EPILOGUE
The gathering crowd of Bajorans bobbed and swayed, people standing on their toes or swiveling their heads so that they might see over the heads and shoulders of the people in front of them. Their varied dress represented the myriad provinces and walks of life from which they had come, all over the planet. Though a great many were clad in shabby rags or overpatched tunics and dresses, many were wearing the very best clothes they owned for the occasion, and Odo noticed more than a few wearing matching uniforms that he supposed belonged to the newly-restored Militia.
First Minister Kalem Apren had already delivered his inaugural address, and Odo had watched curiously as the people in the crowd reacted to his announcement that the Federation was coming to help. Odo could see right away that this was a sensitive topic for the Bajorans, with many seeming to be fully in favor and others appearing to feel exactly the opposite. Odo had observed a great deal of rather heated exchanges suddenly erupting all over the crowd after the First Minister made his proclamation.
Now another official, who had the unfortunate privilege of following Kalem’s volatile announcement, spoke in regard to the reformed Militia, which he had apparently helped to organize. His name was Jaro Essa, and he held a lesser seat on the new Bajoran Council of Ministers. The crowd was much thinner now, many people having moved away from the public oval—it was mostly only members of the militia and their families who had lingered behind to listen to Jaro.
Jaro Essa’s voice was distinct and pleasant, but his words held traces of fire, and the portion of the crowd that was still listening responded noisily to his address.
“My Bajoran brothers and sisters—I was here fifty years ago when a group of aliens arrived on our world, with their proposals for a means to help us, to assist us in modernizing our beloved and traditional ways of life—”
Shouts of anger, the older people in the crowd crying out the fiercest.
“But we are wiser now, and never again will we allow any group of outsiders to dictate for us how we are to run our world…”
Odo quickly recognized that Jaro’s speech was meant to do more than just address the new Militia; apparently he did not agree with his colleague’s decision to bring in the Federation, either.
Which may be exactly why we need them…If so many Bajorans were in disagreement over how to run their world, was it unlikely that opposing factions would emerge? Could a civil war be on the horizon?
“…the new Militia is comprised of the very best fighters currently on our world, people who fought bravely and tirelessly for Bajor’s freedom…”
Odo was troubled at the idea of any conflict lingering behind on Bajor after the Cardassians had finally been chased away, but he laid his concerns temporarily to rest when he recognized the profile of a man in a brown Militia uniform. The Bajoran looked out of place in military clothing instead of a worn tunic, but Odo knew right away that it was Gran Tolo, the man who had been in the resistance on Terok Nor. He hesitated for a moment before deciding to approach him.
“Excuse me. Gran Tolo?” he said hesitantly, and then took an uncertain step back. How would he be remembered by the Bajorans who had been on the station?
“Odo!” Gran replied, looking immediately happy to see the shape-shifter. “Thank the Prophets you managed to get off the station!”
“You’ve…you’ve joined the Militia,” Odo said, at a loss for anything else to say.
Gran smiled, tugging at his new uniform. “Yes, I’ve been awarded the rank of lieutenant already. It’s a bit…surreal, I think, but…I felt it was the only thing I could do. I’ve always been a soldier, you see, since I was barely a teenager…”
“You’ll be an asset to service, I’m certain,” Odo said, and he meant it. He hoped Gran could see that he did, but it was often difficult for him to convey his thoughts appropriately, and he could never quite tell if people took him seriously or not.
“What will you do now that the Cardassians are gone?” Gran inquired. “You’re out of a job, aren’t you?”
Odo looked up at the sky without quite meaning to, for it had occurred to him often since he had smuggled himself off the station that he was now further away from finding his own people than he had been while on the station. It had, of course, occurred to him that if the Federation was coming, there might be a better opportunity to find out where he had come from, but he didn’t have the first idea how to pursue that possibility. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
Gran scrutinized him for a moment as if he were trying to decide what to do with him, and then he said something that Odo would never have considered. “The Militia…is always looking for volunteers. If you tell them that you worked on the station—”
Odo scoffed. “They’ll have me executed. All known collaborators are to be turned in to the government immediately.”
“No, no. Odo, I can vouch for you that you helped the resistance. You did far more good than harm, and I know I’m not the only Bajoran who will say so. You remember Ficen Dobat? He joined the Militia as well, and I know he’ll tell Jaro Essa how you helped us all when the detection grid came down for the last time…”
Odo thought he remembered Ficen Dobat, but he remembered a few other Bajorans as well—Bajorans whom he had personally committed to death. He worked to keep his face free from emotion, but it was surprisingly difficult after it had become such a habit to associate his emotions with his facial expressions. “Perhaps I willjoin the Militia,” he muttered. It was like Gran had said—all he had ever known was to be a soldier. All Odo had ever known was to follow rules, although he had certainly come to question them in the end. But maybe the Militia coulduse him, and perhaps it would give him the opportunity to feel as though he could be forgiven for the sins he had committed while working for the Cardassians.
“I can take you where you need to go, if you’re considering it, Odo.”
“I am considering it,” he said quickly, before he could change his mind, and he began to walk with Gran through the crowds.
“Where will you be stationed?” Odo asked the Bajoran.
“I don’t know yet,” Gran told him. “I’ll be getting my assignment later today. I’m eager to find out what it will be.” He let out his breath all at once. “After all, wherever I go, that will be my new home. My parents are dead—I have no one left but those I fought with in the resistance. The Militia…will be my new family.”
Odo nodded to himself. “New family,” he repeated, and saw that they had reached the recruiting office. Outside was a short line of men and women waiting to sign up and serve their world. Odo and Gran took their place in the line, but the people just ahead of them quickly spied Gran’s rank designation on his uniform, and moved to allow him to pass ahead of them. He nodded gratefully, and Odo followed the Bajoran inside, suddenly overcome with what Gran had just been saying—he was about to join a new family, just like that. Of course, that all relied on the assumption that the Bajorans wouldn’t turn him in as a collaborator. He looked nervously at Gran, who returned a reassuring smile as they passed the line of people outside.
Just before entering the building, Odo looked up at the sky again, thinking of Terok Nor and how it might have been as close as he would ever be to his people. But he shook off the thought as he walked through the double doors that led them inside the temporary headquarters of the Militia, an old, partially destroyed building that had once functioned as the offices of the local lawkeepers. Just as Gran had said, he was suddenly eager. To be part of a new world, and part of a new family—though he knew, on some level, that it would not be as true for him as it would be for Gran. Odo was an outsider, and a Bajoran uniform wouldn’t change that fact.
He turned to Gran as he was led inside the building with towering, curved ceilings, all blackened with smoke from the fires that had destroyed the rear portion of the building. The aura of destruction was heavy in the atmosphere, but nobody seemed to be paying attention to it as the volunteers filed toward a wide table of officers. The men and women seated behind the tables tapped away at their keypads while doing retinal scans for each Bajoran as he or she approached the table. Odo suddenly felt very uncomfortable, considering that his physiology would hardly permit the sort of inspection that was likely required for a recruited soldier—until he saw something that astonished him. Kira Nerys, bearing the rank of major, was standing behind one of the tables, her once-tangled hair trimmed and smoothed neatly just beyond her chin, the rigid silhouette of her uniform lending an imposing outline to her slender shoulders.