CHAPTER 12

JADZIA SMILED as she watched Julian Bashir hold the neural dart up to a light and examine it closely by eye. It was so typical of him, and also what made him so endearing.

Here he was in DS9's Infirmary, a state-of-the-art Cardassian medical facility that had been fully upgraded with the latest Starfleet innovations, surrounded by scanners and sensors that could shuffle through the dart's composition molecule by molecule and more often than not identify the planet of origin for every mineral compound used in its manufacture. Yet Julian still had to look at the dart himself, using his own hands and his own eyes to be certain no detail had been missed.

It was so . . . well, Jadzia could find only one word to explain that kind of self-absorbed conviction in the superiority of his abilities, and that word was “cute.”

Bashir glanced over at her and returned her smile, but seemed confused about why he was doing so. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Jadzia shrugged, lips still pursed in a smile. “Just remembering something Emony said. It was more than a hundred years ago.”

“Ah.” Bashir nodded as if that explained everything, and went back to peering at the dart.

That was one of the advantages to being a Trill, Jadzia knew. In fact, except for Lela, the first, all of Dax's previous hosts had known it, too: A joined Trill could get away with the most outrageous behavior imaginable, and then simply explain it away by blaming it on a previous host.

Since most unjoined species could never even imagine what it must be like for two minds to share a single body and several lifetimes of experiences, they would accept such an explanation without question. What would be the point? To be honest, Jadzia thought, most people looked on joined Trills as some kind of zombie held in thrall to a neural parasite.

But the truth was that she herself had found that joining with Dax had been incredibly liberating. It was exhilarating to be able to decide to do anything at all—and that included indulging herself in harmless flirting with Julian right up to taking part in the most erotically charged physical challenge in the quadrant, euphemistically called ‘wrestling’ Galeo-Manada style—and because she was joined, anything she chose to do was all acceptable.

Of course, part of the trick of deciding which passions and pastimes to explore came from trying to think of something that none of the other hosts had been familiar with—which usually meant that the more lifetimes a symbiont shared, the more idiosyncratic and eccentric its hosts became.

Personally, before she was joined Jadzia had always had a particular curiosity about Vulcans, and had hoped that sometime during her career in Starfleet she'd have a chance to experience Pon farr on a more personal level than the textbooks allowed. But after joining, when she had instantly been able to look back on several Pon farr encounters—from both sides of the Teiresian veil, as it were—there was little there that remained mysterious to her, and that lost mystery had been the key to her fascination.

Oh, someday, a century or two down the road, the right Vulcan might come along at the right time for the Dax symbiont to decide it was time to travel down that road again. But for now, Jadzia was more than happy, deliriously happy in fact, with her sweet cuddlybear of a Klingon mate.

Jadzia coughed to cover her sudden giggle, as she suddenly recalled the look on Worf's face when she'd startled him with the endearment at precisely the wrong moment—as if there were ever a right moment to call a rough, tough Klingon a sweet cuddly-bear. But fortunately, she'd been able to blame the transgression on her ever-useful past host Audrid.

Bashir gave her another perplexed smile. “Emony again?”

“Audrid. I'm sorry.”

“No need.” He placed the dart back in a small sample dish, then entered notes on his padd.

Jadzia admired the dark curls of Julian's close-cropped hair. He was close, she recalled with a sigh. If Worf had been unable to transcend his insular Klingon heritage enough to fully admit a Trill into his life, Jadzia had little doubt that her heart could have been won by Julian Bashir. That was the other advantage to being a Trill. Life's choices that could last a lifetime for others were not necessarily a limiting factor. Other lifetimes and other choices waited to provide near infinite possibilities.

Bashir stopped writing on the padd, then tapped the small device against his hand.

“You've reached a conclusion?” Jadzia asked.

He had. “A linear-induction dart. Centuries-old technology. So primitive the launch tube would never show up on the Promenade weapons scanners. Cardassian design, of course, like most assassination implements, but its manufacture, interesting enough, is Andorian, as is the neural toxin inside: bicuprodyanide.”

Jadzia frowned. “That's fatal to Andorians.”

“And Bolians,” Bashir added. “In fact, it has near one hundred percent lethality in any species with a bicupric-based oxygen-transport metabolism. Which means almost anything with blue skin.”

“But . . . it's not fatal in humans,” Jadzia said, perplexed.

Bashir dropped his padd on his medical work station in a gesture of finality. “In a high enough dose it can be, Jadzia. Just from ordinary metal toxicity. But Vash, mind you, would have to have ingested a coffee mug–full of the stuff, and even then we'd have a good ten to twelve hours to treat her. As it is, with the few milliliters that actually got into her bloodstream, she'll only have a bad headache for a day or two. Nothing more serious.”

“In other words,” Jadzia said slowly as she worked it out, “whoever used the dart against Vash either didn't know about human biochemistry—”

“Or,” Bashir interjected, “was equipped to kill an Andorian and shooting Vash was an unexpected, spur-of-the-moment decision—”

“Which,” Jadzia continued, getting into Bashir's rhythm, “could indicate that the attacker was desperate to stop Vash from talking—”

“—so he struck as quickly as he could to render her unconscious—”

“—and he—”

“—or she —”

“—plans on coming back to finish the job before Vash wakes up—”

“—which should be in the next thirty minutes!” Bashir grinned at her, quite obviously enjoying the chance to play detective. “I must say, Jadzia, we make a wonderful team.”

Being a Trill, Jadzia simply returned Julian's grin and said, “I've always thought so. But for now,” she went on, “maybe we should have Odo post more guards?”

Bashir nodded, “Good idea. I'll call—”

“Where is she?!”

Major Kira burst into the Infirmary like an avenging Pah-wraith, fury expressed in every line of her being.

Jadzia could guess what had caused Kira's reaction, and it seemed Julian had also, because at once he took on the manner of someone outside the jurisdiction of both Starfleet protocol and Bajoran laws. He faced Kira as a physician with a patient in his care—a patient no one would be allowed to harm.

“If you mean Vash, she's still recovering,” Bashir said firmly.

Kira took a swift look around the Infirmary, saw the analysis bed was empty in the treatment alcove and started for the surgery. “I don't care. I'm talking to her.”

Bashir immediately stepped in front of Kira, to block her advance. “Not until she's awake, Major.”

They were centimeters apart, neither one willing to yield. Kira's hands were balled into fists at her side. Restlessly, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her voice was demanding, belligerent. “Then wake her, Doctor. Use some of those magic potions of yours to bring her around now.”

Bashir held his ground, unconvinced. “There is no medical need to do so.”

With that, Kira's military bluster gave way to a plea of personal indignation. “Julian! She is involved in trying to sell an Orb of the Prophets. That is an outrage! To me, my world, to ten thousand years of Bajorans who have sought to follow the Prophets' teachings. I demand to speak to her.”

Bashir still didn't move, though Jadzia was pleased to see Julian's attitude soften. “Major, first of all, Vash isn't going anywhere. And second, any questioning you conduct might be more useful if you had a few moments to . . . gather your thoughts, so it won't be . . . as personal.”

“How can it not be personal?”

Bashir sighed. “Listen, Nerys, whatever Vash said to Captain Sisko, you have to remember she had just received a jolt of a disruptive neural toxin, almost directly to her brain. Maybe what she said did make sense. Maybe it didn't. But in any case, the captain said he couldn't understand everything she said. The point is, we won't know for certain until she wakes up.”

Kira stared hard at Bashir. “A ‘disruptive’ neural toxin? Not a fatal one?”

“Fatal to Andorians, not humans. She'll be fine.”

Jadzia saw the major's rigid posture relax as she stepped back from Bashir, lowering the level of confrontation, but not ending it. “You're surprised by that,” Jadzia said to her.

Kira nodded, taking a deep breath to further compose herself. “I thought . . . I didn't have much time. That I might lose her before . . . . Why would someone try to kill Vash with an Andorian toxin?”

“To make it appear as if an Andorian is the attempted murderer,” Odo said, startling everyone as he suddenly entered the Infirmary.

“Did you find something on the scanner records?” Jadzia asked. She knew that was what Odo had been doing for the past ten minutes: analyzing the security tapes taken of the crowds on the Promenade at the time Vash was hit by the dart. Normally, she knew, visual scanners weren't used in the public areas of the station on an ongoing basis. But there were few things Odo hated more than an unsolved crime in his territory, and Jadzia was aware DS9's security officer was determined to use every means he could to solve Dal Nortron's death and erase what he would no doubt consider a personal affront to his abilities as station constable.

“No, I did not,” Odo said gruffly. “Whoever the shooter was, he must have positioned himself just by the gym, under the banners. Precisely where there is a gap in the scanner coverage.”

Bashir shot a sideways glance at Jadzia, clearly intrigued by Odo's reasoning. “That could indicate the shooter is someone with highly detailed knowledge of station security.”

Odo folded his arms. “Just what are trying to suggest, Doctor?”

Odo's challenging tone seemed to unsettle Bashir. “I'm . . . suggesting nothing.”

To divert Odo before he could directly accuse Julian of suspecting him, Jadzia bestowed a winning smile on the constable. “Odo, Julian and I were just trying to find a pattern to the . . . the clues in this case. So far, when you put them all together, they don't make a lot of sense, so any extra piece of information should be considered carefully.”

“Of course they don't make sense,” Odo said darkly. “Quark is involved.”

Jadzia wasn't willing to let that stand. “Maybe,” she said.

Odo was silent, but the pained expression on his face conveyed his thoughts well enough.

“Well,” Kira said, “the one person who might be able to make sense out of whatever is going on is still in there.” She pointed to the surgery.

But Vash's doctor still wasn't ready to yield. “And she'll be waking up soon. Odo, just in case whoever attacked Vash tries to come back and finish the job, could you—”

“I already have three officers stationed outside the Infirmary, Doctor. And Worf has placed transporter-suppression shields around this section of the Promenade to prevent anyone or anything being beamed in or out.”

“I certainly couldn't ask for more than that. Thank you, Constable.”

Odo's stiff response told Jadzia that the constable wasn't swayed by Julian's attempt to create a more cooperative mood. “Don't mention it, Doctor. However, in the interests of full security, I would appreciate being in the room with Vash when she wakes up.”

Before Bashir could answer, Kira added, “So would I.”

“She's not going to be in the best of shape,” Bashir warned.

But Kira was in control of her emotions now. “Julian, an Orb of the Prophets. Vash is no longer just a smuggler who can pay a fine and move on to the next system. Even an attempt to interfere with an Orb makes her liable to life imprisonment under Bajoran law. What she's done—or even planned to do—is so serious, I've reported it to Kai Winn. Three Vedek Inquisitors are already on their way.”

“The Inquisitors function as a war crimes investigative tribunal.” Bashir's voice betrayed his alarm.

Kira's jaw tightened. “Up until now, all missing Orbs were the result of Cardassian looting. We are talking war crimes.”

Jadzia finally saw her chance to act as mediator. “Nerys, let's say Vash is involved in . . . oh, I don't know . . . some extralegal transaction involving obtaining an Orb from one of the Cardassians who stole it in the first place. If she were doing this so she could, say, return the Orb to the Bajoran people—the way Grand Nagus Zek returned the Orb of Wisdom—don't you think it possible that no charges would be brought? I mean, the Inquisitors didn't file charges against Zek.”

“Are you defending her, Jadzia?” Kira's voice was incredulous.

“If she's done what you think she's done, not at all. But what I am trying to do is to point out that we don't know everything yet, and that there might be some alternate explanation. And if we keep that in mind, then maybe we'll be able to talk to Vash, instead of interrogate her. And maybe she can help us right now, instead of deciding to say nothing until her legal defender spends months negotiating an . . . accommodation with the Inquisitors. If we keep open minds, maybe we can get to the bottom of this much faster than if we jump to conclusions. That's all.” Jadzia held steady under Kira's measuring gaze.

The major made her decision. She nodded to Jadzia. “All right, I won't threaten her with life in prison right away. And since you seem to be open to more possibilities than the rest of us, why don't you start the questioning—I mean, the conversation.”

Odo cleared his throat. “In case any of you were wondering,” the changeling said heavily, reminding them all of his presence, “I have no problem with Dax asking the questions. At first.”

Now everyone looked at Bashir.

“Too much stress will delay her full recovery. A conversation will be much better than the third degree.”

Kira blinked. “The third degree of what?”

“I'll explain later,” Odo said.

But Kira wasn't willing to let it go. She frowned. “What are the first two degrees?”

“I'm sure ‘interrogation’ is what Julian meant to say,” Jadzia said smoothly, glaring at Julian to stop him from adding anything else provocative. Jadzia could see that Kira was losing the fight to control her impatience. “So, Doctor, keeping our minds open, promising not to be a source of stress for her, is it possible you'll allow us to see your patient?”

“Yes. But . . .”

“But what?” Kira snapped.

Bashir raised his eyebrows. “Doesn't anyone think we should wait for Captain Sisko?”

“He's involved with Chief O'Brien,” Odo said. “He'll be expecting a report from me, and from you, Doctor, when we're finished with the prisoner . . . that is, the patient.”

“All right,” Bashir shrugged. “Then just let me check on her first.”

Odo bowed his head as if giving his approval.

Bashir went into the surgery.

Jadzia looked at Kira and Odo. “Why does it feel that we're on opposite sides all of a sudden?”

“We're not,” Kira said testily as if offended even by Jadzia's question.

“I hope you don't think that Julian and I are insensitive to the Orbs, or to the Bajoran religion,” Jadzia said.

Kira stared at a point over Jadzia's shoulder as she seemed to think over many different possible replies before she said, “Not intentionally.”

Now Jadzia felt offense. “Then I apologize,” she said tersely.

“No need.”

“Well, obviously, something is needed.”

Kira's gaze shifted. Her eyes met Jadzia's. Again, it seemed she struggled with finding the right answer before she muttered, “All right. It couldn't hurt for you to spend some time in the temple.”

Jadzia felt her spots prickle, never a good sign when it came to her mood. “Major, since coming to this station six years ago, you know very well I have made the Orbs one of my chief areas of study.”

Kira's smile was condescending, almost one of pity. “Dax, you've spent six years studying what you believe to be solidified energy vortices. And you can spend the next six hundred years doing the same, and you will learn absolutely nothing because they are not vortices, they are the Tears of the Prophets. And until you understand that, you won't—”

“She's awake,” Bashir announced as he walked from the surgery. “Doing fine, as a matter of fact.” He looked around uncertainly, as if he sensed residual traces of the argument that had just begun between Kira and Jadzia. “You can . . . come in now . . . if you still want to, that is. . . .”

Kira pushed straight past Jadzia into the surgery. A moment later, Odo gave Jadzia a small shrug, and followed after Kira.

Bashir stared at Jadzia. “I was only gone a minute.”

“Around here, that's all it takes,” Jadzia said drily. Then she followed the good doctor into the surgery, wondering what the next minute would bring.