“I’ve had easier trips down the valley,” Rena confessed. Kail assumed his place beside her, his clothes saturated with the oil smoke from the foundry fires where he worked. She managed not to cringe when he hugged her.
Apprenticed to an artisan, Kail hadn’t always worked the fire room, but a recent falling-out with his supervisor had resulted in a demotion. Rena had tried to listen with a sympathetic ear, but she struggled to reconcile Kail’s indignation at what he perceived as mistreatment with the belligerence and complaining she’d seen in him since she first returned home. Taking care of Topa during his final days hadn’t allowed her to spend much private time with Kail, but from what little time they had shared, he seemed like he’d changed. In that regard, she was grateful that she hadn’t accepted any betrothal agreement, hoping that with more time they would get used to each other again; oddly, she hadn’t even missed sleeping with him since she’d been back. There had always seemed to be a reason why making love didn’t feel right, whether it was the long hours she spent nursing Topa or working in the bakery. With Topa’s death, Rena had wanted to be alone to grieve. In light of what happened with Jacob, Rena saw her reticence with Kail and wondered if her reasons for avoiding intimacy were more than circumstantial. She sighed and moved a bit away from Kail, loosening his grip on her waist.
Jacob’s height made him easy to spot in the crowds of Bajoran fishermen and aquaculture workers on the docks. He walked confidently, even in this strange place. Remembering the first time she saw him—had it been only a day since the rest-and-sip?—she decided that was what had caught her eye: his being comfortable in his own skin. Rena followed him with her eyes until she felt Halar’s gaze on her.
“You’re looking at Jake Sisko, aren’t you,” she said, clasping her hands together gleefully.
Of course Halar would have known who the son of the Emissary was; she’d fanatically followed his “ministry” to Bajor since the kai had announced the reopening of the Celestial Temple eight years ago. And then it occurred to her that Halar wasn’t referring to someone unknown to her. Halar was talking about herJacob. Staring, Rena said, “Jacob Sisko?”
“Jacob, Jake.” Halar shrugged. “No matter—he’s a Sisko. Son of the Emissary. I practically squealed when I saw him coming down the gangplank. Did you see him aboard the ship?”
Jacob Sisko. Son of the Emissary. I guess I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
Sisko
A cool, syncopated rhythm insinuated itself into Ben Sisko’s dreams, gently lifted him and tried to carry him back into the waking world. Not just yet,he thought. Let me linger here for just a moment….And, briefly, for a timeless instant, he thought he remembered how it was done, how to take a second, parse it, and keep it hanging in the air, vibrating. As the piano licks, bass, and drums wove their tale through his mind, he felt the metronome behind his eyes slow down, then stop, and he hung there for an instant, between the tick and the tock. The music still moved, but he, Ben Sisko, did not. And then the Prophets speak,he thought. Pausing, he tried to keep his inner eye from wavering, waiting…. Or perhaps They don’t…
He opened his eyes, and the moment between moments receded. Pale green light dancing through a leaf canopy. Garden. He touched the patch of grass beside him and felt the chill. Kasidy must have abandoned him once he fell asleep. A sigh-breath against his bare collarbone. Baby. She stirred, hitching up farther on his chest, curling her knees against her body and snuggling into his chest. Sisko smiled, tucking her dislodged blanket back around her legs. But, yes, there was music playing. Coming from the open patio doors. Dave Brubeck, he thought, recognizing the tune. When did Kas start listening to jazz?He had done his best over the years to introduce his wife to good music, but she had willfully resisted every entreaty. Kasidy liked what she liked: modern classical, Centauri folk, and the occasional piece of youth-contemporary for mindless humming. Nothing wrong with most of it, Sisko generously concluded.
The bundle on his chest shuddered with a sneeze.
Bless you,he thought, patting the bundle comfortingly.
A shadow passed between him and the dappled sunlight. Kasidy. She plopped down beside him, propping herself against the tree trunk. “I think Rebecca has caught a cold. Which means we’ll both have colds in a day or two if we don’t take antivirals.”
“Can’t we immunize her for all these little diseases?” he asked. Careful not to disturb Rebecca, he lifted his head off the ground and pillowed it on Kasidy’s lap.
She inhaled deeply, caressed his face. “We can, but Julian recommended we let a couple of these run their course so she can build up immunities. Nothing works better than nature.”
“Except when it doesn’t.”
Kasidy shrugged.
Sisko tried to remember the last time he had lived through a cold. Sneezing, runny nose, headache, congestion. “If she has to be miserable,” he asked, “shouldn’t we be miserable, too?”
Kasidy laughed. “Sorry, I don’t subscribe to that theory.”
“Think of it as an anchor to corporeal life.”
“I prefer what we did last night,” Kasidy teased.
Feeling the residual ache in his stomach muscles, Sisko had to admit he did too.
“When did you start listening to Dave Brubeck?” he asked.
“Is that who this is?” Kasidy asked. “It was on one of Jake’s mixes and I liked it.”
“Jake’s?” He was genuinely surprised. “Something that happened while I was gone?”
“I don’t think so,” Kasidy said. “The recording was a few years old, from back in that period when he and Nog tried to convince Quark that he should open a dance club.” Rebecca, who had been dozing, awoke and immediately began to nuzzle against the cloth of Sisko’s flannel shirt. Breathless, frustrated grunts gave way to a puckered-up scowclass="underline" the bundle trembled with mewing cries.
Sisko wrapped his arms around her, whispering soothing words to his daughter, but Kasidy pushed him out of her lap and plucked the baby out of his arms.
“Goodness, little girl. How can you be hungry again so soon?”
“I remember that,” Sisko said, “but I don’t remember Jake listening to jazz. How could I have missed that?”
“I can’t imagine,” Kasidy said, loosening her shirt. “I seem to remember something about a war. Ring any bells?”
“Seems vaguely familiar.” He sighed, rolling over so he could prop himself on his elbows. Rooting around the grass, he plucked out stems of miniature, blush-faced daisy flowers and started piling them up. “I should make lunch.” Deftly, he knotted the flower stems together, making a chain of blossoms.
“Yes you should,” Kasidy agreed. “Why not reheat the gumbo you made yesterday?”
“Excellent suggestion. But none for you, little girl,” Sisko said, stroking her velvety cheek with his index finger. “Maybe when you’re older. None of that replicated lunch food at school. I’ll send you jambalaya.” He continued the flower chaining, his fingers smudged with powdery orange pollen grains.
Rebecca squirmed and tensed, followed by an unmistakable series of gaseous “phlbets.” Relaxing, she pulled away, bloated and happy, offering her mother a tipsy half-smile.
Kasidy draped the blanket over her shoulder, then lifted the baby up and began to gently pat her. Looking at her husband, she asked seriously, “Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Pack her lunch for her on school days? Do you really see that as part of our future?”