Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - 062 - The Missing

by Una McCormack

A chill went down Ro’s spine. What had Oioli been, she wondered, in that previous life? What life had Oioli left behind to know about a technology that had clearly baffled Aoi? Groups within groups, Alden had said. Sections within sections. With a shaky hand, she reached over to her companel. “Blackmer, the jam on the People’s technologies should be lifted now.” She looked at Oioli, who nodded. “I believe they’ll be able to help you find Ailoi.”

  * * *

  They ran Ailoi to ground in one of the cargo bays. Ro saw the alien’s long hand stretching to touch a button at the wrist. “Don’t use it!” she begged. “It’s too great a risk!”

  But Ailoi was not prepared to be taken—and was prepared to take the risk. The sight of Ailoi’s body self-destructing, the screaming and writhing, was too much for any of them to bear—with the exception, perhaps, of Oioli.

  * * *

  They were gone. The huge ship, black and faceless, had disappeared in the blink of an eye, and there were only the stars, beckoning. The crew of the Athene Donald breathed a collective sigh of relief. Some went back to the peace and quiet of work. Some went to the bar. And Tanj and Pulaski retired to Tanj’s quarters, kicked off their shoes, and chewed over the past few days.

  “I don’t feel as if we learned anything from them,” Pulaski said.

  “Sometimes there’s nothing to learn,” said Tanj. “Unless we want to take the Chain as a warning.”

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Kitty. Perhaps of what happens if the push for technological advancement displaces social progress? What’s the point of toys if they don’t alleviate suffering?”

  Pulaski frowned. “I imagine that Alden and his kind would say that technology gives a strategic advantage.”

  Tanj smiled. “I imagine they would. But let’s forget about the spies for tonight, shall we? He’ll be leaving us soon enough.”

  They sat pleasantly for a while, talking about the next stage of the journey and where it might take them. Shortly before Pulaski got up to leave for her own quarters and bed, the door chimed softly.

  It was Metiger. She stood uneasily upon the threshold, eyeing both women. Her skin was dimmed to a low-key yellow-white, what Pulaski had come to think of as Metiger’s working clothes. So this wasn’t a social visit—but then Metiger wasn’t exactly someone with whom you sat down and enjoyed a glass of wine once the day was done.

  “I am glad to find you both here,” she said, and the tone of her voice was lowered too, more like the single line of an oboe than the sweet strings of a harp. “I was hoping to speak to you. I was hoping . . . to confide in you.”

  Tanj and Pulaski exchanged looks. “Come in, Metiger,” said Tanj. “And rest assured that anything you say in here will not go beyond these walls.”

  The Tzenkethi woman came in, taking the seat that Tanj offered but refusing any refreshment.

  “I have a confession to make,” she said. “If you decide afterward that I am no longer welcome to remain on board the Athene Donald, I will accept that decision, abide by it, and leave the ship without rancor.”

  Tanj and Pulaski looked at her in alarm. “Hell’s bells, Metiger!” said Pulaski. “What have you been up to?”

  “Exactly what your colleague Alden has said,” Metiger replied. “I was allowed to come on this mission by the Department of the Outside on condition that I reported back to them.”

  “Reported back to them?” Tanj said. “Reported what?”

  “On our research, I should imagine,” said Pulaski roughly. “Carried out by people from across the Khitomer powers—even by their allies, the Romulans. What intelligence service wouldn’t be interested?” She was feeling rather queasy. “I know ours is.”

  “Not only that,” said Metiger, “I was instructed to give full accounts of all cross-species interactions that I saw on board the Athene Donald. We know very little about your worlds. Any information is believed valuable.”

  “At least that’s a vote of confidence in your research, Maurita,” Pulaski said sourly.

  “I am sorry,” said Metiger. The Tzenkethi was shaking slightly. “You must understand that the person from the department who spoke to me is my Ap-Rej. I am bound to obey.”

  “Your ‘Ap-Rej’?” Tanj shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  “That he or she speaks in the voice of the Autarch,” Pulaski said. “Their most beloved and exalted Autarch Korzenten Rej Tov-AA, absolute ruler, top dog, and Lord High Tickety-Boo of the Tzenkethi Coalition.”

  “Kitty . . .” chided Tanj. Metiger touched her chest gently and raised her hand upward, as if to apologize for hearing such blasphemy.

  “He can’t be everywhere, you see,” said Pulaski. “Being only mortal like the rest of us. So some people speak in his voice, and if you’re loyal to them, you’re loyal to him through them.”

  Metiger turned her amber eyes on Pulaski. “You are well informed.”

  Pulaski shrugged. “Peter Alden is well informed. And I’ve read his files.”

  “I see.” Metiger blinked. “So I was not taken entirely on trust.”

  “I was curious,” Pulaski shot back. “I’m a scientist. Curiosity is my business.”

  “Stop this,” said Tanj. “I won’t have this. I won’t have another quarrel between us.”

  “We already have it, Maurita,” said Pulaski. “She’s admitted to us that she’s here to spy on us—”

  “Which she didn’t need to do,” said Tanj. “So I want to understand what the stakes are. Metiger, what would happen if you went against these orders?”

  Again, the hand to the chest that was lifted upward. “I could not disobey!”

  “Taboo?” said Tanj. “Or something else?”

  There was a pause as Metiger visibly struggled to put into words what compelled her to obey. “I could not disobey,” she said at last. “Not an Ap-Rej speaking on behalf of our beloved Autarch. Disobedience is unimaginable.”

  “Taboo,” said Tanj again.

  “It might mean reconstruction,” Metiger said. “Perhaps even . . . recalibration.”

  “Something else,” said Pulaski. She leaned forward in her chair. “Recalibration. Let me guess. Loss of status?”

  Metiger’s hand twitched.

  “Metiger Ter Yai-A . . .” Pulaski thought it over. “You wouldn’t be ‘Ter’ any longer, would you? Not an order giver. I bet you wouldn’t get near any scientific research again either. And as for that A grading . . .”

  “That would be gone,” Metiger agreed softly. “I would be null. Contaminating. Unfit to contribute to our stock.”

  Tanj shuddered. “Horrific.”

  Metiger looked at her impassively. “That is the nature of things.”

  “No it’s not,” said Pulaski briskly. “As well you know. Why else did you come to see us tonight?”

  Metiger’s skin was rippling now, alternating between the yellow-white and something brighter. “I . . . do not know. I am uncertain.”

  “It’s easy enough,” said Pulaski. “You came because you thought something was wrong about what you were being asked to do—”

  “I would not think that about the orders of an Ap-Rej! They are the orders of the Autarch!”

  “Oh, please,” said Pulaski. “You’re not talking to the boss now. What’s holding you back?”

  “You trusted me,” said Metiger simply. “You defended me when Commander Alden accused me of crimes that I did not commit.”

  “That’s the universal brotherhood of science,” said Pulaski cheerfully. “Or sisterhood, in this case.”

  “Tell us,” said Tanj, “what have you sent back so far?”

  “My first report is due shortly.”

  “So you’ve sent nothing back yet?” Tanj said.

  “Not yet.” Metiger flashed a quick amber glance at Pulaski. “Although I have read Commander Alden’s files.”

  Pulaski cawed with laughter. “Quite right too!”

  “I believe in
the mission of this ship,” Metiger said. “I believe in what you want to achieve, Doctor Tanj. I want to be part of it.”

  “And I see no reason why you can’t be,” Tanj replied. “I’m glad you felt able to come to us, Metiger. I’ll think about what we can do to protect you—”

  “That’s easy enough,” said Pulaski. “Write your reports, Metiger. Send them to us. I’m sure we’ll enjoy reading them. We might make a few, um, minor amendments, but then feel free to send them to whoever you like.”

  “That’s certainly one way around the problem,” said Tanj dryly.

  “But when you send them upstairs, make it look good. ‘Many men died to bring this information,’ that kind of thing. That should keep your superiors happy. And with luck”—Pulaski leaned back in her chair—“we can all be left in peace to get on with our research.”

  “To lie to an Ap-Rej . . .”

  “Not a lie,” said Pulaski firmly. “Window dressing. They love that kind of thing.”

  Metiger sat for a while. “I will consider what you said, Doctor Pulaski. It might be an acceptable solution.” She stood to leave. “I am grateful for your time, and I am grateful for your understanding.”

  “We all want this mission to work,” said Tanj. “And we are all intelligent enough to find a way to make it work.”

  Metiger nodded. At the door, she stopped for a moment. “There are some errors in what Commander Alden has written about us,” she said with a luminous smile. “Perhaps one day I shall note down some amendments.”

  * * *

  Ro had summoned Varis to her office. Odo was there too, fully briefed on what Ro intended to say to their visitor.

  “There are children, aren’t there?” Ro said to Varis. It was the dispute between the Chain and the People that had given her the insight. What did people battle over? Territory, yes, and resources—also children.

  The Romulan officer froze. “I have no idea what you mean—”

  “I think that you do,” Ro said. “Children. Products of liaisons between Cardassian prisoners and their Romulan captors.”

  Varis smiled. “I don’t think that’s very likely, is it, Captain Ro?”

  “Unlikely, maybe, but not impossible. Love is a strange thing. Why wouldn’t Cardassian POWs, drafted into a war that they had no desire to fight, find consolation and peace elsewhere after years in captivity? Why wouldn’t a Romulan officer be sympathetic toward their plight?”

  “It is a big step from a love affair to children, and a fanciful one. Love between a Cardassian soldier and a Romulan officer? This is the stuff of cheap holofantasies.”

  “I’ve heard rumors in the past—Klingon POWs and Romulan captors? Does that sound familiar?” When she got no response from Varis, Ro pressed on. “Unless you want me to believe that the truth is more unpleasant? There are Cardassian females among the prisoners of war. If they’ve been raped, made pregnant, and either harmed or killed as a result, then that is a war crime. We will find out, and we will support our Cardassian allies in any reasonable course of action they choose to pursue.”

  Varis shook her head. “Nothing like that happened on my watch! I would not allow it!”

  “But you’re preventing Cardassian citizens from returning home,” Ro said.

  “Nobody who has remained has preferred to go back.”

  “Because they now have children?” Ro said.

  “I have not said that that is the case either way,” Varis pointed out.

  Odo leaned forward. “Major Varis,” he said in a soft voice, “you must understand that the castellan is particularly sensitive when it comes to people being denied knowledge of their parentage or access to their heritage.”

  Ro nodded. She knew about the short life of Tora Ziyal and the place the young woman held in the castellan’s heart. “We’ve discussed our suspicions with him,” she said, “and he is waiting for a full answer from you. Either there is some movement at your end or . . .” She shrugged. “The castellan has nothing to lose by going public. But I suspect that you—or friends of yours—do.”

  Varis was examining her hands. “None of the children are products of rape,” she said, after a while and with some difficulty. “They were born of love,” she said and, looking up straight at Ro, added, “If you can believe that. We love our children too, you know, hybrids or not. We would not want to part with them.”

  “Born of love, perhaps,” Ro said, “but not of equality. These people were prisoners of war! How could it be equal between them?”

  “They are not persecuted,” Varis said quickly. “There is a settlement on one of the smaller worlds, a quiet place, where they live quite happily—”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m not blown away by that assurance or description of their situation,” Ro said. “These people must be free to make their own decisions about where and how they want to live. At the very least they must be granted full recognition and rights within the Empire.”

  “That might be difficult,” said Varis.

  “Then if their lives—and the lives of their children—would be better on Cardassia, they will have to go back.”

  “Mixed-species children on Cardassia Prime?” Varis laughed. “How welcome do you think they will be? How welcome did they make their Bajoran bastards?”

  “That situation was different—”

  “You think Romulan bastards would be made more welcome?”

  “There will be somewhere they can be at home,” Ro said doggedly. “The Federation would welcome them: the Federation has no qualms about interspecies relationships. They can live on DS9, if needs be. I am the commander here—I make that offer formally, now, to you.”

  Varis seemed to be wavering, so Ro pushed her point. “Anyone could come here,” Ro said. “There would be a place for all members of these families: children, Cardassian fathers, Cardassian mothers, Romulan fathers . . .” She paused before completing the set. “. . . Romulan mothers.”

  Varis’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “DS9 has always been a home for the homeless,” Odo said.

  For a moment, Varis looked tempted—wistful, even—but then she shook her head. “A pleasant fantasy, Captain, but nobody’s duties are ever so clear cut. Families exist within wider kinship structures, and these exist within polities. Within empires, if you like. We have responsibilities to all of these.”

  “Yes,” Ro said, “but they have a responsibility in turn to you. What kind of state puts people into a kind of exile, simply because of accidents of birth? And that’s what is happening to these families right now, isn’t it? You’re not telling me that a family with Cardassian and Romulan parents is welcome in polite society on Romulus, are you? These people are not integrated, are they?” She pressed on with her suspicions. “I imagine an officer found with such a liaison might find her commission in danger.”

  Varis did not blink. “That is one possible scenario, yes. But an officer who was discreet and did not parade her family in public—or embroil her family in a diplomatic incident—might live quietly with them away from the center of power.”

  “But do their partners enjoy full rights as citizens? Do the children enjoy full rights as citizens?”

  There was a pause before Varis admitted, “That might be a request too far on the part of any officer who found herself in such a situation.”

  “Then I have to insist that these people are given permission at least to travel to Cardassia Prime, where their citizenship—and that of their children—is assured.”

  “Assured by whom, exactly?” Varis said quickly.

  “By the castellan,” Odo said at once. Garak had said so flatly in his last communication, when Ro had explained her hunch to him about the children. “Not to mention a resettlement stipend to help all those who want to return home.”

  Varis’s lips twisted. “I imagine that the castellan sees some political advantage in this.”

  “I’m sure it will do him no harm,” Odo said. “Did you have any particula
r reason for wanting to see the castellan disadvantaged?”

  “No,” Varis said. “Cardassian domestic politics are hardly my concern.”

  “Then what is preventing you from accepting his offer?” Ro said.

  Varis thought for a while before replying. “It is possible,” she said slowly, “that some of the families concerned may be willing to make the journey to Cardassia. For others, however . . .” She shook her head. “The price of such publicity would be too high. They might be prepared to speak privately to family back on Cardassia, but a journey would be out of the question for some of them. I think,” she added, “that you will need to let each individual family make the choice that serves their situation best. There are”—she lowered her voice—“some high-ranking cases involved.”

  “I understand,” Ro said. “I accept that.”

  “But about Terek Pa’Dan?” Odo said.

  “I am . . . friendly with the family,” Varis said. “His partner is a colleague of mine. I believe that they might be prepared to return—for a short visit, at least. But I’ll need a little time to inform them of this change in circumstances. I believe they may have thought that they were not welcome on Cardassia.”

  Ro nodded. “A little time is reasonable—but not too much, Varis.”

  “I’ll be speaking to Mhevita Pa’Dan after this meeting,” Odo said. “I’ll tell her that she will hear from you by the end of the week.”

  Varis nodded.

  “And after that,” said Ro, “I expect to hear that a family reunion is in the cards. Deep Space 9 will be honored to welcome them here.”

  Twelve

  Captain’s Log, Personal.

  I am one of the most experienced captains of a deep space exploration vessel in Starfleet’s history. This is not meant as a boast (I hope that I am not generally known as a boastful man, but rather as moderate in most things), but I believe it to be a fair assessment of my career. I have traveled far; I have seen many remarkable and wonderful (and terrifying) things; I have spoken on behalf of the Federation to many different and new species.

  It comes as a great surprise to me, therefore, to find myself suddenly learning to look at the world entirely differently. Each day, René surprises me. Each day this child, with the unerring sense of the born explorer that is the gift of every child, makes me look at the world anew. How little I expected this, and most certainly not in that most private of spaces—my home. The domestic, it seems, contains as much adventure and novelty as the whole uncharted universe.