And from there, Ziyal’s story, as Kira recalled it, tumbled out. She related her own conflicted emotions upon finding Dukat’s illegitimate daughter in the Dozarian system, Dukat’s willingness to murder Ziyal, in cold blood, rather than risk her existence being discovered by his family or the Cardassian government, and Kira’s forcing him to accept responsibility for the unwanted child. Details that faded from her recollections due to the passage of time flooded back to her and Kira found herself explaining Ziyal’s uncomfortable initiation into Bajor’s art community, the prylars who grew to treasure her, and her tentative exploration of a relationship with the Prophets. How Ziyal had come to love Garak, much to the dismay of her friends on the station. Of her final days, when Sisko and Starfleet prepared to retake the station and Dukat was forced to flee or be taken prisoner, how Damar ultimately completed the murder Dukat had originally intended and how it felt to see her lifeless body. And as she spoke, Kira knew her cheeks were wet with tears and that she’d shared thoughts and impressions she’d never before voiced aloud to a virtual stranger, but she felt compelled to continue. When the last words left her lips, Kira felt she’d finally arrived at the place the Prophets intended her to, and the restlessness that had haunted her since Macet’s arrival finally abated.
Asarem said little in response and Kira understood why. What else could be said? Knowing she had done as she should, Kira decided to leave. She had decisions to make and now she might be able to make them with a peaceful heart. Wishing her good night, Kira started toward the exit when Asarem called after her.
“So what will you do next?”
Kira shrugged. “I don’t know. Keep pummeling Shakaar until he relents. Help Ro. Go to Bajor. I’m not sure.” She hovered between exhaustion and collapse—a change of scenery could allow her to refuel, gear up for the next challenge. But Ro had two critical open investigations—the Promenade riot and the still unsolved vandalism; responsibility effectively tethered her to the station.
“Walk with the Prophets, Colonel,” Asarem said.
“So she finally fell asleep,” Phillipa announced, flopping backward onto her bed. She ordered the lights dimmed and sighed. Punching and pulling her pillow succeeded in reconfiguring lumps, but not much else; her neck muscles felt like knotted cords. She rolled over onto her stomach, dangling her feet over the side of the bed and watched her husband undress.
“Rubbing her back works every time. Mireh drops off like that—” Sibias snapped his fingers.
“And how did you figure that out?”
“Works with you.”
“You’re just a little too sure of yourself, smart man. I don’t think a little pressure between the shoulder blades is going to work for me tonight.”
“That a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
“Tough day?”
“Oh yeah,” she groaned. After she’d returned to her quarters, she tried contacting Thriss several more times before her family’s needs pressed her into temporarily forgoing her professional concerns. She and Sibias helped the children with homework, played Kadis-Kot and wrapped up the evening with a chapter from Arios’s latest favorite, The Adventures of Lin Marna and the Mystery of Singularity Sam.Sibias defused Mireh’s stalling tactics while she took a sonic shower and now, with the children taken care of, she allowed herself to resume worrying about her patient.
Kicking off his slippers, Sibias sat down beside her. His thumbs massaged the hollows of her shoulder blades. “Can you talk about it?”
Relaxing proved challenging for Phillipa, though Sibias kneading away her muscular stress didn’t hurt. She willingly yielded to the pressure, enjoying sensations his hands produced. “Is this how it works with Mireh? You keep her talking while your hands work out every kink in her back?”
“More or less. But there aren’t many kinks in her back, being two and all,” he said, working down her rib cage. “Mireh isn’t as concerned about saving the universe as you are—yet.”
Closing her eyes, she blanked her mind, focused on his touch until…“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself up on her elbows, “I can’t stop thinking about my patient. I’ll just find something to read. Maybe one of your architectural history journals can bore me to sleep. That research on jevonite looks fascinating.”
Carefully, Sibias eased her over onto her back. “You can’t make it better for everyone, Phil. You can’t force people to make good choices. Sometimes, they mess up and you have to be okay with that.” He toyed with a lock of her hair, mapped the outline of her cheekbone with his finger.
“I know, I know….” She inhaled sharply. “But I have this feeling that if I could just see her, talk to her, I might be able to make a difference.” She covered her face with her forearms. It was just so damn frustrating when you had the tools to fix something and you couldn’t. She had to confess, however, that the way Sibias grazed her bare arms might fix her problem with settling down to sleep…
He nestled his face in the crook of her neck. “You say that every time, my wife,”
“Your beard is ticklish,” she laughed.
“Think of it as a variation on massage therapy,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat.
Phillipa loved how he smelled—in her imagination he was musty archeology texts and crisp autumn days and smoky tallow candles. She dropped her arms to her sides, tipped her head toward his and rested her hair against his face. He reached for the top of her pajamas and in one smooth motion, undid the first button, and then the second.
“So I’m thinking if the backrub isn’t going to work…” he began.
“Damn straight.” Twisting onto her side, she wriggled her leg between his and pulled him into her. As they kissed, a blurry thought of Thriss sleeping without the one she loved tightened her throat, until a warm fog of sensation gradually diluted her coherence, leaving her worries to be rediscovered in the morning.
Dizhei stretched awake, wondering when she’d fallen asleep on the couch. A vague recollection of a middle-of-the-night communication from Charivretha explained why she would be in the living room, but not why Anichent had left her there, instead of rousing her to return to watch over Thriss.
This latest bout of moodiness seemed to be following her usual pattern. An angry outburst followed by a verbal tirade, directed most of the time at Anichent until guilt supplanted anger and she dissolved into a quivering mass of tears. Last night, Thriss had cried herself into a migraine before sleep overtook her. Both Dizhei and Anichent had been grateful for the reprieve.
Without question, Thriss’ anguish would be better dealt with on Andor. Those of their own kind could counsel with her, provide her with the emotional support she needed to survive the remainder of Shar’s absence. If needs be, she or Anichent could return to Deep Space 9 closer to the time the Defiantwas scheduled to come home. They would insist that Shar take immediate leave for the shelthreth.The anxiety plaguing all of them would end. Decisions about who would stay with whom and where could be made later.
Stumbling to her feet, she stretched again. Perhaps she should check in on Thriss. See how she was feeling this morning. If they were fortunate, her mood might have lifted, allowing them to enjoy their final hours on the station. Dizhei didn’t hear Anichent stirring. He’d likely gone to the gymnasium for an early workout. She hoped she could interest him in breakfast at Quark’s, anything but replicated—
The door slid open. Dizhei paused. Blinked. And shook her head hoping she might be victim to a sleepy hallucination. But her quivering knees, her racing heartbeat, and the scream that leapt to her throat meant her body understood what her mind refused to accept.
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