Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  Nog sipped from his new drink and thought he did a pretty good job of keeping a straight face, although the beverage tasted like a clear, fizzy version of a smell he’d once experienced, at an animal preserve on Earth. Goat, he thought it was called. In some kind of lemon oil.

  Nog decided that they’d had enough cultural exchange for one day, reminding himself to discreetly ask Frool to clear the bar before bringing their meals. Maybe Shar wouldn’t notice.

  Quark tripped into the bar, imagining Ro’s sweet breath in his ear once more. Only not threatening him this time, of course.

  Well, maybe just a little, Quark thought dreamily, thinking of how she frowned when she was concentrating, that dangerous curl to her lips. Thank the River for transparent aluminum office fronts.

  It was both exciting and disturbing, the way he was feeling, like an awestruck, passionate youth, like he was playing the market with his own money. Oh, there had been brief affairs over the years, what he believed to be mutually beneficial exchanges—no one had complained, anyway—but his serious infatuations were fewer and farther between than most people thought. He flirted with a lot of females, true, but actually thinking about them was a different kind of commitment altogether.

  There had been Natima Lang back during the occupation, and once briefly after the withdrawal, the first woman he’d purchased a gift for at retail. The Lady Grilka, now, she had been something; one of his closed deals, and he had the scars to prove it. There had been the magnificent Jadzia, of course, and by extension, Ezri—although his feelings were very different for the two incarnations of Dax. Ezri had a youthful quality that encouraged protective feelings, in addition to the occasional less-than-noble ones; but Jadzia…even getting shot down by Jadzia had been a pleasure, because she smiled and batted her lashes throughout, inspiring continued dreams of winning the lottery.

  Ro Laren, now, she had Natima’s passion, but Jadzia’s sense of humor, she had Grilka’s fire, plus a very appealing, haughty defensiveness that was all her own. She had a rebellious streak that could be profitable, considering her position. She was independent, headstrong, and antisocial, her inclinations didn’t seem too expensive, and she had a shady past—not to mention, the kind of hands that men paid for. Ferengi men, anyway. She was exquisite.

  To work on his growing mental file of her tastes and habits—research for expanding negotiations—he’d been randomly stepping out of the bar to observe her in her office. He noted what she was doing, collecting any information on her preferences that might work to his advantage. It was business, of a sort, but he was finding that it was a pleasure, as well. Her ironic smiles, her long legs, her habit of scowling to herself when she was deep in thought. Not only did he now know her preference for a hot beverage late in the day, information he could capitalize on, he’d had the extra enjoyment of watching her curse violently when she spilled it across her desk, leaping from her seat like a lithe but delicate jungle creature, mouthing words that would embarrass a Vicarian razorback wrangler.

  Quark was snapped from his reverie when he realized that Nog and Shar were sitting next to the bar, eating. Love was something, but free labor was a lot harder to come by. Quark swept up to them, putting a big smile on for the Andorian’s benefit. The boy had alerted them to a shrouded Jem’Hadar, after all, a talent too handy to frighten away…and he was a friend of Ro Laren’s.

  Quark had learned long ago that getting Nog to lend a hand was easiest to do with guilt, no raised voices or angry accusations, no threats. The fault was entirely Rom’s, as usual, for refusing to discourage Nog’s conscience when he was younger, but it was certainly too late to fix; anyway, until it stopped working, the guilt card saved the most time.

  “Nog, Shar, how nice to see you,” Quark said, turning his attention toward Nog, manufacturing a hopeful tone. “Say, Nephew…I know that you’re busy making everything look nice for when the Federation shows up, but do you think you might take a look at replicator three for me while you’re here? It’s malfunctioning again, and I wouldn’t ask except that I can’t afford to hire anyone, not after the beating I took on your best friend’s party yesterday.”

  Quark shifted his smile to Shar. “I probably lost thousands of strips in inventory alone, but Jake Sisko means so much to my nephew, I knew it was the right thing to do. I just couldn’t turn away from family. Now that his father’s gone, we only have each other.”

  Shar smiled back at him, his bright gray eyes sort of dazed. Andorians were a strange bunch, although Shar seemed mostly okay. He didn’t gamble but he liked imported ale, which wasn’t cheap.

  Nog sighed dramatically, as if he’d been asked to shovel dung. “Uncle, my team has to rebuild the Defiant’s venting conduit system tonight, and finish inspecting the lower core shield emitters.”

  Quark slumped his shoulders. “With all I do for you…that you could refuse me a scant moment of your time, just to offer an opinion on a simple replicator…”

  Nog rolled his eyes, and Quark gave up. Threats rarely worked, but sometimes a flat demand did the trick. “Nog, just look at it, would you? I’m your uncle.”

  “Fine,” Nog said, sighing again. “I’ll look at it before I go back to work. Can we finish eating now?”

  Finally. “You’re too kind,” Quark said, not working too hard to keep the sarcasm out of it. He turned to move back behind the bar, when Shar’s combadge bleeped.

  “Ensign ch’Thane, this is Ensign Selzner, in ops. You have a call waiting.”

  Selzner, the Starfleet communications officer with the overbite; she sounded very excited. Quark moved a few steps away but kept his head turned to catch the conversation, interested in what could make the intense, toothy Selzner sound like a teenager.

  “Put it through,” Shar said.

  “It’s straight from the offices of the Federation Council, on a directed channel,” Selzner said. “And it’s authorized for immediate uplink. Where do you want to take it?”

  Quark forgot that he was pretending not to listen and turned, wide-eyed. Nog was also staring at the expressionless Shar, who answered calmly—but with a lifetime of experience staring into the faces of gamblers to back him up, Quark would have bet the bar that the Andorian was bluffing.

  He’s rattled, and he’s not all that good at hiding it.

  “I see. Would you send it to my quarters, please? I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Ah, right. Affirmative.”

  Even as Selzner fumbled off, Quark was back at their table. “Why is someone at the Federation Council calling you, Ensign?”

  Shar took a last drink from his glass and stood up, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Definitely anxious. “My…ah, mother works for the Council.”

  Quark nodded, starting to feel hopeful. “Oh, really? That’s very interesting. What does she do? Secretarial work? Chef? Consultant?”

  Shar shook his head, then smiled at Nog. “I apologize for having to leave, Nog, but I’ve been expecting this call…”

  Thirishar ch’Thane, Andorians have…four distinct sexes, surname prefix denotes gender, ’Thane, that seems familiar…

  Nog was standing up, too. “Hey, that’s all right. I always take my father’s calls, and—”

  “Your mother is Charivretha zh’Thane?”

  Quark blurted it out louder than he’d intended, amazed that this had slipped past him. A few arriving customers turned to look, to see Shar’s obvious discomfort and Quark’s elated shock. Zh’Thane held the Andorian seat in the Federation Council, very bright and very sharp, a woman who spoke her mind about everything. She was so influential, in fact, that her speeches and stands were often cited as vote-swingers, and thus influenced a vast number of possibilities—from election outcome pools all the way up to interplanetary resource contracts, the real big time.

  This could bring a whole new dimension to the concept of inside information…the blue kid science officer is zh’Thane’s son.

  Shar was already walking awa
y, acting almost as if he was embarrassed that his mother was one of the Alpha Quadrant’s top political figures. A big part of Beta, too.

  He probably thinks people will treat him different, if they know. If they were smart, they would. Quark certainly planned to; the lovely Laren still pulled at his heart, not to mention his lobes, but Thirishar ch’Thane had his feet in the Great Material Continuum, and he probably didn’t even know it.

  Quark was definitely going to have to find out more about his nephew’s new friend. The son of the Emissary, now the son of Charivretha zh’Thane; Nog apparently had an instinct for choosing powerful friends…

  …and if he doesn’t want to exploit it himself, why shouldn’t somebody else benefit?

  All this and the task force would be arriving soon, fresh blood for his dabo girls and many a merry Klingon getting roaring drunk on bloodwine. It seemed he’d been mistaken about something he’d said, only a day or two ago; the Federation really did care about the small-business man, after all.

  The conversation went well until the very end.

  Shar had expected the call, although he had hoped that his zhavey would have remembered to contact him directly. Charivretha didn’t fear the stain of nepotism, reminding him time and again that he had achieved everything on his own, but he knew that; it was the look on Nog’s uncle’s face that he’d been trying to avoid, a look that said he had changed in Quark’s estimation because of his parentage. Shar wanted to be valued or ignored on his own merits, and now he would have to wonder; he had little doubt that the word was being passed along already.

  Zhavey expressed concern over the attack and asked how his assignment was working out, listening with interest to his responses. By mutual agreement they didn’t discuss politics, because there were too many facets of it that Zhavey couldn’t talk about. They briefly touched on contacts with his other parents, leading up to what Shar had dreaded, to the inevitable topic of his future.

  Shar listened calmly, looking into Charivretha’s wide, lovely face, agreeing appropriately with tilts of his head. As his zhavey, she was his closest relative biologically and socially, and it shamed him to see the concern he had caused, the seeds of worry beginning to take root in Zhavey’s deep gray eyes.

  Just as he thought he might get away without having to talk about it, Charivretha stopped her now by-rote speech, gazing at him with love and the thing that he feared most, the threat of losing it.

  “Thirishar, you are our only child. We didn’t bear and raise you to have doubts about your obligations.”

  “No, Zhavey.”

  “You are part of a Whole. The covenant broken by one is lost by all.”

  “Yes, Zhavey.”

  Zhavey studied him another moment, searching his face for something that didn’t seem to be there.

  “There’s nothing for you to resolve,” Charivretha said, and Shar couldn’t disagree, he couldn’t, not in the face of his zhavey’s unspoken anxiety—that he would disgrace all of them for the sake of his own selfish pursuits.

  “I know, Zhavey.”

  Zhavey looked away from him, and he could see the struggle for control. Charivretha zh’Thane was a person of great character and control, but she was also deeply unhappy.

  Because of me.

  “You’ll call very soon,” she half-asked, turning to look at him again.

  “As is my duty and privilege, Zhavey,” Shar said, recognizing that she was letting him go, finished for now. It was both a relief and a sorrow. “Until then, I find you Whole in my thoughts.”

  “As you are in mine.”

  The transmission ended and Shar’s mind went blank for a moment, feeling something coming, his blood like a hot river crashing into his body.

  With a low, primal hiss, Shar leapt to his feet and snapped a powerful kick at the logoed screen, boot heel cracking into the thick support post, the impact shuddering back through his body. The monitor burst into sparks, pieces of clear glass and dusky casing material shattering outward, clattering against the desk and floor. The fierce sense of triumph that accompanied his decisive action lasted only until he realized what he’d done.

  Seconds later, when the computer asked if he needed assistance, Shar was able to answer in a mostly even tone, deeply remorseful and very much alone.

  Chapter Six

  When Vedek Yevir finally called to tell her he was on his way to her office, Kira put the report she’d been reviewing aside and stood up, taking a couple of deep breaths. Ro Laren had kept the book, but Kira believed that Yevir should be told, to be prepared…and as a member of the Assembly, he would eventually be dealing with the book anyway, once Ro finished her investigation. Kira ignored the small voice at the back of her mind that told her she sought reassurance, that she desperately wanted to hear Yevir denounce the book.

  Just because it hasn’t been verified by some religious authority doesn’t make it any less true, it doesn’t change what’s in the book….

  Ro Laren’s voice, and it had a few other things to say, but Kira wasn’t interested. Right or wrong, Ro had used up all her chances. One more challenge to Kira’s authority, one more disrespectful outburst, and she could go find another job. And if Yevir wanted access to the heresy, Kira would see that he got it, however Ro felt about it.

  She thought this just as the ops lift rose into view, Vedek Yevir standing tall on the platform. The quiet, unassuming man he’d been when he’d worked on the station had changed when the Prophets had reached him, through the Emissary…and Their gift to him had been a future in which he would undoubtedly someday be kai; Yevir Linjarin shone with the Prophets’ light.

  He’ll know the book as false. He even said something about heresy at last night’s service….

  Kira crossed her arms, frowning, watching Yevir step from the lift. It had been a moving service, well read and interpreted, and what he’d said at the end in his affirmations…something like, Reject all kinds of heresy, turn your back to unclean—

  “Unclean words,” Kira said absently, the framework of an unpleasant idea suddenly clicking into place. Her mind listed the pieces, bits of conversation and thought, fitting them together with the man who was walking toward her office.

  He arrives only a few days after she was killed, to offer guidance.

  The book is from B’hala.

  She would have taken it to be recognized by a vedek, at the very least.

  Turn our backs on unclean words. Reject heresy in all its forms.

  It was a terrible thing to think, but now that she’d thought it, she was stuck with it—the possibility that Yevir knew about the book already, that he had known before he’d come to the station.

  That he came here to find it.

  Yevir reached the office door and smiled at Kira as it slid open, an honest, curious smile on his face.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you immediately,” Yevir said, as they both moved toward the low couch at one side of her office. “I was talking with Ranjen Ela about a doctrinal difference currently being contested among members of the Assembly…Nerys, what is it?”

  Kira sat down across from Yevir, deciding what she wanted to say. She was too distracted by the possibility of his deceit to talk about anything else, and wanted it cleared up.

  So I embarrass myself. It won’t be the first time.

  “Vedek Yevir, were you aware that Istani Reyla brought an unverified prophetic artifact with her, to this station?” Kira asked, keeping her voice low, nonconfrontational.

  Yevir wasn’t a natural liar. He flushed, but held her gaze evenly and answered as though he’d been expecting the question. “Yes. It’s one of the reasons I came. Have you found it?”

  Kira nodded, taken aback by the admission, hoping he would continue talking, because suddenly she couldn’t think of anything to say. His admission wasn’t what she’d expected; Yevir was being discussed seriously as the next kai.

  At her nod, Yevir became eager, his relief obvious. “Where is it? Has anyone read
from it?”

  Kira found her voice, but not to answer his questions. A vedek and a friend had lied to her, or at least withheld the truth.

  “What’s this all about, Linjarin? I think I have a right to know.”

  Yevir nodded slowly. “Of course. I should have told you already, but I was hoping that you would never find out about the book. I hoped I could find it and steal away, before anyone else was touched by its poison.”

  He smiled ruefully. “You must be angry with me, Nerys…and my only defense is that I wanted to avoid bringing attention to my search. The book is dangerous, and should have been destroyed millennia ago.”

  Thank the Prophets. She’d been right about the nature of the book. She thought she had convinced herself that the artifact wasn’t credible, but hearing Yevir say it made her realize she’d been unsure, in spite of her declarations to the contrary. Whatever anger she felt toward him was more than made up for by the relief of finally knowing the truth.

  “Tell me,” she said quietly.

  Yevir hesitated, then started to speak, his tone clear and direct. Again, it was obvious that he had given some thought to what he would say.

  “The unnamed book has long been rumored to exist, through generations upon generations of the Vedek Assembly,” Yevir said. “The story is that a man named Ohalu wrote it, a very sick and determined man, who plotted in his disease to sway people from the Prophets. He claimed that the Prophets spoke to him, and that they were a benevolent, symbiotic race of beings, learning from Bajorans just as we learn from them. He claimed that there was nothing sacred about them. Ohalu said that his truth would one day be recognized, because his prophecies would prove that he’d been contacted by the alien race.”