Rena mentally calculated how long it would take her to reach Mylea after the bridge, especially without the barges to take them out and around the peninsula, then into Mylea Harbor. She didn’t care. She’d walk until she collapsed on the bakery’s front step. She raced down the roadway to the bridge, her legs nearly running away with her. The rushing river waters called to her, urged her forward…
“Rena!” Jacob shouted.
She almost didn’t see the collapsed bank in time to stop her from running off the ledge. Only Jacob, who had approached this last stretch before the Yolja with more caution than she had, had seen how the ground where the bridge joined the land had given way. As she stuttered to a halt, she tripped over a fallen tree branch and fell forward onto her face. The force of her fall split open her knapsack, spilling the contents, including her precious sketchbook, into a muddy puddle.
Her sketchbook. The only part of her university life she’d brought home with her. Her canvases, her paintings—all of them had remained behind in the student studio when she left school to return to Mylea. She left believing she would never see those artworks again, that symbolically, she needed to leave them behind if she were to truly embrace the path she was destined for. The only memory she allowed herself to keep was her sketchbook. Now she watched the dirty water soak the pages through, irrevocably destroying months of charcoal, pastel, and pencil memories. She beat her fists against the ground, teeth clenched. Though she felt that remaining in her prostrate position fit her circumstances, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, pulled her legs up into a kneeling position, finally righting herself by the time Jacob reached her. Tersely, she brushed aside his offers of assistance, ignoring the smarting cuts and bruises on her knees and forearms as she paced.
Cursing, she screamed at the sky, screaming as if she believed that the Prophets themselves could hear her, demandingthey hear her. “I’m doing what you asked! I walked away from my life to follow the path laid out for me! Do you hear me?”She stamped her foot angrily, her hands balled into fists. “If I am submitting to all the demands placed on me—all of them!—why can’t you make it easier? Do you hear me, dammit?! Answer me! Send your Emissary or your Tears, but answer me!” Rena continued screaming her diatribe until she was hoarse, her throat sore from exertion. The storm’s tempo picked up, and soon she was soaked through.
Throughout her display of temper, Jacob had stood off to the side, leaning against a road marker and respectfully averting his eyes from Rena. Abruptly, he took a few long steps forward, pointing at the river. “There’s something out there—I can see the light on the bow.”
“They’ll never see us through this storm,” Rena said, coughing. Heavy with discouragement, miserable from cold, she could see no way out of their predicament; she plopped to the ground, prepared to spend the night in the downpour.
Not to be dissuaded by her negativity, Jacob unfastened a pocket on his gear bag, fished around, and removed a wristband with a small circular object mounted on top where a chrono face would be. He thumbed a switch and a brilliant light beam burst out of the side. Holding the light before him like a signal beacon, he ran down as close as he could to the riverbank, trying to draw the attention of the boat. Minutes passed. Then: “It’s changing course! Rena! You can go home!” He let loose a loud whoop of joy.
In spite of all that had gone wrong, Rena couldn’t help smiling. Steward, indeed.
Girani
As she marched toward the examination room, Dr. Girani Semna suspected that one thing she wouldn’t miss about working in Deep Space 9’s infirmary was all the Cardassian instrumentality. Most of the medical staff had grown accustomed to it over the years, herself included. Her patients—the Bajorans, particularly—were another matter. They tended to become uncomfortable in this place, beyond their natural aversion to going to see a doctor at all. Despite the fact that the entire station shared the same design elements and seemed no longer to trouble most of the residents, the infirmary made them particularly uneasy. All things considered, that was no surprise. This was, after all, where they felt the most vulnerable.
Her newest patient, she suspected, was going to be no exception.
“Commander Vaughn,” she said as she entered the exam room. “What an unexpected pleasure this is. How nice of you to drop by.”
Keeping his arms tightly folded over his exam tunic, Vaughn said, “Spare me the sarcasm, if you please, Doctor, and let’s get this over with. I have duties awaiting me.”
Girani snorted as she prepped a mobile standing console near the biobed. “Now, Commander, you’re not suggesting yourduties should interfere with the execution of mine, are you?”
Vaughn smiled at her appreciatively, and she knew she’d scored a hit. “Where would you like to begin?”
“The usual way. Just lie back on the biobed and breathe normally while the medical scanners take a read.”
Vaughn complied. Girani keyed the exam program to commence, and the ceiling-mounted diagnostic array hummed to life. A narrow stripe of blue light slowly crept back and forth over Vaughn’s body. While he lay staring up at the array, he said, “I understand you’re leaving us.”
“That’s right.”
“If it isn’t too forward of me…may I ask why?”
Girani shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time. And with the station becoming all-Starfleet, it seemed like a good time to make a clean break.”
“Have you considered staying aboard—joining Starfleet?” Vaughn asked. “I know you’ve been an asset to the station since before I joined the crew. Everyone here thinks very highly of you, especially Dr. Bashir. Your application would likely sail through.”
Girani blinked. This was the last thing she expected. “That’s kind of you to say, Commander,” she told him.
“Is it something you’d be open to?”
Girani hesitated. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way…but joining Starfleet simply doesn’t interest me. I find my service in the Militia very fulfilling, and I want to continue it. I can still do that on Bajor. Besides, with so many of my people switching over as it is, the Militia needs experienced officers now more than ever.”
A frown crossed the commander’s features. “Does it concern you? The migration of so many Militia personnel?”
“Concern me?” Girani shook her head. “No, it’s the logical evolution of Bajor’s relationship to the Federation. It only stands to reason that some Bajorans will welcome the opportunity to serve in Starfleet, while others choose to stay with the home guard. Both are important to Bajor, after all.”
Vaughn seemed to appreciate hearing her take on the subject. She wondered if he was encountering some bitterness about the changeover down on the planet.
Girani began to check the current scans against Vaughn’s medical file, displayed on a nearby monitor. “Oh, before I forget…happy birthday, Commander.”
Vaughn closed his eyes, leading Girani to suspect the topic was unwelcome. Oh, well….
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s only fair to tell you that I stopped celebrating my birthday about forty years ago.”
“Really?” Girani said, genuinely surprised. “That seems like a waste. Not even your hundredth?”
Vaughn shrugged. “It’s just a number. Besides, where I was that day, another birthday was the last thing on my mind.”