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Give people victory and they won't care who won it.
-Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery, 1st Viscount Montgomery of Alamein
Jadzia Bashir stood on top of the M4 Sherman like a mouse on the back of a tortoise. She peered through her field glasses at the pillar of black smoke that was frozen on the horizon, a motionless blot against the empty desert sky.
She was chewing on the end of one of her braids. It was a bad habit, but no one could see her do it now. She spat it out to speak. "Computer," she said. "Can't you let the fire burn a little bit more?"
"Don't unfreeze the program, Jazz!" Father said. His voice echoed up from inside the tank. "We haven't had our lunch yet."
"Can't it wait?" said Jazz, lowering her field glasses to peek down into the open hatch.
"It would have to, if this was a real war," said Father. He was lifting a picnic basket up through the hatch.
"This is a real war," said Jazz, taking the basket. "It all happened a long time ago, on Earth."
"Strictly speaking, I suppose that's true," said Father. He had pulled himself up out of the tank. He was sitting on the top of it now, next to where his daughter was standing. Jazz liked that he had to look up at her in order to speak. It made her feel like she was a grownup, and like her father was a child. Her father was good at making her feel that way, even if he didn't know it. There were lots of things that Father didn't know. Jazz didn't know how to explain it, even to herself.
"It was a real war," said Father. "But it hardly matters now, does it?"
"It does so matter," said Jazz. "It was–"
"Right, right, of course it matters," said Father. "I'm sorry. What I meant was, it's just a holonovel. You know that."
"I do know that," said Jazz. "I'm not a baby."
"Of course you're not a baby!" said Father. "You'll be starting primary school soon. You're practically ready to enlist in Starfleet."
Jazz crumpled up her face. "I'm not fit for education," she said. "I should remain a soldier."
She was being a brat. She knew it. Father noticed, and shared his concern. "Are you upset about something?" he said. "You told me last week that you couldn't wait to go back."
"Well," she said, carefully stowing her field glasses back in their pouch (they were real, too, and had to be handled carefully), "I do like school. The parts of it that are school."
"That's rather cryptic," said Father. He was amused. Jazz liked it when he thought she was funny. Usually. "I'm afraid I’m no match for your riddles," he said. "You'll have to elaborate."
"I don't want to," she said.
"You don't have to," said Father. "I won't make you."
"Thank you," said Jazz. "Mother would have made me."
Her father was amused again. She could tell, even though she wasn’t looking at his face. "You've been doing that for a while, lately," he said. "Calling her 'Mother.' Where did you pick that up?"
"Nowhere, really," said Jazz. "I just think that it sounds more..." she hesitated, trying to choose the right word. "Sophisticated," she said finally.
Her father smiled, showing his teeth. “Sophisticated,” he said, softly repeating the word to himself. "Well, you are certainly a sophisticated young lady," he said.
Father opened up the basket and pulled out a red gingham tablecloth. He shook it out and let it spread open like a parachute, so that it fluttered down onto the back of the tank. There wasn’t much room for the both of them (even though the program was not entirely on model), but Jazz was very small. She sat on the tablecloth next to her father as he pulled a bottle of fizzy lemonade out of the basket. It was pink, just how she liked it.
“For the charming young sophisticate,” said her father, handing her the bottle in the same way she had seen waiters handle fine champagne in Human restaurants.
Jazz accepted the object with a gracious flourish. “Merci beaucoup,” she said.
Her eyes drifted back to the smoke splattered on the horizon, as motionless as a painted canvas backdrop of some old stage play. That was very much the same as being a character in a holonovel. Almost. Just as her father looked every bit the part of a dashing hero in his officer’s uniform, with his daughter beside him as his corporal. It would have to be a play. Two people couldn’t have done all of this alone, if it was real. There would be no good guys, if this was real. Maybe there were real heroes somewhere. But not here, not in this place, in this time – not in the Shermans, and not in the Panzers. But Father didn’t like to be sad. Jazz liked to be sad, sometimes.
Sometimes.
Jazz turned her face away from the pillar of smoke. She studied the way that the sweat was starting to bead through the khaki below her father’s collar. He had set the temperature inside the program higher than default, because Jazz liked it that way. It was the Trill in her.
Her father loved her very much.
Before she knew it, scorching hot tears burned her eyes like the desert wind.
She was in her father’s arms in an instant. She buried her face against his shirt, mingling her tears with the stain on his shirt. She was still clutching the pretty pink bottle in her little fist.
“What’s happened?” he said. “What’s gone wrong?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said. “It’s a secret.”
“I can keep a secret,” he said. “After all, Mummy hasn’t found out that I still let you play war games with me.”
“That’s because you don’t want her to be cross with you,” said Jazz. “It’s easy, when it’s your secret, too, and not just mine.”
“Then I’ll treat your secret just as if it were my own," Father said.
“No,” said Jazz. “That’s not good enough. There has to be…” She pushed herself away from her father’s embrace so that she could wipe her stinging eyes with her free hand. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.
“I’d love to hear it,” said Father.
“I’d like to propose a Trade,” she said.
“A trade?” he said. “What sort of trade?”
“Of secrets,” said Jazz. “If I tell you my secret, then you tell me one of your secrets, too. And then, each of our two secrets will combine into one secret, and we’ll share it together, forever.”
Her father considered this for a moment before speaking. “Agreed,” he said.
“You must promise never to tell, never ever never,” said Jazz.
“I promise,” said Father. “Never ever never.”
“No,” said Jazz. “You must really mean it. It has to be a… a solemn oath. Swear on your life.”
“I swear on my life,” said Father, placing a hand on his heart.
“Swear on my life,” said Jazz.
“Now Jazz,” said Father, “don’t you think that’s a little–”
“Of course it is,” she said. “Because this is important.”
Her father didn’t speak right away.
“Alright,” he said. “I swear to you, on my life, and on yours, that I’ll never ever tell your secret. I’ll take it with me to my grave, wherever that may be.”
Jazz grinned. “Good,” she said. “That was very good.”
“Thank you,” said Father. “Now can you tell me?”
“Yes,” said Jazz. She bobbed her head up and down. “I’ll tell you.” She took a deep breath, and focused her eyes on the distant black cloud. “My secret is that other children don’t like to play with me.”
"Why not?” said Father.
“I don’t know,” said Jazz. “They keep that a secret, too.”
Her father looked out at the black cloud on the horizon.
“Do you know what it is?” she asked.
He didn’t look away from the cloud. “I’m afraid not,” he said. His voice was very soft and serious. “That’s one thing I still…” Jazz waited for him to finish the sentence.
He did not.
“But it won’t be so bad, this time around,” he said, brightening away from the gloom. “You’re not alone, for one thing.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her up against his side. “You’ve got me.”
Jazz wrapped her arms around him. It was a little difficult, because she could not let go of her lemonade, still unopened. It was getting in her way. Her father gently took it away and placed it back in the basket. She hadn’t even had to speak. He had sensed her discomfort, somehow. Lunch was going to have to be postponed.
Her father still held her against his side. “I promise that if you can’t make any friends at school,” he said, “you can play with me instead. I’ll always make the time for you.”
“You have a lot more time on your hands these days,” said Jazz, rubbing her wet eyes against her father’s uniform.
“What do you mean?" Father said.
“I mean that you have a lot more time on your hands these days,” said Jazz. She scooted across the top of the tank, away from where her father had held her, so that she could stretch out her legs in front of her on the blanket. “Because you stepped down from chief of surgery, in the station Infirmary.”
“How did you know about that?” said Father.
“You were talking about it with Mother,” said Jazz. Her hearing was very good. It was too good. Just as good as her father’s. That was a secret, too – a secret that two people already shared.
“I should have known,” said Father. He was proud of her, somehow, for some reason, but he couldn’t say it. It must have been too difficult to explain. Jazz imagined that she would not have understood, even if he had tried. “Nothing gets past you,” he said, placing his hand on her head – not to ruffle her hair; just to feel her against his skin, and to know that she was close.
“But you are still the boss, aren’t you?” said Jazz.
“Of course I’m still the boss,” he said, lifting his hand away. “It’s only a temporary measure. It’s… it’s something I willingly chose to do. Just until I… Well, in any case, I’m still the Chief Medical Officer.”
“You have to tell a secret now, too,” said Jazz. “That’s the rule.”
“Right, right,” said Father. “Of course. Let me think…” He lifted Jazz into his lap. “My secret is that I love you more than anyone else in the whole Galaxy," he said. “Even more than Mummy.”
“That’s not a secret!” said Jazz. “Everyone knows that. Even Mummy. I mean, even Mother.”
“Well, I love your mother, too,” said Father.
“Do you?” said Jazz.
“Of course I do!” said Father.
“Why do you love her?” said Jazz.
“I love her…” Father said. “... Because she’s the second prettiest lady in the whole Galaxy.”
“Who’s the prettiest?” said Jazz, looking up at his face.
Her father touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “That’s you, darling,” he said.
Jazz preened. She shook her head so that the ribbons on the ends of her braids would flutter in the air. Her father had tied them for her. She loved her father.
“You won’t get away with it,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Father. He was nervous. Jazz was grateful that it was easy to tell what her father was feeling. It was too difficult, with others, sometimes.
“You still have to tell me a real secret,” she said.
“Oh, right,” said Father. “Of course.”
She sat calmly in her father’s lap. His skin was hot against hers. He was so Human.
“I can think of one,” he said. “But you have to keep it for me, too.”
“I can keep it,” she said. “I have no one to tell.”
“Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t…”
She was silent.
“It was the very last day of the War,” he said, “on Cardassia Prime.”
“You were there?” said Jazz.
“Yes, of course I was there,” said Father. “Haven’t I ever… no, I suppose I haven’t.”
“That’s incredible!” said Jazz.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Father. “But it wasn’t all that exciting. There wasn’t much to be done. We were searching the wreckage of the city, for anyone who was still alive. You see, the Battle of Cardassia was a great victory for the Federation Alliance. Only… it didn’t feel like one.”
Her father grew silent.
“Is that all?” said Jazz, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Not nearly,” said Father. “I haven’t even started. I’m just searching for the words, is all. Please understand, Jadzia, this is difficult for me.”
Her father only used her real name when he was very serious. Her mother used it to be serious, too, but she also used it when she was angry. Father didn’t get angry. Well, he didn’t get angry at his Jadzia. Only at other things, far away things, things in no hurry to be understood by little children.
“I had pulled a boy out of the rubble,” Father said. “He must have been a few years older than you. I tried to save him, but his organs were pulverized – there was nothing left. All I could do was give him something to numb the pain. Then I just sat there beside him, listening to him gasp for air and struggle to breathe, waiting for him to die. I knew that I should have kept moving and trying to find others, but I couldn’t seem to find the will to stand. I felt… nothing. No sorrow, no despair, not even exhaustion. It was strange. Like I had transformed into… I don’t know. I haven’t got the words.”
Jazz fixed her eyes on the black cloud of smoke on the horizon. It was stuck to the crystal dome of the firmament like a dirty smudge of soot, strangled into a gnarled apparition, unable to dissipate.
Her father held her in his lap. He kept talking.
“But then I heard someone coming closer. He was taking great care to move silently, but I recognized the gait of a Jem’hadar. He was creeping up very slowly, behind what was left of an ancient concrete wall, about 50 meters to my north.
“I picked up my rifle, I held it steady, and I waited for him to come out from behind the wall. That wall would have been part of a very grand old house, just a few hours before. I remember… I remember wondering about the people who had lived there, and if the boy had been one of them. He wasn’t breathing anymore. He had died, without me noticing. I was focused on the Jem’hadar.”
Jazz gripped her father’s arm very tightly. He gave her a little squeeze in return.
“The Jem’hadar got to the end of the wall, but he didn’t appear. He was cloaked, but I knew where he was. I shot him. He fell. I shot him again.”
“Incredible…” said Jazz. Her eyes were full of the dark spot painted on the sky. She was moving through time and back again.
“Of course, when he was dead, the cloak failed,” said Father.
“I know how it works,” said Jazz. “It’s a biological function.”
Father kissed the top of her head. “You’re a remarkable child,” he said. “You know that?”
Jazz smiled, even though Father couldn’t see her face. “I do,” she said.
“When he was dead,” continued her father, “I got up and walked over to where he had fallen. Then I saw…”
Jazz crawled out of her father’s lap. He was getting too sweaty. She sat on the red gingham, on the back of the Sherman that was far too roomy to look just like the old photos in the archive. It was the perfect size for a picnic. Her father had made sure of it. Her father had once told her that fantasy was always preferable to reality. That had been an awfully long time ago - before he knew that she could understand the words that he was saying. Before she had decided to talk.
She understood her father. Her father understood her. She didn’t need to look at her father when he spoke. He didn’t need an explanation. He kept speaking. He knew that she was listening. She hung on his every word.
“I had killed Jem’hadar before,” he said. “Always makes me – it always made me feel a twinge of regret, knowing that they were never given any choice. I had chosen the life of a soldier – though I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t… Well, that day, after the Battle of Cardassia, that Jem’hadar, the one that I had most lately killed, was smaller than the others I had seen. His brains were painted all over that old wall, and he was no bigger than a child. I stood there over his body, and I thought, this is impossible, they’re all grown from clones, they’re all meant to be genetically engineered to perfection.”
“Like us!” said Jazz.
“Careful,” said Father.
“No one is listening,” she said.
Her father took a deep breath. “You can never be certain of that,” he said. “Not in the times we live in.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” said Jazz.
“Oh, it’s alright,” said Father. He reached across the blanket and touched her shoulder. “It’s alright.”
Jazz turned away from the smoke to look at her father.
“Towards the end of the War,” said Jazz, “the Dominion lowered their cull rates to expand production and meet quotas.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Father.
He would not have had the security clearance to know that, back then. She decided not to say so. “The lowered quality of personnel and equipment did little to stem the tide of the Federation victory,” said Jazz.
Father laughed. “You sound like a propaganda tract,” he said.
“I talk like a soldier,” she said, gleaming with pride.
“Talking like one is easy,” said Father.
Jazz wrinkled her lip. “Tell me the rest of the story,” she said.
“Of course,” said Father. He sat back against the hatch. “Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, I thought that he was too small to be a Jem’hadar. Then I noticed that his equipment was too large for him. There were rags stuffed into his boots, to keep them from slipping off. It must have been just like you said. He was imperfect. He was the runt, who ought to have been killed when he was born, saved by the desperation of his progenitors."
“Just like us,” said Jazz.
Her father reached out his hand again. This time, he held onto the delicate end of one of the blue satin ribbons he had tied into his daughter’s hair, just a few hours before. It was easier to see all of her little blue spots, with her hair tied back. He liked the way the satin felt between his fingers. He knew that his daughter liked it, too.
“Yes, darling,” he said. “Just like us.”
He let go of the ribbon.
“Anyway,” he said, “he survived the ordeal of being born imperfect and made it all the way to Cardassia Prime just to die a senseless death, from a bolt from my rifle. And he was no different from me.”
“It wasn’t bad to kill him,” said Jazz. “He would have killed you, if you hadn’t.”
“No,” said Father. “He was unarmed.”
“Oh,” said Jazz. “I suppose he must have lost his weapon.”
“Or he threw it away,” he said.
“Why would he do that?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s what I did. I dropped my gun right there in the dust, and I left it there.”
“You threw away a perfectly good rifle?” said Jazz. “How careless! Did you get in trouble?”
“No,” he said. “No one really cared.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Still… seems an awful waste.”
“I’m sure some Cardassian found it and used it to terrorize his countrymen when the looting started,” said Father. “So, that makes you right, of course. It was a terribly foolish thing to do.”
“I didn’t say it was foolish,” said Jazz. “I said it was careless.”
“There’s very little difference,” said Father.
“I don’t think so,” said Jazz. “I think you did what you had to.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But I didn’t have to kill that poor sorry creature.”
“So what?” said Jazz. "So what if he's dead?"
Her father was shocked. “You don’t really mean that,” he said.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “It’s over. You can’t change it. So don’t think about it. That’s what you always do!”
She swept her arms out at her sides. “Look at all this!” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful, to be out here in the desert, and to have this machine, and to paint the sky with smoke?”
“This is different,” said Father. “It’s just a game.”
“Of course it is,” she said. “But you have to find the fun in it, amidst all the bad things. You know, you never should have been here, in this place.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me again,” said Father.
“You, the English,” she said. “There was no reason to be fighting here in the first place.”
“Hang on,” he said. “If that’s what you mean, you should have said ‘we,’ the English, and not ‘you,’ the English.”
“I’m not English,” she said.
“Of course you are,” said Father. “I’m English, and I’m your father, so that makes you English, too.”
“Is that how it works?” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”
“Yes,” said Father, “you’re as English as this beautiful Sherman right here.” He patted the machine affectionately, like it was a faithful draft horse.
“The Sherman isn’t English,” said Jazz.
“It’s not?” said Father.
“No,” she said. “They made them in America.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s… disappointing, somehow.”
Jazz nodded. “They were named after William Tecumsah Sherman,” she said. “A hero of a war of liberation.”
“There’s comfort in that, I suppose,” said Father.
“A little bit,” said Jazz. “As long as you don’t know too much.”
“We both have that problem, don’t we?” said Father.
Jazz lowered her eyes. She smiled, but only a little.
“I’m sorry,” Father said. “When you were born, I didn’t know… It wasn’t supposed to be possible. I didn’t mean for you to be like me.”
“You mean English?” said Jazz.
Her father laughed. She had made a joke on purpose, this time, but it was only for her father. She didn’t think it was very funny.
"You really will keep your promise, won't you?" said Father. "The promise not to tell Mummy, about any of this?"
"Not just Mummy!" said Jazz. "Not anyone, remember?"
"Right, of course," said Father. "Because, you know, Ezri - well, your mummy doesn't understand these things. If you don't understand it already, I could never hope to explain. It's more difficult than it should be, because of her work, you know. It's impossible to communicate. Just like the way those children don't like the way that you talk."
"They don't like the way that I talk?" said Jazz.
"They're wrong," said Father. "You're perfect."
"I'm perfect," said Jazz. She turned back to look at the smoke.
"How about this?" said Father. "Computer, don't unfreeze any of the characters in the program, but resume all phenomena related to wind and smoke."
There was a muted little "beep," and a gust of wind blew up from the horizon, away from the smoke. Jazz's eyes watered, and she laughed. The smoke roiled back to life against the sky in a whirling dance of death.
"Now, Corporal," said Father, reaching back for the basket, almost forgotten, but never abandoned. "Would you like one of these sandwiches?"
Jazz saluted. "Yes, sir!" she said.
Her father adjusted the angle of her hand. "Palm out, remember?" he said. "That's the English way."
"The English way!" she repeated.
"That's my girl!" he said. "Now you've got it."
The sandwich was ham and cheese. Jazz sat on top of the Sherman with her father, and they had their picnic. The pillar of smoke passed before the sun, and cast a strange shadow over the Earth.