Dax heaved a loud sigh. “Our residual momentum must have carried us clear. Couldn’t have missed us by much, though.”
Bashir couldn’t help but vent some relief of his own. “Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton.”
“Ship’s status, Nog?” Dax said.
“Most of our instruments are still down, but our power appears to be returning as we drift away from the object’s wake. We’ve already got some impulse power and at least a little bit of helm control. And the subspace channels are starting to clear up, too.”
For a moment, Bashir felt dizzy. He assumed either the inertial dampers or the gravity plating must have taken some damage.
“What just happened to us?” he said.
“My best guess is we passed right through the edge of the thing’s dimensional wake,” Nog said. “It’s a miracle we weren’t pulled into wherever it’s keeping most of its mass.”
Bashir had trouble tearing his gaze away from the starboard viewport and the weirdly graceful object that slowly turned in the distance. A miracle indeed. That something like this even exists is something of a miracle, I’d say.
For a moment he thought it was a pity that he didn’t believe in miracles.
A burst of static issued from the cockpit comm speakers, then resolved itself into a human voice. “…mei, come in, Sagan. This is Ensign Tenmei. Sagan, do you read?”
“Go ahead, Ensign,” Dax said, frowning. It was immediately obvious that something was wrong aboard the Defiant.
“I’m afraid we’re in need of Dr. Bashir’s services, Lieutenant,” said Tenmei.
“Is someone injured?” Bashir said over Ezri’s shoulder, the alien artifact suddenly forgotten.
“We have wounded aboard, but they’re not ours.” It was Commander Vaughn’s voice, deep and resonant. “They’re guests, and some of them are in pretty rough shape.”
Bashir wasn’t relieved very much by Vaughn’s qualification. Injured people were injured people, and he was a doctor. “Acknowledged, Captain,” he said as he watched Nog launch a subspace beacon.
Good idea. We’re going to need to find our way back here when we have more time.
Dax took the sluggish helm and gently applied power to the impulse engines. “We’re on our way, sir.”
“Too bad the Defiant’ s not carrying an EMH,” Dax said to Bashir as they got under way.
“I far prefer flesh-and-blood help in my medical bay,” Bashir said. Strangely, he felt no urge to explain about the mutually antipathetic relationship he shared with Dr. Lewis Zimmerman, the inventor of the emergency medical holograms that were found on so many Starfleet ships these days. In fact, he found that he was no longer in the mood for conversation of any sort. As the alien cathedral dropped rapidly out of sight, he gathered his energies for the triage situation that he presumed lay ahead.
But the alien cathedral’s ever-changing shadow still moved very slowly across the backdrop of his thoughts.
5
Mirroring Yevir’s mood, the dusky sky was darkening, slowly eliding from lavender to a deep rose. The air crackled with the cool of late winter and the scent of nerak blossoms, a tantalizing hint of the coming spring. Ashalla’s city streetlights were already aglow, illuminating the paths of the many Bajorans who bustled to their shrines and homes.
An older woman stopped Vedek Yevir and began speaking to him. Her grandson was planning to marry next month, and she wanted to know if he would ask the Prophets to bless the union. Smiling, Yevir promised that he would do so at the main Ashalla temple on the following day. Shedding tears of gratitude, the woman thanked him and backed away.
Yevir noticed that other passersby on the concourse had in turn noticed him. Most of them nodded and smiled as they passed him, and he recognized most of their faces. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had read the accursed so-called prophecies of Ohalu—and how far the poison that Colonel Kira had released four months earlier had spread through the very heart of Bajor’s capital city. How many of these people hope that I will become kai? How many of them would prefer Vedek Solis instead?
His guts braiding themselves into knots of anxiety, Yevir continued walking, passing the bakery where he often bought pastries on his way to his office. The proprietor gave him a respectful wave. Yevir knew that the man would soon make his way to the evening temple services; he was exceedingly faithful. Still, it seemed odd that he hadn’t yet closed his shop for the evening, so close to the sounding of the first temple bells.
Ahead, Yevir saw several people gathered around the plaza’s public holovid kiosk. He stepped up to listen, in time to hear a newscaster discussing the day’s events with a political commentator.
“…the end of the second week since the peace talks stalled between Bajor’s representatives and Cardassia,” said the newscaster. “Do you see any progress in the initiative to resume the talks?”
Yevir recognized the commentator as Minister Belwan Ligin, an old-line conservative who had lost most of his family during the Occupation. Despite this, he had always struck Yevir as remarkably fair and evenhanded in his judgments about the Cardassians. “I don’t believe that any direct progress has been made, but certainly Minister Asarem and the others are going to begin feeling real pressure soon. With Bajor’s entry into the Federation imminent, it seems to me that a viable peace agreement would be in both peoples’ best interests. But Asarem has proven to be quite astute in the past when dealing with potential crises, so perhaps…”
Yevir walked away from the kiosk, shifting his bag over his shoulder. Perhaps he ought to schedule a meeting with Asarem, or even First Minister Shakaar Edon, to discuss how best to get the talks restarted. Either of them would probably welcome a fresh perspective on the matter. Surely they could be persuaded
