This Gray Spirit

by Heather Jarman

  And Kira wasn’t fool enough to believe this impacted only her. There were those in Macet’s company who would have reservations about the gul talking with a Bajoran. They both needed protection from accusations that might arise from either camp.

  Hoping to minimize civilian contact, Kira elected to take a route that took them over the habitat ring bridges and up to the Promenade balcony. At this hour, minimal foot traffic meant fewer encounters with curious onlookers, but the constant security presence in the area assured reliable witnesses to whatever passed between them.

  At first they walked in silence, searching for a comfortable rhythm, neither of them certain where one began a conversation like the one they needed to have. About the time they approached the Promenade balcony, Kira finally decided she felt safe to begin.

  “I realize I haven’t been very hospitable since you arrived. I apologize,” she began, clasping her hands together behind her back.

  Gul Macet smiled, his face softened by amusement. “It’s not all that surprising, Colonel, that you find my presence disturbing, as do your fellow Bajorans. I’m not troubled by it.”

  “Good,” she said, nodding her head with relief. “I’m glad that you don’t hold our prejudices against us.” They rounded the final corner before moving into the main walkway. Only a handful of people milled around the balcony at this hour: lovers cuddled on a bench, dismissing the awe-inspiring expanse of space out the windows for the wonders in each other’s eyes; intoxicated revelers stumbling out of Quark’s, lighter in pocket and spirit; and Ro’s security people, watching it all.

  “My likeness to Dukat isn’t exactly positive for either of our peoples,” Macet acknowledged. “For everyone who celebrated him as a hero, there were many of us who saw his egocentricity as an obstacle that prevented him from serving Cardassia’s best interests. He didn’t want power for the good he could do, he wanted power for the good it would do him. There’s a distinction there that I think you Bajorans saw before my people did. Our loss.”

  “Indeed.” Kira nodded an acknowledgment to a security officer keeping watch at the top of the spiral staircase. If Kira’s companion startled him, his alert gaze offered no evidence of it.

  As she and Macet strolled along the Promenade balcony, the exquisite irony of the situation didn’t escape Kira. Had it been only days ago when she sat alone in her office, wishing for a friend to walk with? She had envisioned that she and her companion would walk this very stretch she presently stood on. And here she was, standing beside someone she could hardly call a friend, knowing that she was exactly where she was supposed to be, with the person she was supposed to be with.

  Her thoughts were broken when Macet said abruptly, “And now that we’ve reestablished why you feel awkward in my presence…”

  Kira wondered if she wore her ambivalence on her face. “Gul Macet—” she began, feeling compelled to explain.

  “…I think we can move on to more pressing matters. The talks.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kira noticed the not-so-subtle pointing and gawking that had begun below as worshipers from evening services flooded the Promenade. An idea occurred to her. “I think we’ll accomplish more if we find a quiet place to sit down.”

  “Your office?” he suggested.

  “I have another idea.”

  Within minutes, Kira had admitted herself and Macet to the Ziyal exhibit, on display within the walls of Garak’s old tailor shop. And indeed, the tailor shop, vacant and dark since the end of the war, had been transformed into a gallery.

  The curator from the Bajoran Ministry of Art, one who had known Ziyal, designed the exhibit. Recessed lighting had already been installed, canvases stretched, and several holoprojectors installed to display representations of works lost in the war. The curator had used blue and red-tinted spotlights to bring added drama to Ziyal’s stark, jagged charcoal lines, to illuminate the multilayered oil paint dabs, roughened by bold brush strokes. She had drawn from both sides of her heritage to create thematically challenging pieces: some of her paintings dripped with the violent blood-reds and slate gray tones of war, while others conveyed the serenity of spirituality through water and nature. Kira wondered how Garak, with whom Ziyal had somehow forged a special connection during her time on the station, would feel when he learned to what purpose his old space was now being put. She thought he would approve.

  After a fashion, Ziyal symbolized a trying time for those station residents who lived through the Dominion War Occupation, reminding some of Dukat, others of Vedek Yassim’s suicide. For others, Ziyal recalled a darker era, an era when Bajoran women were slaves to Cardassian soldiers. Because Kira loved Ziyal, she didn’t want her memory dishonored in any fashion. On Bajor, where fewer individuals had personal associations with her, people would be more inclined to find hope and insight from her story than to resent it.

  Public access to the exhibit wouldn’t begin for a couple of days; if casual talk between staff working in ops represented a cross sampling of the station’s opinions, the admission lines would be long. All those who had been privileged to see Lang’s presentation at the reception had openly conveyed their enthusiasm for the Ziyal project.

  With the ever-vigilant presence of Militia security hovering outside, Kira and Macet strolled around the various artworks, making simplistic comments about the personalities of the pieces and saying little else until they gravitated to the center of the gallery, where the curator had placed a bench. Macet sat down, facing a floor-to-ceiling canvas—an abstract cubist-style oil painting entitled Gallitep—and threw his legs out in front of him. In counterpoint, Kira sat beside, but apart from Macet, facing the opposite wall where a more modest, pencil drawing—warm chalks on black paper—called Mother hung. Pale blue lights, the room’s sole illumination, shrouded Ziyal’s artwork—as well as its two viewers.

  “Have the talks always been as contentious as they were today?” Kira asked, still dismayed by the stubborn posturing she’d observed.

  “Minister Asarem has always been eloquent,” Macet answered, “but her pleasant manners fail to mask the rigid, almost provocative positions she’s taken.”

  Kira shook her head, allowing her eyes to meander over the pale colors puddled on the canvas in front of her. “I had no idea how stuck both of the delegations were,” she said. “I sincerely believed that our people could find at least a place to start, but it doesn’t appear that either side can agree on even that. If you can’t find consensus on humanitarian issues, I don’t know how much hope we can hold out for normalized relations.”

  “This, I believe, is where you come in, Colonel,” Macet said gently. “You need to be our intermediary.”

  “Me?” Kira said. Keeping her back to Macet, she walked over to a painting that hadn’t been hung yet. Crouching down, she tried losing herself in an analysis of the geometric forms, but Macet’s absurd suggestion intruded on her thoughts. Asarem had hardly been subtle in hiding her dislike for Kira; Shakaar didn’t mind using her as a social liaison with the Cardassians, but had reservations about her assuming a larger role, if she’d correctly read his behavior at the reception. Admiral Akaar didn’t have a say, yet—this was still a matter between the Bajoran and Cardassian governments, not the Federation. Macet must be delusional. “What exactly do you see me doing?”

  “You are the one to put the talks on a successful path,” Macet explained. “Even with your own people, you’ve handled more difficult scenarios.”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Gul Macet, but obviously you have outdated notions about how much my opinion matters around here. Maybe once upon a time…Right now, I serve in a quasi-military but primarily administrative capacity. The replicator in your quarters isn’t working? Call me. I have an in with the acting engineering chief. Anything requiring politicking, influence peddling or persuasion? I’m more or less useless.”

  He chuckled. “I’m beginning to see why, at least on some level, you and Gul Dukat were fated to hat
e each other. As much as he saw the universe circumnavigating him, you’re just the opposite.”

  Kira stiffened. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I didn’t have better reasons to hate him, Macet.”

  “My apologies, Colonel. I only meant that you seem unexpectedly—humble—for someone of your accomplishments. I noticed this at the reception. How can you not appreciate your own magnitude, even among the formidable figures assembled on Deep Space 9 right now?”

  “I don’t think you understand what an Attainder means among my people.”

  “Actually I do. Quite well. I spent this afternoon reading up on it. After Vedek Nolan told me what to look for,” Macet said. “I accept that your present status imposes a separation of sorts between you and your people, but that doesn’t negate who you are.”

  Kira stood up and turned to face him, arms folded, only to find that Macet was no longer studying the oil painting, but watching Kira intently. “What exactly do you know about who I am?”

  “Of all the people on the station, you have the unique position as one who has earned the respect of Bajorans, Cardassians, the Federation, even the Romulans and the Klingons,” Macet explained patiently. “You’ve worn the uniforms of both the Bajoran Militia and Starfleet. And you’ve succeeded Captain Sisko as commander of one of the most critical outposts in the Alpha Quadrant. Now a Starfleet officer serves as your second in command. To my knowledge, it’s unprecedented.”

  Kira studied Macet, looking for proof that he might be lulling her into letting her guard down. “All these things are true, but you’re neglecting to mention that each one of these items predated my being declared persona non grata.” Kira had her own version of the truth to offer. “I retain command of this station because Shakaar can’t risk looking provincial while he’s trying to win the favor of Councillor zh’Thane and Admiral Akaar. Dismiss me and he has to explain to the Federation why a perfectly qualified officer is dismissed on religious grounds unrelated to command duties. Those who I count as my friends in Starfleet are either in the Gamma Quadrant, on Earth, or with the Prophets. And I’m fairly certain that Minister Asarem would like nothing more than to shove me out the nearest airlock.”

  Macet tossed his head back and laughed heartily. “You sound not unlike the precocious, brilliant student whose cleverness has left him working off demerits after school, never mind that you’re graduating first in your class.”

  “You’re overstating my influence in the circles of power,” Kira said.

  “And you are obviously not the best judge of your capabilities. I’m sure most would see you as a true daughter of the Prophets,” Macet pronounced solemnly.

  “You have a helluva a lot of nerve talking about what makes a true daughter of the Prophets,” she said sharply, refusing to be bought off by Macet’s lofty rhetoric. “If anyone thinks that the resemblances between you and Dukat end at appearance, make sure they’re informed otherwise. Flattery won’t negate the reality of my situation.”

  Macet met her gaze. “It isn’t flattery, it’s truth. And it’s why Ambassador Lang, and I, speaking on her behalf, are asking you to use your influence to help us broker peace.”

  “I thought we’d established my lack of influence.” Kira rubbed her forehead, wondering how awful her headache would be by the time she and Macet stopped arguing in circles.

  “You are the only one who truly understands all sides in this, as your remarks to Minister Asarem proved today.”

  “You overheard?”

  “You weren’t exactly keeping your voices down, Colonel.”

  Damn. If Macet heard, who else might have eavesdropped on her conversation with Asarem? For a moment, Kira worried about the vandal who had targeted the Cardassian delegation, hoping her outburst eluded that pair of ears. Her words might be interpreted as being too supportive of the Cardassians, and she didn’t want to further stoke the anger that had defaced the flag. She knew then that she needed to do what she could to hasten this process along. “What exactly is it that you expect me to do?” she said at last.

  “Appeal to First Minister Shakaar. Ask him to intercede.”

  Kira shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Macet suddenly stood up. “You’ve seen for yourself what’s happening. Minister Asarem isn’t interested in negotiating peace. She wants revenge.”

  “But how do I know that what happened today is typical of the talks?” Kira argued, remembering what passed between all the involved parties.

  “Review the transcripts. Interview me, Lang, any member of our delegation. And I’m sure if you asked, you could talk to the Bajoran delegation as well. Weigh the evidence,” Macet urged. “If you review the proceedings and find that all parties acted reasonably or that our party acted in bad faith, then I’d invite you to act on your conscience or walk away. But if you find that the facts support my contentions, will you go to First Minister Shakaar and plead our case?”

  Kira rolled Macet’s request around in her mind, looking for any possible loopholes or places that might ultimately damage the precarious situation between Bajor and Cardassia further; she found none. “I’ll see what I think after I review the information.”

  “Isn’t it accurate to say that true followers of the Prophets believe that all things may be done through their instrumentality?” he asked.

  “If it’s right for Bajor.”

  “And if brokering peace between our peoples is right for Bajor, do you not have faith that the Prophets will light your path?”

  Kira met his direct gaze, seeing integrity in his eyes that Dukat had never feigned successfully. “If you know me as well as you claim to, you know the answer to that question.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Macet said quietly.

  That the security post inside the exhibit had been vacated without her being informed struck Kira as odd. She understood that the exhibit was to be guarded around the clock. The deserted Promenade pulsed with taut stillness, a tension that squeezed out all the sound. Without thought to Macet, she walked as if in a dream toward the front door, when the silence ruptured—an angry cacophony of screams and crashes, of breaking bodies and shattering glass.

  A tangle of humanoid bodies was spilling out of Quark’s, many clutching random objects from the bar as makeshift weapons. She saw a group of Cardassians wielding table legs like clubs at charging Bajorans brandishing bottles and chairs. An abandoned cart loaded with incense, crystals, and candles toppled over, spilling wares onto the floor; a pair of combatants skidded to a halt, falling flat on their backs before their fists could make contact. Bar stools sailed through the air. Scents of spilled liquors and hoppy Terran ale permeated the air.

  Kira touched her combadge. “Kira to Ro.”

  “I know Colonel. Quark contacted me. I’m on my way.” Ro sounded breathless; she must be running from her quarters. “I’m closing the Promenade to everyone except security and medical personnel, and yourself, until we get the situation under control. All my off-duty people have been summoned and I’ve alerted the infirmary—but even so, this sounds pretty bad.”

  “Actually, it’s worse. I suggest you hurry, Lieutenant. Kira out.” With her phaser drawn, Kira charged onto the west platform. She estimated the number of brawlers higher than sixty. She turned to Macet to ask for his assistance in putting down the tumult, but realized, too late, he’d already raced into the crowd and was prying his men off whoever their opponents might be. She quickly lost track of him in the sea of constantly heaving bodies. Hoping that any security officers present might help defuse the fray, she saw, to her anger, the unmistakable colors of the Militia swirling in the mix of Cardassian gray. Our own people are part of this…!

  Kira scanned the room with her eyes, seeking a position from which to disrupt the melee in the quickest, surest way possible. She saw arms, bloody uniforms, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, and was wondering where the hell the medics were when she spotted Dr. Tarses. Simon had begun treating an injured
Cardassian when he was suddenly accosted by an enraged Bajoran. The man started beating Simon until Sergeant Shul appeared from somewhere, yanked him off the doctor, and put him in restraints. For his part, Tarses went back to caring for his patient, ignoring the bruises that were already darkening his face.

  Crouched down, out of sight between the gym and the jeweler’s, she waited for the strategic moment, phaser pointed at the ceiling, finger on the trigger….

  Shielding himself with a tray, Quark bellowed demands for order, utterly ignored by anyone who heard him. Kira watched as he pushed anyone still inside the bar—anyone who even looked dangerous—out onto the Promenade. When he appeared satisfied that only his staff remained (and Morn, peering out at the chaos from behind the dubious safety of the bar), Quark activated a force field to prevent the brawlers from returning to further damage his establishment.

  Macet was having mixed success in stopping his men; he’d break up one quarrel only to be drawn into another. Suddenly Kira saw an enraged Klingon, wielding a d’k tahg, charging Macet after the gul had forced the Cardassian that the Klingon had been fighting to retire.

  Kira pivoted out, spraying a round of warning shots at the walls behind the Klingon. Startled, the Klingon turned to face his new assailant, only to be tackled by Macet. Keeping a knee wedged between the Klingon’s shoulder blades, Macet waved appreciatively to Kira.

  Several brawlers had paused and ducked when the metallic sound of phaser fire rang out; some dove to the floor, but one particularly determined pair continued trying to kill each other until Kira stunned them both. They dropped, grunting. Kira kicked them out of her way.

  “This is Colonel Kira!” she shouted. “Any and all Bajoran nationals are to stand down immediately or face criminal charges!” Several Bajorans paused, midpunch, to look toward Kira’s voice, but many ignored her demands.

  Another round of phaser fire whizzed from the balcony above and everyone looked to see Ro standing over them all, phaser held out in front of her, and flanked by a dozen armed security officers. “The next person to flinch gets more than a warning shot!” Ro shouted.