Star Trek - DS9 - Avatar - Book One of Two.htm

by Emily

  Kira was at me command station, her expression dismal as she scanned readouts from the Lower Core. Shar joined her, waiting until she looked up before speaking.

  "Colonel—I should tell you that the internal sensor array suggested a transfer of energy to the station as the last strike ships were destroyed."

  Kira frowned. " 'Suggested'?"

  "It's not possible to verify any of the readings," Shar said. "And it's likely mat they were all false, created by the power surge through the EPS system or—"

  "How many such readings did you pick up, exactly?"

  Shar shifted uncomfortably. "Seven hundred eight, sir."

  Kira nodded slowly. "I see. As soon as the Defiant is brought hi, you can try running our sensor logs against their externals, but I think you probably picked up radiation pulses from the explosions... or, like you said, random surges through the network itself from direct damage."

  "I think so, too, sir, but I felt it was my duty to tell you."

  "Thank you, Ensign. I'll include it in the master report. If that's all..."

  Kira returned her attention to the table, and though Shar didn't know her well, he suspected that she was angry with herself over the near-success of the strike ships. It was a ludicrous notion, but she was radiating enough heat to suggest some strong emotion.

  Perhaps if I engage her further, encourage her to talk about the battle... He had so admired her poise during the fight, he wished to offer some measure of his deference, however small. And he was genuinely interested in her perception of events.

  "Sir, have you given any thought as to why the fourth ship attempted to protect the station?"

  When she looked up again, he could see anger in her gaze—but her voice was calm and controlled, her manner almost formal. "No, I haven't Perhaps you could hypothesize on the question for a later briefing. Right now is not a good time."

  Soar nodded, wondering if he'd made a mistake in his approach. In his own culture, asking someone's opinion without offering one's own was a gesture of respect, and it had worked well with the captain of the Tamberlaine, a human male... maybe Bajorans were different. Or females.

  Kira's combadge chirped.

  "Colonel, this is Dax, on the Defiant"

  "Good to hear from you, Defiant. And good work. We have runabouts on the way. Tell Commander Jast and Nog to report to ops when you get here, and have Nog look at our damage reports en route. We're going to have to work out a repair schedule immediately. How's everyone on the ship?"

  There was a long pause, and Ezri's voice, when she spoke again, was uncharacteristically solemn. 'Two people were killed, three others wounded. Commander Jast and Turo Ane are both dead. I'm sorry, Nerys."

  Shar stared at the colonel, who stared back. He could see his own feelings reflected hi her face, but found no

  solace in the awareness mat she, too, had sustained a loss.

  He grasped at his training, struggling not to lash out physically in his pain, and saw in Kira the same fight— anguish waning to become violence. It was in the set of her jaw and in the tremble of her hands.

  In other circumstances, discovering mat they shared similar reactions to an event might have made him proud. Now, he turned and walked stiffly back to his station, understanding only that, like himself, she needed now to be left alone.

  8

  There were seven, including himself; each a high-ranking member of the Vedek Assembly, each of the other six as openly anxious as a vedek could be while still maintaining some semblance of piousness. It all rested in the hands of the Prophets, after all—though to look at their pinched faces, one might think otherwise. One might think, hi fact, that the Prophets had deserted them, leaving each alone with his or her own fears.

  Such uncertainty, because of what's happened. How difficult it must be. Yevir Linjarin understood the pain of doubt, and he ached to see it in others, particularly the six other men and women in the great chamber. That there was great change coming, there was no question, but the Prophets would provide. As They always had.

  The man who'd called the meeting, Vedek Eran Dal, seated himself at the head of the long stone table, nodding to the attendant ranjen to close the doors of the

  great hall. The incense-scented chamber was cold, the meeting called too hastily for a single fire to have been built—although the secret nature of their small alliance surely had something to do with it The traditional fires were lit only for the Assembly entire, and there would he no evidence of this meeting once it was dismissed.

  Seated here were the seven most influential, the most doctrinally inclined, the men and women who would use their powers of persuasion to carry the rest of the Assembly in the direction best for Bajor. Kai Winn's sudden disappearance had necessitated the formation of the unnamed council; with First Minister Shakaar off-world, lobbying the Federation on Bajor's behalf, the people needed guidance, and not the endlessly turbulent sort provided by the Assembly entire, with its share of politicians and sycophants and deals.

  Here, though... here sat the careful hands that would lead the way. The shared anxiety on their faces saddened Yevir, reminding him of the passage in Ako-rem's A Poet's Flight:

  To doubt Their wisdom is to deny Them the pleasures of due faith, and to deny oneself Ae joy of being—and being, to be loved.

  When the doors had rumbled closed, Eran began to speak.

  "I thank each of you for coming with such little notice. I'm sure you understand why I've called this session. Before we discuss our options, I would ask your impressions of the crisis before us."

  Vedek Frelan Syla, a small, highly opinionated woman, was the first to place her hands on the table.

  For reasons of poor health she had refused to be considered for Ae recent nomination to kai, much to everyone's relief; no one wanted another Winn Adami, and of all the possible candidates, Frelan was easily the most politically prone.

  "Vedek Frelan," Eran said, opening the discussion.

  "Early this morning, Deep Space 9 was attacked," she said, her statement of the obvious a clear sign that she was wanning to a speech. "Hie last report I received from our contacts within the Militia told of sixty-one dead in all—not including die crew of the guardian star-ship, or the wounded—^and severe damage to the power core... making it, I believe, the deadliest offensive yet waged against the station. Even in the time of war mere was not so much damage, nor so many lives lost

  "My firm conviction is that the heresy was destroyed during the battle—and therefore mat the battle itself was sanctioned by the Prophets. Did the attackers not travel through the Temple gates? I put forth mat we have acted with unnecessary haste, presuming too much, and mat we should now await further guidance from the Prophets."

  Yevir saw, with no real surprise, that everyone now had their hands on the table, except for himself. He wanted to hear the opinions of the others before speaking; after all, it was likely they would look to him for the last word, and though he did not consider himself to be gifted politically, he knew mat every notion should be heard. No one liked to feel dismissed, even if their ideas were rejected in the end. He accepted the fact of their acquiescence with no pretensions of humility, just as he accepted the reality that he would one day be kai—perhaps not after the upcoming election, but it was inevitable. His path was clear.

  The discussion went around the table, Eran calling

  each vedek by name, each stating his or her thoughts in turn, no two alike. Scio Marses believed that the matter should be opened to the Assembly, or at least the part of it that they could openly claim. Kyli Shon wanted to consult the Orb of Contemplation; Sinchante Jin, the Orb of Wisdom. Bellis Nemani insisted that they send a covert team to the station, to gather data, and Eran put forth the idea of allowing Kira Nerys into their confidence. She was, he pointed out, a devout woman, though Vedeks Kyli and Bellis disagreed strongly with the idea, reminding mem all of how difficult Kira had proved to be in the past The discussion, if not heated, was quickly becoming
antagonistic. Gone were the traditional formalities of hands-on-table.

  "We mustn't trust any information we don't collect tor ourselves," Bellis argued. "Isn't it obvious? And Kira knew Istani, from Singha. For all we know, they were acting in collaboration—"

  "—and you mink she wouldn't come to the Assembly for confirmation, if she had talked with Istani?" Eran asked. "We need Kira. She runs the station and the people trust her. Granted, she can be obstinate, but her faith and loyalty to Bajor aren't in question—"

  "Faith, perhaps not, but loyalty? You know the stories of her and Kai Winn," Kyli interrupted, his face flushed.

  "Forget about Kira, and Istani," Frelan said. "The Prophets will show us the way, when the time is right!"

  Yevir had heard enough. He placed his hands palms up on the table and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, turning his face to the high ceiling, to the sky beyond.

  Their intentions are true and right, but they argue their own opinions. What is the way? How can I be a vessel of Your wishes?

  He listened, to the small voice at his deepest core, the voice of his pagh, vaguely aware that the debate around him was finished, the angry words giving way to silence. When he opened his eyes, he saw that everyone watched him.

  "Vedek Yevir, you wish to speak?" Eran asked. His tone was hushed and respectful.

  "Thank you, I do." Yevir smiled, gazing at each race with warmth. "We all want to do what we think is right Because we love the Prophets, and we love the people of Bajor. I know that each of us feels that the Prophets speak to us through our emotions, but I ask mat we set aside anger and dissent at mis moment, and meditate on what we share. On our love."

  He had their fall attention. Only a few years ago, he would have marveled at the concept that he, Yevir Lin-jarin, would someday lead such important people through a crisis, but all he wanted now was to share his vision.

  "We have too often become entrenched in politics ... but simply loving is also not enough. Like all matters, this is one mat calls for action as well as faith. As we have all agreed, the heresy must be contained— but our course so far has not been worthy of us, and I feel regret for what has happened. I grieve; I feel shame. But I know too that the Prophets forgive us, because They know our hearts, and know mat we mean only to express our love."

  They were smiling back at him now. They understood, and it made him happy to see the self-doubt washed away, to see their faces shining with restored purpose. They hadn't forced Istani Reyla to run away, after all.

  "What would you propose?" Eran asked.

  "As you all know, I once served on the station during

  my days in die Militia. I could approach Kira, and talk with her as a friend—but discreetly, a day or two from now. I wouldn't reveal so much as to burden her with the kind of decisions we're facing, of course. But if die tome is on board, and she has knowledge of it, I'm certain she would tell me."

  They were nodding, pleased with the moderate and reasonable plan—and with having the immediate responsibility for what to do taken from them. It made him feel cynical to think such a thing, but he could not pretend blindness. Yevir knew each of mem to be a worthy vedek, but he also knew that they missed having a kai to make the difficult decisions.

  "I know it's asking a lot, but if you would place your trust in me, I believe that I could further our interests here, and thus the interests of all of Bajor," he finished, fully aware that their trust was already his. He didn't enjoy playing the politician, but mere was really no choice, and he was deserving of their confidence. He had been chosen, after all.

  As they gazed at him lovingly, he thought of die Emissary, of all he had done for Bajor—and all that Bajor was becoming because of the Emissary's work.

  / won't let it fall apart because of some heretic's scratchings. I awe that to the Emissary, for choosing me, and I owe it to the Prophets, for Their boundless love—and to all of Bajor, because I am here to serve.

  The seven were in agreement, all as one. Yevir would go to Deep Space 9 and make things right. He would find die heresy and burn it, and scatter die ashes so that no one else could be tainted by its evil ever again.

  Hopefully, no one else would have to die. He would pray for it, anyway.

  After a full day of triage and surgery, of making calls that meant life or death with only an educated hope mat his decisions would prove sound, Bashir was exhausted ... but as his backlog of critical cases wound down, he found himself wishing for more to do. So many lost, so many mat no one had got to in time, who could have been saved; not only was it painful to review the incredible waste of life, having no pressing matter to attend to meant that there was nothing to keep him from what he thought of as the death watch—those cases for which there was no reasonable hope.

  And nothing I can do, nothing at all. For all I've researched and studied, for all my abilities, I may as well wish them better.

  There had been six in all. Now mere were three in the infirmary's ICU, the room quiet and still but for monitor sounds and the stifled tears of the visitors. A

  nurse moved lightly between the beds, assuring that there would be no more pain for the dying.

  Bashir stood in the doorway from surgery, looking at them, struggling to believe mat he hadn't failed. He'd beaten Death throughout the day, through proper diagnosis and delegation and surgery, cases he tried to keep in mind as he gazed out at the ICU ward. Mostly he thought about the operations, because he had been able to touch the problems, to physically heal them. A sternal fracture mat had caused a mediastinal bleed in a Bajoran gul, only H years old, healed. A compound fracture had nicked the femoral artery of a Bajoran security officer, who would have bled out if Julian's hands hadn't been fast enough. The flail chest on the visiting Stralebian boy, the open-book skull fracture of the human ensign who had been on leave from the Aldebaran—they all would have died if his skills had been lesser.

  But that doesn't help these people, does it?

  It was faulty reasoning, of course, and logically he had no cause to feel guilt. But feelings weren't necessarily logical. He couldn't blame himself forme majority of the deaths that had occurred on the station, because most of them had been instantaneous—forty-six plasma burn fatalities, a single rush of energy that probably hadn't even been experienced as pain. The rest of mem had been lost to broken seals at the main Lower Core hull breach, except for two blunt trauma cases, victims of falling debris. There had been nothing that anyone could have done.

  Of the nearly two hundred people injured, twenty or so had been critical, and only eleven of those had required immediate surgery or stasis. With the help of Dr.

  Tarses and the Bajoran surgeon, Girani Semna, they'd gotten to everyone. Three compartment syndrome cases had been treated and released; all three would be shipping out to the advanced medicine facility at Starbase 235 for biosynthetic limbs. Except for some head traumas, a few incidentals, and those recovering from surgery, the immediate crisis was past—

  —but for the three of you. Six, and now three, a death watch because I don't know enough.

  In the cool, antiseptic air, the three patients were silent, sleeping or comatose. Woros Keyth, a Bajoran man who had worked hi the admin offices, lay waiting for his brother to come from Bajor, to say good-bye. Keyth might have been saved, if he had been treated sooner. A subdural hemorrhage, the resulting intercra-nial bleed too far along by the time he'd been brought in, the brain damage irreparable. The blow was from a desk clock, of all things, when the AG had shifted; Keyth had been alone in bis office, and hadn't been found for almost three hours. Too late.

  Two beds away, the sleeping Karan Adabwe was watched over by her betrothed and one of her closest friends. Karan, an engineer, had been both burned and frozen, caught in the major plasma leak and exposed to an area of hull breach. It was a wonder that she was still alive, so much of her skin and muscle tissue had been affected. Her lover and a friend each held one of her poor, wretched hands, both crying, both certainly in more pain than
Karan. She was beyond mat, at least

  Prynn Tenmei, the new Starfleet pilot, sat next to the last case, Monyodin, a lab tech. Bashir didn't know if they'd been dating or were just friends, but either way, it was over. Monyodin was a Benzite, and had been hi

  Mid-Core when a cloud of chemical polymer gases had been released from a temp bank of atmospheric regulators. The alveoli of bis lungs had liquefied. In a non-Benzite, Bashir would have tried stasis and an eventual transplant; for Monyodin, for any Benzite, there was no chance. With their cellular growth patterns, even external transplants rarely took. AU that could be done was to make him comfortable... and watch him die.

  It's not my fault. There's nothing that anyone could do.

  It was true, and it didn't matter, not to the core of him. They were alive, but he couldn't keep them that way.

  Bashir turned away, knowing that there were others to see, rounds to make, people he could still help. Knowing that the names and faces of the death watch would stay with him, as clear and crisp in bis memories as he'd just seen mem, until the day he died. He was aware that people on the station were starting to debate the long-term consequences of the Jem'Hadar attack, but if they could see what he had seen... he could personally testify to the tragedy of the short-term. It was more than enough.

  "... then perhaps I should come back at another time. How long will she be here?"

  Familiar, a familiar voice. Friendly. Shar, that's Shar...

  "It shouldn't be long, but I can't really say; the doctor wanted her to wake up on her own," a woman answered. "He said she could leave then, assuming her responses are normal. The concussion wasn't severe, but we don't take chances with head injuries."

  "I understand. Would it be all right if I left these with you?"

  Ro opened her eyes, wanting very much to see Shar, understanding from the tone of the exchange that he was about to leave. She was in the infirmary, most of the beds around her full, the woman talking with Shar one of the nurses. Ro wasn't sure what was going on, and the fact that Shar appeared to be holding a bouquet of bright green flowers only added to her disorientation.