This Gray Spirit

by Heather Jarman

  She shuffled past hateful words carved into the walls and paintings, over puddles of red paint still drizzling off benches and walls. Beneath the sadistic violence lacerating the room, Kira sensed Ziyal’s spirit—it was weaker, but it lingered. Kira’s eyes watered. Her friend’s pagh had been given a chance to live anew; after a lifetime as a fugitive, she had found a place to rest, where she could be safe from the cruelties of bigotry. And we couldn’t even shield her here, Kira thought sadly.

  She wandered from space to space, lost in her thoughts, so when she stumbled upon a civilian she was slow to fix on her identity. This is a closed area. Authorized personnel only, she prepared to say until she recognized she stood face-to-face with Minister Asarem.

  They considered each other awkwardly, neither knowing what to say or how to begin. That Asarem had chosen to come here now, to witness this tragedy, spoke well of her to Kira’s way of thinking.

  The dullness in Kira’s chest receded, replaced by warmth. Maybe there was a reason why her feet brought her here instead of instinctively guiding her back to her quarters. After that distasteful meeting with Shakaar, she longed to shower, wash her hands of him, but instead she’d ended up taking a different turbolift and walking across the Promenade and now, Asarem Wadeen stood before her, hands laced behind her back, waiting, watching.

  Kira didn’t believe in coincidences.

  They exchanged civil greetings, words about the shocking nature of the crime and then, again, lapsed into awkward silence. Neither woman moved to leave.

  “Minister, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?”

  “Do you have another lecture for me?”

  “No, more like an apology. I talked to Shakaar.”

  “Ah,” she said, understanding.

  “The situation is just as you said,” Kira admitted. “But you have to know that in all the years I’ve known Shakaar, to choose such a course isn’t like him.”

  Asarem nodded. “We don’t always come down on the same side of things, the first minister and I. He tends to be more progressive while I feel safest with a more conservative, traditional approach. But even knowing our stylistic differences, the way he chose to handle this situation with Ambassador Lang surprised even me.”

  Moved by Asarem’s gracious frankness, Kira felt ashamed by her own hasty judgment. “I’m sorry. For what I’ve said. For how I’ve behaved.”

  “If I were in your place, I would likely have done as you did,” Asarem said graciously.

  “Shakaar did say he thought we’d find we had a lot in common if we had a chance to get to know each other.”

  “I believe that as well.”

  They continued walking, avoiding looking at each other until Kira stopped. “I know as things presently stand, talks won’t resume. You can’t call Ambassador Lang and start things up again without going against Shakaar’s orders.”

  “True,” Asarem conceded.

  “But if you knew, in your heart, that Shakaar was wrong and that he was walking contrary to the path the Prophets have set for Bajor, would you go against him?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “Please. Can we sit?”

  They found a small, mostly unsoiled section of carpet in front of a maintenance closet. Pushing aside a broken piece of bench and other dusty refuse, the women dropped down cross-legged to the floor. Kira fumbled around for the words, seeing her own confusion reflected on Asarem’s face until she fell back on the oldest convention of storytelling: start from the beginning. Haltingly, she asked, “Have you ever heard of the Ravinok?”

  And from there, Ziyal’s story, as Kira recalled it, tumbled out. She related her own conflicted emotions upon finding Dukat’s illegitimate daughter in the Dozarian system, Dukat’s willingness to murder Ziyal, in cold blood, rather than risk her existence being discovered by his family or the Cardassian government, and Kira’s forcing him to accept responsibility for the unwanted child. Details that faded from her recollections due to the passage of time flooded back to her and Kira found herself explaining Ziyal’s uncomfortable initiation into Bajor’s art community, the prylars who grew to treasure her, and her tentative exploration of a relationship with the Prophets. How Ziyal had come to love Garak, much to the dismay of her friends on the station. Of her final days, when Sisko and Starfleet prepared to retake the station and Dukat was forced to flee or be taken prisoner, how Damar ultimately completed the murder Dukat had originally intended and how it felt to see her lifeless body. And as she spoke, Kira knew her cheeks were wet with tears and that she’d shared thoughts and impressions she’d never before voiced aloud to a virtual stranger, but she felt compelled to continue. When the last words left her lips, Kira felt she’d finally arrived at the place the Prophets intended her to, and the restlessness that had haunted her since Macet’s arrival finally abated.

  Asarem said little in response and Kira understood why. What else could be said? Knowing she had done as she should, Kira decided to leave. She had decisions to make and now she might be able to make them with a peaceful heart. Wishing her good night, Kira started toward the exit when Asarem called after her.

  “So what will you do next?”

  Kira shrugged. “I don’t know. Keep pummeling Shakaar until he relents. Help Ro. Go to Bajor. I’m not sure.” She hovered between exhaustion and collapse—a change of scenery could allow her to refuel, gear up for the next challenge. But Ro had two critical open investigations—the Promenade riot and the still unsolved vandalism; responsibility effectively tethered her to the station.

  “Walk with the Prophets, Colonel,” Asarem said.

  “So she finally fell asleep,” Phillipa announced, flopping backward onto her bed. She ordered the lights dimmed and sighed. Punching and pulling her pillow succeeded in reconfiguring lumps, but not much else; her neck muscles felt like knotted cords. She rolled over onto her stomach, dangling her feet over the side of the bed and watched her husband undress.

  “Rubbing her back works every time. Mireh drops off like that—” Sibias snapped his fingers.

  “And how did you figure that out?”

  “Works with you.”

  “You’re just a little too sure of yourself, smart man. I don’t think a little pressure between the shoulder blades is going to work for me tonight.”

  “That a challenge?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tough day?”

  “Oh yeah,” she groaned. After she’d returned to her quarters, she tried contacting Thriss several more times before her family’s needs pressed her into temporarily forgoing her professional concerns. She and Sibias helped the children with homework, played Kadis-Kot and wrapped up the evening with a chapter from Arios’s latest favorite, The Adventures of Lin Marna and the Mystery of Singularity Sam. Sibias defused Mireh’s stalling tactics while she took a sonic shower and now, with the children taken care of, she allowed herself to resume worrying about her patient.

  Kicking off his slippers, Sibias sat down beside her. His thumbs massaged the hollows of her shoulder blades. “Can you talk about it?”

  Relaxing proved challenging for Phillipa, though Sibias kneading away her muscular stress didn’t hurt. She willingly yielded to the pressure, enjoying sensations his hands produced. “Is this how it works with Mireh? You keep her talking while your hands work out every kink in her back?”

  “More or less. But there aren’t many kinks in her back, being two and all,” he said, working down her rib cage. “Mireh isn’t as concerned about saving the universe as you are—yet.”

  Closing her eyes, she blanked her mind, focused on his touch until…“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself up on her elbows, “I can’t stop thinking about my patient. I’ll just find something to read. Maybe one of your architectural history journals can bore me to sleep. That research on jevonite looks fascinating.”

  Carefully, Sibias eased her over onto her back. “You can’t make it better for everyone, Phil. You can’t force people to make good
choices. Sometimes, they mess up and you have to be okay with that.” He toyed with a lock of her hair, mapped the outline of her cheekbone with his finger.

  “I know, I know….” She inhaled sharply. “But I have this feeling that if I could just see her, talk to her, I might be able to make a difference.” She covered her face with her forearms. It was just so damn frustrating when you had the tools to fix something and you couldn’t. She had to confess, however, that the way Sibias grazed her bare arms might fix her problem with settling down to sleep…

  He nestled his face in the crook of her neck. “You say that every time, my wife,”

  “Your beard is ticklish,” she laughed.

  “Think of it as a variation on massage therapy,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat.

  Phillipa loved how he smelled—in her imagination he was musty archeology texts and crisp autumn days and smoky tallow candles. She dropped her arms to her sides, tipped her head toward his and rested her hair against his face. He reached for the top of her pajamas and in one smooth motion, undid the first button, and then the second.

  “So I’m thinking if the backrub isn’t going to work…” he began.

  “Damn straight.” Twisting onto her side, she wriggled her leg between his and pulled him into her. As they kissed, a blurry thought of Thriss sleeping without the one she loved tightened her throat, until a warm fog of sensation gradually diluted her coherence, leaving her worries to be rediscovered in the morning.

  Dizhei stretched awake, wondering when she’d fallen asleep on the couch. A vague recollection of a middle-of-the-night communication from Charivretha explained why she would be in the living room, but not why Anichent had left her there, instead of rousing her to return to watch over Thriss.

  This latest bout of moodiness seemed to be following her usual pattern. An angry outburst followed by a verbal tirade, directed most of the time at Anichent until guilt supplanted anger and she dissolved into a quivering mass of tears. Last night, Thriss had cried herself into a migraine before sleep overtook her. Both Dizhei and Anichent had been grateful for the reprieve.

  Without question, Thriss’ anguish would be better dealt with on Andor. Those of their own kind could counsel with her, provide her with the emotional support she needed to survive the remainder of Shar’s absence. If needs be, she or Anichent could return to Deep Space 9 closer to the time the Defiant was scheduled to come home. They would insist that Shar take immediate leave for the shelthreth. The anxiety plaguing all of them would end. Decisions about who would stay with whom and where could be made later.

  Stumbling to her feet, she stretched again. Perhaps she should check in on Thriss. See how she was feeling this morning. If they were fortunate, her mood might have lifted, allowing them to enjoy their final hours on the station. Dizhei didn’t hear Anichent stirring. He’d likely gone to the gymnasium for an early workout. She hoped she could interest him in breakfast at Quark’s, anything but replicated—

  The door slid open. Dizhei paused. Blinked. And shook her head hoping she might be victim to a sleepy hallucination. But her quivering knees, her racing heartbeat, and the scream that leapt to her throat meant her body understood what her mind refused to accept.

  21

  Vaughn waited at the bottom of the stairs for Dax. He’d finished his testimony in Tlaral’s hearing a little more than an hour ago. Though he hadn’t had any direct interaction with the Yrythny technologist, the judicial panel had requested that he explain the situation and circumstances surrounding the Consortium trade. Over the course of the day, Lieutenant Nog and Prynn had also offered their testimonies. His sense was that Tlaral faced an unpleasant fate.

  The least of her crimes had been hiding her Wanderer identity and becoming a consort to a Houseborn male. Violating those laws meant, at minimum, a life in prison. Add conspiracy charges stemming from the attempted weapon/Cheka trade and Vaughn was certain the judicial panel would have few options in determining her punishment. She had helped her case by offering to share intelligence on the underground’s radical wing. Should her information prove valuable, the panel might be able to exhibit leniency, though some might argue a swift death was less painful than a lifetime haunted by bad choices. Vaughn wasn’t sure they would know Tlaral’s fate before they left in the morning. He almost hoped the panel would deliberate slowly, avoid succumbing to public pressure for a swift, dramatic verdict. Rash decisions were rarely the correct ones.

  At last, the tall, curved doors opened. Ezri slipped through, her attempt to make a soundless getaway failing miserably when the metal handle clanged against the door panels. She swiftly sprang down the stairs, skipping every other step.

  “Ready to go, Commander?” she said with a heavy sigh. She had been testifying for more than two hours.

  “In every possible way,” Vaughn said.

  Together, they strolled silently through the long, echoing halls of the Assembly Center, where only two weeks before Ezri had been brought to speak before a joint meeting of both assemblies. Vaughn wished he could have been there to hear her triumphal oratory—at least that’s how Shar referred to it. Ezri had been more circumspect in her replies to Vaughn’s inquiries. Maybe once they were back on the Defiant she would share her account of her experiences among the Yrythny. Sensing that a more complex story lurked beneath the surface, Vaughn was willing to bide his time. “How is it going for Jeshoh in there?”

  “Even though Keren’s facing charges of her own, her testimony was persuasive,” Ezri said. “I believe the panel accepted her explanation of her relationship with Jeshoh, that for most of their lives they’d been friends and they intended to follow the law as best they could. She came off sounding like she’d made the only possible choices in an impossible situation.”

  That she’d done well pleased him; Vaughn had liked her since their first day on Luthia. If he’d had his druthers, she would have come to the Consortium in Minister M’Yeoh’s place. He had to pity the science minister, however. Within a day, he’d lost his consort and likely his political future. The Assembly had demanded the details regarding his union with Tlaral, assuming that he’d either conspired with her or was too easily deceived. When faced with similar circumstances, Keren had chosen the better path. Vaughn concluded, “Keren strikes me as an honorable individual.”

  “Who broke the law. Who’s lost the position she’s worked for since she was 10 years out of the water. Who may lose the one she loves. And Jeshoh, because he aligned himself with the terrorists, is facing far worse charges,” Ezri noted pragmatically.

  “At least you and Shar were able to persuade the panel to drop any charges relating to hijacking the Sagan.”

  “It may not be enough.” She shook her head. “The panel hearing Tlaral’s case and Jeshoh’s will compare notes. If Tlaral shoulders primary responsibility for orchestrating the plan, Jeshoh’s punishment should be reduced.”

  “Is he worried about the potential outcomes?”

  “As always, he’s more worried about Keren.” She pursed her lips, wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “For himself, I’m not sure. Losing his position as Vice Chair of the Upper Assembly didn’t seem to upset him, though the leaders of House Perian were devastated that their favorite son put illicit love above duty to home and world.”

  “In all the wisdom and experience of the ages, no philosopher has yet found the magical formula for balancing love and duty,” Vaughn noted. God knows I’ve looked for it.

  They exited through the Assembly Center’s main doors and into the Great Plaza. Every corner bustled with activity: vendors, government workers coming and going from their jobs, military officers and Vanìmel dwellers armed with petitions, lined up to enter the Assembly members’ offices. Vaughn had been surprised how well Luthia had absorbed the events of the past day. The population appeared quite calm, considering a top Houseborn official had been brought up on treason, the Wanderer underground had attempted to instigate a civil war and news of a major scientific breakthro
ugh had broken within the last few hours. The business of daily life always propels us forward, he thought.

  “Commander,” Ezri said, stopping in her tracks. “Before you go, you ought to try this delicacy from the Black Archipelago region. House Soid harvests massive darro, filets the meat into thin strips and marinates it for a year.” She tipped her head in the direction of a vending cart where a long line of Yrythny waited.

  Having had little time to experience Yrythny culture, Vaughn readily assented. Any regrets he had about leaving involved not having had time to be immersed in the wondrous strangeness of this remarkable world.

  They procured their lunch and resumed their walk back to quarters.

  “You seem to have enjoyed your time here,” Vaughn said, chewing the dried fish off a skewer.

  “‘Enjoyed’ is how I refer to vacation,” Ezri said. “I prefer to think I made the most of my time here. I learned a lot, not just about the Yrythny, but about myself.”

  “Over my lifetime, I’ve found that often the most important thing we take from exploration is a better understanding of the world within than the worlds outside.”

  Dax looked at him quizzically. “What are you suggesting? That the final frontier is less about exploring space than it is about exploring ourselves?”

  Vaughn smiled. “Isn’t it?”

  “You can follow along with the model on your desk screen,” Shar said to a filled auditorium of scientists, sitting in semicircle rows around the rostrum where he stood. More Yrythny sat in the aisles and squeezed in around the rear doors. The spotlight trained on him made it difficult to discern exactly how many had gathered to hear his presentation, but he sensed he had a full house. Nog was somewhere in the room, though that didn’t make him feel much better. He was still outnumbered about two thousand to one. Not seeing Yrythny faces made it easier to pretend he was back on Andor, presenting his senior thesis prior to his first year at the Academy.