. The females were a bit shorter, but that was very nearly the only visible difference.
Our presence was officially neutral but de facto protective. Despite her recent near-disaster, Bactrica took the official position that her spiritual nature protected her from the need for membership in what they considered a militaristic Federation.
Privately, I thought this nonsense. The energy weapons were hardly spiritual. Although we had never obtained a sample, our analysts proposed that it actually disrupted matter in its most basic, sub-quark level, producing an effect our own theorists had considered to violate at least three basic laws of physics. The Bactricans quite understood our desire to understand the technology behind the weapon, which they simply called “G
od’s Tooth,” and were negotiating savagely. Those negotiations had been proceeding for months, the Federation team led by Curzon Dax, who was, although in the twilight of his illustrious career, still perhaps the most respected diplomat of his time.
I had watched him juggling arguments, concerns, and treaties with unquenchable energy, until it dizzied and drained me. The announcement of the approach of the Azziz ship was a welcome break from the negotiation table.
Glowing from within as if in greeting, the Azziz ship nosed her way to the dock, and then locked there.
The Azziz, unlike the Bactricans, wished to join the Federation, wished to exchange knowledge. For far too long they had been virtually alone, and they craved entrance to a larger community of worlds.
Curzon Dax barely seemed to breathe. “I have done this many times, young Sisko,” he said, “but it always astonishes me how exciting it is.”
“Please, sir. It’s better you refer to me as ‘Ensign.’ ”
“My apologies.” Was that a glimmer of humor in his eye? “How exciting it is, Ensign.”
“The contact, sir?”
“And what is to come.”
I studied Dax, feeling more curiosity than I cared to admit. “What aspect do you find most exciting? If you don’t mind the question.”
“Not at all.”
“Is it the new technology? The new languages and customs?”
Dax considered before answering. “Languages and customs. The important thing about a language is that it contains the thoughts of a people. Although one can think things which cannot be put into language. ...”
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Lives of Dax Page 21