“It’s not quite the disaster it seems to be,”Ledahn said.
Asarem sat back and folded her arms. “Tell me how.”
“Under the rules of Chamber, in the event of the death of a Bajoran offworld representative, the First Minister has the right to appoint an interim representative of her choice without Chamber approval. I looked it up. The appointment is only effective for one year. After that it comes up for review by the Chamber, which may choose to allow the appointment to continue for the full term, or it may require you to submit a new nominee. But by that time…”
“By that time the interim councillor will be thoroughly immersed in the job,” Asarem realized. “And if she does well, the Chamber wouldn’t dare revoke the appointment. Magistrate Sorati can be our Federation Council representative after all.”
“Yes. And ironically, all it required was the untimely death of Rava Mehwyn.”
“Where are you now?”
“With my family in Tamulna.”
“Can you be in my office early this afternoon? I’d like you here when I call Sorati with the news.”
Ledahn grinned. “I’m on my way, First Minister.”
Asarem cut the comlink, then keyed her aide. “Theno, please cancel my match with Minister Rozahn and extend to her my apologies. Then send me all the contact information on file for the children of Rava Mehwyn.”
“At once, First Minister.”
Asarem sat back, shaking her head in amazement at the unexpected turn of events, the twist of fate that brought forth opportunity out of tragedy. Like springball,she reflected. Even during the worst moments of an apparently hopeless match, the ball might suddenly move in just the way it needs to in order to turn the game completely around.
She had been concerned for some time about Bajor starting its marriage to the Federation from a position of weakness. She’d believed it was imperative to establish from the onset that Bajor was ready and determined to be an active player in the astropolitical arena. To have a strong voice in the shaping of Federation policy, particularly as it pertained to the still-important Bajor sector, which not only encompassed the wormhole, the Alpha Quadrant’s gateway to the Gamma Quadrant, but also bordered on Tzenkethi space, the Badlands, and the shattered remains of the Cardassian Union.
Rava Mehwyn, while a competent diplomat, had not been her first choice for the job. Asarem felt she lacked the edge, the strength of character, and the sheer presence necessary for the role of Bajor’s first Federation councillor. Rava might have been a likable ambassador and reasonable negotiator, but Asarem had secretly feared she might also be too accommodating, too eager to avoid confrontation, too willing to subordinate the good of Bajor to political expediency. She had been the safe choice, the moderate one, the one that the Chamber of Ministers had been willing to approve.
Now the ball has changed direction, and the move that could decide the game is mine…if I’m nimble enough.
Rena
The relentless rattle of the rain on the corrugated metal roof smothered the sounds inside the rest-and-sip. Rena observed customers scrape their stool legs along the rock floor, saw an open mouth cheer after a triumphant round of shafa,winced as a glass slid off a waiter’s tilted tray and shattered on the ground; she heard little of it. Only the storm.
She nestled into the notch at the back of the corner booth, for the moment content to be an observer instead of a participant in the surrounding cacophony. If circumstances required her attention, she would know it. Hadn’t Vedek Triu said, only a few days ago, that her path would be revealed as she walked it? Prophets willing, Triu’s advice had been inspired and Rena’s presence in this place had a purpose. In this moment, Rena wasn’t sure what that purpose was; she doubted the answers to Topa’s mysteries were hidden in the smoky half-light of a rest-and-sip. But Rena had to believe that if she allowed herself to learn from all possibilities she would find her path.
Her meditations, unfortunately, had been little help in that regard, and that troubled her. Restlessness was an alien state of mind for her and she wasn’t sure how to cope. Typically, Rena could linger for long hours over minute details from the subtle gradations of color in the throat of a climbing lanaflower to the patterns on a beetle’s back. She enjoyed being allowed to float atop the surface of her life, propelled by the currents of chance.
But not today. Not yesterday, either, now that she considered it, or rarely since she’d returned from university. Easygoing Rena must have stayed behind in the Dahkur Institute of Art while Compulsively Responsible Rena had returned home. I have promises to keep,she thought. I have kept the first by going to the Kenda Shrine to honor Topa. I need to return to Mylea to keep the others.Circumstances, however, appeared to be conspiring to prevent her from attending to her duty.
Late that morning, an unexpected cloudburst had unleashed mudslides, forcing a temporary shutdown of the River Way, an ancient road that bisected Kendra Province, starting in the northernmost peninsula, then paralleling the Yolja River to the sea. Rangers had escorted all southern-bound travelers—including Rena—into the neighboring villages to wait until the repair crews had done their work. A rapid rise in the river necessitated that all water traffic stop as well. With Mylea still more than thirty tessijens away, Rena had no choice but to wait out the storm.
Time had slipped by. She’d eaten a hot plate of batter-dipped tetrafin, caught up on the local gossip, and taken a short nap. Now, the sweltering sourness of many bodies being squeezed into a smallish space for long hours combined with deep-fried fish stink saturated the air, while the lethargic orange-gray beams creeping through the windows warned of the aging day. What had been tolerable at midday had grown tiresome. Instead of enjoying the respite from her journeying, Rena struggled to keep frustration in check. Not that she was eager to assume the responsibilities waiting for her at home; more like she had better ways to spend her time than alone, eating bad food in a middle-of-nowhere dive as a veritable hostage of an overeager public servant who worried about a little mud.
She scanned the crowd, searching for Sala’s distinctive curly red hair, but couldn’t find him. This many customers must be keeping him running, she thought. Draining the dregs from her mug, she signaled Vess, a waiter she remembered from her stop here a week ago, to bring her another. She listened to the rain, seeking a sign of when it might pass, but the storm gave no indication that it had exhausted its pent-up energy. Vess swung by, sending her drink spinning off his tray onto her table, leaving behind a trail of foam until the mug slowed to a stop in front of her. She gulped the ale without fanfare, then picked through a bowl of breadsticks until she found one that seemed less stale than the others. The warm brightness of the alcohol gradually softened her frustration, and she decided she might as well settle in. She might be drunk in another hour, but intoxication might make being stuck more bearable.
Rena swung her feet up onto the bench and leaned back so she was flush against the wall, her bedroll cushioning the small of her back. She reached into her knapsack, searching for her sketchbook. One of her peers at the university had tried converting her to a paddlike sketch unit that could be used with a programmable stylus capable of mimicking brushstrokes, re-creating the texture of charcoal or chalk—even reproducing the drip patterns of ink. The technology was fun, but Rena hadn’t been convinced: too much work to learn a new way when the old way sufficed. Besides, she liked the feel of the pebbled parchment beneath her palm, how colored pigment stained her fingernails, reminding her of what colors she’s used last.