Strange New Worlds 2016
Author: Derek Tyler Attico; Neil Bryant; Michael Turner; Chris Chaplin; John Coffren; Nancy Debretsion; Kelli Fitzpatrick; Roger McCoy; Kristen McQuinn; Gary Piserchio; Frank Tagader
Date: 2016-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Anthologies; Star Trek; Short Stories
Description: From the ordinary to the extraordinary, here are ten all-new fan-created stories embraced by the vision of Star Trek®! When Gene Roddenberry first created this landmark television series fifty years ago, he also tapped a wellspring of human imagination. Viewers were immediately transformed, and over the decades turned the very definition of "fan" on its ear. However, when what was on the screen was simply not enough, fans started writing their own stories… In celebration of the 50th anniversary of Star Trek, here are the electrifying results of the 2016 Strange New Worlds writing contest—the b
Publisher: Pocket Star

Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

STAR TREK®

THE ORIGINAL SERIES

DILITHIUM IS A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

Neil Bryant

“IT’S THE DEATH PENALTY if we’re caught.”

“We won’t get caught. You have me word on that, lass.”

“Your word isn’t worth shit, Harry. The whole quadrant knows it. And you can drop the damn Leo Walsh act. I know who you really are.” Eve McHuron stared daggers at the plump, sagging figure standing on the other side of her alvera-wood desk—a gift from the Kreetassan Assembly. It had been a tremendous display of generosity on their part; Kreetassans didn’t part with trees easily. She loved the rich, dark color and smooth, mirrorlike finish. It was elegant, refined—the polar opposite of the sack of potatoes standing across from it. Oh, there’d been a time she’d seen him differently. Back when she was younger—much younger—she’d been captivated by his many personas and devil-may-care attitude. He’d seemed dashing and debonair. But in the end, Harcourt “Harry” Fenton Mudd had turned out to be nothing more than a second-rate con man. She hadn’t seen him in twenty years. Since then, his trademark mustache had turned gray, and the points into which it curved weren’t so neat and precise anymore. With his puffy, open-chested orange shirt and brown safari hat, he looked ridiculous, a walking, talking caricature of his old self. Worse yet, they were the same clothes he’d worn decades ago, old and ragged and mended by hand. How could one be in need of clothing in a society where basic needs were provided for? Had Harry worn out his welcome in so many places that he couldn’t even come by a decent new getup anymore?

Harry removed his hat and took it between both hands in front of his broad chest. There was even less hair on his head than she remembered, and what was left of it was grayer than the mustache. His eyes darted around the room of polished stone tiles inset with Rigellian flamegems, perhaps realizing the woman who occupied it was not the same Eve McHuron he’d left behind on Rigel XII decades ago, but one who could buy and sell him many times over. He looked so small and helpless. More than that, he looked tired. It was the kind of weariness that comes from being forced to move from place to place, alone and without a home to call one’s own. His once energetic brown eyes that had been always shifting, always looking for their next mark, were drained. She felt a pang of pity in her chest. How could that be? How could she possibly feel sorry for him—the man who’d trafficked her around the galaxy and pumped her full of that damn Venus beauty drug to make her more marketable?

“Please, Evey, dear. Just hear me out,” pleaded Harry. She wasn’t fond of being called Evey, but she would indulge him rather than continuing to strip away what little self-respect he was clinging to late in life. “It’s been centuries at least since the Federation last executed anyone. They’re bluffing. In fact, there was a time when going to Talos IV was supposedly punishable by death until me ol’ friend Jimmy Kirk—”

“Your old friend?” Eve interrupted with a joyless cackle right as Harry was settling back into his Leo Walsh persona. “I doubt he remembers it that way.”

“That’s not the point,” growled Harry, his Irish brogue again disappearing. His eyes began fluttering like they did whenever he was frustrated. “The point is, Kirk and Spock went to Talos IV, and when they returned, not only did they avoid being hanged at the nearest starbase, they were absolved from any wrongdoing. I even heard they were commended for risking so much on behalf of their old commanding officer.”

“But we’re not talking about Talos IV. What you want is much more dangerous. I know, I’ve seen it.”

“So you do have it?”

“Yes,” she said, soft as a whisper. She turned to look out the window, away from Harry. He was a liar, a cheat, and a swindler, but he was right about the Federation. The death penalty threat was a bluff. They weren’t in the business of killing people. But they can take away everything Ben and I have built here, she thought. On the other side of the window, a mass of asteroids—prime candidates for hypersonic element deposits—turned and drifted leisurely through space. She reached up and brushed her fingers across the dilithium jewels that adorned her ears. The earrings were her sole decorative indulgence at work. She wore the same gray jumpsuit her workers wore. Her long hair, which had managed to stay blond even after all these years, cascaded over her right shoulder. “How did you know I had it?”

“Call it an educated guess,” Harry said with an annoyingly pretentious smile. “Believe it or not, I still have connections. I heard about your meeting with Doctor Marcus. From there, it was a simple matter of putting two and two together. She was looking for a lifeless planet as a test bed for her project, and who better to ask than the woman who’d mined more hellhole worlds than anyone else in the quadrant?”

Eve scoffed. “If you’re in the loop enough to know about my meetings with Carol Marcus, you should know Genesis was a colossal failure. It got her son killed. It almost fell into the hands of a madman. It scared the Klingons enough that they were willing to risk war. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, the planet exploded. Even Doctor Marcus and her team have abandoned the project.”

“My buyer doesn’t care about the failures.”

Eve spun around and gave Harry the sternest look in her arsenal. “That should terrify you, Harry. Genesis’s only value at this point is as a weapon. It can destroy all life on a planet in an instant.”

“It’s not like that.” Harry put on his best salesman’s smile. “My buyer wants to study Genesis and work out the bugs, so to speak. Even if he fails, he would never use it as a weapon. His intentions are perfectly honorable and noble.”

Eve’s brow unfurled. “How can you be sure?”

“He comes from a planet whose star is dying. They’re looking to save it and preserve their entire civilization before it’s too late. Genesis can help.”

“Why doesn’t he go through Federation channels and seek help from Starfleet?”

“Evey, dear. You of all people should know how slowly the wheels of Federation bureaucracy can turn. Think about how long you wait to get a mere mining permit, and then imagine trying to move an entire civilization. The poor saps could be dead by then.”

For all his faults, Harry was great at using moral conundrums to get what he wanted. It was possible this whole thing was another con, put on by Harry or his buyer. But what if he was being truthful? Could she risk denying him Genesis when an entire civilization was at stake? On the other hand, could she risk putting Genesis in the hands of another Khan Noonien Singh and leaving God knows how many civilizations at risk? And then there was Ben’s legacy to think about. “If your ‘old friend Jimmy Kirk’ lost his admiralship just for visiting the planet, can you imagine what they’d do to us? Even if they don’t hang us at the nearest starbase, we could lose everything.”

Harry let out a boisterous laugh. Was he actually laughing at her? She felt a surge of heat in her gut, and her hands clenched into fists. Back on Rigel XII, this kind of anger would’ve sent her out crying into some godforsaken dust storm, but she was a different person now. “What’s so damn funny, Harry? You better give me an answer I like, or I’m kicking your fat ass out the nearest docking port, ship or no ship.”

His laughter immediately ceased. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’ve accomplished more than I ever have or will. Yet, you’re still so beautifully naïve about how the universe works. Have you thought about how you ended up here—CEO of Childress Drilling?”

“Ben died,” Eve said plainly. She’d dealt with the pain and loss years ago, and she wasn’t one who looked back.

“It’s more than that. Like most people who do more for humanity than they know, you can’t see how important you truly are.” He leaned in, placing his palms flat atop the desk and staring straight into her eyes. His voice became low and serious. “You’re the rarest resource, Evey. The one that can’t be replaced. That’s why the Federation wouldn’t touch you, whether you believe it or not.”

Eve shook her head in confusion. What the devil was he talking about? There was nothing special about her. She was just a miner—a very successful one, mind you—but just a miner nonetheless. “I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“I know you don’t, love, but you were absolutely right about what you said earlier. My word is worth nothing, and the entire quadrant knows it. This little errand is my last chance to earn enough so I can retire, fade away into obscurity.”

She knew she should kick him out right now. She should’ve sent him packing the moment he arrived at her station, but there was the sprout of pity in her chest again, like a weed she couldn’t kill. “Fine. I’ll give you what you want.”

“Excellent,” beamed Harry. “Thank—”

“Under one condition,” interrupted Eve.

Harry sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Which is?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“How do you get anywhere in this piece of junk?” Eve asked as she took a seat next to Harry on the bridge of the Stella Signata, probably named for his ex-wife. The impulse engines whined in a way she knew did not indicate optimal function. There were numerous scorch marks on the bulkheads, deck plates, and control stations where fires had erupted and the damage had been only partially repaired. There were exposed circuit panels and conduits that, much to Eve’s surprise, were using lithium circuits. Who the hell still used lithium circuits? Spacefaring vessels had transitioned to total dilithium dependence decades ago. This ship must be older than the Federation, thought Eve.

“Age is but a number, my dear,” quipped Harry. “It gets me where I need to go.”

He navigated through the mass of drifting rock, making his way toward open space where he could safely engage the warp engines. The asteroids sparked and shimmered against the blackness of space as phaser drills worked on their rocky surfaces. Workbees and men in pressure suits tended to the mining equipment. Even though Eve was older now than when she’d started the company, she never missed an opportunity to get behind the controls of a ’bee alongside her workers. Once a miner, always a miner. This asteroid field was one of many sites operated by Childress Drilling, the mining company she and Ben had built from the ground up. It carried his name due to the reputation he’d earned and connections he’d made as a lithium miner so many years ago. Childress specialized in extracting the hypersonic elements necessary for starship function—a dangerous but lucrative task that couldn’t be fully automated. Dilithium comprised ninety-five percent of her business and had made her a very rich woman in a society where wealth inequality had supposedly been eliminated. Although the company still carried Ben’s name, she was the sole owner now. He’d died years ago when a phaser drill he was repairing exploded.

As the outermost asteroids passed by on the main viewer, Harry set a course for his buyer’s destination and engaged the warp engines. Eve caught a glimpse of the coordinates on the navigational display.

“You weren’t kidding when you said no one in the entire quadrant trusted you anymore. That’s the Phocis Harju system. That’s near the Beta Quadrant. Your buyer lives on the outskirts of Federation space.”

“I don’t know if he lives there, or if he’s trying to keep away from prying eyes. In my line of work, you learn not to ask too many questions,” said Harry impatiently. “Can I at least see the package now?”

Eve put her discomfort over the remoteness of the location aside, and reached into the breast pocket of her jumpsuit. She pulled out a rectangular data storage crystal. Harry’s beady eyes fixed on it and gleamed in a way Eve knew all too well. His tongue pushed out of his mouth and made a slow horizontal motion across his bottom lip. His right hand was twitching.

“Don’t even think about it, Harry. The information is encrypted. Only I can access it.”

“Wouldn’t even consider doing such a thing. Who do you think I am?” said Harry indignantly. “You could be a little more trusting. It’s not like I’m interrogating you on how you came to possess highly classified Starfleet materials.”

“What do you mean? It’s like I said, I met with Doctor Marcus. We discussed one of the planets I had the mining rights to. She thought it would be a good candidate. Everything was ready to go, but at the last minute, Federation scientists discovered microorganisms in a volcano bed. The launch got called off. It’s all very simple, really.”

“Hmm. So, in the simple act of discussing planet habitability, Doctor Marcus felt compelled to divulge everything about Project Genesis, including how to build the device? You expect me to believe that Doctor Marcus, who barely knew you, gave you the plans to one of the most destructive forces in the universe in exchange for some life-form readings?”

Eve felt her cheeks grow warm and flushed. “Okay, so I called in a few favors at Starfleet Command. I was curious.”

“Curious? About what? You’re not a scientist.”

“Fine,” said Eve, exasperated. “Maybe I learned some things from you a little too well. I saw the potential for a major business opportunity and took it. Later, I realized I made a mistake.”

“But you still kept the information.”

Eve slammed the palms of her hands against the armrests of her chair and quickly stood up. “I had my reasons, and I’m certainly not sharing them with you. I’ll be in my quarters.” She pivoted around and made a beeline for the bridge doors. They whisked open, and she stormed off down the dingy metal corridor, her shoes clanking off the grated deck plates. The old lights blinked and made rattling noises overhead. She stopped in front of the quarters Harry had given her for the journey. She pressed a button on the wall, and the doors pulled open. The accommodations were small and in the same poor condition as the rest of the ship, but they were better than the hovels to which Harry had dragged her in her youth. There was at least a bed, sonic shower, and toilet. The room had the benefit of enduring little use over the years, but everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

She plopped down on the bed and put her head against the pillow, pressing the palm of her hand against her forehead. Even after all these years, that man still had the power to make her so angry. Had she made the right decision, agreeing to deliver Genesis? Genesis was supposed to bring life from lifelessness, but since the first experiment had ended in disaster, all it could really do was destroy existing life . . . on a massive scale.

Harry wasn’t the one she was concerned about. He would never see the Genesis information and wouldn’t know what to do with it even if he did. The plans would go straight into the hands of the buyer—the person who really worried her. She knew nothing about him or his people. Why were they so far out? It was possible their star was located beyond Federation space, which would complicate getting help from the Federation, especially if another alien race claimed their system as part of its territory. But none of that explained how they’d learned about Harry, much less contacted him. To help put her mind at ease, she’d taken a second data crystal that could corrupt and erase all data in the first crystal if need be.

She didn’t know when she closed her eyes or even if she fell asleep, but she was jarred to alertness by the gyration of the deck plates. She quickly sat up. A metallic groan filled the corridors and rooms of the small vessel. It didn’t take long to figure out Harry’s ship was traveling at a warp factor it was not rated for.

Eve jumped out of bed and took off down the corridor toward the bridge. The gyrations were becoming a full-blown quake. She had to use the bulkhead as a brace to keep from falling. The ship felt moments away from shaking itself apart. Eve tumbled through the doors of the bridge and, through a controlled fall, managed to get to the navigation station where Harry was still seated, working feverishly to coax more power out of the warp engines and sweating like a pig. He was damn near hyperventilating.

“Harry, what the hell are you doing?” she yelled over the racket. She groped her way into the chair. An indicator on the console was blinking—they were being pursued. She checked the status display, which indicated an Excelsior-class starship. Harry had panicked at seeing the Feds, yet again. “You need to drop to sublight. Otherwise, the ship’s going to fly apart.”

“Are you crazy?” gasped Harry, turning briefly to face her. His eyes were wild. He was clearly in flight-or-fight mode, and in typical Harry Mudd fashion, he’d chosen flight. “They’ll board the ship, find the Genesis plans, and hang us at the nearest starbase! It’s the death penalty if we’re caught. You know that.”

Eve rolled her eyes. Typical. “If you don’t power down the engines, we’re dead anyway. If you couldn’t outrun the Enterprise in your old piece of junk ship, how can you possibly hope to outrun an Excelsior-class starship in this piece of junk?” He was still focused on the controls, giving no sign he’d heard her. “Harry,” she said, keeping her voice calm as possible. She reached out and placed her palm softly over his hand. “Harry,” she repeated. He finally turned toward her. She looked into his eyes. “I can get us out of this. Trust me. Power down the main engines, please.” The wildness left his expression. His breathing became more regular. Finally, his hands glided over the controls, and the ship began to decelerate. The shaking and cacophony of straining bulkheads quickly subsided. As it did, Eve heard a voice crackling over the comm system:

“. . . celsior to captain of Stella Signata. Please power down your engines and respond. The stress on your vessel is reaching critical. This is Captain Hikaru Sulu of the U.S.S. Excelsior to captain of Stella Signata. Please power down your engines and respond. The stress on your vessel is reaching critical. This is . . .”

The Federation vessel in pursuit had been trying to hail them for God only knew how long. “Open a communication channel. Bring it on screen,” Eve ordered. “And stay out of sight.” Harry did as Eve said, then stood up and fell back into the shadows. Sulu? Sulu? Where had she heard that name before? She didn’t have time to give the question much thought because the viewscreen was soon filled with the chiseled visage and red uniform of a Starfleet captain. He looked familiar too. “Captain Sulu, this is Eve McHuron. CEO of Childress Drilling.”

“Ms. McHuron,” responded Captain Sulu, his eyes wide in surprise. “We had no idea you were aboard. It’s nice to see you again. Are you in any trouble? Can we render assistance?”

Nice to see you again? So she had met him before. But where? “No, Captain. We’re all fine now. But thanks for the offer.”

“May I ask why you ran from us?”

“I’m deeply sorry for that. It began with pilot error, and then our warp engines locked up. It took us awhile to get them back under control.”

“I see,” Sulu replied in a tone that could hardly be described as trusting. “I can’t help but notice the Stella Signata has not filed any flight plan with the Federation Ministry of Civil Spaceflight.”

“You are correct. I apologize for that as well. However, according to Federation mining regulations, companies that specialize in hypersonic element extraction, such as Childress, have considerable leeway in exploring new sources of dilithium. As you know, dilithium is indispensable in starship operation and maintaining the standard of living humanity has come to enjoy. When a potential new source has been brought to our attention, we must work quickly to confirm its viability so extraction . . .” Harry started waving his arms at her and whispering loudly, trying to share some great revelation he just had. It wasn’t helping her concentration. She did her best to block him out. “So extraction can begin as soon as possible. Going through the process of, um, filing a flight plan and, um . . .” He started whispering louder. What the hell? Couldn’t he see she was busy saving their butts? She wanted to reach over and punch him. “The process of filing a flight plan and having it approved is time consuming and often a barrier to the work we do. Captain Sulu, believe me when I say it’s work we at Childress take very seriously. The Federation recognizes the importance of what we do and allows us to forgo a flight plan when new sources of dilithium are at stake.” She finally turned toward Harry. “What!”

“Sulu was on the Enterprise when they intercepted us on the way to Ophiucus III,” whispered Harry.

“Is there a problem, Ms. McHuron?” Sulu asked.

“No, not at all. I was simply discussing with my pilot how we might avoid incidents such as this in the future.” Eve flashed her best smile. “Captain Sulu, I never had the chance to thank you all those years ago. If it hadn’t been for our fortuitous encounter with the Enterprise, we most certainly would’ve died. You saved all our lives.”

“Saved our lives!” Harry’s voice boomed. He wasn’t whispering anymore. He stomped over next to Eve, in full view of the Excelsior’s bridge. “If it wasn’t for him and the Enterprise, we never would’ve been in any danger.”

She clenched her jaw. She wasn’t going to punch him. She was going to kill him.

“Harry Mudd,” Sulu said in dismay. “Ms. McHuron, are you sure you’re not in any danger? Has this man taken you against your will?”

Eve laughed. “No, Captain Sulu. I’m quite safe. On occasion, I contract Mister Mudd for transportation when I want to keep a low profile. Very low.” She cast Harry a look of disgust. “I can assure you the only person Mister Mudd poses any danger to is himself. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve wasted enough of your time, and we’re on a tight schedule. You can contact my company, and they’ll fill you in on the details of our flight plan as well as the planet where we believe significant dilithium deposits exist.”

Sulu was silent, perhaps deciding whether or not to believe her story. Her heart began to beat a little faster. She hadn’t lied—not completely anyway. In the event of the very circumstance she was confronting right now, she’d filed a flight plan back at Childress and the name of a planet. Of course, the planet was in a system several light-years away from the one she was actually going to.

“Very good, Ms. McHuron,” Sulu said after what seemed like an eternity. “We’ll check with your company. You’re free to go. Safe journey, and don’t hesitate to contact us if you need anything.”

Eve released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you, Captain. Stella Signata out.”

“Whew, that was close,” remarked Harry after the screen went blank. “I must admit, I had my doubts, but you came through like a charm, my girl.” He patted her shoulder and gave her a smile of paternal pride that disappeared the moment she punched him in the gut.

Eve wondered if Harry’s buyer had deliberately chosen the dreariest part of Phocis Harju V as a meeting place. Since they’d landed on the M-class planet and disembarked from the Stella Signata, they’d encountered little more than thick fog and constant lightning flashes from every direction. She had yet to see any greenery. It was all jagged rock and sheer cliff faces. There was no sign of humanoid life, according to Harry’s old-as-dirt tricorder that was strapped across her torso. Yet she didn’t feel alone, and she wasn’t talking about Harry, who was so close he was literally breathing down her neck. It felt like they were being watched.

Eve was convinced the feeling was related to the giant crystals that grew everywhere around them. They stretched upward as high as three to five meters and emitted a ghostly light that oscillated irregularly but seemed to speed up whenever she got closer. Even more unsettling was the howling noise. As first she’d thought it was the wind, but there was very little wind here. She soon realized it was the crystals making the banshee-like sound.

“On the upside, at least we won’t have to find him in a crowd,” Harry said as they started making their way around a large rock.

“Don’t you know what he looks like?”

Harry gave a sheepish grin. “I can’t rightly say. I’ve never seen him.”

“Geez, Harry. What do you know about him?”

“It’s for the best. Like I said, in my line of work—”

“ ‘You learn not to ask too many questions,’ ” Eve mimicked. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But you could’ve at least gotten better directions than ‘walk north until you run into me,’ especially when we can’t see anything through this fog. The tricorder still isn’t picking up any—” Suddenly, the status display on the tricorder went blank and all the indicators stopped blinking. Eve stared at the dead hunk of junk. Had the damn thing finally conked out? She slapped the side of it with her hand, for no reason other than that’s what everyone did with malfunctioning equipment.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your tricorder is—” The wail of the crystals turned into a full-blown scream. A strong burst of wind struck Eve. She shivered against its chill and felt her flesh prickle.

“WHAT IS YOUR PETITION?” a resonant voice called through the fog. It seemed to come from all around. Eve looked in every direction, but could find no body to put to the voice. The wind became even stronger.

“Petition?” Eve yelled into the growing cyclone. “We have no petition. We came here because we were summoned here.” The wind at once subsided, and the crystals quieted enough that she could hear footsteps coming toward them from the other side of the rock they’d been walking around.

“Maybe we should find another route. I don’t think I like this one,” said Harry. She felt him pulling away. She quickly turned and grabbed his arm before he could take off back the way they’d come.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Right as she turned back in the direction of the footsteps, a tall and lanky figure appeared around the bend of rock. He was humanoid, although his skin was considerably paler and oilier than the skin of any human Eve had met. He had a shock of gray hair that erupted from the sides of his head. The top was mostly bald. He wore a green-and-black robe. His eyes were fierce and wild, like eons had passed since they’d last seen civilization.

“Welcome,” the figure said, this time without the godlike echo of his last statement. “You must be Harcourt Fenton Mudd.” He gave Harry a broad smile.

“I-I-I am,” said Harry, his voice rising a full octave on the last word. His body was pressed so tightly against the rock face, he seemed to want to disappear into it. “But you may call me Harry.”

“Very good,” the green-and-black figure said, and then turned toward Eve. “And you are?”

“Eve McHuron. I have the item you seek. Harry was a little sketchy on details, though. Do you have a name?”

“I am Portal 57. You may deliver the item to me.” He reached out his gloved hand from beneath his robe, his palm open and waiting.

Odd name, thought Eve. It sounded more like a place. “Before I can give you the item, Mister . . . um . . . 57, I need to know more about your intentions. The Genesis device is very dangerous.”

Harry was suddenly pressed against her back, breathing into her ear. “What are you doing? Just give the nice man the data crystal so he can pay us, and we can be on our way.”

“I need to be certain what he’s using it for. Why else do you think I came?”

“A perfectly reasonable request, Eve McHuron,” Portal said. “Follow me.” He turned and began walking back the way he’d come. Eve and Harry followed.

Portal led them up to a cliff face that extended at least fifteen meters high. He stopped and looked up as if their journey would continue up and over. Eve could find no steps or ladders, and the surface of the rock was far too sheer to climb without equipment. She was about to suggest finding an alternate route when Portal walked straight into the mass of rock and disappeared. Eve and Harry exchanged looks of shock.

A disembodied voice drifted out from the cliff face. “Are you coming?”

Eve stepped through the wall just as Portal had done and emerged into a cavernous room that extended up almost as high as the cliff face. The first thing that caught her eye was a large holographic display of a star, glowing with a green hue. It must’ve had a circumference of ten meters. The room itself was filled with computer terminals and lab equipment. It was all situated on metal platforms layered against the cavern wall. The platforms were connected by a system of stairs and ramps. Against the back wall, Eve spotted a symbol or insignia of some kind emblazoned on the rock—an image of a green flame. Much to her surprise, it looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. There were smaller doors against the back wall, and Eve could only wonder where they led. She moved to walk farther inside, but Portal’s arm shot out from under his robe with preternatural quickness, blocking her path.

“I’m afraid I can let you go no farther,” explained Portal. “I hope what I have shown you is sufficient to allay your fears.”

“Of course it is,” Harry said nervously. “There’s the star, and there’s all the research equipment. What more could you ask for? Their word is good as gold as far as I’m concerned.”

Eve had to admit, all of this was impressive. Harry was right for once: Aside from actually visiting their system and seeing their star-gone-nova in person, what more could she ask for? Still, she couldn’t help the bad feeling swimming around in her gut. Something about the green flame symbol . . .

“Well?” Portal prompted. Eve reached into her breast pocket, took out the data crystal, and thrust it toward Portal, who, with another burst of inhuman speed, swiped it from her grasp. It disappeared beneath the folds of his robe. She then gave him the encryption code. “Return to your ship. When we confirm you’ve delivered what we asked for, payment will be delivered.” Before either Eve or Harry could speak, Portal had disappeared into the shadows of the room.

“I guess that’s that,” said Harry. “Best be on our way.”

As they passed through the holographic veneer of rock and started back the way they’d come, Eve knew beyond any doubt that she’d made a mistake. She suddenly wished she’d never agreed to this. She wanted to be back at her company, working alongside her team. It was hard, relentless, and deadly work. Eve often joked that the only thing more difficult than extracting dilithium was finding people willing to do it. Other governments came by the labor through less-than-reputable means. The Klingons used prisoners, the Rura Penthe penal colony being the most famous example. It was rumored the Breen used slaves. Yet, despite the difficulty and risks that had ultimately killed her husband, she found it fulfilling. She was making a difference, a good one. She wasn’t handing over the most dangerous weapon ever developed to a person she didn’t even know.

After they’d gone past the rock where they’d encountered Portal, Eve lifted the tricorder and, on a whim, decided to test it again. It came back to life with the rhythmic chirping and blinking of its scans. It wasn’t broken. It had simply stopped working moments before encountering Portal.

Remembering the green flame icon she’d seen on the wall, she used the tricorder to access the computer on Harry’s craft. By the time they’d reached the Stella Signata, she’d found the information she was seeking. It wasn’t good . . .

“Harry,” she said as he started up the landing ramp. She stayed at the bottom. “We have to go back and take Genesis from Portal.” Harry came to a dead stop halfway up the ramp. Wearing a look of profound bewilderment, he turned slowly to face her.

“I’m sorry, Evey. But could you repeat that? It sure sounded like you said, ‘We have to go back and take Genesis from Portal.’ There’s no way you would say such a thing, because it would definitely interfere with his plans to pay me.” Harry’s voice had settled into a growl of disgust by the time he’d finished speaking.

“Remember the green flame icon on the wall? It’s from the Tkon Empire—an ancient and powerful civilization that collapsed after the sun in their home system went nova.”

Harry walked back down, shaking his head in disbelief along the way. “Are you suggesting Portal is from the Tkon Empire? That’s preposterous. The Tkon Empire existed over . . . over . . .” His eyes rolled up into his head as he sought a figure in vain. “The point is, they existed a very long time ago.”

“Six hundred thousand years,” said Eve.

“Exactly. Not even the Genesis device can save an empire that’s been dead for six hundred millennia.”

“You know as well as I do time travel is possible. It’s dangerous, but when you’re desperate, you do dangerous things.” Eve winced at her words. They hit too close to home.

“Am I supposed to believe this Portal person has been here all this time, waiting for the right piece of technology to come along?” Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ve never met anyone who lived six hundred thousand years, and I’ve met my share of humanoid life forms.”

“I don’t think he’s humanoid. I think he just looks that way.” Still, Eve had to admit Harry’s point. How would a being secluded on this planet, even an immortal one, find his way to knowledge of Genesis? He would almost certainly need help.

“Let’s say you’re right,” he said. “So what if he’s trying to save his long-dead empire? How does that affect us now?”

“Think about it, Harry. The Tkon Empire was one of the most advanced civilizations our galaxy has ever seen. If they don’t collapse when they’re supposed to, it could change the course of history. The Federation might never exist. You might never exist.”

Harry stared at her, realization then fear passing across his eyes. While empathy wasn’t his strong suit, self-preservation most certainly was. “Even if we wanted to, how could we stop him now?”

“I have a code that will corrupt all data contained within the storage crystal, even after it’s been downloaded. Unfortunately, we’ll have to do it from inside the facility.”

“From inside?” Harry said in disbelief. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“I’ll have to figure it out once I get there.”

Harry gave an incredulous laugh. “Well, don’t expect me to follow you. Portal didn’t strike me as the sort who would respond well to being reneged on.”

Eve nodded. “Fine. I wasn’t expecting you to come anyway.”

“What?” Harry asked in shock.

“I need you to stay behind. The tricorder stopped working the moment we got near Portal. You’ll have to be my eyes and ears from here.”

Harry was silent for a long moment, and Eve could see the gears turning behind his eyes. “If you have to do this, could you make sure he’s paid me first before you wipe out the data?”

Equipped with another data crystal containing the code, a communicator, and an old type-2 phaser she took with her whenever she ventured far from home, Eve stood before the fake cliff face, trying to determine where the hologram ended and the real cliff began. As she walked, her hand moved through the illusion of rock like it was passing through a thick fog.

“Ouch,” she yelped as her palm struck something cold and hard. She removed her hand and began shaking and flexing it. She cursed herself both for walking too fast and for making such a loud noise. Her eyes darted every which way, looking for movement. All was still and quiet. She lifted the communicator to her lips and whispered, “Are you picking up any life signs, Harry?”

“No,” came the hoarse reply. “But my scans can’t penetrate the rock. I don’t know what’s going on inside.”

“Understood,” Eve replied. It was now or never. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped into the rock face.

When she emerged on the other side, before she opened her eyes, she heard a familiar voice, one from many years ago. It echoed through the cavernous room as if on loud speaker. It wasn’t talking to her, though. It wasn’t even aware of her. She opened her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d managed to conceal herself against the wall and underneath the shadow of one of the platforms above.

In the middle of the room, where the holographic star had once stood, was a new image and the source of the familiar voice: James T. Kirk. Standing on the bridge of the Enterprise in his admiral’s uniform, he was giving an overview of the Genesis project and discussing the destroyed Genesis planet. His image wasn’t the only one. It was sharing the holographic display with image records of experiments, results, formulas, equations, and enough classified Starfleet material to make a room full of admirals blush. Staring her in the face was the sum total of everything Genesis—all the contents of the data crystal, which was sitting below the holographic display inside a data reader. She couldn’t believe her luck. Would it really be that easy?

She looked around the cavern. There was no sign of Portal. She took a hesitant step forward, out of the shadow. She looked around again. Still nothing other than the thrumming and blinking of machinery. She took another step forward and then another, until she was walking at a brisk pace toward the data reader where light beams were scanning the data crystal and transferring its information to the holographic emitters. It would be a simple matter to lift the old crystal from the circular pedestal and replace it with the new one, which would corrupt any Genesis data once it was scanned.

She was close enough to touch the crystal when it felt like she was broadsided by a Rigellian ox. Her body went skidding across the rock floor. Once she stopped and was able to stagger up into a kneeling position, the room went spinning again with another impact that sent pain shooting everywhere in her body. She was thrown through the rock veneer and into the dreary environment outside the cavern room.

This time, instead of trying to get back up, she remained splayed out on the ground, her battered body unwilling to move. She’d be lucky if all her bones and organs were intact. She looked down her body, toward the cliff face, and saw Portal. He was carrying a halberd in his right hand. She pulled the phaser from the loop on her belt and, aiming as best she could through the pain-induced haze around her head, pulled the trigger. The blue beam screamed toward its target but then peeled off at an impossible angle. It ended up striking one of the tall, singing crystals, whose luminescence increased as it absorbed the phaser’s energy.

“Eve, what’s going on?” Harry’s voice crackled over the communicator. “Who are you shooting at?”

“Portal,” she coughed out hoarsely. “Aren’t you detecting him?”

“I’m only detecting one life sign,” said Harry. “Yours.” Eve’s blood ran cold. So was he a ghost? Or was he another hologram? She only knew there was nothing fake about the bruises and cuts all over her body or the axe blade glistening under the lightning flashes.

“WHY HAVE YOU RETURNED?” demanded Portal, speaking with the godlike resonance that seemed to come from every direction.

“I can’t leave you with the Genesis plans,” she said. “They’re too dangerous.”

“Only dangerous to enemies of the Empire. Are you an enemy of the Empire?”

“No. Your empire has been dead for six hundred thousand years. So are its enemies.”

Portal’s face became a mask of rage. “Liar! The Empire is forever.”

“Eve,” Harry said again, “there’s someone else coming out of the cliff. It’s definitely human. Oh my God, I think it’s—” The communicator went dead.

Taking the halberd between both hands, Portal began walking toward Eve with a menacing step. A second figure came up behind him, emerging from the cavern room just as Harry had reported. The figure rushed toward Portal, waving her hands and screaming, “Portal, wait! Stop.” The long black hair that trailed behind her as she ran was a phantom from Eve’s distant past. Once the woman’s face came into view, Eve knew beyond any doubt that the two of them had shared the same life a lifetime ago.

“Ruth,” Eve whispered.

“I left Herm a few months ago. Just couldn’t take it anymore,” explained Ruth Bonaventure. Eve was sitting on a surprisingly plush couch inside one of the back rooms she couldn’t see into earlier. She was drinking a cup of hot tea, letting its warmth soothe her aching body.

“I’m sorry,” Eve said. Even in her current beaten state, she was sincere. Ruth looked every bit as broken and beaten down as Eve felt. Her exotic beauty was still there, but time and circumstance had hardened it.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who stayed with him for twenty years. As bad as he was, I guess he was better than the backwater farming planet I came from and all the flea-ridden ports and stations Harry used to drag us to. At least Herm was rich.” Ruth cradled her teacup between two hands, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. Her legs were folded up underneath her.

“When did Herm change?”

Ruth laughed a joyless laugh. “Oh, sweetie. He never changed. He was always that way, even back when he and Ben were working together on Rigel XII. It got worse whenever the Venus drug would wear off and we couldn’t get a replacement shipment in time. Once the Federation really cracked down on the drug, the supply dried up completely. The drug disappeared. That’s when things got really bad. I wonder how many other women suffered. Unintended consequences, I suppose.” Ruth took a sip from the cup. “How did you and Ben keep the supply going?”

“We didn’t. We talked about it, discussed what we were really looking for in a relationship, and never wanted it again.” Eve at once regretted her words. She should’ve found a more tactful way around the question.

“I guess some of us are luckier than others.” Ruth gave a wan smile, but her eyes betrayed deep pain.

Eve needed to change the subject. “How did you wind up here?”

“It’s ironic, really. Herm was obsessed with the Tkon Empire. He attended seminars and conferences. He became an amateur historian on the subject. I would let him talk to me about it for hours. Not because I was interested in it. Boring as hell, if you ask me. It’s just that he was happiest when talking about the Tkon.

“A few months ago, when I decided I’d finally had enough, I stole one of his shuttles. It was his favorite—outfitted with all the crap he used on his Tkon archaeological digs.” There was a gleam of joy in her eyes as she admitted to the crime. “I guess that’s how I ended up here, in space that once belonged to their Empire. I chose some random coordinates in the navigation computer. I didn’t care where I was going. I never meant to land here, but I was pulled down by all this ancient equipment.” Her arm motioned toward the door and cavern beyond. “Those crystals out there drain energy like nothing else. After I landed, it wasn’t long before Portal showed up.”

“He’s keeping you hostage, isn’t he?” Eve asked, keeping her voice as low as possible.

Ruth threw back her head and let out the loudest laugh Eve had ever heard. “Not at all. Portal doesn’t know a wild pig from a Tellarite. He was asleep until I came along. He still thinks the Tkon Empire is the big thing in the galaxy.”

Why was Ruth being so cavalier? Did she not know what was going on? Had Herm driven her to the edge of sanity as well as the edge of the Federation?

“Do you know what Portal is planning?”

“Of course I do. Who do you think gave him the idea? You weren’t the only mining company Carol Marcus approached. Herm just never had your foresight.”

Eve shook her head in disbelief. Lukewarm tea sloshed into her lap, and she realized her hands were trembling. “Don’t you realize it could mean death for the Federation?”

“I’m counting on it,” Ruth said casually, taking another sip.

“But . . . why? Why would you want to destroy the crowning achievement of humanity just to spite one man?”

Ruth’s gaze hardened into steel daggers. She jumped up from the couch and threw her teacup against the far wall. It exploded in a cloud of tiny porcelain shards. Dark fluid dripped down the rock wall and onto the floor. “This isn’t about Herm!” she screamed. “He’s a little man who got lucky in life. He’s not worth another minute of my time. It may have taken me over twenty years to learn that, but it’s the truth. He’s nothing.”

The door whisked open. Portal walked through, still carrying the halberd and dragging Harry by the arm. With a hard push, Portal sent his fat captive stumbling into the room. The doors closed behind them.

“I decided he was better off in here than out there,” explained Portal.

“Speaking of men who are nothing,” cackled Ruth as Harry fell past her.

“Nice to see you again too, Ruthie,” replied Harry, rubbing his arm gingerly where Portal had grabbed it.

“I’m not doing this because of Harry, either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ruth, looking at Eve. “I’m doing this because of the Federation, their hypocrisy. Oh, they preach lofty ideals about doing away with money and replacing it with a philosophy of self-improvement. And who can really argue? Poverty, hunger, and want on Earth have been eliminated. The Federation provides all basic needs and so much more. Why, everything you could possibly want is no more than a push of a button away. There’s no need to compete for resources. War has been eliminated. Crime is so rare, it’s barely worth mentioning. It’s heaven on Earth.

“But, you see, nothing is ever truly free. All of humanity’s accomplishments wouldn’t be possible without those magic rocks you wear on your ears. And you of all people know how difficult and dangerous it is to get them. I heard about what happened to Ben. The same thing has happened to more dilithium miners than you can count. Eve, have you ever wondered why you seem to be so wealthy in a society where no one is supposed to be rich and no one is supposed to be poor? It’s because people willing to do the work you do are the scarcest resource around. The Federation doesn’t want to lose you, so they’ll let you openly defy the system. They’ll even look the other way when you break the law.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Eve.

“No, it isn’t,” replied Harry. “I hate to say it, but Ruthie is right. I tried to sell you, Magda, and Ruth to some lithium miners, who were willing buyers. Human trafficking is illegal everywhere in the Federation for both seller and buyer. Always has been. Yet none of your husbands was ever punished.”

“It’s like Kirk said, we were far away from civilization,” insisted Eve.

“So was I,” said Harry. “That didn’t stop the Federation from tracking me down and sending me to prison. But, then, I don’t mine dilithium.”

“And the Federation didn’t lift a finger to help me, despite Herm’s abuse,” added Ruth.

“The Federation?” Portal asked. “I learned of them in the data crystal Eve McHuron provided. Are they enemies of the Empire? Because they made no mention of the Tkon in any of their recordings.”

Ruth sighed and rolled her eyes. “Get a clue, Portal. It’s been at least six hundred thousand years since you were last activated. I know you believe your Empire is forever, but do the math: What do you think the odds are it’s still around?” She took a deep breath, and her voice was softer when she spoke again. “How much longer until Genesis is ready for launch?”

“A few minutes.”

“What? A few minutes?” Eve asked incredulously. “How could he possibly fix Genesis so quickly?”

“Most of Genesis’s problems were self-inflicted. Protomatter had been deliberately placed in the matrix,” explained Portal.

“You’d be surprised how much easier things are when you have all the knowledge of an ancient, hyperadvanced civilization rolling around in your memory banks,” said Ruth.

“Ruth, you can’t do this,” begged Eve.

“Watch me.”

Eve was at a loss for words. She glanced helplessly at Harry, her eyes begging him to say something, anything that might make Ruth change her mind.

“I’m sorry, love,” Harry said. “Ruthie is absolutely right about the Federation. I’m tired of answering to them. Let them burn, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Smartest thing you’ve ever said, Harry,” Ruth said. “I detest you a little less right now.”

“I must prepare the launch,” said Portal, moving to take Harry with him.

“You don’t need to take him. I’m a big girl. Besides, he won’t give us any trouble. He sees things our way.”

“As you wish. If you need me, you know how to summon me.” Portal turned and was gone through the rockface door.

Eve collapsed onto the couch, doubled over at the waist, and buried her face in her arms. How had it gotten this bad? Would she be responsible for the death of the Federation? It would be easy to blame Harry, but it wouldn’t be right. When she was young, she was taught to believe she had no value beyond what her beauty offered. That’s why she’d taken the Venus drug. That’s why she’d allowed herself to be bought and sold like chattel. Once she was able to leave that life behind, she vowed never to be that trite, preening china doll again. She set out to acquire all she could. Unfortunately, she’d taken it too far with Genesis. The moment she’d stolen Genesis for herself, she’d risked the very universal Armageddon she was facing now. She was the cause of all this. Harry was merely the means. Whatever happened from this point on, it would be her fault.

Eve’s dark thoughts were interrupted by a loud hiss, like the sound a hypospray made. Her head snapped up in time to see Ruth fall back into Harry, who laid her gently on the floor.

“Just a little tranquilizer,” he explained. “Ruthie will be fine. I don’t know what you have planned, but you better do it soon.”

Eve stared in disbelief. “So you didn’t mean what you said? It was all an act to gain her trust?”

Harry laughed. “There’s more truth to what Ruthie said than most people are willing to admit, but I’m not ready to destroy civilization over it.” Harry reached into the vest Ruth was wearing and pulled out a type-2 phaser. “I believe this is yours.”

Eve took the pistol and went quickly through the door. Like last time, she stayed within the shadows against the rock wall, and saw no sign of Portal. Unfortunately, unlike last time, she had no plan. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for anything that resembled a torpedo launcher. If she could find it, she could use her phaser to disable or, better yet, destroy the Genesis device before it was launched.

She glanced up at the holographic display in the middle of the room and felt her heart sink into her stomach. Not only had the torpedo launched, it had already performed a slingshot maneuver around a star, which had sent it hurtling back through time six hundred thousand years. The cavern was still receiving telemetry from the torpedo, probably through subspace communication waves being slingshotted back around the same star. That being the case, perhaps she could disrupt its flight path or even destroy it from here.

Unfortunately, this technology was unknown to her. She supposed she could start indiscriminately blasting pieces of equipment and hope she hit something like a guidance computer. If the phaser beam performed the strange acrobatics it had performed outside, she could set it to overload and take out the entire cavern.

“You can’t stop it,” a voice close behind her said.

Eve gasped and spun around to find Portal there, unarmed for a change. She quickly recomposed herself. “I have to try.” Her words sounded so forceful and confident, they surprised even her. She gripped the phaser around its nozzle and twisted. It began humming in a way that would grow louder as the energy built to a forced chamber explosion.

Portal smiled. “You’re a worthy adversary, Eve McHuron. I admire your conviction. However, before you destroy this cavern and yourself along with it, you should keep watching the holodisplay.” He made his way to the display, forcing her to follow him there with her eyes. He adjusted the controls on the projector, and additional data displays popped up, translated into Standard for her benefit. One of the displays provided information about the target star.

Her eyes quickly scanned the data. “Impossible,” she said over the ever-growing hum. She was no stellar cartographer or astrophysicist, but if the displays were correct, the torpedo wasn’t approaching the remnants of a nova explosion. It was speeding at high warp toward a perfectly healthy star.

“As you know, Genesis can revitalize a dying system. Or it can destroy a healthy one. Our star is perfectly healthy, but it won’t be once the torpedo hits it. If you want to preserve your history, the torpedo must complete its mission.”

Eve shook her head. “No, I don’t buy it. This is a trick.” The hum of her phaser had grown into a deafening whine.

Harry rushed out into the main room, his hands clasped over his ears. “What the devil is that sound?” His eyes widened with fear once he realized the noise was coming from the weapon in Eve’s hand. “Evey, what are you doing?”

She backed away quickly as Harry moved to grab the phaser.

“I promise you it’s no trick, but it’s your choice,” Portal said. “You can think I’m lying and die, or trust me and live.”

The noise told her she had thirty seconds at most. So many conflicting thoughts, so many conflicting feelings. Which ones was she supposed to trust? Out of all the noise inside and outside her brain, one thought elevated itself above all others: Whatever Portal may have been, he was first and foremost the guardian of a proud and respected empire. He was a protector of its knowledge and customs. He was no liar. She gripped the phaser nozzle, which had become unbearably hot, and twisted as hard as she could. Through the searing pain, the nozzle eventually gave. She kept twisting until the whine began diminishing.

“Thank God,” Harry said airily once the noise had died down completely. His knees were shaking, and his clothes were soaked in sweat.

Eve watched the holodisplay in silence. It wasn’t long before the Genesis torpedo reached the surface of the target star. That’s where the telemetry went dead. Eve had no visual evidence to confirm the star going nova. She had only her continued existence here, which seemed to be a good indication the Federation still existed and nothing had changed in the past.

“I don’t understand,” Eve said to Portal.

“It was Genesis that caused the Tkon star to go nova six hundred thousand years ago. The Tkon Empire vanquished virtually all of its enemies. It was a misbegotten attempt to save it that caused its destruction.” He gave her a smile, but it couldn’t hide the pain behind his eyes.

“Why didn’t you try to stop it just now?”

“I came to realize how long I’d been asleep and how much the galaxy had changed in my absence. I didn’t have the right to undo six hundred thousand years of history. It would be selfish, and selfishness is not the Tkon way.”

Eve wanted to thank him, but she knew no words were sufficient for the sacrifice he’d just made. “What would you have us do with you and this place?”

“I have only one request.”

“Where will you take me?” The question hung in the air, thick as the Phocis Harju fog. Ruth was standing at the top of the landing ramp, staring down at Eve. The engines whined as Harry started the launch cycle.

Eve laughed. “I’m not turning you in to Starfleet, if that’s what you’re asking. You can stay with me until we figure something out.”

“Seems odd you’d let me walk away scot-free after what I tried to do.”

“Maybe.” Eve looked out at the gloomy landscape one final time. “But then we’d have to tell Federation about this place, and I’m not going to do that. I have a promise to keep. Portal needs to sleep.”

STAR TREK:

THE NEXT GENERATION®

A CHRISTMAS QAROL

Gary Piserchio & Frank Tagader

Stave One

Q LOOKED INSIDE the ancient but painstakingly restored Millennium Dome in London, watching Captain Jean-Luc Picard stand before nearly three thousand inferior races from across the Federation. Q had little interest in them, but Jean-Luc always managed to pique his curiosity. The starship captain spoke on a topic to which the human was uncomfortably close. Q felt the tension in Jean-Luc’s body.

“To date, there is no known antidote,” he said, looking out at the somber gathering. His right eye twitched. Q was amazed that the man still felt the prosthetic, now a phantom long past, adhered to the right side of his face. Picard tensed and started to lift a hand to his face, but the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise was stronger than that, and he resisted the urge. Q nodded, feeling something akin to human respect for the man. But, no, that was far too strong a word. Q wondered what the word was for when a human feels that his pet has performed admirably. Ah, well, that wasn’t important at the moment.

Picard smiled and moved toward a fairly young human child sitting in a propulsion chair. Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor for the U.S.S. Enterprise, stood behind the chair and rested her hands lightly on Timothy’s shoulders. The child was debilitated, which was odd in this age. But Q knew why the child was stricken. Just as he knew the next words the starship captain was going to speak.

“There is no antidote,” repeated Picard, “but sometimes there is a cure.” The child smiled up at him. “The crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise rescued Timothy from the Borg nearly six months ago. He’d been part of the Collective for over three years. Doctor Beverly Crusher managed to remove the Borg nanites and began the process of mending his body, replacing the heinous prosthetics of the Borg”—the captain’s eye twitched again—“with prosthetics that Timothy can control and enjoy in his day-to-day life.

“Of course, it’s not his body that concerns us most, but rather his mind and spirit.” Picard began to reach for the boy, intending to put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder, but he stopped. The child leaned slightly toward the starship captain. No one else noticed, except for the Vulcan contingent, but Q saw Jean-Luc move a few millimeters away when the boy leaned in. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commander of the flagship of the Federation, a human who had faced countless perils, many of them life-threatening. In fact, because of his knowledge of the Borg, he had led the away team that rescued the young boy. The man threw himself into the face of danger for the greater good time and time again—blah blah yawn. Yet he was uncomfortable around children.

Q smiled, an idea springing to his prodigious mind. He looked up from the Millennium Dome at the snow swirling through the city and coating the rooftops and trees along the avenues. It reminded Q of an ancient Earth toy composed of a heavy lead-glass sphere filled with water, a ceramic Earth scene of banal inconsequence, and bits of porcelain that roiled in the water when shaken. A snow globule or some such nonsense. And according to the ancient calendar called Gregorian, it was December on Earth. It was almost too perfect.

Picard continued. “It’s up to us to mend him wholly. Completely. In a few moments, when we’ve finished here, we’ll take Timothy to the U.S.S. Pasteur, where the finest medical staff, aside from the Enterprise’s, of course”—there was polite laughter from the attendees, except from the Vulcan contingent—“ will take personal responsibility for this young man’s reintroduction to humanity.”

“Will you be there too?” said Timothy, his voice anxious.

Jean-Luc Picard’s had been the first human face the boy had seen when coming out of the medically induced coma after his first operations on the Enterprise. Q could feel Picard squirm on the inside while he remained as composed as ever on the outside. “Well, you see, Timothy. As a starship captain I have certain responsibilities that—”

Troi knelt next to the boy on the other side of the chair from Picard. “Timothy,” she said in soft tones, “Captain Picard would very much like to be with you for your rehabilitation, but he has important work to do for the Federation. I’m sure he’ll visit you as often as he can.”

“Yes! Yes, of course I’ll visit. Often!” Timothy looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything. Picard looked back to the audience and cleared his throat before saying, “As we take this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”

Q stood up in the front row and clapped slowly. Picard looked in his direction and anger flashed in his eyes. It would be no fun at all if he didn’t get that rise out of the human.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

“Why, mon capitaine, I’ve come to delight in the holiday festivities of Earth. The holly, the ivy, the plum pudding, and, let us never forget, the wassail. I was feeling especially altruistic and thought I would share the bounty of Q with humanity at this special time of year.”

Q felt Picard seething, but the human’s demeanor remained relatively calm.

“Ah, I see someone is lacking in the Christmas spirit,” Q said with a smirk. “Yes, perhaps that’s what we need around here.”

“Q, I haven’t the patience to deal with your frivolous ploys right now.”

“ ‘Frivolous ploys’? I seek to bring enlightenment, love, and redemption to humanity.” Q sniffed as though smelling something distasteful.

“Redemption? You don’t know the first thing about redemption.”

“Perhaps the concept is beneath my vastly superior intellect. But it is not beneath yours. And so, like Father Hanukkah—” Q paused. “That doesn’t sound right. Is that right? Well, it doesn’t matter. I am here to bring joy and happiness to the masses. How about we start with this little one?” Q disappeared from the front row and reappeared next to Timothy. Before Picard could react, Q snapped his fingers. The clumsy prosthetics and grafts disappeared instantly to reveal whole limbs and flesh. Timothy’s eyes lit up, and a grin sprang to his face as he straightened first one leg and then the other.

“See, Jean-Luc? I’m already spreading cheer. Now, Timothy, why don’t you go out and play in the snow like a good lad.”

Not quite sure of his new limbs, Timothy stood slowly. Troi helped him up, but he was able to stand on his own. He turned around and beamed at Q. An anxious murmur rose from the attendees, except from the Vulcan contingent.

“Stop meddling, Q,” said Picard, his voice low and full of threat. Q found it childish and delightful.

“Now, Jean-Luc, was that not the more compassionate answer for the boy? Instead of years of painful surgery, rehabilitation, and physical therapy, I give him but a small gift of Q. One should learn to not look a gift Q in the mouth, dear captain. Where is your compassion?”

“Another concept I find hard to believe you understand. Stay out of the affairs of humanity.”

“Exactly right, Jean-Luc, because humanity should be your business.”

Captain Picard closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Now I understand. You’ve discovered Dickens.”

“Discovered?” Q practically yelled. “If it wasn’t for me, I’ll have you know, that insignificant human would never have been published, let alone remembered.”

Picard opened his eyes. “You want me to believe you influenced Charles Dickens?”

“Influenced? I practically wrote all of his works. Your naiveté astounds me at times, Jean-Luc. Do you honestly believe a human could have written so many pieces that have survived the ages?”

Picard looked up toward the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Darkness descended, obscuring all except Q, who commanded his own spotlight.

Instead of seeing the inside of the Millennium Dome, Picard saw stars. For a moment, it looked like the dome had turned to glass. Snowflakes fell, but they didn’t look real at first until one touched his face and melted. The captain looked back at the stage—Troi and Timothy were gone. Turning, he saw the audience and seats replaced with people bustling along narrow streets and alleys. Their clothing changed from utilitarian temperature-regulating jumpsuits and uniforms to waistcoats, petticoats, top hats, scarves, and gloves.

Gone was the refurbished late-twentieth-century arena. Instead, there was the sudden cacophony of a busy thoroughfare with the interaction of street vendors and their customers, the raucous conversations of friends. Horses pulling wagons and hansom cabs clickety-clopped across cobblestones. From somewhere a choir sang a Christmas carol. The air was cold, and Picard tasted and smelled the soot of burning wood and coal mixed with the festive odors of fresh pine boughs and cooking food.

Beside him, Q said, “Strange, isn’t it? Seeing your beloved home so changed like this? But what better setting for a ghost story.”

Picard sighed. “Don’t tell me. I’ll be visited by three spirits.”

“Four, actually. Don’t forget about poor Marley. I thought he was a rather smart invention of mine.”

“And if I refuse to go along with your bizarre antics?”

“Antics, Jean-Luc? You disappoint me. You have so much still to learn. You should be honored that I am gracious enough to bestow more knowledge upon you, whether or not you’re capable of actually understanding any of it.”

“The story is about compassion and redemption. I hardly think you are the one to teach anyone about those ideas.” There was anger in Picard’s voice. He took a step toward Q, who smiled and snapped his fingers.

Stave Two

Q found himself at a wooden desk, sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden chair. Before him were several stacks of English coins and a giant black-leather-bound ledger with columns of figures written in tiny, careful strokes. In his right hand was a pen recently dipped in ink. His fingertips were stained black from dabbing and cleaning the nib.

“Excuse me, sir.” The growl of the voice was all too familiar. Q looked up slowly from the ledger. Worf, looking ridiculous in Victorian pants, waistcoat, jacket, and scarf, stood before Q. “After all, it is Christmas Eve, sir. And begging your pardon, sir, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

“Who are you talking to?” Q said to Worf.

The Klingon looked confused for a moment. “Well, I’m talking to you, Mister Scrooge,” he said, his voice gruff with modest good cheer—for a Klingon.

Q blinked a few times. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. He felt, not fear, that was impossible, but something that almost approximated disquiet. But before he had time to consider his situation, the front door of the counting-house banged open. It was Riker, dressed in a finer raiment of Victorian clothing.

“A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!”

Q stared at the first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise. What was going on? He looked around the counting-house. Everything was as it should be: Worf working by candlelight, cold from the lack of coal; Riker as Scrooge’s cheerful and addlepated nephew. But where was Jean-Luc? He was supposed to be Ebenezer Scrooge. Q didn’t know what had gone wrong, but it was easily remedied. He snapped his fingers.

Riker, still with that dim-witted grin on his face, looked to Worf. “Merry Christmas, Mister Cratchit.”

“And a very Merry Christmas to you, good sir,” said the Klingon, baring his fang-like teeth in a grotesque smile, sickeningly full of Christmas spirit.

Q slowly looked down at himself. As he suspected, he was dressed in Victorian garb as well—the same ensemble as he had picked out for Jean-Luc. Everything in the counting-house was exactly as he had planned, down to the smallest detail. The only problem was that he seemed to be stuck in the starring role. Not that he minded being the center of attention, but not like this. The disquieted feeling grew. He had to get out of here. Find someplace to himself to think.

Q all but lunged from his chair, knocking it back. It clattered against the wall. “Out of my way, Riker.” Q pushed past the first officer. He ran—no, that was not correct; Q did not run. He moved in a decisive manner out into the frigid London evening. Q could see his breath. There was snow on the ground. Icicles twinkled from the eaves of buildings that leaned together along the cobblestone street, which was riotous with horrible people. There was an unsettling commotion as these same people eagerly and anxiously tried to finish their Christmas provisioning. A woman and her baby stood near the doorway. She turned toward Q.

“A penny for the baby,” she said, brushing a strand of red hair from her face.

Q would have delighted at the sight of Beverly Crusher reduced to street beggar if he was not so confused by the fact that he didn’t seem to be in control. He walked on without saying a word to the doctor. Her baby began to wail.

“Shut up, Wesley,” she said sternly, tucking the threadbare gray blanket tighter around the infant.

What was going on? Q looked more closely at his surroundings. It was definitely London in the 1840s. The same London he had created only a few moments earlier. He peered closely at an exterior wall of a building. They were even the same atoms he had used for the construct. But he shouldn’t have been here as Scrooge. And he certainly shouldn’t have been here without his powers—well, his most important powers. He snapped his fingers again. Nothing. Yet he’d been able to see the atomic structure of his surroundings. He looked up into the light snowfall.

“Q, is that you?” he said.

He wouldn’t put it past Q to do something like this. They were always butting in where they didn’t belong. But what senses he had remaining to him told him this wasn’t Q. Something else was going on. Someone else was in control. Q shivered. He told himself it was from the cold, having left Scrooge’s overcoat back at the counting-house.

Around him, the closely packed street vendors and shops sold everything from unplucked geese to mulled wines, from toys and dolls to gemstones. The odors of both cooked and uncooked foods, washed and unwashed humans, assaulted his olfactory senses. Q felt quite lost and out of sorts amongst the hoard of Victorian humanity. And he did not care for that feeling in the least.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Q spun around as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was La Forge and Troi.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?” said the Betazoid, wearing a tightly corseted dress.

Q was several blocks from the counting-house of Scrooge and Marley. “This isn’t supposed to happen here.” This was supposed to happen in the counting-house, right after Scrooge’s nephew left. The story was adapting, but Q wasn’t sure what that meant or if it meant anything.

La Forge and Troi smiled at him, waiting for his answer. Q decided to test them.

“I’m Marley,” said Q.

The two glanced at each other and then back at Q.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?” said La Forge.

The players switched lines, but the lines stayed the same. Perhaps the players couldn’t ad-lib. The programming behind this was more archaic than even the clunky holodecks of which the humans were so proud. These “actors” were equipped with simple programs. Nothing more. And idiotic grins to match, like that of a simpleton or someone quite deranged. Q was certain that the sophistication of his situation was minimal.

“Few things are ever as simple as they appear, Q,” said Troi.

Q almost missed it because he was deep in thought. His eyes narrowed, and his head whipped around. “What did you say?”

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?”

Had he heard the Betazoid correctly? His disquiet grew even more. He snapped his fingers. Still nothing happened. La Forge and Troi continued to stare with simpering expressions. Would they wait forever for the correct response? Q could wait that long, and longer. “Forever” was an archaic concept to him. However, that would be far too boring, so Q dismissed the tactic.

He pointed a finger at the U.S.S. Enterprise’s chief engineer and its counselor. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. And whoever is doing this will pay dearly.”

Troi smiled, almost sadly, and shook her head.

“Go stuff yourselves.” Q turned and walked away from the duo, his boots crunching atop the thin layer of snow on the ground. He wasn’t going to play along. He was Q. He didn’t play along with anyone. He didn’t have to!

He turned into an alley, deciding to head east to see if he could find the boundaries of this pseudoworld. But it was the wrong way. The alley became dark. Pitch. Grumbling, he turned and found himself in a sitting room, a small Dutch fireplace before him.

“ ‘Paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures,’ ” said Q softly. There was a tiny glow from the meager amount of coal that Scrooge allowed himself.

Q spoke to the room in general. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Where’s Marley?”

“Behind you.”

Q approached a feeling that was not unlike being startled. Though to be startled would be absurd for him. He smiled and turned.

“Jean-Luc, I should have known. Okay, let’s have it. Oh, wait. That’s right. I start.” Q cleared his throat. “How now! What do you want with me?”

“Much!” said the apparition of Picard, his voice spectral.

The captain of the Enterprise was dressed appropriately in waistcoat, tights, boots, and even Marley’s pigtail. He was see-through, of course, and carried about him an impressive length of chain. It had the requisite padlocks and keys, but Q realized that in place of cash-boxes, ledgers, and purses, it had the whorls of galaxies, the spirals of DNA, and the frenzied orbits of electrons around dense nuclei.

“This is going to be a long night,” said Q.

“You have no idea,” said Picard. “You’d better sit down.”

Stave Three

Q tried the door again. Locked. He even attempted something so banal and menial as to put his shoulder into it. With a grunt and an uncharacteristic twinge of pain, he found it to be quite solid. There was no getting out of Scrooge’s apartment through the main door.

Sighing, he turned to the Picard/Marley ghost and said with little enthusiasm, “Mercy. Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“You’ve skipped a few pages, but no matter,” said Picard.

Q moved toward Jean-Luc and gestured toward the chain. “May I, oh spirit?”

Picard shrugged. “You’re supposed to ask me to sit down.”

Q hefted the chain in his hands. It was heavier than it looked. “Not exactly what Dickens described.”

“We felt you needed something more suitable to your own existence.”

“We?”

Picard’s slight smile didn’t change. “Unlike the Earth-bound Marley, this is the chain you have forged in life, or what approximates life for you. Do these galaxies not look familiar? This DNA? Even these atoms?”

Q looked more closely and shrugged. “They seem familiar.”

“You have long ignored that you share in the responsibility of the universe and that there are consequences to your cavalier attitudes,” the ghost intoned, lifting the chain.

Ominously, the ghost returned to the script. “How is it that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat beside you many and many a day.”

Q stared at the apparition. “Who are you? Who is this ‘we’ you spoke of?”

“As I said, ‘I may not tell.’ ”

“Well, then, Jean-Luc, or whoever you really are, if you’re not going to tell me anything of value, I’ll be leaving now,” said Q, yanking hard on the chain.

With a thunderous roar, it coiled onto the wood floor, shaking the building. Q was disappointed that the chain slipped through the vaporous figure of the starship captain instead of pulling him to the floor. Q then quickly pulled the chain across the floor and into the bedroom. He wound one end around the post of Scrooge’s bed, tying it there as best he could, and then collected and lifted the rest of the chain and heaved it through the closed bedroom window. It smashed the glass easily, the glass and wood sounding like brittle cymbals against each other. The chain fell out of sight. Q leaned out. The chain was long, reaching to within a few meters of the street three stories below. He turned to Picard, bowed, and then crawled very un-Q like out the window and clung to the chain with all his non-Q strength. He let himself down several links of chain at a time, descending slowly but steadily. Then the chain seemed to dance in his hands. He looked up, confused, then realized his weight on the chain was pulling the bed.

“Expect the first tomorrow when the bell tolls one.” Picard stood on the side of the building, perpendicular to Q.

“Please leave me—” The chain danced again in his hands, and then he plummeted. Above, through the broken window, he heard the heavy wooden feet of the bed scrape loudly over the floor. Q squawked and clung as tightly to the chain as he could manage. The bed crashed into the wall of the bedroom, suddenly stopping Q’s descent and causing the chain to shudder in his grasp. He nearly fell. The street was far enough below for him to twist an ankle or possibly even break his non-omnipotent bones. He dangled like that for several moments, his heart hammering in his chest. Vaporous breath puffed in quick bursts from his mouth.

Picard strolled down the side of the apartment building as easily as though it were the street below. In the darkness of the London night the ghost glowed with greenish-white light that might have been a reflection of the gas lamps guttering below.

“Expect the second on the next night at the same hour,” said Picard, stopping next to Q. The ghost clasped his hands behind his back, as though out for a casual walk down the street. Q could see Picard’s hands through his translucent body. He still had that idiotic smile on his face.

Q grunted several unintelligible lines before managing to say, “If you’re not going to help me down, please just shut up.”

The chain, the part of it that was iron and not some spiral galaxy or recombinant DNA, grew cold from the freezing night air. It felt like the skin of his hands was being torn off. He recommenced his descent. His arms shook against the exertion. In trying to ignore the pain, he pictured removing the skin from the beings doing this to him. Retribution would be sweet.

Picard continued. “The third upon the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!”

“Listen, Jean-Luc or Jacob or whoever you really are—” Q looked up, but the apparition was gone.

“Thank you!” yelled Q into the swirling snow and dark night, relieved at the ghost’s exit.

Then he realized he was near the ground. With a bit of satisfaction he dropped less than a meter to the snow-covered lane below, twisting his ankle. He groaned and bent to feel it, certain his foot must be pointing in the wrong direction. He paused. There was a wood floor beneath him, not cobblestone.

Stave Four

Q sat in the dusty old velvet chair in front of the Dutch fireplace. He waited for what seemed an eternity, even for him, before he heard the chimes of the neighboring church bell strike one.

“Finally,” he said, standing up. “All right. Come on out. I want to get this over with while the universe is still young.”

The ghost materialized in front of him, sparkling into view as though being transported. But something didn’t seem quite right with the lights. Q realized it was an older transporter technology than that used on Picard’s Enterprise.

The beaming ended, but the spirit continued to shimmer in the dark of Scrooge’s apartment. Q tried to make out the face, wondering which of the Enterprise’s tiresome crew it might be. It was none he recognized.

“Do I know you?”

The spirit only stared.

“Hello?”

The spirit stood like stone, neither moving nor speaking.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Q, practically burning with impatience. “Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?”

The spirit spoke, his voice firm and commanding. “I am!”

Q waited, then shook his head before saying, “Who, and what are you?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

Q leaned forward. The voice had changed. It was still deep, but not the same one that had spoken the first words. He realized the face seemed to have morphed as well. He stepped close to the apparition.

“You were human just a moment ago,” said Q.

Now a Vulcan stood before him, though the features were indistinct in their ghostly form. Then the pointed ears melted and a human shimmered before him.

“Wait, I know you,” said Q. “You’re—damn, I know you. From Earth’s past.”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

The human face, strong with penetrating eyes, dissolved back into the Vulcan’s.

“No, wait, come back. I almost had it figured out. You were someone that Jean-Luc admired. Looked up to, if I’m not mistaken.”

The Vulcan stood impassive, though his body undulated softly like a hologram with the emitter under water. Then the human returned.

“Kirk!” said Q, practically yelling. “And the Vulcan is Spock, isn’t it? Now, why would you be in my twisted nightmare?”

“To show you your past, of course,” said Spock.

“Of course. Very well, lead on, spirit.”

Kirk took Q by the arm and led him to the window, through which they walked, finding themselves in a courtroom of the same era. Q-past sat on the bench, gazing down upon a younger Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Q-past looked quite impressive in a black hat and flowing red-and-black robes.

Q took a moment to admire his past self, smiling. “Oh, yes. This was fun. See how Jean-Luc squirms?”

“He does not appear to be squirming,” said Spock.

The starship captain stood up straight before the magistrate’s bench.

“You don’t know him like I do. That’s squirming. And what a handsome magistrate I make. Rather an imposing figure, don’t you think?”

Q looked up at Q-past on the bench, who was leaning forward and getting ready to speak, staring intently at Picard. Then Q-past’s eyes flicked toward Q, as though seeing him. Had he imagined it?

Kirk shook his head. “You’re not getting it, are you, Q? This isn’t a past you should be proud of. You had no right putting mankind on trial.”

“Mankind?” said Q. “I get it. To quote Dickens, ‘Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business.’ That the rubbish you’re talking about?”

Spock shook his head, rather sadly for a Vulcan. “How little you understand. Let us move forward to another time.”

They were on the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Picard’s Enterprise. Q-past was there again, this time dressed in a Starfleet uniform; on the main viewscreen was a Borg cube.

Q smiled. “My little introduction between the Borg and your precious mankind.”

“People died because of you,” said Kirk.

“If it wasn’t for me, the Federation would have fallen to the Borg. I gave them the forewarning they needed to prepare. And make up your mind as to whether you’re Kirk or Spock. It’s making me dizzy.”

Q turned away, feigning disgust at the morphing apparition. He looked up at Q-past, rather rakish in his red uniform. They exchanged a look and Q-past nodded, smiling ever so slightly.

Spock said, “You feel your meddling helped prepare the Federation against the Borg. Have you stopped to think what your interference did to the Borg? It gave them new direction, literally and figuratively. They immediately began their plans to assimilate the Federation and, most importantly, Earth. A meeting that by our calculations would not have occurred naturally for another two hundred years.”

Q waved his hand impatiently. “I’ve heard enough. Q, can you help me?”

Q-past stepped forward. “Of course.” He snapped his fingers. The crew on the bridge gasped, staring at Q dressed as Ebenezer Scrooge and a shimmering apparition that morphed between human and Vulcan.

Worf drew his phaser. “Security, send a detail up to the bridge immediately.”

“Now what are you up to, Q?” said Captain Picard. He stopped when he recognized the apparition. “Admiral Kirk?”

The apparition didn’t reply to Picard. It turned to Q. “Stop this.”

Q smiled. “Not so high-and-mighty, now that I’ve got the upper hand. Q, would you be so kind as to restore my powers?”

“My pleasure, Q.” Q-past snapped his fingers.

Q wiggled his fingers. “That’s better. Much better.” He turned on the apparition. “Now, let’s find out who you really are.”

The apparition faded as Mister Spock said, “Live long and prosper.”

“You’re not getting away that easy. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Suddenly, Data appeared on the bridge with a laurel of holly around his head and dressed in a deep-green satin robe. “Scrooge!” he bellowed. He held a gold goblet in one hand and a large turkey drumstick in the other. He was about to say something else when he stopped and blinked. “This isn’t right.” He disappeared.

Captain Picard walked up to Q. “Why are you dressed like that? What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’m about to find out,” he said, snapping his fingers.

Stave Five

Q found himself in a void, but a comfortable void, a void that felt like home.

“Q,” he said, his voice dampened in the nothingness.

Another Q appeared in a human female form.

“I need all of Q,” he said.

Q, in various forms, appeared in the void. None of the other Q were humanoid. One even showed up as a quark. Upon appearing, they all nodded or indicated their understanding of the situation.

“We must confront this threat,” said Q. “Any being that could entrap Q must be investigated and, upon a fair and impartial trial, be dealt with quite severely.”

Q agreed.

“As it happens,” continued Q, “I have a plan. We have to bring this creature, or creatures, out into the open. I’m convinced they have feelings for humans—why else subject me to that dreadful Dickens novel?”

Q reminded Q that the Dickens scenario had actually been his own idea.

“Whatever,” said Q, waving it off. “Regardless, they must have some affinity to humans. Being on the bridge of the Enterprise gave me an idea. I once created three timelines for Jean-Luc and took him back to the halcyon days of Earth—that is, I took him back before life began. I’m going to that time right now, and I’m going to prevent life on Earth from ever forming. I suspect that whoever is behind this will appear to stop me. But we all will be waiting—”

Q squinted at Q-quark. It was spinning oddly. Off balance. Wobbling. Then Q realized something was happening to all of Q. The other humanoid Q sprouted wires from her flesh and cried out in pain. Metal plates above her eyes pushed out through her forehead. Her dark brown skin turned ashen. Another Q had its fifteen limbs replaced with cybernetic prostheses that clicked and whirred with movement. A multitude of tight red beams of light emitted from many of the Q and crisscrossed the void. Q who resembled a nebulae filled with metallic particles. Q-quark took on the sheen of a synthetic biomass. Q felt something crawling beneath his own flesh. It was as though snakes slithered beneath the surface. And there was pain. It burned within his limbs and even tore at his mind.

He screamed from the white-hot pain. Wires and small conduits punctured through muscle and skin along his arms. He could feel them growing out of his face. His mind burned like the center of a star. He was losing himself. Losing his identity. All around him, Q was morphing into—

“We are Borg,” said Q as one. “Resistance is futile.”

And then, for the first time in his approximation of life, Q knew fear. It was a pinpoint of cold, stark light in the fathoms of his being. All of Q had changed—had been assimilated. Looking down at himself, he was black and silver. One of his legs was now prosthetic, both arms nothing more than thick cybernetic cables with tools at the end. As he looked back up he saw the void itself—the Q Continuum—change. Parts of it folded in on itself while other parts expanded.

“Oh my Q,” he said, hardly above a whisper, the pain causing his vision to shimmer.

The Continuum contorted and changed into a Borg cube of enormous size. It filled the entire space between stars. It flowed effortlessly between dimensions. Touching upon infinite timelines at once, assimilating uncountable universes.

Stave Six

“How could this be?” said Q. He looked upon the Continuum with horror. All of it was gone. Literally everything that had and would exist.

But then he squinted into the newly formed Borg-verse. He beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, walking toward him.

Q felt another feeling he was unaccustomed to, but he was happy to embrace it: relief.

“Were these—” He found himself overwhelmed. He was confused and scared. Feelings he abhorred. The anger helped form the words that had stuck in his throat. “Were these shadows of things yet to come?”

The spirit approached, walking along an invisible path in the vacuum of space. As he came close, the impossible Borg cube and Borg-verse melted away, replaced by Scrooge’s sitting room. Q was actually happy to see the insipid Dutch fireplace.

“Are you telling me that by having a little fun with Jean-Luc, the Borg are going to assimilate Q?”

The apparition lifted its arms. Q expected to see skeletal hands within the folds of the dark cloak. But instead there were human hands. They lifted back the hood that shrouded the spirit’s face. It was the face of an older man. His hair was equal parts black and gray, as were his trim beard and mustache. He smiled the same annoying smile everyone else had sported.

“You’re not the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” said Q.

The older man shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice deep but gentle. “Perhaps you should consider me the Ghost of Alternate Timelines Yet to Come. Your alternate timeline, of course. And to answer your question about ‘having a little fun with Jean-Luc,’ yes and no. Q’s intrusive behavior has always caused an unnecessary stress to the fabric of the universe. You think you know everything. That’s dangerous to every other living thing throughout the multiverse. We felt it was time to show you what could happen from your meddling.”

“Rather melodramatic, don’t you think? Do you really believe that my putting mankind on trial or having Jean-Luc face the Borg years before humans and Borg would have naturally crossed paths led to the destruction of the Q Continuum?”

“Oh, you’ll believe what you want. But as we tried to tell you, you really understand so little. Yes, this had everything to do with your meddling with mankind. And while you and the rest of the Continuum will continue to find ways to be a bother, we have faith that even Q can learn. Perhaps to even redeem themselves.”

Q snorted in derision. But suddenly the name Ayelborne fired across the equivalent of his brainpan. Of course, the Organians—with Ayelborne in the human form he had taken for the benefit of Kirk and Spock. We have underestimated them, thought Q. Such a quiet lot. We took that as a measure of their lack of power. Of their will. That wouldn’t happen again.

“Do you want to see what causes the destruction of your precious Continuum?”

“I can hardly wait,” said Q, but he felt the tingle of fear at the back of his mind, and he hated that he knew the Organian felt it as well.

Q now sat on the stage of an auditorium. There were a few thousand beings in the audience. He recognized creatures from every member of the Federation. Then he noticed the pain. His legs and arms ached. Throbbed. Looking down, he saw that he inhabited the body of a child. Timothy, the former Borg-child. Then he realized someone was next to him. He looked up to see Captain Jean-Luc Picard sputtering some asinine gibberish.

“As we take this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”

Q saw himself stand up in the front row and clap slowly.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

And the events played out as they had before, except that when Q made the child whole, Q felt himself split. He was still the child, but now he was the child whole, without any Borg defects, a perfect specimen—well, as perfect as an inferior species can manage to be, even with a gift from Q—and he was also the child still with the throbbing limbs, whose incalculable courage was the only thing keeping him from crying out from the pain. His dual life unfolded before him.

As the healthy human, he was adopted by loving parents and grew into an adult who followed in his adoptive father’s footsteps and became a geologist. He conducted himself with honor and led what, for humans, was a good life, albeit banal and boring. However, Q thought smugly, all in all, not so bad. And the child avoided all the pain and anguish he would have suffered.

The other Timothy, however, endured painful surgeries, one after another, as the mostly ineffectual Federation doctors clumsily extracted every bit of Borg technology from his frail body. Despite the Federation’s best efforts, and even with Vulcans attempting to ease the child’s pain, each operation came with a thousand red-hot needles pushing into his flesh. But he rarely cried, and he never complained. His rehabilitation rolled before him as a seemingly infinite expanse of misery.

If it wasn’t for the kindness of Captain Picard and the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise, he didn’t think he would have survived. They took him on board for extended voyages throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Picard practically doted on him, helping Timothy overcome the psychic trauma of being Borg. He fell in love with Deanna Troi. Over time he fell in love with a dozen or more other crew members.

Years passed, but the pain did not. Despite their best efforts, he was never free of it. But, with help from the Vulcans, he learned to embrace it as part of who he was. As a teenager, he braved the final operation and was as whole as Federation medical technology could make him. His body was still frail, and he walked with a limp, but his mind and his determination were strong. With recommendations from Admiral Picard and Captain Riker, he joined Starfleet Academy. He excelled in the sciences, especially nanotechnology.

As an adult he served on science vessels and worked on his theories of cybernetics. It was during a mission to the Delta Quadrant that his ship came in contact with the Borg. It was his genius with cybernetics that prevented the ship and crew from becoming assimilated. They were even able to capture the Borg’s away team. And using theories he’d been formulating since being a child, the medical staff and he successfully reverted the entire Borg away team back to their original species—without the trauma and innumerable surgeries he’d had to suffer.

Within a decade he developed an antidote for the universal virus known as Borg. As captain and task force commander of an armada of Federation vessels, he began the galaxy-wide inoculation of those affected. The tide turned. The Borg were no longer the aggressors. Their days as hunter had ended. Admiral Timothy Picard—having taken the name of his savior when joining Starfleet Academy—would see the Borg plague eradicated in his lifetime.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

Q stood in the front row of the auditorium, clapping slowly. Timothy sat in his propulsion chair next to the Starfleet captain. Deanna Troi knelt next to the boy. Q could feel the pain radiating from the boy. So much pain. And so much strength.

“Why, mon capitaine, can’t an old and dear friend come and wish another old, and I mean old, friend a Merry Christmas?”

“Christmas?”

“Now, no ‘bah humbugs,’ Jean-Luc.” Q snapped his fingers and was gone.

A box wrapped in red paper and gold ribbon appeared on Timothy’s lap.

Stave Seven

The boy read a label on the top of the box. “It has my name on it, and it says it’s from ‘Q.’ Who is that?”

Picard furrowed his brow. What was Q up to?

“He’s an—acquaintance of ours,” said the captain, looking across at Troi.

He wasn’t certain if he should allow the boy to open the present or if he should transport it into the heart of the sun. But in the instant that he hesitated, the boy tore the paper from the box. Picard knelt next to him, ready to grab the box in case something dangerous was inside.

“It’s beautiful,” was all Timothy said as he lifted the lid.

The boy brought out a glass globe that seemed to contain water. Within the glass was a Victorian cityscape with uncanny and delicate details. Lights twinkled, smoke rose from chimneys, people moved along cobblestone lanes and around the occasional horse-drawn carriage.

“What is it?”

Picard was fascinated by the object, even knowing it came from Q. “It’s called a snow globe, Timothy. Shake it.”

The young boy shook his gift. Picard had expected a swirl of porcelain flakes, but was surprised, and even a bit delighted, by what looked like a blizzard of real snow. Even at this scale he could see, or maybe sense was a better word, the intricate details and uniqueness of each flake, as though each was individually etched by a skilled artisan. What could have inspired Q to do something so, dare he say, gracious?

“Oh, listen!” gasped Timothy, holding the snow globe higher. Picard put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder and leaned in. There came the faint sounds of dogs barking, church bells pealing, and a choir singing a Christmas carol. The more the captain looked, the more details he saw. Like a holodeck in a jar, but somehow so much more real.

Then Picard whispered, “Scrooge.”

“Scrooge?” said Timothy.

Picard pointed to a window in one of the buildings deep within the globe. There was a cowering old man facing a spectral vision of a spirit bound in chains. The boy shook the globe again. The details shifted to a warehouse festooned with garland.

Picard said, “Look, it’s Fezziwig, dancing with his wife and his daughters.”

“Fezziwig?”

“It’s all from an ancient Earth story. I have a copy. I’ll forward it to you so that you can read it.”

Unable to stop himself, Picard gently took the globe from the boy’s hands. He shook it and peered even closer. Along with the swirling snow, were those galaxies and chains of DNA dancing in the liquid? Picard stared once more at Ebenezer Scrooge. For a second Picard thought he saw himself in the globe, or was it Q’s face?

“Sir?” said Troi.

“Hmm? Oh.” He handed the beautiful snow globe back to Timothy. Picard noticed a twinkling in the child’s eyes and that some of the pain seemed to be lifted, if only for a moment.

“If I remember correctly,” said Troi, “don’t you have a paper copy of that book?”

Picard nodded as he continued to gaze into the globe. “Of course I do. A first edition.”

“Interesting,” she said.

Puzzled, Picard looked at the counselor, who looked back at Timothy and the globe, a slight smile playing across her lips.

Picard paused a moment, then looked at the young boy. “Perhaps . . .” He trailed off.

“Yes, sir?” said Troi.

Timothy looked up at the captain and smiled.

“Well, I was just thinking that perhaps you’d like to see the Enterprise again. Visit some of the crew who looked after you.”

“Really? Do you mean it?” There was so much excitement in the boy’s voice.

Picard nodded brusquely. “That is, of course, if Counselor Troi is willing to supervise.”

Troi nodded. “As you wish, Captain.”

Picard frowned at her and looked back at the globe. His voice softened. “And perhaps, Timothy, if you wanted, I could read you that story.”

THE SUNWALKERS

Kelli Fitzpatrick

“You found a new beginning for yourself. The first step on a journey that few humans will ever take.”

—The Traveler, Dorvan V, 2370

HE HAD KEPT the dang sweater. Of all the things to drag to the Academy, her son had chosen the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever made him wear.

Doctor Beverly Crusher ran her fingers over the gaudy olive cable knit, recalling how the baggy thing had engulfed Wesley’s lanky frame seven years ago, when the two of them first transferred to the Enterprise. She smiled. What a terrible mother I was to make him wear something so hideous. The strange wavy pattern of the weave was reminiscent of a snarl of seaweed, or perhaps a tetryon wave field. Yes, definitely waves. In that respect, maybe the sweater was a good fit—Wesley had always been a whiz at science. All right, he’d been a whiz at most everything he touched, much to the annoyance of some of the senior crew.

But he was gone now, off exploring the unknown reaches of the universe with the transdimensional being known as the Traveler. All that was left of her twenty-two-year-old prodigy was the box of his belongings on the bed before her.

Beverly was alone in her quarters, the lights dimmed, the stars sailing past the window. She laid the sweater on the bed and continued sorting through the things Wesley had left in his room at Starfleet Academy. It had been kind of Admiral Nechayev to have the items forwarded to the Enterprise. The doctor made a mental note to personally thank the admiral next time the woman came onboard. Crusher’s hands pulled gently through the loose objects, lifting the corners of study padds, brushing past a hyperspanner and a set of false-code isolinear chips, undoubtedly used for some training scenario.

It had been Wesley’s choice to leave or, rather, to advance his reality, taking advantage of an opportunity few humans are ever offered. She was happy for him; she really was. Any mother would be. She had told him so—through tears, perhaps, but joyful tears. And yet this business of sorting through this box of memories—former pieces of a life—reminded her too closely of another time she’d been forced to say goodbye to someone she dearly loved far too soon.

The ship’s computer beeped, announcing a visitor. It startled her a bit, but she quickly composed herself. “Come in.”

The doors whooshed open and Captain Picard stepped in, his posture tall and steady, strong yet unthreatening in his red-and-black uniform. He never changes, thought Crusher. In all the years she’d known Jean-Luc, he had remained a constant, like the backdrop of stars outside.

“Am I interrupting?” he said.

“No. Just going through Wesley’s stuff from the Academy.”

Picard stepped closer, surveying the spread of artifacts through calm eyes. “One can learn a great deal about a man by the objects he chooses to keep close to him.” He picked up a small metal contraption that had a shock of wires spraying from one end.

“A piece of one of his experiments,” Crusher said. “Don’t ask me what it does.”

Picard chuckled. “If I know Wesley Crusher, it enhances the efficiency of—something.” A half smile lingered on his lips as he placed the device carefully back on the bed. “I think all of us—here on the ship and back at the Academy—are going to miss Wesley’s unique brand of ‘enhancements.’ ”

Crusher’s heart twitched—a quick, tight pull. “He’s only on Dorvan V.”

“Yes. For now.”

Jean-Luc was right. Under the Traveler’s guidance, Wesley would continue to advance his metaphysical abilities. Who knew where he would end up, where his journeys would take him—or when? What was there to hold him here?

“Beverly?”

“Hmh.” The doctor’s hands moved instinctively back to the sweater. Why had he kept it? In a way, she wished he hadn’t. In a way, she wished that the box had been empty. That she didn’t have to deal with any of this.

“Beverly, have you spoken with Counselor Troi yet regarding this issue?”

“What issue? There’s nothing—” Doctor Crusher caught the captain’s eyes and suddenly stiffened. “Jean-Luc, don’t look at me like that.”

The captain’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”

“That’s the same expression you wore the day you brought me Jack’s body.” A shiver of cold memory iced her skin. The room suddenly seemed oppressively dark.

Picard drew a deep breath and sighed. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he said, looking down. “I want you to know I could not be more proud of Wesley’s accomplishments or more envious of the path of enlightenment that lies ahead of him.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But I know how much his mother loves him. And if there’s any regret in my features at this moment, it’s because I’m concerned for her sake.”

“Well, you needn’t be,” Crusher said, dumping the remaining contents of the box onto the bed in a messy heap. There—at least it was all out in the open. “Wes isn’t dead, you know. He’s alive and well and on Dorvan V.” But for how long? She suddenly had the urge to turn the Enterprise around. To take back her heartfelt farewell and beg her only child to stay. On the ship. In Starfleet. Heck, in this dimension. Anything. Anything but this cursed box. She tossed the empty container onto the floor, and it bounced with a thud.

“Perhaps—perhaps you should consider taking a few days to yourself,” Picard said, eyeing her with care. “We have time before our next scheduled rendezvous, and you might—”

“Data to Doctor Crusher.” The android commander’s even-toned voice came through her combadge.

Crusher was inwardly relieved for the momentary distraction. “Crusher here. Go ahead, Data.”

“Data, this is the captain,” Picard interjected. “Doctor Crusher is somewhat occupied at the moment. Can you—”

“Jean-Luc!” Beverly gasped. She did not like being spoken for, even by her commanding officer.

“I’m sorry to disturb the doctor, Captain,” Data said, “but we are receiving an emergency medical distress call from the settlement on Shar-Mi’la Prime. They say it is urgent, sir.”

Crusher glared at Picard. “We’re on our way, Data. We’ll meet you on the bridge. Crusher out.” The link broken, she flipped a smooth auburn lock of hair out of her eye. “I’m the chief medical officer of the Federation’s flagship, Jean-Luc, and there are people out there asking for my help. You don’t really suppose you’re going to tell me no.” She stared at him, waiting.

Picard pursed his lips but did not overrule her. Crusher turned and strode toward the door, leaving the sweater to lie limp among the shadowed collection of memories.

“They may be a new member of the Federation,” Picard said, “but they certainly seem quite advanced in their technologies.”

Crusher smiled inwardly at the curiosity in the captain’s voice; he had always been fascinated by the study of unique civilizations, both modern and ancient. The two of them stood beside Commander Data at the science station, skimming through the available information on the world that had reached out with a distress call. The bridge of the Enterprise glowed in its usual warm beiges and grays, and the darkness of her quarters seemed far away. She was engrossed in the briefing, finding out what it was these people needed, as well as how she could bring her expertise into play to help them. It was why she became a medical professional in the first place—to help others in their time of need.

“What is known about their world, Commander?” Picard said. Beverly knew that, given the opportunity, Jean-Luc would likely have preferred to investigate the topic himself, but asking Data was far more expeditious.

Lieutenant Commander Data, whose pale android skin and yellow eyes blended with the mustard color of his uniform, conducted a search of his memory banks that took less than a millisecond. “Shar-Mi’la Prime is the solitary L-class planet orbiting the white dwarf star Vakor II,” Data recited. “A newly inducted member of the Federation, Shar-Mi’la is known for its network of innovative shielding that allows the humanoid inhabitants to live on the surface, despite the otherwise damaging levels of tetra-helon radiation from the nearby star.”

“Tetra-helon radiation?” Crusher said, her mouth hanging open a bit. That couldn’t be right. “Data, are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Doctor. Not everything is known about Shar-Mi’lan society—there are significant gaps in the planet’s profile—but this particular point is well established. Shar-Mi’la Prime is classified as an L-class planet due to the harsh environment. It is considered only marginally livable for humans.”

The doctor frowned. “Tetra-helon radiation is deadly to most carbon-based life-forms. How did a biosphere develop on this world at all?”

Data cocked his head, processing. “While I have no evidence to support such a claim, I would speculate that life on Shar-Mi’la evolved to adapt to the presence of the radiation.”

Picard nodded, still looking over the diagrams of shielding specifications. “Yes, it seems these people are quite adept at adaptation, of one form or another. What is the nature of their medical emergency?”

Data turned to Lieutenant Worf, who stood slightly behind them at the tactical station. The tall Klingon security officer also wore the gold operations uniform, but unlike the pallor of the android, Worf’s skin was dark and his voice deep. He turned his ridged forehead in their direction. “Sir, the Enterprise received the following recorded message from Shar-Mi’la, audio only.” Worf began playback.

“This is Commissioner Cal’Sohn of the Shar-Mi’lan Central Authority. We are experiencing a medical emergency involving a small group of our population. Their condition is worsening, despite our best treatment efforts.” Crusher was struck by the worry in the voice, the fraying concern. “We request immediate assistance in dealing with this matter. I thank you in advance.” The transmission ended.

“Mister Worf,” Picard began, shoulders square, “are we the only ship in range?”

Worf pressed several controls at his station. “Aye, sir. The next closest Starfleet vessel equipped to provide medical aid is the Coriolanus, five days away at maximum warp.”

Picard nodded. “Very well. Alert Starfleet Command that we will be detouring from our current course to investigate this matter. Doctor—” The captain turned to Crusher, and for an instant she saw the familiar compassion flash across his otherwise duty-bound countenance. “Prepare an away team to beam down and survey the situation on the surface once we arrive. Attempt to communicate with the Shar-Mi’lan Authority, and take all necessary precautions.”

She could tell he wished to say more, but refrained. The bridge was for duty, and both of them respected their oaths.

The transporter beam sparkled as the forms of Crusher, Data, and Worf materialized on the planet’s surface. Doctor Crusher sighed as she always did coming out of beaming, as if the jump through space somehow added breath to her body. She looked around.

It was a divided world. The place where they stood—it appeared to be a courtyard of sorts—was spotted with blue-green shrubs, the ground covered in a soft purple moss. There was a muteness to the lighting, as if it was diffused, much like the foggy skies of Caldos II—a colony terraformed to reproduce Scotland—where she lived with her grandmother in her youth. They were standing on the outskirts of a large but seemingly peaceful city, shiny buildings reaching in hexagonal pillars toward the hazy sky.

At the edge of the courtyard, however, reality changed, and beyond that point Crusher found herself gazing into a wasteland. The shrubs and moss were gone, replaced by a few clumps of hardy-looking gray grass. There was no moss cover in this other landscape, and the bare white stone ground reflected back the cool light of Vakor II in strong, harsh clarity. Like the photographs of Earth’s first lunar landing, she thought. Stark. Surreal. Beautiful in its alienness.

“Now you see the necessity of our shielding,” a voice said. The members of the away team turned to find two Shar-Mi’lans approaching, sandals sinking slightly in the soft moss. “Without the shield’s protective barrier, the radiation of the sun would destroy all but the most basic life-forms on our world, ourselves included.” The man smiled and bowed his head in greeting, his heavily ridged brow rivaling Worf’s in intricacy. Their skin was a bright magenta, with eyes of gleaming gold. “Welcome to Shar-Mi’la, friends. I am Cal’Sohn, Commissioner of Tia’Wreth, this city. This is Keeper Ro’Kell, of our Medicinal Protectorate.” He motioned to the man beside him, who performed the same formal bow.

“Thank you for responding to our distress call,” the keeper said. Ro’Kell was taller and thinner than the commissioner, though Crusher found both of them to be pleasant in presence and tone.

“We’re glad to help,” she said. “I’m Doctor Beverly Crusher, and this is Lieutenant Worf and Lieutenant Commander Data of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Where do we start?”

“This way, please,” Ro’Kell said, walking along a white stone path toward one of the metal buildings. “Recently a small percentage of our city’s population has fallen dangerously ill, and as of yet, we have been unable to ascertain the cause, though we suspect it may be related to exposure to tetra-helon radiation.”

“Keeper, if I may ask,” Data began, his voice artificial yet still warm, “is that not why you erected the shielding system? To prevent such toxic exposure to this radiation?”

“That is correct,” Ro’Kell said. “However, there has been a slight complication in our technology.”

“What are those men doing?” Worf asked, his bass voice booming through the courtyard. He pointed to the barrier between the two worlds—living and dead—where men in what looked like environmental suits were working with energy tools. The spot seemed to be a gate of some sort, with a shiny metal arch rising high above the ground.

“They are attempting to repair the breach in the shield,” Cal’Sohn said. “We are fairly sure that the portal to the sunscape is where the leak occurred and is the source of the exposure Ro’Kell mentioned.”

The Klingon whirled on the Shar-Mi’lans, his imposing frame towering over the aliens, his tone stern. “Why were we not notified of such a security risk?”

“Worf, I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Crusher said, though her own anxiety jumped a notch at the surprise threat to her away team.

Data already had his tricorder out and was taking atmospheric readings. “Tetra-helon concentration currently holding steady at seventy-three rhubions.”

Crusher quickly did some calculations. “Worf and I should be fine for a couple of hours. I can inoculate us once we return to Enterprise. Data, your system should be unaffected by tetra-helon radiation, thanks to the interference from your positronic net.”

“I apologize for the alarm, Doctor,” Ro’Kell said. “I had every intention of explaining the situation, though my timing was obviously not ideal. We do have our own inoculant that we planned to offer you.” They arrived at an arched entrance into a pillar structure and walked into a long hallway of shiny hematite-like material.

The doctor thought a moment. “What about the rest of your population, Keeper? How long have they been exposed?”

“We’re not sure,” Ro’Kell said, leading them down winding corridors of mirror. “Our surveillance systems registered a slight spike in helon particles several months ago, though it was well within tolerance levels when the problem began. As it grew, our engineers searched for failures in the shield framework, finally discovering a misalignment in one of the shield generators, which, as you observed, is currently being repaired.”

The commissioner continued the story. “Ro’Kell and his team have been able to release a counteragent into the air circulation systems. Most of the citizens we’ve tested have shown no adverse effects to the exposure.”

“Then why do you need us?” Worf said.

“Because,” Ro’Kell began, halting the group in front of a set of solid doors, “a small subset of the population has become inexplicably ill. We’re not certain of the cause, but we fear they may be more . . . susceptible . . . to the radiation than the rest of us.” He looked at the floor for a moment, almost sadly, then pressed his palm against the metal.

The doors opened in front of them. Crusher inhaled sharply.

The room was filled with children.

Her heart beat harder as she stepped inside, dozens of young patients lying sick around the room. Their eyes were vacuous, a milky white rather than the bright gold of the adult keepers in the room. Crusher could feel her throat catching. Focus. Focus on your duty, she told herself. She had gotten through distressing assignments before. These children needed her. And yet she could not control the pounding in her chest.

Data seemed to sense something was wrong. She could tell by the way he cocked his head to the side. “Are you all right, Doctor?” he said, his best attempt at emulated emotion softening his words.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Ro’Kell, what—what are their symptoms?”

Ro’Kell eyed Worf uneasily. “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. We have established that much at least. The condition is genetic. For each patient, it began with marked fatigue and sluggishness. A sort of apathy toward daily life.”

“Clinical depression?” Crusher asked. It was a condition that manifested among many species for many different reasons.

“We wondered that as well and tried treatment accordingly, with little response. When we found out about the leak, we quarantined the sick children in this room, which is our most shielded sanctuary—a bunker of sorts—to keep out all tetra-helon particles. Their condition continued to decline, and then yesterday the rash appeared.” Ro’Kell stepped up to one of the beds that held a catatonic child. Her skin was not the bright pink it should have been, but rather an ashy gray, with what looked like thick patches of scales breaking out all over her body. “We called you as soon as this appeared. It is unlike any documented condition my people have seen, and so far, any attempt we have made to treat it has no effect, or exacerbates the situation.”

Crusher looked down at the ghostly figure, the girl’s hollow expression sending shivers down her spine.

“You have to help us, Doctor.” Ro’Kell’s words were quiet. Pleading. Desperate.

Crusher held the thin hand of the girl. It was cold and limp. “I will do everything in my power.” She tapped the combadge on her chest. “Crusher to Picard.”

“Picard here.”

“The situation here is mostly stable, Captain, but may not be for long. I’d like to bring some tissue samples back aboard for analysis.”

“Very well. Proceed, Doctor. You have my permission to mobilize whatever personnel or resources you deem necessary. Keep me informed. Picard out.”

Doctor Crusher turned to her away team. “Worf, take tricorder readings of each section of the city, focusing on the bands of the EM spectrum nearest to tetra-helon radiation. Data, collect air and water samples, and interview the parents of the children to see what we can find out about the days leading up to their illness.” She paused and turned toward the Shar-Mi’lans. “That is, if it’s okay with you, Commissioner?”

“You will have my people’s full cooperation, Doctor Crusher. I promise you.”

Worf and Data exited to begin their survey. Crusher had her own data to collect.

“Ro’Kell, I will need to collect samples from the children.”

The keeper motioned down toward the child in front of them. “Nah’Tren has been sick the longest.” He looked to the weary-eyed woman sitting next to the bed. “Bel’Narr, do you consent?”

The woman bowed her head. Crusher knew that this woman was Nah’Tren’s mother. She reached into her medkit to pull out a hypospray, and felt a hand on her arm.

Bel’Narr was looking at her, through eyes that had obviously cried more tears than they were meant for. “Federation Keeper—I will not lose my child, will I?”

Crusher moved her mouth but no words came. She squeezed the woman’s hand and forced a smile, then buried herself in the task of collecting samples.

She stared at the viewscreen in her office, where the image of Keeper Ro’Kell spoke to her from the surface. “I’m sorry to interrupt your analysis, Doctor,” the man said, “but I wanted to inform you that Nah’Tren’s condition has deteriorated. She has slipped into a coma.”

No, I need more time! Beverly thought. Her mind raced. “All right. I need you to take some readings and send them to me right away. I’m transmitting instructions now.”

Ro’Kell glanced off-screen, then nodded. “We’re receiving them, Doctor. I will have my team collect the information and transmit it to you as quickly as possible.”

“Any change in the others?”

“Not anything drastic. Their conditions continue to worsen at the rate we’ve been observing.” He paused and emotion gripped his face. “How could we have let this happen to our children, Doctor?”

Crusher sighed. “This is not your fault, Ro’Kell. We will get to the bottom of this. If I have to stay up day and night, we will solve it.” If only it were that simple.

“Thank you, Doctor Crusher. For all of your work. You will hear from us shortly.”

“Understood. Enterprise out.” The transmission ended, and Crusher rubbed her eyes and looked at the chrono. How long had she been in here? Six hours? Ten? She had spent them dissecting tissue samples, running diagnostics algorithms, spectral analysis, radiographic mapping, genetic sequence patterning—nothing. No headway whatsoever. The Shar-Mi’lans were correct—it wasn’t a virus, nor an autoimmune disorder, nor an allergy. Crusher respected Ro’Kell, but it was her policy to double-check for all of these things just in case.

Now what? It might be radiation exposure, but the symptoms didn’t seem to match what she knew about tetra-helon poisoning. Her research of the computer’s databases had been fruitless—most civilizations stayed far away from tetra-helon stars, for good reason, and no one in the Federation scientific community had reported studies of a similar condition. She had even tried contacting one of her old professors at Starfleet Medical. No help.

Data walked around the corner into the sickbay office. He had been assisting the doctor in her efforts all day. “I must report that my analysis of the gene-sequencing errors observed in the Shar-Mi’lan children do not match any known phenomena. I can continue to speculate, Doctor, though based on the usefulness of my suggestions thus far, I am unsure as to whether that is a good use of our time.”

Crusher listened to the report and stared blearily at the photograph of Wesley on her desk. It was from the day Captain Picard made him an ensign for his outstanding performance in the line of duty. The boy wore a goofy grin that held more excitement over that single pip than most captains experience upon receiving their first ship. He always dreamed of this life. Of following his father’s footsteps, she thought. And he was so very talented. She and Data could use Wesley’s innovative way of seeing things right about now. She wished he were here, brainstorming alongside her. As intelligent and analytical as Data was, sometimes his programming limited his ability to think outside the box. On many occasions, her son had suggested solutions to problems that no one else saw, saving thousands of lives in the process. If you’re out there, Wesley, your mother could use a little help right now.

But Wes was gone. Traversing other dimensions, experiencing pure thought and whatnot. He would never be there again. She chided herself for being so sentimental. She was going to have to do this on her own.

Data’s voice revived her. “Doctor, if you do not mind my saying so, you are displaying signs of considerable fatigue.”

Crusher whisked an auburn lock out of her eye and forced a smile. “It’s all right, Data, but I appreciate the concern. If I don’t solve this soon, these children may be facing permanent genetic damage. Or worse.”

Data’s eyebrows contracted slightly, in what she had come to recognize as his expression of deep thought. “Then perhaps you should take what Counselor Troi refers to as ‘a break.’ It is my understanding that such deviations in focus can greatly enhance human productivity, especially during periods of extended cognitive demand.”

“I can’t leave now, Data. I’m waiting on new vital readings from the patients to come through from Keeper Ro’Kell.”

“I see.” He paused. “I may be able to offer a compromise. As you know, Doctor, since I am an android, I do not require rest the same way humans do. My positronic brain is capable of functioning at peak efficiency for extended periods of time. Therefore, may I make a suggestion: I will remain here and await the transmission, and continue analyzing the available information in hopes of discovering a solution, freeing you to take ‘a break.’ ”

The data on the padd in front of her was starting to look a little fuzzy. She smiled wanly. “Perhaps you’re right, Commander.” She rose, but slowly, stiffly.

“Very well. I will debrief you upon your return.” He moved to sit in her chair.

She picked up her padd and stepped toward the door, but paused. “Data?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“You’re a far better friend than most humans could hope for.”

The android’s brows drew upward and his lips pursed slightly. Crusher knew it wasn’t surprise exactly—that was a human emotion—but Data was showing, in his own way, that her statement had affected him. As she turned to leave, Crusher saw that his pupils had already begun flicking rapidly back and forth, as unfathomable quantities of data points coursed through his neural net.

“Here you are—hot Rustafagan tea, harvested from the cratered moons of Belhayden.” Guinan slid a steaming mug across the bar to where Beverly sat. “Quite a rare delicacy in the Hahlron system. I guarantee it will wake you up.”

There were few people Crusher would trust to choose a beverage for her, especially in her current state of exhaustion. Ever since Will Riker talked her into trying genuine bottled tequila at his birthday party, the doctor had been a bit more discerning in who she accepted a drink from. Guinan was no ordinary bartender, though—her El-Aurian intuition had proven so accurate over the years that Crusher thought of the woman as an enigma, a mysterious being whose wisdom often presented itself in unexpected ways.

There were a number of off-duty crew in Ten-Forward, though no one else was currently seated at the lounge’s bar. Guinan watched her for several minutes while the doctor pored over the padd. There was nothing new there to see, and Crusher knew it, but she felt compelled to keep trying.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Guinan finally said, “you look awful.”

The doctor rolled her eyes. “So I’ve been told. The affliction on Shar-Mi’la is a puzzle I can’t seem to solve, not even with Data’s help.”

“Yes, Worf was telling me about it earlier.” She nodded to the Klingon seated at a table in the corner. Guinan’s large disc-shaped hat accentuated her gestures, lending them a sort of graceful power. “It’s a puzzle, all right. But I don’t think that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Oh?” Crusher took a sip of the aromatic tea. It was much too strong for her taste, a sudden assault of intense bitterness on her palate. That’s odd, Beverly thought. Guinan’s suggestions are usually spot-on.

“It’s obvious what the issue is,” the bartender said. “You feel guilty for being a bad parent.”

Crusher’s jaw dropped. Guinan was a friend, a trusted confidant. An eccentric, direct one sometimes, but a friend nonetheless. How could she be so insensitive? “I beg your pardon?”

Guinan shrugged. “I’d feel guilty too if I had sent my son off with some unknown entity, completely unprotected. I mean, Wesley is still just a boy—”

“I don’t believe this—”

“The child just isn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.” The El-Aurian folded her hands neatly on the bar, underscoring her calm acceptance of this fact, which only drove Crusher’s indignation deeper.

“Guinan! Wes—” Crusher dropped her voice as the patrons at nearby tables glanced over. “Wesley is twenty-two years old. He’s one of the most intelligent human beings I’ve ever met. He even saved the Enterprise and her crew when—”

“Take it from me, Doctor,” Guinan said, crossing her arms. “The universe is a vast, vicious place, and your son has no idea what he’s stepping into. He’s going to get eaten alive.”

Crusher stood slowly. Her voice shook. “Now, you listen to me. Wesley is unique. Gifted. Destined for something more than what I could give him, even more than what Starfleet could give him. He’s earned this opportunity and is more than ready to handle it!”

Guinan smiled slowly, her dark lips stretching into a knowing grin. She shrugged. “My mistake.”

The doctor stood there tense for a moment, then closed her eyes and sighed as she realized what had just transpired. “You know, Guinan,” she said, sitting back down, “I never can tell when you’re being serious.”

“Neither can I. But I find that conversations are more interesting that way.”

Doctor Crusher looked down and pressed the warmth of the cup into her palms so that the steady heat bled into her. The aroma wasn’t quite so off-putting now. “It’s selfish of me, isn’t it? To want him to stay. When he’s capable of more.”

“Yes, but that’s the paradox of parenthood. You want them with you because you love them. But your purpose as their guardian is to get them to the point where they don’t need you anymore.”

Well, I’m extremely successful by that standard, Crusher thought. She sighed. “Guinan, I can’t help thinking that if I had done something differently, paid more attention to his needs, maybe Wes might have found a career path here that could have challenged him. Maybe not Starfleet, but something—”

“—something that could compare with freely exploring all of space-time with a near-omnipotent guide?” Guinan tilted her head skeptically.

Doctor Crusher groaned, fatigue drawing her eyes nearly closed. “No, I suppose not. If I had tried to keep him here, he would have been absolutely miserable for the rest of his life.” Her eyes suddenly lit up. “Or worse . . .” She grabbed the padd and flipped back through the genetic sequences. It can’t be—it can’t be that simple. It was so obvious now.

The doctor slapped her combadge. “Crusher to Commander Data. Meet me in transporter room three immediately!”

“Aye, Doctor. On my way.”

As she rose to exit, she paused. “Guinan, feel free to call me a bad parent anytime!” The El-Aurian smiled and shrugged, and Crusher turned to dash out of Ten-Forward.

The keepers who were on duty in the Shar-Mi’lan quarantine medbay had no way to know what Doctor Crusher was doing. And she didn’t have time to explain. She saw their panic, their misunderstanding written plainly on their faces, but she couldn’t stop. The physician in her rebelled, insisting on a bedside manner that did not cause trauma—even emotional trauma—to innocent bystanders. But the Starfleet officer in her knew that time was running out and she had to move.

After several minutes of unsuccessful banging on the medbay doors, followed by repeated attempts to locate either Ro’Kell or Cal’Sohn, Beverly Crusher made a decision.

“Data, pry open the doors.” The android looked at her with a confused expression. “Do it!” This was a medical mission, and Picard had assigned Crusher to lead the away team to Shar-Mi’la. Apparently, his trust in her prevailed, because Data complied and used his android-enhanced strength to pry apart the metal doors.

Crusher slipped through and was immediately met by a medic. “Federation Keeper!” the pink-skinned woman exclaimed. “We wish to cooperate with you, as we know you are helping the children, but we have procedures. You cannot just—”

“I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to trust me!” Crusher said, sidestepping the woman. As Data reentered the room, Beverly pointed to Nah’Tren, still comatose on the bed. She looked nearly dead. “Data, pick her up.” He moved to the bed and easily lifted the young body into his arms.

The mother gripped Crusher’s arm. “Where are you taking her?”

“Outside.”

Bel’Narr’s eyes became huge. “You’ll kill her!” Data waited in the doorway, cradling the child. The keepers looked on in terror.

“Do you want your daughter to live?”

The Shar-Mi’lan nodded.

“Then you must let her go. Come on. It will be all right.” The doctor guided the overwhelmed woman out the door, pulling her along as gently as possible, struggling to keep up with Data as he sprinted unnaturally fast down the corridor, perfect neural net–controlled balance guiding his steps. Within moments they were pushing past a guard at the front arch who had obviously been alerted to their scheme. What will the captain say about this? Crusher thought. She had notified Picard that she was beaming down, but there wasn’t time to explain. She had to help the girl before it was too late.

Striding through the mossy courtyard, Crusher fought for breath as Data picked up speed and headed for the portal to the outside. The work crew was still clustered around the opening in the shield and stared dumfounded as Data passed through the arch, the force field sizzling as he broke through it.

Crusher slowed up just before the barrier, holding Bel’Narr tightly lest she collapse or—worse—run out after them. The two women stared through the shield at the sunscape beyond, as both Data and Nah’Tren were bathed in the blue-white glow of the sun—and bombarded by lethal doses of tetra-helon. Data stood unaffected, and for several minutes it seemed that Nah’Tren would show no change either. She still appeared dead, her skin gray and scaly, her eyes slits of white. Data’s sturdy form dwarfed her thin limbs as he stared down at her, waiting, like everyone else, for a miracle—or a tragedy.

Please, this has to work, Crusher thought. Oh please, if you can hear me, help her! Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two figures running up to her. From their voices, she identified them as Cal’Sohn and Ro’Kell. They must have finally answered her pages.

“Doctor Crusher,” Cal’Sohn puffed, bending over as he reached her side. “What is the meaning of this? Our keepers are terrified. How—” His eyes caught sight of the girl in the sunscape, her skin drinking in the helon, and his face contorted in horror. He motioned frantically to Ro’Kell. “Keeper! Keeper! Sunstroke, look what they’ve done!”

Crusher tried to focus enough to respond, but by the time she did, Ro’Kell was yelling at her. “Murderers!” He shook his fists near her face. “How could you? She’s just a child! I don’t know what the Federation’s policies are, but on this planet, we do not sacrifice our children when things become dire!” His pink face became bright red. Bel’Narr was still barely coherent at Crusher’s side; she dare not run. Please . . .

Just as Cal’Sohn was ordering the stunned work crew to apprehend Data and Crusher, something happened, something that would forever change life on Shar-Mi’la. Crusher was watching for it, expecting it, pleading with every power in the universe for it. And she was, understandably, the first to recognize it.

As the child lay in Data’s arms, her gray skin slowly began gaining color. But not the bright pink of the rest of her species. A cool purplish gray, with hints of the color of the moss on the ground inside and the grass outside. The color grew slowly, as the helon in the air reacted with the girl’s blood, reviving her from her nutrient-starved state. She began to stir, squirming in Data’s arms until he could no longer restrain her safely. He set her gently on the ground, and the girl swooned for a moment in the stark blue light, placing a hand to her head, then she stood steadily, bare feet on white rock. When she opened her eyes, they sparkled brilliant gold.

Every person in the courtyard was watching now, frozen in awe. Crusher could guess what they were thinking. A Shar-Mi’lan was standing outside. In the sunscape. Without a suit. And she was glowing—

As Beverly watched, the girl’s skin began to faintly luminesce, the same bluish-white tint of the light from Vakor II. Nah’Tren gazed through the barrier of the shield that had been harming her for so long and smiled at her mother. Bel’Narr turned and wept into Crusher’s shoulder.

Ro’Kell turned to the Starfleet doctor who had just broken every rule of Shar-Mi’lan medicine he’d ever learned. She could see the disbelief on his face.

“A mutation,” he said softly, realizing now what Crusher had realized just in time to save a life. “Their systems had changed to require the helon.”

Crusher nodded, relieved that someone finally understood her actions, which had likely seemed like madness.

“And we were keeping it from them. Protecting them. We thought it would kill them, but look.” Ro’Kell motioned out to where Nah’Tren was skipping around Data and laughing, reaching her small hands up toward the sun. She was a tiny beacon of light. “Look what we were missing.” He stood silent for several seconds. “Do you have any idea what this will do to our society, Doctor?”

She did. And some part of her was glad. She smiled, hugging Bel’Narr closer. “It seems your species was meant to walk in the sun after all, Keeper.”

The little couch in the captain’s ready room creaked slightly as Picard sat down beside her. Crusher knew it was his favorite place to talk—private, serene, with the bubbling fish tank in the bulkhead and the streaking stars outside adding a mesmerizing ambiance of steady motion to the room.

“You realize your course of action on the surface could have ended very badly,” Picard said, “for yourself, the child, and the Federation. We were guests on this planet, offering comfort and aid, not terrorizing hospital workers.” The captain’s tone was honest, yet not angry. Crusher knew how he felt about the situation. She would take the formal reprimand as procedure dictated, but was glad to serve under a man who could see the value of lives through the web of protocol. “Nevertheless,” he continued, “Commissioner Cal’Sohn tells me that the young girl Nah’Tren is recovering, as are the other children. Thanks to your timely intervention, Doctor.”

She shook her head. “I almost didn’t catch it in time. None of us thought to consider that what we saw as an illness was simply the effects of an advancement in their species’ genetic evolution.”

“Hmm, yes.” Picard ran his fingers along the left side of his jaw, in an action that appeared to Crusher to be both strong and reflective at the same time. “There’s something rather poignant there, I think. This idea that sometimes, our best efforts at improving a situation, though noble, are the very obstacles that impede our progress.”

That was one of the things she loved about Jean-Luc. He not only commanded missions but also recognized the irony, the flaws, and the beauty in the human condition—indeed, in the condition of all life in the galaxy.

“I’m curious about something, though, Doctor,” the captain said. “Are such sudden leaps forward in the evolutionary process common? I know my experience is rather limited, but I cannot recall observing anything else quite like this event.”

“There are recorded instances, though most that I have read about were more gradual in nature, or involved the realization of a trait that had been nascent for quite some time. The Shar-Mi’lans will most definitely attract some interested researchers from Starfleet Medical.”

“In light of that reality, and the inevitable involvement of other interested parties, protocol will need to be developed to protect the rights of these individuals. Luckily, the Federation can help with that.” Picard paused. “When I spoke with him earlier, Commissioner Cal’Sohn was explaining some of his people’s plans to help the ‘sunwalkers,’ as they are becoming known, to smoothly transition into a new way of life on their homeworld.”

“Yes, Ro’Kell mentioned it as well,” Beverly said. “They have begun setting up a temporary structure outside their shields to allow the affected young people to transition and still be able to interact with their families. Eventually, once they adapt to their new physiology, they will no longer need such support. The opportunities that are now available to them are staggering. Just imagine it, Jean-Luc, an entire planet to explore, where once there was only death.”

“Indeed. The stuff of legend. It will be a long process for them—one that will require patience and acceptance on all sides, no doubt. But I suspect the Shar-Mi’lan people will be better off in the long run for encountering such an extraordinary phenomenon within themselves.” Picard paused again, watching Crusher. She felt his gaze on her features, intent but kind, as always. “And what of the parents of these remarkable children? How have they responded?”

“As good parents ought to: with love and support. Bel’Narr approached me as I was getting ready to leave. She thanked me for helping her daughter to find her so’quen.”

Picard ventured a guess. “A native word that denotes life? Or happiness, perhaps?”

Crusher shook her head. “In Shar-Mi’lan, so’quen means ‘bright self.’ ”

“How . . . appropriate.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “You know, Jean-Luc, I—” Crusher laughed in embarrassment. “It sounds so silly now.”

“No, please do go on.”

“Well, I—I asked him for help. On the surface, when I wasn’t sure that I was in time. I said something like a prayer, as if Wesley was some incorporeal being who could hear me and intervene.”

The captain smirked and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “You know, what has happened to Wesley is not at all dissimilar to the religious myths of many cultures. From Earth’s Hindu principle of enlightenment to the ancient Chokti’s belief in Divine Coalescence, many peoples have aspired to shedding this reality in exchange for a higher plane of existence. I think young Mister Crusher can now claim such an experience.” Picard chuckled. “Though, I must admit, a part of me will always remember him as the precocious youth whose zeal for this ship and for these vast starry heavens somehow managed to outstrip my own. That part of Wesley, that childlike wonder, I believe, will always stay the same.”

Crusher believed it too. And for the first time since she had hugged Wesley goodbye, she felt nothing but pride for her son and his strange transcendent purpose. She knew her chances of ever seeing him again were slim, yet she was content that Wesley had finally found his so’quen. Doctor Crusher glanced out the port, at the far black reaches of the universe, and silently wished him a lifetime of fulfillment, wherever the celestial winds might take him.

She would hold on to the sweater, though. Just in case.

THE SEEN AND UNSEEN

Chris Chaplin

YOU REMEMBER that gray, gravelly field, Yalu—boulders in wrinkled patches like tough, crackling skin. Rows and rows of two-man tents spread atop those muscular boulders. We slept in those tight tents with our rusting disruptors between us. Luxury compared to the Jem’Hadar weapons’ fire carving craters around us during the morning’s campaign.

But in the cool night, those chilled boulders beneath our backs, we’d slip our heads out the flap in the tent and look up. The sky! It hung speckled and deep—the endless direction of a sky was alien to us. Columns of smoke seemed to reach out and dissolve into that black ocean. It crashed on the shores of our imagination, tempting us with a silent roar.

Beneath that sky you smiled, always smiling. While I wrestled the question that we were born to bear as sons of two worlds, Remus and Romulus: Does the galaxy mean anything to a slave born in a dark hole? Or do we mean anything to the galaxy?

“You might be right.” You always acknowledged my perspective.

I was always wrestling—a violent word for my violent hunger—and your attention validated me. Even when we were little boys in the mines, sifting debris from crystal in the dilithium refinement plant, I’d chatter away for sixteen hours. Stories and theories and rumors—each aimed beyond Remus. Lavish palaces and hulking starships and adventures made me itch. We grew, and so did the itch. But eventually that itch became something else. Something in me began to decompose, then burn—as if life could flourish on Remus’s dark side. And when that frustration twisted across my face, you never trivialized those feelings.

“They’re afraid,” I repeated, “the stars would lure us. Yalu! They can’t have slaves—”

“—slaves hungry for more than food,” you said. You knew my words as if they were scripted. And maybe they were. But you listened, and I kept talking, working to understand who we were and why—what my words meant, if they were real. They compelled me to speak them; they freed me from silence. You thrived in quiet; you learned from it, drew strength from it. But for me, in it, the itch festered.

Before the Romulan military plucked us from the Reman mines to fight their war, the Romulan administrator of Remus’s mining colony, a man named Jun cha’Ral, hired us to write and transmit status reports concerning dilithium quotas and supply requests back to Romulus. I never understood why he gave us that opportunity. He simply appeared at our cell one evening after our sixteen-hour shift. He knelt down; our mother laid in her cot, her face pressing against the grimy walls.

“The Senate’s slashed our budgets,” he explained, his broad, oafish body tangled in a lattice of shadows. “So, you’re both going to live in the big office. Suppose I have to get your reading and writing up to standard.”

We were speechless.

“A couple of fatherless mutts like you don’t belong here anyway.”

We looked back at our mother. You smiled: our lives as grunting slaves had ended! My wet eyes clung to our mother, the frayed folds of her old shirt. Back arched toward us, her head still, as if she were asleep; I knew she couldn’t’ve been. How could she be? A Romulan was here to take us! She would not even look at us. You saw opportunity; I cursed everything: our paralyzed mother, that Romulan slaver.

The stories she told us about our Romulan father crippled me then. Heart stopped. Lungs tight, fiery. How he would skulk into her cell, her aching body spread weak on her cot after an eighteen-hour day in the mines. He’d want her. And we resulted from those exhausting nights. How could she let her boys leave like this without a tremor of anger or resistance?

You see, I hated Romulans. The hate wasn’t pure, though; the comfort and education in the Romulan administrator’s office sculpted that itch into a burn. I felt suffocated, trapped in that mining pit.

“Genius!” I’d exclaim, lost between sarcasm and admiration. “They plant their slaves on a planet that doesn’t rotate, sealing generations into darkness. What’s hidden in the dark doesn’t dirty the morality of their shining empire, I suppose!” And you’d nod, laughing gently, for this epiphany weeded up through my thoughts weeks before and would undoubtedly sprout again.

When we monitored the colony’s transmission array, chatter from Romulus filled our ears. And we found that few on Romulus even knew that we existed. As far as the public knew, Remus was a prison mining colony for their worst criminals. Those criminals, we figured, were our Romulan guards who beat us, kept our people hungry, and used our women. Even our savior, Administrator cha’Ral, glowed dimly in light of this revelation.

You cried silently, but my arms shook at my sides as we walked to our room. Something cracks and splinters in a man when he doesn’t see himself in another’s eyes. The guards barely acknowledged a Reman, except as cattle. We pass in the tunnels; their eyes bounce away. Would anyone on Romulus see me to even bounce their eyes?

“These poor men,” you said. I hated you for sympathizing with the criminals.

“Poor men?”

You nodded, wiping tears across your face with the backs of your hands. “They’re forgotten, like us.”

“They exist,” I mumbled. “We can’t be forgotten, because we don’t exist!” And my burn flamed into bitterness.

“Not true.” You always steadied me in truth. “That Vulcan man’s speech.”

I sighed, frustrated. I hated being challenged, especially with truth. “Spock?” Before today’s transmissions cut out, the one Vulcan voice on Romulus filled a lecture hall.

“He’s from the Federation. I believe he knows about us,” you assured me. “A just society,” you said, wearing a playful, deep voice, “can’t thrive on the forgotten backs of disposable people; eventually the foundation crumbles into what’s hidden—that’s what he said.”

I folded both arms across my chest and growled something at you about those being empty words that’ll fade. But you knew differently. You knew that if that Vulcan could speak those words over and over again, we’d be dragged into the light.

Before we left for war, my bitterness tricked me into unlacing the opportunities that I had—changing everything I saw into an impediment. I would actively confront Administrator cha’Ral, and, for a while, he tolerated my insubordination.

“You’re just a lousy criminal,” I charged. “What gives you the right to lord over me? I’ve done nothing immoral.” I had just discovered the vocabulary of moral philosophy while eavesdropping on another university lecture transmission. “The only natural law I’ve broken is being born on this sunless rock. I should be the administrator. You should be out there in the dirt.”

Usually, he smiled and assigned me a day in the mines. You hated when I became so combative, but we both knew punishment was mere theater. He protected us.

But I finally crossed the line after he found me trying to transmit some juvenile letter I wrote to expose the “villainy” of the empire to the whole galaxy.

He threw me, personally, out of the administration building, shouting, “I gave you this opportunity! I thought that the Romulan half of you could become more.” There was something quivering behind his words, almost disappointment. And now the guards saw me, but only as cha’Ral’s discarded Reman pet. But I wasn’t really Reman. I had become more.

The next night, a hooded figure walked passed our cell’s door, dropping a bundled package. A package meant ownership. Someone meant for me to have something other than ragged clothes and a dim cell. Honestly, I always thought you, Yalu, sent the books that sagged heavily in the bundle. Our mother curled toward the wall, again cradled in her cot, sleeping or weeping, I wasn’t sure. But suddenly power trembled through me. I felt unmoored, ready to explode from the room, even the planet, by the thrust of this feeling. I anticipated the words.

While you continued working in the administration building, eating three meals a day, I would devour those books. Their bindings frayed. Flowering stains colored most pages. Cold, wet dirt in a fresh pit—that’s what they smelled like. I actually found the smell oddly soothing. I felt rooted in something real. In those pages, dozens of people spoke directly to me about things that mattered. Some books even had miscellaneous scraps and torn pamphlets forgotten between their pages.

Spock, the Vulcan man we heard, wrote one of those pamphlets. It seized me.

As I write to you, my elbows lean against an old bar. Imperfect, scratched gloss smears its surface. Gray haze snakes around me and the patrons. A few graying Romulans congregate in the corner. Clanking glasses and low, calloused voices rumble.

I came here to write this letter to you because there were whispers, rumors, that this establishment’s owner sympathized with Spock’s underground movement on Romulus. It is a dangerous thing these days to associate with the movement, especially with the breakdown of the government after Shinzon’s coup d’état and the power vacuum filled chaotically by factions of military and Tal Shiar commanders who grope at their beloved empire’s corpse.

I sat here, sipping an ale for a while before I began. I finally have a voice; ironically, what can I say to you, brother, that you didn’t already know. You knew who I could become well before I did. That’s why I figured you sent me those books. Spock’s pamphlet set me straight, though. He saved my life. But so did you, twice, at least.

If you weren’t my librarian, then the first time was on that stony field during the Dominion War. I remember lying in our tent alone. My shoulder burned, wet, bandaged, and throbbing mad. A Jem’Hadar grazed me earlier that morning. Even now that wound’s twisted wrinkles ache when I sleep.

There is nothing more hateful than a Jem’Hadar soldier: the scaly skin, the horns, the dark-obsessive eyes. They rise and consume a hillside as if some far-off floodgates had burst and out spilled a flexing, unflinching wave. A Reman army had no chance. Bred to kill, Jem’Hadar had no identity beyond “soldier.” Killing fulfilled them; drugs sustained them. The Founders wisely subjugated them through drugs and breeding. You, of course, wept for them, seeing them as kindred victims. At least, I’d argue, the Jem’Hadar had clear purpose and recognition—they were infamous. Even a Reman’s purpose and identity were clear. But who or what was a child of a Reman woman and a Romulan father? When our mother gave birth to you, Yalu, I watched and tasted her disgust at your spindly Romulan hair, matted and black. I saw myself through her eyes then. I couldn’t understand what I felt. Our wide, pointed ears, however, marked us as odd Reman mutts. The guards would call us “ear-mutts.” It’s a wonder our mother chose to carry us to term, knowing the life ahead of us.

I must write this quickly. Loyalists to the old order at this bar might beat a Reman to reclaim a sense of patriotism. So, the first time you saved my life: You reached into our tent, my wound fresh, and dragged me to our commander’s command center, a troop transport serving as Romulan living quarters beside the rows of Reman troop tents atop that stony field. The commander sent hundreds of Remans to die as mere distractions to allow a Romulan squad to tear holes with explosives in Jem’Hadar transports. The tactic worked; it only took the sacrifice of more than two hundred Remans.

At his desk, the commander swept his hands with grace and skill through holographic terrain that depicted this barren world—prime real estate for the Dominion to establish a foothold in Romulan space. We stood, watching his hands sculpt the troops and bombers, encircling, then swallowing the enemy. And as we stood there, Yalu, I was hypnotized. Beauty. Precision. Expression. A low hum settled in the room. In there, my wound cooled to a gentle ache.

Two officers stood on either side of the commander’s desk. Their eyes bore down on us as if we threatened the commander’s life—it must’ve been our wide, Reman ears. But they were looking at us.

When he finally acknowledged us, he didn’t look up. “Yes, Yalu?”

“Commander,” you began, “my brother, Troth.”

The commander remained focused on his holograms.

“And,” you continued, “he has a perspective that’ll amuse you.”

“Yes?”

“He hates Remans.”

He looked up, smiling.

“Hates Remans?”

You nodded and looked back at me with an expression that said, here is another opportunity for something more. You turned back to him.

“Yes, you know our lineage.”

“And you’re my liaison to the Reman troops for that fact.”

“Well, my brother offers himself as entertainment for you.”

He snapped to his feet, moved around his desk, and walked directly to face you. I stiffened, fearing that this was the end. No Reman approached a Romulan commander with anything novel like this. He had a strict, arrogant power curving the bones of his face. Throughout our campaign on this planet, I was a mere photon hovering between his hands; now, you wanted me to entertain him? I didn’t know what I had to say to a Romulan. Could he even hear a Reman? His eyes lit when you said I hated Remans. But I didn’t, exactly—I just hated the not-living of being unseen.

“Well,” he began, moving to me. “Reman workers sustain the empire, so I hate Remans as much as I hate the beasts of the field. They’re perfectly good at being Remans, but you’re half-Reman—”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, isn’t that confusing, growing up hating half your identity?”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed, looking back at the officers that stood by his desk.

“Gentlemen, what we have here is a Muddled Mongrel!”

They all laughed. You began laughing, glaring at me. Laughter, at first, dripped hesitantly from my lips, until it rolled out as boisterously as the commander’s had.

“Well, Muddled Mongrel, let’s hear something amusing.”

I opened my mouth and said the first thing that came to mind, a story the guards would repeat whenever I argued about freedom and fairness: “You want to help the Reman out. You really want to give him a chance to be free, but look what happens when you do that. Take Zon, for example. You know Zon, right?”

The commander nodded. “The Reman agitator who the colony’s administrator let escape.”

“Yes. Zon escapes, and what does he do first?”

I let the question fill the room.

“In primal desperation, he scurries through the wilds of Remus’s dark side, fingers crusted over with dirt, finally reaches the lighted side, bone thin, and guzzles down sewage-tainted water from some abandoned outpost. Then dies.”

The room was still.

“Zon proved one thing: you can take the Reman out of the filth, but never the filth out of the Reman.”

Their laughter weighed heavily on me, but I could feel the tension rippling off them. I knew, then, what you’d done for me, and I hated you for it, Yalu.

“Very nice,” said the commander. “I am Commander Tholon. I am certain you know of me, but not my name nor my passion for entertainment.” He looked to you. “Your brother must have sensed my frustrated boredom—there is no variety in war beyond its meticulous game. Especially this war. It is passionless, mere defense-ism. A struggle of survival, not the expansion of our political sophistication, our complex, penetrating mendacity. We are destined to hold this quadrant to Romulan standards of civilization. Not defend our ailing neighbors, but I digress.”

“I’d be happy to help, Commander,” I said with feigned enthusiasm.

“Life demands variety, my Reman friend.” A sculpted grin hardened his face; his gaze isolated me, leaving me feeling vulnerable, naked. But seen. I had to earn his trust or his respect, at least.

“Like any good Romulan, I’ll speak and leave the truth to you, sir.”

The grin softened. “Subcommander Shonu, have the cook prepare a meal.”

“Yes, commander.” He left the shuttle with urgency.

Still fixated on me, he ordered his other officer to retrieve my things from my tent. My chest tightened. In my tent, tucked in the folds of my blanket, I kept Spock’s pamphlet that I had devoured again and again for years now. We were permitted no personal belongings aside from a blanket, disruptor, tent, and uniform. But Spock inhabited me as a third voice in my identity. I cringed at being found with such anti-Romulan, anti-Reman rhetoric. But proud deception and insinuation, I learned, were honored hallmarks of Romulan virtue—as both challenge intellect and fortitude. So I grinned, letting my eyes hint at my transgression.

Later, his officers brought in a table, food, ale, chairs. We were given fresh uniforms; we were overwhelmed by the treatment. The meal served, Tholon personally poured each of our ales, saying, “You’re very fascinating, Yalu, Troth.” He began pouring an ale for his subcommander at his right hand and moved slowly around the table. With each step, each probing glance, I prepared my next move in what I supposed was a game of move-countermove.

“Brothers, born of two people: a race of the shadows and a race of the Star Empire—heirs simultaneously to concealed slavery and ancient nobility.”

The ale fizzled coolly, reaching up the edges of your glass. Its soft hiss triggered that embittered itch, transforming it. I felt almost new, somehow. Tholon saw into and defined the tension I felt.

“I am curious: To which heritage do you most closely identify?”

You wisely thanked him for your ale and spoke: “I’ve taken my oath of loyalty to you, Commander. We won’t survive today’s conflict without each individual’s loyalty.”

He began pouring my glass. “So, loyal today. I appreciate your precise diction, Yalu. A Romulan trait, I assure you.”

It was my turn.

“Since Romulus doesn’t recognize Remans as citizens, I am left my Romulan heritage only.”

“An impressive, if scathing, response,” he replied. “Do you enjoy Romulan ale?”

“I’ve never known the freedom to drink it, sir.”

Your face froze in horror. Was I to cross the line again? I feared his countermove. My skin began to darken, a creeping darkness that reached up my Reman veins like wiry fingers. But your eyes, Yalu, your eyes calmed me, reminded me of being thrown from the administrator’s office.

Tholon nodded, still grinning like a dark predator. “You shall enjoy this taste, then.” He poured his ale.

“Well, Yalu, thank you for bringing me your brother.” He rose his glass for a toast. “You both choose your words well.”

“It’s our honor, Commander.”

Another Romulan entered the shuttle, whispered in the commander’s ear, and promptly left. Tholon frowned.

“Troth,” he began. “Have you anything amusing to say about Vulcans?”

He looked at me, desperate for something. Spock’s pamphlet was either exposed or not by the officers who gathered my things. I decided to play up my Reman role.

“I’ve never met one, sir.” I had to remain ignorant. That is the best sort of Reman, anyway.

He sighed. “A shame. A few minutes with one will confirm the superiority of our culture and why we split off from them thousands of years ago. They’re weak. Unwilling to act, embracing a culture of suppression, one that lies to itself. And the Senate does nothing to stop Vulcan propaganda in the Romulan Star Empire.”

He stood proud, patriotic, and I became enamored with the deep grin on his face. He had a clear vision and, despite its debilitating and dehumanizing view of Remans, I grew curious about it.

“And now we have that Vulcan radical softening our university students’ minds, again, with high Vulcan philosophy: passivity, false transparency, mere logic.”

Tholon looked at me with a fierce enthusiasm. I hadn’t noticed that both my face and body flinched, electrified by the reference to Spock.

“Ah, you’ve heard of him,” he continued. We nodded, both sipping our ales. “Well, gentlemen, his presence on Romulus is more destructive than the public’s recent knowledge of your race.”

“How’s that?” The question burped out from between my lips. I immediately drowned my throat in ale.

“As a Reman-raised man, you cannot fully know who we are. We are proud and suspicious. We question everything and everyone. We do this to ensure our greatness, to challenge our preconceived beliefs. Living always a bit unsettled. We are always watching, calculating the wisdom of our enemies as great tests for our superiority to overcome. But a race of slaves working in darkness would cast doubt on our natural superiority.”

He leaned forward, grinning civilly, waiting for our response. This was some subtle game, I decided. I had moved onto filling my mouth with the meat on my plate. You calmly nodded. “A sensible concern. But how does one Vulcan threaten a society that welcomes the challenging of well-worn beliefs?”

“For years, this Vulcan has nurtured a subversive counterculture. Our young have begun rejecting the basic truth of what it is to be Romulan: intellect paired with passion. Their emotional restraint. Foolish. Dangerous!”

And his fist stung the face of the table with a cutting slap. “Damn Vulcan! Lies that will cripple us!”

The word “Vulcan” spun in my mind until the pamphlet came into focus. Tholon’s unashamed Romulan-ness infected me; I felt its weight, warm, squirming in me suddenly, as a line from Spock’s scrawl spoke in me: “Visionaries progress society from within, respecting its inherent nature; in this way, we must first transform our minds.” The word “visionary” lodged in my mind on my first reading; Spock’s words made me feel closer to something beyond the mining colony, our broken mother, and our violent conception. I had never been given a vision of anything, not even the sky, until that pamphlet and, then, the dinner with Tholon.

That warm tension began to twist and rattle in my head. I could feel it, physically on my brow, like a heavy discomfort. My mind wrestled to expel something. And I felt compelled to continue Tholon’s game.

“Commander,” I began, “perhaps, like Zon, Spock has been set wild on Romulus, gathering followers to be culled and sifted as a blight. You only need to view him as a weed. On Remus, the Romulan guards would pluck the few weeds that grew in dim light and twist them into something warm to smoke. It kept them alive, soothed them, but, eventually, it withered into ash.”

His brow arched as he leaned toward me, clapping slowly. “Such striking imagery. This meal, my Reman friends, has certainly been diverting.” The discomfort cleared. I felt weightless, energetic.

As he left the table, his meal cooling on his plate, you looked at me with a mix of congratulations and sorrow, for you knew that you had condemned me to a life of self-hate, belittling Remans and anyone else against the image of a strong, nationalistic empire.

After Tholon’s campaign, I didn’t return to Remus with you and the others. Although, I later learned that you hadn’t either. Tholon recommended me for a new assignment: the Empire Morale Association, a small department within the Romulan military specializing in the creation of fresh entertainment and diversion for the soldiers during the remainder of the Dominion War. I served under the EMA’s executive officer, Subcommander Kah. We hopped between starbases and ships, entertaining the weary soldiers.

One night I bowed, the heat of the spotlight hardening my face. The audience cheered and clapped. I felt good, but oddly removed from it all. Subcommander Kah ushered me off stage and out of the spotlight. He took my place, bowing and clapping with the crowd at the Devron starbase.

“We are gratified that our Muddled Mongrel, Troth of Remus, amused you!” he began. “I never tire of his Remus stories, his retelling of Zon’s foolishness, and all his other humorous observations and poems on that dark rock. He reminds us that, on occasion, even our ancient society’s lowest class produces more than mere dilithium. Now, enjoy yourselves. The ale flows free for the remainder of the evening.”

And he bowed, sinking back into the dim backstage with me.

“Another fine performance, kid,” he said, winking. “You were really sincere.”

If Tholon was the model, seasoned Romulan, then Kah was overly eager to be Tholon. Each word was crisp, layered with accusation and implication. So, I put on your face, Yalu, and replied like a good Reman slave.

“You know where I stand, Subcommander,” I began. “Where every other Reman does, most likely over the waste disposal hatch.”

He grinned, descending into the dark corridor that led away from the starbase’s auditorium. “You keep your words just close enough to the heart of the truth, huh?”

He couldn’t have known about Spock’s pamphlet tucked tightly against my chest, but his eyes seemed to slip down my face to it. I felt its words brandish my skin as a traitor.

Really, Yalu, I don’t know why I kept the page. Kah was right, the more I spoke against Remans and Vulcans, the more sincere those words became. I came to taste the words; they became familiar. They overlaid what I knew of the universe each time I repeated them, ushering me into this other reality—one in which I felt more Romulan.

Days before the war ended, a squad of Jem’Hadar invaded Ztidem Colony. These were different. They groped around the labs, infirmaries, rounding up doctors. Kah and I fled to the generators, blanketing the colony in darkness—a reminder of my life on Remus now turned into my advantage.

Kah and I skulked through the hallways, secured weapons from the officer’s armory, and squeezed ourselves into a medical storage locker. Kah’s breathing never calmed and, in fact, drew the Jem’Hadar to us. Debilitated without their drug to sustain them, our disruptors burned through their shoulders and chests, one after another, until very few remained.

Because of our heroics and Kah’s persistence, I was invited to perform for an important admiral. She commanded the shipyards of Vateen II, the heartbeat of the Romulan fleet.

We arrived in orbit. Subcommander Kah was particularly giddy this evening, and when we entered the transporter room to beam down to the surface, I overheard him chattering with the operator.

“Makes you want to come down with us, huh?” He laughed, joyfully.

The operator nodded.

“Been grooming this Reman mutt for a night like this. And now that the admiral has taken out one of that Vulcan’s underground cells, she’ll be primed for celebration.” He looked back at me, grinning wide with arms raised.

“Vulcan jokes tonight, I assume?” I asked.

He nodded. “Word is she even has the infamous Spock down there.”

The page twisted and squirmed like a muscle, a loose hand, against my skin. I literally grabbed my chest, the skin around my eyes straining in knots. I realized that Spock was more than just these words that I carried around.

“Coordinates set, sir. The admiral has sanctioned your party for transportation,” the crewman reported.

When we materialized on the planet, towering, ancient buildings congregated at the perimeter of a great courtyard. Warm street lamps kissed the dark cobblestone. A columned building shimmered silver behind curls of snaking smoke. The smoke came from an open door at the building’s base. The doorway led to the building’s cellar, where Spock and his underground met that evening. The admiral later told us how she “vanquished those treacherous libertines,” how the underground planned to install listening devices on all ships docked and built at the shipyards in orbit. This would allow them to move more freely throughout the Empire without fear of persecution.

Soldiers dragged bodies from the cellar door, piling them near the side of the building. Kah made us watch from across the courtyard. He was fascinated. No, exhilarated.

“You have to respect those deviants,” he whispered, his arm around my shoulder. “They made a bold move; it cost them everything, but that doesn’t erase their courage.”

“We’re lucky Romulan suspicion led to their untimely deaths,” I said.

“A great testament to what we fight for, Troth.” A hint of mourning, or regret, lowered his voice’s register. He sighed, then smiled.

“You might be a two-faced traitor, as guilty as these Vulcan-lovers,” Kah began, “but you do remind me of my boy. Died three months ago. Had courage, too, and a fiery tongue; helped storm a Dominion drug-manufacturing facility. Managed to crater the area. He didn’t survive, though. Shrapnel to the brain.”

He paused. “Remember why we’re here: make them forget death.”

We moved toward the building. The soldiers took aim at the pile. Spock wasn’t in the heap, I noticed; relief swelled my throat. I didn’t understand why. As we entered, I heard the soldiers’ disruptors vaporizing the pile. And I think Kah and I thought of his son.

“Come in. Come in!” The admiral sat in a wide leather chair, a flute of ale and ice singing in her hand. Kah cut into the room, enthusiastic, and embraced her other hand, shaking it passionately.

“Admiral.”

“Subcommander, I assume you’ve heard.”

Smiling widely. “This victory secures your status as one of Romulus’s most effective commanders.” He looked back at me, waving me in. “And this is the Reman boy, Troth.”

She looked at me with perfect Romulan suspicion. “Not quite a boy, Subcommander.”

He laughed, pointing to the couch adjacent to the admiral’s chair. I sat obediently.

“A child of Remus, then,” he replied. “He’s ready to perform, but I thought you’d like a personal performance. He’s even prepared his bits on the Vulcan.”

“The Vulcan,” she said, “is resolute. Stubborn. In fact, he lies in an empty room, bleeding green all over himself, and still insists on meditating, calmly neglecting the reality that he led a dozen people to their deaths.”

She stood, placing the flute on a table beside the chair. Her attention shifted to a guard at the door that I had not even noticed. My lack of Romulan suspicion made me less situationally aware, unfortunately.

“Sublieutenant, bring our Vulcan prisoner here. Have him cleaned first, of course. And have our lovely physician pump his blood with something that’ll nullify that arrogant Vulcan restraint.”

A vicious radiance dotted the contours of her high cheekbones and rigid nose. She was elegant, but it was as if her face were a lethal warbird, preparing to tear the flesh from her victim’s bones.

Kah and her traded stories for a while. She even spoke of her last run-in with Spock’s underground. “And then N’Vek trained his disruptor on me, but a loyal officer vaporized him. I knew I had to devote my career to the destruction of Spock’s virulent movement. If it could infect the Tal Shiar, our premier intelligence agency, then it could do anything.”

When Spock walked in, assisted by two guards, they slung him ruthlessly into the couch beside me. Kah insisted on standing by the admiral’s side. “I stand by no other,” he claimed.

“Enough flattery, Subcommander. Your promotion will come.”

She turned to Spock, reaching her hand out to shake his. “Ah, Mister Spock, jolan tru, thank you for joining us this evening.”

“Admiral Toreth,” he replied, ignoring her hand. “It is agreeable to see you were unharmed in the firefight.” I shuddered. A sense of surprise and fear rippled through my body. It was as if the pages and his voice conspired to shock me alive. The voice was gravelly, yet bold and certain.

She smiled darkly, returning to her seat. “Would you enjoy some Romulan ale, or have you still not developed a stomach for our finest liquor?”

“I am afraid that your physician has recently injected me with some sort of suppressant aimed at disabling my emotional control,” he explained. “It is unwise to mix massacre with these civilized pleasantries, just as it is also unwise to mix medication with drink, Admiral.”

He smiled slightly, breathing heavily. I could not look away from him. His hair thinned and grayed in patches. A large green cut hung above his left eye. His clothes were standard prison issue, the very gray, heavy clothing that clung to my sweaty body each day in the mines.

“Oh, Mister Spock, I am so pleased to hear that the rumors were true: that, despite your Vulcan restraint, your human propensity for jabs and barbs surfaces from time to time.”

“Only when logical.”

She looked to me. It was apparently time for me to perform, but I had nothing on my mind but the sweating, bleeding man beside me. He was real, and no longer words on a page. He was vibrant, resisting death and defeat even with the sting of his tongue.

“You shall begin with the tale of the Vulcan/Romulan divide,” ordered Kah.

I nodded.

“This’ll intrigue you, Admiral,” Kah began. “His interpretation of our history with this Vulcan’s people is quite amusing!”

And so I leaned forward, a crewman filling my glass of ale, and spoke my propaganda proudly.

“Imagine a barren desert. The horizon is crisp, yet wavers in the distance. A red sky looms like a burdensome guilt upon your shoulders. You crawl out of some hole that provides little protection from the heat. Out of that hole now, you stumble down the dirt and rock, the bottoms of your feet ashy and cratered by a life of wandering, of scavenging, of aimless violence. And all you can see is bodies, greening stale in the sun. Tears cut clean down your dirty cheeks. You pledge to stop the dying, fearing your own imminent death by some faction of foaming Vulcans.”

“Quite evocative,” the admiral observed.

I stopped, listening to Spock’s breathing. It was still, constant, but a subtle grinding betrayed him. And when I looked over to him, anger subtly creased his forehead.

“Continue, Troth,” ordered Kah.

“Well, what do you do? Fear inspires innovation. This weak, flailing body in the dirt was the much-beloved Surak. He created an entire culture of liars by lying to the early Vulcans. He protected them from their fears. And if he could fool enough of them, he could create a society of weak, self-deceived creatures who, instead of sitting around in dim, dry holes, would sit comfortably, arrogantly, atop cushioned benches beside the amber glow of their candles and logic.”

“And what of us?” the admiral asked.

“We,” I began without thinking, “you, sprang up from those same deserts, wrestled yourselves out of the sands and braved the galaxy, skeptical of Vulcan weakness, their self-indulgent deception.”

“Well put, Reman,” she said. “I’m impressed with him, Kah. He could be a powerful Reman voice to wield.”

Kah felt important. “You’ll be the voice and face of Remus, Troth. Now that the war’s exposed your people to the public, we’ll need you.”

“You and the Vulcan are quite alike,” Toreth began. “Voices used by the Empire—one to denigrate, the other, to expose traitors. Troth, you’re opportunistic, and I commend you for it, but, Spock, what does your logic say about all this?”

“It presents a growing countercultural movement within a stagnant empire, Admiral.”

Her laughter seemed controlled, feigned, breathless in that moment. She looked down in her lap and grinned. “It is your stagnant Federation who need our help in their losing fight against the Dominion.”

“The Federation, Admiral, is not being judged. I am,” he said, frustration gurgling in his throat. “I may, however, infer that all of this has been engineered simply to arouse an emotional response. A humiliation. A most fascinating exercise, for you have already won, Admiral—slaughtering Romulan citizens—yet you know that you have, in fact, done nothing to curb the reach and growth of the underground. If you shatter that glass,” he said, pointing to her flute of ale, “its pieces will easily be swept away, but the idea of the glass remains unless you dispose of every individual who has seen a glass. Change will come, Admiral. It is inevitable. History only requires one individual to summon change.”

She gripped her chair’s armrests, clawing them with her finely manicured nails. “The Romulan Star Empire will not wither away into facile, Federation puppets!”

“Your implication is predicated by a faulty premise. The Vulcans did not ‘wither,’ Admiral. And they are not ‘puppets.’ The propaganda that you have this young man spouting is rooted in Romulan fear.”

When he defended me, Yalu, I was terrified. Somehow Kah or the admiral might have read my silence as consensus. Spock had positioned me as their victim, but their position demanded that he remain the victim, and so I spoke out in self-preservation. “They closed their eyes, horrified by violent emotions, Vulcan.” The word spilled out like a curse. And suddenly, I felt wrinkled and ugly and powerful all at once. Energy coursed through my arms and legs. My body joined with the admiral’s and Kah’s. Have you ever been caught up in communal emotion? It’s a feeling as close to mind control as possible. I literally began breathing heavily, matching their breaths.

The admiral reached out and patted me on the knee and then took a swig from her flute. I smiled, grinning as a full-blooded Romulan. The presence of Spock counterbalanced mine.

“Young man,” he began, hot breath spewing from his nostrils, “the Vulcan people repressed their tumultuous emotions to become something better, not to hide in fear. We are a people, like the Federation, who are striving to improve. Nothing is natural but the pursuit of self-improvement.”

The admiral looked unsettled. So did Kah. I felt myself falling into the warmth of the Vulcan’s voice. I felt like a traitor. I had come to enjoy the taste and pride of Romulan words. This was insane. Kah offered me nothing but massacred followers, vaporized in the night, and she, the hawkish admiral, comfort, superiority, patriotism, purpose. As her lips parted to refute Spock, the room shook wildly. Disruptor fire and explosions roared beyond the room as the lights were replaced by darkness.

When I awoke, smoke curved out from a burnt hole in Toreth’s chest. Everyone in the room was unconscious. Kah lay at her side, a similar crater simmering in his chest. Only Spock and I had survived. Two men in dark-purple armor burst into the room and dragged Toreth and Kah away. I imagined Kah’s son. His wife. Another death for the state.

Voices floated loosely beyond the room. Dim emergency lights kicked in then, filling the room with a deadly, flat hum. Spock stirred. I didn’t know whether to restrain him as a prisoner or beg his forgiveness. I didn’t know, Yalu, who or what I was anymore now that I was removed from the game.

The guards returned, giving me no time to think about this identity crisis. One led me into the courtyard, while the other lifted and carried Spock behind us.

Outside, the night was heavy upon the planet. A shuttle’s exhaust warmed the ground in a soupy heat. I looked around and saw clearly that the guards were Reman. Reman!

A bald, lean man stood at the center of the courtyard beneath the statue of the great Romulan engineer who designed the first warbirds. The man calmly gave orders to a few more Remans, and they went to work firing their disruptors at the statue’s head, knocking it clean off. It hit the ground, rebounding outward and almost knocking us to the ground as we approached.

“Here’s their Reman prisoner, Shinzon,” reported the guard who held my arm.

The man they called Shinzon stood in the shadow of the decapitated statue, and my eyes couldn’t quite decipher his face, for he did not look Reman at all.

“Very good,” Shinzon replied. His voice carried a fresh, fearless authority. “I take it that our friend, Spock, is still alive.”

“Yes, sir. Drugged by the Romulans.”

He sighed with disgust. “Cruel. Take him up to the ship. I will get to know our Reman survivor while waiting for the next transport.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell Vkruk that we must have those Romulan engineers increase their pace. We need those transporters installed on the warbird as soon as possible. Take some Romulans off of the Scimitar project if you must.”

And both my guard and the one carrying Spock entered the shuttle. Shinzon approached me, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re not fully Reman, are you?”

“Neither are you,” I replied.

“Quite right.”

“Are you human?”

“You look with uncertainty. Have you never seen a human before?”

“Never.”

The shuttle’s engine roared to life as the vessel ascended.

“What do you know of humans, Mister—”

“—Troth.” I felt unnaturally at ease with the man. He had a calming grace that lulled me into a sense of acceptance, feelings I had just established with Toreth a short time ago.

“Well?”

“They’re part of the Federation, allied with the Vulcans, like Spock.”

“Oh, Spock.” He smiled. “I love that old Vulcan. So gullible. I remind him of someone he trusts. I used that and offered him the promise of a Reman-Underground alliance to work against Romulan tyranny and conservatism. He would call it civil disobedience, social progress; I call it revolution.”

“You knew about his meeting here?”

He nodded. “Of course. We helped his people develop the plan. Then we tipped off the military in exchange for some powerful commanders’ loyalties in the new government—a Reman government.”

I was stunned, Yalu. How had Spock misjudged his alliance with Shinzon? You should never rely on a creature of desperation. Remans are desperate. Shinzon, I later found out, was an accomplished leader in the Dominion War. He commanded a purely Reman detachment. They only accrued 4.7 percent casualties during the entire war. He was praised. Respected. And could not be silenced back to Remus. He surreptitiously gained the support of both the underground and the military to prevent his return to the mines. I don’t blame him. We all seek something better, at any cost, it would seem.

“I’m impressed.” Again, the words sputtered from my lips. I stood, fists clenched, bodies around me again, but this time, I stood as a Reman man. “I’m half-Reman.”

“A Romulan father, I suppose,” said Shinzon. “And an unwanted affair, no doubt.”

“Two, actually; I have a brother.”

“Used and violated. That is the life of our Reman brethren. But no longer.”

Another shuttle landed.

“We are both sons of other worlds—the perfect representatives of this new age on Romulus, an age of diversity, of equality for all, even for our maligned brothers and sisters back on Remus. Will you join me, Troth?”

Another visionary. How could I deny him, Yalu?

I ended up on Remus, in the mines, but this time with a disruptor holstered to my hip. I had just finished a whirlwind tour through the Empire at Shinzon’s side. He presented me as a son of Remus, born of Reman-Romulan blood, a symbol of the future. Yalu, this man could fill a room with his voice. It would breach the walls and windows and doorways until everyone in the room laughed and slammed their fists with drunken fervor.

I was assigned a cell in the corridor where we had once lived. Our mother’s defeated, curled body still ached in my eyes, but when I entered the cell to which I was assigned, there hung Spock, a Romulan woman, and a Reman man. Spock sat on the dirt floor, arms raised, shackled to the wall. I reminded myself that this used to be somebody’s home before Shinzon’s revolution. I could hear his words: “And now those ‘cages’ on Remus will finally be acknowledged for what they are: prison cells. And we will finally be acknowledged for who we are: valuable individuals, rising from the shadow of an immoral empire!” His voice would swell. The veins in his head thicken. And we’d cheer and clap our throats and hands raw.

But Spock now hung with raw wrists, worn green by metal cuffs clinging to the wall magnetically. A sinister hum from those cuffs slithered in and out of your conscious hearing after hours in the cell. I stood by the door. Green lights from the corridor flowered on the floor, coloring his naked feet. I never expected the effect his feet would have on me. For in that moment, seeing the dirt caked between his toes and in the curves of his soles, the contrast with my childhood image of him wounded me somehow.

“You’re a pretty boy.”

The prisoner who mistook me for a boy was Zysin, a Reman soldier who murdered a whole mess of escaped Romulan prisoners under Shinzon’s command. They were merely being held until Shinzon could secure his influence over some colony. Now, Shinzon approved of, even glorified, violence in the name of revolution, but none that trained the Romulan eye to view us as beasts again. “Military might, strategy, war—these are the virtues all brothers of the Empire appreciate,” he explained. “Oh, we’ll exterminate your Vulcan problem because force, not its message of passivity, brings revolution.” We had stood, our blurred forms reflected in the marble floors outside the senate building as he won the support of a prominent female senator. “But unchecked savagery—we have already been strangled and mutilated into slaves by the government and press,” he continued. “I will support no philosophy that craves blood for blood’s sake, or loyalists will use that image to further the narrative of a just Reman oppression. We must control our own story, now. Right, Troth?”

Zysin laughed. “The mighty Shinzon forbade you from speaking to us?”

“No.” I looked him square in the eyes. Shinzon taught us to inspect a person through their eyes. Would they hold their ground, blink, or turn away? “Beaten for merely looking too long into the guard’s eyes, worked to starvation,” he had said, one evening before members of Spock’s underground. “I think it fitting that we hold our gaze on a person, let us become acquainted, intimate in the discomforting struggle for equality in the eyes of those who would see us as either brutish slaves or valuable individuals.”

“Well, if you’ll get me something to write with and some paper—I know we aren’t allowed padds down here. I’d like to apologize to Shinzon for my behavior,” Zysin said. “I realize I endangered his whole revolution; I’d like to express my apology.”

“Begging for forgiveness?” I had this vague feeling then that I was no better than poor Zysin. Instead of an apology letter, I told stories to buy my way into my oppressors’ graces. I turned from him, to escape his eyes. Silass, the woman whose arms hung from shackles beside Spock, was an accomplished Romulan astrophysicist and underground sympathizer. Last week, she was imprisoned for a few off-handed comments about Shinzon’s revolution made during a lecture. She taught mostly on solar mechanics, the life of stars, and aptly applied the stellar life-cycle metaphor in one of these “dangerous” lectures on the Hobus star: “As stars age, like Hobus, they burn brighter, hotter than ever, but eventually violently collapse in on themselves. This, in fact, reminds me of this Shinzon’s revolution, burning bright and hot and violent, collapsing the Empire and everything we value, but I digress.”

Zysin ignored my jab and turned his attention to his fellow prisoners. “What do you think, Vulcan? Shouldn’t we be allowed to scribble on some paper while we rot?”

Spock didn’t flinch.

“You just going to rot there and take root?”

“There seem to be no other options,” Silass replied.

For a few minutes no one spoke, and Zysin hung limp, defeated.

“There are always possibilities,” spoke Spock. His voice struck me again, but now at the base of my skull. If it were an aroma, it would have filled an entire house.

“Who would have thought I’d end up shackled in a cage with a Romulan professor and this old Vulcan?”

“You know who this is?” I asked.

“The great Vulcan!” he mocked.

“Great, indeed,” Spock muttered. His head hung low.

“I know you mean to mock him, sir, but the great Vulcan,” continued the professor, “is a martyr for true peace and equality for the Empire and the whole Alpha Quadrant.”

“He’s no martyr,” Zysin replied. “Not yet.”

A hushed laugh tumbled from my mouth like a mistake, like drool slipping awkwardly over the bottom lip. Zysin had an unrepentant fire in his belly. His mouth amused me. My lips quivered with sarcasm and innuendo to spew. I realized how mimetic I had become. A survival instinct?

“You’re correct. I misused the term,” Silass acknowledged, “but he is a symbol for those things, nonetheless.”

“And what do those chains around his wrists symbolize, Professor?”

Silass didn’t answer. Though Spock’s body wilted, his face remained placid, strong, resolute. His rigid face fascinated me. He always seemed certain. Toreth had shared his confident, elegant face. Both offered me that. But he seemed content with listening. His silence seemed active, a preamble.

“They are rewards,” Spock finally whispered.

Zysin laughed wildly. Even the other prisoners down the corridor cheered and growled at the hilarity of the statement. I relented and got some papers and pens from the administrator’s office. Shinzon had left cha’Ral in charge of the colony, and cha’Ral seemed relieved to see me, though his face strained to hide it.

I had night shift. I stood in that cell with those prisoners for seven more hours, and, in the morning, gathered the pages they had written, folded them into my pants, and relinquished my rifle at the armory.

Yalu, the next evening I ran furiously, slamming into walls and ricocheting off corners as I raced to grab my rifle, check in, and explode into the cell. What Spock wrote infuriated me. I had to challenge him. Everything that Shinzon and the Romulans had said about Vulcans was proven in his letter.

“You wrote to me?” I growled behind gritted teeth.

He did not look me in the eye. His mouth remained flat, controlled. Meanwhile, Silass and Zysin awoke from their drowsy stupor.

I threw the letter in front of him.

“You’re arrogant. Detached from reality. Naïve. You don’t know me,” I said, kneeling down to position myself in his drooping face. “You’ve disarmed everyone in your underground with your passive philosophy; you sentenced my brother to die in a cell just like this. You might be able to deny your emotions and lie to yourself, but you can’t deny reality. You can’t believe what you’ve written here, you can’t. I won’t be manipulated in this way.” Really, I was scared of his words. As they had seized me in the past and shifted my worldview, they, again, wrestled in me for control.

I left and requested a different assignment. There were none available, but I convinced another Reman to switch with me. Throughout the night, I could hear Zysin and Silass speak with Spock as their Reman guard napped—a habit the other guards overlooked because we all remembered the woman as the granddaughter of Zon, the agitator. I could hear them through the walls, though.

Zysin was the first to speak. “What did you write to the mutt?”

I didn’t hear any reply for some time. I found myself nodding off here and there in the silence; my prisoners simply lay there, husks of former commanders and admirals who were imprisoned after Shinzon assassinated the Senate and took control of the government.

But then he finally spoke.

“I wrote about his brother,” Spock began, “a man worthy of these restraints.”

“Worthy? Like it’s some honor!” replied Zysin. “Are you even here?”

But Silass interrupted. “Please, explain.”

“His brother, Yalu, escaped after the Dominion War and joined the underground on the Mubaut colony. After securing transport there to encourage and advise their members, I observed him lead men, women, and children through a very public, peaceful protest. I had always rejected this strategy, logically concluding that it would lead to unnecessary risk. They simply sat in a popular roadway which linked the colony’s economic sector to civilian housing—housing that rejected sympathizers and members alike. Yalu recited poetry and essays and soliloquies from the greatest Romulan literary voices and even some Vulcan and human. His followers joined him, speaking specific lines in chorus. Well, this crippled commerce. I watched, fascinated. I did not join them, concerned that I would detract or distract from Yalu’s leadership.”

“Rommie’s kill him?” asked Zysin.

I sprung to my feet; you can imagine why.

“No,” replied Spock, “injured. Romulan security beat and arrested the protestors. They were jailed, but released within several weeks. I met with him, offering to transport him and his followers off Mubaut. The majority declined to leave the fight for their homes. He, however, joined me. We shared our understandings of the moral sickness within the Empire. Healthy suspicion and inquiry decayed into a loss of stable truth, even moral truth. He spoke of revolution, but not in the streets or on the battlefields, or even in the Senate, but in the hearts of the public.”

“Nonsense,” said Zysin.

“A movement of peace, my friend, disarms the oppressor, within the context of history, before disarming them in the present. We needed to rise above the temporal and act with history in mind. Yalu understood. He knew that the fate of the underground and Remus was tangled together in a web of codependence.”

I threw open the door to Spock’s cell and carefully walked across the dirt floor. I knelt before him, breathing heavily. “Shinzon said that your teachings have declawed innocent, politically unsophisticated Romulans. You would have them sit rather than take a stand against the tyranny of an oppressive government.”

“Your Shinzon is unparalleled,” quipped Spock.

I didn’t understand him at the time, but continued. “Maybe Yalu isn’t dead yet, but under your teachings, he will be.”

“There he is!” exclaimed Zysin, amused.

I stood and walked over to Zysin. “This man is a fool,” I began.

“Hey!” he protested.

“He knew Shinzon’s policy: fulfilling one’s duty to the revolution is life. It’s commitment. Failing your duty requires your life as recompense,” I said. I felt the words passing through my mouth. They felt alien, now, when applied to this living man.

“I was trying to save—” Zysin began.

“Trying to conceal your failure by murdering the prisoners,” I accused. “You panicked. Self-deception. You might as well be a Vulcan.” I couldn’t stop myself—confrontation, this Romulan game of words, distracted and steadied me. Repeating the words, I hoped, made them true.

Zysin hung his head low.

“You are right, if sitting were passive,” Spock began, “but your brother has taught me that sitting is quite active, a violent act, in fact, just like telling a story.”

I felt accused. My stories used every Reman, while they withered in darkness. I couldn’t breathe. I looked at Zysin. My eyes didn’t bounce away, like the guards, but I didn’t see him as a Reman brother, a former slave—only as the pathetic cartoons from my stories. I had reshaped my own perception of reality to survive. And I felt rudderless, hollowed out.

The striking collision of metal shook the cell. Dust and dirt rained down. The lights quit and their restraints unclasped; the hum of the magnetic locks grew silent. My chest caved in, and I doubled over, my rifle suddenly sticking in my sweaty grip. Zysin stood, laughing.

“The prisoners you’ve been charged to guard are about to break out,” he said snidely. “What’s your duty now?”

My eyes flashed at him, sweat gathering in the space between my ears and eyes. I raised my disruptor, but knew I couldn’t get myself to fire on Spock or the others. I felt paralyzed, faceless, but suddenly too visible. Suspicion, pride, revolution, deception, equality—they collapsed in on themselves within me. Yalu, you seemed to become someone, but I sputtered deeper into ambiguous darkness. The room shook again. Prisoners began shouting. I pressed the disruptor’s emitter beneath my chin, not knowing if I’d do it.

“Do not harm yourself.”

I didn’t want to!

Spock remained still, sitting against the wall.

“We are not going anywhere.” He fixed his eyes on Zysin. I could see Zysin’s fantastic confusion.

“Look, I realize to an old radical like yourself that this cell, those cuffs, are some sick reward, but not to me.”

But Silass spoke up too. “Sit down, Zysin. You don’t want this boy’s blood on your hands.”

Spock saw me clearly, and in his eyes, I saw myself, quivering, waiting. I lowered the rifle from my jaw, and it made a quiet thud into the dirt.

“My fellow prisoners, please remain in your cells. Do not attack the men and women who guard you. They, like you and I, are prisoners themselves.”

Their guard awoke, but she simply remained still, her fingers clutching the trigger of her disruptor.

“We must preserve the lives of these guards, my friends,” said Spock. “Heroic sitting, one could say.” A thin grin creased his face. And I fell to my knees.

With what seemed like a secret burden, Spock spoke. “For years, I negotiated the space between the public and the Senate, working to transform the system to allow for Vulcan teaching within Romulan society. While meeting with the underground by night and with senators by day, I ignored the image’s ability to inspire an emotional response, and, therefore, I ignored a knowledge that Vulcans devalue.”

He shook his head and paused.

“I am not the great Vulcan, Troth,” he said plainly, forcefully even. “Your brother taught me that change must be modeled. If peace and restraint is the lifestyle, it must be lived, publicly.”

“Heroic sitting,” I repeated.

“Indeed. When one consciously sits in a den of lions—to make a human allusion—that is courage, that is active resistance. And that image of your brother, the children and women, beaten by officers of the government—that image inhabits the Empire forever. He harnessed the emotional resonance of that image to spark suspicion and public outcry, something that never occurred to me—something both Romulan and Reman.”

You were heroic, Yalu.

The doors swung open and this is where our paths, brother, crossed for the final time. Shinzon had engaged the Federation’s flagship, dying in the process. The underground formed a temporary government along with the few military commanders who had suddenly regretted their alliance with Shinzon. Your voice rang through the prison. You called for everyone to head for the Reman hangar bay, that relief and transport shuttles would be waiting.

The scramble through the prison, into the mines, up through the administrator’s office, the mine shaft, and into the hangar was frantic. Elbows stabbing. Women knocked to the ground. We feared without reason. There was that group consciousness again. We simply ran like rabid dogs for the grounded ships. Spock didn’t, though, and neither did his newest convert, the professor. Zysin disappeared in the crowd. I felt the hot, wet current of bodies carry me toward the transports that lay staggered across the hangar. No grass beneath my feet, just dirt. That’s all a lightless rock gives you, and I was certainly glad to be free of the planet, although just hours before I thought I was free of it.

But I couldn’t join you or our Vulcan friend. I suddenly felt much older than I was. I felt the hustle of bodies squirming for escape, for any ship to climb onto. I felt my life compressed into that moment of surging, rudderless bodies. They couldn’t think of anything but escape and survival; I was tired of escaping, of mere survival.

So, I followed the sun’s path and trekked beneath the intense heat on the lighted side of Remus. For a few months, I needed to abandon everything and quietly discover who I was and what I actually believed. An abandoned outpost gave me shelter and the outpost’s ration supply, food. It didn’t matter whether I was Romulan or Reman anymore. But when Spock returned to deliver the news of your death during a protest, I agreed to rejoin our fragile society as it kicked and squirmed into new life. Spock suggested I write this to you—which has been a surprisingly cathartic experience—to root our story in the cyclical discovery between the seen and unseen.

STAR TREK:

DEEP SPACE NINE®

THE FAÇADE OF FATE

Michael Turner

THE BURST OF LIGHT brought a wave of heat and searing pain. Benjamin Sisko squeezed his eyes shut and choked on the acrid smoke that filled his nose, mouth, and lungs. The environmental systems labored at clearing the runabout of smoke and pumping fresh oxygen, but the damage was done. Sisko wondered if they would die of suffocation before being vaporized.

“Life-support systems operating at twenty-two percent!” Worf yelled before another volley of photon torpedoes jarred the hapless ship.

At the helm, Jadzia Dax struggled furiously. She swore. “Phasers are offline!”

What good would it do, wondered Sisko, to fight? They were already lost . . .

Benjamin Sisko opened his eyes. He sat up and regretted it immediately. He knew it was Jadzia’s comforting hand on his shoulder before she said anything.

“Take it easy, Benjamin.”

His mouth was dry and he tried to swallow but felt his throat tighten. “How long?” he managed to ask.

“Worf was the first to wake up, about an hour ago. I came to a little later.”

Sisko blinked and focused his attention on the Klingon, who stood a meter away with his arms folded across his chest.

“We are prisoners,” Worf said. “I can find no way out. There are no obvious locking mechanisms.”

Jadzia Dax sat down beside Sisko on the smooth, cool floor. “No obvious door either, for that matter.”

“The runabout?” Sisko asked.

Dax shook her head. Before she could elaborate the air was filled with a throbbing sound as all four walls seemed to shimmer as they became transparent, and then disappeared altogether.

Sisko shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness and rose to his feet. He was clearheaded now, his senses alert.

They were surrounded by half a dozen figures, and as his eyes adjusted, Sisko followed one figure as it came closer. The woman had the familiar nasal ridges of a Bajoran. Her hair was iron gray and swept away from her face. She was square jawed, and her eyes were crystal blue. Rather than the usual elaborate and ornate attire he might expect from a Bajoran, her flowing robe was simple and plain. She smiled at him and nodded to Dax and Worf beside him.

“Welcome,” she said. Sisko thought her enunciation was overly precise, as if she were trying a new language for the first time.

“I’m Captain Benjamin Sisko. These are my officers—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Yes,” she said. “Benjamin Sisko. Jadzia Dax. Worf, son of Mogh. We know all about each of you.” Her gaze lingered on Sisko. “We are honored by your presence.”

“If not more than a little surprised by your sudden and unexpected appearance,” said another identically clad member of the group as he stepped forward. A Cardassian. Sisko did his best to hide his surprise. “Nonetheless, welcome.”

“Where are we?” Sisko asked.

There was a brief hesitation before the woman answered, “Far from home. But we are going to help you return.”

“Where is our ship?” Worf asked abruptly.

The Cardassian answered, “We have it in stasis. The ship was in the process of rapidly expanding beyond safe parameters. We decided to remove you to ensure your safety.”

Dax said, “ ‘Rapidly expanding beyond safe parameters’ is an interesting way to describe an explosion.”

Sisko regarded her.

“We suffered a warp core breach,” Dax explained. “I was trying to eject the core but there was too much damage to the main console.” She eyed the woman. “How is it possible you were able to contain the explosion and transport us off our vessel? We should be dead.”

The Bajoran and Cardassian exchanged glances. “You obviously have many questions,” she said. “We will do our best to address them.” She looked uncertainly at her colleague.

The Cardassian smiled widely. “There is no need for secrets. We can tell them everything. Why not? But let us do it as civilized hosts. Come. You must be as hungry for food as you are knowledge.”

They were taken to a large sunlit room and offered fresh fruit and drink. The woman had introduced herself as P’Tash. The man’s name was Valel. P’Tash explained that they were in the Citadel, in the capital of the planet and the seat of all government. The walk from wherever they were being held to the reception room had not been revealing. The corridors were well lit, clean, but barren. The table and chairs in the reception room were simple and made of an unidentified polymer. The other members of the welcoming committee, as Sisko thought of them, were more interesting. Two more were Bajoran, another was a Bolian, and the last was Klingon.

Dax was as perplexed as Sisko. “We’re far from home, aren’t we?” Dax asked wryly as they sat down across from their hosts.

P’Tash nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “You could say that.”

“And yet,” Valel interjected, “you’re right at home. In a sense.”

Sisko left his plate of fruit and cheese untouched. “I appreciate the rescue, but I’m not overly fond of mysteries. Where are we and what happened to us?”

Nodding, P’Tash drew herself up. “We’ve done our best to analyze the circumstances which brought you”—she made a small gesture with her hands—“here. Your ship was locked in combat of some kind. You were losing, badly.”

Worf allowed a small growl to crawl from the back of his throat but said nothing.

“We were ambushed by a Jem’Hadar battle cruiser,” Dax said. “We didn’t stand a chance.”

A momentary look of confusion clouded P’Tash’s face before she continued. “Your rapid acceleration from the conflict, coupled with the enormous burst of photonic energy, opened a breach in the space-time continuum.”

Sisko turned to Dax for her thoughts. “Old man?”

Dax looked at Sisko. “That’s possible in theory. A one-in-a-billion chance, maybe. It’s not something we’d be likely to replicate.”

Turning back to P’Tash, Sisko said, “You mentioned the space-time continuum. Please”—only Dax caught a hint of weariness in his voice—“tell me we haven’t time traveled.”

“Captain,” Valel said, perhaps sensing Sisko’s apprehension, “please be assured that we did nothing to bring you here. We merely averted a catastrophe when your ship suddenly appeared in orbit on the verge of complete obliteration.”

“And where is here?”

“You are on Bajor, Captain Sisko.”

“Bajor?” Sisko looked from Dax to Worf, as if to confirm what he’d heard. “I know Bajor very well. This doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.”

“It is Bajor,” P’Tash said. “But not when you knew it. You have moved forward in time almost twelve hundred years.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken when Dax said, “I know what you’re thinking, Benjamin. When we get back, we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do to the Department of Temporal Investigations.”

“Right now a visit from Dulmur and Lucsly is the least of my concerns,” said Sisko. “Getting home is.”

“And we will help you with that,” P’Tash said, somewhat anxiously, Sisko thought.

“Frankly,” began Valel, “we don’t want you here either. I mean no offense.”

“None taken,” said Worf.

Dax, one eyebrow raised, asked, “You have the technology to send us back in time?”

Valel nodded. “Just as we have the technology to put your ship in stasis and stop it from . . . exploding . . . so can we formulate your return. We must repair your ship first. It will take some time.”

P’Tash put a hand on Valel’s arm. “There isn’t much time.”

“No pun intended,” said Dax.

Sisko was not amused. “You’re eager to have us gone. We’re eager to return home. What can we do to help?”

“Valel could use Jadzia Dax’s assistance in repairing your ship,” said P’Tash. “There is remarkable damage to the hull, engine, and life-support systems.”

Sisko stood and the others followed. “Then let’s get to it.”

Dax stood alone with Valel in his laboratory. It was remarkably sparse, thought Dax, like so much of what they had seen. She said, “I imagine your technology is beyond our comprehension, just as ours would be to someone a thousand years behind us.”

Valel took a moment to reflect on this and let a smile play across his lips. “I suppose what we can do would appear to be like magic to you.” The air shimmered in front of him and a solid, three-dimensional image of the runabout appeared before them. Dax had not seen him press a button or otherwise engage any device to make the hologram appear. “Your vessel. Remarkably beautiful, I must say. Amazing how you were able to soar through the cosmos in such a vehicle.”

“Indeed,” Dax said, as she inspected the damage to the U.S.S. Rio Grande. One of the nacelles was shattered and an enormous scar stretched from aft to stern. The little ship had never stood a chance. Things would have been different had they been in the Defiant. “Studying the damage, it looks as if she may never soar again.”

Valel looked stunned. “She? Your vessels have assigned gender?”

Dax shrugged. “An old tradition.” Dax walked around the image. “The exterior looks pretty rough. I was at the helm.” The memory of the brief but violent battle with the Jem’Hadar came rushing back to her. She could smell the tang of smoke, taste blood in her mouth. Her hand reached for her lip, expecting to feel a scar. There was none. “We were injured.”

“We repaired you.”

“Thank you.”

“And now we must repair your ship. However, we must find a way to repair it in such a way that when you return you will not be able to detect any future technology. In fact, we must make the repairs appear as if it was never damaged in the first place.”

“That makes sense. And then return us to a point in space-time far away from the Jem’Hadar.”

“Of course.”

Dax focused on Valel. “What about us? Our knowledge of the future?”

“Ah, yes. That, of course, will have to be cleansed.”

“Cleansed?”

Valel hesitated. “You understand, of course, that returning to your own time with knowledge of the future could have dire consequences.”

“I’m familiar with the concept of temporal pollution.”

“Then you understand.”

Reluctantly, Dax nodded. “I do.”

Valel came closer, closing the gap between them. “Do not worry. We are adept at removing specific segments of memory. No harm will come to you or your friends.”

“Really,” Dax said, before returning her attention to the hologram.

Worf watched Dax leave with the Cardassian. Captain Sisko was engaged in conversation with P’Tash, and the two walked toward a veranda. Worf turned to the Klingon, who seemed in a hurry to get as far from the reception hall as possible. “I am Worf.”

The youthful Klingon seemed to cower before Worf. His shoulders slumped and he avoided eye contact. It was an unusual posture for a young male Klingon. “I know,” he said softly.

Worf was confused. “Are you a prisoner here?”

“What? Why would you say that?”

Worf struggled with an explanation. He did not mean to offend one of their hosts, and yet . . . “Your clothes. They are not Klingon. I can see from how you carry yourself that you are not accustomed to combat. Your hands are soft. You appear meek. I reason that you have been a prisoner here for some time.” He then added, as if to cover for any perceived rudeness, “For many years, perhaps.”

The young Klingon laughed loudly.

“Why is this amusing?” Worf demanded.

“I am not a prisoner,” he said. “My name is Lorac. I am a medical practitioner. I helped to save you and your crew.”

Worf, uncertain of what to say, simply said, “Thank you.”

Lorac bowed. “Not at all, Worf. I am no warrior. In fact, there are no warriors anymore.”

“No warriors?”

“Because there are no more wars.”

Worf was contemplating the implications of this and almost failed to see the figure rapidly approaching from behind Lorac. With a growl, Worf flung Lorac aside and lunged at the Romulan approaching them. His hands seized the Romulan by the neck and bent him back across the table. The Romulan’s hands clawed feebly at Worf’s fingers.

“No!” screamed Lorac, as he grabbed Worf’s arm. “Stop! Do not hurt him!”

Benjamin Sisko looked out over the unfamiliar Bajor. The view from the Citadel’s veranda was spectacular. He recognized the Yolja River stretching out before them. But little else was recognizable. The buildings he once knew, the statuary, the rainbow of colors and delights, were now all gone. “This is a different Bajor,” he said.

“Do not be sad, Captain Sisko. This is a Bajor at peace. A content Bajor.” P’Tash joined Sisko at a railing and watched him as he gazed down into the valley.

Sisko looked at her. “I’m happy to see that some things have not changed. I’ve fished in that river with my son.”

P’Tash looked at the river as if seeing it for the first time. “Yes, it is lovely.”

“How did you know who we were?”

“Forgive our curiosity.” P’Tash smiled. “We learned everything about you and the others from the computer on your ship. It was a remarkable glimpse into the past.” Her smile lingered before slowly fading.

“See something you didn’t like?” He meant it somewhat in jest but the reaction from P’Tash was swift.

“It was horrible. Your time was a period of barbarism and strife. We know nothing of the kind now.”

“Each generation improves upon the last. Or so I would like to think.”

“And so it is.”

“Thank the Prophets,” he said.

P’Tash glanced at him with a look somewhere between concern and fear. “What does that mean?”

Before Sisko could say anything he heard what sounded like the bellow of an enraged animal from inside the hall. “Worf!”

Worf’s grip tightened around the Romulan’s neck.

Sisko grabbed him by the shoulders, shouted his name, and brought his face close to Worf’s. “Mister Worf! Stand down!”

Like white-hot steel slowly cooling, Worf released the Romulan, who sagged to the floor. Lorac quickly knelt by the Romulan’s side. The man was sputtering, and tears ran down his cheeks. P’Tash stood apart from them. Her fear verged on panic.

“Mister Worf. Report.”

Worf’s eyes seemed to shift and focus on Sisko. The blood lust was gone. “This . . . Romulan . . .”

“Is a friend,” Lorac finished. “He is my colleague. You had no cause to attack him.”

“He is a Romulan!”

Sisko continued to grip Worf by the shoulders. “This is another time. Do you understand?”

Worf straightened and brought himself to attention. “Yes. I understand.”

He approached Lorac and the Romulan who was struggling to his feet. Worf stretched down a hand. “I am . . . sorry. I should not have attacked you without provocation.” The Romulan allowed Worf to haul him to his feet, and then he and Lorac quickly left the room. Worf turned to P’Tash. “I apologize for my actions.”

P’Tash, her face ashen and her voice barely audible, said, “Let us hope repairs to your ship will be completed soon.”

They weren’t.

Dax and Valel conducted a preliminary assessment of the damaged runabout and estimated that repairs could take four to five days.

Sisko left them to work on it, while he and Worf decided to explore the future Bajor. It was near dusk when Sisko found himself wandering through the market stalls that spread across one side of the wide river. He’d been absentminded in his meandering, only occasionally taking notice of some bolt of cloth for sale, an engraved vase displayed on a table, or bushels of fruit being picked through by curious shoppers. In what he assumed was the center of the market was a ten-meter-tall statue. It was a crude representation of a fisherman and showed little of the artistry of the Bajor he knew. His disappointment must have been apparent, for after a while one of the sellers came from behind her display of spices to ask him what was the matter.

Sisko apologized. “I was lost in thought.”

“You were staring at the statue,” she said, not unkindly.

“I was comparing it to others I’ve seen,” he explained. “The craftsmanship is interesting. How old is it?”

“It is nearly forty years old,” she said proudly.

“Nearly?”

She nodded and offered him an apple. “Please, have one as a gift.” Sisko thanked her, and she returned to her stall.

The familiar crunch and sweet tang of the rose-colored apple was a welcome familiarity. As he ate, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Dax and Worf earlier . . .

“Four or five days isn’t too bad,” he said to Dax.

Dax threw her hands up in mock surprise. “Not too bad? That’s incredible. But what’s really interesting to me is that Valel seems very keen to have us gone. And soon. There’s something happening, Benjamin. Something is happening soon.” She looked at Sisko and Worf. The Klingon seemed to be hardly listening. He was even more sullen than usual. “There’s a deadline that Valel hasn’t explained, and when I pressed him, he became evasive.”

Sisko leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “P’Tash too. I feel like we’ve shown up late for a wedding we weren’t invited to.”

Dax’s lips curled into a smile. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Captain.”

“Lorac,” said Worf suddenly, “is not a Klingon name.”

“Explain,” said Sisko.

“Klingon names have meaning. Many are ancient. Your name carries great importance.”

Dax cut in. “Like Alexander?”

A momentary flash of anger filled Worf’s eyes. He was in no mood for Jadzia Dax’s playfulness. “My son is named after a great warrior.”

Sisko cocked his head to the side. “P’Tash. Valel. Those are not Bajoran or Cardassian names either. Can things have changed so much?”

Dax shrugged. “Twelve hundred years is a long time, Benjamin. Compare twelfth-century Earth to twenty-fourth century Earth, for example. What are you getting at?”

Sisko breathed out a deep sigh. “Nothing, maybe. Nothing at all. They saved our lives and seem eager to help us. I suppose that’s all we can ask for.”

“Agreed,” said Worf. “The sooner we leave the better.”

So lost in thought was the Starfleet captain that he nearly collided with a small girl.

She gawked at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name is Benjamin. Are you hurt?”

“She’s fine,” said an elderly man approaching. He took the girl by the hand. “Marisa has had her share of bumps and bruises. Before she reaches her grandfather’s age she will doubtless have many more.” His eyes squinted as he examined Sisko. “So the rumors are true. We have special visitors.”

Sisko grinned. “I don’t know about special. But I am a visitor. Benjamin Sisko.”

“I am Gen. Please, join Marisa and me for a walk by the river.”

“Is it true you are ancient?” asked Marisa as they strolled along the riverbank.

Gen arched an eyebrow. “From the young, come true questions.”

“I can see that,” said Sisko. He tossed the apple core into the river and watched it float away. He said to Marisa, “I am ancient. And wise.”

Marisa smiled at that. “Not as wise as Grandfather.”

The old man nodded and squeezed her hand. “Perhaps that is so. Let us see. Do you have any questions for our special visitor, young one?”

She thought for a moment. “I can’t think of anything. Maybe he has a question for me.”

Sisko chuckled. “I do, I do. Tell me about the history of Bajor. I’m curious about all that has changed in the millennium since my time. I recognize very little. In fact, I recognize nothing at all. Only the river remains.”

Marisa furrowed her brow and looked at her grandfather. “I don’t understand.”

The old man sat down on a large rock and patted a spot beside him for Marisa to sit. “He is talking about the past, dear one. The past beyond memory. He comes from a time before Renewal.”

“Renewal?” Sisko asked.

Gen sighed deeply. “I’m talking about the burdens of history, Benjamin Sisko. Past grievances, ancestral obligations, injustices long forgotten. Imagine being free of the weight of centuries and starting anew. Turn the page and move on. Every fifty years.”

Now it was Sisko’s turn to furrow his brow. “I don’t understand.”

“Renewal. Every half century we literally wipe away the past. Relics are destroyed. History tossed into the bonfire, the ashes buried. And then, and only then, do we erase our memories. Willingly, I might add. Each one of us, every one of us, starts over again. Oh, we retain the memory of some things. Our role as parents, for example. Those with special skills retain the knowledge needed to take care of society. Doctors and engineers. But everything else . . . is gone. Even our names.”

Sisko sat down slowly beside the old man and his granddaughter. “People willingly forget who they are?”

“We are given a chance to re-create ourselves.”

“All that you love . . .”

“And hate.”

“Gone?” Sisko said.

“And with it, the enmity that builds over time. There have been no wars for . . .” Gen paused to consider. “No wars for centuries.”

“How would you know if the history books are being rewritten every fifty years?”

The old man nodded. “True. I don’t. But we are told that war only leads to more war. Call it vengeance or justice, but one act of violence always leads to another.”

Sisko thought back to the tapestries he’d seen in the bazaar. There had been a newness to them that he hadn’t quite been able to grasp when he saw them hanging in the market stalls. And there was something else. He cursed himself for not noticing much earlier; the absence of the traditional Bajoran earring. No one wore it this era. It was now an ancient tradition long gone. “You speak of history. But what of culture?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “The art, the literature, the poetry of your people?”

“Renewed.”

“You mean erased.”

The old man nodded. “For the betterment of society.” Gen moved a clump of dirt with the tip of his booted toe. “Art is a reflection of society. Stories contain the emotions and feelings of a time. They can perpetuate grievances and prejudices. These can lead to disorder and discord. Even death.”

Sisko turned the idea over in his mind. “When does Renewal begin?”

Gen stroked his granddaughter’s hair. “As it happens, Benjamin Sisko, it starts tomorrow. Over the next several days, we will begin the destruction of the past in order to prepare for a new future.”

Sisko looked back at the market.

“Yes,” said Gen. “All of that will be destroyed. The paintings, the pottery, and the poetry. And then on the eighth day, a button will be pressed somewhere and in an instant we will forget it all. Forget everything.” His hand stopped brushing Marisa’s hair.

“And will you forget your granddaughter’s name?”

The old man’s eyes were watery. “Yes. And she will forget me, too. We will return to our family home before the process, so that we will know we are family. And over time we may . . . . will . . . learn to love each other again.”

Now Marisa took Gen’s hand in hers and squeezed.

“It is too bad you are leaving. I would have enjoyed hearing stories of our ancient past.”

Sisko gazed out over the river. “I don’t know what to say. Bajor’s culture is, or was, unique. If you ever leave Bajor, I hope you are able to visit a museum to see what your ancestors created. In my time, a museum on Rigel IV had a stunning collection of ancient Bajoran frescoes.”

“You misunderstand something, Benjamin.”

Sisko returned his attention to Gen.

The old man said, “There are no museums anymore. Renewal happens everywhere to everyone in the known galaxy. In the here and now there are no such things as museums.”

Dax looked with no small satisfaction at the holographic representation of the Rio Grande. For Valel, the nanoprobes slowly piecing together the runabout seemed to take an eternity. Dax tried to explain that in her time the ship would’ve been simply scrapped. Satisfied with the progress, she returned to the topic of their conversation.

“Explain how Renewal is accomplished. How is it possible that it occurs simultaneously in the same instant across the galaxy?”

The Cardassian simply shrugged. “Does it matter? It simply happens.” He could see that Dax was not satisfied with this answer. “You are a true scientist, Jadzia Dax. I respect that.” In an instant the image of the runabout vanished. “Repairs will be complete within three-point-seven-two days. The same technology that repairs your ship aids in Renewal. After the ceremony of destruction occurs, nanoprobes are released in the atmosphere and are inhaled. They act on key areas of the brain. Each planet is responsible for itself. The timing is carefully planned so that it seems to happen simultaneously across vast amounts of space and time.”

Dax smirked. “The ceremony of destruction?”

Valel raised his hands in front of him. “It’s not called that officially. But some of us refer to it as such.”

“You sound conflicted.”

“Do I?”

“You’re a scientist. You must find such wholesale destruction offensive.”

“They are only material objects. It is for the greater good.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Valel stiffened and his face lost all expression as he momentarily became lost in thought. Then he seemed to come to a decision and stepped closer to Dax. “There are some who fear your arrival. You are a reminder of a shameful past.” Dax opened her mouth to say something, but he quickly continued. “And there are others who see you as a beacon of hope.”

Dax raised one eyebrow. “Hope? For what?”

“A hope to restore the past. Will you come with me? I want to show you something.”

Dax considered it for a moment before saying, “The last person to say that to me was a Ferengi just before I sent him to the medical bay with a broken fibula. Okay. Show me.”

Worf caught up with Sisko as the captain was striding down the corridor toward the reception hall. “Captain, I have been investigating the offensive and defensive capabilities of the local militia.”

“And?”

“Apart from a rudimentary constabulary, there is no planet-wide military capable of defense or offense. In fact, Captain”—Worf looked meaningfully at Sisko—“there is no Starfleet.”

Sisko paused at the door. “Given what I’ve learned, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I have spoken to many of the locals, both native to Bajor and not. The United Federation of Planets still exists as an organization. In fact, there is not a planetary system that is not a member. The Romulans, Ferengi, Breen, and even the Jem’Hadar are all part of this Federation.” Noticing Sisko’s reaction to this, he said, “You do not seem pleased.”

“I’m not sure, Mister Worf. In theory this should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? The ideals of the Federation are noble. We’re the good guys, after all. At least in our time.” He pushed open the door and found P’Tash waiting by the veranda.

“Captain Sisko. You have had a busy day exploring our world. I understand that you and your officers have been asking lots of questions.”

Sisko joined her by the open veranda door. A cool evening breeze wafted through, gently stirring the sheer curtains. Sisko sensed an even greater coldness from P’Tash. “We have. And I’m not sure I like the answers.”

“Renewal.”

“Yes. It’s not something I necessarily agree with.”

“Then it is a good thing you will be leaving soon. A good thing for you and a good thing for us.”

“You seem to think we are some sort of virus that can infect your people. As if simply talking to us could be dangerous.”

“The past is dangerous. The past is where anger and fear and hatred live. All of that is gone. Now there is galactic peace.”

“But at what cost? You must destroy and re-create yourselves every generation.”

A shiver ran through the Bajoran, and she closed the veranda door. “Every cycle, there are those who ask the same questions you do. Of course there is a price for peace. But it is a price worth paying. The price of war is far greater.” She looked from Sisko to Worf. “You are soldiers from an era of bloody conflict. I would hope you could appreciate what we have accomplished.”

How many lives were lost in the war with the Dominion? Sisko wondered. How many friends had died? “I can’t argue with you. There is something undeniably appealing about your philosophy.”

P’Tash smiled. “Let us hope Valel and Dax will soon be finished. If you are still here in eight days, then you will experience Renewal yourself firsthand. You will forget all that you were and you will never be able to leave.”

The underground hall was vast. Jadzia Dax could not see where it ended or where it began. From where she stood at the bottom of wide, curving stairs, the hall seemed to stretch endlessly to the right and to the left. Above her, lights hung like stalactites in an enormous cavern. Everywhere she looked, there were things. A ten-meter-tall bronze obelisk. Shelves with actual books and scrolls shared space with small clay figurines. A wooden life-sized carving of a horse. A tile mosaic. She recognized objects from dozens of planets. Was that a Vulcan harp beside a Klingon bat’leth?

Valel seemed to enjoy her astonishment. “We are the Archivists. We preserve the past in secret. What I am showing you would merit my execution. We are few, but we are loyal.”

“Loyal to a past that is all but forgotten.”

“Except here.” Valel waved his arms. “We are a stubborn underground movement.”

“No pun intended, I’m sure.”

Valel ignored Dax and said, “We save what we can from each Renewal. There are things ancient and more recent in our archive.”

“How many?

Valel shrugged and shook his head. “There are untold millions of objects. Billions of individual pieces perhaps.”

“I mean how many are there of you, the Archivists?”

Hesitating, the Cardassian stepped off the last step and ran a hand across a marble table top. The legs were carved from Andorian teak and depicted a long-ago battle with Vulcans. A sehlat’s fangs and claws grabbed the table’s rim. “As I said, we are few. We face a unique challenge. We are not immune to Renewal. We forget along with everybody else.”

“Then how . . . ?”

“Before each Renewal we create and hide messages to ourselves. They contain instructions and the secret history of the Archives. And we pass down this sacred duty from generation to generation. My mother and father were Archivists. And theirs before them.”

“So in a few days, your memory will be erased. But then you’ll find a message to yourself and realize you have an obligation.”

He looked embarrassed. “Something like that.”

“Remarkable. But what do you hope to eventually accomplish?”

He seemed to be a different man from the one she worked with in the lab. “We need your help. Yours and the others.”

“To do what?”

“To stay here and teach us. You are living links to the past. You can teach us so much.”

“Given what you’ve told me about Renewal, what you are proposing sounds like revolution.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. We need your help to overthrow the Federation.”

Sisko and Worf followed P’Tash to Valel’s lab, only to find it empty.

“She may be in trouble,” said Worf. “Jadzia would not willingly leave with her work unfinished.”

“We needed a break,” said Dax as she and Valel approached from behind them.

“I was showing Dax the view from the top of the Citadel,” Valel said.

“It’s beautiful, Benjamin,” Dax said. “Even you would like it, Worf.”

Sisko recognized something in Dax’s tone. She was trying to tell him something. “That sounds like something I’d like to see. Perhaps later.”

“You are tired, I’m sure,” said P’Tash.

“I can show them to the guest rooms,” said Valel, taking the Trill by the elbow.

“No, Valel. You should stay and monitor the progress of the repairs. We all have an interest in seeing that our guests are returned to their own time and place.”

Valel released Dax and gave a slight bow.

P’Tash gestured toward the door. “Come with me, please.”

The Starfleet officers followed, leaving Valel behind.

“It is not our business,” said Worf. “The Prime Directive—”

“The Prime Directive?” Dax snapped. “You of all people are going to cite the Prime Directive?”

“It does not matter whether we are in the far future or not, if that is what you are thinking, Lieutenant.”

“You’re going to pull rank?”

Sisko thought that it could get violent, and it wasn’t Dax he was worried about. “All right, old man, Mister Worf.” He had picked up an apple from a fruit bowl on a small table and was looking forward to enjoying his second of the day, but he found himself tossing it from hand to hand like a baseball. They had been discussing the situation on Bajor and the Federation for what seemed like hours.

“Staying here to help in a revolution,” he began carefully, “is out of the question.”

Dax took a deep breath. “I’m not suggesting that, Benjamin. I never thought I’d say this, but the Federation has failed. In order to keep the peace, they destroy themselves. Again and again. It’s not just burning books, it’s whole families torn apart. Again and again.”

“Not our problem,” said Worf. “We would be interfering with the timestream.”

Sisko stopped tossing his “baseball.” “What about that, old man?”

She shook her head. “Is it interfering in the timestream if none of this has happened yet? From our perspective, I mean.”

Sisko felt a headache coming on. “I sympathize with Valel. But he can’t be serious about asking for help to bring down the Federation. How could we? We are just three people.”

“Our combat experience. Our knowledge of subterfuge, subversion, and espionage. We could teach them.”

The headache was definitely coming. “For the sake of argument, how? P’Tash says that if we are here on the last day of Renewal, which is in less than eight days, we’ll be renewed as well. We’ll forget everything.”

Dax sat down, defeated at last. “I don’t know.” She looked pleadingly at Sisko and Worf. “Eight days is a long time. There must be something we can do.”

A groan from Worf caught their attention. “No wars,” he said. “No opportunity for a warrior to show his worth. No chance to vanquish an enemy in honorable combat. Such things are disgusting to a Klingon.” He sat down beside Dax. “But there is peace here, Jadzia. Real peace, at last. I do not believe I am saying this, but do you wish to undo centuries of peace? Is this what you want?”

Dax looked him in the eye. “Yes.” She looked unflinchingly at Sisko. “Absolutely, yes. The Federation has become a totalitarian regime that oppresses free will. As officers in Starfleet and citizens of the Federation, it is our duty to correct this.”

Sisko’s head throbbed. He returned the apple to the fruit bowl. “We’re done for the night. I suggest you retire to your quarters. Tomorrow is another day.”

From the vast veranda overlooking the river, Sisko watched the world burn.

The ceremony of Renewal had begun. There were to be seven days of “cleansing,” as P’Tash put it. They could have simply vaporized everything that held some link to the past, instead they ceremoniously and very carefully destroyed the past in spectacular bonfires. It was the third day of the ceremony, and yesterday the captain had walked through the village and saw the sad statue of the fisherman being hauled down with ropes to whoops and hollers. He also noticed a distinct and growing lawlessness. Worf and Dax had seen it too. People were acting out without fear of repercussion. They were indulging in vices and unleashing pent-up desires.

Somehow the sight of the stone fisherman smashed to pieces on the cobblestone stirred him more than the hidden vault of the Archivists. At Dax’s suggestion, Valel had shown him the vault in hopes of moving him to action. While he was in awe, it had not changed his mind. He resisted the desire to explore the collection—there were objects from across the galaxy in that cavern—and left without moving past the doorway.

But the stone fisherman. The glow of fires played across his simple features before he toppled over and shattered. It had been an ugly thing but now it meant something to him. He couldn’t articulate it to Dax or Worf, but it made him profoundly sad.

“What will you do?” he had asked Valel.

“All this belongs in a museum. Or in homes or schools. It belongs in the hands of the people, to be seen and held and enjoyed. One day, perhaps, that will be.”

On his way back from the market he’d found himself in a mob. It seemed as if two groups were clashing, but he could not tell for certain. He found himself jostled at first, and then roughly pushed. He struggled to escape as rough hands clawed at him. He barreled through the throngs, stumbled, and found himself down by the river. Catching his breath, he realized he was on the same rock he’d shared with Gen and Marisa days earlier.

He had sat there for a long time as the world shuddered and burned.

The repairs were finished, and P’Tash, Valel, and others were in the hall to see them off. The pair seemed distracted. P’Tash was relieved and Valel defeated. Sisko saw Gen and Marisa off to the side, and the little girl gave him a shy wave.

“And now we say our farewells, Captain Sisko.” P’Tash stood tall, playing the part of grand officiant.

“I wish I could say that this visit has been memorable,” said Sisko, “but we won’t remember any of this. And, soon, neither will you. As I understand it, it’s your duty and responsibility to unleash the nanoprobes into the atmosphere that begin the final stages of the Renewal, erasing everyone’s memories.”

P’Tash met his gaze and gave him a tight smile. “When you are ready, you will be materialized aboard your ship and returned to your time.”

Sisko turned to his officers. He could see the anger written in Dax’s face. Worf was, as usual, stoic and difficult to read. “There is just one last thing, P’Tash. There’s something I’d like you to see.” He turned to Valel. “Will you take us to the vault?”

Dax and Valel looked at Sisko in astonishment. “Benjamin, are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“This is dangerous,” Dax said. “The penalty for—”

“Valel, will you take us?” Sisko asked again, but the Cardassian was speechless. “Very well, I will. Follow me, everyone. There’s something you should all see.”

P’Tash grabbed Sisko’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Showing you the past. Don’t worry. If you don’t like it, you can just forget about it.”

Sisko had memorized the passage to the Archives, which was located deep below the Citadel. It was a long march, and any fear that they would be impeded or that P’Tash would not follow vanished as the party seemed to grow noticeably larger. At last they came to a passage that ended in a dead end. “Open it, Valel.”

Resigned to his fate, Valel did not argue but simply pressed a series of stone panels that caused a section of the wall to recede. Sisko stepped forward and pushed open the door. “Take a look, P’Tash.”

She followed him in, and the crowd behind them surged forward. Sisko and P’Tash found themselves carried along to the bottom of the stairs as dozens and dozens of people descended the stairs in astonishment. Like children in a toy store, thought Sisko.

“What is this?” asked P’Tash.

“The past is full of terrible things, but it is full of wonder as well,” Sisko said. “In my time we struggled to define ourselves. We used the past as a guideline for the future. But we’re not defined by our past. We used it to build a better tomorrow.” He looked around and, for a moment, shared in the wonder of it all. He pushed past a number of people and mounted the stairs. “Listen to me!” Sisko yelled to the crowd. “Listen!” They all were listening. “If you destroy your past you have nothing on which to build your future. And right now, you have no future. Only endless beginnings. A world without history is a world without identity. It is the past that makes the present worth living in. We learn from our mistakes. We learn from our ancestors. And we move on. The sins of the father are warnings to the children: it doesn’t have to be this way. If there is no yesterday, there is nothing today, and no hope for tomorrow.”

“Captain!” P’Tash’s voice was strong and clear. “Why do you persist in trying to save the past?”

“I’m not trying to save the past. I’m fighting for the future.” He caught sight of Gen, who carried Marisa in his arms. “You deserve a world where a little girl can learn from her grandfather. You want a world where stories can be passed down from generation to generation. You need a world were music evolves like a living thing and grows and changes. And, yes, a world where bad things can happen. But only if you let them. Look around you! All this came from the past, some of it thousands of years old. We did horrible things in my time, but we were also capable of creating great beauty. We didn’t hide from the brutality of our forefathers. We used it as inspiration to do better.”

He looked at P’Tash. “Go ahead. Destroy all this or lock it away. It doesn’t really matter. You don’t need to revisit the past. Create a new past. Starting today you can be masters of your own fate. Don’t surrender to the fear of free will and the ugly side of emotions. Learn from it instead. Master it. It begins here. It begins now.”

Gen, still carrying Marisa, moved through the crowd. All was silent as the old man approached the Starfleet captain. “This isn’t just a new chapter. This is a whole new book.” He turned to P’Tash but said nothing. The old man held her gaze and Sisko wondered if there was an understanding between them. Or perhaps there had been something, three decades ago.

Marisa looked at Sisko with crystal blue eyes. “You are ancient and wise.”

Sisko smiled and joined P’Tash and Gen. He took Marisa in his arms and said, “It is a new book. And all of you can be the authors. How it ends is up to you.”

They stayed for the eighth day.

P’Tash did not release the nanoprobes. Across the planet there was great fear and confusion, but also growing joy. They knew, from reports, the galaxy had changed around them and only they remembered the last fifty years. By the ninth day, P’Tash’s earlier resolve and confidence was returning. She decreed that the vault should remain closed; one day they would share their gifts with the galaxy. Starting now, they were going to rebuild all that they had destroyed.

“What you’ve done has taken great courage,” Sisko said to her.

“Or enormous stupidity. It won’t take long for word of our noncompliance to leak out to the rest of the Federation. But we’ll be ready for them when they come. It’s been a long time since anyone fought a war. I doubt they would know what to do with us. And there are sympathizers everywhere, Valel tells me.”

Worf approached Lorac, who remained impassive. If he was wary, he did not show it. Worf approved. “You are a Klingon.”

“What does that mean? What is it to be a Klingon?”

Worf thought for a moment. “For thousands of centuries our people have been warriors. We have accomplished feats of heroism and valor. Our deeds are known throughout the galaxy.” He glanced over at Sisko, who was saying his farewells to P’Tash. “But many think of us as a savage and barbaric race that revels in destruction. Violence. Aggression. Those were the ways of my people. Those were the Klingon way.” He placed a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder. “It does not have to be that way.”

Worf joined Sisko and Dax in the center of the hall, and then they were gone.

The burst of light brought a wave of heat and searing pain. Benjamin Sisko squeezed his eyes shut and choked on the acrid smoke that filled his nose, mouth, and lungs. The environmental systems labored with clearing the runabout and pumping fresh oxygen, but the damage was done. Sisko wondered if they would die of suffocation before being blown up.

“Environmental systems operating at twenty-two percent!” Worf yelled before another volley of photon torpedoes jarred the hapless runabout.

At the helm, Jadzia Dax struggled furiously. She swore. “Phasers are offline!”

What good would it do, wondered Sisko, to fight? They were already lost.

Another burst of light, this one blinding like the heart of a white sun.

This is it, he thought. Good-bye, Jake. I’m sorry.

Sisko took his next breath—his last, he thought—and felt invigorating, fresh oxygen fill his lungs. He looked around. The air was clear of smoke and, while damaged, the console in front of him was intact. Dax sat upright in her seat, her hands resting in front of her. “Old man?”

As if from a stupor, she turned slowly to face him. “Benjamin?”

Behind him, Worf stood statue-like. “What has happened?”

Dax scanned her console. “We’re three-point-two light-years from where we just were. I don’t understand.”

Sisko analyzed the data on the screen beside him, the same screen he was certain had just exploded moments ago. “Life-support systems are functioning normally.”

“Phasers are online,” Dax reported.

“Where are the Jem’Hadar?” demanded Worf.

Dax ran a sensor sweep, twice. “They are nowhere to be found.”

Sisko was running his own level-1 diagnostic. “We’ll have to analyze this data back at the station, but it appears as if we were caught in an explosion that hurled us light-years from the fight.”

Worf growled. “We should return and punish the Jem’Hadar for their cowardly ambush.”

Dax let out a sound that sounded like a snort. “We got lucky once. This is a one-in-a-trillion opportunity. Let’s not waste it.”

Puzzled, Sisko sat back in his chair. It didn’t make sense. It seemed impossible. But maybe it was a one-in-a-trillion opportunity as Dax put it. “Agreed. Let’s go home and count ourselves lucky. Tomorrow’s another day.”

THE MANHUNT POOL

Nancy Debretsion

WIPING SWEAT FROM HIS LIP, Julian Bashir recalled Quark’s words when he’d opened the latest Manhunt Pool: “Odo always gets his man.” If only Deep Space 9’s head of security wasn’t relying on him. Sure, he’d played interplanetary sleuths in holosuite thrillers, but that wasn’t preparation for facing an actual Yridian con man. What if the man was packing a weapon?

Forcing his jaw to unclench, Bashir paced the length of the vacant shop. “Dicky Poole’s business opportunity intrigues me. Are you sure this space is large enough for a Best Nest franchise?”

“Not for the Nest Replicator Deluxe, but the Mini can provide the optimum sleep chamber for any being that shows up on Deep Space 9.” The Yridian smiled—though his face was so baggy, Bashir couldn’t be sure. “Except maybe a Nehrantha Giant.”

The doctor offered a nervous chuckle. “You don’t need to convince me of the importance of the regenerative cycle. I’m a doctor.”

“Ninety-nine point nine percent of all sentient creatures rely on it. And with the Jem’Hadar threat, who couldn’t use a good night’s rest?”

“That’s my primary interest—enhancing the health of my fellow beings. But still . . .” Bashir glanced at the bag he’d left by the door—at the bar of gold-pressed latinum poking out the top. If he couldn’t get the con man to take it, Odo couldn’t make his arrest.

The Yridian edged closer to the bait. “Sometimes even humans need a little currency.”

“Exactly. I can’t rely on luck at dabo.”

The Yridian jiggled his voluminous jowls. “The sooner you set up shop, the sooner you’ll profit. Never fear. Best Nest Intergalactic Limited will ship your equipment, train your employees, and advertise your grand opening no later than half a year from now.”

Bashir gave an appropriate gasp. “That long?”

The Yridian shrugged. “Bajorans. The freighter captains argue with the port managers who then argue with the cargo handlers. And the construction crews! If only I had a little—”

“Gold-pressed latinum?” As soon as the eager words left Bashir’s mouth, he realized his mistake. The folds wreathing the Yridian’s eyes couldn’t hide his suspicion. Then the con man glanced at the bag by the door and flexed his webbed hands.

“A couple of bars.”

Bashir held his breath as the Yridian reached down. The moment he grabbed a bar, it melted. When golden goo ran through his fingers, he yelped. Touching the deck, the substance quickly built into legs, body, arms, and head—properly clothed in an unassuming brown uniform. When the liquid solidified into Odo’s stern face, Bashir’s tension drained. The constable had transformed himself already gripping the con man’s wrist.

The Yridian tried to jerk free—unsuccessfully, of course. “In good faith, I made a deal—”

“—that you’ve repeated dozens of times across this sector. And not one shop has opened. Up until now, you’ve pilfered your victims’ life savings electronically. Now that you’ve been recorded taking a payment—”

“Payment?” Unfolding his neck like an accordion, the Yridian thrust out his head. “What I took was you!”

“If you’d prefer a charge of trafficking in sapient beings . . .” Odo snorted. “I didn’t think so.” He raised his free hand, and Bashir saw two Bajoran officers trot out of the security office across the Promenade.

Finally. “I need a drink.”

Garak set down his glass of kanar. “Two days as I predicted. Pay up, Quark.”

The barkeep glanced at Odo, then raised his eyebrows at the losers, Bashir and O’Brien. “Third Manhunt Pool you’ve won in a row. You must have inside information.”

Garak watched the Ferengi slide a welcome pile of latinum strips across the bar. Though his words had been accusing, his manner was carefree. Why not? Garak thought. For operating the pool, Quark claimed half the take.

“I’m merely a simple tailor.” Garak put on his most charming smile—half innocent, half rascal. As Tain always said, “If people distrust you, make a joke of it. If they think they’ve figured you out, they haven’t.”

“Surely, you’re not suggesting I spy on the constable.”

Odo harrumphed. “I’d like to see you try.”

If you saw me, that would mean I’ve lost my touch. As the Cardassian pocketed the means to upgrade the embroidery mode on his laser-guided stitcher, he noted the good doctor fidget on his stool.

“If I hadn’t helped catch him,” Bashir said, “I might have won my bet of five days.”

“Really, Doctor.” The shapeshifter cupped a hand around his elbow and curled the other under his chin. “It’s only fair you helped catch him. After all, you helped set him up in business.”

Bashir grimaced. “No need to bore everyone with the details.”

Garak hid his smirk behind another sip of kanar. Though Odo’s approximation of a face remained expressionless, his pose of humanoid smugness was perfect.

“Julian helped the con man?” Chief O’Brien asked. “How?”

Odo waggled his head. “Not intentionally, of course. The doctor was duped.”

Chuckling, Garak clapped Bashir on the back. “Maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson: to avoid treachery, expect it.”

The doctor raised his chin. “That’s a lesson I’ll continue to skip. The way I see it, if one is suspicious of everything, one won’t recognize the truth, even if it jumps up and slaps you in the face.”

Garak glanced at Odo. His eyes—or what the shapeshifter offered as eyes—shot him a rare look of commiseration. The United Federation of Planets: its members’ naïveté is only matched by their stubbornness.

“The story, Odo,” O’Brien said. “We’re dying to hear.”

Quark leaned on his bar. “I’m all ears.”

Basking in the group attention, Odo seemed to grow taller. “If you insist.” But before he could begin, his eyes focused on something past Garak’s shoulder. He shrank a little. “Another time. I have business.” Instead of confronting whatever was upsetting him, he turned on his heel and strode out the opposite exit.

Curious, Garak swiveled to see Major Kira walking toward them, flanked by two Bajorans.

“Where’s the constable gone to? These old friends want to visit, and we also need to arrange security.”

Beside Garak, the doctor slid off his stool. “You’re Dal Cerys and Lubaar Pem. You’re presenting at the First Contact Symposium tomorrow. How do you know Odo?”

“We worked with him,” the man said.

“Literally,” the woman added. “We were researchers with Doctor Mora Pol at the Bajoran Center for Science when the Cardassians brought him in as an unknown specimen.” For the first time, Doctor Dal seemed to notice that a member of the one-time occupying force was watching her. Garak returned her nervous smile.

“That explains why Odo dashed out.” Kira pursed her lips. “The constable hates recalling those days.”

“Nonsense,” Doctor Lubaar said. “We had fun. Once we discovered the blob could change its shape consciously, he became the life of the party.

Doctor Dal glared at him in a way that suggested to Garak they were not just colleagues but spouses. “You never understood Odo. He hated playing jester.”

Doctor Lubaar arched an eyebrow. “Then why did you keep asking him to be a chair?”

Garak signaled Quark for another kanar. Too bad Odo had worked so hard to overcome the Bajorans’ underestimation of him. In his place, he’d have taken advantage of it.

Early the next morning, Odo changed the key code on the empty shop before turning it over to the entrepreneurs Commander Sisko had authorized to move in: the Shaloza brothers.

The older Bajoran, Shaloza Rokor, offered the security office padd to the younger, Shaloza Trestan. One glance, and he handed it back to Odo. “Memorized it.” Then he ran over to a stack of crates standing outside the shop and wrestled with the top one’s lid.

Odo read the labels: caging towers, grooming brushes, exercise wheels, feed. “You’re really opening a pet store. On a space station.”

“Don’t worry. Each animal is implanted with a nanochip. Anyone who buys one will fit their quarters with mini–force fields that will activate should their Banean dog, Romulan set’leth, or Cardassian lemur decide to dash out. Chief O’Brien approved the technology himself.”

Odo growled. “So long as you don’t sell Klingon targs . . .”

“Nothing above six kilograms.”

His duty done, Odo gave a curt nod. “Your security code is fifteen characters long. Should you forget it, ask me.”

Rokor smiled. “When Tres was a boy, he heard Cardassians had photographic memories. He worked hard to develop one.”

“Smart young man.” Odo glanced at him. Already the Bajoran had unpacked three boxes. “Industrious, too.”

“Very.” Rokor touched the silvery symbol of his faith hanging from his ear as if acknowledging his good fortune. “He was forced to leave school during the Occupation. In three years, he’s caught up enough to start university.”

The pride in the older brother’s voice made Odo linger. Expressions of familial devotion intrigued him. Then he heard the young man whoop.

“Roki! That’s him. I can’t believe it.”

Turning, Odo saw Garak standing frozen in the entrance to his shop. The expression on his face was as pained as Odo had felt the night before when his two former handlers had entered the bar.

“I heard there was one Cardassian left on the station.” Rokor tucked in his chin. “Tres, it’s best we keep our distance.”

His brother shook his head. “You don’t understand. That’s him. The night the soldiers picked up my friends and me—the night I wondered how much torture I could stand before I died and went home to the Prophets—that’s the Cardassian who set us free.”

On his way to lunch, Bashir made a point of stopping at Garak’s Clothiers. His enigmatic friend looked pleased to see him—until he blurted out the reason for his visit.

“So your story was true. Our new resident recognized you, and now your good deed is the talk of the station.”

Garak turned to fuss with a beaded gown hanging on a dress form, but not before Bashir caught a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That pet shop fellow. He’s mistaken. I’m sure to Bajorans we Cardassians all look alike.”

The doctor moved around until he was facing his evasive friend. “Shaloza Trestan’s famous for his memory. Nurse Jabara told me. Last year on Bajor, he won a popular quiz show. That’s how the brothers got the money to start a business.”

Garak shrugged. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful. Young Trestan’s confusion will boost my Bajoran clientele.”

“Typical.” Bashir shook his head. “Out of all the lies you’ve told me, the one you vigorously defend is that you don’t have a good heart.”

Garak raised his chin. “Your gullibility in clinging to a story I spun under the effects of endorphin withdrawal never fails to astound me. If I had been an Obsidian Order operative and a Central Command gul had brought me a gaggle of urchins for interrogation—and instead of twisting out their secrets, I gave them my spare latinum and pushed them back on the streets—you think that would reveal a good heart? Hardly. Not realizing that the youngest ragamuffin was the brother of one of the most formidable assassins in the Bajoran Resistance—that would reveal a brainless dereliction of duty.” Turning, Garak straightened the fold in a diaphanous sleeve. “Good thing that fool wasn’t me.”

If Doctor Bashir’s visit had proved uncomfortable for Garak, the appearance of the grown-up guttersnipe was worse. Bad enough that nothing he said could convince Shaloza Trestan he was mistaken. What worried him more was the horrible use the pair of customers he was expecting would make of the story. If the next Garak-related information Tain heard was that during the Occupation, his pet pupil had missed an opportunity to coerce Sleepwrecker, master of the hunter probe, into surrendering—well, the only way his exile would end would be in his execution.

“I know why you won’t admit it,” said the young pest. “You’re shy.”

Garak bent down to stack bolts of cloth beneath his counter. “Just like you.”

When Garak stood up, he could see his sarcasm had made Trestan grin. “I lived on the streets for eight years. If I weren’t pushy, I’d have died.”

“I congratulate you on your survival. And I’m thankful to my countryman who contributed. If some of the good will he earned accrues to me, business at my humble tailor shop should increase.”

“Have it your way.” Trestan’s mouth spread wider. “What you did for me was outside everything I knew about Cardassians. You’re the reason I want to study xenopsychology. Let me interview you for my admission essay. I won’t go until you say yes.”

Wiping nonexistent dust off his Merak II sizing scanner, Garak sighed. “If you leave me to work in peace now, you may come at eight tomorrow morning before I open.” Leaning forward, he narrowed his eyes to the same menacing degree he’d used to scare the Bajoran street brats out the back gate of the Obsidian Order Intelligence Center. “Now, shoo!”

Constable Odo cast his awareness around the security arrangements for that evening’s event. The First Contact Symposium wouldn’t actually be held on Deep Space 9. The station was too peripheral to the academic centers of the Alpha Quadrant, and its assembly rooms were too small to host the proceedings of such a grand organization. The Cardassian Central Command that had designed the station had favored conspiring in select cabals. Democracy was alien to them, and their floor plans reflected this.

From the perspective of efficiency and safety, Odo saw their point. If the professional opinion Doctors Dal and Lubaar would be announcing via subspace communication was so controversial, then why not use a closed space with restricted access? Instead, Kai Winn herself had decided to put on a show. So many dignitaries had been invited that a stage had been raised on the Promenade.

Odo glanced at Major Kira. “The only faction that really cares whether the moon of Tasadae is ready for first contact is the Ferengi. Their consortium was forced to halt plans for gouge mining when word it was inhabited got out.”

Kira cocked her head. “Oh, I think the issue’s a bit loftier than that. This is a chance to show that the treaties between the Federation, the Klingons, the Romulans, and the Cardassians actually mean something. If those powers agree to protect a tribe as tiny as the Tasadae—despite commercial interests—that’s of great significance to independent planets like ours. And for Bajoran scientists to be considered expert enough to carry out that evaluation—that’s inspiring.”

Odo made one of the little noises humanoids employed to express skepticism. He found it one of the most useful in his repertoire. “Dal and Lubaar’s reputation for analyzing newly discovered life-forms started with me. I’ll be forever grateful they advocated that I was sentient—against Mora’s wishes, I might add—but I cannot forget that both scientists failed to appreciate that their unknown specimen was sapient as well. Instead, they treated me like one of those creatures the Shaloza brothers want to sell: a pet.”

Kira gave Odo’s shoulder a squeeze. Though the shape he assumed gave the appearance of a body clothed in a Bajoran militia uniform, in reality the substance she’d touched was Odo. Out of all the casual bumps and jostles he routinely endured aboard the crowded station, only her touch gave him the peculiar thrill he was feeling now.

Odo made a grunt of acquiescence. “This event is important to Bajor—to you as well. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to Dal or Lubaar at the First Contact Symposium.”

The first thing Thebroca Horven asked when she entered Garak’s Clothiers was, “Is this place under surveillance?”

Such a question from a woman who’d grown up with the same constant monitoring he had so surprised Garak that he left his welcoming gesture hanging midair. Collecting himself, the tailor dropped his arm. “Naturally. When they departed, our compatriots destroyed as much station infrastructure as they could—surveillance equipment included—but I’m a businessman. Sensors are expected of me, so I installed them. Carefully placed.”

“But not in your sizing chamber?”

With a glance at her husband, Garak hastily added, “Of course not. My shop is equipped according to Federation standards, not Cardassian.”

Thebroca disappeared into the chamber—leaving Garak to try to shepherd Gul Horven into one of the corners of his shop where sensors had carefully not been placed. No luck. Instead of seeking insights from the “eyes and ears of Cardassia” at the gateway to the Gamma Quadrant, the man plunked himself down in front of a viewscreen to meander through the undisciplined hodge-podge with which the Federation proudly filled their intergalactic network. Garak could see how lack of censorship might be tempting, but how could watching the bizarre mating habits of obscure Beta Quadrant entities be more interesting than talking to him?

Garak’s mouth twisted. Horven had always been useless. Ironically, his lack of ambition was the reason the Bajorans found him an acceptable dignitary to attend tonight’s ceremony. During the Occupation, he’d never committed an atrocity against the rebel forces. He’d been too lazy to bother.

Doctor Bashir was not finding lunch with the visiting neurocognitive biologist and cultural anthropologist to be as collegial as he’d hoped. Sure, Dal and Lubaar were polite to him; they just weren’t polite to each other.

“Ethics—apart from what we’ve received from the Prophets—can’t exist outside time and space.” Lubaar banged his fist on the table. “Everything’s relative to history, culture, biology. We can hope for commonalities across species like family loyalty—but even that boils down to one inelegant, physical, time-bound imperative: survival.”

“Degenerate,” Dal muttered and swallowed another mouthful of hasperat soufflé. Her eyes were watering, but whether from the spicy food or the marital spat, Bashir wasn’t sure.

Taking a deep breath, he set down his Tarkalean tea. “I agree with Lubaar that ethics can’t exist inside a vacuum.” When his wife’s jaw dropped, Bashir waved his hand. “But I agree with Dal that within specified perimeters, ethical standards can be absolute.” When both of his lunch companions glared at him, he scrunched back in his chair. “Let me explain. As a physician, my duty is to heal the sick. The worst criminal imaginable—a perpetrator of genocide—could be my patient, and I’d be honor bound to do everything in my power to make him well.”

“Exactly.” Daintily, Dal wiped her lips, then tossed her napkin onto her plate. “I’m a scientist. If I’m given an investigation, I investigate. I check and double-check my findings. When I reach a valid conclusion, I report it. Period.”

Lubaar stabbed his knife into his uneaten steak. “So . . . if the Cardassians had asked you to evaluate the cognitive effects of that aggression enhancer they developed, you’d have honestly informed them it caused neural damage—lost that chance to see their soldiers attack each other?”

“They didn’t assign me that task, now, did they?”

“Of course not. Because Cardassians favor pragmatism too much to believe any alien would be so simpleminded as to champion scientific validity over their people’s lives. That’s why the Resistance had to infiltrate their computer system and alter the findings themselves. Survival.”

Dal jumped to her feet. “Oh, you like to twist things.”

Lubaar kept his eyes trained on hers. “But you know I’m right.”

Standing guard outside the Starfleet dining room, Odo wasn’t surprised when Dal Cerys stormed out. The couple couldn’t spend five minutes together without fighting. If they weren’t arguing about the metaphysical properties of borhyas, it was the artistic merits of Earth jazz versus Klingon opera.

To address the couple’s volatile relationship, Odo had brought a trusted lieutenant in case they separated. He nodded at him to follow.

Immediately, Dal jerked around as if to see who was behind her. “After all I did for you, Odo, I warrant second-best security? If that’s how it is, I prefer none at all.”

Odo had dedicated so much effort to learning the gestures and sounds that conveyed humanoid reactions, they’d become automatic. Without intending to, he blew out his breath and flicked his eyes upward. Then he beckoned his lieutenant back and strode forward to take his place.

“Thank you,” Dal murmured, then hurried ahead. Suspecting she was crying, he hung back. When she rounded the corner ahead of him, he heard a gasp, but when he rushed to join her, she looked fine. “Muscle twinge.”

When Thebroca exited the sizing chamber after twenty minutes, Garak smiled. At last! A chance for parley with somebody with talent, savvy, and—as a quick review of her recorded measurements confirmed—the perfect figure to carry off his finest fashions. No matter that the last time they’d met he’d tried to eliminate her. What else could an Obsidian Order operative expect after she’d been caught colluding with the Romulan Tal Shiar? But what was past was past. Clearly, Thebroca was back in the Order’s good graces. Why marry Horven except for the access it allowed her to carry out their secret business?

“I have several brocades and damasks that would look marvelous on you,” Garak said, guiding Thebroca past a well-aimed sensor to a blind spot where he’d arranged a pile of textile squares. When he’d positioned her just so, he leaned closer. “And if you’d like any other information, just ask.”

“Like what? The lowdown on everyone’s favorite drink?” Thebroca trained her uncommonly green eyes on him. “Gossip about impending vacations of Starfleet personnel might be of interest.”

The archness in Thebroca’s tone chilled Garak down to the bone plates at the back of his heels. The last time he’d passed on such casual information, Chief O’Brien had been seized to face trumped-up charges on Cardassia Prime—part of a rickety Central Command scheme. When Tain was in power, he’d never have sanctioned it.

Garak leaned closer. “I mean in-depth analysis, not trivialities. Our relationships in the quadrant are now guided by treaties, but what do those words really mean to the average Starfleet officer? We were both trained by Enabran Tain. You know the level of intelligence I’m capable of gathering. If you don’t want to collect it, why did you come to my shop?”

“For an evening gown.” Thebroca held up a swatch of black-and-gold jacquard. “Tain trained us both, yet only I carry on his work. But while your espionage abilities have proved disappointing, you do have a reputation for being a good tailor.”

Waiting for Deep Space 9’s part in the First Contact Symposium to begin, Bashir caught Garak eyeing the Cardassian in the shimmery gown. The first time he’d seen a female of that species, he’d found the prominent exoskeleton disturbing. With a more experienced eye, he could appreciate her regal figure, elegant neck, and cascade of silky black hair.

“Doctor, you’ve stopped talking.”

Bashir glanced at Garak. “Because I’m boring you. You’d rather take stock of everyone’s outfits.”

“Can you blame me? I clothed half the crowd here. But I can pay attention to multiple topics. I’m Cardassian, remember?”

With his secret genetic enhancements, Bashir could as well—but he avoided mentioning it.

Garak studied him sidelong. “To summarize: the initial step in first contact evaluation is assessing sentience, then sapience or the likely potential for sapience.”

“Right.” Bashir straightened his shoulders. “I spent the afternoon with Lubaar discussing every aspect of the process, but that’s the gist of the neurocognitive portion. The next step is assessing cultural development. Depending on the mix of factors in the evaluation matrix, a planet may be placed off limits, assigned guardians for discreet observation, allowed monitored interactions, or opened to full access.”

“Splendid,” Garak said, his gaze on the peach chiffon frocks gracing the twins who ran the bakery. “And each outcome would cheer or anger a different vested interest—especially concerning a moon rich with deuterium.”

The doctor shook his head. “The point of the evaluation is what’s best for the newly discovered people, not outside interests.”

Garak’s mouth quirked. “You can’t deny outside interests are the point of all the security Odo has in place. I couldn’t exit my own shop without submitting to a frisk.”

Bashir conceded his cynical friend had a point. “Like you, our constable prefers prevention.”

No sooner had Bashir mentioned Odo than he heard his voice from his combadge. “Doctor, we need you in the infirmary. Immediately.”

Bashir gauged the density of the crowd waiting for the evening’s speakers to show up, then gave Garak a regretful glance, tapped his combadge, and said, “Bashir to ops. Beam me to the infirmary, please.”

A moment later, Bashir felt the tingle of dematerializing, then rematerializing. Without time for his pupils to adjust, he squinted in the bright lights of the surgical suite. Odo and two security officers were standing on the opposite side of the operating table. Atop it lay Dal Cerys. One look, and he could tell that the medical service she required was the one he enjoyed least: an autopsy.

“So . . . Doctor Dal was murdered?”

Odo glared at Garak. “That’s what I brought you here to tell me.”

The Cardassian blinked sleepily. “What reason could I possibly have? I’m just a—”

Anger rose inside Odo, and it rumbled out in his voice. “None of that. I was standing near Shaloza Trestan when he recognized you as the man tasked with interrogating him. Everyone else may be touched you let him go, but I’m not so naïve. That story is verification that you were indeed a member of the Obsidian Order with all the ruthless, vicious training that implies.”

“So you say.” Garak yawned. “But half a dozen witnesses can verify that today, at least, I was a simple tailor. Run my surveillance footage to ease your doubts. I have nothing to hide.”

Odo growled. “That’s what that diplomatic couple said. Am I the only one who finds Cardassians alibiing Cardassians suspicious?”

“Ah . . . Doctor Dal was murdered when Thebroca was occupying me with her new gown.”

Odo glowered. “Murder hasn’t been established. I’m waiting for the autopsy.” But he knew what it would find.

Odo kept Garak in his office three hours past midnight waiting for the autopsy—long enough for him to doze despite his stiff chair and for the constable to glisten from delaying his regenerative cycle. When the good doctor confirmed that Dal’s unnatural death had occurred while Garak was stitching, the news was a relief to both of them.

At the eighth hour, Garak was waiting in his shop for Shaloza Trestan. After all, a promise is a promise. When the ninth hour rolled around with no ex-urchin interviewer in sight, he headed for Quark’s.

There he saw the good doctor undergoing full-on Quark badgering.

“Come now, Bashir. What does ‘unnatural’ mean? She slipped in the bathtub? She choked on a grape? Or”—the Ferengi boosted himself half on the counter to lean closer—“she suffered a fate requiring further investigation?”

Bashir drained his teacup, set it on the bar, and waved for Quark to stop. “Not my place to say.”

Quark lowered himself to the floor. “You Starfleet types are annoying.”

Garak chuckled. “I’m not in uniform and not bound by discretion. I can tell you, beyond a doubt, she was murdered.”

Quark rubbed his hands. “The Manhunt Pool is open for business.”

The Womanhunt Pool, you mean, Garak said to himself. Thebroca Horven murdered Dal Cerys—of that he was certain. But how she’d done it and why—or how long it would take him to make Odo aware without implicating himself as the source—that he didn’t know. “Put me down for three days.”

As Garak handed over his stake, he saw Bashir fold his arms. “Has anyone ever told you that running a pool on when a murderer will be caught is ghoulish?”

“You have,” Quark answered, “every time that’s the crime in question. But I’ve yet to see you miss a wager.”

The doctor shifted his weight. “Okay. One day.”

Odo wasn’t good at all humanoid expressions, but he hoped his combination of stare, jutting jaw, and grunt communicated his exasperation. Just in case, he slammed his fist on his desk. “If you won’t tell me Dal’s conclusions concerning the tribe that inhabits the moon of Tasadae, how can I determine which interest had the most reason to kill her?”

Clutching his arms, Lubaar pressed back in his chair. “That was Cerys’s last project. Out of respect—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Odo snorted. “If you truly respected your wife, you’d make her announcement yourself. But you’re too cowardly.”

“Who are you to talk to me that way!”

Lubaar’s outburst was so offensive, Odo almost lost his shape. “I’m civil law enforcement on this station. You’re a material witness. I have the right to talk to you any way that serves my purpose: justice.”

“You’ve changed,” Doctor Lubaar muttered.

“No,” Odo said softly, “I haven’t. I required an arduous education in the ways of humanoids to reach this position, but I was always me. You just didn’t have the insight to realize it.”

Lubaar stared as if seeing him for the first time. “Nevertheless, you can’t make me tell you.”

“Regretfully, no. But I can have Dal’s padds and any other devices used in her research removed from your quarters for analysis.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s being done as we speak.”

Lubaar sprang to his feet. “They can’t take my material without a warrant. I’m returning to my quarters to make sure they don’t.”

“Certainly. Your security detail will escort you.”

“Much good that did Cerys.”

Out of all the rude things Lubaar had said since their interview began, this was the first Odo acknowledged. “I’m sorry. If it will make you feel safer, I’ll accompany them.”

“Don’t bother.”

Rising from his chair, Odo followed anyway. He paused in the security office entrance and watched Lubaar, two guards in front and two in back, cross the Promenade toward the turbolift. That’s when he noticed that out of the seven workers dismantling the stage, one had stopped to stare. When the man reached inside his jacket, Odo sprang.

The shapeshifter couldn’t actually teleport, but the stuff he was made of was capable of an astounding range of activity. With his second leap, he tackled the man. Briefly, he formed two additional arms to help subdue him. Then Odo heard a shriek.

Whipping around, he saw that in the commotion, Lubaar’s detail had rushed forward to aid him. Behind them, their charge lay crumpled on the deck.

Hastily, Odo scanned the area. A worker had disappeared—and not the one handcuffed beneath him. Chagrined, he released the lock, then raced to Lubaar.

His old handler, advocate, and friend smiled weakly. Relieved, Odo tapped the combadge affixed to his mock uniform. “Two to beam to the infirmary.”

Bashir had faced the ethical tug-of-war between the needs of medicine versus crime fighting so often with Odo, that he answered the constable’s question before he finished it: “When I deem it medically safe, you can interrogate Lubaar about the attack—and not a second sooner.”

“That’s—that’s not why I want to talk to him. Not my primary reason, anyway.” Odo gazed at Bashir’s unconscious patient. “I just want to know . . . will he make it?”

Catching the constable’s genuine concern, Bashir said more gently, “With the antidote I gave him, no reason he shouldn’t. Funny thing. He received the same toxin that killed his wife, except her autopsy also showed traces of a massive sedative. That agent slowed her bodily functions enough that the toxin didn’t take effect until she was in her room.”

Odo sighed. “That’s why nobody had realized anything was wrong until her husband went to scold her for being late.”

“Lubaar received a larger volume—through some kind of dart—but the concentration was a million times less. That’s what saved him.”

Odo nodded, then paused. “Do you mind if I finish my reports here—by his bedside?”

“Please do.” Bashir left the constable huddling over his padd while he attended to other duties. When he returned, he found Odo advising Commander Sisko of the situation. Seeing the commander’s confident face boosted the doctor’s spirits. He had the urge to wave but didn’t.

“Autopsy found a stinger in Dal’s back, smaller than a Terran bee’s. Forensic examination of the hall outside her room revealed residue of metals often used in self-destruct hunter probes. I’m reviewing security footage for anyone possibly operating a probe at the time Dal felt a muscle twinge.”

“And Lubaar?”

“Use of the same poison suggests the same perpetrator but the dosage and method were completely different. Instead of a remote-controlled probe, a fake worker shot a poison dart and fled. We found a biosynthetic mask and overalls discarded nearby.”

Commander Sisko’s forehead furrowed. “As you said, motive is the key. Doctor Bashir spent several hours with Lubaar yesterday. Ask him to assist you in analyzing his wife’s notes.”

Bashir brightened. He loved challenges.

“Luckily, the second attempt failed,” the commander continued. “If we let on that the victim’s alive but critical, the assassin’s likely to stay on the station to try again.”

While Odo signed off his report to Commander Sisko, Garak lifted his gaze from his viewscreen to stare at the ceiling. Then he tapped in the series of ones and zeroes that were Pup’s equivalent of a tummy tickling and gave the command to watch for more data. The constable preferred relying on his own logic and memory, so Garak didn’t expect many computer entries, but what there were, Pup would catch. Chief O’Brien had inadvertently uploaded the electromagnetic entity two years ago. Once the engineer had intuited that the resulting system malfunctions were just barks for attention, he’d lured it into the computer equivalent of a doghouse. After overhearing him boast about how well he’d trained the entity to fetch information, Garak had decided to become friends. It hadn’t been difficult. Pup loved showing off its tricks.

After a moment’s reflection on the implications of the failed attempt on Doctor Lubaar’s life, Garak rose from his stool. Time to confront the man who sold physical pets.

Leaving his shop, the Cardassian walked in the direction he’d avoided the day before, diagonally across the Promenade and through the entrance of The Only Love Latinum Can Buy.

Inside, Garak marveled at how quickly the Shalozas had set up. Not only were the fixtures assembled, but half the enclosures already housed cute, furry beasts. He noted Earth cats, Rafalian mice, and Denobulan lemurs. Then he caught sight of a sleek animal running a wheel in a cage atop the counter and felt a pinch in his chest.

The older brother emerged from the back room, then stiffened. “We’re not open.”

Garak put on his most ingratiating smile. As he’d predicted, Trestan was nowhere to be seen. “I’m your neighbor—the tailor from across—”

“I know who you are.”

Same here. “I came to welcome you and offer my assistance—”

“Don’t need it.”

“Apparently not. The young man I saw—your brother—he’s quite the hard worker. Perhaps I could ask him to—”

“He’s gone.”

“When he returns, then.”

“He’s gone from the station.” Rokor’s head jerked a little. “He took a job on a Lissepian freighter.”

As good a story as any. With a shrug, Garak strolled closer. “You’re already displaying animals.”

Rokor’s eyes remained centered on him. “I disliked leaving them in stasis pods.”

Ignoring the hostile stare, Garak poked his finger into the lemur cage. “I’m surprised you’re selling Cardassian pets.” The creature hopped off its wheel and scurried over to sniff. Lifting its head, it inspected its admirer.

“They’re loyal, clever beasts,” Rokor said. “They became popular on Bajor during the Occupation.”

Unlike us. “When I was a boy, I had a lemur. But my—the man who employed my mother—he decided I was too attached.”

“So he made you give it away?”

“Something like that.” Garak inhaled slowly. He knew how he’d obtain the information he needed: with a story. “Vlatvlat was a bit wild. She hunted all around the neighborhood, but she always came home to me. One day, she climbed the civil defense spire near our house. That’s a device atop a pole that can send out a pulse that—”

Rokor’s eyes narrowed. “I know what a concussion shaft is.”

“Quite.” Garak cleared his throat. “At the top of the spire, Vlatvlat caught her hind leg in a loose wire. Her squeals could be heard for a block. When I began shinnying up the pole, the neighbors screamed at me to stop, but I wouldn’t. After I untangled her and brought her down, they cheered.”

“Heartwarming.”

Garak shrugged. “When my mother’s employer came home, he didn’t cheer. He locked me in my closet for one hour every day for a week to meditate on how I’d disregarded my duty to Cardassia by risking my life to save a beast.”

“Harsh, but I understand. You’d worried him.”

“So much so that he added one more punishment.” Garak moistened his lips. “He ordered me to kill Vlatvlat.”

Shocked, Rokor backed up a step. “Is this a roundabout threat?”

“Not at all. It’s not even the end of my story.” Glancing behind him, Garak dropped his voice. “I hid Vlatvlat in a bag and took a tube to the end of the line. I walked for kilometers until I reached the wilderness preserve. After I returned home without Vlatvlat, I spent two hours in my closet every day for a month.”

The frown relaxed from Rokor’s face. “You really are the Cardassian who set Tres free.”

Garak nodded. “But that’s not the point of my story. I parted from little Vlatvlat for her safety. If somehow we’d been reunited, I’d never have let her out of my care again.”

Rokor’s mouth quivered. Turning, he straightened a rack of decorative collars. “Thanks for the welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I know your brother was abducted.”

The collar stand swayed crazily. “Preposterous. My brother took a job—”

“Not for a promise of timeless bliss in the Celestial Temple would you ever have let him do that. Trestan was abducted by the same Obsidian Order operative who assassinated Doctor Dal. She wanted to coerce you into assassinating Doctor Lubaar, but you botched it.”

Rokor gripped the edge of the counter. “You know who I am. You know that if I wanted to kill him, I’d succeed.”

Garak smiled. Nothing like professional pride to make someone slip up with the truth. “But your purpose wasn’t to succeed. It was to buy time—time to rescue your brother.” He glanced at the lemur, racing around her wheel. “And I know how we can find him.”

Within two hours of receiving antitoxin, Lubarr Pem began to stir. Odo watched him twist on the infirmary bed. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. “You’re here.”

Odo nodded. “Now that you’re conscious, I’ll resume my investigation. You won’t be safe until the murderer is caught. But no questions. You need to rest.”

“I’m sorry we fought. Sometimes, I can’t help myself.” Lubarr swallowed. “I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes.” Odo made a throat-clearing noise. “I remember you fought with Doctor Mora to allow me outside the laboratory. You insisted I needed not just trials but experience. Those parties . . .”

Lubarr grimaced. “Cerys said you hated playing jester.”

Odo jiggled his head. “It wasn’t all bad. Remember when your brothers dared me to mimic an Algorian mammoth? When I broke your ceiling, they called me extraordinary.”

Unexpectedly, Lubarr released a sob. “Odo, they’re dead. Ren and Falor helped colonize New Bajor. The Jem’Hadar . . .”

“I . . . I didn’t know.”

Lubarr clasped Odo’s hands. “The irony . . . finally booting out the Cardassians, only to face a worse threat . . .”

“Shapeshifters.”

“I’ve never blamed you.” Squeezing Odo’s hands, Lubarr stared into his eyes. “Please don’t blame me. It’s survival.”

Garak secured the tracker-equipped collar around the lemur’s neck.

Rokor returned from the back room with a jumja stick. “Tres ate the bar last night.”

“And he licked up every drop.” Garak held the DNA-laden object under the lemur’s nose. The creature cooed. “Perfect. Your brother already made friends with her.”

“Animals trust him.” Rokor inhaled sharply. “To think I kept my eye on Tres when he ran over to the jumja stand, then didn’t when he used the restroom at the Replimat.”

“If Thebroca hadn’t taken him there, she’d have done it elsewhere.” Garak pulled out the tissue she’d discarded in his sizing chamber. The lemur sniffed the smudge of green makeup the operative used in her forehead circle to dramatize her unusual eyes. “Good,” he said, and pinched its tail.

When the creature squealed, Rokor frowned. “Won’t that make her avoid that smell?”

“Not at all. There are three reasons a lemur will track—to hunt, to find a friend, or to locate a friend’s enemy. I’ve just informed her how to categorize Thebroca.”

“Amazing. I’d thought lemurs were just . . . warm and cuddly.”

“Glad the Order kept one secret.”

“The Order.” Rokor rubbed his ridged nose. “Why didn’t Thebroca just kill Lubaar herself?”

“Splitting the two assassinations split her risk. Odo can’t prove she was directing a hunter probe while she was out of sensor range in my sizing chamber, but he suspects. When you shot the second target this morning, the Horvens were brunching with Kai Winn. Now they’re above suspicion.” Garak cocked an eyebrow. “What I’m wondering is why Thebroca was so impractical.”

“Impractical?”

“Going to the trouble of coercing you when she could have asked me. I have more free time than I know what to do with. I could easily have fit one little assassination in between pleating skirts and hemming pants.”

Rokor stroked the lemur. “I heard a rumor—how Natima Lang and her pupils escaped Central Command on this very station. If you wouldn’t eliminate three Cardassians they considered traitors, I can see why they’d have doubts about how you’d handle a harmless scientist.”

“Well, every case has its own merits.” Garak attached a leash to the lemur’s collar. “But one does like to be asked.” He pursed his lips at Rokor’s breathy chuckle. For a moment, they watched Trestan’s-best-hope-of-being-rescued struggle against the restraint.

Rokor looked at him. “If you’d known Tres had an older brother in the Resistance, would you have released him?”

“I’d have used him as Thebroca is doing now.”

Rokor nodded. Obviously, the answer didn’t surprise him.

“But we never knew your identity—not until we retreated and Bajor lauded you as a hero. When I processed Trestan and his friends, I ran the usual checks on DNA, retinal scan, and facial structure. When they revealed no personal or familial links to matters of interest, I let them go. They had no value.”

“Perhaps. But that wouldn’t have stopped others in your position from having their fun.”

Garak shrugged. “I’m a professional.”

Bashir sat at Odo’s desk studying the mishmash of data Dal had collected on the tribe from the moon of Tasadae. He’d gotten so used to the insults the Yridian con man was yelling from the holding cell that he ignored them.

Running his gaze down the columns of tricorder readings, Bashir confirmed that blood chemistry, endocrinology, and tissue composition identified a humanoid species—the same as nearly all known sapient entities across the galaxy. To a scientist, the curiosity that such a multitude of beings exhibited only fractional differences in their DNA suggested the inevitability of evolution. To religionists like the Bajorans, it bespoke the miracle of creation.

Scanning a hundred images of the most recently discovered humanoid, Bashir thought it a good thing the doctors had kept their interactions low key. Best that memory of their visit didn’t survive even as a legend. From the simplicity of domiciles, costumes and tools, he surmised the first-contact evaluation would decree nonaccess.

But after the doctor began perusing the neurocognitive findings, he began to wonder.

When a patrol officer reported Garak walking a lemur on level seven, Odo assured him that was acceptable so long as the pet was leashed. When several dignitaries called in sightings of a strange Cardassian lurking in the vicinity of the guest quarters on level nine, Odo downplayed their concerns. He had more pressing matters than appeasing Bajoran prejudices. But when an alert beeped on his padd that life-forms registering as Cardassian and lemur were wandering around level twenty-one, the head of security resigned himself to taking a look. The supposedly simple tailor had infiltrated an area where no civilian could conceivably have business: the corridor leading to the abandoned ore-processing facility.

Odo preferred patrolling the station on his imitation humanoid feet. Today he didn’t have the time. Tapping his combadge, he contacted the transporter room. As requested, he materialized facing the wily Cardassian.

Garak didn’t flinch. “Odo, you should visit the pet shop. Shaloza Rokor carries the most darling beasts.”

“Really? Then where’s yours?”

Garak flicked his glance to the leash dangling from his hand. “Fletflet heard something down this open vent. Probably a vole. Lemurs love hunting them.”

“Among other things.”

Garak flashed Odo a dazzling smile. “Don’t worry. She’ll come back.”

“She can’t be off her leash. Not outside your quarters.”

Garak widened his eyes. “Lemurs need to run around something besides a wheel in a cage. But no one has to tell you how depressing it is to be cooped up.”

Odo glowered. While he practiced humanoid expressions to improve communication, Garak did it for obfuscation. He slapped his combadge. “Beam me and this colossal waste of my time to security.”

Bashir propped his head on his fingertips while he read Dal’s extensive testing protocol. He’d set the screen to roll at a pace that would have made most people dizzy, but his genetic enhancements allowed him to absorb the information quickly. He just wasn’t sure what it meant.

The notions that the tribal people spouted about their everyday life were consistent with their simple appearance. They shared animist beliefs about the blue-and-green planet that crossed their sky and the ball of fire beyond. But when Dal proceeded from interviews to tests, she discovered their spatial-temporal concepts suggested they’d grown up in a more complex society.

Bashir was so engrossed in the curious case of the sophisticated primitives that he didn’t realize two people had joined him until he heard Garak’s irritable, “Unhand me, Constable.”

The doctor bit his lip. As the only Cardassian resident, his friend was a natural usual suspect, but when Odo pointed to a chair, then turned his back, he relaxed. Whatever Odo suspected Garak of, it wasn’t murder.

Still seething, Garak pulled out a personal communicator and muttered, “Our Changeling gul saw fit to detain me in security.” After listening a moment, his mood lightened. “Ah. When she’s finished, you know where to come.”

Odo scowled. “Who was that?”

“My dinner date. They needed to know I’d be late.” Garak raised his eyebrows as if noticing Bashir for the first time. “A pleasant surprise, Doctor. What’s that on your viewscreen? You’re studying data forms, medical reports, and ethnographic photos simultaneously? One would think you’re Cardassian.”

Bashir leaned back. “I’m helping Odo make sense of Dal’s research.”

Garak’s eyes glimmered with interest. He rose from his chair and drew closer. “What a charming outfit that fellow is wearing—mostly furs and skins, but what an unexpected scarf.”

The doctor shrugged. “The animals they live on include wild sheep.”

“How clever of them to shear, spin, and knit the wool despite their subsistence lifestyle. And look at the clarity of blue they achieved.”

Frowning, Bashir pulled up Dal’s entire album. “What else do you see?”

Garak cast his gaze up and down the columns. “A rawhide collar but what a crisply rendered decoration. That crude loom achieved that uniform, tight weave? Remarkable. This crimson is particularly rich.”

Odo coughed. When Bashir and Garak turned their heads, he glared. “Commander Sisko assigned the doctor a task. Leave him to it.”

Garak waved a placating hand. “I’m just offering my expertise—as a clothier.”

Or an intelligence agent. “Odo, I need to check on Lubaar.” Without further explanation, Bashir hurried out of the security office and on to the infirmary. Hastily, he assessed his patient’s physical state—adequate—then blurted out, “I know what your wife was planning to announce. The tribe on the moon of Tasadae—it’s a fake!”

When Odo pointed him toward a chair, Garak complied. Soon, he’d start up a one-sided banter so annoying that the constable would give up and release him. He was too busy puzzling over Doctor Dal’s research to really care why a tailor had been walking a pet in a restricted area.

Right now, Garak was glad to spend a moment marveling at the convoluted mind that had produced the moon of Tasadae hoax. No other scheme could have circumvented the deal between the planet and the Ferengi. Unless otherwise occupied, satellites belonged to the worlds they orbited.

Yet Garak was puzzled. The intricacy of the scheme was classic Obsidian Order, but the sheer arrogance smacked of Central Command. Who else would credit themselves with the ability to contrive a sham people that would cheat expert evaluation? Well, they did have a history of underestimating Bajorans.

But what was their long-term plan? If the moon was declared off limits, the Federation would enforce it. Deuterium couldn’t be mined inconspicuously enough to fool a starship scan. But then, their plot involving Chief O’Brien had been shaky too.

No matter. The immediate task was learning how Rokor was getting on with tracing the lemur’s progress via viewscreen.

“Your furniture is torture, Odo. I’m filing a formal complaint with Commander Sisko. But I’ve heard you make an excellent chair. Care to show me?”

Clearly aggravated at Bashir’s statement, Lubaar glowered. “The Federation—or some section of it—set up the bogus tribe.”

“Why would we?” Bashir rolled his eyes. “That’s not how we operate.”

“When I tell you the why, you’ll believe the how.”

Yesterday’s lunch squabble flashed in Bashir’s mind. “I’m listening.”

Looking professorial despite his hospital gown, Lubaar stuck out his chin. “Today the Alpha Quadrant faces a threat not seen since the Borg. How can humanoids handle an enemy that constantly changes shape? That may be among us already?”

Bashir leaned forward. “By learning to understand them so we can negotiate. As different as Changelings are, we know from Odo they’re not mindless cyborgs. They’re capable of principles, feelings, attachments, even nobility.”

“And of genetically engineering slave races to wreak their will.” Lubaar clutched his sheet. “I lost the last family I had to their Jem’Hadar butchers.”

Bashir chewed his lip. He had no answer to that one. “Well, I can’t see how preventing Ferengi from mining deuterium protects the Alpha Quadrant.”

“Deuterium? The moon of Tasadae holds something far more important: a tiny pool of shapeshifters surrounded by rock that can arrest their transformation.”

“Seriously?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. When the creatures emerge from regeneration, they form rudimentary shapes. As the rock absorbs the sun’s energy, it emits a quantum stasis field that prevents them from shifting. When the sun sets, the energy drains, the shapes release, and the cycle repeats.” Lubaar smiled. “You’re interested.”

Bashir coughed. “As a scientist. But that doesn’t excuse fraud.”

“Maybe not the gall of thinking Cerys and I would fall for it.” Lubaar sighed. “She did her due diligence—performed every required test and noted the results. I didn’t. The reason I kept my findings from Odo is that they consist of one observation.”

“Which is?”

“ ‘The Tasadae-Ferengi contract has been in place longer than this moon has been inhabited. Insufficient garbage.’ ”

A smile twitched Bashir’s lips.

“When the fakers realized we knew, they came clean and showed us the pool. Immediately, I saw the overriding value of keeping their investigation of the quantum stasis field secret. Changeling spies could be anywhere.”

“And your wife?”

“She waffled.” Lubaar’s forehead creased. “Poor ethical Cerys. She denied the larger principle: survival.”

Bashir felt queasy. “You’re saying the Federation assassinated her?”

“I—I don’t know. I’d thought halting her announcement had satisfied them.”

The doctor’s lips parted. “You gave her the sedative?”

Miserably, Lubaar nodded.

Garak stared at Odo, leaning against his desk as he listened to Rokor. The news that Trestan was being held against his will in the derelict ore-processing facility should have goaded the constable into action. Instead, he was fussing over details.

“How did you deduce that Thebroca Horven assassinated Dal?”

Rokor shifted his weight.

“Stands to reason,” Garak broke in. “She’s a member of the Obsidian Order—or so I’ve heard.”

Odo ignored him. “Why kidnap your brother? Perhaps because you’re a former assassin. Or so I’ve heard.”

Garak clicked his tongue. “Arrange the puzzle later, Odo. Can’t you see the man is anxious?”

“If the kidnapper is holding him in ore processing, why aren’t station systems detecting them?”

Garak jumped to his feet. “Biomimetic spray, of course! They’re probably registering as voles.”

“But such tricks don’t fool lemurs, do they?”

Garak sucked in his breath. “Lucky thing I happened to be—”

“Stop lying.”

Before Garak could retort, Rokor grasped Odo’s shoulder. “Stop risking Trestan’s life.”

The constable jerked away. “Fine. I’ll pull up the facility’s schematics on my viewscreen—”

“No need.” Rokor held out the padd tucked under his arm.

Ignoring Odo’s scowl, Garak moved closer. Apparently, Fletflet had tracked all the way to level thirty-three. Good girl.

Pointing at the red dot inside the refinery, the Bajoran said, “I wrote a message on the lemur’s collar in code that Tres and I used during the Occupation. I told him to remove the red bead from the collar, swallow it, then pinch the lemur’s tail. This green dot shows the creature separated from him. If it’s doing what we hope, it’s hiding within a couple meters of Horven.”

“We?” Odo glared at Garak.

Emphatically, he shook his head. “Leave me out of this.”

Before Garak could continue, Bashir dashed in. “I know who—”

“The Obsidian Order,” Odo interrupted, “though not our resident member. Gul Horven’s wife killed Dal and engineered the attempt on Lubaar. We could use your help, Doctor. We’re picking her up now.”

“We?” Garak felt tension building between the bone plates above his eyes. The headache would last a week.

“Yes, we.”

Horven was holding Trestan one level below where O’Brien had accidentally triggered Dukat’s anti-uprising program, causing lockdown of sensitive areas all over the station. Odo remembered the incident as the excruciating hour he’d spent trapped in his office with Quark.

He studied his team. Ordinarily, he’d have employed his own personnel for a rescue operation, but this situation involved several factors requiring discretion. Despite being a physician, Bashir had seen action. As for Garak and Shaloza Rokor, well, their experience was even more extensive.

Bending over Rokor’s padd for one last look at the situation inside, Odo switched to vertical view. Trestan’s position high above the deck suggested he’d been imprisoned somewhere near the top of the chute designed to feed molten ore to the refinery blast furnace.

When the green dot rose, Garak whispered, “Let’s move. I doubt Thebroca’s bringing Trestan his supper.”

Odo held up a shushing finger, then punched his security code into the entrance keypad. The next step was their plan’s weakest. He’d ooze out a vent on the opposite side, but due to the clangor solids made in air ducts, their only recourse was to burst through the door together.

He left them to it. Unlike Garak, who’d pried off a grille to give his lemur access, Odo sluiced through myriad tiny holes, then flowed around behind the walls, unhindered by exhaust fans and filters. Reaching his exit point, he heard Horven.

“Just one fingertip so your brother will take his job seriously.”

Forming the Klingon hawk some said was the model for their bird-of-prey, Odo dive-bombed Horven. She dropped her knife and grabbed her disruptor. Odo retracted to the size of a gnat to avoid her zigzagging blast.

Odo saw Trestan shackled to the observation platform just above the blast furnace. Calmly, the young man squeezed under the control box. The faithful lemur jumped onto his lap.

Beneath, Odo’s team charged into the room, raced to three corners, and trained their weapons on Horven. Before she could switch her target, Odo spread around her in a net, reserving just enough of himself to form a mouth at her ear.

“The only thing saving you from Garak is the bother he’d have explaining why he also shot the chief of security.”

“Damn you, shapeshifter.”

When Horven dropped her weapon, Odo resumed his usual form and kicked it clattering down the steps.

“Pity,” Garak called up, “seeing such a rising star face such an ignominious end.”

Horven spat. “You don’t know the mess you’ve made. When I pass the news to Tain—and I will—you’re dead.”

“Who’d believe a disappointment like me defeated a prodigy like you? But compared to your fate—hourly prayers in a Bajoran penitentiary until old age finally releases you—I’d prefer death. Wouldn’t you?”

Weary of Cardassians, Odo squatted to unshackle Trestan. When the boy gasped, he looked up to see Horven dislodging a neck plate. The surgical alteration revealed a bubble under her skin. Before he could stop her, she popped it. Instantly, she slumped.

Toxin. When Odo darted a glance at Garak, the Cardassian looked unsurprised.

“Did you hear the tragic news? A Romulan freighter crashed into the moon of Tasadae, obliterating the entire tribe.”

When Bashir nodded, Garak placed his tray across from him and settled on the vacant chair.

Tired of poking at his enchilada, Bashir laid down his fork. “Supposedly, the captain flew too close trying to see the new humanoids.”

“Hmm. I’m just glad a Cardassian transport heard their distress signal and beamed the crew aboard.” Garak smiled. “Cardassians helping Romulans. Perhaps your Federation ideals are rubbing off on us.”

Federation ideals. Bashir twisted his napkin. The fake tribe that the freighter had wiped out had flouted those ideals. The real reason for their secrecy was avoiding the repercussions for experimenting with sapient beings.

“What I can’t figure out is why the Order wanted Dal and Lubaar silenced. At most, their evaluation was delayed. Whatever their conclusions were, no doubt a second team would have reached the same ones.” Shrugging, Garak spooned up a mouthful of sem’hal stew.

Why indeed? Had the Order wanted the delay to remove the Changelings and their stasis-field-generating-rock enclosure? Had their Romulan counterparts, the Tal Shiar, crashed a freighter to cover up?

“Congratulations, though. You won this week’s Manhunt Pool.” Garak leaned closer. “Now tell me how you helped the Yridian con man.”

“You really enjoy hearing how gullible I am, don’t you?” Bashir grimaced. “Okay. Last year, I received a subspace call claiming to be a classmate from Starfleet Medical Academy. He said, ‘Guess who.’ When I tried Dicky Poole, he said, ‘Bingo. Now guess my business.’ ”

Garak laughed. “Classic con.”

“Yes. I gave the Yridian the optimal sleep chamber idea. Every speculation I voiced, he recorded. When I finished, he had a promo of Deep Space 9’s chief medical officer endorsing the Best Nest franchise and agreeing that any agent Dicky Poole sent to represent it could be trusted.” Bashir hung his head. “You’re right, Garak. I must stop being naïve.”

“Ah, Doctor. Don’t take my judgments so seriously.”

Bashir raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re advising me to not heed your advice?”

“Correct.” When Garak’s eye crinkles deepened, Bashir suspected he was about to hear a deliciously enigmatic bon mot. “After all, what kind of friend would I be if I allowed you to trust me?”

THE DREAMER AND THE DREAM

Derek Tyler Attico

THE ORB OF VENGEANCE.

Three days ago the thought of the Pah-wraiths having an orb of their own would have been sacrilege, but that was before the cult of the Pah-wraiths found the orb in the Gamma Quadrant, before they bombed the Bajoran temple on Deep Space 9, and before they kidnapped Kasidy Yates-Sisko and her son, Jonathan. Now, watching from the shadows as the cult members performed their unholy ritual on this dead asteroid in the Badlands, Captain Kira Nerys felt like the universe had simply gone mad.

“Defiant, report,” she whispered.

Lieutenant Commander Nog didn’t need to use his lobes to hear the stress in his commanding officer’s voice. The Ferengi shifted uncomfortably in the Defiant’s command chair, regretting that he was about to add to it. “The weapons platforms haven’t detected us, but the plasma storms are intensifying. The Defiant isn’t going to be able to stay cloaked much longer, Captain.”

Kira’s voice sounded rushed—almost desperate—over the comm. “I need good news, Chief.”

It’d been more than five years, but Miles O’Brien worked the Defiant’s console like he hadn’t missed a day. “In the chamber adjacent to you, I’m reading nine Bajorans, three Cardassians, and two humans—one child, one adult female—but I can’t get a lock on them. There’s some kind of force field around them preventing transport.” How the bloody hell had this happened? O’Brien had been happy to get away from teaching, see old friends, and consult on the Defiant refit. Now they were all racing to prevent the murder of both Jonathan Sisko and his mother.

O’Brien frowned. “It gets worse, Captain, I can’t shut the platforms down. These aren’t like the ones we saw during the Dominion War.” Finding impractical solutions to impossible problems was what he did, what he taught at Starfleet Academy. Now it seemed like everything just led to another dead end.

The viewscreen showed the three Cardassian weapon platforms orbiting the asteroid it had taken them so long to find. The claw-shaped monstrosities looked like a trio of gargoyles waiting amidst the plasma storm’s angry swirls of orange and red, ready to unleash death and destruction. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” As O’Brien read the telemetry from the platforms guarding the asteroid, he realized that he didn’t have a solution for the impossible problem. “They’re receiving energy directly from the plasma storms.”

Garak looked up from the communications console with disgust. He didn’t mind detaining and torturing two high-ranking Cardassians to learn that the Pah-wraith cult had supporters on Cardassia, but to find out about the kidnapping after it was under way was unworthy of the Obsidian Order he was rebuilding. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Captain. It appears I have even less influence now than I did as a tailor; my access codes have been rejected. In ninety seconds, the platforms will initiate a tachyon sweep.” These people had helped his world, and this wasn’t the time to fail them.

Ezri Dax felt like she’d aged more in the last three days than she had in eight lifetimes. In the last seventy-two hours, she’d been treated for third-degree burns, held the hands of dying friends, and promised Jake Sisko she’d get his stepmother and brother back. Now that promise felt as worthless as the codes Garak had guaranteed. “A tachyon sweep will fry the cloak, and when that happens . . .”

“Understood. Stand by, Defiant,” Kira said. The Trill’s despair on the Defiant seemed to have reached the rescue team on the asteroid below. Kira looked over at Bashir and Odo, their faces cast in shadow—a shadow that seemed to have enveloped hope itself. In one swift motion, the former freedom fighter pulled the phaser from her hip holster. “We have to do this now.”

Kira pointed the weapon toward the group in the next cavern. From this distance, she could just make out an orb ark being held by one of the figures. If she could destroy the ark and the orb contained inside, she was sure all of this would come to an end.

Doctor Julian Bashir kept his voice low and his eyes fixed on the muted tricorder. “There’s some kind of medical isolation field around them. I can’t locate the power source.” The doctor looked directly into Kira’s eyes, making sure she understood the message. “Phaser fire could overload the field and kill Kasidy and Jonathan.”

Kira considered Bashir’s words. Even with her skill, at this distance she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t hit the field. But within the next minute, the Defiant would be in serious trouble. She couldn’t block out the thoughts of Benjamin Sisko, her former captain, her friend, the Emissary. This was his wife and child. He’d been gone for five years and it was Kira’s job to protect them, save them—but taking the shot could kill them.

Kira realized she didn’t need skill. She needed faith. Slowly, agonizingly, the woman who had fought against evil all her life lowered the weapon.

It hurt Odo to see the desperation and fear in Kira’s eyes. When he learned the Pah-wraith Orb of Vengeance was in the Gamma Quadrant, he had used all the resources of the Dominion to locate it. When it was finally tracked to the Badlands, he knew he had to come back, to help his friends, to help Kira. He desperately wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, that he still loved her so much, but instead he turned to Doctor Bashir.

Odo shifted his jaw slightly before he spoke. The former constable had been in a liquid state for so long that being a humanoid for the past few days felt strange. “Doctor, are you saying that after everything we went through to get here undetected, we have to let them . . . carry out their plans?”

“Whatever they’re planning, they’re going to have to drop the field to do it.” Bashir realized how empty the words sounded. He had lost thirty-two people when the bomb exploded on the Promenade. Constable McCray’s blood was still on his uniform. After seventy-eight hours without sleep, he could do without the Changeling’s signature pessimism. “Once that happens, we can beam them up in seconds.”

Kira glanced at the semicircle of figures around Kasidy and Jonathan. Even now she believed the Prophets watched over the Emissary in the Celestial Temple. She prayed Their benevolence extended to his family.

The spotlight in Kasidy Sisko’s face seemed more like a veil of light, its glare shrouding the figures that surrounded her. One of them stepped forward, the form breaching the wall of light, to reveal a young man. His crinkled nose and robes indicated that he was Bajoran—a people of peace and religion, but the hatred in his eyes belied his smile. Slowly, he reached toward Kasidy’s ear. The isolation field shimmered in contradiction as it allowed his hand to pierce its confines but prevented her from moving. “Your pagh is strong,” he whispered.

Kasidy stared defiantly into his eyes, hoping to match the evil there with strength. “Why are you doing this?”

The acolyte withdrew his hand and crouched down, studying the little boy that slept drugged at his mother’s feet. “The family of the Emissary deserves to feel the love of the Pah-wraiths.” As he rose, he pulled the crimson robes in around him, as if doing so gave him comfort.

Kasidy closed her eyes and focused not on the monster standing over her son, but on Jonathan’s father, the only person she ever truly needed. “Ben, our son needs you, please Ben . . . ” He’d spoken to her once before from the wormhole; now she desperately needed to reach him.

The acolyte circled the isolation field. “The Emissary has forsaken you.” Leisurely, he allowed his robes to drag across the circular pattern of runes etched into the floor. He removed a knife from his robes and sliced his hand open. “He doesn’t love you.” The blood burned as it fell upon the runes. Slowly, almost teasingly, flames crept up to consume the acolyte’s robes. He ignored them. They burned away his robes while leaving him unscathed; the disciple smiled. “He communes with false gods.”

Finally, he stood in front of his prey covered only in hundreds of ancient Bajoran runes that had been tattooed onto his skin. The young agent of evil outstretched his hands as if receiving an anointment from some unseen force, and the runes began to glow.

For the first time in her life, Kasidy Yates-Sisko truly knew fear. The acolyte smiled as he watched the turmoil play across her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. From beyond the light, a woman holding the Orb ark came into view. “It won’t be long now.”

The Defiant shuddered as the illusion of light and energy surrounding it dissipated into nonexistence.

“Cloak is down, the platforms are firing.” A spread of torpedoes reiterated Ezri’s words.

O’Brien kept the transporters on standby and pulled power from the warp engines to feed the structural integrity field. Nog hadn’t given the order to raise the shields; there were five reasons on the asteroid below why he wouldn’t. The groans from the ablative armor and resulting microfractures told the chief what he already knew. If the away team didn’t do what they needed to soon, there wasn’t going to be a ship to beam them up to.

The acolyte chanted as the runes lifted off of his body and encircled the group in a maelstrom of malevolence. “Kosst Amojan, we who believe offer the lives of your enemy to you; come forth and light our way with your love.”

Kira watched the runes swirl around the isolation field in rhythm to the invocation. She could feel evil seething in the shadows; the risks no longer mattered. She reached for her phaser, but nothing happened. Odo and Bashir were motionless as well. They all came to the same realization: they couldn’t move.

The acolyte smiled as he turned to look at Kira. “You’re too late.”

Abruptly, the Orb ark opened of its own volition, and dark energy ripped out of the obsidian hourglass and into Jonathan Sisko. Flames erupted from the boy’s eyes and mouth and engulfed the acolyte, the cult of the Pah-wraiths, Odo, Bashir, and finally Kasidy Yates-Sisko, just as she realized in horror what her son had become. As a figure emerged unscathed from the flames, the world around Kira Nerys took on a familiar hue of blue, but not before a single word escaped her lips. “Dukat.”

March 3, 1959

Doctor Nia Manning smiled as she looked up from the handwritten pages of Deep Space 9: Epilogue. “You’ve been writing your Star Trek stories for a long time, Benny, your refusal to stop is what keeps you committed.” Her patient had come a long way from the shell condemned to solitary confinement for assaulting Doctor Wykoff. “But this is the first time you’ve gone back to a Deep Space 9 story in five years. Why now?”

Benny Russell thought about the question. He remembered Roy Ritterhouse giving him the drawing of a space station in the Incredible Tales office. When he sat down at his typewriter in front of the blank page, that simple sketch dared him to reach for more than he ever thought possible.

Now, whenever he looked at a blank page, he didn’t see its clean, white background and crisp blue lines, but darkness—the darkness that devoured his life because he chose his stories over love, the darkness his people endured for being born brown in a white world, and the darkness of space. He no longer saw the points of light that filled so many of his stories with wonder, but the empty spaces between them. Now, he wanted to fill those spaces with his anger, his hatred, and his depression. He wanted to be free—free of this place, free of his sadness, and free of his stories.

“Deep Space 9 was where this started,” he said. “It’s where it should end.”

Doctor Manning made some notes in her pad before continuing. She leaned forward, changing to the warm tone of a confidante and friend. “Let’s talk about what brought this change on.”

Russell looked at the doctor who had become his savior and friend. He had no doubts whom she was talking about, but he found it hard to look at Doctor Manning when he spoke again. “When Cassie told me she was marrying Willie Hawkins, I felt betrayed, abandoned.” He remembered something he’d written a long time ago and hid a frown. “The reality is that she’s moved on, and I’ve existed by escaping into my stories, telling myself nothing else mattered. But it’s not enough to just exist . . . it’s not linear.” A long moment passed as Russell reflected on his own words.

Manning finally broke the silence. She returned the handwritten pages. “You’ve done something few writers ever accomplish, Benny. The exploits of Sisko, Kirk, Picard, Janeway, and Archer are all compelling, thought-provoking stories in a vast universe.” She calmly crossed her legs before speaking again. “But you’re right. It’s not linear. It’s an obsession. You’ve been writing about the future for six years while spending your life here.” It had taken so long to get him here, but she knew the answer didn’t lie in painting over his words or in preventing him to write. “Those years are gone, Benny. Cassie’s gone. It’s time that you put all your pain and suffering into this last story, end Star Trek, and take your life back.”

She smiled at him from behind glasses that concealed the warmth of her hazel eyes. It wasn’t the first time Russell wondered if there was more meaning in those eyes than she dare say as she helped him find his way out of the darkness.

The Defiant listed to its side like a wounded beast. Explosions ripped apart the bridge. Kira’s order was full of pain and grief. “Chief, get us out of here.”

O’Brien turned, wisps of smoke rising off the charred flesh of his face. “Her pagh is strong. She will serve us well.”

The captain looked around the bridge. Defiant’s crew was all burned badly, yet smiling at her. Prophets? It didn’t feel like an Orb experience. This felt . . . real.

“Hello, Nerys.” The voice thundered, yet it was soft, like a caress. It disgusted her. Turning toward the command chair, the image of Odo being engulfed in flames tormented her. Before she even realized it, her phaser was pointed at Dukat.

The Cardassian seemed amused. “Come now, Nerys, you know such toys are meaningless here.”

Kira gripped the phaser as if it was the last remnant of her sanity, the only way for her to hold back the tears. “What is this?”

“This?” Dukat rose from the center seat, tendrils of flame emanating from his eyes. “This is the final chapter. This is an inevitability, and I have been chosen as its”—Dukat paused, smiling as he stood a lover’s distance from Kira—“Emissary.”

The woman who had spent a lifetime resisting stood her ground, refusing to show weakness before this devil, who had already taken so much from her and Bajor. “The Prophets will stop you.”

The flames from his eyes seemed to intensify as he stood there watching her, casting an unnatural illumination upon the ridges that adorned his face and neck, their heat emanating utter evil. Dukat laughed as he walked toward the false Defiant’s viewscreen.

The bridge crew Pah-wraiths stood aside with a reverence that shocked Kira. The plasma storms filled the electronic display, and, at its center, Deep Space 9 sat untouched.

The former gul smiled while watching the plasma storms surrounding Deep Space 9 on the display. “Nerys, what are the three keys to enlightenment?”

“You can’t possibly know.” It nauseated Kira to hear Bajoran scripture come from this butcher of millions; he knew nothing of charity, humility, and faith.

Dukat stared, transfixed by the streams of plasma as they danced wildly around the lone space station. “On the contrary, my communion with the Pah-wraiths has enlightened me.” He raised his hand in front of the viewer, gesturing as if he were following a concerto. As he did so, the strands of energy followed his tempo. Suddenly, Dukat closed his hand into a fist, and plasma streams tore into Deep Space 9, shattering the space station as if it were a fragile toy.

The once prefect of Bajor smiled. “It’s a vision that I’m going to share with the universe.” Suddenly Dukat was behind her, whispering into her ear. “However, the fate of Bajor is in your hands, as it was always meant to be.”

“Captain?” Nog resisted the urge to wave his hand in front of his superior officer’s face.

Dax decided to use a tricorder instead. “Kira, can you hear us?”

Startled by the close proximity of the tricorder, Kira stepped back. She surveyed her surroundings and realized that she was on the real Defiant. “Report.”

O’Brien, without looking away from the busy engineering station, said, “Ablative armor is gone, life-support on decks three and four has failed. Emergency force fields are holding.” Finally, the chief turned around to make sure his point was made. “She’s holding together, but not by much. sir.”

Having lobes like his, Nog had learned to listen to everything everyone said, especially when they were quiet. “Sir, our scans showed some kind of massive explosion, and then the platforms stopped firing as soon as we beamed you aboard. What happened down there?”

Ezri could feel Jadzia’s bravado pushing to the surface as she feigned a smile. “It seems like the Prophets were charitable today.”

Garak stood to the side, watching everyone. “That remains to be seen,” he said. Much like a Cardassian trial, he feared he’d known the outcome of this endeavor from the moment Captain Kira had contacted him two days ago. The fact that any of the away team had made it back from the asteroid death trap was sheer luck—or something more sinister. “Might I inquire as to the status of the constable, the doctor, and the Siskos?”

Kira sat in the command chair, pushing away the images of the all-consuming flames that threatened to turn her heart to ashes. She could feel Dukat’s whispers preying upon her soul. “We’ve got to get back to DS9.”

March 4, 1959

Doctor Wykoff handed the report back to his colleague, not bothering to conceal the skepticism in his voice. “I don’t believe it.”

Doctor Manning smiled as she walked down the hallway beside the Queens Borough Mental Institution’s new chief of staff. His premature gray revealed what he’d gone through for the position. “Nevertheless, Benny is completing his last Sisko story.”

Doctor Wykoff stopped just short of entering the recreation room; it was a common tactic among the staff to allow them to see without being seen. Searching the occupied room, he spotted a lone figure sitting by the window, writing in the midmorning sun. “He still has very little voluntary interaction with anyone. It concerns me he’s become so introverted since he’s been here.”

“It’s not a psychosis, it’s a choice.” Doctor Manning watched Russell as he wrote. Even in the confines of this place it was clear to her the former author was in his element. She wondered what stories he would’ve written if he were at home or with his friends at the Incredible Tales magazine. “Besides, with his history, I can’t say I blame him.”

Wykoff stopped watching Russell and turned to Doctor Manning. After the solitary confinement, he had wanted to ship Russell off to prison for assaulting him. But it was Doctor Manning that came in and convinced him that the path to Benny Russell’s sanity wasn’t to cast him out, but to see this through.

For some time, he suspected that there must be some sort of impropriety going on between doctor and patient. But if there was, he and his staff hadn’t been able to discover it. “You’re very protective of him, aren’t you, Doctor Manning?”

Manning thought about the implication of the question and decided the only way to answer it was honestly. “I’ve been treating Benny almost since I arrived here. I’ve come to understand him. With what he’s been through, the scope of his stories, he’s very special.”

Wykoff realized his colleague answered the duplicitous question and yet didn’t. He couldn’t blame her. Regardless of that, he’d come to see what she’d said was true. Putting him in prison certainly wouldn’t have cured Russell of his inability to live life instead of obsessively writing stories, no matter how positive they may be.

Now they were on the cusp of making this man whole again. “I can’t argue that. All right, Doctor, your request is approved.”

Benjamin Sisko stumbled as he moved through the debris. The ship was unsteady, dying. There wasn’t much time. He had to find them. Again.

Just beyond the transparent aluminum port, he watched the wormhole spiral open in a cascade of color and light. A moment later, flames erupted from the wormhole, enveloping space as far as he could see.

What the hell was going on? It didn’t matter. He had to find them.

“Jennifer?!” he called out, desperate. He could barely hear himself over the red alert klaxon and the ship’s internal explosions.

Please God, let them be here.

There was so much smoke, but in the shadows, his eyes caught the shape of a form that could only be one thing. “Jake!”

“Warning! Damage to warp core.” The computer taunted him, reminding him that inevitability was approaching. “Containment failure in three minutes.”

Sisko removed the debris. The boy wasn’t Jake, but this was his son. Somehow he knew it, knew the boy’s name. Jonathan.

What was happening? What were the Prophets trying to tell him? It didn’t matter—there wasn’t much time.

“I’m gonna get your mom. You’re gonna be okay.” Panic of the past gripped Sisko as he reached for the girder pinning the woman to the floor. “Jennifer.” Please, not again. No, not Jennifer, but his wife, Kasidy, entombed in mangled duranium. “Okay, Jonathan, we’ll get your mom out, and we’ll get out of here.”

The father and husband wrapped his hands around the girder and pulled with all his love, just as before. Why were the Prophets doing this? Where was Sarah?

A familiar voice called out to him from the darkness. “Benjamin.”

Was it the Prophets? Was this real? Had the Borg attacked again and the Prophets sent him to save his family?

“Help me!” he screamed.

The figure walked around the debris and crouched down beside Kasidy. “She’s dead, Benjamin. I burned her in the love of the Pah-wraiths, and Jonathan belongs to me now—there’s nothing you can do.”

Sisko fell back, recognizing the man with whom he had descended into hell. Stunned, he looked around the destroyed room. “What is this? What are you doing here?”

The Cardassian smiled as he read the concern on the human’s face. “Don’t you recognize your Celestial Temple? I assure you, Captain, the Prophets will not come to your aid this time. It’s just the two of us, as it was always meant to be.”

The ship rocked as the past continued to play out. Determination overrode fear as Benjamin Sisko turned his attention to Dukat, refusing to allow the image of Kasidy’s body to overwhelm him.

“I don’t know how you got out.” Sisko stepped up to Dukat, unwavering as he got into the Cardassian’s face. “But you’re going back.”

The remark was audacious. It angered Dukat, even now that he’d attained godhood—Sisko still felt like his equal. He was going to have to change that. “The Sisko is aggressive, adversarial. Is that any way to treat me . . . Father?”

Somehow Sisko knew it was true. As he reached for Dukat, knowing he had to find a way to undo what Dukat had done to his family, to the Prophets, to the universe. Instead, he found himself standing back at the burned door to his quarters, with Dukat next to him. “The Sisko is corporeal, linear. He still doesn’t understand what he is.”

Dukat chuckled. “The Sisko has come to the beginning of his end . . . there will be no more tasks.”

For a moment Dukat’s appearance faded to reveal the visage of a young man in agony. He was the same height as Benjamin, and as soon as Sisko looked into his eyes he knew who it was. “Jonathan.”

Almost immediately the shell of Dukat resurfaced and the Cardassian smiled. “For so long, the Pah-wraiths wanted to reclaim their place in the Celestial Temple, until I convinced them how fitting it would be to leave the false gods and you here. Suffering and imprisoned for all eternity while we set the universe aflame. Good-bye . . . Emissary.”

Benjamin Sisko screamed as the past began to replay and he watched himself once again stumble through the debris looking for his wife and son. It had taken him years to let go of this place, but now—and perhaps for all eternity—this is where Benjamin Sisko would exist.

March 24, 1959

Russell leaned hard on the cane that supported him, but it gave him no comfort. “I want to thank you again for this, Doctor Manning.”

The trees and cast-iron fences around the Queens Borough Mental Institution weren’t much to look at, but it didn’t matter. He was outside for the first time in years. Across the street, cars moved up and down the avenue, people walked by, and in the distance he could hear a dog barking. The air was sharp and crisp. It was spring, and New York was coming alive.

Benny Russell felt the same way. “I owe you so much.” Doctor Manning tilted her head away from him, but he glimpsed a smile.

Manning stopped in front of an oak; its new leaves were beginning to blossom. “I’m pleased Doctor Wykoff approved this. I know you’ve endured a lot.” She thought about the beatings Russell suffered for being outspoken and black, the cane that was a constant reminder of his injuries. It was no wonder he had a breakdown, no surprise that he retreated into his stories. To make matters worse, the isolation he’d endured here was a mistake. The savages here had always given Benny Russell the stick and never considered the carrot.

“But all that’s over now.” The doctor put a reassuring hand on Russell’s arm. “From now on, you’ll be able to take walks outside every week.” Manning looked up into his eyes. “You’re not alone—we’re going to get you out of here.”

Russell took a long look at the world beyond the gates of the mental institution that had been his prison for six years. Life was beckoning to him. All he had to do was turn his back on the universe he created.

Kira Nerys studied the man that filled the iris of the main viewscreen.

He was being stalked by exhaustion, and the countenance that always projected strength now seemed diminished under the horrors of the last six days. She understood how he felt.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard feigned the semblance of a smile as he rose from his command chair.

“What’s your status, Captain?”

“It’s bad, Captain. We’re over capacity by two thousand people.” Kira Nerys could barely hear Picard over the cacophony of voices. The space station’s operations center had become a glorified Tower of Babel. Every major power in two quadrants had someone at a communications station desperately trying to manage the influx of people and ships in and around the refugee center formerly called Deep Space 9. “More than half a million ships are filling the five light-years between Bajor, DS9, and Cardassia, and more are coming in every hour. This is the only area of space, anywhere, not affected by the plasma storms.”

The scientists had no explanation for why the space around Bajor and Cardassia had become the untouched eye of the plasma storm that was spreading throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Kira could think of only one reason: charity.

“Messages to the Gamma and Delta Quadrants continue to go unanswered,” she said.

The plasma storms were flowing through the Celestial Temple into the Gamma Quadrant unchallenged by the Prophets. People were rioting in the streets of Bajor. They believed that their gods had forsaken them.

Kira was starting to believe they were right. The Federation used its technology and weapons to heal the scars of the Occupation and defend Bajor. She prayed Federation technology would end this nightmare. But she’d read the reports; only the most powerful ships could maintain a warp field for a short time inside the storms, but they were also the most vulnerable. The Department of Temporal Investigations had released the Voyager’s armor specifications and Starfleet had begun refitting, but even the few ships with the shields were at risk. Communication was haphazard, and trade and exploration had stopped. The Federation was unraveling. “Will this work?”

The starship captain’s eyes reflected what the entire Alpha Quadrant already knew.

“It has to,” he said. “Picard out.”

The Enterprise’s viewscreen switched to the sickening view of the plasma storms. It had been weeks since anyone had seen stars. As he watched the blue-white lights rush toward the wall of flame, Picard prayed they would extinguish the tribulation that had fallen upon them all.

“Report,” Picard ordered.

“All Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan ships report successful synchronization. One thousand, three hundred and four trilithium torpedoes have been launched into the plasma storm. Detonation in twelve seconds.” Worf, working double duty as first officer and tactical specialist, had spent many hours patrolling the plasma storms of the Badlands—he’d even been lost in them—but this was different. Planets were in flames, and the very stars themselves had been engulfed in plasma. This was evil.

Geordi La Forge was smiling as he read the telemetry from the torpedoes. “Transpectral sensors are online.” A lot of people were saying this was the apocalypse, just like they’d said during the first total eclipse or the first recorded star going nova. It didn’t matter to the chief engineer if the storms were evil or an anomaly of nature. The only thing that mattered was the science, and when that much trilithium hit plasma, the storm in this sector would simply cease to exist. “Shield generators are at one hundred thirty percent optimum capacity. Six seconds to detonation.”

Worf watched the torpedoes disappear into the breach of flame like Klingon warriors marching into Gre’thor to do battle with Fek’lhr himself. “Detonation in three seconds . . . two . . . one.”

All eyes turned to the viewscreen, but nothing happened.

“Captain, I’m no longer receiving telemetry from the torpedoes.” La Forge sounded shaken, unsure. “But the storm density in this sector has increased by more than thirty—”

Without warning, tentacles of flame reached out and curled around the starships that represented the last hope for the Alpha Quadrant. Shields flickered, then collapsed like cracking eggshells as superheated plasma tore through them in the cold of space, shattering the hulls of the Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan armada. Lights went dark throughout the vessels, followed by the telltale puffs of venting atmosphere from hull breaches and then the twisting and turning abstract specs that could be only one thing: bodies.

Picard reacted immediately. “Deploy armor!”

As the steel-gray skin covered the Sovereign-class starship, warp cores were breached on the crippled ships. A squadron of Romulan warbirds tried in vain to back off but were caught in the chaos, with each explosion of energy marking an extinguishment of life. A wing of Klingon battlecruisers broke formation, veering off wildly to avoid the deadly debris and shockwaves.

Picard realized these were no random energy surges. They were precise, malevolent, and—from their pattern—the Enterprise was next. “Drop shields! Helm, take us on a parabolic heading toward the debris. Lock on to any life signs in range and beam them aboard!”

As the Enterprise began its arc, streams of superheated plasma tore into the mighty vessel. A growl slipped from the Klingon when the console next to him exploded. Ignoring the metal shard in his side, he wiped the pale purple blood from his station. “Armor is holding. Multiple signatures being beamed aboard.”

Dozens of tendrils concentrated on the Enterprise, their numbers increasing as the ship’s defenses withstood their onslaught. Antimatter leaked out of the port nacelle like blood from a wound as the mighty starship moved even faster through the graveyard.

Picard knew there wasn’t much time left. “Mister La Forge, prepare for warp speed!”

La Forge didn’t have time to answer Picard. Systems were failing faster than the chief engineer could reroute them. Duranium girders groaned, protesting the insanity of a ship designed for space doing battle in a sea of flames.

The Enterprise was in trouble.

“Five hundred seventy-two life signs aboard.” Worf’s voice tightened as he fought to keep his balance amidst the conflict between twenty-fourth-century technology and the anger of the storm. “The debris field is clear.”

The starship captain could feel the predator bearing down on his ship. “Picard to all ships: Fall back to DS 9. Helm, maximum warp!”

Kira watched the viewscreen go dark as the Enterprise and the few remaining ships escaped.

A voice echoed throughout Deep Space 9. “What are the three keys to enlightenment, Nerys?”

Ops fell silent as all eyes turned to the top of the stairs in front of Kira’s office. Dukat walked out from a pyre of flame. Kira was ready. “Computer, run program Kira omega!”

The chroniton force field surrounded Dukat, but the Cardassian stepped through it, unconcerned. “Am I not a merciful God? Have I not shown charity? Bajor remains untouched by my hand, a gift of my love to you.”

Dukat slowly descended the stairs toward Kira. “Has not the mighty Federation been humbled before my power? Does not the entire universe now know humility before the majesty of the Pah-wraiths?”

Two Bajoran officers fired their phasers directly at Dukat. He glanced at them, and they disintegrated into ash. “Have I not shown you that all these years your faith has been misplaced in false gods?”

Kira could no longer hold back the tears as the demon approached her.

Dukat smiled. “Open yourself to me, to your destiny, Nerys. Take your rightful place at my side, and we will rule the universe from our throne here on Terok Nor.” Dukat outstretched his hand. “Join me in the fire of enlightenment, Nerys, or burn with them in the fury of my power.”

Kira Nerys looked at the outstretched hand and knew that the fate of Bajor and the universe rested on what she did next.

April 9, 1959

Lester Johnson was speechless.

The janitor had been sneaking into Benny Russell’s room for the past three years to read his stories. This was the first time one of the stories upset him.

“I don’t understand, Benny,” Johnson said, shaking his head. “This here story, this ain’t like you.”

The author looked at his friend. Other than Manning, Johnson was the only person he could talk to. The older man’s dark skin hid his age well, but his eyes showed each and every hard lesson life had dealt him. Johnson meant well, but there was no way the man could relate to what he was going through.

“Lester, I’m in here because I couldn’t stop writing, because I felt I had to tell these stories. But tell them to whom? You and Doctor Manning are the only people to have read my stories in years. I’ve been writing all this time and for what?” Benny Russell looked around the room at the boxes that bore the names of starship captains on them. Six years of dreams were in those boxes, six years of writing about others’ lives while he spent his in a psychiatric institution. “For nothing.”

Johnson understood the pain in Russell’s voice. He knew what the young man had been through—being pushed down for speaking up, with the occasional beating included just because.

Johnson had started a family late in life, which meant he had to work two jobs with his head down and mouth shut. No matter what was said to him, he took it so he could put food on the table and a roof over his family. His wife never spoke about it, but he knew she could see it was more than just a hard day’s work that made him so tired when he got home. He could feel it in the way she massaged his shoulders and always had dinner ready.

Although he’d never said it, Johnson was proud of Russell. It was like something inside the young man had never learned to keep his head down and mouth shut. Through it all, Russell just kept writing and fighting for his release. On visiting day, his friend seemed almost free, rejuvenated every time that Cassie walked through the door. But now she was gone, taking his smiles with her. Johnson was no doctor, but he knew that would be enough to break anyone.

As the janitor stared at the pages filled with pain and anger, he knew he needed to reach out to his friend, help him, but he didn’t know how. He wasn’t like Russell. He didn’t have the words. Hell, he’d never even finished high school. But maybe there was something he could say to the young man.

“I never told you this,” Johnson said, “but I been telling my kids your stories.”

He thought about his two boys and precious girl, wide-eyed and taking in every word that came out of his mouth, and smiled. “Man, you should see their faces when I tell them about starships and all them worlds. They raise their hands, asking questions like they in school. I’m telling you, they can’t get enough; they know the names and places better than me.”

Pride in Russell and his children washed over Johnson as he continued. “But it’s more than that. When I talk about your Captain Sisko and his son, or Geordi, or that Lieutenant Uhura, they see themselves. Your stories tell them that they can be somebody.”

Russell stared at Johnson in disbelief. Could this be true? The janitor always looked forward to every twist and turn in the stories that filled the boxes around them. Like Russell, they too were imprisoned, but Johnson had freed them, taken them out into the world Russell yearned to rejoin. His friend had breathed life into them through his children. The story now lived within them.

Johnson interrupted his reflective moment as he returned the handwritten pages. “Son, don’t you get what’s going on out there?”

Russell could feel the pain and anguish in his friend’s voice. “You got people fighting and being beaten . . . dying for the right to be human. Churches being burned, children are being murdered—children no older than mine.” Johnson tapped on the pages with his thick fingers. “And here you is, writing about a future where black, white, red, yellow—it don’t matter, we just people. My babies now dream of a time when the color of a man’s skin don’t mean he’s less than anyone. This here Star Trek that you writing ain’t no science fiction, son. What you’re writing is . . . hope.” Johnson’s voice broke. “You can’t destroy that.”

“What do you mean you’re changing the ending?” Russell heard the frustration in Doctor Manning’s voice. He leaned forward in the worn leather chair across from her. Her office always relaxed him. Here he felt as if he could talk to her without the institution’s eyes upon him.

It was crucial to him that she understood his decision. “You’ve helped me see that focusing solely on my stories was a mistake. I’m not retreating into them again.” Russell stared deeply into the doctor’s eyes, hoping she could feel what he dare not say until he was free of this place. “I want to—need to—get out of here and start living.”

For the first time ever, Nia Manning broke eye contact with Russell as she spoke in a tone filled with an emotion he’d felt from her but never heard in her voice before.

“If that’s true, Benny, then please, explain to me why you’re doing this now, when we’re so close.”

Russell exhaled, and in doing so realized he’d finally let go of a burden he’d been carrying for far too long. “Life is about joy and pain, happiness and despair. Taking all my anguish about Cassie leaving, about this place, and pouring it into Epilogue won’t ever truly set me free. But accepting it, learning from it, moving beyond it, will.”

He smiled—more to himself than his doctor. “My stories have always been about overcoming the darkness in the world around us and in ourselves. I don’t have to destroy that message so that I can live.”

Russell thought about the possibility of one day getting his stories published. When that day came, he wanted it all to be for something.

“I’m not sure how I’m going to end Epilogue, but I refuse to live any longer in darkness—and I won’t leave those characters like that either.”

For a long time, doctor and patient sat in silence. Manning studied her patient for what felt like an eternity before she finally spoke. “Perhaps your characters don’t need you anymore. Perhaps you’ve outlived your usefulness.”

“Excuse me?” Of all the things Russell expected to hear, this certainly wasn’t on the list. I-I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

The doctor sighed and spoke as if to a child. “Try to follow along. When you wrote Tears of the Prophets, the Pah-wraiths possessed the Orbs of Time and Wisdom among others. Did you ever stop to think what they did with that access?”

Russell shifted uncomfortably. Was she still trying to change his mind? He found himself trying to understand and answer the question at the same time. “What they did? Th-They’re characters . . . I don’t know—it served the story, moved it forward.”

Doctor Manning smirked as she removed her glasses. “Let me tell you a story, Benny.” She stood, turning her back to her patient as she moved toward the gated window in her office. “You’ll like it. It’s a story about the power of the written word. A species that existed outside of space and time discovered that members of their kind had influence over their future through their writings. What they wrote became so.”

The afternoon sun delivered an uncommon April heat despite the ceiling fan that struggled in Manning’s office.

Manning stood in front of the window as she spoke, allowing the sun to bathe her in its warmth. “These few strove for peace and harmony, but others feared this power. They were hunted almost to extinction.”

Manning noticed a group of ants, moving to and fro along the windowsill with purpose, yet oblivious to the larger world in which they existed.

“The few survivors saved themselves by escaping to the one place their enemies could not follow,” she said, not taking her eyes from the ants. “They fled into their own written word. They wrote themselves into a new plane of existence where space and time existed in a multiverse of universes.”

The doctor turned and smiled at Russell, but he noted that the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. “I must be dreaming.”

Doctor Manning laughed. “You are more right than you know; the dreamers dreamt and it became so.” Slowly, almost seductively, the doctor walked along the wall where her degrees hung, admiring each. “But once in this new multiverse, they forgot who and what they were. The creators lost themselves in their creation. They went on to fall in love, raise families, start and end wars, but what endured with all of them was their passion to write. So they continued to imagine and to write and, of course, because they wrote it, it became so.”

Doctor Manning stopped at the globe on her desk across from Russell, offhandedly spinning the blue sphere before speaking once again.

“Eventually, their writings became history, and from history stemmed religion and from religion, fiction.” Manning moved to lean on the front of the desk, shifting toward Russell, moving into his personal space. “Now, of course, they’re long gone, having forgotten their own immortality, but every so often in this universe a member of their lineage becomes a writer and dreams, and because he writes it, it becomes so.”

Russell didn’t understand why his doctor, his friend, was doing this to him. This wasn’t a dream . . . it was a nightmare. “What are you saying?

Manning snapped back: “You’re a scribe, aren’t you? You’ve told me often enough how alive these characters feel to you.”

Russell shook his head in denial. He’d never told anyone about his experience in the ambulance with the priest. He’d almost convinced himself it never happened—until now. “Nia . . . Doctor Manning, I only said that because it’s all so vivid to me, but as passionate as I’ve been about my stories I know they are fiction. The Pah-wraiths aren’t real.” He shrugged. “They’re just characters.”

“Actually we prefer Kosst Amojan.” Doctor Manning smiled the smile Russell had seen a thousand times before, the smile she had rehearsed so well. “Pah-wraith sounds so . . . evil.”

The author could feel the walls of reality crumbling around him. “This isn’t . . . possible, what you’re saying is . . . insane.”

The doctor returned behind her desk, no longer concealing the contempt in her voice. “How pathetic. Prometheus’s small mind can’t accept the scope of his gift.” She pushed a hidden button under her desk. “We should actually thank you, because of you we became aware of the true order of things. Because of you we were able to travel to this time and possess Doctor Manning. Because of you, the future is now ours.”

Russell struggled to hold on to some remnant of sanity. “But I’ve written about the past and the future—how?”

Ignoring the obtuse perspective of the question, the Pah-wraith allowed her hate to flow. “You dare create gods and then imprison us. Now we return the gesture.”

On cue, orderlies brandishing nightsticks rushed into the office. “Doctor Manning” performed masterfully, tears streaming down her cheek. “Put him back in isolation. Take away anything he can use to write with. There’s nothing more I can do for him.” She wept. “He’s insane.”

Nurse Richards smiled while massaging his knuckles. They ached, but damn if it didn’t feel good to get reacquainted with Russell’s face. “That bitch upstairs done cut you loose now, boy, you back where you belong.” Richards smiled as he thrust the nightstick back into the leather holster on his belt.

He wished he would’ve gotten the idea to smash the boy’s face against the men’s room mirrors when he started instead of at the end. Didn’t matter none now. The Negro janitor would be blamed for the bloodied and broken mirrors, and it would come out of that coon’s pay.

“What’s a-matter, boy?” Russell’s silence bothered Richards; even after breaking both his hands the boy barely cried out. “I thought you a writer? Where’s all them fancy words now?” Russell looked like he was someplace far away; he’d have to work on that. “You know, boy, I can think of a word to describe you, and it sure as hell ain’t writer. Welcome back to isolation ward four.”

The hall echoed with Richards’s laughter as he locked the padded cell.

Benny Russell stared at his hands—hands that had caressed Cassie’s beautiful face, that were the instruments of his imagination, that had created worlds far beyond the stars. Yet so much had slipped through them. Could it really be true? Could what he created—those people and places—truly exist in the future? If they did, then he had condemned them, condemned . . . everything to an existence of eternal damnation.

A dim ray of light reflected from the shards embedded in his broken hands. He couldn’t let anything else slip through his fingers. Hope was still in his hands. Slowly, painfully, he realized what he had to do.

The flames rushed across the pages like a beast starved for the words that would feed its madness. The Pah-wraith watched in silent rapture as the boxes that contained the future relented against the onslaught of heat and dissipated into ash. The gesture had no impact upon the already written history, but it was a powerful precursor. Soon, in the twenty-fourth century, the same would be said for every planet, every ship, and every soul in the universe, consumed in the flames of the Kosst Amojan for all eternity.

The Pah-wraith smiled and an instant later appeared inside the darkened isolation cell of her creator, her prisoner. He looked much like the way she’d found him all those years ago: huddled in a corner, his back to her, unaware of her presence. As she watched from the darkness, she realized that he was doing something.

He was writing.

Quickly the Pah-wraith raised her hand to do what she’d come for, increase the temperature in his brain, leaving him a vegetable for the remainder of his life.

Suddenly, a column of energy slammed into the Pah-wraith, forcing her through the pads on the wall and into concrete.

“Get away from him!” Ben Sisko looked down at his hands, unsure of what he had done or the nature of the cerulean energy emanating from them. Then, as if looking for answers, he walked over to the man in the corner who was writing on the floor, a man he knew but had never met: Benny Russell.

The Pah-wraith stared up from the rubble, enraged. “The Sisko—no matter, dreamer and dream will die at the hands of the Kosst Amojan.” The Pah-wraith stood, unleashing a firestorm around her, incinerating, consuming, and obliterating everything except for the small corner where Benjamin Sisko stood in front of the man who continued to write, oblivious to the battle that waged around him, because of him.

Sisko watched the flames tear apart the room. Concrete became ash, steel liquefied, yet he felt no heat, heard no sound save the steady and rhythmic beating of his own heart. The enraged Kosst Amojan was screaming at him. Flames shot from her hands and eyes as she attempted to destroy him. He pitied her.

“Enough.” The Emissary of the Prophets raised his hand and the firestorm and Pah-wraith stilled, frozen in a chronon of his creation. Sisko walked through the suspended inferno. “I finally understand what I am, I understand . . . everything.” He looked into the hate-filled eyes of the possessed woman. “This isn’t your fight.”

Sisko touched her, releasing a finite amount of anti-time, and she disappeared, receding to the period before the Pah-wraith possessed her. In her stead was a writhing form of energy.

“I understand now why the Prophets never destroyed you—how could they destroy their children?!” Sisko felt its hatred and the inferno slowly recede as he absorbed the mass of energy into himself.

A faint voice called to Sisko from the corner, calling his name, “Ben.” The Starfleet officer rushed over.

Benny Russell looked up into the face that was so like his own, the face that had lived the life he had dreamed of, a life of prosperity instead of prejudice, hope instead of hatred. “I had to know for sure. You . . . exist—the future I created . . . it’s real.”

“Yes, it’s real.” Benjamin Lafayette Sisko looked down at a face so much like his own, yet unlike his, which wore the ravages of racism, bigotry, and segregation. “It exists.”

Russell had so much he wanted to say, but there was no time. Instead, he held Sisko’s hand and smiled as he spoke his final words. “When I made you the Emissary, I always thought it was of Bajor. But I was wrong. Now I see who you were truly meant to be the emissary of—”

Gently, as if placing a baby to sleep, Ben Sisko laid Benny Russell’s head to rest. Next to the body were strewn passages written in the only thing the author had to write with: his own life, his blood. The last section caught Sisko’s attention.

Enlightened to the timeless power that had been passed to him, Jake Sisko absentmindedly ran his fingers along the stitching of the weathered baseball as he stared at the blank page. Finally, he used the antiquated ink pen to write the words:

Past Prologue: The Dreamer and the Dream

By

Jake Sisko

As the light from the setting sun washed over the house that he’d built with his own hands in Kendra Province, Jake thought about the title and how much the words meant to the people on Deep Space 9 and in every corner of the universe. He thought about how much the words meant to his family and how he thought he’d never write again.

Then the final words he had been searching for came to him: “I dedicate this novel to my father, who’s coming home.”

The figure behind Jake Sisko treaded lightly as he approached. The writer smiled to himself as he depressed the button on the ancient ink pen that bore the inscription: INCREDIBLE TALES 740 BROADWAY.

“I can hear you, Jonathan.”

The seven-year-old giggled at being discovered, then rushed up alongside his big brother. “Grandpa says dinner is ready and Mister Odo is arguing with Uncle Quark for trying to sell root beers from the fridge again.” The little boy stood on his toes as he tried to look over his brother’s shoulder. “Mom says not to bother you when you’re in here, but you’ve been in here forever! Is it finished yet? You promised you would read it to me first. What’s it about?”

Jake placed the cover page with the rest of the completed manuscript and turned to look at his brother. The ancient Bajoran rune on his face that rejected dermal regeneration was barely visible now, a whisper of what once was. It made him smile.

“It’s about the future.”

STAR TREK:

VOYAGER®

THE LAST REFUGE

Roger McCoy

THE ORCHID IN THE VASE at the edge of the bed was dying. Still, against all odds, it had managed to outlive its owner.

Tuvok could not deny that he felt a connection with orchids. They had played a large role in his life, ranging from his own prize-winning orchid breeding many years ago to the unlikely but temporary merging of himself and Neelix due to an accident involving a symbiogenetic orchid and a transporter. But these orchids held special meaning to Tuvok: The late Lon Suder, with whom he had spent so many hours working, had grown this crossbreed from various orchids Voyager had encountered on her journey through the Delta Quadrant. More than that, he had proposed to name it the Tuvok orchid.

While the orchid was struggling, it was a miracle it was still alive at all. Tuvok and most of the crew of Voyager had spent weeks exiled to Hanon IV during the Kazon possession of the ship. Though it was true that Suder had been trapped on Voyager with the Kazon, Tuvok couldn’t imagine that he had much time to tend to flowers while trying to remain alive and retake the vessel.

And yet the purplish leaves were only now shriveling despite the minimal attention it must have received. Perhaps Suder had succeeded in creating an orchid that had an unusual resilience. It seemed appropriate if he had done so. Unusual resilience had allowed most of Voyager’s crew to survive the exile, to say nothing of Suder, who had survived crawling through corridors and evading the Kazon for weeks . . . at least until his heroic sacrifice that allowed the crew to retake Voyager.

It was a tragic irony. Suder had reveled in violence. Only after many months of work together had Suder taken control of his violent nature, only to be forced to resort to violence again in order to survive. In the end Suder had both lived and died by the sword despite his efforts otherwise.

Tuvok had taken it upon himself to clean out Suder’s quarters after his passing. The Vulcan considered discarding the dying orchid, but something impelled him to hold on to it. Perhaps he could revive it or breed a new generation. Tuvok reached out to lift the pot when an unexpected voice called out to him.

“Hello, Tuvok.”

Tuvok clutched the pot as he turned to see the late Lon Suder’s face on the viewscreen of his desk computer.

“If you’re seeing this, it means that I’m dead.” Suder spoke with the calm logic of a Vulcan, but his face contorted slightly as he thought. “Well, I hope I’m not dead, but if you’re seeing this, then it seems likely I didn’t survive. I’m glad you managed to make it back to Voyager. Slightly disappointed that I’m not there to greet you, but after surviving this much I suppose I can’t complain.

“If I’m dead, then I assume the Kazon killed me, but I suppose it’s just as possible that you were forced to kill me while trying to keep my worse nature under control.” Suder’s face was pensive as he considered this possibility. “I hope not, but if that’s the case, then know that I understand and I forgive you. I can never thank you enough for all of the help you gave me.” His eyes glistened as he took a moment to strengthen his composure.

“But that’s not why I recorded this. Think of this message as a deathbed confession. I suppose it’s better that you find out this way so I don’t have to see your disappointment in me.” Suder nodded knowingly. “You try to hide it, but I see it. When I make a mistake. When my worse nature reveals itself. Anyway, it’s time I just admitted what you may have already figured out from our sessions together.

“I’m the one who tried to kill Captain Janeway.”

More than sixteen months before Tuvok would see the message from Crewman Suder, Chakotay sat by the viewport in Janeway’s ready room while he looked over a padd displaying current crew assignments. “I think we should give Ayala some more responsibility,” he said. “He’s a good man, and he can handle it.”

Janeway looked up from her own padd and leaned back in her chair. “He tried to attack Tuvok when you first arrived on Voyager,” she said with skepticism.

“I wanted to attack Tuvok.” He quickly held up a hand in apology to Tuvok, who stood near the captain’s desk. “No offense, Tuvok, but we had just found out you were planning to turn us over to Starfleet.”

“No offense taken.”

“Well, I still feel we need to be cautious.” She set the padd on her desk. “I don’t want to generalize, but a few of the former Maquis have displayed a very aggressive nature. I think we need to be sure that’s under control before we place any more in key positions.”

Chakotay was taken aback. “Is that still a concern? We’ve served together for months.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me, Chakotay. Most of the Maquis are doing a wonderful job integrating. There are just a few who are proving . . . problematic.” Janeway flipped through personnel reports. “We’ve already had to reassign Seska from sciences after that time she nearly punched Ensign Wildman.”

“To be fair, the way I heard it Wildman was asking for it.”

Janeway raised her head. Chakotay felt scolded by her gaze. It didn’t help that Ensign Wildman was generally very affable. “She had been making insinuations about the Maquis crew,” he added in explanation.

“That’s not the point.” Janeway was in her stern captain mode. “We don’t come out swinging every time someone says a cruel word.”

Chakotay started to open his mouth to say something, but he caught himself. His instinct was to protect his crew, but he knew it was better to concede in this case. “Fair point.”

“That said, we may have to start shuffling around some of the other Maquis.” Janeway picked her padd back up and started indicating crew members. “Many aren’t doing well in their assignments. Crewman Chell is proving unreliable. And he’s hardly the only one.”

Tuvok chimed in, “Some are far more concerning. I have heard that Crewman Jarvin was speaking of mutiny when he first arrived on Voyager.”

“Yes, but it was all talk,” Chakotay said, feeling more and more defensive. “They’ve become accustomed to working together since then.”

“You’ll have to excuse me if I find that cold comfort,” Janeway quipped.

Chakotay sighed. He stood and began to pace to burn off some nervous energy, but he stopped quickly once he had gathered his thoughts. “Listen, Captain, with all due respect, this is a difficult situation, and you don’t understand all of the backgrounds involved. We’re going to have a hard time integrating my people if you don’t trust my judgment about them.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Janeway said, leaning back with a hand on her temple as if fighting a headache. “I’ve said this before: They aren’t your people anymore. They’re our people. We need to find some way to make them feel like a unit before this comes apart at the seams.”

Chakotay sat in silence, his lips clenched together, as he all but literally bit his tongue. Janeway softened as she saw his discomfort. “I’m sorry, Chakotay, I know I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. We’re on the same side here.” She rubbed a hand on her cheek. “I think I need another cup of coffee.”

Janeway inclined her head to the replicator across the room and called out, “Coffee, black.” A whir filled the replicator as the drink materialized. “Commander, would you mind grabbing that for me?”

“Not at all.” Despite his general discomfort, Chakotay was happy to offer this small kindness. “I’d like to see if we can give Dalby a little more responsibility too,” he continued as he walked to the replicator. “Maybe on the gamma shift. He’s shown some good initiative.”

“Perhaps a bit too much initiative,” Tuvok retorted.

Chakotay was growing weary of having to defend so many of the former Maquis. He carefully considered his response as he took the coffee mug, but he halted when he glanced at its contents.

“Chakotay?” Janeway’s voice pitched in concern.

“Captain, I think someone’s playing a joke on you.”

“I’m sorry?”

Chakotay lifted the mug out of the replicator and turned to face the captain. “I think this is about as far as you can get from having black coffee.” The cup was overflowing with what appeared to be powdered nondairy creamer, but there wasn’t a drop of coffee to be found.

Janeway leaned forward in her chair and squinted in confusion. “What in the world?”

The whirling light pattern of a Starfleet transporter swirled over the mug in Chakotay’s hand. A small purple disk came into existence. By the time gravity took its hold on the disk, a dozen small protrusions had flicked out of the sides and began spewing sparks in a 360-degree arc. Chakotay noted that the sparks resembled fireworks as he found himself shoved across the room by Tuvok’s lightning-quick Vulcan reflexes. He was hurled backward, losing his grip on the mug. A thin cloud of white powder formed in the air as the creamer flew out in all directions.

Tuvok shoved Chakotay, shouting, “Computer, emergency fire suppression.” He had predicted a danger that the ship’s computer hadn’t. A force field formed around the sparkler, catching Tuvok and a small portion of the creamer cloud. It didn’t catch much, but the powder that was inside the field ignited into a ball of purple flame, which flared against the edge of the force field.

With Tuvok enveloped inside.

Tuvok’s face and arms burned in the purple flames. The force field limited the spread of the flames, but how much damage would they do before they burned out?

“Computer, override fire suppression!” Janeway shouted, removing a wall panel to grab a handheld fire extinguisher, but the purplish flame burning Tuvok was dying quickly.

Chakotay tapped his combadge. “Medical emergency in the captain’s ready room.”

A huff came over the comm system. “I’d be happy to come help, but I don’t believe I have that—”

Before the Emergency Medical Hologram could even finish complaining, Janeway was already calling out, “Janeway to transporter room, beam Lieutenant Tuvok directly to sickbay.”

The transporter beam took Tuvok away in mere seconds, leaving the unscathed but shaken Chakotay standing with his captain amidst the sparks and debris in the ready room.

“Okay, I didn’t really ‘try to kill’ the captain. I hoped she would escape unharmed. I think I did anyway.” Suder’s face contorted as he bit the inside of his lower lip. “My goal wasn’t to kill or even injure the captain, or Commander Chakotay, and certainly not you. Frankly, I didn’t even know who else would be there when the coffee order would trigger the replicator malfunction or the beam-in. I can’t say I had given it much thought beforehand.” Suder’s guilt showed in his expression, something that a mere six months ago would’ve been unimaginable.

“You have to understand that even back then I had a great deal of respect for all of you.” His eyes looked off to some imaginary space to his right as he thought. “The way Captain Janeway had managed to get former enemies to work together almost from the moment we met. How Chakotay tried to nurture me from the time I joined the Maquis. Your logic and determination even back from before I knew you were Starfleet. I had a deep respect for each one of you.”

Tuvok had his qualms about the message he was receiving, but he wasn’t planning to be the only one to see it. He adjusted his tricorder to record the message lest Suder had programmed it to delete itself.

He weighed the risk of Lon Suder having set another trap as part of this “good-bye.” It seemed unlikely based on their work for the last several months.

“Tuvok to Captain Janeway,” he half whispered as the message continued playing. “You may wish to come to Mister Suder’s quarters.”

“What is it, Tuvok?” the captain asked, not matching Tuvok’s volume.

“He has left a message you may wish to see. Also, please bring a pair of personal force field generators as a precaution.” Even though a booby trap seemed unlikely, he didn’t wish to be unprepared for the possibility.

“Understood.”

In the meantime, Suder’s confession continued in the background.

“Tuvok, I’ve always been a violent man. I knew I needed help. When I read about the Tantalus colony, I nearly checked myself in, but I was afraid they’d just have me committed permanently. I wasn’t going to risk being locked up forever in some place like Elba II. I knew I could be useful.

“As loathe as they are to admit it, Starfleet has a use for violent people. Violence is a tool. It can be, anyway. It can serve a purpose.” While Tuvok found Suder’s assessment distasteful, as a security officer it was impossible to disregard it entirely.

“But I wasn’t going to pass the psych screenings. I’d have to find my purpose elsewhere. That’s why I joined the Maquis. They needed someone who was willing to kill. Someone who didn’t have anything holding them back. I could help save people.

“But my purpose didn’t end when I reached Voyager. Not in my eyes anyway. I knew that I needed an outlet, and Voyager . . . Voyager needed a trial by fire.”

Commander Chakotay stood outside of the captain’s ready room. A chime alerted her to his presence.

“Come in.”

Chakotay entered to see Captain Janeway standing near her desk as a team of security officers surveyed the damage, running tricorders over purplish residue and scattered coffee creamer. He joined the captain at the other end of the room. “The Doctor just provided me an update on Tuvok. He’s confirmed that there’s no permanent damage, but he’s not allowing him to leave sickbay for at least three days.”

“I’ll stand by that.” The captain looked Chakotay in the eye. “Tuvok’s going to want to push himself. Don’t let him. Captain’s orders.”

“Understood. But this is a bad time to be without our best investigator.” He winced at his own faux pas. “No offense to the rest of our security staff.”

Lieutenant Andrews made a curt nod and turned his attention to the command officers from where he knelt on the floor with a tricorder. “None taken, Commander. Lieutenant Tuvok has more experience in forensics than the rest of us combined.” With a few gestures he signaled to the other security officers that they were dismissed. “We have detailed scans of the room. We’re going to run an analysis, but I don’t know that there’s much to find. The device you described doesn’t match anything we’d normally have on Voyager, but I can’t imagine it was transported to the ship while we were at warp.”

“Neither can I,” the captain agreed. “And it was definitely a Starfleet transporter. No, this was targeted. This was personal.” She leaned against the desk. “Using coffee creamer to augment an explosive device is adding insult to injury.”

Andrews seemed confused. Chakotay clarified, “If there’s one thing you need to know about your captain, Lieutenant, it’s that she always takes her coffee black.”

“Trying to kill me is one thing. Filling my ready room with creamer . . . that’s personal.”

Chakotay raised an eyebrow at the dark humor of the comment. Andrews shifted uncomfortably, apparently uncertain as to how to respond to the grim thought. “How would you like us to proceed, Captain?”

“Continue with your analysis. Work with Lieutenant Torres to see if you can track down whoever reprogrammed the replicator and trace that transporter. And figure out what that thing was.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Keep this as quiet as you can. No sense panicking the crew. I’ll work with Commander Chakotay to analyze the psych profiles we have on file so we can discreetly begin arranging interviews. Dismissed.” She inclined her head curtly.

Chakotay was surprised that Janeway was taking such direct charge of the investigation. Was the personal nature of the attack influencing her behavior?

Andrews strode out the door to the bridge, leaving Chakotay and Janeway alone. Janeway slumped into her chair and massaged her temple. Chakotay sat by the viewport and squeezed his hands as he waited for her to say the first word.

“This is just unbelievable.”

Chakotay nodded in assent. “This is hardly the first time someone’s tried to take our lives, but I’m used to it coming from an external enemy.” He heaved a sigh as he considered how to best follow through on the plan the captain had suggested. “We’re going to be limited in what psych profiles we have available, and it’ll be difficult to run new profiles without spreading rumors.”

“You’re right.” She sighed. “To make it worse, we don’t even have the profiles we’re going to really need.”

Chakotay had a bad feeling he knew what she meant. He elected to play dumb and give her the benefit of the doubt. “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

“Come now, Chakotay. I’m sure you’ve come to the same conclusion I have.” She leaned forward. “I can’t see Neelix or Kes being behind this. That really only leaves the Maquis. Probably one of the members that came from the colonies rather than Starfleet.”

Chakotay’s head tilted. He gnawed his lower lip as he tried to find a diplomatic response, but his protectiveness of his people was starting to win out. “I fail to see how you came to that conclusion.”

“You remember how rigorously the Academy screens applicants. We’ve both been through the barrage of psych tests that filters out people with troubling tendencies. The odds of such a violent unprovoked attack from one of our crew is minimal.”

“You’re talking about the same Academy that produced Garth of Izar, right?”

Janeway’s expression hardened. “Which resulted in tighter application screening.”

“As I recall, the conspirators that assassinated Chancellor Gorkon made it through those changes. And I’m sure you’ve met a few individuals out of the Academy who seemed a bit tightly wound. I remember Boothby telling me about a Klingon and a Brikar who were literally at each other’s throats.”

“Okay, Starfleet personnel aren’t infallible. But I can’t imagine a Starfleet crew turning against its captain.”

“Tell that to Admiral Pressman. The way he tells it, he got into a firefight and barely escaped when his crew mutinied.”

“You may have missed some details that have recently come out about that incident, Commander. Suffice it to say that there were . . . unusual circumstances.”

Chakotay saw that his captain was losing her patience, but it was impossible for him to rebottle the frustration that was finally spilling out. “And this isn’t unusual? We’re stranded seventy thousand light-years away because we decided that helping the Ocampa was the right thing to do. I was right with you, but let’s not pretend everyone felt the same way.”

Janeway stood, her hands subtly shaking as her nails dug into her palms. “True. But my people are Starfleet officers who know how to take orders. I will grant you that it is not absolutely impossible that they could have done this, but it’s unlikely enough that we can’t waste limited resources pursuing what is almost certainly a dead end.” She halted and turned to her first officer. “This was an act of terror. We have known terrorists on the crew. Let’s focus there.”

Chakotay was taken aback. He slowly stood to face his captain eye-to-eye. “Is that what you think of the Maquis?”

“It’s not about what I think. It’s not a matter of debate.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

Chakotay turned to face the viewport as he strained to maintain his composure. “Do you really want to go down this road, Captain?”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any avoiding it. We had to talk about it sometime.”

“The Maquis are not terrorists.”

Janeway was incredulous. “You could have fooled me. What do you call the attacks on the Bok’nor, the Vetar, and any number of other Cardassian vessels?”

“Self-defense. The Bok’nor was running weapons—”

“Possibly running weapons.”

“The Vetar was retaliation. Gul Evek was taking the lead in attacking Federation colonists.”

“Former Federation colonists.”

“And whose decision was that?”

“It was their decision. They decided to stay in a probable war zone.”

“They decided to stay in their homes. The Cardassians attacked first.”

Chakotay was struggling to avoid this debate turning into a shouting match. He took a deep breath and seated himself by the viewport once more. “Just how much time have you spent talking to your Maquis crew? How much do you really know about them?”

“Enough.”

“Are you so sure?” Chakotay collected his thoughts. “We were talking about Crewman Dalby. Do you know why he joined the Maquis?”

“I can’t say I know him very well.”

“The woman he loved was assaulted by the Cardassians.” He waited a moment for this to sink in. “It was completely unprovoked. They raped her. Smashed her skull and left her for dead.”

It was Janeway’s turn to catch her breath. “I . . . I didn’t know.”

“Or Tabor. He doesn’t talk much about why he joined, but apparently his family was taken by the Cardassians and killed in some sort of barbaric medical experiments.”

Chakotay felt a sad relief as he watched Janeway’s discomfort as she tried to digest what she was hearing. Chakotay had been a captain leading a crew who had faced difficulties that the carefully screened crew of Voyager might never have imagined. She took a moment before her deliberate response. “I’m not saying I’m completely unsympathetic to the plight of the Maquis. I can’t blame you for having felt the same way.”

“It’s much more than sympathy, Captain.” He drew a deep breath. “Did you know my father was killed by the Cardassians?”

Janeway’s mouth gaped open. She had glanced over Chakotay’s file long ago when she had first prepared to pursue his Maquis cell, but it had been surprisingly short on details as to why he had defected. “I’m sorry, Chakotay. I never knew.”

“There’s much about us you don’t know. Most of us don’t take violence lightly. No more than a Starfleet security officer is quick to fire a phaser because he can.”

Janeway processed this. “I see what you’re saying, but what you’re describing, as tragic as it is, is a crew motivated by personal vendettas to take up violence.”

“Captain, being in the Maquis wasn’t ever about revenge. Not for most of us, anyway. It’s about making sure that this doesn’t happen to anyone else.” Chakotay shook his head. “I won’t claim there aren’t members or even cells in the Maquis that are quick to adopt terrorist tactics, but that doesn’t describe most of us. We weren’t terrorists any more than the French Maquis during World War II.” He looked her in the eye. “History hasn’t called them terrorists, and I don’t think it will view us that way either.”

Janeway nodded, evaluating what she was hearing. “Okay, but you’re asking me to trust that people with a history of violence and rebellion against Starfleet aren’t the people we’re looking for. I wish I could, but when we’re short on options that’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“All I’m asking for is equal treatment.” Chakotay spoke carefully and calmly. “I know it’s a leap of faith to even do that much, but we can’t afford to lose trust right now.” He glanced around the damaged room. “You’re right about this much: What we just lived through was an act of terror. Whoever did this wasn’t just targeting you. They were targeting the unity of this crew.” He looked his captain directly in the eye. “My people are trustworthy, Captain. My cell couldn’t have operated without that trust. They followed me because I earned their trust, and they’ve earned mine.”

Janeway sighed. “Okay, fine. You’ve made your point, Commander,” she conceded. “And if anything is going to get us through this, it’s trust. We may have had our differences in the past, but we’re together now.” Chakotay was gratified by the response and relieved as her tone shifted to renewed determination. “Okay, we investigate this from all angles. Our best forensics expert is in sickbay. We can’t panic the crew, and we can’t go around making accusations. Our best bet is to keep this quiet.”

The door to the ready room chimed.

“Come in.”

Neelix and Kes entered the room. Neelix nervously wrung his hands together, while Kes’s face revealed her dismay. Kes spoke first: “We heard what happened, and we just want you to know that we’re happy to do anything we can to help.”

Janeway rubbed her palm over her forehead before looking back up. “Thank you for your offer. We’ll keep you two in mind if there’s anything we need.”

Neelix’s head cocked. “Huh.”

Chakotay waited a moment before asking, “What is it, Neelix?”

“This . . . this residue . . . May I?”

Janeway gestured toward the purplish dust. “By all means.”

Neelix knelt down over one of the stronger concentrations. He stayed low as he circled it. Finally, he stopped, rubbed a purple spot with his finger, and tentatively licked the residue.

Kes knelt beside him. “Neelix?”

“Captain, have you been setting off fireworks in your ready room?”

“I haven’t,” she said, standing and striding over to where Neelix knelt, “but I take it someone has.”

“This residue is just like the Talaxian sparklers I grew up with. I even keep a few on my ship for special occasions.”

Chakotay suspected this had less to do with “special occasions” than with Neelix’s inability to throw anything out in his pre-Voyager life, but that didn’t matter now. “Can you determine if any of your supply is missing?” he asked.

Neelix’s face scrunched up. “I can’t say I know for sure how many I had with me. It may be hard to say if one has gone missing. But I can try.”

Janeway nodded gratefully. “Understood. Anything you can do is much appreciated.”

“Of course, Captain. Anything we can do to help.”

“Keeping this whole thing relatively quiet would go a long way,” Chakotay interjected, “although I suspect it’s a little late for that.”

“Of course.”

“And please ask Lieutenant Andrews to join you so he can run some scans. Any data we can get on the explosives might be helpful.”

Neelix nodded. “And I’m sure working with security will reassure them that the Talaxian explosives weren’t set off by your only Talaxian. Understood, Commander.”

“Thank you,” Janeway said with a sincere smile. “Both of you. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else you can do. Dismissed.”

Kes and Neelix rushed out purposefully.

Janeway turned toward her first officer. “Trust.”

Chakotay nodded in assent. “Imagine if Neelix and Kes hadn’t felt we trusted them. They might’ve cowered away, afraid that we would view them as the first suspects.”

“And the former Maquis on this ship should feel that they trust us the same way.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve been talking the talk about uniting this ship. Now I need to walk the walk.” Chakotay felt she was being a little hard on herself, but he let her continue uninterrupted. “I’m sorry, Chakotay. Arguing over terminology and history isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“You’re right, but neither is dismissing the past or hiding our concerns. This may not have been the most pleasant conversation for either of us, but I’m glad we had it, and I’m glad I can be straightforward with you. We need to be completely together on this.”

“Trust begins at the top.” Janeway nodded to herself as she thought. “But now what do we do? We have to start the investigation somewhere.”

“Assuming Neelix is right, we figure out who has the technical skill and access to break into his ship, reprogram the replicators, and pull off a site-to-site transport. We start with the engineers.”

“Former Maquis make up a pretty good chunk of our engineering staff, including our department head. It might still feel like we’re targeting them.”

Chakotay was relieved she had taken his words to heart so quickly. “I don’t think we need to overcorrect here. If anyone starts talking, I’ll deal with it.”

Janeway smiled appreciatively. “I’m glad to have you with us, Chakotay. I don’t know how I would’ve integrated these crews without you by my side.”

“It’s a privilege serving with you, Captain. Now let’s catch whoever did this before they make another attempt.”

Suder’s face scrunched, apparently considering what he would say next.

“I’m sure you saw what I saw. The differences between the Maquis crew and Starfleet had been bubbling for months. There had been talk of mutiny. It terrified me to consider what might happen if a real crisis came. Would the Maquis follow orders? Would Starfleet trust the Maquis to do their jobs? Could everyone work together? If they second-guessed at the wrong time, it could mean a disaster.

“Space is a dangerous place. Without trust and unity, we could all die.

“We needed a test of that trust. When faced with a danger to our commanding officer, would everyone come together or would we fall apart?

“I thought it made sense at the time. Looking back . . . maybe it was just an excuse for an expression of violence. Not that I’ve ever needed an excuse before, but I suppose I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to let myself go either. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a very satisfying opportunity.”

The doors slid open and Janeway entered with Lieutenant Andrews at her side. The captain wore an armband with a personal force field generator; Andrews handed another to Tuvok.

“In any case, once I’d set things in motion all I could do was sit and watch. I don’t know that I cared much about being caught, other than the prospect that it might interrupt the experiment. From what little I could observe it seemed the command crew had begun to build confidence in each other. The real question was how the lower decks would respond.”

Chakotay sat in the conference room as Lieutenant Torres gave her progress report. Captain Janeway and Lieutenant Andrews sat beside him listening attentively.

“We’ve confirmed that the explosion was Talaxian fireworks. It’s hard to say for certain that they came from Neelix’s ship, but it seems likely. I can’t find any indication they were replicated.” Torres rubbed her eyes, which were baggy after her sleepless night analyzing the data. “Whoever did this has been covering their tracks well,” she said, exasperated.

“Who’s been in Neelix’s ship?” asked Chakotay. “Other than Neelix and Kes?”

“Not that we’re ruling them out,” Andrews interjected.

“No,” said Janeway, “but they’ve been cooperative, it seems unlikely, and I’m not convinced either of them have the engineering skill to pull this off. But we’ll keep the possibility in mind.”

Torres slid a padd across the table. “Neelix has been very open in allowing our crew to access the Baxial, but it’s mainly been engineering staff checking for supplies and assisting him with any repairs in case he needs the ship in the future.”

Janeway’s eyes scanned the list. “Ashmore, Ayala, Carey, Dalby, Hogan, Jonas, Seska, Suder, and Vorik.”

“And myself. That’s everyone.”

“That we know of,” added Chakotay. “That’s a good-sized list.”

“I can’t help but note that most of the list is Maquis—former Maquis,” said Andrews, correcting himself immediately. He held his hand up in defense. “Not that I’m accusing anyone of anything.”

“We have a lot of Maquis engineers, Lieutenant,” Torres said, seething. “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that the Baxial doesn’t feel like Starfleet. Being surrounded by Starfleet personnel and Starfleet technology can be a strain when you feel like Starfleet abandoned your people.”

“And that’s perfectly understandable,” Janeway said, taking control of the situation before it got out of hand. Andrews appeared to pick up on the warning in her gaze.

“Of course,” he added diplomatically.

Chakotay was ready to move on. “What else do you have, Lieutenant?”

“The replicator programming was flawless. The attacker covered their tracks well. I can’t even say which terminal was used to make the change.”

Andrews scratched his chin. “It had to be someone who knew the captain’s predilection for coffee.”

“Black coffee,” Janeway emphasized with bitterness.

“Not necessarily.” Torres tapped her padd, and a diagram of chemical reactions appeared on the conference lounge screen. “Neelix’s fireworks weren’t powerful enough to cause much damage. About the worst thing that they could have done was blind someone. But the creamer was a particularly dense blend the Klingons use in raktajino, augmented with a few other reactive chemicals. You could drink it in your coffee and not get much worse than a stomach ache, but combined with an ignition source, it made for a potentially powerful explosive.”

Andrews chimed in. “It looks like Tuvok managed to contain most of the explosion with the fire-suppression field. That was quick thinking on his part. Most of the creamer mixture was contained outside the field. If he’d been a few seconds later you wouldn’t have a ready room anymore.”

“And you wouldn’t have a captain anymore,” Janeway said darkly. “If that’s a dead end, what else do we have?”

Torres adjusted her padd again. “The attacker tried to delete the records of the transport, but they forgot how many backup systems Voyager has. I managed to find an archive of the transport log.”

“Does it identify the user?”

“Yes,” Torres said cautiously, “but it’s not as helpful as you would hope.”

“Out with it, Lieutenant.”

“It says it’s me.”

“You?” Chakotay said in confusion.

“Let’s face it. Security isn’t great right now. We’ve had to create log-ins for everyone, and not all of our crew is used to that. Not to mention we’ve been shifting personnel between departments rapidly while we figure out what suits everyone. If I get a new staff member, I can’t wait on security to set up their access when there’s work to be done, so sometimes we share security codes.”

Janeway’s expression was scolding. “I’m sure I don’t need to give you a speech as to why security on this ship is important.”

“No, of course not. But we need to streamline some of these processes.”

“A conversation for another time,” Chakotay said. “In the meantime, we need you to change your command codes immediately.”

“Already done. I changed them as soon as I realized what had happened.”

Janeway leaned back and rubbed her forehead. “So another dead end. What else do we have?”

“What about checking the duty roster?” Andrews asked. “We can check who would’ve been in engineering when the records were deleted.”

“I don’t think it will do you any good,” said Torres. “The station was in main engineering, and we had just finished a staff meeting. It could’ve been anyone.”

“Back to square one,” said Janeway.

“Not really,” said Chakotay. “We have a list of nine possible suspects. That’s a whole lot better than a hundred and fifty.”

“Captain, would you like me to begin interviewing the suspects?” Andrews asked tentatively. “Or would you like me to wait for Lieutenant Tuvok to be released from sickbay?”

“I don’t think we can afford to delay.”

“I’ll begin arranging interviews.”

“If you don’t mind,” Chakotay said, “I’d like to conduct the interviews personally. No disrespect to your investigation abilities, Lieutenant, but I’ve known many of these people for a long time. I might have an easier time getting them to open up.”

Janeway nodded in assent. “Lieutenant, do you have any objection?”

“No, Captain.”

“Then go ahead and start the interviews. And we’ll be ready for Andrews or Tuvok to follow up if necessary. Do we have anything else?” Everyone was silent. “Dismissed.”

“Crewman Suder,” Chakotay began, “I’m sure you know why I wanted to talk to you.”

“I can’t say I do, Commander.”

The two sat in Torres’s office, which Chakotay had commandeered for the interviews. Suder’s face was expressionless.

“And I’m sure you’ve heard of the attack on myself and Captain Janeway.”

“Attack?” Suder’s eyes narrowed. “I’m often not privy to the latest gossip. The captain is okay, I hope?”

“She’s fine, but Lieutenant Tuvok has been injured.”

“A shame.” Suder’s tone remained even, but his eyebrow furrowed. “About Mister Tuvok, that is. I have nothing but the greatest respect for Vulcan serenity. It’s too bad that they don’t care to discuss it more often, at least if Lieutenant Vorik is any indication.” He paused, his attention drifting. “Although I do get the sense Lieutenant Vorik isn’t too fond of me. Perhaps it’s his discomfort with the Maquis.” His neck snapped as he turned his gaze back to Chakotay. “But I digress. How can I help you, Commander?”

“We’re just looking for any clues we can follow to determine who might’ve initiated the attack. It required a feat of technical skill.”

“And you think it was someone in engineering?” Carey asked in disbelief.

“We have reason to believe it might have been, yes.”

The Starfleet engineer looked down at the table as he thought. “We have good people here, but it’s a large crew. I don’t think anyone bears any animosity toward you or the captain.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Lieutenant, but I think we both know it’s not the whole truth.”

Carey snorted. “What do you mean?”

“More than anyone, you know we’ve had a lot of conflict. Torres practically broke your nose when we first joined the crew.”

“Well, yes.” It hadn’t been long ago, but Carey seemed to have distanced himself from the event. “I mean, the lieutenant has a temper, but only if she thinks you’re trying to provoke her. I don’t have to tell you that, Commander. You’ve known her far longer than I have.”

“What about Seska? She’s talked about mutiny before.”

“Commander, is this about my part in obtaining the Sikarian transporter?” Carey shifted into a near panic. “Yes, I worked with Torres and Seska to get the transporter technology, but that doesn’t mean we have anything against the captain.”

Chakotay hadn’t been hinting at the conspiracy, but it made sense that Carey was concerned, and there was no reason not to run with it. “Doesn’t it? You disobeyed orders. You worked together to circumvent her decision. It would seem you aren’t content with the way the chain of command is working around here.”

Carey’s remorse was palpable. “Commander, I just want to get back home.”

“And Captain Janeway keeps standing in the way of that. She stranded your crew and mine in the Delta Quadrant. She’s turned down shortcuts to get back home.”

“Because she was doing the right thing!” Carey’s eyes were wide. “Yes, we disagreed about trading transporter technology, but I have nothing but respect for the captain!”

Chakotay had him cornered.

“So if not you, then who feels otherwise?”

“Chakotay,” Seska replied, “a lot of us have mixed feelings about the captain. You know that.”

“Enough to kill her?”

“Apparently.” Seska shrugged. “I mean, it happened.”

“You’re taking this awfully lightly.”

“Chakotay, I’ve seen a lot of people die. We both have.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “It terrifies me that you almost got caught up in this. And you can’t be implying that I was part of some conspiracy against you and the captain.” She massaged his hand gently. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Chakotay pulled his hand away. “And what if I was an innocent bystander?”

Seska stood up and paced the office. “What do you want me to say, Chakotay? You know I have the skill to do something like this. You know I had the opportunity. And you know I’m not the biggest fan of the captain. I have a history of violence from both the Maquis and the Bajoran resistance.” She threw a hand up in the air. “If I was back home and the Cardassians caught me, I’d have been charged for far worse than this.”

She returned to the table and grasped his hand again. “But I won’t lie to you, Chakotay. I had nothing to do with this. I’m not a Klingon. I’m not going to try to kill my captain, no matter how much she gets on my nerves.”

“Then who?”

“Logically, no one.”

“I’m sorry?”

Vorik reiterated, “Logically, no one would have assaulted Captain Janeway. The inevitable fallout of such an assault among the crew far outweighs any possible benefit. The first question in any crime is this: Who takes benefit? No one that I am aware of. Certainly none of the staff that I am serving with.”

Chakotay’s mouth hung open until he could bring himself to speak again. “So your Vulcan logic tells us that this didn’t happen? I think I can identify a few flaws with that.”

“ ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ If you view the logs, you will find a series of recent technical malfunctions. Minor replicator issues. So minor that people have simply dismissed them and continued on with their lives.”

That much was possible. Replicator issues were hardly unknown, so usually one just accepted them unless the problem was major or frequent. “And why hasn’t Lieutenant Torres pointed this out in our investigations?”

“The nature of the malfunctions has been so minor that the problems were attended to by other staff as the issues arose. Only someone attuned to hearing everything around them would have noticed the pattern of complaints mentioned among the engineering crew.” Vorik inclined his head to one side as if to draw attention to his pointed ears.

“Your Vulcan logic is still flawed. Setting aside your dubious definitions of ‘inevitable’ and ‘impossible,’ your theory still doesn’t account for the actual explosive.”

“The ‘explosives’ were fireworks. I would hypothesize that the fireworks were part of an ill-conceived prank. One that, in this case, had particularly poor timing.”

“And the cover-up? The deleted files?”

Vorik seemed to lose some of his confidence, but he continued, “I would posit that the type of person to attempt such a prank would also be the type to panic were such a prank mistaken for an assassination attempt.”

“Mister Vorik’s confidence in his crewmates is admirable,” said Tuvok as he listened from his sickbay biobed. The burns that had previously covered his face and hands had already been completely healed. “But I fear his confidence in his own cleverness is distorting his logic. A frequent problem with young Vulcans.”

Janeway, Chakotay, Andrews, and Torres all stood around the biobed as the Doctor reviewed his most recent scans of Tuvok. Andrews was pacing nervously, his discomposure evident.

“I wish everyone could share his confidence,” started Andrews. “We’ve been hearing a lot of nervous talk from the crew. The Starfleet crew is worried this could be the start of a Maquis uprising. Suspicious Maquis are thinking this was an attack on Chakotay. Everyone’s keeping their cool so far, but I don’t know how long this will last.”

“Unfortunately, Ensign Vorik’s prediction that a conflict was ‘inevitable’ may yet prove true. If the crew believes there is someone among us who tried to kill our captain, it may, at best, undo much of the progress we have made in building trust between our diverse crews.”

Torres had her doubts. “It seems like my department’s been drawing together more than ever.”

“Perhaps,” said the head security officer, “but that confidence will ebb away with time. The rest of the crew will see a group of Maquis and a recent collaborator in a conspiracy.” He sighed. “And an overconfident young Vulcan protecting his crewmates.”

Janeway crossed her arms. “All the more reason to determine who did this.”

“Unfortunately, based on the reports I have been receiving, we seem to have nothing but dead ends. Our analysis of the crime scene has shown nothing. The interviews were ambiguous, but we must assume they have put the perpetrator on guard. The computer records have proven unrevealing.”

“So now what do we do?” asked Chakotay.

“I will continue to analyze my team’s findings and pursue any further leads, but it is possible that we may not find an answer to this.”

“That’s not acceptable,” Chakotay stated.

“Acceptable or not, we cannot produce evidence that does not exist.”

Torres shook her head in disbelief. “So we leave a possible attempted murderer on our staff and wait for the crew to explode?”

“At the very least, we need to put both the killer and the crew at ease. We will continue to keep security on high alert in case of further attempts. Lieutenant Torres, would it be possible to create an additional backup log of all transporter and replicator activity?”

Her brow furrowed. “I can hook in a log at my private terminal for any activations or remote work, but not any work done directly at the replicator terminals.” Torres tapped a nearby console as she continued analyzing the problem, earning a perturbed look from the Doctor. “Although I can manually include any assigned crew work.”

“That will have to suffice. In the meantime, I suggest that we offer up Lieutenant Vorik’s story as the truth, more or less.”

Janeway’s right eyebrow arched. “A cover-up?”

“Unfortunately, I believe this to be the only way to draw out the attacker. And, perhaps, this will prevent crew tensions from escalating further.”

Janeway gritted her teeth. “Do we have any better ideas?”

Andrews looked down. Chakotay reluctantly shook his head. Torres crossed her arms and frowned.

“Fine. Tuvok, Andrews, notify security to keep on alert, but don’t draw any unnecessary attention. Torres, please discreetly mention to Neelix at your next meal that the ‘malfunctions’ were the result of . . . let’s just say an anomaly.”

Torres rolled her eyes. “Heaven knows we run into enough of them.”

Chakotay smiled grimly. “Scuttlebutt outstrips the fastest ship?”

“It always has.”

“I assume you’ll want me to confirm your story as well.” He had forgotten that the Doctor was there.

“That would be useful, yes.”

“Well, a cover-up isn’t exactly in my programming, but this is hardly the first time I’ve had to stretch the boundaries of my subroutines.” The Doctor cracked his knuckles. “Well, if it will contribute to the mental health of the crew, I’ll aid you in your intrigue. I suppose this will give me a chance to test my acting skills.”

“No need to get fancy, Doctor. And,” she warned, “don’t pretend to know any details we haven’t already given you.”

“I shall be the epitome of discretion.”

“Very good.” The captain turned back to the assemblage. “Everyone else, no need to go out of your way to volunteer information. Just let word spread on its own. Don’t make a big thing of it, especially if the truth is likely to come out in short order. Dismissed.” As the other crew members left, Chakotay looked toward the captain, and she nodded to indicate he was welcome to stay. The captain turned back to Tuvok. “I hope you’re right about this. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Nor do I. Unfortunately, I do not have a better plan at this time.”

“I’ll be careful until we find the culprit. Thankfully, the truth has a way of coming out on its own.”

“When I heard the story about the anomaly, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. I didn’t know if it was a genuine mistake or if you were trying to lure me into a sense of confidence. I was happy with the results in any case: Despite this trial, the crew seemed to come together. I don’t know about you, but it gave me the confidence that I needed to trust we’d make it through further challenges.

“But I was still concerned about lingering doubts. I overheard several of the engineers express surprise that the explosion had been written off so easily. I felt like I should tie up my loose ends, but I was never quite sure how. Then . . . well, Seska.”

Tuvok understood immediately. Mere days after the investigation had been officially halted, the traitorous engineer had been revealed as a Cardassian spy posing as a Bajoran in order to infiltrate the Maquis. Shortly after her true heritage was revealed she defected to the Kazon-Nistrim. She later lured Voyager into the trap that had marooned them and led to Suder’s tragic, but heroic, death as well as her own end.

“I had never imagined Seska was a traitor, but her defection gave you the opportunity you needed to close the case. Assuming I could convince you of a connection.”

Chakotay and Tuvok looked around Seska’s abandoned quarters.

“This is absolutely insane,” Chakotay said, defeated. “Seska was one of our strongest allies.”

“It is true that she was very loyal to you in your days in the Maquis,” Tuvok acknowledged, “but you must admit that she was not conducive in our efforts to unify the crew.”

“I don’t feel much like admitting anything right now, if you don’t mind,” Chakotay said with strain in his voice. He walked over to her bed where a thin glass vase held a fading Bajoran lilac. He cautiously lifted the flower.

“Hello, Tuvok.”

He whipped around to see Seska’s image on the display. “Prerecorded,” Tuvok noted. Chakotay surmised it was programmed to respond to the flower being disturbed while Tuvok was present.

“I was hoping you’d be the one to clean out my quarters if I had to bail out. I thought I’d leave a little good-bye present to thank you for infiltrating the Maquis. Although I suppose I’m one to talk,” the image said, smiling.

A coffee cup overflowing with creamer whirled into existence in the replicator, this time with a replicated firework sticking right out of the cup.

Chakotay thought quickly. “Computer, recycle the meal in the replicator!”

Just as the sparkler began to ignite, the computer obediently dissolved the cup and sparkler back into nonexistence.

“Well, I hope I put my last replicator ration to good use.” Seska grinned from the panel. “Last time I’ll get to use that trick for a while. Just goes to show: If you aren’t willing to share your technology,” she said, referring to the replicators she attempted to provide to the Kazon, “then there’s all the more reason to use it against you.” The smile faded from her face. “Well, good-bye. Can’t say it’s been fun.” The image disappeared.

“It would seem Seska did not learn from the ineffectiveness of her previous attempt to use this method.”

Chakotay stared stunned where Seska’s image had been a moment ago. His voice was flat as he spoke. “She’s never been very good at improvising explosives. Always preferred her for other types of engineering.” He sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”

“So there you have it . . . the last record of my sins. I’m sorry, Tuvok. I know I’ve been a disappointment, but I needed to clear my conscience. Have you ever heard of a human book called Les Misérables? Very popular among the Maquis. I was reading it in my confinement, and a turn of phrase struck me: ‘I could have lied, it is true, have deceived you all. . . . It was sufficient for me to hold my peace, it is true, and all would go on. You ask me what has forced me to speak? a very odd thing; my conscience.’ Please give my apologies to the captain. To Commander Chakotay as well. And most of all to you, Tuvok.” Suder’s expression was unchanged, but his voice cracked as he spoke. “I can’t truly justify what I’ve done. I only hope that I was able to use my violent tendencies as a tool. I hope I had some small part in bringing the crew together. I hope . . . I hope I helped in some way. That would make everything worth it.” He looked off to the side as he thought a moment. “Well, that’s it. Good-bye, Tuvok. I hope I get a chance to tell you this myself before you find it. And I hope you make it back here to find it in the first place. End recording.”

As the recording ended, Tuvok and Janeway could not help but glance at the replicator, but nothing was appearing.

“Computer, deactivate the replicator in Lieutenant Suder’s quarters,” Tuvok requested, not wishing to live dangerously. A low hum and the dimming of lights indicated compliance.

Tuvok deactivated his force field; Janeway and Andrews followed suit a moment later.

“Well,” said Janeway. “I guess we have a lot to discuss.”

Captain Janeway sat in her ready room chair as Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Tuvok stood nearby.

“Well, I suppose it explains a lot,” said Chakotay, who had just been filled in. “It never sat quite right that Seska had arranged the explosions, even with everything else she’d done.”

Tuvok spoke with concern. “I am a bit disturbed that this information never arose in my work with Mister Suder, either in our mind-meld, or in my work with him after.”

Janeway nodded. “He was a troubled man. And remember that you weren’t in any condition to absorb anything after that mind-meld,” she reassured. “I don’t think there’s any need to concern yourself.”

“It was a difficult confession for him to make,” added Chakotay, “but he made it in the end.”

All were silent for a moment.

“I must say,” added Tuvok, “Mister Suder’s plan may have been somewhat effective.” Chakotay raised an eyebrow. Tuvok continued, “It did seem as though the crew was pulling together in the wake of the attack. In combination with Seska’s betrayal, it gave the crew common enemies.”

“Do you think Suder was right, then?” asked Chakotay. “Is an act of violence what we actually needed to test if the crew could stand together?”

“No.” Janeway’s voice was unwavering. “We didn’t need Suder’s methods. This crew was coming together long before his ill-conceived attempts to ‘help.’ It seems appropriate that he quoted Les Misérables. Chakotay, have you read it?”

“I have to confess, it’s been a while. I don’t think that I could quote it.”

“Personally, I think Suder missed the point of the novel. Frankly, I think many of the Maquis missed the point.”

“How so?”

“You named your ship after Jean Valjean, didn’t you?” Chakotay nodded. “But in Les Misérables, violence wasn’t the answer. It was absolutely futile. What happened to the insurgents?”

“They were slaughtered.”

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, that may be more a matter of history than an intended message.”

“The only way we were able to build something was by building trust. Suder was right about that much. But that trust is built on respect, not on violence.” Janeway smiled. “I like to think that was the message of the novel.”

Chakotay was happy to feel the mood lighten. “Be careful. You’re inviting some literary debate. Just give me some time to brush up.”

“Are you a fast reader?”

“No, but we’ve got seventy years.”

Tuvok took the opportunity to interject. “I have always understood the theme as this: ‘Love each other well and always. There is nothing else but that in the world: love for each other.’ ”

Chakotay smirked in amusement. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Tuvok. Did you teach literary criticism at the Academy?”

“I taught many things.”

Janeway chuckled. “Well, you’ve made my point. You can’t have that kind of love without real trust.”

Chakotay was uncertain if he agreed with the literary interpretation, but he didn’t care much at the moment. He agreed with the sentiment in any case.

“I supoose if Mister Suder were with us,” Tuvok added, “he would point out that his intent was to use violence as a shortcut to building that trust.”

“Well, Tuvok, it’s a good thing both of our crews started this voyage with the same belief: Doing the right thing is more important than taking shortcuts.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, gentlemen. However we got here, we’re where we need to be. Let’s keep building on that. Dismissed.”

Tuvok sat in his quarters, where he had been meditating on the newly revealed history of the troubled crewman who had become his unintended protégé. He inspected Suder’s orchid. Tuvok had chosen to care for it personally, at least for now.

He took a moment to apply a gentle mist to the leaves. It was astonishing how with such little care the orchid was already showing signs of recovery. Tuvok had considered clipping the stem or removing the wilting petals, but now he began to suspect this may not be necessary. It didn’t need drastic measures in order to heal itself. It would just need consistent, gentle care.

Sometimes in building strength, a little gentleness was all that was needed.

LIFE AMONG THE POST-INDUSTRIAL BARBARIANS

John Coffren

I WASN’T ALWAYS PARANOID. Thirty years of pacing up and down this three-kilometer stretch has left me terribly alone. Even among the daily throng that flooded Hermosa Avenue to purchase trinkets from vendors or expose themselves to near-lethal doses of ultraviolet radiation, I was unnoticed and unwanted.

All my worldly possessions traveled with me inside this cart that I pushed along palm tree–laden paths. The two-by-four and hockey stick near the front were my only defense against the predatory humans. They slunk about with sullen looks and sharp eyes and considered the merciless beating of an old man a momentary distraction from the boring tedium that was their life.

Quasi-Cardassian totalitarians patrolled this beach too and looked for any excuse to unsheathe their wooden batons and strike me in places that left no mark or abrasion on my skin, but had me reeling in pain for days.

I tried to avoid them.

The rest of the population paraded about half-naked and totally consumed with their own unimportant lives. They resisted any social interaction by ignoring me. If eye contact was made, they quickly dismissed it by looking away or through me. Besides, they were in love with their first-generation communicators. Wait until the true potential of their mobile phones was unlocked. All these zombies will never put them down.

Why did I even try to save these ingrates? Most of them will die in the big quake fifty years from now. Sadly enough, I went on trying because I failed these miserable simians and took their future away from them. My mission became my life’s work. I posted signs, warnings of the coming apocalypse. They showed their gratitude by incarcerating me in jails and mental institutions. And when they called me captain, it was only to mock me.

I carried a keepsake on my person, because if I left it back in the alley these greedy people would steal it just as surely as they’ve stolen nearly everything else I brought with me to this wretched century. Underneath my dirty gray overcoat and pinned to my threadbare brown vest was a relic from a lost era: my combadge.

The burgundy and blue, my command uniform, lay neatly folded inside a plastic bag near the bottom of the cart. I cut quite a handsome figure in it back in the day. It would look ridiculous hanging off my bony frame now.

My clothes and combadge were my only possessions when I initiated an emergency beam out over the High Sierras thirty years ago. I had no choice. The impact would have killed me. And Henry Starling would have gladly stepped over my lifeless body to unlock the technological secrets of my timeship.

The Aeon had been badly damaged in the Delta Quadrant. When full phasers failed, Voyager emitted a high-energy polaron pulse to overload my subatomic disruptor. If those fools had only turned off the deflector pulse, I could have saved the future. Janeway couldn’t see past the prow of her ship. One hundred and fifty lives for untold billions seemed a fair exchange to her.

She never saw the debris: remains of her own ship, a section of the secondary hull, floating amidst the smashed rubble of the Sol star system. She was already dead. Better for my century that she, her crew, and ship perish in the cold, lonely reaches of the Delta Quadrant than in our crowded solar system.

Tough decisions come with rank. Once near the Horsehead Nebula, I vaporized a subwarp transport ship that carried five hundred colonists en route to a new homeworld on Cestus III. Among them, a temporal agent of the Na’Kuhl, who would start a genocidal war that would cost billions of lives and create political instability in that sector for centuries. Our records were sketchy. I accessed a fragment of a passenger list, and armed with that knowledge I carried out my orders.

The timestream is littered with scheming aliens: Romulans, Vorgons, and Krenim to name a few, who must be dealt with swiftly and severely. They must be separated from dangerous artifacts like the Guardian of Forever, the Tox Uthat, and chroniton torpedoes.

There was no room for half measures or a crisis of conscience.

This mission was booby-trapped with so many improbabilities: a twenty-fourth-century starship crippling a twenty-ninth-century timeship, a Neanderthal repairing and flying a Model 86, and the one man sent to save a world ends up destroying it.

I should have powered up weapons inside the temporal rift where Voyager’s sensors couldn’t penetrate and come out firing. I should have realized a warp core implosion can’t obliterate a star system, but an uncalibrated temporal matrix can and did. A leads to B leads to C leads to A.

An unexpected outcome left me stranded in the past with no hope of rescue. In Janeway’s time, Federation crews lost in the past harbored no dreams of returning to their timeline and were instructed to stay out of history’s way. In my time, the Temporal Integrity Commission scanned the timestream for anomalies including marooned captains.

But there was no one left in my future to come looking for me or to find me rooting around in waste receptacles for my next meal. Maybe it was better this way. Still, I carried the foreknowledge that my stolen timeship will cause the future’s end. Being stranded in this post-industrial hell seemed a light sentence for such a terrible crime.

Castaways from any age must eventually abandon the shoreline and seek shelter inland. An abandoned cargo container that still housed the husk of one of their internal-combustion vehicles became my makeshift home. My crooked spine came from one night too many spent on that yellow sofa with missing cushions. A shredded orange-and-white parachute did a poor job of keeping me dry during rainstorms. Heaps of refuse—tires, hubcaps, trash cans, and crates—piled up next to towering brick walls that soared dozens of meters overhead. I’ve scrawled on these walls painted warnings, predictions:

THE END IS COMING

THE END OF THE FUTURE

APOCALYPSE

THERE WILL BE NO TOMORROWS.

My warnings went unheeded by these hedonists. I might as well have screamed in Klingon for all the good it did me and them. Sometimes I found myself screaming over missing pencils or that thief Starling’s latest philanthropic gesture. They usually ignored me. Occasionally, they reported me to the local authorities.

When night fell and the stars came out, I forgot about my current plight and dreamed of my past, the future. Most of my dreams were of the confident young man I was who captained a ship that could open vistas in the pulse-flows of time.

I’ve traveled backward to zero, to marvel at the birth of the universe in all its fiery, wonderful glory, and forward five hundred years beyond my own time to record sights at the limits of human comprehension. I’ve witnessed the nightmare of the Alpha Quadrant overrun by Dominion forces and reviewed holorecords of an invasion plan into Earth’s past made by hostile interdimensional beings from fluidic space. I’ve defused temporal disruptors and navigated the Briar Patch at hyper-impulse speeds.

Such talk was considered lunacy by these fools and earned me a syringe full of primitive pharmaceuticals and a padded cell. Gentle remonstrations from damn social workers was the only solace to be found. They advised me to see their doctors. Doctors, what a laugh. Their counselors lacked empathic powers or even formal training. The medics of these dark ages couldn’t even cure a cold, repair neural pathways, or regenerate damaged tissue. I might as well have danced around some ceremonial fire on one of the stone-age planets in the Taurus system.

This was all her fault. But sooner or later I knew she’d show up.

Kathryn Janeway lived long enough to fulfill a promise made to her crew. She got them home, four hundred years too early. I mistook her for a local dressed all in white. After my anger subsided, I welcomed her affectionately, calling her “dear.” The thought of returning with her to Voyager and leaving this miserable backwater era crossed my mind. I could have constructed an interplexing time beacon in one of the ship’s cargo bays using technology she never knew existed or even guessed at its awesome potential. I would have had to work fast, though. She destroyed her ship and crew before and was prepared to do so again.

I’ve learned to accept my fate, my role in this tragedy. Janeway couldn’t. And by failing to accept it, she was doomed to repeat the same mistake over and over and over again. Causality loops work with such flawless certainty.

I didn’t expect any visitors after Janeway and Chakotay.

The cycle of causality had one final turn left to make.

A sound I hadn’t heard in decades and a voice I heard every day interrupted my fitful sleep. I stood straight up, amazed by how lifelike my dream was. Until I heard that sound wide awake.

My hand dove inside my jacket and ruffled my frumpy clothes. A single chirp broke the silence for a third time. Incredulously, I looked at the combadge I held in my hand, recently plucked free of my greasy vest. My dry mouth seemed incapable of forming a response. Slowly, I whispered, “Who the hell is this?”

“Captain Braxton of the Timeship Relativity.” The strange voice didn’t belong to me. It sounded automated, stripped of any inflection, vitality, life.

Suddenly, I realized that my latest blunder had called on me.

I’d underestimated the resourceful Captain Janeway again. Somehow she managed to stop Starling, this time without sacrificing her ship and crew, and broke the cycle of causality. She succeeded where I failed and rescued the future.

“What do you want?” I asked. “And this had better not be another one of my hallucinations.”

“We need your help. Get over to the Chronowerx Industries building on East Third Street and Route one-oh-one and retrieve or destroy the HyperPro PC prototype.”

I burst out laughing. Even mad, I still had a sense of humor.

“You want me to break into Starling’s building and steal a museum piece. Why?”

“That museum piece, as you call it, has twenty-ninth-century code hidden in twentieth-century machine text. And there are a pair of criminals en route to your location attempting to steal the device. If they successfully return to their century with the personal computer, it will cause a temporal incursion and power shift that will prove disastrous for the Federation.”

I stroked my matted gray beard and thought for a moment before I spoke, a practice I all but abandoned in this century.

“Why don’t you send a member of your crew?” I said.

“I’m doing one better. I’m sending the captain.” He paused a moment before continuing. “You haven’t forgotten about the dangers of time travel? Life in the twentieth century hasn’t dulled your mind that much, has it? Sensory aphasia ring a bell? Look at this problem from the big chair. Why risk a crew member when we already have an agent in the field? Don’t you want to do more than scribble warnings on pieces of cardboard and tape them to lamp posts all over town?”

“You’ve been monitoring my activities.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Why didn’t you rescue me instead of leaving me to rot for thirty years?”

“From my perspective, I just got here. Tempus fugit. And I know you, quite literally, like I know myself. You know what I’m saying is true. You want to save lives. You want to make a difference and you can do that again.”

He was reminding me of my duty. I would have done the same if our roles were reversed. But he didn’t have thirty years of life experience in this zinc-plated vacuum-tubed culture. I did.

“Captain, I’m no Lynter.”

That name was only invoked during dire circumstances. A cautionary tale told in whispers around the Academy of a time traveler that became so enamored with yesterday that he fled into the past to escape his own future.

The service tried to rescue him, but he would have none of it. He’d rather wallow in musty history celebrating its quaintness, its slower pace. Well, one day the past caught up to him, and he died an ignominious death on a street corner.

I needed to tell this captain that wasn’t me. That wasn’t who I wanted to be. It was who I turned out to be.

“Captain, did you know in all the time I have spent trapped in this kabuki theater, I have made and had only one friend? Like me, he was abandoned too. Forced to live on the streets without the simplest bare necessities like food and shelter. I befriended this kindred spirit and made sure he was fed, even if it meant I went hungry.

“Why, you ask? Because he was more human than the humans that passed me by every single day. They wouldn’t waste an act of kindness on me. But he did. His humanity kept me going for fifteen years until he died. I still mourn Tachyon’s passing.”

“You’re talking about a stray?”

“Well of course I’m talking about a stray. None of these wretches care what happens to me.”

“Captain Braxton, I need you to get moving.”

I folded my arms and huffed.

“I haven’t agreed to help. Beam me down a weapon and maybe I’ll do it.”

“You won’t need one if you get there in time.”

I kept my own counsel and said nothing.

“I could return you to the twenty-ninth century. Stand by to be beamed up,” he said.

Thirty years of pent-up emotions poured out in a stream of tears. Civilization awaited on the other side of a temporal inversion. My life sentence had been commuted. Then it dawned on me.

“Leave me here, Captain,” I begged. “Leave me in the twentieth century.”

“You know better than anyone else that I can’t do that,” he replied.

“This mission is our destruction. We have been ordered to commit suicide.”

“It’s not suicide if one timeline never was. Our continued coexistence poses a future threat and constitutes a direct violation of the Temporal Prime Directive. We both know that,” my other self reasoned.

“Why not vaporize us with a hand phaser?”

No reply. Ranting and raving came quite naturally to me after three decades in the twentieth century. I pressed on.

“Too messy? Too much like murder? It’s so much tidier to beam me up, store me inside the pattern buffer and rematerialize me on twenty-ninth-century Earth. Beam me down any time after I departed for the twenty-fourth century. That should do it. Let time eradicate me. Why should we get our hands dirty?”

I expected more of a pause before my other self quoted regulations like a first-year cadet at the Academy.

“Preserving the sanctity of the timeline comes above all else.”

Did I just say that? The irony of this situation was not lost on me. The juvenile mind that needed convincing was my own.

“I was dead before you left the twenty-ninth century and when you return nothing will have changed. I’ll still be dead. I was, am, and will be captain of a timeship. Even though my command is lost, I haven’t lost my sense of duty. I won’t contaminate the timeline. Let me have a life in this time.”

I waited for a reply from myself. The silence fed my fears. Fear of my other self training a transporter beam on these coordinates and carrying out orders without question, like any good soldier would do. My glimpse of a safe, intact future would be the last sight that I carried with me into oblivion. Janeway, by preserving the future, had ended mine. I broached the silence again.

“You know me like you know yourself. And you know I’m telling the truth. Tell the Temporal Integrity Commission that. Tell them you have our word. Do this for me, for yourself.”

The combadge went dead. And then it dawned on me what a dimwitted fool I had been. I’d wasted my breath. He was prepared to delete himself (me) from the timestream. A temporal transporter leveled at me would force my conscription. It was still my choice to make.

“All right,” I shouted to the sky. “I’ll do it. Just don’t erase me.”

“You okay, Captain?” Officer Sims asked.

I didn’t hear the constable sneak up on me. His female partner always stayed behind the controls of number 36897, the black-and-white motor car they both traveled in. Fortunately for me, my behavior was not out of the ordinary and would not draw suspicion.

“Of course I’m fine,” I said. “What do you want?”

He always smiled and put his hat back on after stepping outside his machine. This was an overt display of his power and office, something that I should respect. And he always talked to me in soothing tones like we were friends instead of jailor and prisoner, our true status.

I always hated that about him.

“I was on my regular patrol and heard shouting. Sounded like some heated words between you and someone else. You’re not getting into arguments with the locals again, are you? Do we need to talk about this downtown?”

“We don’t have time for this. Get rid of him.”

Sims kept talking as if nothing happened.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“What was I supposed to hear?” Sims asked.

“Only you can hear me, you old fool. We’re in silent mode. I have a Betazoid communications officer. I dictate and he sends my commands down through the centuries to you, telepathically.”

Sims started to move toward me. Instinctively, I drew back away from him.

“Come on, Captain,” Sims said. “Let’s go.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said.

“No. Let him take you. You’ll get to the target faster.”

“And how am I supposed to carry out my mission behind bars?” I asked.

“What mission?” Sims asked.

I cleared my throat and said nothing. He led me over to the primitive transport, pushed my head down—crumpling my fedora in the process—and shoved me into the backseat, safely ensconced behind black grillwork.

Sims came round the vehicle and sat next to his partner up front.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“God, he stinks,” the partner said. “I’m rolling down the windows.”

Hate to admit it, but she was right. I smelled like a Bolian who was denied access to a bathroom for a week. Hard to tell out in the open, but in an enclosed space it became harder to deny. But I had bigger problems than olfactory ones. Topping that list was how I was supposed to get out of this automobile.

These little joyrides usually ended up with me led away in handcuffs to a holding cell and transferred to a mental hospital. I can be separated from my stuff for hours or days, depending on the mood of the arresting officer and damn doctors.

“Can’t wait to see you pull this one off,” I said.

Sims looked over his shoulder and gave me an uncomfortable smile. He turned to his partner and said, “Take the one-oh-one. It should be moving this time of day.”

“Good. The peacekeeper is making it easier on both of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said.

“Hey, Captain, you might want to keep the outbursts down to minimum. If you catch my drift,” Sims said. “Could be the difference between a chat with me and a stay at the hospital.”

I stared out the side window as the cityscape rushed past. Architecture was aesthetically unpleasing and functionally lacking. Log cabins or caves would be a step up from this squalor. Signs all over the urban sprawl demanded that the inhabitants KEEP THE CITY CLEAN.

What a joke. This had to be the dirtiest city on the planet. It wasn’t fit to house refugees from a war zone in my century. At least the part of the city I called home had the ocean, even if it was a pale comparison to the vastness of space-time. Something about the salt-scented breezes that curled around my alleyway comforted me.

“Go around back,” Sims said. He picked up a corded handset mounted to the dash and said, “Two-forty-seven-Baker bringing in a five-one-five-zero suspect.”

I started to speak, but my body was being taken apart one atom at a time. The powerful temporal transporter beam reached across the centuries to find me, destroy me, transfer me, and reconstruct me all in a moment’s time.

Materializing on a sidewalk in Los Angeles drew no one’s attention, typical behavior for these self-absorbed screw heads. I tilted my head skyward and shouted, “That was subtle. Well done.”

“Law enforcement of this era misplace criminals all the time.”

“I am no criminal.”

“Go stand on a street corner and do whatever displaced humans do in this timeframe.”

“Why didn’t you just beam me from the alley to here in the first place?” I asked.

“Chroniton flux readings would be too high for a transport of that distance. The time-traveling thieves would be alerted to your presence.”

I hated it when he was right. There appeared to be no other fellow outcasts who claimed this stretch of roadway. You don’t want to encroach on another unhoused human’s territory. I learned that lesson the hard way in the first few weeks of my exile.

I dug through a waste receptacle for a disposable container of their weakened version of raktajino. Red lip prints stained the sides and earthy dregs wafted from the one I retrieved. It was still warm to the touch. I always carried a stylus on me and scribbled an appropriate plea.

PLEASE GIVE. GOD BLESS

All that was left to do was to find a corner that afforded me a clear view of the Chronowerx building, then eke out whatever sympathies still resided in these vainglorious cretins. A shuffling gait usually elicited an appropriate response. A despondent look pasted to my face would help too.

I staked out a crossroads with a string of multicolored lights, which afforded me the best opportunity to mimic atypical behavior. The less fortunate frequented these intersections where those who rode in private transportation were obliged to stop.

Motor carriages of this era spewed toxic amounts of carbon monoxide. Society compelled its lowest ranking caste members to engulf the polluted air for a small recompense to be doled out at the driver’s whim. I’m sure I inhaled unsafe levels with my container held out, seeking alms. Most ignored me, some gave me a few coins or paper currency to make me go away.

And when the lights changed and the engines roared, I scampered out of the road to avoid being run down. I was digging through my cup, counting my take, when a new voice began speaking to me and me alone.

“Captain Braxton. This is Lieutenant Ducane. We serve together.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “For one thing, there’d only be room for one of us.”

“Sir, we serve aboard a Wells-class timeship, much larger than an Epoch-class.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“To warn you, sir. You may be suffering from the Atavachron effect. And retrieving you from the twentieth century runs some serious risks.”

“Good. I can use this information against myself,” I said. “Tell me more.”

“You have spent so many years, decades in fact, in Earth’s past that pulling you out and bringing you back to our present may kill you.”

“Sounds like poppycock to me,” I said.

“No, sir. There have been studies that show your memory engrams, even your biorhythms, are synced to the past from your lengthy stay. And just like a traveler prepared by the Sarpeidon device, a return trip to the future could be fatal. I have to end transmission. Good luck, sir.”

Why didn’t the other Captain Braxton warn me? What game was he playing?

I didn’t know what to say to Ducane. It had been far too long since another human being was humane to me. I started to thank him, but stopped. A young merchant standing behind a food cart stared at me with a distressed look on her face. Since she only heard one side of the conversation and I had no portable phone, she thought me quite mad.

I yelled at her and she moved farther down the street. Didn’t matter. I had work to do. Ducane instructed me to continue panhandling until dusk. Then I was to head over to the southwest corner of the building. Starling’s henchman resided just inside the double doors hunched over a primitive monitoring device.

I tried to remain inconspicuous digging through a waste receptacle just outside the well-manicured grounds. My actions would appear quite mundane to the unpracticed eye and afforded me a prime observation post. In short order, I was able to locate and log the guard’s activities down to the minute.

“Get ready”

It was Braxton this time.

“One step ahead of you,” I said.

After the guard exited the building, I gave him his requisite ninety seconds to cross the street and enter the motor car stables for their inspection.

“All clear.”

I trotted across the small parking lot in the rear of the building and stood in front of the double doors. My lock-picking skills were a little rusty, I admit, but I managed to get indoors in twenty seconds.

“Hurry up before he comes back.”

“This isn’t my first mission, Captain.”

Then it hit me all at once. The canned air was much cooler than the stifling heat that lingered outside. The feel of the cool air pressing against my skin was intoxicating. And I had a roof over my head, and just down that corridor was an indoor bathroom with soap and water. I bet they even had one with a shower. Oh, a shower would be heavenly, especially after years of bathing in the Pacific Ocean.

“Get moving before you are discovered. That’s an order, Captain.”

I had to at least walk into the bathroom, just once. No one could begrudge me that.

“Where are you going? You need to disable the electronic monitoring devices or risk discovery.”

The bathroom was everything I could have hoped for and more. And it had running water, running hot water and scented soap, just lovely. And to keep the voices in my head silent, I went over to the security station and quickly typed in a nasty virus. The shutdown happened a heartbeat after my fingers left the keyboard. The monitors went black, allowing me to move freely.

“Take the stairs. No time for the lift.”

There had to be a way to make the voices in my head stop talking. I made it to the stairwell and closed the door just as soon as the guard returned. I could hear him cursing over the crashed computer system and talking to someone named Tech Support.

“Proceed to the twenty-fifth floor. Hurry.”

“You have to be kidding,” I said. “Twenty-five floors!”

“Keep your voice down. The guard’s coming this way. Get to the top of the first flight and exit on the second floor. Don’t let the door slam.”

Time was short and a cat-and-mouse game with a security guard was a luxury I could ill afford. I turned left down a hallway and entered a large room filled with separate work stations and row after row of computers.

I ducked into a darkened closet that contained, among other things, discarded technology. The one device looked like a cryotube with a flashing red light. In the dark, I listened for the door to open and close and for approaching footsteps. After several minutes of nothing, I ventured back out.

There were so many empty stations, and the walls were painted a drab color of beige. The low hum of ceiling illumination stirred the silence. Flowing air rumbled through the overhead vents. I followed the carpeted footpath and passed another empty office. I became startled when the lights came on automatically. There must have been a motion detector I accidently tripped.

The only other sound I heard was the tick of a wall clock that was twenty minutes behind the time. I nearly panicked when I turned the corner and there was someone working. Fortunately, her back was to me and her ears trailed some type of wires. Perhaps she was hearing impaired. She remained oblivious to my presence and continued to push the waste barrel with wheels down the hallway.

“Head toward the exit, take the west stairwell, and ascend.”

“Keep an eye on the security guard,” I said.

“We’ll keep tabs on him. You retrieve the computer and wipe the hard drive.”

I wasn’t the confident young man I used to be. Staying psychically fit took a backseat to staying alive these many years. My legs throbbed after the first few flights of stairs. I decided to take the elevator the rest of the way up.

“Stop! What are you doing? You’re going to alert the security guard to your presence.”

“Look, I’m not going to make it to Starling’s office in time without some mechanical assistance. Unless, of course, you’d like to beam me to the twenty-fifth floor?”

“We’re getting too much interference. And even if it were possible, we don’t want to leave a trail of bread crumbs for those thieves.”

It took me a moment or two to work out the controls, but I got the lift moving. The most wretched music issued from its internal sound system. I endured the sonic barrage until the doors dinged open upon arriving at the twenty-fifth floor. I made for Starling’s office, thirty years too late.

What I would have given to be inside this building before I became a vagrant. A chance to rewrite history and reclaim my future by avoiding this mess altogether. Every knot, no matter how complicated, can be unraveled. It just takes time and patience, and armed with a new operational timeship I would have all the time in the universe.

“Wait while we turn off the silent alarm system.”

The door clicked open, and I stepped inside. The man’s office was just as gaudy and tacky as the man himself. This man-child littered his workspace with toys: a train set, a model Ferris wheel, and a pinball machine. I didn’t think I could despise him more. Again, I was proved wrong.

A high-backed throne sat at a marble-topped half-circle desk. The green wall behind had a bookcase overstuffed with nonsense Starling had written, multiple copies to fill the shelves. Awards and photos of himself with dignitaries and the like adorned the walls. He even displayed a trophy cup on his desk. I didn’t bother to read the engraving. More nonsense, I was convinced.

This whole room was like a pharaoh’s tomb, a monument to the oversized ego of a corrupt little man. I wanted to smash everything in it. He wrecked my life, it only seemed fair.

I was chuckling over a bronze monkey statue when I noticed the world map window broken and taped over. Through the cracks, I saw the room beyond. It was a hastily constructed hangar bay with a smashed pane-glass window covered in plastic. That’s where he flew the Aeon out over the city and the ocean beyond before heading into deep space to die.

My ship was imprisoned in these very same walls. He probably tortured the ship’s computer to free his secrets. I wouldn’t put it past that snake Starling. Recursive algorithms and a worm virus that slowly eroded his firewalls and safety protocols. Those same invasive programs ate away at his higher functions, making him more docile and compliant to that barbarian’s wishes.

I thought of the A.I. as a friend and a shipmate. His quick thinking saved both our lives on numerous occasions. Even if he was programmed to act independently when circumstances warranted it, like the time I was exposed to Thalaron radiation on Gamora V. The ship beamed me back aboard and plotted a course through time to the nearest Federation hospital.

“Well, where does he keep the computer?” I asked.

No reply. No chirp from my combadge. No voices in my head. Nothing.

Was this all fantasy? Did I break in here out of some misplaced feelings of revenge and concoct this whole scenario to protect my sense of right and wrong? Had I finally lost my feeble grasp on sanity? These thoughts crossed my mind. No, I decided that my imagination hadn’t gotten the better of me. Someone beamed me out of the police car. That was real.

Where would Starling hide his latest creation? Where else, but in plain sight.

Newspaper clippings and magazine advertisements of his latest technological terror had been gathered in a folder on his desk. I now knew what the computer looked like, but that was no help. The boxy hardware was just an empty shell. The program hid in the software of his workstation computer right in front of me. It had to be the answer.

I sat in the king’s chair and began my slow decryption of his passwords, malware, firewalls, and ghostings. The keyboard slowed me down considerably. I was accustomed to a more direct interface, a conversation between man and machine.

“You’ve got mail,” an automated voice announced.

I looked around the room and realized the computer had spoken. That wasn’t good. I clicked on the paper icon and the message popped up on the screen:

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Mission

You’re not alone anymore.

My verbal answer elicited no response. So I typed my reply:

From: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

To: Braxton@29Fed.org

Subject: Re: Mission

What does that mean? And why aren’t you using comm lines?

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Re: Mission

Too much interference. Finish the decryption. You’re running out of time.

From: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

To: Braxton@29Fed.org

Subject: Re: Mission

I’d be further along if I didn’t have to keep responding to these infernal messages.

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Re: Mission

Look for a break in the code. Something like this:

001001XXXXYYY0101

From: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

To: Braxton@29Fed.org

Subject: Re: Mission

I know what to look for and stop interrupting me.

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Re: Mission

Keep typing and don’t look up.

You should never tell a person not to do something, because invariably they will. And I was no different. I looked up to see two hazy outlines, humanoid in shape, struggling to break into this reality.

Another message marked urgent popped up.

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Re: Mission

I told you not to look up. Keep typing you have seconds.

Seconds until what? I didn’t bother to type that, but instead thought it. If I stopped answering maybe he’d stop sending stupid messages. I kept the search engine going, combing through terabytes of data seeking out the elusive code.

“Take your hands off the computer,” a voice commanded.

Vorgons. The time-traveling thieves were a pair of Vorgons.

They had beamed into the outer office. Purple-pink-skinned humanoids with rows of gills between eyes and mouth and a tapered mound of flesh like a mohawk atop their heads. They had golden cybernetic implants carved into the sides of their skulls, a low-tech, twenty-seventh-century recall device easily available on the black market for the right amount of credits. With a touch of a flipper, the Vorgon could be pulled back to his or her timeframe.

At the moment, the male leveled a red crystal in one outstretched flipper directly at my chest. The female began to slowly move toward me.

Another message popped up making an absurd sound.

From: Braxton@29Fed.org

Sent: Today, time unknown

To: H.Starling@chronowerx.org

Subject: Re: Mission

Click this hyperlink. Hurry.

“Step away from the computer,” the male said.

He was prepared to make good on his threat, but the mission came first, even before my own life. The hyperlink probably hid an overwrite virus of this century. No sense leaving more advanced code behind.

I used the computer to screen my hand moving left to right and clicked the mouse and icon floating on the computer screen. That one small click sounded like a gunshot. The Vorgon gave me a slight grimace before firing.

A blue energy blast lanced out. The beam bloomed against my chest, drove me into the bookshelf, and I spilled out of the chair and onto the carpeted floor. The female quickly stepped over me to get to the computer. The weapon had been set to stun, thank goodness. I was alive, but groggy. I could hear what they were saying through my fogged senses.

“This human has damaged the hard drive of this device,” she said. She looked down at me and waved a small handheld device over my body. It had to be some kind of tricorder.

“Boratus, he is not of this time, perhaps this world,” she said. “I’m reading low levels of chroniton radiation.”

“We agreed not to use names, Ajur,” Boratus said. “He’s probably a temporal agent.”

“Everybody freeze. Hands in the air.”

Although the speaker remained hidden from view, I recognized that voice. It was the same voice that sought out help from a person named Tech Support. The security guard had followed me to the top floor.

“Get up and disconnect the wires from the back of the data storage unit underneath the desk. Do it now while the guard distracts the two Vorgons.”

What he meant to say was do it before a gunfight erupts between a twenty-seventh-century antique and a twentieth-century artifact. Best not to think too much about orders and just carry them out. My vision blurred and doubled, but somehow I managed to grab all the yellow and blue cords and yank them out of the back of the device without arousing suspicion.

“Good. Now pick it up, walk three meters to your left, and toss it through the world map window.”

“In the middle of a standoff?” I asked. “Are you crazy?”

Fortunately, no one paid any attention to me or my outburst whatsoever. After thirty years in this wretched century, I expected nothing less from its inhabitants or visitors from another place and time.

I stood up with my back to the antagonists, shielding the computer tower in my hands. The guard and Vorgons were too preoccupied intently watching each other for provocative movements to worry about me, at first. When my intentions became clear, all eyes and weapons were trained on me.

My Vorgon was a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure he called me a Denebian slime devil and sprinkled a few curse words as both nouns and adjectives. Their grammar structure is fluid to say the least, worse than Federation Standard.

The guard spouted the same droll consequences of disregarding his dire warnings. Something along the lines of “Halt or I’ll shoot,” though I can’t be one hundred percent sure of that. At the time, I was more focused on crossing the few short meters that felt like kilometers.

Strange how time slows down in some moments and speeds up in others. The perception of time passing can easily be influenced by half a dozen different catalysts. While I waded through the swampy morass of what could have been my final moments, all I could think about was tossing this data storage device fifteen meters down to break open like a cybernetic melon on the gantry floor below.

The details of what happened next were slow to resolve in my mind. I did toss the computer tower through the window and shots were fired. Who fired first? Who got shot? Who tried to escape? Those answers became a bit blurry.

One fact became readily apparent, though. I thought Braxton had me destroy the tower to erase any twenty-ninth-century code left behind, and he did. But the true purpose was to bring down the wall of interference that blocked the Relativity’s temporal transporters from getting a lock.

Not a lock on me, but on the two criminals. Braxton was more concerned with doling out justice than saving himself. The Vorgons attempted an escape. The pair tapped the sides of their heads, adjusting and readjusting the controls on their black-market time-recall devices to no avail. (They probably bought a cheap knock-off from a particular Ferengi stolen-goods dealer who owns his own moon.) Ducane or another of Braxton’s subordinates kept one step ahead in the modulation.

This could only end one way.

The Vorgons managed to prolong the inevitable for as long as they could, but in the end they were pulled up the line. Ghostly screams warbled through the matter stream to mark their passing from this reality. The sound of their disembodied voices chilled my bones and left me covered in goose bumps. I was glad to see them go.

I had one problem left. How was I going to stop the bleeding? I didn’t even know that I’d been shot by a hunk of lead propelled by a chemical reaction. Like I said earlier, it was all kind of blurry. I slumped against the far wall. A good lie down was in order.

“Hang in there, mister,” the guard said. “I have to go down the hall and call a bus.”

He wanted to put me on a public transportation vehicle in my condition and at this hour? And they called me the crazy one. I was in no shape to give my assent or disagree. So I sat and bled and listened to his footsteps as he ran down the hallway to find a phone that worked.

A single chirp issued from my vest. They couldn’t even leave me in peace to die. I wonder if the service bothered Lynter in his final moments?

“Prepare for emergency beam out.”

It was a simple directive that required a simple answer that I was unable to give. My life was slipping away faster and faster. But in truth, I didn’t need to respond. They could tell how severe my injuries were. Just like they knew the medics of these dark ages had about as much chance at saving my life as a vole sprouting wings and flying.

I blacked out. Can’t say for certain how long I was out. When I came to, I immediately knew when I was, not so much where. I was back in the future in a sterile timeship’s dispensary. The past has such vibrant sights, sounds, and smells, not like the antiseptic insides of a timeship fully under way.

My safety was guaranteed by the timelock as long as I stayed aboard ship. Temporal shielding protected me from the vagaries of time. Beam down to anywhere but late-twentieth-century Earth, and I could be erased.

The surgery was a success, naturally. I would recover in record time under the careful attentions of Doctor Selsi. Ducane and Selsi were probably adolescents when I first took command of the Aeon. Either that or the service had begun recruiting child soldiers. Doctor Selsi had an annoying habit of telling and retelling me how lucky I was. I didn’t feel very lucky. And recounting the same sad facts that if the entry wound had been a few scant centimeters to the left, I would have died right there in Starling’s office.

Wouldn’t have mattered. Braxton would have just recruited me again and again until the mission was a success. I liked to think I knew him pretty well.

I paid myself a visit. My prior conversations were concerning one subject, my health, with one person, my doctor. I actually looked forward to speaking with myself.

“Well done Captain Braxton,” he said. “We have the two Vorgon criminals, Ajur and Boratus, in custody. We are in the process of dismantling their time-travel capabilities and wiping their memories before turning them over to the temporal authorities of their own time.”

“I want to go home,” I said.

“You are home,” he said.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I want my pushcart back. I want to sleep under the stars and heaven help me, I want those savages back too. It’s not the life I want. It’s the only life left for me. Don’t integrate me. Don’t erase the man I’ve become. Please.”

He just smiled and left me.

It has been over a week since I first held a two-person monologue with myself. I wondered why I didn’t just get beamed out of existence without a word of explanation instead of being put back down on twentieth-century Earth. And what’s to stop my future self or some other captain equipped with a timeship from returning to carry out my fate-worse-than-death sentence?

Nothing, but my plea for life and a promise I kept to myself.

The notion that my future self turned to me for an escape clause consoles me. Seems Braxton bought into Ducane’s theory too. I didn’t have to do that. I completed the mission and spared a life, my own.

I must admit that I don’t care for my cover name, Lynter. And yes, I’m fully aware of the irony of the situation. It becomes less and less funny over time, let me assure you of that.

Strangely enough, I awake and face each day with renewed enthusiasm. I was even glad to see Officer Sims and his partner. I’ve become a model citizen. And my daily outbursts have declined in intensity and frequency. I’ve even thrown away all my old doomsday signs, to the delight of this seaside town’s population and security personnel.

I still keep busy, though.

My current mission entails working up new signs to hang on every available lamppost, palm tree, and business establishment. I’m still in the business of saving lives. How does this sound?

THE BIG ONE HITS IN 2047

UPON THE BRINK OF REMEMBRANCE

Kristen McQuinn

THE BORG CUBE hovered in space, silent, its blunt lines inelegant and brutal in their sheer force. The planet below the cube had finally, irrevocably, fallen to the might of the Borg. Millions of new drones were awaiting assimilation in the chambers. The cube’s hot, humid interior hummed with activity, with the pulsating commands of the Queen to her drones, her silent voice echoing in every corner, every circuit of the dreadful ship. Species 3836 would add its biological and technological distinctiveness to the Collective.

In one corridor, past hundreds of terrified beings longing to escape, unable to force their bodies to fight the nanoprobes coursing through them, a drone led a young woman into the chamber. Sheer terror giving her strength, she broke free from the drone for a fleeting second. A second drone entered the chamber, overpowering the woman and forcing her onto the assimilation table. Restraints slid into place, holding her down, already wet with the blood and gore of its previous occupants.

Frantically, her eyes searched for escape, fighting the restraints that held her like iron, knowing resistance was, in fact, futile. Her heart hammered in her ears so hard she hoped it would burst before she had to endure the horror about to befall her. She sought the eyes of her captors, hoping to find a shred of compassion, some small spark of the individuals they must have once been, but they were dead, soulless. Drones. An electronic whirring began behind her. They were preparing her arm implants.

“No. No, please,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “Please don’t do this. My name is Eilara, I have a baby named Eryet, she needs me, don’t do this, DON’T DO THIS CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?” Her voice rose to a panicked scream as the two drones approached, their saws buzzing to life before them. Her screams turned agonized as saw rent flesh and bone, her arm dropping to the floor of the assimilation chamber. As the first drone bent over the raw stump and roughly fitted her arm implants into place, ignoring her agonized shrieks, the second drone leaned closer. Even through her pain, the young woman gasped to see a beautiful young woman looking down on her, a mirror of herself. Long blond hair and large blue eyes gazed back at her.

“Why do you resist? This is what you have longed for, isn’t it? Never forget who you are. Resistance is futile . . . Seven of Nine.”

With a muffled shriek, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, former Borg drone, opened her eyes, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Lifting a trembling hand, she swept her blond hair out of her eyes, which had somehow come loose during her regeneration phase. She distractedly noted that she was sweating.

“Seven! Are you all right?” The Doctor’s voice reached Seven of Nine through the comm system. “The computer reported a scream from your alcove.”

Seven experienced another moment of disorientation as she took in her surroundings. Realizing she was safe on Voyager, she took a breath and tapped her combadge.

“Seven here. I am fine, Doctor. Thank you for your concern.”

“But . . .”

“Seven of Nine out,” she said brusquely and disconnected the link.

Seven looked down at her feet, then abruptly sat on the steps of her alcove. Silently, she began to cry.

“Come in.”

The door to Captain Kathryn Janeway’s ready room slid open, admitting Seven of Nine. The tall, beautiful woman entered with an air of hesitancy that was not lost on the captain.

“Hello, Seven. What can I do for you?” Janeway asked with a small smile.

Seven halted halfway across the ready room and looked at the small woman seated behind the desk. In the months since her separation from the Collective, Janeway had helped the former Borg regain her humanity. She had unfailingly supported and encouraged Seven, chastised her, mentored her. The captain had already become more than a friend; Janeway had come to fill a maternal role that had been missing since Seven had been assimilated by the Borg.

“You are busy. I do not wish to disturb you,” Seven said, turning to leave. Janeway quickly strode toward the younger woman.

“Seven, wait. I know something’s been troubling you. Please tell me. Maybe I can help,” Janeway said, leading Seven to the couch. After a moment of resistance, Seven acquiesced and followed the captain. “Now, what’s bothering you?” Janeway asked gently.

“I have merely been having trouble regenerating. I have . . . been dreaming frequently, and it interrupts my regeneration cycle.”

Janeway sat silently, waiting. Seven fidgeted briefly, avoiding Janeway’s calm gaze. At last she looked up.

“Captain, do you ever have . . . nightmares?”

Janeway sat back, considering the question. “Yes, of course. They can be terribly disturbing. But don’t let them worry you. Everyone has nightmares from time to time.”

“Why?” Seven demanded.

“There can be lots of reasons. Personally, I think most nightmares are the mind’s way to sort things out that are upsetting, or that the conscious mind is stuck on.”

“Do you think they are a way of . . . of seeing into a person’s past life? Or making atonement for something bad a person did?” Seven asked intently. Janeway looked at the young woman across from her in surprise. Seven was so strong, so logical, in some ways, yet surprisingly innocent in others. She could unflinchingly face unknown dangers, yet her own humanity had the power to leave her a terrified, trembling child trapped in an adult’s body.

Just like the rest of us, Janeway thought to herself with some amusement. She looked steadily into Seven’s eyes, hoping the strength of her own personality would help to restore some balance to the young woman before her.

“I know that people used to believe that dreams are an insight into past lives, or some variation on that theme. But honestly, I don’t think that is the case. Besides,” she added, “the science doesn’t support the hypothesis.”

“So, you do not believe it?”

“No, I don’t. Seven, what was your dream? Maybe you’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

The other woman frowned, seeming to look inside herself for a moment. Her hand flexed involuntarily in remembered fear.

“I was in an assimilation chamber. I was a member of Species 3836. A woman named Eilara. I was being assimilated and, somehow, the nanoprobes had not worked, and I was fully conscious and aware of what was happening.” Seven’s voice became rough with remembered terror, her breath coming in short gasps. “I was begging the drones to release me, to return me to my child, a little girl, but they would not. They amputated my arm to fit my distal arm implant and I could see everything and then . . . I—” She stopped abruptly and looked up. Seven’s expression of fear and confusion made Janeway feel a surge of maternal protectiveness toward her.

“What is it? What’s frightening you, Seven?”

“It was me,” she said, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “I was being assimilated, but I was the drone as well.”

Commander Chakotay strode down the corridor, intent on the purpose of his current “mission.” The darkly handsome first officer carried a unique bundle in his arms that appeared to be made from the hide of a small animal. Chakotay entered cargo bay two and glanced around the semidarkness. He smiled when he caught sight of the person he sought and headed toward her.

“Commander Chakotay, how may I assist you?” Seven asked, granting a brief glance to the first officer as he approached.

“Actually, I was hoping I could assist you,” he said, leaning against the console. “The captain said you’ve been troubled with dreams lately. I know how disturbing dreams can be, and I’d like to help if you’ll let me.”

Seven wasn’t certain she was comfortable knowing the captain had been discussing her troubles with others, even the ship’s first officer. But if she was honest with herself, the dreams were disturbing her enough to start affecting her work. Her concentration was slipping; she had even asked the captain if she believed in past lives! Scientific nonsense. She was willing to try almost anything if it helped stop the frightening visions.

“Explain,” she demanded, her abrupt response a cover for the uncertainty she felt.

“I think it might help if you go on a vision quest,” Chakotay said. “If you look for a spiritual, rather than a scientific explanation, you may solve the problem of your dreams.”

Seven thought about Chakotay’s comment, her fingers still on her console. Slowly she turned to face him. Chakotay smiled gently, trying to make her at ease.

“I’ll be your guide, if you’ll let me. I’ll show you my medicine bundle so you’ll have an idea of what you should put in your own,” he said, motioning to the package he brought with him. “Part of the journey is finding what items are meaningful to you, what holds a piece of your spirit. They will help guide you on your vision quest, ground you to yourself while your spirit wanders. I can help you if you need it, though I think you will be surprised to find assembling the medicine bundle is the easier part.”

“I . . . appreciate your offer, Commander. But I do not see how inducing hallucinations will help me eliminate disturbing dreams,” Seven said bluntly.

Chakotay smiled. He wasn’t offended. The first officer knew that Seven’s brusque attitude was an attempt to conceal confusing and frightening emotions. Besides, Chakotay wasn’t the type to be offended by a lack of understanding.

“Not hallucinations, Seven. Visions. Waking dreams,” he clarified. Seeing her eyebrow rise in skepticism, he pressed on. “Think of it as a semiconscious REM state. It is like being able to manipulate and analyze your dreams. And that is what you need to do. Figure out what it is within you that’s causing your dreams and work through it.”

Seven stared hard at the first officer, trying hard to find a scientific reason to refuse his offer. The Doctor had run a full exam on her and found no abnormalities, and a comprehensive scan of her Borg implants revealed no malfunctions. She was at an infuriating impasse and she knew it. She sighed.

“Very well. But I do not see how it can possibly help, Commander. The Doctor has already given me a complete physical and pronounced me in excellent health.”

“All the more reason to look to a more spiritual explanation, Seven,” Chakotay said calmly. “When science fails to give us an explanation, there is no harm in seeking answers from our spirit guides, as my father taught me. I used to think it was ridiculous, too, but I’ve come to understand and appreciate the connection to the spirit. You might be surprised at what you learn.”

Seven looked away from Chakotay’s earnest expression. She was surprised to find herself trembling slightly in apprehension. She cleared her throat and looked him firmly in the eye.

“What do I need to do?”

Screams split the air, and the heavy, metallic stench of blood hung in the chamber. Echoes and whispers, only partially audible, reverberated through her mind. Sickly green lighting and suffocating heat completed the nightmare scene.

We are Borg. Your biological and technological distinctiveness is being added to our own. You wanted to come back. Welcome home, Seven of Nine . . .

“No!”

“It’s all right, Seven,” came Chakotay’s voice, soothing her. “Tell me what is happening. Where are we?”

“I’m . . . it is . . . an assimilation chamber,” she said tremulously. “Why do they not see us?”

“It’s part of your vision quest. Your body is safe on Voyager. Keep talking to me.”

“The drones are assimilating her. It is the same as in my dreams. She is conscious and resisting assimilation, and the second drone, that one”—she indicated the smaller of the two, which had its back to them—“is me. I am assimilating her. Only the person on the table is me as well. I am being assimilated.”

“How is that possible? Think. What is your dream telling you?” Chakotay asked. He gently touched her shoulder. “Go look. What do you see? I am beside you.”

Seven drew a shuddering breath and haltingly stepped toward the woman thrashing in terror and pain on the table. The woman looked directly at Seven as she approached. At a glance, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Seven herself, and Chakotay could understand why his crewmate was so unsettled. It was only on close inspection that the minute differences were apparent. The woman had green eyes with horizontal pupils, her hair a shade lighter. Beyond that, Seven felt as though she were looking into a mirror. Involuntarily, she stiffened and resisted going closer. Chakotay’s steady presence calmed her and she drew a deep breath, looking closer at the other woman.

“Tell me about them,” Chakotay urged. “What do you know about them?”

“Everything. We are Borg. They were assimilated,” Seven replied impatiently.

“Seven, please.”

“Species 3836. Lynnrali.” She sighed. “They inhabited a Class-M planet they called Lynnra, near a stellar nursery nebula in sector zero-six-zero. Humanoid, similar in appearance to Earth humans. They have a slightly longer typical life span than humans, fewer offspring. They have extensive theoretical knowledge of warp mechanics, but the radiation from the nebula prevented them from being able to create a stable warp field. They were isolated from having contact with other civilizations because of the nebular activity, but they did have intermittent communication with the planet nearest the nebula in sector zero-five-zero.”

On the table, another harrowing scream erupted from the woman as she fought against the horrors the drones were inflicting on her. Seven flinched.

“Keep remembering, Seven. What else?”

“They . . . they were extremely advanced in medical sciences, more advanced than the Federation. They have a rich literary culture and . . . and . . .”

“What is it, Seven? What was this woman’s name?” Chakotay whispered.

“Her name is Eilara. She was a widow. Her daughter is Eryet. She would sing duets with her little girl at home. She loved reading and was so proud that her daughter had also learned to read so young. How can I know these things?”

The assimilation chamber pulsed with a ghoulish light, the heat closing in around Seven and Chakotay. The woman, Eilara, screamed again, seeming to look directly at them.

“Please don’t do this! My name is Eilara, I have a little girl, her name is Eryet. She needs me . . .”

“Seven, open your eyes. It’s okay, you’re safe. The vision quest is over for now.”

Gasping for breath, a strangled cry escaped Seven’s throat. Disoriented, she looked wildly about her and jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. She blinked in confusion and stared into Chakotay’s warm eyes. The slight crow’s lines were accentuated by his striking tattoo on his temple and she focused on that until her head stopped spinning. Now that she saw him, she remembered agreeing to participate in a vision quest. They were seated on the deck of his quarters, the items of their medicine bundles before them, their hands gently touching the akoonah, the device that initiated the spiritual visionary journey of Chakotay’s people.

“Did you know you were speaking along with the woman on the table?”

“No,” Seven replied shakily. “I was unaware that I was . . . I’m sorry, Commander.”

“It’s all right, Seven.” Chakotay sat back on his heels and considered her thoughtfully. “That was a very unique experience, even for a vision quest. How do you feel about it?”

Seven started to answer immediately, then paused. A slight frown creased her brow, and she shook her head. “I am uncertain. I was sure that this vision quest would yield nothing, that I would see nothing. But then I was in the assimilation chamber, seeing that woman, me, the drones, and I felt . . . I thought . . .” Chakotay waited patiently, knowing she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. “For many months after Captain Janeway severed me from the Collective, I wanted nothing more than to return to them. To restore order to the chaos of my emotions and thoughts, to hear the thoughts of the other Borg in my mind. But I have come to value my individuality, and now, seeing the assimilation chamber, I am frightened. I do not wish to have these dreams any more. I do not wish to see these visions, or know that this woman’s name was Eilara, who sang to her daughter named Eryet.”

“Why do you know these things about this woman and not about other individuals you assimilated during your time as a drone?” Chakotay asked softly. Seven drew a shuddering breath, not quite a sob.

“She was the last individual I assimilated before Captain Janeway severed my link to the Borg.”

What is it about sickbays that always makes me feel like there’s not quite enough oxygen in the room? Captain Janeway wondered as she strode toward her chief medical officer and Chakotay. The holographic physician was standing beside an exam table where Seven was lying still, the diagnostic console above her just receding back into its niche.

“Report, Doctor,” Janeway ordered.

The Doctor sighed, his usual mix of irritation and arrogance replaced with curiosity and mild concern. He scowled at the monitor before him, on which was displayed the results of Seven’s physical. Janeway smothered a smile as he redirected the scowl at her first officer.

“Well. This little exercise of yours, Commander, appears to have done something interesting to Seven’s neural pathways. When she came to me just two days ago, her brain scans looked like this.”

The holographic doctor pulled up a display of a neural chart. The wavy lines were indecipherable to Janeway; however, even she could see a marked distinction between the first and the second pattern. “I completed a second scan after Seven and Chakotay went on their vision quest. Typically, the neural stimulators used by the akoonah are harmless, but something seems to have triggered a unique synaptic response in Seven.”

“Meaning what, Doctor?” Janeway asked, taking an unconsciously protective stance beside Seven, who now sat up on the exam table.

“I don’t know yet, Captain. I’m not sure how Seven’s Borg implants are influencing the psychotropic effects of Chakotay’s akoonah, or if they are affecting each other at all. This could simply be a coincidence, a physiological event that would have occurred regardless of the vision quest.”

“Is Seven in danger?” asked Chakotay, a stricken expression on his face. He was a gentle man; the thought that he might have been the cause, however unintentional, of harm coming to his friend was unbearable to him. The Doctor shrugged.

“I can’t say for certain, Commander. Neurology is always a gamble when Borg implants are involved in the mix. For now, she is stable and can return to duty.” The Doctor turned to Seven, who was sitting uncharacteristically passively on the exam table. “Seven, I’d like for you to wear this neural monitor.” Without waiting for her reply, he attached a small device behind Seven’s ear. “This will help me find the specific neural pathway that is being triggered. It should help me find a treatment that will allow me to stop your dreams of Eilara.”

Seven blinked as if her mind had been wandering, then her gaze focused on the Doctor. She seemed momentarily confused.

“Yes, that is fine. Thank you, Doctor. Now I must go or I’ll be late.”

“Late?” Janeway asked.

“I must pick up my daughter from school shortly. Today is the fourth day, and on those days we always walk home past the bakery to buy the sweet rolls she likes. We have them for dessert after dinner.”

The three Starfleet officers exchanged startled glances. The Doctor put a restraining hand on Seven’s arm and began a new scan.

“Seven, actually, you will need to stay in sickbay. I cannot return you to duty at this time,” the Doctor stated. Seven blinked again and started slightly.

“Doctor. I am fine. I am willing to wear the neural monitor, if that is your concern. I will not remove it.”

Janeway’s stomach dropped. She had dealt with delirium, illness, injury in her crew before. She knew the pain and confusion it could cause. Yet somehow, seeing it in Seven was as unsettling to her as anything in her past experience. For all of Seven’s vulnerabilities and insecurities, the former Borg seemed always above typical human ailments. To see Seven affected by physical infirmities seemed wrong to Janeway somehow, and served to highlight the precarious situation her entire crew was in by being stranded so far from home and help.

“Seven,” Janeway said, stepping closer to the younger woman, “you just said that you had to go pick up your daughter from school.”

“That is not possible,” Seven stated flatly. “I do not have a daughter. The woman, Eilara, had a daughter. Perhaps you misunderstood.”

The Doctor, who had been surreptitiously scanning Seven since her unusual outburst, frowned even more deeply than before and moved to a secondary diagnostic console. He pulled up a new scan and placed it next to the other two which were still on the display above the exam table. Janeway and Chakotay moved to the Doctor’s side and stared at the newest data. Janeway forced herself to remain patient while he reviewed the information, though it took monumental willpower. At length, he turned back to Seven.

“In the few moments between the second and third scans, there are changes in your neural pathways, just enough to cause a fluctuation in the overall reading of your brain wave patterns. Not enough to pinpoint the specific synaptic connections that are affected. Yet,” he corrected, “though with further monitoring, I will be able to find the precise connection and create a treatment for it.”

“And that will stop the nightmares I am having about this woman?” Seven asked the Doctor, almost plaintively. She looked like a vulnerable child, for once surrounded by people and objects that were frightening and incomprehensible. Perhaps there was an element of the child in her after all, Janeway thought to herself. Seven had been assimilated at such a young age, after all; it was just possible that the child still needed to be reassured every now and then. What better time than when facing nightmares and frightening medical diagnoses?

“Yes,” the Doctor said softly. “It will, Seven.”

“What I’m wondering is why the vision quest has had this effect on her?” Chakotay asked. “My people have used the akoonah for years with no detrimental effects at all. And the vision quest has been a part of my culture for centuries. Nothing like this has ever been recorded.”

“I blame the Borg implants,” the Doctor began.

“No, it is not the Borg technology,” Seven interrupted. “Species 3836 had highly advanced medical and technological knowledge; the nebula was all that prevented them from creating a static warp field that would have allowed them to leave the planet to explore the galaxy. Those medical and warp field advancements are why the Borg wanted to assimilate them. They held off complete assimilation for a time, partly because of the nebula. They employed a program in which each of their citizens, upon birth, was implanted with a DNA-based chip that recorded their entire life. If assimilated, they hypothesized it would create a bioelectric feedback loop in the Borg that could allow warp-capable societies to find a genetic vulnerability to defeat them.”

Before she had finished speaking, the Doctor moved back to the computer and had begun an analysis on her scans. He was thoroughly irritated with himself that he hadn’t considered such a possibility, and determined to make up the lost time now. Janeway looked thoughtfully at Seven.

“Seven, this is a bad time to ask, but can you tell us more about the Lynnrali warp mechanics? You said they were highly advanced. Would we be able to integrate their technology into Voyager’s systems?” Seven shook her head.

“Possibly. But I am unable to recall anything useful about their warp mechanics, or their medical technology, or anything besides Eilara’s memories while I am awake, and only nightmares when I regenerate,” Seven replied with frustration. “Yet I can remember the tune of her child’s favorite song.” Quietly, Seven began humming a lilting melody. Janeway motioned Chakotay aside.

“Commander, did Seven’s vision quest have any unusual effects on you at all?”

“None, Captain. The visions I saw with her were intense, but I experienced nothing that was unexpected in a vision quest. Nor,” he added, “did Seven. Her experiences were typical for one’s first vision quest. She had the same confusion and disorientation that everyone has, but she was fine otherwise.”

Janeway placed a comforting hand on her first officer’s arm. “This isn’t your fault, Chakotay. Don’t blame yourself.” He tried to smile in return and failed, too concerned about Seven to heed her words. Janeway’s scientific background reared its head, and with it, her captain’s logic and training. An idea began to form in her mind, along with a cautious hope. “I have a mission for you, Commander. If Seven is able and willing, I think I know how we can find out about those advanced warp mechanics after all.”

I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry. I hated when I wasn’t already waiting outside her classroom, ready to pick her up. It made her worry that I wasn’t going to be there. It was because one time, her father was supposed to pick her up from school. He never came. He died in an accident on his way to get her that day, and she has been traumatized by it ever since, has never forgotten how scared she felt that no one would come for her ever again. I can’t blame her for that. Not when I feel the same way. Maybe that’s selfish or immature of me. It isn’t his fault he died. But I still feel like he abandoned me too.

“Mama!” Eryet runs toward me, a smile lighting her face like the sun. “Can we walk to the bakery?” she asks, though she knows perfectly well what my answer will be.

“Of course we can. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

And so we went on our way, our ritual done, thoughts of loss and fear pushed to the back of my mind for now as I walked with my child into the beautiful day together. As we walked, we sang, our voices lilting together, sometimes uneven as the crowds jostled us, or when I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. One old grandmother stopped to listen to us, a smile on her otherwise sad face. I waved at her as we passed, glad that something had brought her some joy that day, even if it was just a mother singing with her child. I didn’t notice at first when the sky darkened above us.

Seven panted, harsh and fast, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She had scrambled off of the exam table and was backed into a corner of sickbay, lucid one moment and terror stricken the next. Chakotay and the Doctor both stood before her with worried expressions. The three had been working steadily on the captain’s hypothesis to retrieve information about the Lynnrali warp mechanics from Seven’s collective Borg memories for hours by guiding her through her visions. However, her declining neural functions were limiting their success and both Starfleet officers were unwilling to continue the risk for much longer. The Doctor reached for a medical tricorder but was unable to get close enough to Seven to properly scan her. The first officer took a step forward, his hands open in a calming gesture of comfort.

“Seven, it’s me. It’s Chakotay. You’re safe, on Voyager. What are you seeing?”

“It’s okay, Eryet,” Seven said, her voice shaking. She held her arms out as though keeping something behind her. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Chakotay stepped forward, quick as a snake, and gently but firmly grabbed Seven’s wrists. “Seven! Listen to my voice. You are having a vision but you are safe. I need you to tell me what you’re seeing.”

Seven blinked as though waking from a dream and exhaled slowly. Chakotay could feel her hands trembling in his and he gave them a reassuring squeeze before releasing them. She raised them before her, examining them as though uncertain they belonged to her. She drew another breath and looked about her, suddenly realizing she was crouched in a corner of sickbay. She stood upright and stepped toward the two men, flinching only slightly when the Doctor raised a medical scanner to her face.

“I . . . the sky is dark. Eryet and I were walking home, singing. We passed an old woman, and I waved to her. The sky became dark.” She spoke in a flat monotone that did nothing to hide the dread she felt. Chakotay wondered who was feeling the dread the most–Eilara or Seven. “It was the Borg; they had arrived in low geosynchronous orbit directly above the city. Multiple cubes, preparing for a massive assimilation operation.”

Seven sat heavily on the edge of the exam table, seemingly drained of energy. That in itself told Chakotay how rattled she really was. Usually, Seven seemed like a spring tightly wound, on the verge of erupting from an excess of energy. Even her clothes, normally with crisp and clean lines clinging to her slim body, somehow seemed slightly wilted.

“A planetary assault?”

Seven nodded. “The Lynnrali had the ability to regenerate organs in a way that the Borg considered superior.” The young woman shuddered, her eyes haunted and unfocused. “It would make assimilation more efficient.”

Seven blinked and gasped suddenly, jerking back from him.

“What?”

“I said the progress on the new program is going efficiently, love,” Andrest told me with almost childlike excitement. “So efficiently that it’s being presented before the Planetary Science Council next month.”

“Next month? But surely that won’t be enough time to prepare everything?” I cried in surprise. I knew my husband and his colleagues were brilliant, but that seemed like an impossible deadline. He laughed his delightful, wild laugh and kissed me. “Where do you think I’ve been all these long days? We’ve been holed up in the lab, getting ready for even the chance of this! Now we have it, and the hard work is past us. Small refinements to the presentation are all that remain. After that, I truly think that the Council will approve this for the general population.”

“Andrest, that’s amazing! I am so proud of you,” I said. I genuinely meant it. He was one of a handful of scientists in the world with the skill and knowledge to create and carry out the audacious plan the government and Science Council had dreamt up together. A plan that could, with luck and bravery, allow us to hold out against the Borg.

“Seven, I’m not Andrest. I need you to try to focus,” came Chakotay’s voice. “I know we’ve been working at this for hours and it’s difficult to block out Eilara’s voice. But try to think beyond her memories. Remember? The captain needs you to tell me about the Lynnrali’s warp mechanics so we can upgrade Voyager’s warp drive.” He seemed very far away to her. The Doctor moved swiftly to Seven’s side, an alarmed look on his face as he waved his med scanner over her. She blinked in disorientation.

“Her neural functions are deteriorating rapidly, Commander.” The hologram waved his hand toward the display above Seven, which held a view of her continuing brain scans. “I’m working as fast as I can to isolate the specific pathways that are being triggered, but if I can’t find them quickly, her systems are going to start shutting down.” Seven gasped again and shook her head as through trying to clear it.

“They approved it!” Andrest told me. “The Council looked at the data we presented, along with the evidence from you and the other control group participants. We will begin work with the Center of Citizens and the Council of Medical Practitioners to manufacture the implants. The Center of Citizens will handle existing citizens; the Medical Practitioners will fit newborn citizens with their implants. We will liaise with both and provide the technical expertise they need.”

This was the biggest day of his career. He could do anything from here on out, make his way in any council or government agency he wanted. He could become the First Elected Official, if he thought to run for the office. But he only wanted to continue his research, to help people, especially children. I was flooded with warmth and turned to him. He must have seen something in my expression because he stopped his excited pacing and focused on my face.

I said, “I am glad you’ll be working so closely with the Medical Practitioners. You should have the process perfected by the time we add our child to the citizen registry. I trust that seven months will give you ample time to get it right?”

He had to have suspected, but still his mouth dropped open. Then he threw his head back and shouted a laugh to the sky, grabbing me and spinning us around in a giddy dance.

“Eilara! A child, truly?” He held me at arm’s length, looking at me as though he was seeing me for the first time, then pulled me close to him. “A child. Thank you, beloved.”

“You are crying,” I said, reaching up to his face.

Chakotay took Seven’s hand gently from his face. “She’s obviously rapidly getting worse.”

“Excellent diagnosis,” the Doctor muttered sarcastically from his work station. Chakotay ignored him.

“Can we connect the computer directly to Seven’s cortical node and see what she is seeing? Maybe it will help us find the data the captain is looking for on their warp mechanics.”

The Doctor paused, considering. “Yes, I believe so, Commander.”

“It’s worth a shot. B’Elanna and Harry can help sort it out if Seven isn’t able to. Is she stable enough to try it?”

“I am, Commander,” came Seven’s response, somewhat weakly, from behind him. Chakotay turned quickly at the sound of her voice, surprised to find her lucid once more. She was pale and shaken but, for the moment at least, was clear-minded. “Though you should hurry. I can feel her memories pushing into my thoughts. I do not know how to fight it.”

“This is an injection of lexorin. It will help suppress the memories of the Lynnrali woman,” the Doctor said, pressing a hypospray against Seven’s neck. The device hissed as it painlessly delivered the medicine into her bloodstream. Seven nodded.

“I can still remember that other life, but it is easier to ignore. For now, I suggest we get to work, Commander.”

“Species 3836. Lynnrali. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile.”

It was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard in my life. Andrest had fallen asleep at his desk one night, poring over government reports in one hand while cradling Eryet in his other arm. Even at his busiest, he never wanted to miss bonding time with our new daughter. I don’t know how he managed it. There were still days when I felt lucky if I could manage to get a shower for myself.

I had gone into his study to take the baby to bed, found them both asleep in his armchair, and left them there while I cleaned up his desk. I accidentally bumped the screen on the desk and it began playing automatically. The volume was low, so Eryet thankfully didn’t wake up, but that made it even more terrifying for me, hearing that horrific threat come through in a soft whisper. It sent a chill straight through my soul.

That quiet whisper of sound was enough to jolt Andrest out of his sleep. His gaze focused immediately on my horrified face and he pointed to the computer. “Eilara, turn that off. Now.” He had never once spoken to me in that tone, and I obeyed out of pure surprise. Normally he would never dream of speaking to me like that. He must have seen something in my eyes because he was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I snapped. I’m sorry you heard that awful recording.”

“Is that something you received from them? Did . . . were they . . . ?” I didn’t even know what to ask, how to articulate my horror and terror. Andrest shook his head.

“It was recorded from one of the satellites, many years ago. They were in orbit, just one ship, and they sent this message. Moments later, the ship was destroyed by a nebular storm. It is the first time we had heard about the Borg. You know all we have learned about them since. We have been lucky, living in the nebula. We have been shielded from them a little because of it.” He paused and shifted the baby in his arms. When he looked up at me, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that I had never seen before. “But this is why I do what I do. To protect you and Eryet. Because I am terrified. And I am furious, because there is nothing, nothing, we can do to stop them, and we have nowhere to go.”

“How are you holding up, Seven?” Chakotay asked. They had successfully linked her cortical node to the computer after Seven had programmed her regeneration alcove to communicate with sickbay’s systems. The Doctor had refused to allow her to make the attempt outside of sickbay, so they’d had to compromise. Thus far, they had had limited success in accessing the wealth of knowledge that she retained about the Lynnrali’s warp technology. Additionally, the flashbacks to Eilara’s life were coming faster, further impeding their efforts. Seven was nearly apoplectic with frustration.

“It is unacceptable,” she stated. “As a drone, I had access to all the information about Species 3836. It is still there. I must remember!”

“As I’ve told you,” the Doctor said with thinly veiled impatience, “the Lynnrali implant created a DNA-specific bioelectric feedback loop. That is why you are reliving this woman’s memories rather than accessing more general and helpful information. Now stop obsessing about it and relax. You’re not helping.”

“Fine,” Seven snapped. “I am relaxed.”

The Doctor merely rolled his eyes and turned back to his screen. He had narrowed in on a small sector and was close to identifying the neural pathways that he needed to disrupt in order to stop her visions. He had made an unsettling discovery during his research, however, and he was wary of proceeding too quickly with a treatment protocol. He advised that the link would soon need to be disconnected, which was met with Seven’s expected resistance.

“I will maintain the link between your cortical node and the computer,” the Doctor said, “for now, but only as long as you remain stable.” Seven began to object; the Doctor cut her off, a finger pointed at her threateningly. “I am the chief medical officer on this ship. I will decide if you are stable or not. If you’re in danger, I am breaking the link whether you have your information or not. My duty is to you as my patient, Seven. Is that clear?”

Seven of Nine nodded tersely and returned to Chakotay’s side. She would not allow a flaw to stop her. She would prove to the captain and crew that she would not fail them, even if it killed her.

“What if we tried your akoonah again? It seemed to intensify my visions, so might it not help us hone in on the information we need? Perhaps with the heightened intensity from the akoonah, I might be able to recall more valuable data.”

“No,” replied Chakotay and the Doctor in unison. Chakotay continued, “Seven, using the akoonah somehow initiated the bioelectric feedback. I’m not willing to risk further injury to you for this. If we can figure it out on our own, that’s great. But not at the cost of your health. I’m about to pull the plug on the whole thing as it is, no matter how much the Lynnrali technology can improve our warp drive.”

“It is my health to risk.”

“The answer is no. That’s an order,” he commanded. For a moment, Chakotay saw a belligerent lift to Seven’s chin, then she sighed in resignation and nodded.

“I understand. You did everything you could.”

“Sorry?”

“He is gone. Was it fast? He didn’t suffer?”

The surgeon looked at me with sympathy. She seemed kind. I couldn’t remember her name. Only that she had just told me that my husband was dead. I didn’t feel anything. Shouldn’t I feel something? I only felt a howling numbness rising up to enclose me.

“Doctor!” Chakotay’s voice jolted Seven, and she jumped, startled. He was cradling her against his chest, and she was puzzled to realize that he was carrying her to the biobed.

“I’m fine,” she tried to say, and was horrified when inarticulate grunts were all she could manage. Chakotay gently placed her on the exam bed and moved aside to make room for the Doctor, who closed the diagnostic console over her. Seven’s body began convulsing uncontrollably.

“She’s aphasic and seizing. Her neural pathways are aggressively misfiring, and I don’t know why, but it’s causing a rapid decline of her body’s systems. Quick, hand me that hypospray.”

Chakotay gave the device to the Doctor and watched helplessly as the hologram injected its contents into his friend’s slender neck. The effect was immediate; Seven stopped convulsing, and her eyes slid closed. “What’s happening to her?” The Doctor ignored him and placed a small device on her forehead. The device emitted a soft beep as the Doctor activated it, and Seven’s features went completely slack. Chakotay thought she looked peaceful, and young, and very, very innocent. “Doctor, report!”

“We have a problem. I need to talk to Captain Janeway.”

Lieutenant Tom Paris was the last person to enter the conference room. As he took his seat at the glossy black table, his glance toward the captain alerted him that she was concerned and trying not to show it to her crew; he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way she folded her hands before her, gripped together as though she was holding on to a cup of coffee that was no longer there.

Ensign Harry Kim leaned toward him. “Where’s the Doc and Seven?” he whispered to his friend. Paris shrugged theatrically.

“That’s why we’re here, Ensign,” Captain Janeway stated, hearing Kim’s aside. “Seven is in sickbay; the Doctor will be joining us shortly. We have a situation.”

“Is Seven all right?” asked Neelix. The small Talaxian leaned forward, his concern writ large on his expressive face. Of all the members of Voyager’s crew, he had been among the first to accept Seven for herself, to welcome her and try to help her to integrate her lost humanity with the woman who had been created by the Borg. He genuinely cared for every member of the crew, Janeway knew, but he had a special fondness for the former Borg, which had been all the more surprising to her since Seven’s arrival coincided with Kes’s departure. Janeway had worried Neelix would forever link the drone’s arrival with that unhappy event.

“No, she’s not.” Chakotay’s normally soft-spoken voice was sharp, highlighting his worry. “She had been having what she thought were nightmares. I convinced her to go on a vision quest. Now she’s in a coma in sickbay.”

“A coma?” Kim exclaimed, leaning forward on his elbows. “From what? What happened?”

Chakotay shook his head in helpless frustration and motioned to the large screen on the wall. The Doctor’s visage appeared from sickbay, looking distracted and harried. He had been looking back over his shoulder, checking on his patient, when he linked in to the conference room, and now he turned his attention to the officers gathered around the table.

“Yes, Ensign. I induced a medical coma in Seven a short time ago to preserve her higher brain functions. Until I can come up with a treatment to stop her visions, which were somehow activated by Commander Chakotay’s akoonah, her neural pathways are degrading and shutting down her body functions.”

“Wait a minute,” B’Elanna Torres interrupted, suspicion dripping from her voice. “I’ve gone on a vision quest too. They aren’t dangerous; why should it affect Seven like that? Shouldn’t her Borg implants prevent anything like this from happening?”

Janeway stifled a sigh. Torres was a brilliant engineer, the best she had ever worked with. However, her half-Klingon heritage made her among the most difficult to work with as well and, unlike Neelix, she had yet to accept a former Borg drone as a crewmate. The Doctor huffed slightly. The captain was uncertain if he was put out that the Borg technology had failed Seven, or if he was offended that Torres seemed to be questioning his medical expertise. He sighed and ran a hand over his bald pate as he replied.

“Normally, yes. From what Seven was able to tell us before her condition deteriorated to dangerous levels, the Lynnrali created a program specifically designed to cause this sort of bioelectric feedback loop within the Borg’s mainframe.”

Kim shook his head, his bright black eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Captain, if the Lynnrali managed to create this advanced a program, down to the genetic level, why didn’t it cause the feedback loop in the Borg when they assimilated it? Why is it affecting Seven so much, and why now?”

“It was a minute alteration, which is why it seems not to have had any impact on the Borg as a whole. Whether it will allow us, or anyone else, to take advantage of it in the future has yet to be seen. As for Seven, the Doctor thinks it was not fully integrated into her Borg systems before she joined our crew. But for now, that isn’t the main concern.” Janeway tapped the interface before her and an image materialized on the screen beside the Doctor. Alien script flowed across, indecipherable to the universal translator but apparent to all that it was a highly complex mathematical equation. “This is a partial recording from Seven’s cortical node. She was working to help Chakotay retrieve it before the Doctor placed her in the medical coma. We were trying to access her Borg memory of the Lynnrali. Specifically, their warp mechanical theory.”

“Why, Captain?” Kim asked, voicing the thought the other officers shared. “What was Seven doing to cause this? I don’t understand what could be so important that she would risk her life like that.”

“I asked her to,” Janeway said. Kim blinked in surprise. “I never would have if I had known it would become so dangerous to her, but . . .”

The captain stood and paced to the screen, staring intently at the equations before her as if sheer force of will could compel her to understand them. She turned to face her senior officers, her blue eyes burning with determination and hope.

“The Lynnrali warp mechanics were more advanced even than the Borg transwarp conduits. If we can interpret this information from Seven’s cortical node, Voyager could get home in a matter of weeks.”

“I don’t trust this, Chakotay,” Torres said. “I mean, how likely is it that the Borg would assimilate a whole species like they’ve done god knows how many times, and only now does it affect the one drone we happen to be traveling with? Seems pretty convenient.”

Torres and Chakotay were heading to cargo bay two and Seven’s regeneration alcove. Harry Kim was already there, studying the fragments of Lynnrali data, working to directly link the computer to the regeneration unit. He and Torres hoped that working directly with the Borg technology in the alcove would allow greater efficiency in accessing the information buried in Seven’s cortical node, bypassing the bioelectric loop caused by the Lynnrali chip.

“Of course, it could allow greater efficiency in assimilating us,” Torres continued as they entered the cargo bay. Chakotay and Kim exchanged a subtle glance. “What?” Torres demanded. “You never know. How do you know she wasn’t sent here by the Borg to assimilate Voyager?”

“Come on, B’Elanna.” Chakotay sighed. “Seven’s been with us for months. She’s part of our crew now. If she wanted to assimilate us, I’m sure she would have done so by now. Starting with you.”

“Very funny. I just don’t trust her,” Torres grumbled.

“Doc says she’s in a coma,” Kim said. “She’s not going to fake that. Or visions.”

“Honestly, Starfleet,” she retorted, using her pet name for Harry, “you’re too trusting.”

“Enough!” Chakotay barked. “We have a job to do, and a crew member who needs our help. We need to figure this out, and maybe if we’re lucky, we can all be back in the Alpha Quadrant soon instead of fighting for every single breath we take out here.”

Torres had known Chakotay longer and better than anyone left on the crew. To hear such an atypically tired and defeated sentiment from him told her more than anything how deeply guilty he felt about Seven’s condition. Without another word, she turned to her work. She may not like having a Borg on board, but she did respect Chakotay more than anyone else she had ever known, barring, perhaps, Captain Janeway. She would do her best for him.

“Commander, we’ve got it,” Harry said a moment later. He tapped the work station that was set up in the cargo bay near Seven’s alcove and data began flowing across the monitor. “This is amazing. I don’t know what half of these equations are at all.”

“And they are incomplete,” Torres added. She pointed. “See, here and here. It looks like a complete file but it isn’t. What is that?”

The three officers watched the screen as data scrolled past, elegant mathematical equations blended with what appeared to be musical notation.

“Eilara was a musician. These are her memories. We need to clean this up, get to the general data, not the specific memories,” Chakotay said, entering commands into the terminal. The images on screen shifted and distorted with each new set of commands. Chakotay’s task was thankfully becoming easier as the computer learned the encryption of the Lynnrali implant. Soon, it became second nature, and he was able to pay closer attention to the images on the screen before him, scrolling directly from Seven’s visions. The vision quest he experienced with her had been brief, and his role had been to be her mentor and guide. He hadn’t had as much time to observe as he did on a typical vision quest, and he was struck again by the uncanny resemblance between Eilara and Seven. He forcibly pushed the observation from his mind. He didn’t have time to be distracted. Seven didn’t have time.

“Argh!” came Torres’s frustrated cry. “Commander, this file is simply too incomplete for us to continue. We can’t decrypt data that isn’t there. The Doctor sent through the last bit he was able to retrieve from the connection he made to Seven’s cortical node, but it simply isn’t enough!”

Chakotay pushed away from the console, his muscles stiff from sitting in one place for so long. He’d had no sense of time passing; somehow, hours had gone by while he and his officers had sifted through the massive amount of data. Even with the computer’s help, it was a tedious process. He sighed.

“All right. Return to your posts for now. I’ll report to the captain.”

Chakotay entered the captain’s ready room at her invitation. He walked briskly toward her desk but hesitated when he realized she was sitting on her couch on the upper level, staring absently out into space. “Captain, are you all right?”

“Commander Chakotay,” Janeway replied, evading his question, “you needed to see me?” Chakotay nodded.

“Yes, Captain. Status report on the Lynnrali data.” He handed her a padd, which she reviewed as he quickly gave her his disappointing report. “At this time, we are unable to fully analyze the Lynnrali equations for use in Voyager’s systems. However, once the Doctor is able to treat Seven’s visions, I’m certain she will be able to assist us and provide the rest of the information we need. B’Elanna and Harry both believe we are only missing a couple more pieces of the file.”

“A couple pieces.” Janeway huffed a humorless chuckle. “A couple digits in a warp equation is a lot, Chakotay.”

“It’s better than needing a lot of digits,” he said doggedly. She smiled crookedly.

“Touché.” She waved him toward the couch and settled herself at one end. Chakotay recognized the body language. His captain needed to talk, and he probably wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “The Doctor just gave me an update. He has a treatment for Seven.” She quickly held up a hand. “Before you get too excited, hear me out. He can treat the neural pathways that are causing her visions, stop them entirely. But doing so, he believes, will completely eliminate any memory Seven has of the Lynnrali. All we will ever know about them or their warp mechanics is what we already have in the computer now.”

Chakotay sat on the couch beside Janeway. “Okay. So what’s the problem? You have a sick crew member and you have a treatment for her. Seems simple enough to me.”

“It’s not that simple and you know it, Chakotay.” Janeway rose and began pacing restlessly. “The Doctor tells me he can treat her. He also tells me that he might be able to keep her stable if we were to link the computer back into her cortical node again, but that the risk of her neural function deteriorating further is high.” Chakotay sat silently, waiting. “Chakotay, what if I can get this crew home and I don’t take the chance?”

“Kathryn,” he said softly, “you’ll get us home. No one doubts that. But what if you get us home and lose your humanity along the way?” Janeway looked at him sharply. “The information Seven has in her head might get us home in a matter of weeks or months. She might even be willing to sacrifice herself to get us there. But I know you, Kathryn. I know you would never be able to live with yourself for it, because it would mean that you turned your back on one of your own. Someone who trusted you to teach her about herself and her own humanity. It would make you no different than the Borg you freed her from.”

“And what of my duty to my crew to get them home? I can’t turn my back on that, either.”

“The way I see it, we aren’t any worse off than we ever were. We’re better, actually, since now we have at least some of the Lynnrali equations. One day we might crack the missing sections and make use of their knowledge. Until then, we keep going, we keep struggling, but we remember who we are. You know the choice you need to make, Kathryn.”

Janeway sighed and then smiled at her first officer. “Yes, I do. I always did. I just needed to hear you speak for my better angels. What would I do without you, Chakotay?”

Seven opened her eyes to a bright light above her. Blinking, the Doctor’s face came into focus. He smiled down at her. She frowned back at him, confused.

“Why am I in sickbay?” she demanded. The Doctor glanced to the side, and she followed his gaze. Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay stood on the other side of her biobed, looking anxiously at her. “What happened?”

“What do you remember last, Seven?” the Doctor asked.

“I was . . . I had gone to Commander Chakotay’s quarters. He was going to teach me about vision quests because I had been troubled with dreams. But I do not recall the dreams now.”

Janeway sighed softly. “We had hoped you might remember . . . ah, well, it isn’t important now. All that matters is that you are well, Seven.”

“Explain,” she said. The Doctor stepped in.

“Not now. You need to rest. I’m going to keep you here and when I am satisfied with your progress, I will release you directly to your regeneration alcove for the next twenty-four hours.”

“But—”

“Resistance is futile, Seven,” he stated with a smirk. “Doctor’s orders. Visiting hours are over.”

Seven glared at the Doctor as he ushered Janeway and Chakotay away from her. On his way out, Seven noticed that Chakotay stopped and looked back at her, a small, proud smile on his handsome face. Then she didn’t notice anything as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

A few days later, the door signal chimed in Chakotay’s quarters. He opened the doors, surprised to see Seven on the other side, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Come in, Seven,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter. “How are you feeling?”

“I am well, Commander. Thank you.” She stood awkwardly in the center of his living space, uncertain. “I am sorry, I should not have come. I am disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Seven. Please, sit down.”

She sat on the edge of a chair and looked at him, then took a steadying breath. “I reviewed the reports of the past few days, and I know more of what happened, though I still have no memory of . . . any of it. But I wanted to say thank you for helping me. With the vision quest, I mean.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply.

“I do not agree with Captain Janeway’s decision. She should have attempted to extract the data needed to get Voyager home. I am only one person. She should not have put my life above the needs of the rest of the crew.”

“She didn’t, Seven.”

“I do not understand.”

“If she was willing to sacrifice you just to get information that might be helpful in getting us home, then she would have lost her way as a human being. She would have been disregarding the needs of the crew by doing that.”

“I am still not certain I understand.”

“You will.”

Seven looked about the room, and her gaze landed on Chakotay’s medicine bundle. “Actually, I came here to ask if it would be inappropriate for you to continue teaching me about your vision quests?”

His eyes opened wide in surprise. “Not at all. But before—”

“The Doctor has assured me they will not have any similar negative effects on me, now that he has neutralized the influence of the Lynnrali implant.”

“In that case, I would be honored. And your medicine bundle is still here. I kept it safe for you.” He considered her thoughtfully. “Not that I am going to turn you away from seeking a vision quest, but why do you want to do this? You were so skeptical before.”

Seven considered her words carefully. “I am uncertain, only that it feels appropriate. The woman, Eilara, was the last being I assimilated as a drone. I was the last being she saw as a free person. I cannot explain it, but perhaps there is a way that I can remember her, respect her with your ritual. It seems like the right thing to do.”

Chakotay smiled gently at her and prepared his ritual space in silence. Soon, he and Seven settled comfortably on the deck of his living room, their hands gently touching the akoonah.

“A-koo-chee-moya,” Chakotay chanted softly. “We are far from the sacred places of our grandfathers. We are far from the bones of our people. But perhaps there is one spirit who will embrace this woman and give her guidance.”

Seven opened her eyes and looked at herself. No, it is not me, but she looks very much like me. The woman was taller, with green eyes instead of blue, and hair a shade or two lighter. She was singing with a young girl and handsome man in a sunny, green park. She looked up as Seven approached her, and she smiled. She held out a hand and Seven took it. Chakotay would swear to the end of his days that the spirits of the two women spiraled about one another into one cohesive whole. His tears trickled unashamedly down his cheeks as he watched Seven walk toward them, a smile as bright as the sun lighting her from within.

We hope you enjoyed reading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Pocket Star Books

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

™, ®, and © 2016 by CBS Studios Inc. STAR TREK and related marks and logos are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

This book is published by Pocket Star Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from CBS Studios Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Pocket Star Books ebook edition October 2016

POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or vist our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

ISBN 978-1-5011-6158-2

Table of Contents

- Star Trek®: The Original Series

- “Dilithium Is a Girl’s Best Friend” by Neil Bryant

- Star Trek: The Next Generation®

- “A Christmas Qarol” by Gary Piserchio & Frank Tagader

- “The Sunwalkers” by Kelli Fitzpatrick

- “The Seen and Unseen” by Chris Chaplin

- Star Trek: Deep Space Nine®

- “The Façade of Fate” by Michael Turner

- “The Manhunt Pool” by Nancy Debretsion

- “The Dreamer and the Dream” by Derek Tyler Attico

- Star Trek: Voyager®

- “The Last Refuge” by Roger McCoy

- “Life Among the Post-Industrial Barbarians” by John Coffren

- “Upon the Brink of Remembrance” by Kristen McQuinn

- Copyright