Cathedral Read online

  He’d do well not to underestimate her.

  As for herself, Asarem was trying to figure out how she was supposed to fit into Shakaar’s plans, and how to insulate herself from any potential political fallout flowing from his peculiar actions. She had already received dozens of inquiries from other ministers as to why her stance on the Bajoran–Cardassian reconciliation had suddenly become so obdurate. Shakaar had put her in a very difficult political position, and she had to wonder to what end his actions with her were aimed. Was he trying to force her from the Chamber of Ministers? Perhaps he wanted to create a situation whereby she would be shamed and disgraced, and would remove herself from the levers of power as a consequence.

  Despite these concerns, Asarem was excited to be docking aboard Deep Space 9. There was slightly less than a full day left before she and Shakaar were to officiate at the signing of the historic agreement heralding Bajor’s formal entry into the United Federation of Planets. They had arrived earlier than most of the other Bajoran ministers and Federation diplomats; a few obscure details and legal loose ends remained to be discussed with Starfleet Fleet Admiral Leonard James Akaar and with the Andorian diplomat, Federation Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane.

  Shakaar touched Asarem lightly on the hand. “You’re not meditating, and yet you seem light-years away, Wadeen,” he said.

  “Hmmm, I guess I was,” she said, managing a slight smile. “I have a lot to think about these days. Momentous events are upon us.”

  “They are indeed,” Shakaar said, nodding. “I don’t think that even in my wildest imaginings I could have foreseen that I would be among those to lead Bajor into an interstellar brotherhood.”

  “Nor could I,” Asarem replied. “The Prophets work in strange and wonderful ways.”

  They both stood up, and Asarem smoothed the wrinkles from her robes. Shakaar stepped down from the slightly raised platform onto which their chairs were bolted and approached the hatchway leading to the airlock. The two assistants had their bags and stood waiting nearby. One of the pilots stepped toward him. Asarem knew that the man was unarmed in the traditional sense, but as pilot and bodyguard to the First Minister he had been trained in unarmed combat to such a degree that he was probably at least as effective as a platoon of phaser-toting protectors.

  “To it, then,” Shakaar said, smiling at those around him, and he depressed the button to open the door.

  Asarem almost didn’t notice the small silver box that Shakaar held in his other hand, but the glint of the airlock lights caught it. He had been carrying it with him for quite some time now. Perhaps it was a good luck charm, or a family heirloom that served to remind Shakaar of his ancestors.

  But something about it vaguely unsettled her, though she couldn’t say precisely why.

  Stifling a yawn born of far too many late nights and early mornings, Kira Nerys stepped off the turbolift and onto the docking ring. Sergeant Gan Morr, apparently on his way back from servicing a spacecraft, saw her and smiled in acknowledgment. Kira returned the gesture, grateful once again that at least some of the Bajorans on board weren’t treating her as though she had Perikian skin blight.

  Approaching from one of the crossover bridges connecting the docking ring to the Habitat Ring, Lieutenant Ro Laren offered a wry smile of her own. “Late night, Colonel?”

  “Always,” Kira said as the pair began walking together. “I assume the preparations have been completed for all the diplomatic arrivals we’re expecting today?”

  Ro nodded, punching up data on a padd. “The guest quarters for our visiting dignitaries have been meticulously prepared. We’re doing a final sweep for spying devices right now. We’ve already made sure that every last food replicator is in working order, and that the climate and atmospheric controls are all on species-appropriate settings. We’ve even turned down their sheets and put mints on their pillows.”

  Kira had no idea what Ro meant by that last comment, and the security chief obviously saw her perplexity. “Sorry,” Ro said. “Earth custom. I learned about it back in my Starfleet Academy days.” She offered a grin, and Kira gratefully accepted it, answering it with a smile of her own.

  “Sounds as if you’ve got everything under control, Lieutenant, as usual.” Kira had used Ro’s title rather than her name, for the benefit of the two Bajoran security officers who trailed a few paces behind them.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Ro said. “And of course, I’ve got all available security personnel pulling double shifts. There’ll be no surprises during this ceremony if I have anything to say about it.”

  They reached docking port six just in time to see the display pad on the bulkhead change color, indicating that Shakaar’s ship had docked. Kira keyed a command sequence into the control pad, and the massive, coglike door rolled to the side. Inside the docking-bay airlock stood Shakaar, Asarem, and two aides, one of whom Kira recognized as Sirsy, Shakaar’s personal assistant. Also conspicuously present was a Bajoran man whom Kira immediately assumed to be a bodyguard, though he wore a pilot’s orange flight suit.

  “Ah, Colonel Kira, thank you for coming to greet us,” Shakaar said, extending his hands.

  Though she was sorely tempted to ignore Shakaar’s gesture, Kira took the proffered hands. Her position as the station’s commander was tenuous enough without offering insults to Bajor’s highest political leader, however misguided his recent actions might be. She even managed to smile fractionally, if only for the benefit of everyone who stood by, watching and listening.

  “First Minister, Second Minister, I hope that you had a safe and pleasant flight.” She hoped that the ice in her tone was not too noticeable.

  Shakaar withdrew his hands and clasped them together. Kira caught a fleeting glimmer in his eyes that told her he sensed her discomfiture in his presence—and that he either didn’t give a damn about it or else positively enjoyed it. What was happening to the man she had once loved and followed into battle against the forces of the Cardassian Occupation? She knew well that there were some among her people for whom, sadly, the war they had fought all their lives would never be over. She had always thought of Shakaar as being beyond such vendettas. Could he be one of those unfortunates whose Occupation-inflicted wounds would never heal?

  “The flight went without incident, Colonel,” Asarem said, her tone somewhat tart. Kira wondered if Asarem had noticed her nonverbal exchange with Shakaar. She also wondered how hard the second minister was really working to persuade Shakaar to return to the negotiating table with the Cardassians. Kira realized, of course, that her assessment of Asarem might not be entirely fair. Like Kira, the second minister had a public persona to live up to. And Shakaar had always been difficult to persuade when his mind was made up. Just after the end of the Occupation, when he and a group of his fellow Dahkur Province farmers had defied orders to relinquish several government-owned soil reclamators, Shakaar had proved yet again to be one of the most doggedly stubborn men Kira had ever met. He had not only prevailed in that conflict, but had earned enough public sympathy to be elected Bajor’s first minister.

  Asarem continued, “Our passage from Bajor gave us both time to meditate on the historic nature of tomorrow’s ceremonies, and what the coming changes will mean to Bajor. I’m certain you are as enthusiastic about this ceremony as we are, and that you share our feelings of happy fellowship.”

  Noticing a subtle tensing in Asarem’s body language—and Ro’s quizzical stare—Kira decided that the safest course of action was to keep things moving.

  “Certainly, Second Minister. It is a momentous occasion.” Gesturing toward Ro, Kira added, “You both know Lieutenant Ro Laren, Deep Space 9’s head of security. She’s also in charge of making sure that all the dignitaries attending the signing ceremony have a safe and enjoyable time.”

  Kira kept pace as the group followed Ro’s lead into a turbolift. She saw the “pilot” conversing with Sergeant Etana Kol, who had gracefully insinuated herself into the group of aides behind the ministers, even as
Ensign Charles Jimenez took point near the exit. As the lift made its way coreward, Ro began explaining to the ministers and their retinue where their quarters would be, what new security measures had been taken, and where the signing of the Federation entry document would take place.

  As they entered the Promenade, Ro pointed in the direction of the Bajoran temple. “And of course, you both know your way to the temple,” she said lightheartedly.

  “Yes, we plan on going there to commune with the Prophets later this morning,” Shakaar said. Kira avoided looking in his direction, but she knew that his comment had been directed toward her alone. Though this wasn’t the first time he had rubbed her nose in her Attainder, it still stung. She decided she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of showing how deeply his words had cut her. What is his problem these days?

  Kira recognized several of the Bajoran security officers in plainclothes, loitering about the Promenade. She also saw a larger than normal contingent of uniformed guards, both Bajoran and Starfleet. Ro really had beefed up security. Kira prayed it would all prove unnecessary in the end.

  Passing Quark’s Bar, Kira saw Taran’atar standing just inside the doorway, as if unsure whether or not he wanted to enter. He was standing so still that he might as well have been a statue guarding the entrance. She doubted Quark would allow him to remain perched there for long, scaring away his customers. On the other hand, many of Quark’s regulars and others who frequented the Promenade seemed to be getting quite used to seeing a Jem’Hadar moving about—or standing statuelike—in their midst.

  “In or out, Taran’atar,” Kira heard from behind as the group neared a passageway leading to the guest quarters. It was Quark’s unmistakable high-pitched voice. Ro half turned at the sound, and Kira thought she saw her cast a fond look in Quark’s direction.

  “In or out, Taran’atar,” Quark shouted from the end of the bar. He might not even have noticed the Jem’Hadar, except that he had looked out into the Promenade to see the contingent of dignitaries walk by, along with Kira and Ro. And then, in the midst of a particularly salacious thought about the contours of Ro’s uniform, he saw the giant creature standing to the side of the doorway, stock-still like some giant stone slibut staring down at the Sacred Marketplace from its perch atop the Tower of Commerce.

  Taran’atar glanced in Quark’s direction but did not move. Quark walked toward him, more comfortable with the gigantic, pebble-skinned humanoid since the Jem’Hadar had started buying time in the holosuites for his physical exercise. “Come on, Tarannie, I can’t have you just hovering there in the doorway. You’ll scare off the paying customers. Either in or out.”

  The Jem’Hadar lumbered in and took a seat, precariously balancing his body on one of the bar stools. Morn’s stool! Quark rolled his eyes, glad for once that his best—and most talkative—customer had not yet come in for the day. He hated to think what would happen if Morn and Taran’atar got into a scuffle over the seating arrangements.

  “Hey, Tarannie, you’ve just staked out Morn’s regular stool. He isn’t in yet, but you might want to know for future reference.” Taran’atar gave him a blank look.

  “I did not see his name on this stool,” Taran’atar said. “I wasn’t aware that he owned it. I thought you were the owner of this establishment.”

  “I do own the place. It’s just that Morn doesn’t like to sit anywhere else. You know, people have favorites.” Taran’atar continued to stare at him in evident incomprehension, so Quark decided to let the matter drop, at least until Morn arrived. “What can I get you?”

  “I wish to have the same drink you made for me last time I came here. The brown and white one.”

  Quark screwed up his face in distaste. “The root beer float? Ugh, I can’t figure out what hew-mons see in that stuff, much less what you get out of it.”

  He nevertheless passed Taran’atar a large tankard of the frothy brown liquid, in which two lumps of vanilla ice cream floated. He watched in both wonderment and revulsion as Taran’atar lifted the noxious potion to his lips and downed it in a single swallow. After a nod from Taran’atar, Quark immediately set about filling a second tankard and handed it over.

  Quark usually made it his policy never to question a client’s tastes. But as Taran’atar started in on his fourth helping, Quark found he could no longer restrain himself. “Wouldn’t you rather have a nice, slimy Slug-o-Cola instead?”

  “No,” Taran’atar said, in between quaffs, “I would not.”

  “Hmm. Well, you’re sucking those things down like they’re the last vials of ketracel-white in the whole quadrant.”

  Taran’atar paused, apparently contemplating his rapidly expanding collection of drinking vessels. Then he fixed his hard pale eyes on Quark. “I’m one of the very few of my kind who has never required the white.”

  Quark recalled the time, not so very long ago, when Dominion forces had controlled the station. Jem’Hadar soldiers could get pretty testy when their white didn’t arrive on time. But they had never ordered root beer floats. Or anything else for that matter.

  “There you go, then,” Quark said. “Judging from the root beer habit my nephew Nog developed since joining Starfleet, maybe this stuff is just the Federation’s version of the white.”

  “I’ve found that your root beer floats energize me. Are you telling me that this beverage also creates a chemical dependency?”

  Quark wondered if he hadn’t tweaked Taran’atar’s nose a little too hard this time. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m only saying that you’re drinking like a man who has a problem.”

  Taran’atar downed half of his fifth root beer float in one gulp, then turned to Quark, a foamy white mustache on his upper lip. “Perhaps I do. During my last holosuite exercise, I encountered something unexpected.”

  Quark tried not to stare at the ice cream that clung to the Jem’Hadar’s upper lip. He couldn’t imagine what Taran’atar might have encountered during his holo-battles that could possibly have surprised him. Those 331ultraviolent programs he used were pretty straightforward hack-and-slay scenarios.

  “What do you mean, ‘unexpected’?” Quark said, frowning. “Was there a glitch of some kind?” He hoped that Taran’atar wasn’t ramming those sharpened targ-stickers of his into the imaging hardware again. And that another one of those holoprogrammer’s “jack-in-the-box” subroutines hadn’t popped up in the combat software.

  “I’m not certain. During combat, a man appeared. A human. He was dressed in black, and had silver hair. He called me ‘pallie.’”

  Quark grinned. “Oh, that’s just Vic. He’s a Las Vegas entertainer.”

  “Curious. He told me that the noise from my combat scenario was disturbing others in an adjacent holosuite. I didn’t think that was possible.”

  Quark chuckled. “It’s not. Unless you’ve started jamming pointy things into the mechanisms again, there’s no way even you could make that much noise.”

  Taran’atar looked as baffled as his inexpressive face would permit. “Then why did this Vic ask me to ‘keep the noise down to a dull roar’?”

  “Vic has probably taken an interest in you, and thinks you need to unwind a bit,” Quark said with a grin.

  “Unwind?”

  Quark leaned toward the Jem’Hadar and whispered conspiratorially, “You probably strike Vic as a bit…tense.”

  “Then he’s mistaken,” Taran’atar said, a little too quickly. “But I am curious. I thought that all holographic characters were confined to particular programs or holosuites.”

  “Not this one. Vic’s program is always on, and sometimes he crosses over into other programs.”

  Quark thought Taran’atar’s expression had grown even stonier than usual, if that was possible. “Why is this Vic always left running? That seems inefficient and wasteful.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Quark said. “Blame my nephew.”

  Taran’atar now seemed truly astonished. “Nog is an engineer. Surely he knows that holograms ar
e extremely energy intensive. Leaving them running perpetually is a frivolous use of the station’s resources.”

  I’ll make a Ferengi of you yet, big guy, Quark thought. Aloud, he said, “Not to mention expensive. But since Vic more or less saved Nog’s life last year, I’m willing to cut him a little slack.”

  “For whom? Nog or Vic?”

  Quark had to think about that for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure.”

  “How can a mere hologram save a man’s life?” Taran’atar asked. Quark had never seen a Jem’Hadar exhibit such curiosity. Of course, Odo had ordered him to learn everything he could while living among Deep Space 9’s diverse humanoid population. Quark wondered if Taran’atar was merely carrying out his people’s genetically imprinted penchant for obedience to the Founders.

  “Vic seems to be a great deal more than just another hologram,” Quark said. “And he always comes up with just the right advice to help anyone with any problem. Just ask anybody who’s ever visited him.”

  Taran’atar grunted. “A counselor.”

  “Not exactly. He’s a lounge singer.”

  “He sings lounges? I’m not familiar with that musical form.”

  No wonder these guys lost the war.“He sings in a lounge, Tarannie. In a scenario set on ancient Earth.”

  “Are you saying that you believe this Vic to be alive? That he has what the Bajorans call pagh, or what the humans term a soul?”