The curator from the Bajoran Ministry of Art, one who had known Ziyal, designed the exhibit. Recessed lighting had already been installed, canvases stretched, and several holoprojectors installed to display representations of works lost in the war. The curator had used blue and red-tinted spotlights to bring added drama to Ziyal’s stark, jagged charcoal lines, to illuminate the multilayered oil paint dabs, roughened by bold brush strokes. She had drawn from both sides of her heritage to create thematically challenging pieces: some of her paintings dripped with the violent blood-reds and slate gray tones of war, while others conveyed the serenity of spirituality through water and nature. Kira wondered how Garak, with whom Ziyal had somehow forged a special connection during her time on the station, would feel when he learned to what purpose his old space was now being put. She thought he would approve.
After a fashion, Ziyal symbolized a trying time for those station residents who lived through the Dominion War Occupation, reminding some of Dukat, others of Vedek Yassim’s suicide. For others, Ziyal recalled a darker era, an era when Bajoran women were slaves to Cardassian soldiers. Because Kira loved Ziyal, she didn’t want her memory dishonored in any fashion. On Bajor, where fewer individuals had personal associations with her, people would be more inclined to find hope and insight from her story than to resent it.
Public access to the exhibit wouldn’t begin for a couple of days; if casual talk between staff working in ops represented a cross sampling of the station’s opinions, the admission lines would be long. All those who had been privileged to see Lang’s presentation at the reception had openly conveyed their enthusiasm for the Ziyal project.
With the ever-vigilant presence of Militia security hovering outside, Kira and Macet strolled around the various artworks, making simplistic comments about the personalities of the pieces and saying little else until they gravitated to the center of the gallery, where the curator had placed a bench. Macet sat down, facing a floor-to-ceiling canvas—an abstract cubist-style oil painting entitled Gallitep—and threw his legs out in front of him. In counterpoint, Kira sat beside, but apart from Macet, facing the opposite wall where a more modest, pencil drawing—warm chalks on black paper—called Motherhung. Pale blue lights, the room’s sole illumination, shrouded Ziyal’s artwork—as well as its two viewers.
“Have the talks always been as contentious as they were today?” Kira asked, still dismayed by the stubborn posturing she’d observed.
“Minister Asarem has always been eloquent,” Macet answered, “but her pleasant manners fail to mask the rigid, almost provocative positions she’s taken.”
Kira shook her head, allowing her eyes to meander over the pale colors puddled on the canvas in front of her. “I had no idea how stuck both of the delegations were,” she said. “I sincerely believed that our people could find at least a place to start, but it doesn’t appear that either side can agree on even that. If you can’t find consensus on humanitarian issues, I don’t know how much hope we can hold out for normalized relations.”
“This, I believe, is where you come in, Colonel,” Macet said gently. “You need to be our intermediary.”
“Me?” Kira said. Keeping her back to Macet, she walked over to a painting that hadn’t been hung yet. Crouching down, she tried losing herself in an analysis of the geometric forms, but Macet’s absurd suggestion intruded on her thoughts. Asarem had hardly been subtle in hiding her dislike for Kira; Shakaar didn’t mind using her as a social liaison with the Cardassians, but had reservations about her assuming a larger role, if she’d correctly read his behavior at the reception. Admiral Akaar didn’t have a say, yet—this was still a matter between the Bajoran and Cardassian governments, not the Federation. Macet must be delusional. “What exactly do you see me doing?”
“You are the one to put the talks on a successful path,” Macet explained. “Even with your own people, you’ve handled more difficult scenarios.”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, Gul Macet, but obviously you have outdated notions about how much my opinion matters around here. Maybe once upon a time…Right now, I serve in a quasi-military but primarily administrative capacity. The replicator in your quarters isn’t working? Call me. I have an in with the acting engineering chief. Anything requiring politicking, influence peddling or persuasion? I’m more or less useless.”
He chuckled. “I’m beginning to see why, at least on some level, you and Gul Dukat were fated to hate each other. As much as he saw the universe circumnavigating him, you’re just the opposite.”
Kira stiffened. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I didn’t have better reasons to hate him, Macet.”
“My apologies, Colonel. I only meant that you seem unexpectedly—humble—for someone of your accomplishments. I noticed this at the reception. How can you not appreciate your own magnitude, even among the formidable figures assembled on Deep Space 9 right now?”
“I don’t think you understand what an Attainder means among my people.”
“Actually I do. Quite well. I spent this afternoon reading up on it. After Vedek Nolan told me what to look for,” Macet said. “I accept that your present status imposes a separation of sorts between you and your people, but that doesn’t negate who you are.”
Kira stood up and turned to face him, arms folded, only to find that Macet was no longer studying the oil painting, but watching Kira intently. “What exactly do youknow about who I am?”
“Of all the people on the station, you have the unique position as one who has earned the respect of Bajorans, Cardassians, the Federation, even the Romulans and the Klingons,” Macet explained patiently. “You’ve worn the uniforms of both the Bajoran Militia and Starfleet. And you’ve succeeded Captain Sisko as commander of one of the most critical outposts in the Alpha Quadrant. Now a Starfleet officer serves as yoursecond in command. To my knowledge, it’s unprecedented.”
Kira studied Macet, looking for proof that he might be lulling her into letting her guard down. “All these things are true, but you’re neglecting to mention that each one of these items predated my being declared persona non grata.” Kira had her own version of the truth to offer. “I retain command of this station because Shakaar can’t risk looking provincial while he’s trying to win the favor of Councillor zh’Thane and Admiral Akaar. Dismiss me and he has to explain to the Federation why a perfectly qualified officer is dismissed on religious grounds unrelated to command duties. Those who I count as my friends in Starfleet are either in the Gamma Quadrant, on Earth, or with the Prophets. And I’m fairly certain that Minister Asarem would like nothing more than to shove me out the nearest airlock.”
Macet tossed his head back and laughed heartily. “You sound not unlike the precocious, brilliant student whose cleverness has left him working off demerits after school, never mind that you’re graduating first in your class.”
“You’re overstating my influence in the circles of power,” Kira said.
“And you are obviously not the best judge of your capabilities. I’m sure most would see you as a true daughter of the Prophets,” Macet pronounced solemnly.
“You have a helluva a lot of nerve talking about what makes a true daughter of the Prophets,” she said sharply, refusing to be bought off by Macet’s lofty rhetoric. “If anyone thinks that the resemblances between you and Dukat end at appearance, make sure they’re informed otherwise. Flattery won’t negate the reality of my situation.”
Macet met her gaze. “It isn’t flattery, it’s truth. And it’s why Ambassador Lang, and I, speaking on her behalf, are asking you to use your influence to help us broker peace.”