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“Whatever you do, don’t press that button.”
The Romulan senator currently standing in the doorway of the barren quarters, her usual grandeur reduced to a sort of pale impersonation, raises a single slanted brow. “Why?”
“Because,” Kira replies, repressing the urge to grit her teeth, “doing so triggers a station-wide alarm and a lockdown protocol on all non-essential systems on this level, which can only be deactivated by high-level security codes you don't have access to. So I suggest you don’t press it - emergency use only.”
Cretak looks no more impressed. “And if I should find myself in an emergency?”
“Then you can press this one to call Security,” Kira answers. She points to a second button on the console by the door. “Or my quarters are just across the hall.”
“How cosy.”
“Since I made myself personally responsible for your safety during your stay, it seemed appropriate.”
“Of course.”
Kira takes the opportunity of the intermission to breathe – deeply. She’d been told by Julian at some point just after breakfast that she seemed rather like she’d got out of bed on the wrong side today, a description he quickly learned wasn’t appreciated. Kira Nerys has been getting out of bed on the wrong side as a professional tactic for at least a decade now. Given the circumstances, today could hardly have been an exception.
It isn’t all Senator Cretak’s fault. She’d like to say it was the damn Klingons and the news waking her up in the middle of the night that a small fleet of their birds of prey had decided to abandon strategy and make a wild push into a section of Dominion-controlled space not far from the station.
“How helpful of them,” she remarked, bleary-eyed at a conference table while Sisko tried to demand a retreat over subspace and Worf muttered something about I warned General Martok of their likelihood of acting with such rashness after the defeat over Rin Laika III.
And so the Romulan warbirds on temporary station at Deep Space 9 had sped off to rectify the situation with their crews’ typical levels of disgruntlement at being asked to do anything, in their wake leaving one exasperated Chief of Operations (“Half of our repair equipment was still on board! An’ not to mention the fact we’re already two days behind schedule on the Defiant.”) and one rather bemused member of the Romulan Senate (“It seems I must remain on Deep Space 9 for longer than I anticipated, Colonel.”).
She’d also like to blame some of it on Quark, who managed to exceed the Klingons in helpfulness this morning by loudly interrupting Kira and Sisko’s conversation with their abandoned senator about arrangements for her accommodation. It could be up to a week until there was an envoy free to transport her back to Romulus for the key Senate sitting at the end of the month. Quark wasn’t offering an insightful opinion on the unplanned Klingon offensive or what exactly might suit Cretak for quarters on DS9, of course – it was something to do with Odo, in other words nothing new and nothing Kira felt like hearing about on just three and a half hours of sleep.
She can recall with too much clarity how a nervous glance in the senator's direction at the time revealed an expression caught somewhere between disdain and disbelief, which hadn’t filled her with confidence. It seemed Cretak hadn’t got out of bed on the right side either – then again, she hadn’t got out of bed at all, since the departure of the ships that had brought her to DS9 also meant the departure of her quarters.
So it isn’t all Senator Cretak’s fault. It is slightly, for getting on Kira’s nerves with her constant sly judgment and sardonic praise of the station’s architectural qualities, which Kira only just refrained from pointing out was an issue to be taken up with the Cardassians, not her. It bothers her even more because they’d been working well together in the past weeks, at least compared to the Derna incident. She would’ve put it down to something like tepid respect or grudging admiration, and it suited them well. It suited the alliance well.
“I’ll leave you now,” she says, a little more stiffly than she intends. “Call if you need anything.”
Amusement twitches at the corner of Cretak’s mouth. Still not quite reassuring. “Call you?”
“Whoever you think is most appropriate,” Kira suggests. “But yes,” she adds a moment later, remembering what Sisko said about making sure that Cretak’s extended stay gives her nothing to complain about. “Call me if you have problems.” The senator brushes past her, carrying a single bag of personal belongings into the room still dimly lit and devoid of any décor beyond station standard furniture. Kira forgot what these quarters could be like. She almost considers pressing Cretak for requests, but decides against it. There’s a weariness in Cretak’s eyes that she recognises – the vulnerability of wounded creatures ready to gnash their teeth at whoever provokes them, no matter the intention.
Kira clears her throat. She’s been standing here for too long. “I’m sorry again, Senator. If we had the ships-”
“No need, Colonel,” Cretak interrupts. “It’s the Klingon fleet who owes an apology, not you. And I am sure they will be more than happy to offer one, upon their return.”
It’s hard to have her confidence, but Kira supposes Cretak does have a way of exacting exactly what she wants in every situation against all the odds – just not when it comes to Bajoran territory.
“I’ll see you later.”
Kira’s own room is warm and scented with prayer candles. A woven blanket from one of the northern provinces she received as a gift years ago lies across the arm of a chair.
She goes back to bed.
*
“Ezri, have you seen Senator Cretak anywhere?”
“Hm?”
“The senator – have you seen her?”
Ezri glances up, only just managing to catch her silken sunrise before the glass topples and spills all over Quark’s carefully scrubbed countertop. “Oh, she was somewhere around here. I saw her talking to Julian.”
“To Julian?” Kira’s not sure who she’s more afraid for. “Did she ask for me?”
“I don’t know,” Ezri replies with a small frown. “I only spoke to her to say hi. She seemed a bit…”
“Murderous?”
“Oh, I was going to say grouchy.”
It doesn’t bode well. The ligament in her right shoulder twinges when she turns to look around the bar. She tore it three days ago during her weekly springball practice. During practice. She remembers sitting there, on the ground like a small child tired to the point of tears, clutching her arm and willing herself not to make a sound. Julian fixed it in five minutes. He told her to go easy on yourself, and that made her want to be sick or smash a few bottles of kanar against the wall. He also told her to come back if she had any more pain, but she was fine.
“Do you like her?”
Kira nearly jumps out of her skin. “What? What did you say?”
“Do you like Senator Cretak?” Ezri asks. “Only I thought from what you said that you did like her, except now you don’t seem very happy that she’s staying on the station.”
“I like her,” Kira says shortly. “I’m tired.”
Ezri lets out one of her little laughs and Kira can’t help but wish she could just stay here, out of the firing line. “I can relate to that. Do you want me to come with you to find the senator?”
“No,” she sighs. “It’s better I deal with it. If she hasn’t eaten Julian alive by now.”
She hasn’t. To Kira’s surprise, she finds Cretak sitting opposite Julian in a corner of the bar with a look of amused interest on her face while Deep Space 9’s doctor talks, apparently unfazed by the presence of a member of the Romulan Senate an arm’s length away from him.
“Good evening, Colonel,” Cretak says before Kira has the chance to open her mouth, dark eyes sharp as ever. “I hope you had a chance to rest since I last saw you.”
That deserves a snort. “Around here? Not likely. I’ll sleep tonight. I hope-”
“Doctor Bashir has been telling me about his advancements in the field of ketrosel white,” Cretak interrupts. “It seems our Romulan scientists have some catching up to do.”
“Well, you know, I did have a head start,” Julian says hurriedly. He looks at Kira with a bit of a nervous glint in his eye, and she realises it’s her, all because of her. The thin veil, whatever it was formed upon, splintered and shattered the moment Cretak noticed she was there. “Speaking of which,” he continues, “I have a simulation running in the Infirmary that’ll be completed, in, oh- five minutes, so I’ll… leave you to it.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Kira tells him.
“Er… no,” he replies. “I think I’d better go.”
Kira makes a mental note to find Nurse Jabara later and ask her whether there really were any simulations scheduled to run as part of the station’s ketrosel white program this evening.
“You have a very interesting collection of individuals on your command team,” Senator Cretak remarks. “It seems Starfleet remains full of surprises, as ever.”
Taking Julian’s now-empty seat, Kira decides not to interrogate that statement too closely. She wonders whether the senator would be bothered if she finished Julian’s now-abandoned drink. It doesn’t matter that here on this station there is no such thing as waste, not in the traditional sense, and the piles of half-finished plates in the Replimat each mealtime escape all ethical judgement.
She won’t ever get used to it.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says.
“Not at all, Colonel. I know your time is of great value on this station. I’m aware of my good fortune in acquiring even moments of your company.”
Kira tries not to look too shocked. There’s nothing more foolish than letting a Romulan see that they’ve gotten under your skin. She orders her own drink from a harangued Quark and finishes Julian’s too, just to prove her point, and politely eats her share of Cretak’s plate of osol twists despite the fact they’re a little bit too bitter, even for her taste.
“I’m interested in hearing about your time serving in the Bajoran resistance,” Cretak says, leaning a little closer, the cuffs of her jacket shining silver in the light of decorative lanterns.
“Serving suggests we were an organised militia,” Kira replies.
“But you weren’t?”
“We were separated into self-arranged cells. It’s harder to counter a decentralised force.”
“And you were in the Shakaar cell, I believe.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done your research.”
“I was provided with detailed background information on all key Starfleet and Bajoran personnel upon the formation of the alliance,” Cretak explains. She states it so matter-of-factly, shoulders squared and mouth curved in a smile.
“Of course.”
“Though I must say, I found your file rather lacking, Colonel,” Cretak continues. “I won’t insult you by revealing the finer details, but its description of your character leaves much to be desired.”
“Oh?” Kira asks, brow raised.
“I will admit, Kira- may I call you that? I came to Deep Space 9 initially with quite specific expectations of you, for the most part based upon what I had read prior to our meeting. Expectations that – happily, I might add – were not met. I feel we have a great deal in common. We come from different worlds, perhaps-”
“In more ways than one.”
The senator concedes with a nod. “Different worlds, and yet I see myself in you often.” There’s something a little discomforting about the look in her eye as she speaks. “In more ways than one.”
“I wonder if that’s a compliment,” Kira remarks. She catches Quark’s attention from across the room and signals for another drink. The bar is over capacity and too warm tonight – she should remember to remind Quark about Sisko’s ruling that ventilation systems are not to be temporarily paused for the sake of gulling some extra beverage purchases out of heat-stricken patrons.
“Of course it is,” Cretak replies with a sharp sniff.
“Tell me, Senator – are Romulans usually this honest with each other?”
Cretak chuckles. “Hardly. But you, Kira, are no Romulan. I can indulge in a little veracity in your company.”
Kira can’t ignore the fact that Senator Cretak is suggesting something very like them being friends, which is odd enough just in theory. By all logic of the universe, Kira Nerys and Kimara Cretak should never have even met. But the Prophets had other plans.
“Can I be honest with you, then?” she asks Cretak suddenly, struck by a stranger thought.
“I would welcome it.”
“I don’t understand what it is about me that you seem to find so interesting.”
It’s at that moment that Quark comes by to deliver their drinks and immediately take advantage of Kira’s presence to start complaining about annoying customers, and when he’s gone Cretak only takes a sip from her glass (laced with a “special something” according to Quark that Kira assumes is Romulan ale, something that she should probably talk to Odo about) and asks Kira for her insight on the Dominion-Cardassian administration during its temporary occupation of Deep Space 9.
“I heard you began your own resistance cell on the station, while still serving under the Dominion forces,” Cretak says. “Your dedication to your principles, at least, can hardly be doubted.”
“Can’t it?” Kira can still remember an empty hallway, and soft scaled hands – an artist’s hands – clasped between her own, the confession – I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight. “I’ve had my fair share of hard decisions to make since I came to the station.”
“Yet you made them with your eyes open,” Cretak comments. “Which, Colonel, is an admirable trait in itself. In my experience, there are very few in this quadrant who can lay claim to it.”
*
There is something strange about Kira living on Deep Space 9. There’s something strange about calling it Deep Space 9 at all, when so many of the walls are still stained by Terok Nor (in a few places literally, though the younger residents have taken to scrawling graffiti and revolutionary symbols over the remaining Cardassian script). Kira’s people call the station Kasst’dara – old storyteller Bajoran for the eye, for the witnesser of light as she explained to Sisko once. It’s a style of language not often spoken anymore. Much of Bajoran storytelling was lost to the Occupation.
There was a time many years ago when she saw DS9 as that eye. An onlooker, hanging above her planet in a bit of shadowed space where it did not belong. Bajor’s overseer. These days she’s not so sure. Home has never been a permanent notion to her, and she has no sense of its exact meaning or measure as Julian does (“Sometimes I think I didn’t even have a home before DS9.”) or Jadzia did (“Home is just something you feel in your guts when you’ve found it, you know?” – and Kira hadn’t known, but nodded along anyway and later regretted she didn’t ask for Jadzia to explain it better so maybe she would feel it too). Whatever she might say to reassure others, home in her mind is a little more than a vague dream leftover from childhood, a vision of Bajor free from occupation that gave her hope even when she lay in chains. Then things happened, and things happened, and more things happened and got in the way and her dream began to blur.
There were people over the years who she thought might be her home, but they blurred, too.
“L'nar tan'a'tali nor… ralanon Kasst’dara,” Kira murmurs, imagining that earth and rock lie beneath the carpet and not station all the way down until it ends and there’s only space. They must be burning a new incense in the temple. It reminds her of Bajoran lilacs, which reminds her of other things.
“I thought I might find you here.”
“There was a service earlier,” she explains, not bothering to turn around. She can already feel Senator Cretak’s steely gaze burning into the back of her skull well enough without meeting it head-on. Her presence is not shocking. Kira being her closest point of contact on DS9, the senator has acted as something of a shadow for the best part of two days. They eat together – sometimes with Ezri, once with Sisko for dinner in his quarters. Julian still seems to be avoiding both of them, and Kira is too busy and too tired to bother interrogating him as to why.
Ezri said yesterday that Julian told her that he didn’t want to third wheel, which is ridiculous because he would probably have more to talk to Cretak about than Kira does.
“So I saw,” Cretak replies. “I suppose you attend the temple services often?”
“Of course. Always. I probably don’t go enough.” To her surprise, Cretak comes up beside her and sits down on the bench, facing the front. Her body is stiff but her eyes are bright as ever, reflecting the shine of the candles lining the temple hall. There’s something less sharp about her in this light, Kira thinks, and she laughs.
“Is there something amusing?” Cretak asks curiously.
“You have to admit,” Kira says, “that there’s something funny about a Bajoran and Romulan sitting together in a Bajoran temple… what would your fellow senators say?”
Just for a moment, Cretak shows a flash of teeth as she smiles. “I’m sure they would be impressed by the extent of our diplomatic working relationship.”
“Is that what we have?” Kira wonders aloud. “A diplomatic working relationship?”
“Given our history, I would hope you would consider me a friend, to both you and your cause,” Cretak answers.
“Well, I don’t know about my cause… but I’m glad you feel you can trust me.”
“Trust is another matter altogether, Colonel.”
“I thought I was Kira now.”
“Hm. Perhaps if you will consider abandoning any honorifics in turn.”
It’s impossible for Kira not to look at her companion fully now, drawn in inexorably by the mystery of her low tones and unlikely warmth. Her archness, the look on her face, the way she holds herself so straight and tall, bending to no wind or storm – it all seems to say something, but reading between those kinds of lines has never been Kira’s greatest strength. “If it’s what you’d prefer.”
“Kimara, please – not Cretak. You are no mere colleague, after all.”
Kira nods, wishing she had a name to offer Cretak in return, wondering whether one day she will.
“I should let you return to your prayers,” Cretak announces as she stands. Kira almost invites her to stay, but it all seems too complicated to begin just now.
*
Kimara presses the button. At 2300 hours, to be precise. Kira knows because it’s the time on the chronometer by her bed when she wakes to the emergency protocol alert. Her heart drops and caves in on itself for half a moment before she becomes solid, strong. She acts decisively. She overrides the lockdown on her room, feels her way through the dark to the opposite quarters, murmurs Kira-1-5-7-Alpha into the control pad next to Cretak’s door. It’s a strange kind of emergency protocol. Darkness, closeness, silence except for a faint beeping sound.
She supposes she assumes Cretak did it by accident. Perhaps she meant to press the Security contact button, which is concerning but far from dire. People contact Security all the time – Odo typically has a complaint about it one to two times a week. He is, after all, not running a hotel room service. She’s paid back for her assuming the moment the door opens and she steps inside, brain blaring a white panic as the air inside the room hits. Her lips burn, and then her throat burns, and then her lungs burn. They burn in a cold way, in a creeping, growing way. Tasting like acid.
Kira collapses to her knees, palms hitting something soft and shaking. Perhaps if she had the breath to speak, she would say something, but perhaps she wouldn’t. Perhaps she would do everything the same – reach for an outstretched arm, pull with all her remaining strength, try, briefly, to contain the spreading death as Kimara must’ve done before all of Kira’s rashness released it.
The emergency lockdown protocol – able to be activated only from the quarters meant for high risk, high command residents – halts the function of all non-essential systems, including the secondary ventilation system that circulates air between nearby rooms.
Beep, beep, beep.
When Kira was quite young, she once ate an entire Bajoran pepper after mistaking it for fruit and stealing it from the kitchens of the local Cardassian administrator. It set her mouth and stomach on fire and tears streamed down her cheeks from swollen eyes for hours after. An old woman who she did not know saw her crying in the alley and assumed she had found a girl in the throes of grief. She took Kira’s small hands in her own and between her feverish prayers declared that soon they would all breathe the clean air again, that it had been promised. Kira tried to explain that she needed water, not prayers and promises, to wash down the burn in the back of her throat and under her tongue, but it hurt too much to speak and before long she gave up. Falling silent, she listened for some time to the raptures of the old woman in the alley.
“…Kira.”
Someone has torn her vocal cords to shreds, so whatever reply she means to make is lost to the sound of a distant alarm wailing and her own stuttering, beating heart.
Kira Nerys closes her eyes, alight with the heat of a vision from the Prophets, and waits calmly until the beep, beep, beep of the darkness fades into the familiar chirp of the Infirmary late at night.
*
“Don’t mistake my logic for sentimentality or some selfless act of charity. When I made my decision, I had only the strength of the alliance, and by extension the strength of Romulus, in mind.”
“Of course.”
“I understand from my contacts that an envoy will be available tomorrow to return me to Romulan space. You may trust that nothing of this incident will be repeated beyond the walls of Deep Space 9.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The investigation into the attempt on your life is the Security team’s first priority, but Odo has two officers working on high-level defence systems for your room for tonight as we speak.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Colonel. You are personally responsible for my safety during my stay, after all.”
“...Right. Senator, I... I have to ask – why?”
“Have I explained myself insufficiently?”
“No. I guess not.”
*
Kira lies in a shroud of incense and Tholian silk scarf, trying not to think. A soft weight has settled in her chest – a pebbled smoothed out by the running waters of a stream, gentle but still present, still heavy. Julian assured her that the toxin used in the would-be assassination has left her system entirely, that all its damage has been undone by the wonder of Federation medical technology, but she can still taste it. Like limps or bloodstains, it lingers. It leaves a weight.
The other heaviness is Kimara. The back of her skull is resting against Kira’s bad shoulder, but the words don’t seem to be there to explain the discomfort and disrupt the strange peace they’ve created. Kira takes the occasional twinge of pain as a reminder. She wonders if she’s getting old, which is ridiculous. The weight in her chest grows as unbidden fantasies float through her mind, the eyes that would’ve understood, the jokes that would’ve been made. Her thoughts are like the darting dragonflies in Keiko O’Brien’s favourite holosuite program – an Earth scene, with a creek and glittering airborne insects and tiny doors in the trunks of trees that Keiko had explained were the entrances to the homes of mythical creatures, ones that were like tiny humans with wings. Molly looked upon the doors with delight, and Kira did her best to be Aunt Nerys and play along.
“Where are you?” Cretak asks suddenly, curiously, knowingly. Kira jolts to attention, snatched from her inner world and back to the shadows of her quarters. She takes in a deep breath of Tholian silk, scented with heady perfumes that ground her.
“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I was thinking.”
“So I could tell.”
“I’m needed up in Ops in half an hour. New orders from Starfleet regarding the push into Dominion space.”
“The Klingons have been successful, then?” Cretak remarks.
“Well,” Kira replies, “only with the help of the Romulans, of course. And the two Starfleet ships that ended up joining in the fight."
“How interesting.”
Kira won’t ask exactly what she means.
Kimara is stronger than she expected. With no attempt at self-aggrandisement, Kira would consider herself a good bet in a fight, probably capable of besting nearly all the inhabitants of Deep Space 9 one-to-one. She’s battled Klingons without even a lick of armour and Cardassian soldiers without a weapon to her name. People are intimidated when she shakes their hand in the Federation custom and feel the stone-strength of her grip, the one she gained scaling overseer mansions and the walls of Cardassian military bases when she was fifteen. Perhaps she expected Cretak to be weaker beneath her clothes – a fragile imitation of the war-ready woman in the alliance meeting rooms, in need of recognition.
In a small way, it’s true. But the senator’s muscles are toned, her reflexes sharp, and the softness of her body speaks of the unfaltering unafraid. All vulnerability she wears in confidence. It’s a paradox Kira might not have understood, if the Cardassians had failed to install mirrors when they built Terok Nor. There is precision in Kimara’s touch. Wryness. Her hair is smooth and unusually mussed when her head rests against the bare skin of Kira’s shoulder, Kira’s chest.
“What are you reading?” Squinting through one open eye, Kira focuses on the PADD in Cretak’s hand. Report from Chief Medical Officer, Deep Space 9.
“Your doctor’s report,” Cretak answers coolly. “Airborne monobraycine. What an original choice.”
“Odo suspects the assassination attempt originated from Dominion agents operating in the area. He’s planning on having one of his contacts carry out an investigation.”
Cretak lets out a long sigh. “You may tell him that is an unnecessary measure at the current stage.”
“Why?” Kira sits up quickly, dislodging her guest. “Do you know who was behind it?”
“I have my suspicions. It may surprise you, Kira, but there are several individuals with significant influence on Romulus who would be glad to see me take the fall, regardless of the threat to the alliance my demise would pose.”
“So you do know,” Kira says dryly. Kimara glances up at her with a gleam in her eyes, sharp as shards of glass. The light beside the bed forms a glow around her, around her tousled hair and strong jaw and hand reaching up to touch the swaying chain of Kira’s earring.
Kira realises that some time in the interim the weight must have lifted, but the exact moment it did so escapes her memory. Looking around she sees an artistry of her own making, formed with prayer candles and tapestries draped across the backs of dining table chairs and her springball helmet by the door and Cretak there on her bed, voice low and richly sweet as the golden syrup Sisko used to use in his Earth desserts back when command team weekly dinners were a thing as she opens her mouth and reminds Kira that duty calls.
Kira is halfway to the door in her new militia uniform – deep crimson and scuffed at the knees and looser to suit uncertain times – when she thinks to stop and look. Kimara appears disarmed, sat with Kira’s sheet twisted in her lap and her broad shoulders bared to the shadows. Her expression is firm, wilfully ignorant of irony and the passage of time, and if a life lacking in physical mementos had not taught her how to love memory, Kira would wish she could take a picture.
“I’m going to send a security detail to watch the door,” she says. “I am,” she insists when Kimara opens her mouth to reply. “And if anything happens-”
“I will avoid pressing your little button, of course.”
“Yes,” Kira agrees, pausing. “I-”
“My envoy will be arriving shortly after 1400 hours station time,” Cretak states coolly, as if she were now sitting in a board room in her Senator’s attire, not undressed in another woman’s bed. Disarmed, perhaps, but still guarded, with some battlefield placed between them that Kira knows she’ll have to fight her way across in a moment if she wants to say goodbye.
She smiles. “I’ll be there. To see you off.” Kira has fought in many battles, many wars, and the one to reach Cretak’s side is only ten paces wide. She runs a finger along her jaw, kisses her gently, allows touch to be reassurance. Then she kisses Cretak again, to be certain. Words come to mind, like if, and when, and maybe, and after, but words are not how Kira sees the world, so she lets them go.
“Thank you, Kira,” Kimara tells her on her way out. Her face is a vessel of meaning.
Worf is up in Ops, bearing a new report from the front. The Klingon offensive, aided by the Romulans, has won a great new victory and salvaged the honour it first lost in its rashness. People have been liberated, the Dominion lines in that system are weakened and on the verge of collapse.
It is a great day for the alliance.