by S. D. Perry
Shar’s attention swam back to the conversation between the commander and the colonel. “I admit I’ve been skeptical about this all along,” Kira was saying. “But I hate to discourage Nog’s initiative…”
“…and you didn’t have any better ideas,” Vaughn finished for her.
“Something like that,” Kira said. Shar wondered if she minded that the commander finished sentences for her. Then again, he decided, the colonel seemed like the sort who would finish sentences for her commanding officer. He hadn’t yet been asked to sit in on a briefing between Kira and her Bajoran superiors. Now, that would be interesting, he decided.
So far, there hadn’t been any discussion about what would happen if Nog’s plan didn’t work, but Shar could not find it in himself to be too optimistic about DS9’s future. The Cardassian station was thirty years old, and despite all the reengineering that Starfleet had put into it, it had taken quite a beating in recent years. Perhaps it would be a mercy to send the station spinning into Bajor’s sun and start over fresh. In such a scenario, considering the strategic importance of the wormhole, it seemed likely that Starfleet would insist on constructing a new starbase, a project that would certainly cause controversy and discord among the Allies, unless Bajor’s latest petition for Federation membership were put on a fast track. The Federation was war-weary and its resources were stretched thin. The Council would bend a polite ear to listen to all sides, but when it was done, they would send in the Starfleet Corps of Engineers no matter what anyone said. Shar knew how politics worked. Better, in fact, than he really wanted to know.
“Anything on the short-range sensors, Ensign?” Kira asked.
Shar blinked, then said, “I was told that the short-range array was to be taken offline until further notice. Sir.” Shar attempted to project a mental image of Commander Vaughn issuing the order. He knew that Bajorans were no more psionic than most Andorians, but he thought it was worth the attempt.
Vaughn, apparently, had better than average psionic abilities for a human, because he picked up Shar’s distress call. “I gave the order, Colonel,” he said. “The patrol ships are more than capable of covering our front yard.”
“I don’t remember authorizing that,” Kira said, and Shar felt himself singed by the heat of the glare she focused on Vaughn. He fought the urge to scratch his left antenna.
“You didn’t,” Vaughn said agreeably. “I decided to shut them down yesterday.” He took a sip of tea. “You were busy dealing with the Cardassian liaison at the time. I didn’t want to bother you with it. It was an easy choice: short-range sensors or lights.”
Shar watched as the colonel held her first officer’s gaze for a moment. He knew that Commander Vaughn’s job had once been hers. Not long ago, it had been her responsibility to know everything that happened on the station. Shar had heard that she went through a similar period of adjustment with Vaughn’s predecessor, Tiris Jast, and wondered how much Kira still blamed herself for Jast’s tragic demise…and how much that misplaced guilt played on her natural impulse to micromanage the running of the station. Shar knew enough people with command responsibilities to know that one of the worst things about being promoted was coming to grips with the idea that you had to trust someone else to make some of the decisions.
Kira, it seemed, was still making that adjustment. Her apparent frustration didn’t evaporate, but it did recede significantly. “Right,” she said. “Lights. Good call, Commander.”
Shar felt his own tension diminish just in time to hear Lieutenant Bowers report from tactical that he was receiving warning flashes from all three patrol ships, each going to heightened alert status as the monstrous subspace displacement closed on the Bajoran system. Shar shot a questioning glance toward Kira, and waited for her nod before bringing the short-range sensors back online.
He found himself wishing he’d kept them off as he looked at the readings, cursing softly in his native tongue when he saw that the disruption to subspace had intensified markedly. The colonel didn’t seem to notice his outburst, more concerned with instructing Bowers to activate the main viewscreen, but Commander Vaughn shot him a warning glance that indicated he might know some Andorii.
The viewscreen came online and Shar tried to divide his attention between the image on it and his console. Space split open with a rapidly dissolving warp field. Time seemed to slow down as the aperture continued to expand, stretching so wide that for a moment, in spite of everything he knew to the contrary about what was unfolding, Shar wondered if DS9 would be pulled inside.
Instead, something emerged. Led by a single runabout, nine assorted Federation starships moving in carefully calculated formation dropped out of warp as one, the bright blue cones of their tractor beams strategically distributed over the tremendous mass of their shared burden. How anyone had talked nine starship captains—not to mention their chief engineers—into even attempting such a thing, Shar couldn’t guess. He didn’t need to imagine the complex level of calibration and coordination that the operation required, or who was behind it; Nog had transmitted his revised plan before it had been implemented, and everyone but Commander Vaughn had pretty much decided that he was out of his mind. The computer models, not to mention Deep Space 9’s increasing desperation, had finally convinced Kira that they had nothing to lose, and Shar privately began to suspect that the colonel shared Vaughn’s apparent taste for audacity.
Shar saw the warning signs in the data stream flowing across the board, then looked back up at the viewscreen, expecting to see warp nacelles blowing out, warp cores ejecting, and clouds of white-hot plasma venting…but instead he saw something else:
Salvation.
He looked at the colonel. She was smiling—no, grinning—then whooping with triumph as she madly pounded the command station, unleashing the elation of a woman who, he knew, despite everything else she had experienced in her life, never took the miraculous for granted.
Shar looked up at the screen again. It was still there.
Empok Nor, Deep Space 9’s long-abandoned twin.
“Colonel, we’re receiving a hail from the Rio Grande,” Bowers announced.
“It’s about time,” Kira said, unable to get the smile off her face. “On screen, Lieutenant.”
Bowers replaced the exterior scene with the image of Nog at the controls of the runabout. He looked, Shar thought, as though he hadn’t slept in days. “Lieutenant Nog reporting in, Colonel.”
“Nog, I—” Kira started, then faltered and shook her head, words failing her. Finally she took a breath and tried again. “You realize this is going to ruin my view of the wormhole, don’t you?”
Nog almost cracked a smile. “Not for long, Colonel,” he assured her. “Once we transfer Empok Nor’s lower core to Deep Space 9, we can tow what’s left of the station someplace nearby and park it there for the next time we need spare parts.”
“How did the station hold up?” Vaughn asked.
“Even better than the simulations projected, Commander,” Nog said. “Some minor structural damage to two of the lower pylons, but for a ten-day low-warp journey across three light-years…not bad. It’s like Chief O’Brien used to say about Deep Space 9: The Cardassians built this place to last.”
“You look tired, Nog,” Kira said.
Nog shrugged his shoulders, seeming to resist the urge to rub the large black circles under his eyes. “I’m fine, Colonel. Slept three hours last night. I’ll be able to start work on the fusion-core transfer just as soon as we’ve stabilized our orbit.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Vaughn said. “See that Empok Nor is stable, but I want you asleep in your quarters when you’re finished.” Nog began to protest, but stopped when he saw the tilt of Vaughn’s head. “Don’t force me to make it an order, Nog.”
Nog sagged, then seemed to almost smile gratefully. “Yes, Commander. Thank you, sir. Colonel…I want you to know the S.C.E. really came through. This wouldn’t have happened without them, or the ships in the convoy.”
Kira smiled. “I’ll be sure to note that in my report, Nog.”
“I also assured the convoy captains you’d be able to arrange shore leave for their crews on Bajor,” Nog said, suddenly looking a little worried.
If Nog expected the colonel to be put out, he was disappointed. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Kira said, still smiling. “I’ll take care of it. And Nog?”
“Colonel?”
“Excellent work.”
Nog’s face split into a grin. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said, and signed off.
Vaughn settled onto a stool and sipped his tea. He looked, Shar thought, as satisfied as he would be if he had just finished pulling the station all the way from the Trivas system himself. “I told you the kid had style.”
Chapter Two
It was to be his first vacation in some time, since his trip to Risa with Leeta, Jadzia, Worf, and Quark, before the war. It was also to be his first with Ezri. They were to go back to Earth, back home, so he could show her some bits and pieces of his past, the ones he was willing to share at this early stage in their relationship. And of course, while there, they’d look in on the O’Briens in San Francisco, and drop in on Jake and Joseph Sisko in New Orleans.
But this leave was different for another reason, Bashir reminded himself; Kira had ordered most of the non-techs to clear out, get lost, take a hike. The station needed to be powered down to its lowest threshold before they could transfer Empok Nor’s fusion core, as delicate and daunting a bit of surgery as Bashir had ever encountered, and Kira didn’t want any unnecessary personnel on board while it was in progress.
“Since when is the chief medical officer considered unnecessary personnel?” Bashir had asked.
“Since now,” Kira had replied. “Since I have an Akira-class starship nearby with a fully staffed and fully equipped sickbay.”
“But you’re letting Quark stay!”
“And there are a lot of people remaining on board who are going to need downtime during the next few days. And much as I hate to admit it, the role Quark plays in the well-being of station crew can’t be minimized, especially now. I need him, Julian. I don’t need you. Have a nice time.”
Bashir shook his head as he recalled the conversation, slipping his toothbrush into the side pocket of his luggage and hefting the bag. Ten kilos, he judged, and smiled in satisfaction. Packing a suitcase had developed into a minor fixation over the years, a game to see if he could pack just the right combination of articles to meet any eventuality during his travels. It sometimes made for an oddly shaped bag and good-natured ridicule from his friends, but sometimes his foresight paid off…like the time the Rio Grande had lost power near a white dwarf star and Miles had been very glad to see that self-sealing stem bolt….
He placed the bag on the bed. Now to collect Ezri and be on their way to airlock seven before their ride, the civilian transport Wayfarer, got under way.
Jadzia, Bashir knew, had been a talented last-minute packer. Worf had mentioned how she once yanked a suitcase out of the closet five minutes before a ship was scheduled to leave and was still the first one to the airlock. It was a gift, Bashir hoped, that Ezri had inherited.
The door to her quarters opened as he approached, the sensors encoded to permit him entry. Either Ezri was expecting him or, more likely, she had forgotten to change the sensor key since the last time he had been invited over. He was pleased to see a travel bag sitting on the floor, though it looked suspiciously deflated. She might be traveling light, but there was a more likely explanation. Bashir picked up the strap with one finger and lifted the bag off the floor. Empty.
He sighed.
“Ezri?” he called.
No answer.
He went into the bedroom, where her uniform jacket had been tossed carelessly over a chair, then followed the sounds of movement into the bathroom. Ezri was sitting on the floor working a blob of clay, pinching and pulling it with her fingers. There were several other blobs on the floor around her. Her red command shirt was caked with the stuff. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to seeing you in that color,” he commented.
Ezri looked up and said, “Oh,” as if startled. “Hi. What time is it?” There were smears of clay on her chin and cheeks. She scratched her nose and left another blotch.
“Almost thirteen hundred hours,” Bashir replied, trying very hard not to sound annoyed. “Our transport is leaving in forty minutes.”
“Wow. Later than I thought,” Ezri said. “Sorry.” She set the object she had been working with down on the floor and carefully studied the mess. “Clay isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” she said.
“What made you decide to take up sculpture?” Bashir asked. He fought the urge to add, “Especially now?”—but lost.
“Well,” Ezri said, either missing his exasperation or choosing to overlook it, “I was off duty today and figured that since all I had to do was pack, this would be a good time to work on some of the exercises the Symbiosis Commission recommended.”
When they had first become a couple, Bashir and Ezri had lain awake many a night (as new lovers do) discussing their histories, shared and unshared, as well as their similarities and differences. Among the interesting details that had emerged were things like the fact that Bashir liked peanut butter and jelly, but never the two together. Ezri hated yoga and considered lawn bowling a “sport” (it was a family thing). Also, she hated mint chocolate-chip ice cream, which surprised Bashir, because Jadzia had loved it.
They had discussed some more serious things, too, such as how comparable their peculiar situations might be: her joining and his genetic enhancements. Over time, they had come to the conclusion that the circumstances of their transformations were similar only in broad strokes. The change to Bashir’s psyche had happened years ago, when he was only a child, and, though frightening, it had been like the thrill one feels emerging from a fog into a clear space with a spectacular view.
Ezri’s experience had been almost exactly the opposite in many respects. She had been a mature adult, or, as she conceded, an adult, even if not mature on all counts. She had just been coming into a period of her life in which some of its emotional clutter was beginning to sort out, when she was plunged into the mental cacophony of eight other lives.
There had been a time when Julian Bashir had thought that everyone sought out someone like themselves for a partner, someone who would see the world in a similar way. But his relationship with Ezri had changed that, making him realize that he had never needed someone like himself to feel complete. Ezri was someone who could help him bridge the gap between himself and the holes in his experiences.
Dax allowed Bashir to help her up off the floor, then leaned against him for several seconds, steadying herself. Obviously, she had been sitting on the cold, hard tile floor for some time and lost some circulation in her legs. She placed her hands in the middle of her back and stretched, leaving two wet handprints.
Bashir studied the blobs on the floor and saw that they were, in fact, attempts at faces, or, more accurately, masks, since the eyeholes had been left open. He counted eight in all. At least two of them were clearly meant to be males with strong cheekbones and broad brows, while at least three others were definitely women. Bashir recognized one of these, the most clearly defined—with hair pulled back from the forehead and a wide mouth turned up at the corners. Jadzia.
“The previous hosts?” Bashir guessed.
Ezri nodded while looking down at her handiwork, turning her head this way and that. “The idea is not to try for something too representational. The exercise is more about impression and emotional response. I think about each host, and the feelings guide my fingers.”
“Interesting concept,” he said, lightly brushing his finger across the cheek of one of the male faces, where Ezri had somehow managed to convey an impression of triumph and tragedy at the same time. Torias? “But is this the sort of project you want to undertake just before we leave for a vacation?”
&
nbsp; Ezri turned to the sink and began to run what Bashir suspected was a large percentage of her daily emergency ration of water into the basin. “Don’t try to counsel the counselor, Doctor. Former counselor,” she corrected herself. “I know my timing is a little off and I know myself well enough to understand why.” Shutting off the flow of water, she immersed her hands and began scrubbing. “I admit it—I’m a little nervous about this trip, about leaving the station right now. I feel like I’m running away just when things are in upheaval.”
“You were ordered away,” Bashir corrected.
“I could make a case for staying if I wanted,” she said, hitting the sink’s recycle setting. Then she looked up at him and grinned. “But I figure they can get along without me for a while and I really do want to go see where you grew up. I’m guessing I’ll come away with all sorts of insights…”
“Oh, lord,” Bashir groaned. “Maybe it’s not too late to convince Kira to let us stay.”
After rubbing the worst of the stains off her hands, she threw the now brown towel into the recycler and refilled the basin. “Ha! No way! Now we have to go. And as long as we’re doing some short-term analysis, what’s with you not saying anything to anyone about your promotion, Lieutenant Commander? When Nog was promoted, the entire station turned out for the party. Not that I’m jealous on your behalf, but no one has ever accused you of avoiding a celebration.”
Bashir shrugged, resisting the sudden impulse to touch the new pip on his collar. “It didn’t seem appropriate somehow,” he said. “I’m not like Nog. He still needs the recognition, the ego boost…”
Ezri was splashing water on her face when she suddenly stopped and looked at him. “Nog needs an ego boost?”