Shakaar waved her out the door, and as he had said, Minister Asarem had arrived for her meeting. An unspoken greeting passed between the women. Kira hoped that in the future, likely after the talks had wrapped up, she could get to know Asarem as the well intentioned woman Kira knew she must be. Until then, politeness would have to suffice.
Later in the day, when word came from Macet that Minister Asarem’s office had proposed resuming talks the following morning, Kira exulted. To celebrate, she left ops early, planning on rewarding herself with an hour at the spa for a mineral soak. It pleased her to walk through the Promenade, now bustling with normal activity. Particularly gratifying was seeing the long lines waiting for admission to the grand opening of the Ziyal exhibit. For the first time since the Cardassians’ arrival, Kira felt hopeful.
Once she arrived back in her quarters, she opened up her next day’s schedule and cleared out a block of time where she could sit in on the talks. Not so she could gloat, or take credit for helping to break through a seemingly insurmountable barrier. Kira wanted to be there so she could one day tell her grandchildren about how she witnessed the day when Cardassia and Bajor began forging a fragile peace.
As a man of action, waiting was never Quark’s strength. Under circumstances such as these, he failed to understand why he, Chairman of the Promenade Merchants’ Association, wouldn’t be given due deference, VIP admission, a priority position. One of the downfalls of Federation philosophy that Bajor was so hot on embracing was the misguided notion that social status should, for the most part, be irrelevant. Otherwise, he’d be at the front of the line instead of waiting with all the other plebeians to see the exhibit.
And who decided notto charge admission? Talk about a missed opportunity. Maybe he could come up with a promotional tie-in for the bar. Hmmmmm…
On the plus side, the longer he waited, the more time he had to spend with Laren. She wasn’t in a terribly talkative mood tonight, not like he could blame her after breaking up a midnight riot and subsequently having little or no sleep. She seemed content to watch the people in line instead of gazing at him. He needed to fix that.
“Um, Laren?”
“Yeah, Quark?”
“Thanks again for getting everything paid for. There was no way I was going to ask Rom to float me a loan while I argued with the colonel.” Gratitude, real or feigned, tended to grease the conversational wheels.
“It didn’t take much convincing. I think part of her regrets the way she treated you that night at the reception. But paying the repair bills for the fracas is as close to an apology as you’re likely to get.”
Quark held up his hands. “I’m not complaining. As nonapologies go, I could do worse.”
“Expecting coverage for the yarmoksauce was pushing it, though.”
“A Ferengi can try. The 10th Rule of Acquisition: Greed is eternal.I wouldn’t be me without it.” He grinned amiably. “So you got me the latinum. You have any pull with making this line move?”
“You complain about waiting again, I’m going home.”
“Right, right,” Quark said quickly. No need to make his tired and cranky companion more tired and cranky.
The line trudged forward a few steps, brushing against the line ropes as another group was admitted to the exhibit. A pile of program cards outlining the exhibit’s contents sat in a stack. Ro removed one and began reading while they walked.
When they stopped again, Ro turned to Quark and studied him thoughtfully. “You knew Ziyal, didn’t you? Who was she?”
In his mind, Quark conjured up a picture of the wide-eyed child-woman. He wasn’t one to be sentimental about much—life and death happened in the course of business—but Ziyal had a genuine sweetness that couldn’t help but touch you. “She was a good kid. Really. Good isn’t generally a word I use to describe Cardassians—ruthless, cold, predatory, devious—all qualities I can appreciate, to be sure—but good? Except Natima, and you already know she’s amazing. But, Ziyal. She was special. Never could figure out how a bastard like Dukat popped off a kid like her.” Quark tskedas he thought of the former prefect.
“What do you remember most?” Ro asked.
“She called me ‘Sir’ or ‘Quark,’ instead of ‘Hey you, Ferengi,’ like most Cardassians. She’d sit on her stool, talking with Jake or the colonel—even drink root beer with him—and they’d yammer on about holovids and games and such.” Had it only been a few years since she died? It felt like another lifetime when all of them had been together on the station…Jadzia, Odo, Rom, Leeta, O’Brien, Captain Sisko, Jake, and…Quark stopped. No, Ziyal had her weakness. “The only thing she did that didn’t make much sense was falling for Garak. If Ziyal was good, Garak was just wrong. You could never really trust him, except to be himself, and that was the problem, because no one ever really figured him out.”
Ro nodded. “I’ve learned a lot about Garak since coming to the station.”
Quark grunted. I can only imagine. Odo must have kept quite a file on Garak. But Garak never got to Ziyal. No, I think she got to him.Ro continued looking at him expectantly, probably waiting for him to expound further on Garak. He shrugged. “I think Ziyal’s death changed Garak. Who knows? Maybe that’s what finally snapped whatever loyalties he still had to the old Cardassia. You just never knew with him.”
Their group reached the entrance. A security officer scanned their retinas and then waved a tricorder over them, searching for weapons. Satisfied with the results, he waved them in.
The guests wound past a wall screen scrolling through an official welcome from the Bajoran government. Whatever chatter had been underway when guests entered dissolved promptly when they were presented with the first painting. A deferential hush filled the room, more like at a place of worship than an art exhibit. Even Quark, who prided himself on being a connoisseur of any and all valuable art commodities from the famous and infamous, found himself lacking any words to describe what he felt.
Suspended from the ceiling was an oil painting on matte black canvas. Monochromatic tints and shades in juxtaposed violent and graceful brush strokes carved the one-dimensional surface as surely as a sculptor’s chisel would stone. A straight-on perspective of a face dominated the center, with two sharply geometric side profiles adjoining the central face at unwieldy angles. Surrounded with tempestuous swirls of gray and whites, shiny black triangles, presumably hair, sprayed out in wakes behind the heads.
Ro had immersed herself in reading the biographical texts scrolling across the monitors lining the walls, but Quark remained fixed in front of the painting, pondering. He grabbed Ro by the elbow.
“What?” she said, puzzled.
“Look.” He nudged his head toward the painting.
“I did.”
“No, look.That’s the answer to your question. Who is Ziyal. Look.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Quark while the other guests milled about, Ro contemplated the painting. Quark watched her eyes following the eruptions of color, the soothing organic forms mingled with the stark triangles and squares. Nodding her head almost imperceptibly, she leaned closer into Quark and gave his hand a tight squeeze.
They stood together until another guest, hoping to obtain a better view, asked them to move along.
Her step buoyant, Kira passed through the security checkpoint, headed down a hallway and turned a corner… Wait a minute,she thought, puzzled. Ambassador Lang, Gul Macet and several of Lang’s aides huddled tightly together. The schedule indicated that the lunch break wasn’t due for another hour. Why would they be…unless…Tense with uncertainty, Kira strode toward the Cardassians. They parted when they recognized who was approaching.