“The Guardians of Mak’ala,” he said.
Bashir could hardly believe what he was hearing. Just outside the building, people were being injured, perhaps even killed. Now hardly seemed an appropriate time to stop by the underground breeding pools merely to chat with the symbionts’ unjoined humanoid caretakers.
Ezri and Cyl were already crossing to the door. “I’ll take the runabout straight to Mak’ala,” Ezri said over her shoulder. “Julian, I want you to report to the government’s Emergency Response Med-Center and assist with the injured.”
He nodded, but still felt completely confused about what they were doing. “Of course. But why make the trip to Mak’ala now? Are the symbiont pools in any direct danger from the rioters?”
Ezri and the general paused in the doorway. “There arelarge numbers of protesters massed outside the caves,” Cyl said. “But the additional security troops I deployed earlier today seem to be discouraging any untoward activity. So far, that is.”
“Then why go there now?” Gard asked, repeating Bashir’s question.
“Because the monks who watch over the symbionts have been doing that job for upwards of twenty-five thousand years,” Ezri said.
That struck Bashir as a complete non sequitur. “So?”
“So if anyone on Trill, outside of the most inside of government insiders, knows our people’s ancient past,” said Cyl, “it’s the Guardians.”
Bashir recalled that orders similar to the Guardians had preserved many important texts during the cultural self-lobotomizations that characterized Earth’s Dark Ages. But managing the current crisis still seemed a far more urgent priority than delving into the Kurlan mystery. And there was another consideration as well.
“I remember a Guardian named Timor from our visit here five years ago,” Bashir said. “He wasn’t terribly interested in the outside world, except for the occasional weather report. And he also wasn’t very forthcoming with information—even when we needed it to save Jadzia’s life.”
“Under the current circumstances, I don’t think it’ll be too hard to convince the Guardians that the stakes are a bit higher today than they were back then,” Ezri said.
“And if they agree to let us reveal some additional information about the Kurlan/parasite connection,” Cyl said, “some of the neo-Purists might take that as a gesture of good faith from the joined. The ones that aren’t completely crazy, that is.”
Bashir was well aware that continuity of memory was of supreme importance to most Trills, joined or unjoined. A reverence for the accurate accounting of history was an ingrained Trill characteristic that probably motivated the radicals as much as it did Ezri and her colleagues.
Still, he wasn’t at all certain that Ezri and Cyl were doing the right thing under the current circumstances.
“Have you considered that you might turn up some information that further vindicates the radicals’ paranoia?” he asked, now concerned that Ezri might well face dangers far greater than the mere wasting of time.
She sighed impatiently, and Bashir could sense her rising anger—and perhaps a hypersensitivity to being second-guessed as the one in charge of this mission.
“I don’t have time to debate this with you right now.”
Whatever she finds at Mak’ala,he thought, she’ll have to decide afterward whether to reveal it—or to bury it again, the way Audrid helped cover up the initial discovery of the symbiont-parasite connection.
Having kept his genetically engineered nature carefully hidden for so many years, he felt he could speak authoritatively about the keeping of secrets. “Please, Ezri. Think for a minute about what you’re about to do. Suppose you discover some entirely new unknown horror from your people’s past. What will you do then?”
He couldn’t help but consider the past horrors unleashed by ill-considered genetic engineering. Such techniques had not only essentially created Bashir himself, but had also spawned the Eugenics Wars. Khan Noonien Singh. Ethan Locken. The Jem’Hadar.
And, apparently, the parasites of Kurl.
“What will you do then?” he repeated. Softly. Imploringly.
Ezri regarded him in silence for a protracted moment, her cerulean eyes smoldering with anger.
“Report to Emergency Response, Doctor,” she said in by-the-book tones, ducking his question. “Ask Mister Gard to help you if you have trouble finding your way around.”
“At least let me treat those phaser burns on your hand before you leave,” Bashir said. Since the firefight near the speaker’s platform balcony, she hadn’t slowed down enough to receive any real first aid.
“I promise to take care of it on the way to Mak’ala,” Ezri said coolly, obviously unconcerned with her admittedly minor injury. Without another word, she turned and exited the office, with General Cyl at her side.
It’s your mission, Ezri,he thought, his ire rising at the brusqueness of her rebuff. I sincerely hope you haven’t just completely fouled it up.
8
The emergency medical kit shimmered into solidity on the floor of Talris’s office, and Bashir bent to retrieve it. Popping open the top, he made a quick inspection to make sure Ezri hadn’t left anything essential on the runabout; at the same time, he hoped she’d taken a moment to treat the burn on her hand before depleting the Rio Grande’s medical supplies. He was almost glad in a way that he no longer had his combadge; he felt such frustration with the woman he loved just now that he didn’t imagine any further immediate conversation was going to help matters between them.
Using a comm unit in the late Senator Talris’s office, Gard informed Ezri and Cyl that the medical equipment had arrived safely. “Good luck,” he said, and then hesitated a moment. Finally, he added, “Doctor Bashir wishes you both the same.” Then he tapped the console, ending the transmission.
Over his shoulder, Bashir shot Gard a petulant look.
“You seem to be taking her actions personally,” said Gard. “I can understand your position. But you must understand hers.”
Bashir stood, hoisting the medical kit over one shoulder. “What I understand is that she and the general seem more concerned with ancient Trill history than they are with dealing with the violence on the streets.”
“You’re probably right. But General Cyl is also trying to get to the bottom of what the neo-Purists are agitating about. He’s trying to get at the truth.”
Bashir felt his ire steadily rising. “The truth? The only truth I’m interested in at the moment is that the streets are becoming drenched in blood.”
Gard nodded solemnly. “The truth is a complicated thing sometimes, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever had a secret you felt you couldn’t share with anyone, because you knew…you knewthat it would change everything?”
Bashir attempted to control his reaction. Does Gard know about my genetic enhancements?Had Ezri told him? Or Jadzia? He had indeed concealed the fact that his parents had resequenced his genetics decades earlier, and keeping that secret had cost him dearly over the years.
Whether he knew Bashir’s secret or not, Gard’s tone contained no condemnation as he continued. “Even if you haven’t covered up aspects of yourlife, surely you’ve kept confidences in the course of your duties as a Starfleet officer. Surely you’ve concealed actions or decisions that could have caused grave damage if they were revealed.”
“You seem to be talking about yourself, Mister Gard.”