Demons of Air and Darkness

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Renhol’s lips pursed. “Of course not. But are you aware of the fact that each of those three sentences came from a different host?”

  Frowning, Ezri said, “What?”

  “You modulated from Lela to Ezri to Jadzia. For that matter, Torias was fond of the phrase ‘assing around,’ if I recall correctly. That isn’t the way the joining is supposed to work, Ezri, and you know that.”

  Taking another deep breath to compose herself, Ezri said, “Look, Doctor, I appreciate your concern, but right now I have to deal with a huge influx of refugees from Europa Nova.” Quickly, she outlined the situation.

  “So you’re in charge of the station?”

  “At the moment, yes, and I really don’t have time to bring you completely up to speed on my life. I promise that I’ll contact you again within the next two days, assuming the crisis is resolved.”

  “I apologize, Lieutenant, I didn’t realize my timing was so bad,” Renhol said, though Ezri didn’t think she was sincere. “Get back in touch with me again at your convenience—but soon, please. We do need to discuss this.”

  “Of course, Doctor. Dax out.” She cut the connection.

  Stupid, meddling commission. Why can’t they just let me live my life?

  As she exited the office and headed to the turbolift, she caught sight of Ling. She then remembered what she had said about Ezri’s voice getting deeper and scratchier. That was when I was talking to Vedek Eran—and giving him the speech about how we should thank him. Which, she realized suddenly, I did in Curzon’s classic “diplomatic mode.”

  She shook her head as she entered the turbolift. I’m just tired—

  —like I was last month when I tapped into Jadzia’s memories during sex with Julian? Renhol was right about one thing: it wasn’t supposed to work that way. Ezri had been content to chalk it all up to a transitional phase she was going through—from a year of stumbling her way through a labyrinth of past lives, to really taking control for the first time. More and more, ever since that terrible day on the Defiant, she found herself drawing from the wellspring of her previous hosts to take on greater and greater challenges. And the more she took on, the more she seemed to crave.

  What’s wrong with that? she wondered, not without some resentment. Isn’t that the point of being joined? To harmonize those life experiences and use them to live up to their combined potential? To be greater than the sum of my past hosts?

  As the turbolift arrived in the habitat ring, she looked over the list, her mind returning to the issues at hand. She decided to simply take the complaints by order of quarters.

  On her way, she passed by Ensign Gordimer, who had remained behind when the Defiant left, leading a group of refugees toward Section Nine. She smiled at the line of people who shuffled in a more-or-less orderly manner toward the empty quarters there.

  She walked up to Gordimer. “Ensign,” she said quietly, “make sure that the last two quarters in this section have been readjusted for humans.”

  In a whisper, Gordimer reported, “I’ve already been in touch with Ensign Ling, sir. This group won’t need those two quarters, but they should be ready by the time the Xhosa arrives with the next batch.”

  Ezri nodded. “The Ng’ s refugees are going to Section Twelve, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Carry on, Ensign.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ezri turned to see a very short older man. His face was wrinkled, his neck jowly, his snow-white hair thin and wispy, and his skin liver-spotted. Despite this, he did not seem at all decrepit—he walked with as much vitality as Vaughn, even though Ezri figured he had to have thirty years on Elias.

  “Can I help you, Mr.—?”

  “Maranzano.” The deep, rich voice belied the fragile-form it came out of. “I just wanted to know—are you in charge?”

  Smiling, Ezri said, “Well, I’m presently in command of the station.”

  “I just wanted to thank you all for your help. I know how difficult this must be for all of you, keeping track of all of us and herding us around . . .”

  Ezri couldn’t help but laugh. “Difficult for us? Mr. Maranzano—”

  A woman standing in the queue said, “Oh, don’t listen to him, young lady. He just thinks you’re pretty and wants to make nice.”

  Mr. Maranzano turned and gave the woman a dirty look. “I’m not allowed to be nice to a pretty young woman?”

  Should I tell him I’m over three hundred years old? Ezri thought mischievously. No, that wouldn’t be fair. “Well, thanks all the same, Mr. Maranzano, but I think you’re the ones who should be thanked. Now please, if you’ll go with Ensign Gordimer here, he’ll take you to your temporary quarters.”

  She saw them off, then continued to the nearest quarters containing someone who had relayed a problem to ops.

  The first two were minor complaints about the size of the quarters—mostly from people who lived in houses on Europa Nova. Ezri made appropriately conciliatory noises that boiled down to tough luck, and moved on.

  A heavyset woman answered the third door. “Is everything all right, Ms. DellaMonica?”

  “The replicators don’t work. I’ve been trying to make an espresso for the last hour.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me take a look.” She went inside the quarters, which were also occupied by four other people, all male. All five of them had similar facial features, and Ezri assumed they were related. “Computer,” Ezri said to the replicator, “one espresso, unsweetened.”

  A demitasse cup appeared in the replicator, filled with steaming black liquid. Ezri picked it up. “Looks okay to me.”

  “Taste it.”

  Ezri tasted it. It seemed to taste right. But then, Ezri had never been much of an espresso drinker—she put it in the same category as raktajino, which she detested—though Jadzia loved it, having been a regular customer at the CafÈ Roma on Earth and its magnificent brew when she was at the Academy. But then, Jadzia also liked raktajino.

  “It seems fine,” she said tentatively.

  “It’s horrendous!” Ms. DellaMonica cried.

  “Ms. DellaMonica, I realize it may not be up to your standards, but replicators are sometimes—”

  Holding up a hand, Ms. DellaMonica said, “ Lieutenant, I know what you’re going to say. ‘This espresso is good enough.’ Well not for me.” She took a deep breath. “Look around you, Lieutenant. What don’t you see?”

  Looking around the quarters, Ezri saw what one usually saw in such places—but saw very little by way of personal effects, which was presumably Ms. DellaMonica’s point. “I know that things are difficult, Ms. DellaMonica, but—”

  “Do you know what a piet‡ is, Lieutenant?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a religious icon of a woman holding her dead son by the artist Michelangelo. We have a replica of it that’s been in my family since Earth’s eighteenth century. My nonna gave it to me on her deathbed. That piet‡ means more to us than anything—but we left it behind, because we only had to take the essentials with us. I may never see that statue again, Lieutenant. That’s the way the universe works, and I accept that. But, all things considered, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that at least I can get a decent espresso. This is not decent espresso.”

  Casting her mind over the duty roster for the engineering staff, Ezri tapped her combadge. “Dax to McAllister.”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “Could you report to the Habitat Ring, Level Four, Section Forty-Eight and have a look at the replicator, please? The people in the quarters will explain the problem.”

  “On my way.”

  The faces of all five DellaMonicas brightened with smiles. “Thank you,” Ms. DellaMonica said, clasping her hands together and shaking them over her heart.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing a good espresso won’t cure. Without my caffeine, I get cranky.”

  “Trust me,” one of the other DellaMonicas added. “You wouldn’t lik
e her when she’s cranky.”

  Ezri smiled. “I get that impression. Don’t hesitate to call me if there are any other problems. And Ms. DellaMonica?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re doing everything we can to get you back together with your piet‡ and your espresso maker.”

  “I appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

  After bidding them a cheery good-bye, she went to the next door.

  Without preamble, the occupant, Mr. PÈrez, said: “It’s too hot in here.”

  “I’ll have the temperature reduced. The last occupants were Ovirians—you know how they like it hot.”

  “What’s an Ovirian?”

  “They’re from the planet—”

  “Aliens? You put aliens in my room?”

  “They’re simply the ones who had the quarters last.”

  “I don’t want to share my space with aliens.”

  Ezri took a deep breath. “You won’t be. The Ovirians were in here over a month ago.”

  “If there are any aliens in here, I want to move.”

  “There are no aliens, Mr. PÈrez. It’s just you and your brother and sister in here.”

  “It better be.”

  The next door: “I’ve got a terrible rash!”

  “Have you been to the infirmary?”

  “There’s an infirmary here?”

  Sighing, Ezri asked, “What type of rash is it?”

  “A bad one.”

  Remembering something Julian had mentioned earlier, Ezri said, “It’s probably just an allergic reaction to the arithrazine you were given on the Defiant, Mr. Amenguale. You should report to the infirmary right away.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The computer can direct you.”

  “What computer?”

  Ezri quickly described the shortest route from this section of the Habitat Ring to the infirmary, then moved on.

  The next door: “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “These quarters have food replicators.”

  “What’re they?”

  Sighing, Ezri tried not to dwell on the irony of explaining the concept of food replicators to someone who lived in a society that relied on them.

  “Oh, okay. So how do I cook food, then?”

  Ezri explained the concept a second time, which seemed to take, and she took her leave.

  The next door: “The lights are too bright.”

  Next: “These beds are terrible!”

  Next: “I can’t get the sonic shower to work.”

  Next: “The lights are too dark.”

  Next was Ms. Bello, a small, timid-looking woman who said, “Lieutenant, someone stole my necklace.”

  Before Ms. Bello could elaborate, some insensitive jackass cried out, “How could you let someone steal your necklace? Why were you wearing a necklace anyhow? You knew you’d be crowded in with a bunch of other people and going to a space station! Any idiot knows to keep an eye on your belongings when you come to a space station like this! I can’t believe you’d be so completely idiotic!”

  Ezri realized two things as this diatribe went on. One was that Ensign Gordimer had just turned the corner. The other was that the insensitive jackass was in fact Ezri herself.

  “Lieutenant,” Gordimer said quickly, “are you okay?”

  Catching her breath, feeling like the most horrible person who ever walked the halls of the station, Ezri said, “Yes, I’m fine. Can you do me a favor, Ensign? This woman has had some jewelry stolen. Can you take her statement?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Gordimer said quickly.

  Turning to the small woman, who looked like she wanted desperately to curl herself up into a ball, she said, “I’m very, very sorry, Ms. Bello. My behavior was completely uncalled for.”

  Ms. Bello simply flinched and nodded.

  Gordimer gave a reassuring smile. “I promise we’ll try to get to the bottom of this theft, ma’am.”

  Again, she flinched. Ezri decided to get the hell away from the woman before she did any more damage.

  I desperately need a break, she thought, wondering if perhaps Dr. Renhol didn’t have a point.

  No, that’s silly. I’ve been dashing about full-tilt since we got the distress call from Europa Nova. I’ve barely slept in the last fifty hours. I just need to relax. “Computer, time?”

  “The time is 1445 hours.”

  Damn, she thought. Only fifteen minutes until Shakaar.

  Ezri entered a turbolift. “Wardroom,” she said after a moment. That room was likely to be empty—she could get a cup of tea, compose herself, and still make it to ops in time.

  As the turbolift wended its way mid-core, she wished Julian had stayed behind. After all, the Intrepid and the Gryphon had full medical staffs that could work just fine with the Europani medical authorities. But they decided to play it safe and have as many medical personnel available on-site as possible, which certainly made sense. Besides, Simon Tarses and Girani Semna were handling the load back here just fine.

  Speaking of medicine, I wonder if Mr. Amenguale actually found his way up to the infirmary. She tapped her combadge. “Dax to Tarses.”

  “Go ahead.” The doctor sounded exhausted.

  “You okay, Simon?”

  “Nothing eight days of sleep won’t cure. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “A Mr. Amenguale should be reporting to you with a case of arithrazine rash. If he isn’t there in the next five minutes or so, send someone from security to find him—I think he might get lost.”

  “Got it. And hey, you don’t exactly sound hale and hearty yourself.”

  “I promise to get some sleep as soon as I can, Simon.”

  “Why am I not reassured?”

  Ezri chuckled as the turbolift arrived at the wardroom level. “Dax out.”

  As she exited the lift, she heard the familiar voice of Shar.

  “I understand, Zhavey.”

  “No, Thirishar, I don’t think you truly do. You mustn’t, if you’re going to insist on acting like this.”

  The second voice wasn’t immediately familiar, but given the way Shar addressed her, it must be the infamous Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane. They were obviously right around the corner from where Ezri was walking—or, rather, standing, since she had stopped short of proceeding once she heard the voices.

  “I am acting like myself, Zhavey. I don’t know any other way to act. I am sorry for that, but—”

  “In Thori’s name, Thirishar!” zh’Thane cried out in a voice that, Ezri suspected, had intimidated many on the Federation Council floor, “you cannot afford to take such risks when you know what is at stake!”

  “Exploring the Gamma Quadrant is hardly a ‘risk,’ Zhavey.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re that naÔve. If you want, I can quote casualty figures on starships exploring unmapped space for the last two hundred years.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then what will it take?” zh’Thane snapped. “To what part of you should I appeal? Clearly you feel no sense of duty to your own kind, nor to me. You have no fear of what may befall you before the window is closed. Have you even considered what your obstinancy is doing to Anichent, to Dizhei, to Thriss? Are you even thinking about anyone besides yourself?”

  There was an unexpected sound, like a bulkhead being struck, and Dax almost moved to see what had happened, to intervene, but the sound of Shar’s voice, raised to a hiss and seething with emotion, stopped her in her tracks.

  “I have thought of everyone but myself my entire life, Zhavey! That’s how you raised me, isn’t it? How all Andorian children are raised? We don’t live for ourselves, we live for the whole, always the whole.

  “You ask me if I love them . . . as if I had a choice. As if every cell in my body didn’t long to be among them every day.”

  “The why are you doing this?”

  “Because it isn’t working! I’ve kept track, Zhavey, more closely than you imagine. I’ve seen the num
bers, and I see what we’re doing to ourselves as a people because of them, because of our desperation to delay the inevitable. We’re so consumed with keeping ourselves alive, we have no conception of what we’re living for.”

  “And so your answer is to turn your back to us? On everyone and everything?”

  “You don’t understand. You never did,” Shar said in a deadly whisper.

  The last time Ezri had heard an Andorian use that tone of voice was thirteen years earlier, when she was Curzon. The person to whom the Andorian had spoken was dead five minutes later.

  There was a terrible silence. And when zh’Thane broke it, her voice was firm. But also, Ezri thought, tinged with sorrow. “Don’t force me to act, my chei.”

  “Stop meddling in my life, Zhavey.”

  “Don’t walk away from me, Thirishar!”

  Uh-oh, Ezri thought, and she immediately started walking forward in a pointless attempt to cover up her eavesdropping.

  Shar turned the corner just as Ezri approached it, and the two almost collided. Shar’s antennae were standing straight up, and his eyes—normally the inquisitive eyes of the scientist that Ezri knew quite well from Tobin and Jadzia—were smoldering with emotions Ezri couldn’t begin to read.

  At the sight of Ezri, though, the antennae lowered slightly, and he regained his composure. “Lieutenant! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  A tall Andorian woman with an impressively elaborate hairdo came around the corner, and she was similarly brought up short by the Trill’s presence.

  Well, this is awkward, Ezri thought. She supposed she should have turned and walked away the minute the first words came within earshot, but her own curiosity—and her counselor’s training—had kicked in.

  Finally, after the pause threatened to go on for days, Ezri offered her hand to the tall woman. “You must be Councillor zh’Thane. I’m Lieutenant Ezri Dax.”

  The councillor took it. “Dax—you used to be Curzon Dax, yes?”

  “Two hosts ago, yes.”

  Sourly, she said, “Well, I’ll try not to hold that against you.” Turning around, obviously unwilling to air her family’s private affairs in public, she said, “If you’ll excuse me.”