“I remember looking up into her face and wanting to have my mother’s smooth skin. It looked so clean!” Ziyal whispered. “When I was very little, I tried scrubbing my face with the harshest cleaner, believing that I could wash this gray, this tint, from my skin. My mother had to mend all these scratches I’d given myself. Then she cried.”
Covertly, Kira glanced at those sitting in front of and beside her; eyes glistened and sober faces abounded, stonelike with melancholy. She felt some satisfaction. Finally, the grieving! And who cares if these are strangers. Ziyal deserved this!
“And the relief I felt when I saw people who looked more like me—like my father.” She gnawed her lip absently, contemplating what she would say next. “But I don’t think I looked enough like him to please his people either. In my art, it was all me. In my world—where I was every shade of gray—life made sense. I hope it can mean something to someone else, though who, I don’t know.”
The projection paused and the lights raised. Ambassador Lang, serene, assumed a place in the room’s center, the flags of many worlds hovering above her. Shoulders squared, she turned her gaze over the room’s perimeter; she spoke without notes. “In a less enlightened time, with the vision of Bajor’s kaiand the political wisdom of Vedek Antos Bareil, Bajor and Cardassia negotiated a peace treaty. Alas, we were unprepared to honor our promises,” she said, her voice tinged with regret. “We have a new opportunity in this postwar era to prove that we can be an honorable people. It’s for this purpose I’ve come to Deep Space 9—to seek a meaningful, lasting peace between our worlds.”
Deafening stillness overtook the stunned crowd. Kira knew everyone in the room, save perhaps the Cardassians, questioned the veracity of their understanding of Lang’s words. She blinked back her own surprise. Lang wants to normalize relations with Bajor. She’s here, asking that Bajor recognize Cardassia as a co-equal partner in this corner of the quadrant. Can it happen?
Lang continued. “But we understand why both the Federation and the people of Bajor might be skeptical. The leader of our provisional government, Alon Ghemor, believes we needed to offer a token of goodwill, to make a gesture that would both symbolize our hopes, and set the tone of our new relationship.”
A dozen Cardassians filed in from the side doors. Each carried a large, flat, draped object, all in various geometric shapes. They lined up behind Lang, and waited, perfectly still. Kira tingled expectantly, knowing better than anyone in the room what was about to be unveiled.
Lang walked down their line and one by one, removed the coverings, revealing framed and mounted drawings. Some exhibited abstract qualities offering no discernable subject but rather studies of color and line; others were monochromatic pencil and ink still-life drawings of native Bajoran flora. A notable exception was a cubist study, all in gray tints and shades that showed the discernable profiles of two faces, welded together at the picture’s center. But even the “face” painting and the unique personalities of the other pieces were unified by a consistent tone.
In a gallery covered wall to wall with a hundred artists’ work, Kira would have recognized these pieces. Was this, then, where Ziyal’s pagh now resided?
Waiting for the buzz of comments to simmer down, Lang resumed speaking. “The final days of the war destroyed many of Cardassia’s monuments and historical treasures. Thankfully, the underground archives of the Cardassia Institute of Art in the capitol city survived the worst of the attacks. The head of our government devoted some resources to finding what could be salvaged from the Institute in the hopes that any surviving artwork might reignite a sense of Cardassian identity—that my people could heal not only their bodies, but their minds. Holocaust, by definition, goes far beyond physical parameters, something my people have now learned.
“During our search, we discovered an archive in which the work of Tora Ziyal, daughter of Tora Naprem, a Bajoran woman, and Skrain Dukat of the Cardassian military, had survived. You see its contents here—her introductory holovid, her art portfolio. Understandably, it struck a chord with those seeking a different sort of healing—those who feel that the gaping wounds between Bajor and Cardassia must be healed before either of our peoples can move forward, Bajor into the Federation and Cardassia into wholeness.”
Shakaar leaped to his feet with applause. Less speedily, Minister Asarem joined him with the entire Bajoran delegation following suit. Kira scanned their faces, noting some discomfort but recognizing their reluctance to appear to be questioning Shakaar’s enthusiasm. Kira stood, though in her heart she stood for Ziyal. Gradually, other members of the audience continued the ovation, the Starfleet personnel being the first to stand behind Bajor’s gesture, with the Federation diplomats following almost immediately.
Smiling, Lang raised both of her hands and brought palms downward, asking for her audience to be seated. She continued speaking. “Symbolically, Ziyal embodies both the horrors of the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor, how women were taken from their homes and made to serve the military as concubines, and the possible glories that can come from a true alliance of our peoples. Our worlds cancome together and create something beautiful. We see this in Ziyal’s art.
“As a token of goodwill and a symbol of hope for the future, the people of Cardassia are giving a collection of Tora Ziyal’s artwork to the people of Bajor to serve as memorial honoring the past, but recognizing the potential future we might find if we can find a way to see past our differences.”
Another round of applause erupted, even louder than before. By now, the back walls were lined with Quark’s servers and on-duty Militia and Starfleet personnel, crammed into every corner not filled with chairs, banquet tables, or bodies. Cheers rang over the steady clatter of applause. Lang nodded humbly, threading a trembling arm through her aide’s proffered elbow.
Admiral Akaar nudged Kira, urging her out of her chair. She staggered up, her energy spent on emotion; she leaned against the table for support. The towering admiral bent down and asked her to accompany him to see Ambassador Lang. Kira followed, barely able to keep up with the admiral’s strides that were nearly twice the length of hers. Standing in the circle around Lang, Kira fervently hoped she blended in; she had no desire to detract from Shakaar’s moment.
The first minister had taken the ambassador’s hand between his and had engaged her in an earnest conversation while Second Minister Asarem stood by. Kira recognized the fire in Shakaar’s face. He’s really excited about this.Standing less than a meter behind the admiral, Kira listened to the hopeful words being exchanged. When the conversation returned to Ziyal, she strained to hear Lang’s comments.
“Ziyal’s art, which embodies the traditions of both sides of her heritage,” she said, “is proof that we can be harmonious. We can find common ground. This dream she had—of belonging to both her people—can be realized by us.”
“Inspiring, Ambassador,” Admiral Akaar said, shaking her hand again. “I must confess to being quite moved by your presentation. I hope this does indeed set in motion a new era of understanding.”
Lang nodded graciously, thanking Akaar. Then she turned her gaze on Kira. “Ah, Colonel. I was hoping we would speak after the presentation.” she said. “Were you pleased?”
“‘Pleased’isn’t the first word that comes to mind, Ambassador, but I’ll echo the Admiral’s sentiments: I was very moved,” Kira replied. “May I say that you’re the perfect choice for this job. Good luck.”
“First Minister Shakaar and I were just discussing beginning formal negotiations as quickly as possible. He has designated Minister Asarem to be Bajor’s representative. But I was hoping you also would sit in on some of the talks, Colonel. That would be acceptable by you, First Minister, wouldn’t it? Assuming it doesn’t interfere with the colonel’s command duties?”