Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - 062 - The Missing Page 2

“My reputation precedes me,” Odo said, and Ro swore that was a twinkle in his eye. Could Founders twinkle?

  “I’d be a fool not to listen to gossip,” Ro said.

  “Quark, by any chance?” Odo said the name as if it had a slightly unpleasant flavor.

  But Ro laughed, memories of many tales told out of turn by her Ferengi friend coming to mind. “Quark is always gossiping. As I’m sure you know.”

  Again, the snort. “And Quark would, it pains me to say, be quite right. I’ve been . . . let us say that I have been taking advantage of quiet to reflect upon my past and consider my future.”

  “I understand the monastery at Trishella is very beautiful,” Ro said. “A balm to the soul.”

  Odo’s face remained expressionless, but a low rumble sounded at the back of his throat. (Does he have a throat?) “Quark has been keeping tabs on me. I must return the favor.”

  “Feel free,” Ro said. “But tell me what’s brought you out of . . .” She hunted for the right word.

  “Out of my hermitage?” Odo suggested with a sigh. “A favor, for an old friend.”

  “An old Cardassian friend?”

  Odo studied her dispassionately. “Will that be a problem, Captain?”

  “I don’t know,” Ro said. “You haven’t told me about the friend yet.”

  Again, the low rumble. “This old friend,” he said, “and make no mistake, this is a friend, came to me on behalf of her son. He was a glinn in the Second Order at the end of the Dominion War.”

  “Second Order . . .” Ro thought for a moment. “They were on the Romulan front, weren’t they?”

  “Indeed they were. When the war ended, the Cardassians serving there were taken prisoner by the Romulans. Since then, most have been repatriated. But some have not. My friend’s son is one of these.”

  “He’s still being held captive by the Romulans?” Ro was astonished. “It’s been ten years!”

  “And so you see why I want to help. There is an injustice here, Captain. I don’t like injustice—not even,” he added slyly, “toward Cardassians.”

  Ro, who didn’t in general mind seeing a little retribution in action when it came to Cardassians, had to agree. Ten years was a long time to be a prisoner of war.

  “According to my friend—her name is Mhevita Pa’Dan, by the way—I have acquired something of a reputation as a peacemaker,” Odo said. “She believes that my intercession might spur the Romulans toward some kind of resolution. Ideally, that would be the release of her son and the others still being held. But some communication would be a good place to start.”

  “And I guess you want to use DS9 as a neutral friendly space to hold these negotiations?” Ro said. “Shall I be expecting a Romulan representative any hour now?”

  “Not quite. We don’t have anyone with whom we can negotiate. I gather from Mhevita that the Romulans are silent on the matter. Impenetrably silent.”

  “Then I’m not sure what I can do,” Ro said. “This seems to be something that the Cardassians and the Romulans need to sort out between them. Your friend should be speaking to her own government—”

  “Also proving unhelpful. This is partly why we have come to you. Not only are you a high-ranking Starfleet officer, you also are Bajoran. If a Bajoran is willing to intercede on behalf of Cardassian prisoners of war, then perhaps this will send a signal to the Romulans that it’s time to put this enmity behind them and let these people come home.”

  “That’s an interesting idea,” Ro said, “and I respect the principle behind it. But I’m not sure I like the idea of meddling in the affairs of others, and I’m not sure my superiors would like the idea either—”

  “In fact,” Odo interrupted, and he did, Ro noticed, have the decency to sound slightly embarrassed as he did so, “I’ve taken the liberty of speaking to your superiors at Starfleet Command. They are of the opinion that assisting me can do no harm, and, even better, it will show support for the Cardassian-Federation alliance and possibly even foster the opening of channels of communications with the Romulans. I gather,” Odo continued, “that your superiors are keen to see relations with the Romulans shift from hostile to merely mildly chilly. Any chance to negotiate with them is a chance to gather some goodwill.”

  Or irritate them beyond measure. And they wouldn’t be the only one. “You spoke to my superiors?” Ro said, a chill creeping into her voice.

  There was a slight pause.

  “You might like to check your recent communications,” Odo said politely.

  Ro did so. And there it was: a friendly message from the powers that be asking her to give Odo all reasonable assistance.

  “I’m sorry to have gone behind your back—”

  It was Ro’s turn to growl.

  “—but I couldn’t risk your turning me down, and I do want to help Mhevita. It is a very good cause, Captain. At the least, will you meet her? She’s here on the station right now. Will you listen to what she has to say?”

  Ro sighed. What choice did she have in the matter? There were her orders. “Of course I will.”

  Odo gave a rumble of satisfaction. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Hmm.” Ro’s eye fell on the next message down. It was from a Commander Peter Alden, of Starfleet Intelligence, advising her of his imminent arrival and requesting a meeting with her as soon as possible. Another sigh. If Cardassians were a universal constant, then so was Starfleet Intelligence. And neither of them was likely to contribute to the longed-for peace and quiet.

  Two

  Captain’s Log, Personal.

  One hears a great deal of cant about natural leaders—those who are born to rule—mostly from the mouths of those who fancy themselves in such a role. But a wise captain knows that he or she is nothing without the crew and considers carefully how an effective and harmonious team can be assembled and maintained. A good team is more than the sum of its specialisms and expertise—that surely is plain enough. But are there means by which one can guarantee an effective and harmonious team? Is there, in short, a “science” of sorts to assembling a crew?

  I confess that I am doubtful of such a project. Can one have a “science” of people? I have found myself that intuition and experience come more to the fore when judging which people will suit me best. This, however, is not helpful for a reader of these notes, who is surely looking for generalized lessons to take away from reading!

  Such a reader, immersing himself or herself in the softer sciences, might quickly become lost in a long history of studies, all using mutually incompatible jargon. There are some gems out there, however, and I would refer the reader here to Doctor Maurita Tanj’s work, particularly her book The Diversity Paradox. While this might be seen as a “popular science” book, it does provide a good grounding in some of the theoretical difficulties of research in this field and offers many solutions from which practical guidance might be drawn.

  A ship such as the Enterprise is a provider of case studies—it is, in a way, a laboratory of sorts—but only of species from Federation worlds. As we inch toward peace, I would like to see how a crew drawn from various powers might be formed: how might a Federation ship accommodate Romulan crew members? Cardassian crew members? Perhaps even, one day, Tzenkethi crew members? Tanj hints in the conclusion to her most recent paper (“Identifying Key Drivers of Success in Diverse Teams”) that this is the direction in which she is moving, and I will certainly read any further work with interest . . .

  Corazame—now she had no other name. Once upon a time she had been Corazame Ret Ata-E, part of a six-person unit tasked to maintain the coral surfaces that comprised a series of government offices around the central lagoon of Ab-Tzenketh, the Tzenkethi homeworld. She had been among the lowest of the low. To anyone who asked (not that anyone would bother), Corazame would have said that her function was to serve the Autarch joyfully and unquestioningly in the tasks that he had allotted her when determining her station in life. She would have denied knowing what purposes the offices she passed thr
ough each day served—they were not her purpose.

  But even then—when Corazame had no thought of ever leaving her ravishing, complex, beguiling world—she had known that a wider universe existed. Each day she bent to clean the walls and floors of the Department of the Outside, where Corazame’s superiors discussed and made policy toward those worlds that lay beyond the Autarch’s grace, and she could not help herself. Because even if you closed your ears completely, or sang songs to cover the conversation coming from above; even if your superiors sometimes lapsed into a dialect that you were not supposed to know (but you did), you could not help but hear, and however hard you tried to suppress your understanding, you could not help but grasp at least some of what you heard. All of which made Corazame Ret Ata-E an interesting prospect for the new friends she had made after leaving her homeworld. Those friends were from Starfleet Intelligence, and they had turned out to have great interest in Corazame’s people and planet.

  Corazame—but let us call her Cory, the name she has been using since coming to the Federation, and as we are prying into her private thoughts, we should at least show her the courtesy of using the name she is using—Cory had not ever intended to leave Ab-Tzenketh, and most assuredly she had not intended to find herself living among the enemies of her people. A year ago, Cory had been quietly and unobtrusively spending each day traveling from her billet to her work, where, between her tasks, she quietly and unobtrusively observed her workmate Mayazan Ret Ata-E, who was proving of great interest to Cory’s quietly curious mind. During her break times, in quiet and unobtrusive conversation with the other members of her unit, she would discuss Mayazan—Maymi—about whom they all worried, because Maymi seemed to get so much wrong . . . Odd questions, strange gestures. It was all a puzzle.

  As it turned out, the solution to that puzzle was not what Cory would have guessed. Mayazan Ret Ata-E was not an EE server who had been recalibrated upward and was now struggling to understand her new function. She was Neta Efheny, an undercover Cardassian spy, sent to record what was happening in the Department of the Outside for her superiors back on Prime. But Efheny had been so beguiled by the compelling beauties of Ab-Tzenketh and the comfort of the unthinking life she led there that when the time came for her to leave Cory’s world, she decided instead to stay, sending Cory in her place. In doing so, Maymi—Efheny—had certainly saved Cory from the enforcers, but she had also thrust the girl into a strange and frightening new world. Yes, Cory had guessed that there were alien worlds out there (that knowledge was specialized on Ab-Tzenketh and certainly not appropriate for one of Cory’s status to know). Yes, she knew these worlds must be populated by alien beings—but the intellectual knowledge of something is quite different from the physical reality, and what Cory had seen since leaving Ab-Tzenketh surpassed her wildest imaginings. There were more alien worlds than she would ever have guessed, and not all of them were friendly to hers, and not all were friendly to each other, and there had been wars and struggles and events of which she had no knowledge and thought she would never quite sort out in her head. Were the Dominion the same as the Borg, or were they different? Why were the Vulcans good and the Romulans bad? Was it true that an individual Trill could be two people within one body? Were there even more species that she knew nothing about? How many? Where were they? Would she have to understand them all, learn how to serve them and placate them? For Cory had not yet quite shaken the belief that, in some way, she was destined to serve others. Not quite. And this despite (or perhaps because of) Peter Alden.

  Commander Peter Alden had been among the first to speak to Cory when she found herself thrust suddenly into exile. She had been terrified: the gestures and signals she used habitually had been suddenly useless and she had known no way to placate these strangers and assure them that she was no threat. But Alden—Peteh—had been kind. He had taken her hand until she was calm and, despite his steely gray eyes that made him look like an enforcer, Cory believed him when he said that he could trust her.

  Cory had been with Commander Peter Alden ever since. She had followed him to his home (Earth, she had understood that), where she had met his colleagues (from Starfleet Intelligence, she had certainly understood that) and had been asked questions (politely, there had been no pressure, no sense that she might face a punishment such as reconstruction) about her home and her way of life. At first, Cory had answered fully—joyfully, even, and unquestioningly—until one evening, Alden put a seed of doubt in her mind.

  He had taken her to a big city that he called London. He was clearly very proud of it, but Cory thought that it was dull and rather dirty. There were no sparkling coral buildings, no sweet shared songs to soothe the soul, and certainly no great lagoon as broad and deep as her capacity for love. Instead there was discord, bustle, variety, and laughter. Alden took her to the theater, which baffled her, and then for dinner, which she liked: it was hot and spicy and—best of all—salty. Having established, indirectly, that Cory had not thought much of The Duchess of Malfi, Alden leaned back in his chair and said, “You don’t have to be so free with everything, you know. You can hold something back.”

  At first Cory did not understand. She thought that he meant she had said too much about the play—which had looked pretty and sounded beautiful, but the story had been silly—and then she realized he was talking about her conversations with his colleagues. She began a placatory gesture but suppressed it quickly. Peteh hated it when she did that.

  “This one . . .” she said. He frowned, and she tried again. “I . . . thought that was what you wanted me to do.”

  Impatiently, he began to pull apart a piece of naan. “I want you to do what you want to do, Cory. Have some sense of your worth! You’re handing them everything on a plate. Telling them everything without any thought for what that might mean for you. What they might do for you.”

  She was confused. These were his friends, were they not? Why would she not tell them everything? They had asked about her homeworld, and she loved Ab-Tzenketh: its rich colors and the gentle unchanging steadiness of the way of life she had led there. Sadly, she looked around the gray city to which her friend had brought her.

  “I know you were safe there,” Alden said softly, “and I know you didn’t choose to leave. But you’re free now. Completely free. You can do whatever you like.”

  She did not know what to say. She wanted to please him, to thank him for the kindness he had shown her during this past wrenching year. His job, she knew, was to find out as much as he could about Ab-Tzenketh, and she had been amazed to discover how little he and his friends really knew. She pressed her hand against her breast and began to tap slowly. Unconsciously, she dimmed the tone of her skin to a more respectful level.

  “You don’t have to let people use you,” Alden said. Then he reached out for her hand, taking it within his and gently, but forcefully, stopped the tapping motion. “And, please, don’t do that. You don’t have to do that either. There’s no one here you have to serve.” He held her hand tightly. “I want to see you shine, Cory.”

  This conversation had preyed on her mind. At first, she did not know what to make of it. It was clear that he and his friends wanted—needed—her to tell them about her life and her world. But now he was saying that she didn’t have to. That she mustn’t? Was this in line with what his superiors wanted? Or was Peteh, who always seemed so strong and safe and certain, experiencing doubt himself? Cory would not have dared to ask, but she pondered these questions as she continued under Alden’s care, and she listened even more closely.

  After a few months, Alden took her on some short travels around the Federation: to Earth, of course, his home, but to other worlds too. Some of these trips she understood were for her education; on others the purpose was less clear, and she might find herself once again answering questions about her world and her people. But after the conversation in London, Cory had gone back to the strategy that had served her throughout her life as a Ret Ata-E: to show that she knew only what was appropriate for
someone of her station.

  “I am afraid that this one . . . that I do not know,” she would sometimes say gravely to her questioner. “This one served as . . . I was only the cleaner.” This turned out to be a good strategy. They found it amusing that Alden’s great catch knew nothing more than how to scrub floors, and they never pressed her further.

  Cory enjoyed the travels for a while, but after a few months she knew that the dull heavy ache she carried with her everywhere could not be ignored for much longer. She missed her home, and all these new worlds only served to make that absence more painful. Alden said she was free. Was this what freedom felt like? Would she always be so lost, so sorrowing?

  It was another day, and another journey. Alden had told her that they were traveling to a place called Deep Space 9. She had listened to his briefing and had dutifully read the files he gave her, but these strange places were now blurring into one. Nevertheless, she tried hard to commit to memory as much as possible of the ship upon which they were traveling. She suspected that she would need this information as currency—if ever she found herself on Ab-Tzenketh . . .

  Home. Would she ever see it again? Would she dare to return? She had never heard of someone of her station so dramatically, so disgracefully, breaking rank. Had it ever happened before? What would they do to her if she returned? Would the knowledge of all she had seen of the Federation be enough to protect her from reconstruction? Would they want to preserve something of her in order to learn what she knew? Or would punishment for her outrageous transgression take precedence?

  “Cory?” Alden was sitting beside her. “Are you okay?”

  She turned to face him. He was tall and lean, with dark hair, and those grave gray eyes could have a steely look that she still on some level feared.

  “I am . . . okay.”

  He smiled. “Well, you sound it at least. But your skin tone . . . Well, that one usually means that you’re sad in some way.”