“But, sir—” How to put this? “We weren’t alwaysin this together. Bajor liberated itselffrom the Cardassians, without help from Starfleet, or anybody else for that matter. Most of the Militia is made up of former resistance fighters. It’s a difficult thing for them to accept a reduced role in protecting Bajor.”
“Nearly a quarter million Bajorans in Starfleet isn’t a reduced role, Ro. It’s an expanded one in which Bajorans will be taking even greater responsibility for protecting their world, and others. Bajor chose this, Lieutenant. It requested Starfleet’s help eight years ago, and petitioned for Federation membership. Isn’t that the point your people were trying to make by taking a lead in relief efforts to Cardassia? In harboring the Europani refugees when their world was threatened? That Bajor was more than ready to think outside the confines of one people and one planet?”
“I’m not disputing any of that. But if we’re in this together, as you say, then those who choose not to join Starfleet—who devote themselves instead to service in Bajor’s home guard—still need to have a sense of involvement. They need to know they still count.”
“What are you proposing?”
Ro took a deep breath and took the plunge. “I suggest we reestablish the position of Militia liaison officer on Deep Space 9.”
“That’s the role Kira had before she became station commander, isn’t it?”
Ro nodded. “She interfaced with the Militia and with the government in all aspects of station operations. She was a voice specifically for Bajoran interests within the predominantly Starfleet command structure.”
Vaughn considered the idea. Then, to her surprise, he said, “All right. What about you?”
“Me?”
“I can’t think of anyone better. Kira’s role as starbase CO rules her out, and to date you’re the only other Bajoran who’s worked within both organizations. You’re the ideal choice.”
“Sir, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think what’s really needed is for the Militia to be represented by one of their own on DS9, to have a permamant presence there as a member of the senior staff.”
“That sounds almost like you’re suggesting a token Militia officer.”
Ro bristled. “What I’m suggesting,sir, is the Militia continuing to have input in matters the station deals with that may affect the security of Bajor.”
“Lower your shields, Lieutenant,” Vaughn said. “I think it’s an excellent idea. I’m behind it one hundred percent and I intend to take it to the captain. I just want you to be prepared for how others may react to the idea, both in the Starfleet crew andin the Militia.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem, sir,” Ro said. “After all, if religious Bajorans can adjust to my agnosticism, and Starfleet hardliners can handle my reinstatement, a new Militia liaison shouldn’t be a big deal.”
Vaughn laughed. “When you put it that way, I suppose I can’t disagree. I take it you already have someone in mind for the job?”
Ro reached out and keyed another file on the padd in Vaughn’s hand. The commander started to read, and then noted the time. “Let’s continue this discussion on the Brahmaputra.I need to head back to the station before Girani sends out search teams. Unless you need to stay on Bajor?”
Ro shook her head. “My business here is done for now. I’ll be checking to see if there are any new leads into the Hedrikspool massacre when I get back to DS9.”
They stood up together, and then Vaughn looked at her. “You probably haven’t heard this from enough people in Starfleet, Ro, but I want you to know…I for one am glad you put the uniform back on.”
“Thank you, sir. But…why?”
“Because I know what really happened on Garon II.” The commander tapped his combadge. “Vaughn to Brahmaputra.Two to beam up.”
Rena
“…raka-ja, ut shala moala…ema bo roo-kana-uramak,”Rena chanted. In the small confined space—little more than an empty closet—the smoke from the duranjalamp irritated her eyes, but she forced her attention on the benediction to the Prophets to protect her grandfather and guide him on his journey to the Temple gates. “Ralanon Topa propeh va nara ehsuk shala-kan vunek—”
A gentle rap at the door broke her concentration. She shifted out of her cross-legged meditation posture onto her knees and blew out the oil lamp before inviting her visitor to enter.
Unsurprisingly, Fed peered around the corner of the door. “Supper’s ready,” he said.
Rena followed him through a maze of open-beamed hallways to a dark-paneled storage room. From the three-meter-high shelving units pushed back against the rear wall, she surmised that it had formerly been a wine storage area. Their hosts, an elderly couple they’d met earlier, had cobbled together a makeshift kitchen with hot plates warming what smelled like hasperat.Ceramic jugs fitted with spigots provided water or wine. From the raucous laughter, Rena assumed the barge crew had resumed their imbibing from where they’d left off at the rest-and-sip. The group had staked out a corner of the room, sprawled out on the floor, and was playing shafa.Noticing that their hosts weren’t to be found, Rena imagined they had retired for the night. With this group for company, I can’t blame them.
The hasperatwas stale. It was served with a sauce that was obviously meant to mask the fact that the flatbread holding it together was about three days past its fitness for consumption. She tried not to let her revulsion show, but Fed hadn’t missed the abrupt clenching of her jaw.
“I’m sorry,” Fed said quietly, reaching for her plate. “I thought most Bajorans like hasperat—”
Rena touched his arm, halting him. “It’s the bread,” she whispered. “It’s way past the point when it should be used this way.”
“Wow. I didn’t even notice.”
“Most people wouldn’t. But my family has run a bakery in Mylea for generations. A lot of things, I don’t know. Bread, I know.” Rena made quick work of finishing her hasperat,then washed it down with a large mug of cold, crisp water. Attending to her needs, Fed hovered nearby. She’d told him repeatedly that he could join his friends, but he insisted on staying with her. Though she found his behavior slightly odd, she didn’t attempt to dissuade him. During their walk of several tessijens from the rest-and-sip to the winery, she had found him to be an amiable traveling companion.
Conversation had been spare. She had learned that he, too, had been an only child until just recently, when his father’s second wife had given birth, and that he’d lived in the Bajoran sector since his early teens. She deduced, based on the timing, that he must have arrived with the first Starfleet contingent that assumed control of the space station, and Fed confirmed it. They had both lost parents in wartime: Both her mother and father had been arrested and tortured by the Cardassian occupiers of Mylea; his mother had died in a space battle far from Bajor. He offered tantalizing glimpses into his past. His archeological “experience” came from working at B’hala. B’hala!She’d plied him with questions about the Ohalu texts, but he subtly deflected her inquiries. He had answers—she knew it—but she didn’t pry. Long stretches of road had been traversed without words passing between them, and Rena liked that. She’d grown accustomed to the tempo of his steady footfalls, though she had to take a step and a half for each step of his. Having a companion had helped the time pass quickly.