"I still don't understand." Sisko rapped a fist against the table in frustration. "How any of your people can oppose a process that will bring their world such benefits—"
"Commander." She felt another fatigue, older and deeper, rising inside her. "We've gone over this before. The simple truth is that those supposed benefits just haven't shown up yet, have they? This is something I was afraid of from Day One here. In order to get the Bajoran provisional government to agree to Starfleet's taking control of DS9, the benefits of eventual Federation membership had to be sold, and sold hard to them. And so far the Federation hasn't delivered."
"These things take time, Major. But there will be a tremendous expenditure of financial and technical resources upon this sector—"
"Oh, sure. As if we haven't heard that sort of thing before." She had no resistance to letting her anger out; she found herself expressing the exact same thoughts as the isolationists. "For God's sake, Commander, the Cardassians told us as much while they were stripping every leaf and speck of minerals from the planet. After what they did to us, this station and its access to the stable wormhole is the only thing of value that Bajor has left. Can you blame us—that is, can you blame the Severalty Front—for being afraid that this will be stolen from us as well?"
"Major, at one time I thought that this was just a personal trait of yours, one that I would just have to get accustomed to." Sisko's voice turned coldly formal. "But upon reflection I find that Kai Opaka was unique in more than one way. She was the only Bajoran I ever met who had cultivated the virtue of patience."
"Patience—" Kira could barely keep herself from exploding. "Commander, we don't have time for patience. We've suffered enough."
Sisko drew himself up to full height, his shoulders broadening against the booth's upholstery. "If that's the case, then despite our earlier assessment, your world may be a long way from readiness for Federation membership and its benefits. The Bajoran government has to learn that there are limits, even for the Federation. The Federation Council has concerns other than the welfare of Bajor and its people; there are other worlds and other races who have claims—and perhaps better ones—on the Federation's attention and development resources. And more importantly, some of those worlds have a lot more experience and skill at political maneuvering than the Bajoran provisional government has shown. This is exactly the kind of struggle where patience is not just a virtue, it's a strategy. The winning strategy."
She had heard the lecture from him before. Despite her fatigue, she could feel her spine turning to steel. "Reassessment is a two-way street, Commander. If Bajor is so far down the list of the Federation's priorities, then you'd better be prepared for Bajor to take a good hard look at what it gets out of dealing with the Federation."
"I see." Sisko's voice softened. "And is that what you want, Major? For Bajor to go its own way?"
Inside herself, she again felt the tug, two opposite vectors of force, the division between the oldest loyalty of her heart and the new one she had assumed. "No—" She shook her head. "I wouldn't be here at Deep Space Nine if that were what wanted."
"Very well." Sisko drained the last of his synthale and pushed the empty mug away from him. "You've demonstrated the depth of your commitment to the station's mission before; I have no cause to doubt you on that score. I'd like to remind you, Major—and you may regard this as a personal rather than a professional comment—that you're not the only one here who has to make a difficult choice between one path and another." He reached for the booth's security curtain, his hand stopping before drawing it aside. "I'll need a complete report on your assignment. And I mean absolutely complete: names, alliances, antagonisms, influences that we can bring to bear on different factions and individuals in the provisional government . . . everything. We're going to have to do a lot more of our own messy work from now on."
Kira watched the commander threading his way among the crowded tables, heading for the bar's exit. Her own drink sat half-finished in front of her. She lifted the mug and took a sip, the taste sharply bitter on her tongue.
The lights were off in the suite, but he could tell that someone was home. A touch upon the otherwise still molecules of air, the barely detectable sound of breathing. His son, asleep.
Sisko let the door slide shut behind him, blocking the angled fall of light from the station's corridor outside. His own shadow was swallowed by the room's darkness. He moved forward, walking with practiced ease around the low tables and chairs, and other familiar accoutrements of this small, private world. And almost immediately banged his knee against something large, heavy and unexpected.
"What the—" He bit off the exclamation of pain and surprise. The sound of the collision hadn't woken Jake. He hobbled to the nearest control panel and brought up enough light by which to see.
The object in the middle of the room was the wooden crate that Major Kira had brought back from Bajor.
He sat down heavily on the sofa, rubbing his shin. One of the Ops deck crew must have taken the initiative to have the crate transferred here from his office—or perhaps he himself had given the order; right now he couldn't remember. For a moment, he imagined that the crate had walked by itself to his quarters, like the proverbial white elephant. His heart felt leaden as he gazed at the rough wooden sides.
And that sense came without even undoing the locks and prying open the lid. He already had a good notion of the crate's contents. Bits and pieces . . . On old Earth and other worlds, the bones of saints had been the objects of veneration. Presumably, the crate held nothing as ghoulish as that; the Kai was still walking around with all of her bones safely tucked inside her, even though at the other end of the galaxy.
The Bajoran priests—the professional colleagues, as it were, of the Kai—had described in general terms what had been packed away in the crate. A small chest of precious woods, darker than the night sky, and inlaid with symbols formed of shining metal, that held a half-dozen or so scrolls of religious texts, hand-copied by the Kai when she had been a novice over a half-century ago. They were of no great value beyond that of remembrance of the one who had so carefully brushed the intricate characters upon the vellum leaves. Other things, even closer to perfect muteness, their animating spirit departed: a hand-carved table that had sat in a corner of the Kai's sleeping chamber, the oil lamp from the niche in the stone wall, a sequence of ear ornaments, each wrapped in feather-edged paper, each more elaborate and bejewelled than the one before, all of them signifying the mortal woman's ascent through the hierarchy of her people's faith.
Foolish veneration was discouraged by the priests; the Bajoran religion had enough wisdom to teach that only living were sacred. There had been a time when these things would have been destroyed; but someone among Kai Opaka's remaining brethren had had the kindly—or cruel—inspiration to send them up to the Deep Space Nine station, as though it were the planet's attic. So I could deal with them instead, thought Sisko. Perhaps that was justice for his part in bringing about the Kai's fate.
If he had strength enough, he knew, it would be best for everyone if he shoved the unopened crate out one of the station's airlocks. But he knew also that he wouldn't.
Commander Benjamin Sisko felt tired and alone now, surrounded by the overlapping hollow shells of the station, and the empty regions of the cold stars beyond. The only one who had sensed the burden of command he bore was gone, as good as dead. The galaxy, or the little part of it that he carried around with him, was an emptier place without the Kai in it. A pang of guilt penetrated his brooding. The bleak notions of absence and loss reminded him that he had barely any contact with his own son over the last few shifts. There had never seemed to be any time.