Chapter Text
A most glorious dawn peaked through the windows of his home in the hills away from town. The pink clouds looked like trees and feathers today. Yellow sky. Dark gold grass in the light. The Occupation and Dominion War had killed the forests here of his childhood. But the meadow had its own beauty. If he focused, he could remember the dense trees. Breathe deep the dewy air. Chores could wait. He settled on the warm flat boulders in front of his home. The music in his head was far more demanding.
It was bright morning at the edge the green meadow arrived the figures of two travelers, leaving town, walking along the stone-paved road, mindful to not crush the purple-and-orange Resurrection flowers which sprung up between the stones. This wasn’t a good day for visitors, whether students or townspeople or, May The Prophets Forbid It, someone wanting to drag him back into public scrutiny. His past work as a political agitator always threatened to overshadow his current work as a preservationist.
Oh thank the Prophets, off-worlders; a nuisance but far more tolerable than the people from town. They didn’t visit often, but when they did, they were interesting. He continued composing.
They were now at the foot of his hill. A Vulcan and a Klingon. That’s what they were, right? He knew both species only through colleagues or in-passing at conferences. Weren’t they like opposites? What made these two come together? He stopped and called down to them:
“This is an old house without a central computer. I hope you know Bajoran.”
No response; they just kept walking. The music in his head would not wait.
They stopped a respectful distance away from his boulder: a Klingon for certain, dark hair loosely pulled back with a trimmed beard and mustache, sleeves were just to the elbows, displaying a fractal scar spreading like tree branches on his right; and a Vulcan, hair wavy instead of straight like grass, odd blue eyes, and similar sleeve style. They looked like they had slept in their clothes for days. The Vulcan retrieved a little black box from his satchel and pressed a button.
“This is a translator. If you can understand, please say ‘yes.’”
Ah, very clever. He set down his flute and stood to greet them. “Yes. You are...Vudic?”
“Master Artist Vudic Jalal, yes. My colleague, Doh’Val, House Nakarmi. We corresponded regarding Musician 52366.”
Now he remembered those names. The Vulcan had contacted him but never followed up...had it already been a year? He assumed that some other project had come up. His good eye scanned them. Both were using strips of cloth as belts for their trousers. They had the look of two people whose travels had been hard and left them hungry. What had happened? “Please, come inside."
“Thank you.”
What were they expecting—of course. Their whole reason for seeking him out slowly emerged from his memory. “I hope you came for my opinion and not to extract some confession that I am Musician 52366.” He collected his materials, smirking at them. “You and ten others.”
Not a flinch. “The trip from the space station alone provided sufficient time to discuss and eliminate that possibility, however appealing. We traveled from our respective homeworlds.” They were young, but they appeared to bear an existential fatigue. Their souls were weary.
“Have you eaten?” He opened the door wide so they’d know to follow him; he hadn’t the slightest idea what either species ate.
“Yes. Water, if you please.”
To his confusion, both began taking off their shoes as soon as they stepped in only to hesitate and look to him for some etiquette. “Keep your shoes,” he directed, finding himself feeling awkward too.
He brought them to a padded bench in the front room where they both sat with all the courtesy of two diplomats meeting a powerful member of the government. The Klingon, Doh’Val, finally spoke up. “I am deeply grateful for your time, Master Seu. Please know that I am here representing only myself and no one else.”
Their host nearly dropped his metal cups over the basin nearby at the sound of that voice. “Oh, ah, no need to be formal. Call me Minjaral.” It was beautiful, deep and rich, the kind of voice that could make your ribs rattle, a stark contrast to the other’s silvery voice. He was now eager to hear them sing, assuming they could. “I still do not understand why you could not send me the recordings first.” He looked over his shoulder at them wit his good eye. “I will not turn you away. But I do not understand your logic.”
Even the way he rubbed his temple was heavy with fatigue. “We had expected a much shorter journey when we began.”
These poor souls. He handed off the water to his guests. “Where would you like to begin?” He turned to the massive gray tower, high as his head, and keyed in his startup code. The lights all up and down the tower blinked as it went through the system check, chirping and singing. It had been hacked together from scrapped parts, but it worked well enough.
“Our most recent finding first and foremost, followed by the recordings you described. We came by this recording in our journey to Bajor. You can access it here.” He tapped a button on the small translator box, waiting for the computer to recognize and access the file. “We were curious as to why Musician 52366 has never been studied or investigated. The people we met who knew of this person’s work always expressed fascination but never a desire for study.”
A chortle left Minjaral’s mouth. Oh no, they were serious. Should he tell them?
They said nothing but leaned toward him with very, very serious concern. They’d be furious.
He couldn’t stop grinning despite his best efforts. Did Vulcans ever get angry? Maybe this would do it. He glanced at the front door, making sure it was still open in case he needed to escape. “I tell you this as a friend. In this sector, Musician 52366 is a joke. Hmm, a prank?” He almost wished one of his friends could be here to see this. It was terrible and it was hilarious. “Musician 52366 cannot be real.”
No anger yet. “Come again?” asked Doh’Val, rightfully incredulous.
They must be fairly young to to run after ghosts like this. Probably some ambition to make their mark on the galaxy and find everlasting glory. “Recordings that appear seemingly out of nowhere, no way to verify species let alone anything about the individual—musically, each recording is the perfect puzzle for any academic. In fact, there is so much variation that it is impossible for them to originate from a single person. Many were verified to come from older sources—recordings that were once popular and then suddenly forgotten.”
Vudic touched his colleague’s arm, a gesture to stop the Klingon from flying into a rage which seemed increasingly likely. The Vulcan remained calm and courteous. “Regardless of what your colleagues believe, your opinion on this recording is important.”
“Please, understand. Since the recordings emerged, it has been become a custom at conferences in our sector to accuse friends and colleagues of being Musician 52366. One of the conferences held on Bajor even made a tradition every year of electing one of the attendees to the office of Musician 52366.” The computer tower had already found the file. A blue light indicated the file was ready to play.
“That is a fascinating conversation for another time. First, please hear what we have brought you.”
“When the recordings first emerged, I was equally fascinated. I was even convinced that a friend of mine had been behind—”
“Yes, I have no doubt that you have quite a number of fascinating and unique perspectives.” His voice cut like a laser. “But we did not spend one year traveling to your home, bearing great personal danger and financial risk, for drinking water and condescension. Both are widely available and bountiful on our homeworlds.” Disdain flashed for a moment across his eyes. “Play the recording we have brought you.”
Impatient chirping from the computer. This was a stand-off. These men. They show up on his doorstep, they come into his house, and they expect him to help them chase phantoms. For now, he will humor them. He looked to his open front door as he tapped a button to play.
Minjaral took a seat across from them and gave the recording its due. Bajoran scale. Instrument with keys, Bajoran tuning. Bajoran folk song, one of the most ubiquitous ones. Singing but not in Bajoran. Something else, familiar but on the tip of his tongue. But there was time still to disappoint his guests. This could very well be a dialect from one of the colonies or just a far older form of Bajoran.
The music suddenly stopped, interrupted by a voice. Someone speaking harshly far from the microphone. A second speaker; the voice of whoever had been singing. Same language as the song. Concrete evidence of a real person behind one of these recordings. Now he was interested.
The recording stopped. At last, something real. They had done what no one else had. It was like the first time he saw the Emissary; something he’d never quite believed in was staring him in the face. “Tell me your plans.”
“Simple. We find Musician 52366 and invite them to perform for colleagues on our respective homeworlds.”
Doh’Val added with pride, “Klingons, despite our military’s brashness, are a very sophisticated people. Musician 52366 could contribute a great deal to our musical traditions.”
He detected that a very bombastic speech was about to come, probably about the glory of the Klingon Empire and whatever other cultish devotion to the state that Klingons passed off as patriotism. He always wondered why Cardassia never found an ally in them; perhaps for the same reason that two people who were too similar couldn’t live together. “Are you so certain that this is what they want?”
“We considered the possibility,” assured Vudic. “But we believe that we can persuade them through logic and respect. Our arguments are quite sound.”
They were a very long way from home, and there was a lot about this sector they didn’t understand. “They may resist. They may have their reasons for being so secretive.” He went to the basin to refill his cup. “Do you even know the species?”
More meaningful expressions exchanged. “Do you?”
“At the end, the singer did not speak Kardasi or Bajoran. Something else entirely. Without further analysis, I cannot give my opinion.” He grabbed his guests’ cups to refresh them. “Thus, Musician 52366 may be hiding in the Alpha Quadrant. There is fear, corruption, and crime so close to the Cardassian Neutral Zones. We are a long way from the Federation’s protection.”
Doh’Val waved away the possibility. “I have contacts on my planet. I can persuade them to offer protection to such an accomplished person. There is no reason to hide any longer.”
Their lack of understanding was becoming insufferable. And there was now something deeper he sensed that was burrowing under his skin. His eyes narrowed as he set down their cups. “Why are you so interested in this person?” He mimicked the authoritative tone he learned from Cardassian officers as a child. “You want something from them.”
The energy in the room changed. He saw vulnerability in their faces. Oh no, this was too much. They were about to show him their souls. He wasn’t ready to do the same in return. Not now, please. Any day but today.
“Minjaral,” said Vudic quietly. “We come from—” he paused, careful with his words. “Great societies. This is not a judgment of other worlds. Qo’nos and Vulcan are highly advanced. However—”
The other cut in. “Stop, please. Let me tell him the truth.”
“Doh’Val, I am telling him the truth.”
“What you are telling him are your reasons. This man deserves to hear mine as well.”
Well, now they had better start explaining themselves quickly. Doh’Val continued, “If we cannot find the Musician, I need you to come back to my homeworld. A brief introduction. The patronage of my entire family hangs on what I bring back. Coming back empty-handed means I lose everything. I live the rest of my days in exile." His deep voice cracked into a high note at the end as he said, "This trip must be successful.”
He remembered this all too well in stories about what Bajor had been like before the Occupation. He also remembered how much he had relied on the kindness of others to have anything to his name for a very long time. Minjaral took a deep breath.“I...understand.” He couldn’t make eye contact. “Before I acquired this house, I relied on patronage for basic shelter and food.” So many years, and his heart was still so soft when it came to young musicians asking for help. “Whatever you need, I will help you.”
“I understand that what we say may appear alarmist, even illogical. Understand that we are both hybrid like you. And what what we see is thus: our cultures are stagnating. Vulcan and the Empire cannot revert to their more primitive natures, and stagnation is the first sign of regression,” added Vudic. “The thought is untenable. These are our first steps. But we cannot attain our mutual goals without helping each other.”
He often worried for the soul of Bajor; was it a soul that would accept him as one of its children? And these lost people, also unsure of where they belonged in their own cultures. They came from different places, but all three shared the burden of being ill-fitting pieces in the great machinery of their homes.
His gaze turned to the open door. A beautiful day. He hadn’t planned on starting his day in this manner. Minjaral had so much work to do. He will do none of it today and instead care for these travelers. “Wherever you are staying in the town, leave it and stay with me. You need to rest.”
A deep crease formed across Vudic’s brow. “Your offer is unnecessary. We are well accommodated.”
“It is necessary. We have a great deal to discuss, and it is right that I care for you. And more importantly.” He stood up, gesturing for them to follow him to the guest rooms. “Neither of you asked me about my left eye or the scar on my face. So, both of you are tolerable enough.”