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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Star trek. Strange new worlds 9 / edited by Dean Wesley Smith, with Elisa J. Kassin, and Paula M. Block.

p. cm.

1. Interplanetary voyages—Fiction. 2. Space ships—Fiction. 3. Star Trek fiction. 4. Science fiction, American. I. Title: Strange new worlds 9. II. Title: Strange new worlds nine. III. Smith, Dean Wesley. IV. Kassin, Elisa J. V. Block, Paula M.

PS648.S3S65966 2006

813’.0876208—dc22                       2006041618

ISBN: 1-4165-2538-6

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Contents

Introduction

Dean Wesley Smith

Star Trek®

Gone Native

John Coffren

A Bad Day for Koloth

David DeLee

Book of Fulfillment

Steven Costa

The Smallest Choices

Jeremy Yoder

Star Trek

The Next Generation®

Staying the Course

Paul C. Tseng

Home Soil

Jim Johnson

Terra Tonight

Scott Pearson

Solace in Bloom

Jeff D. Jacques

Star Trek

Deep Space Nine®

Shadowed Allies

Emily P. Bloch

Living on the Edge of Existence

Gerri Leen

The Last Tree on Ferenginar: A Ferengi Fable From the Future

Mike McDevitt

The Tribbles’ Pagh

Ryan M. Williams

Star Trek

Voyager®

Choices [Second Prize]

Susan S. McCrackin

Unconventional Cures

Russ Crossley

Maturation

Catherine E. Pike

—Star Trek®—

Enterprise

Rounding a Corner Already Turned

Allison Cain

Mother Nature’s Little Reminders

A. Rhea King

Mestral [Third Prize]

Ben Guilfoy

Speculations

Remembering the Future

Randy Tatanox

Rocket Man

Kenneth E. Carper

The Rules of War

Kevin Lauderdale

The Immortality Blues

Marc Carlson

Orphans [Grand Prize]

R. S. Belcher

Contest Rules

About the Contributors

Introduction

Dean Wesley Smith

After I turned in my selections of wonderful stories for Elisa and Paula to judge for this year’s anthology, Elisa and I were discussing ideas for my introduction. She suggested that maybe I should talk about the fortieth anniversary of Star Trek: The Original Series.

My initial reaction was: Forty years? Wow. That’s fantastic!

Then a second thought came to mind. That’s not possible. I’m not that old.

But I am. I can recall every Friday evening during my high school years. I would always be home to watch Star Trek. (Okay, that should give you a pretty good idea of what my social life was like when I was a teenager, but let’s not go there.) Suffice it to say, Star Trek was an important element in my life during those years.

In hindsight, I realize that the reason I would insist on watching the show every week was clear: I didn’t like being where I was during those high school years. What kid really does? Star Trek gave me an escape, in much the same fashion as the shelves and shelves of Andre Norton, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Robert Heinlein books in my basement bedroom. Star Trek and all of those other books took me out of that house—out of that teenage life that everybody hates—to strange new places, distant planets, and awesome adventures. Science fiction, with its wonderful worlds, futures, and messages of hope, was what I turned to for a few hours of not thinking about the world around me. More importantly, though, it let me believe that a better future was possible.

Remember the world in which Star Trek was born? The cities of this country were going up in flames, and bombs were going off so often that only the regional ones were reported. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy were shot. Nixon was elected to his first term. And the war just kept getting bigger and bigger. I believed from almost the moment I understood what Vietnam was about that I would be drafted, when I got out of high school. To me, it also meant that I would eventually be shot at and maybe killed.

That I would be drafted in the fall of 1969 seemed inevitable. It was a fact that all guys thought about a great deal in those days. We didn’t talk about it much, though. It was just too scary to talk about.

I was one of those who didn’t believe the war was right, but I also didn’t believe in copping out by cutting and running. So there I was, stuck in a life I didn’t much like, with a future of war and likely death facing me.

So, you can see why I made it home every Friday night to watch the original Star Trek. And I have a pretty good memory of writing a letter when they tried to cancel the show in 1968.

I can’t imagine what I would have thought if some time traveler had walked up to me during those years and said, “In forty years, you will have managed to stay out of Vietnam. You will have written over twenty Star Trek novels, edited several Star Trek anthologies for new writers, and written a few Star Trek scripts.” I’m sure I would have just laughed. Being a part, even a minor part, of such a unique show would never have crossed my mind in 1966.

About thirteen years ago, my wife and I got the chance to join in creating some of this wonderful universe, and we jumped at it. Writing under the name Sandy Schofield, we wrote Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Big Game. Suddenly, I was a Star Trek writer. And it’s such a high for me that I get to give new writers out there the same chance.

In nine volumes, there have been almost two hundred new Star Trek stories. Over one hundred different writers have joined in inventing Star Trek, the Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and Enterprise. I’m sure every one of them, since they are all fans, can talk about the influence Star Trek, in every incarnation, had in their lives, just as I can. The shows, now shown in syndication, continue to influence future generations as well.

With the world becoming a little rougher than it has been the last few decades, we now need the wonderful vision of the future that Star Trek brings us even more. We need the escape, the hope, and the belief that mankind goes forward.

At the moment, we only have the books and games that can bring Star Trek and its hope and vision to all of us. You hold it in your hand. You are the cutting edge of Star Trek—written by the fans, people like you and me, who love this universe almost more than our real one.

For forty exceptional years, Star Trek has given us all a look ahead, a wonderful escape into a great universe. So sit back, turn off the news, and let a few of your fellow fans take you away on twenty-three wonderful trips into the future. You won’t want to come home.

Star Trek®

Gone Native

John Coffren

“No, no, no. This simply won’t do.”

The creature deftly shuffled his papers with hook-clawed appendages in a swirl of activity as the multitasking arms wrote, turned papers over, absently scratched behind his blowhole, brought a drink up to his beak, and restlessly tapped the wooden table we both sat at.

My own hands were rough; callused and worn from the winter harvest and appeared quite fragile compared with his rubbery tentacles. I turned my attention to the golden rows of quadrotriticale whipping in the afternoon breeze.

“I don’t want the report on seedless, waterless crops, the reclamation of plasma-polluted soil and other such wastes of my valuable time. Where is your forward command center? Why has the Klingon Empire been left intact? What happened to establishing a military presence beyond this meaningless speck of dust with zero tactical importance? You should have pushed clear across to the Delta Quadrant by now. You’ve had more than sufficient time to accomplish your mission. In short, what have you and your agents been doing for the past three hundred years?”

I decide to answer his question with another question.

“You received the Federation’s proposal welcoming us to this region of space?”

“Oh, they sued for peace. Excellent, we’ll set up interim camps and disposal facilities in central locations: Alpha Proxima Two, Arvada Three and Ivor Prime.”

“You mistake their meaning,” I said.

“Did you say something, Rojan?”

The language barrier was twice as thick as deuterium. I remained silent for a time. My gaze drifted back to the upper fields where a curl of smoke wafted from the wreckage of Prefect Tamar’s ship. His vessel, like mine before, sustained critical damage after crossing the galactic divide. He put down not fifty meters from the original landing site.

“I believe the Romulans are best suited of the locals to help us process the Federation worlds and races,” he said.

I laughed. I could barely understand half of what he was saying. It had been a long time since I heard so much of the mother tongue spoken to me at once.

What I could gather from this alienspeak pointed to questions of a military nature. This centipod before me knew nothing of combat. I could tell just by looking at him.

He had all one hundred of his tentacles intact. Any soldier worth his monthly stipend is missing five, ten, arms at least.

I used to be like him. So full of pomp and ceremony that I couldn’t see past my own uniform. I stood up and dusted off my coveralls.

“My fields need tending,” I said. “We can talk after supper. My wife sets a fine table if you care to join us.”

I turned and walked away before our guest could issue protests in any language. I can’t be sure, but I think he shouted out a long string of obscenities at me. I turned to face him again and tossed the spare belt atop the picnic table.

“Put this on for dinner,” I said. “You’ll starve inside of a month without it. Our world can’t sustain you in your current condition.”

I returned home late, as was my custom, after putting in a full day’s work. The welcome sight of our modest adobe hut and the enticing smells of rich spices from our kitchen greeted me as I entered.

“Where’s our dinner guest?” I asked.

“Waiting for you outside,” Kelinda said. “He keeps pinching and pulling his flesh like it’s some ill-fitting, tailored suit that he can just return and get his old skin back.”

“I bet he wishes he could,” I said.

“But you and I both know that’s not possible.”

She rested my hands atop the belt weapon and looked directly into my eyes before speaking.

“There’s no other way,” Kelinda said. “You and I both know it. It’s best to just get it over with now.”

“I want to talk to him before resorting to that,” I said.

“There’s no talking to that one,” she said. “Remember how we used to be? Given half a chance, he and his kind will do the exact same thing here. Don’t give him that chance.”

Kelinda was one of the first to embrace her emotions, good and bad. Her courage in sampling the elation of joy and the misery of sorrow helped to enrich all our lives. Through her careful instruction, I learned to deal with these complex and often competing feelings.

But I had not completely discarded the cold, calculating ways of my forefathers. And it was at times like these that I was grateful for my prudence and old-fashionedness.

Tamar did not hear my approach, the perfect opportunity to carry out Kelinda’s wishes. No. I thought it best to interrupt his stargazing by announcing my presence.

“We generally take our meals indoors, unless it’s a particularly warm evening.”

The prefect had been staring off into the general direction of our galaxy. I had been doing that myself every night for the first hundred years or so that we lived here. You can’t wish yourself home, though. It took me a while to learn that one.

“We produce very little artificial light here,” I said. “It makes for spectacular views of the Milky Way, as good as or better than from the bridge of any starships wandering the cosmos.”

“The bridge of a starship is where I belong. Launching a devastating attack on the denizens of this spiral arm of the galaxy,” the prefect replied. “Our code of honor demands nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of these worlds and complete and utter loyalty from subjects. We both know the penalty for treason.”

Subtle he wasn’t. I pushed through.

“I’m curious. Did you get a chance to review any of the data I dispatched through robot probes sent to Andromeda?”

He attempted a smirk, but it came across as a frown. The mastery of human emotions takes time and practice, which he was either unwilling or unable to give.

“Your first probe reached the homeworld and was reviewed by the High Command. They ordered the subsequent destruction of any and all drones sent forthwith from this outpost. It is an order that I carried out with pleasure. I chased one of your more elusive messengers into the heart of a proto-star to insure its annihilation. They rewarded my diligence with this assignment.”

“So you think you’ve been sent here as a reward?” I said. “You’re here to help prepare the way for the great invasion fleet from Andromeda, when it drops out of warp complete with waving banners and rolling drums to restore the Kelvan Empire to its former glory?

“Well, it’s not happening. And if you bothered to scan and download those drones I launched before you gleefully vaporized them you’d know the reason why. I suspect your shooting tentacle wanted to get in a little target practice. Hard as duck soup.”

“What’s duck soup?” the prefect asked.

“A human expression. It means…never mind what it means. Did you know that the radiation levels in our home galaxy are accelerating at an exponential rate and the previous forecasts could be easily termed as dangerously optimistic?”

“That is precisely why the Empire must expand,” Tamar said.

“The beast must be fed or it will die,” I said.

“Overly simplistic, but correct,” he said.

“There is another way for you and for Kelva,” I said. “Join the United Federation of Planets. There is strength in numbers.”

“The Federation,” he said with disgust. “That assortment of weaklings will bow down before the might of the Kelvan Armada. They will grovel before us as we obliterate entire systems they once held in their feeble grasp.”

“The Armada will be crippled when it tries to ford the galactic barrier,” I answered. “You know it and I know it and if you hadn’t so eagerly atomized the data drones, the High Command would know it too.”

“Lies!” Tamar screamed.

“The proof is smoldering in my Kaferian apple orchard,” I said. “Your own escort vessel was disabled by the negative energy field.”

“Centuries of masquerading as a human have made you one. You are a traitor and an enemy of the State. I’ve been sent to pass judgment on your crimes.”

The prefect produced a belt weapon, a more recent model than mine, deadlier of course. I let a smile turn up the corners of my mouth. Drea launched the rocket right on cue. The explosive takeoff shook the ground as the exhaust ports left a crop circle a mile in diameter. The night sky lit up as the missile headed for the stratosphere and beyond.

“Another drone,” the prefect said.

“No, a galaxy bomb headed for Kelva.”

“You will abort the launch now,” he said and leveled the weapon at me.

“Too late, Prefect,” I said. “The rocket will pierce the galactic barrier, cross the great void, and strike right into the heart of the Andromeda Galaxy. There it will deliver its payload into the massive central black hole. The detonation will widen the hundred-and-forty-million-solar-masses maw of the abyss wide enough to swallow Kelva, its satellites, and eventually Andromeda itself. M32 and M110 will follow in another millennium or so. And your empire will be no more. My galaxy bomb will finish the job that the radiation levels started, just sooner than expected.”

“Not before you die first,” he said.

He never heard or saw Kelinda sneak up behind him. Like I said, he was no soldier. One minute a paper-pushing propagandist standing before me brandishing a loaded weapon, the next minute a neat, compact dodecahedron lying at my feet.

Kelinda walked over to me.

“What should we do with him?” she asked.

“Put him with the others,” I said.

“We’re going to need a bigger barn at this rate,” she said.

She picked Prefect Tamar up in one hand and started walking away.

I watched the latest robot drone leave orbit. I lied to Tamar. The payload that rocket carried was far more explosive than any bomb I could build. It was a peace treaty between the United Federation of Planets and the Kelvan Empire, signed, dated, and enacted over three hundred years ago by the highest-ranking officials both sides could muster, the Federation president and myself, Commander Rojan of Kelva.

A Bad Day for Koloth

David DeLee

Koloth stormed across the bridge of the I.K.S. Gr’oth. His boots thundered on the deck plating with the wrath of Kahless himself. At least the blood-red lighting and muted brown bulkheads soothed his aching eyes. The damned Federation station had been so bright…and cheery.

“Helm!” he barked. His gaze fell on Space Station K-7 displayed on the screen and he waved an angry hand. “Get us out of here.”

Korax glanced over his shoulder like a whipped targ. “Destination?”

“Anywhere away from here. Away from that damned station. Away from Sherman’s Planet. Away from quadrotriticale. Away from that pahtk Darvin. Away from Kirk.” Koloth stepped up onto the platform of the command chair. “And especially away from those damned tribbles.”

“Yes, Captain.” Korax turned and laid in a course…to somewhere.

Relieved to be done with K-7 and the puny, soft humans, Koloth dropped into the hard, sharply angled command chair.

And a tribble squealed.

“By the Sword of Kahless!” Koloth jumped away. Spinning, he drew his disruptor. In the corner of his seat a brown and white tribble sat trembling.

He fired.

The beam lanced out, struck the chair. Sparks flew and the chair spun around like a child’s top. Alarms sounded. When the wisp of smoke cleared the chair was scorched black, and the tribble was gone.

Vaporized.

Koloth grunted with a satisfied nod. Careful to avoid his wrath, Korax and Grotok, the navigator, spun back to examine their consoles. Holstering his weapon, Koloth surveyed the bridge. All of his officers were carefully examining their consoles. Good.

He sat back down, resisting the urge to check his seat before doing so. The metal was warm. He ran a hand over the singed arm. It felt like battle, like victory.

“Take us to Qo’noS, helm.” He had finally made his decision as to their destination.

“As you wish, Captain.”

Koloth settled in for the long trip home, already composing his report for the High Council. Devising how to present the details of Darvin’s failure and how, by his own quick actions, he saved the Empire from an embarrassing intergalactic incident with the cursed Federation.

Yes. He could salvage this, turn this defeat into a victory. Even though he’d failed to secure the right to Sherman’s Planet, after they review his report, no one could blame him for what happened.

If not for the damned tribbles, the planet would have been theirs. Bah! It was the Council’s own damned fault. Subterfuge. Poison. Spies. They were acting like…like Romulans. If they wanted Sherman’s Planet they should have taken it by force and won it in glorious battle.

His hearts skipped a few beats when he heard it.

At first he thought it was the thrumming of the engines. Perhaps a bit off cycle, but there it was again. A soft, soothing trill. He shuddered. He looked around until he found the offensive beast.

There at the base of Korax’s chair, he saw it sitting beside his boot.

Koloth stood. Took a step forward. He dropped first to one knee. Then the other. Bent…and lunged.

Korax jumped from his chair. He stared at Koloth, who was prone on the deck, with his head and arms buried under the helmsman’s chair. “Captain?”

Koloth backed away on his elbows and knees, his hands cupped in front of him. From them came a high-pitched squeal. Climbing to his feet, Koloth opened his hands and displayed a round, furry tribble. It was brown and white. A patch of its hair was singed black. The one he had shot? Could he have missed?

The feel of it angrily twitching in his hand sent shivers down his spine. He shoved it at Korax. “Explain this!”

It convulsed in his hands. Squealing.

Korax backed up. “I…I don’t know.”

Koloth spotted another tribble over Korax’s shoulder. It cowered in the corner of the secondary tactical console. “And that!”

He stormed over. The tribble—bright red—hopped, chirring agitatedly. Another one rolled out from under the console, scampered away. And there was yet another one next to the turbolift door.

The turbolift opened. Bel’kor, his chief engineer, stepped onto the bridge with an armful of tribbles. The pile of fur jumped and squawked and chirped and leaped from his arms.

“Captain. The engine room. It’s full of them. They’re in the machinery.”

Koloth held the brown-and-white one up and looked at it. “Where? How?”

“The Enterprise. The pahtks beamed them in.”

“Then beam them back.”

“I can’t. They’re out of range.”

Koloth swore. “Kirk!”

He dropped into his chair, slammed the tribble he was holding into the pile of skittering beasts in Bel’kor’s arms. He juggled the jumbling armload, only losing a few.

“Get them off the ship. Beam them into space if you have to.”

“We tried. The transporters are offline. So are environmental, fire suppression, intership communications. They’re into the machinery. Shipwide.”

Koloth leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, interlocked his fingers together, thinking. He jerked his head up. “Gas them.”

Bel’kor shook his head, oily black hair fell in his face. “Vent controls are offline. Can’t do it without killing us too.”

Smashing his fist Koloth slammed back in his chair. “There must be something—”

“Priority message from Qo’noS, Captain,” Grotok called out. “Audio only.”

Koloth waved for him to play it.

“I.K.S. Gr’oth. Reverse course. You are carrying dangerous contaminants and are in violation of health and ecological protection codes. You will not be permitted access into Klingon space. Reverse course immediately or risk being fired upon.”

Koloth was half out of his chair again. “What?”

“Shall I replay it, Captain?” Grotok asked.

“No, pahtk! I heard them!” Banished from Klingon space. Incredible. Unheard of.

“Get them off the ship.” Koloth waved his arms. “Hunt them down with targs. Shoot them all with disruptors. Open the damn airlocks and eject them into space. I don’t care. Just get rid of every last one of them. Now!”

He stormed for the turbolift. Stepped inside, and kicked a tribble out onto the bridge just before the doors swooshed shut.

Koloth tossed and turned. His booted feet banged on the hard surface of his bunk. He shifted to his side. Flopped onto his back again. Sleep escaped him as surely as did a solution to his tribble problem.

With a growl he slammed his fist into the duranium and sat up. Disgusted. The bunk felt as soft as…as a mattress.

He got up and crossed to the other side of his quarters. “Activate viewscreen.”

A wall-mounted viewer snapped on. Static-filled at first, it soon cleared. Staring back at him was the grinning face of his good friend, Captain Kang.

“Koloth! So good of you to call. I heard of your predicament. A terrible thing,” he said, but the laughter in his voice belied any true concern he felt.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at my expense, dear friend.” Koloth considered cutting the transmission. Calling Kang had been a mistake.

“No. No. Hold on, my friend,” Kang said, holding up a hand. “What good is friendship if we cannot get under each other’s hide now and again? What do you ask of me?”

“All I ask is for a solution. How do I exterminate these vermin from my ship?”

Kang took on a thoughtful look. “I truly am sorry, my friend. I find I too am at a loss. It seems you have tried everything.”

Koloth was forced to agree. He selected a quart of bloodwine from the food slot, removed the tin cup when the door opened. “Join me then in drink.”

He hoisted his cup. Kang burst out in laughter.

On top of his cup sat a bloated brown-and-white tribble. A patch of its fur singed black.

Koloth flung the cup across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled across the hard metal deck. Splashed bloodwine dripped thickly down the wall. It was not the first time bloodwine, or blood for that matter, had been spilled in these quarters.

The tribble squealed in surprise or pain and wobbled erratically across the floor.

When Kang had finished laughing, he slapped a gloved hand against his knees. “What you need, my friend, is a battle. A glorious battle to lift your spirits and take your mind off your tribbles.”

Kang belched out another deep, throaty laugh.

“K’adio,” Koloth growled, dripping with sarcasm. Thank you for nothing. He snapped off the viewer, unable to shut off Kang’s laughing image from inside his head.

A battle would be glorious. The feel of a bat’leth whistling through the air. The taste of disruptor fire in the air. The smell of scorched burning flesh, of an enemy he could fight. Hot spilled blood filling the street of an enemy city, or flowing down the corridors of an enemy ship.

And that was when it struck him. A battle.

He picked up the little, singed, brown-and-white tribble from the shelf under the viewer. The one that kept turning up around him like—what was the Earthers’ expression—like a bad penny.

“Of course. The perfect solution,” he said, grinning at the squirming tribble. “A glorious battle.”

“Four Tholian fighters. Dead ahead,” Korax called out.

Koloth leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the four yellowish ships. They were triangular in shape and small, but Koloth knew not to underestimate the Tholians. They had proven themselves worthy opponents in the past. Today, he was counting on them to be as cutthroat as they had been before.

Koloth rose. “Battle stations! Grotok, on my command decloak and raise shields.”

Grotok nodded.

“Captain,” the voice came from Bel’kor. “Shields are only at seventy-three percent. Several power conduits were damaged by the tribbles.”

“Your incompetence has been noted.”

Bel’kor started to reply, then thought better of it. He brushed a skittering black tribble off his console. It hit the deck with a yelp and scurried off.

“Engage the enemy!” Koloth sat at the edge of his chair, a forearm resting on his leg. His gloved fist clenched. “Tactical! Full photon spread!”

He felt the Gr’oth shudder with the launch of the torpedoes.

Two struck Tholian ships. Their shields flashed, absorbing the energy and impact. The four ships continued on their approach, spreading their formation wider.

“Minimal damage,” Korax announced.

“It is of no concern. They will soon feel the might of the Klingon Empire.”

“They’re powering up weapons. Maneuvering in an attack formation.”

Koloth’s eyes flicked back and forth watching each of the four ships. One, two experienced Tholian fighters they could take on easily, three possibly. But four? That was the stuff of story and song.

Several tribbles huddled at his feet. Their little bodies swaying. They cooed excitedly.

The Gr’oth rocked. Koloth squinted at the flash of light on the viewscreen. It was currently displaying a simple phaser barrage. One that was easily deflected.

“Shields down to fifty-two percent.”

“Return fire!” Koloth pounded the arm of his chair. “Target their lead ship.”

Two of the triangular ships peeled off to the left. A string of energy pulses stitched the side of the Gr’oth. Korax fired two torpedoes. Both struck their targets.

“Their shields are down!”

“Fire disruptors! Tight concentration.”

Korax engaged his weapons and the nearest Tholian ship burst into a fireball instantly.

The Gr’oth wasn’t to get off easily though. The fight was still only beginning. The remaining three fighters strafed them. The D-7 slammed down like a foot stomping on a bug. As Bel’kor tumbled from his seat, his auxiliary engineering station exploded.

Alarms and smoke filled the bridge.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Koloth was on his feet, leaning between Korax and Grotok. He glanced down at the astrogator trying to get a fix on the remaining three fighters. A tribble sat on the glowing grid. Koloth swatted it away.

“There!” He pointed at one of the glowing dots. “Coordinates seven-five-nine-nine-three point one. Two torpedoes. Fire now!”

“Target locked.” Korax jabbed the firing button.

“Direct hit.” Grotok clenched a fist. “A glorious hit. They are venting plasma.”

Bel’kor had taken up a position at auxiliary tactical. He turned in his seat to face Koloth. “Incoming message from the Tholians. Audio.”

Koloth straightened. “Play it.”

“You are violating Tholian space. You have committed an unprovoked attack against the Tholian Assembly. Surrender or be destroyed.”

That they had violated Tholian space was true enough, but surrender was not part of the plan. Koloth returned to his chair, targeting one of the fighters himself. He punched the Fire button with the flat of his fist.

The swift moving fighter dodged the spiraling torpedoes.

Charging to the port and starboard sides, the enemy ships strafed the—by comparison—lumbering Gr’oth.

The ship pitched to the left, throwing most of the bridge crew to the deck. Koloth managed to keep from sliding out of his chair, but just barely. Several tribbles rolled across the deck.

The lights flickered. A panel exploded. Its cover pinwheeled across the bridge. Flames licked up the curved bulkhead.

“Auxiliary power!” Bel’kor shouted. “Shields are gone.”

“Return fire! Return fire!”

“Returning fire,” Korax acknowledged the order.

“Hull breaches on decks two, three, seven. Additional fractures along the port nacelle.”

Smoke thickened the air. Emergency lights illuminated and shone through the drifting, swirling gray. The bridge crew became darting, indistinguishable shadows. Alarms wailed.

It was time.

“Helm. Contact the I.K.S. SuvwI’.”

A few minutes later Kang’s face loomed large on the static-filled viewscreen. He grinned a toothy grin. “So, you took my advice and found a fight.”

“We did. And a glorious fight it is.”

Kang looked skeptical. “You appear to be on the losing side of it.”

“You underestimate me, my friend. Already two Tholian ships are destroyed. Two more are in my sights.”

“Impressive indeed. Why then are you calling me?”

The Gr’oth shook. The bulkhead groaned loudly; then a girder let loose, swinging down across the bridge like a pendulum. Its jagged end bit into the deck.

“All great battles have their cost, Kang. The cost of this one is the great ship Gr’oth.” Koloth looked around the bridge.

His gaze fell on a tribble crawling across the deck. He kicked at it, looked back up to Kang. “A ship they will sing about from here to Sto-Vo-Kor.”

“A warrior’s way,” Kang agreed. “We shall be there shortly.”

Now to keep the Tholians at bay until the SuvwI’ could arrive. A task that proved harder than Koloth would’ve liked.

“They’re in attack formation.”

“Prepare torpedoes.”

“Captain! Torpedo bay doors are malfunctioning.” Korax glanced over his shoulder with panic in his eyes.

“What?” Koloth was on his feet again. “Bel’kor?”

He searched for the engineer in the dim hazy smoke. A vague shadow stepped forward. “It’s the tribbles. They’re disrupting power conduits on almost every deck.”

Koloth glanced at the astrogator. The two dots representing the Tholian fighters glowed bright, showed they were moving on a closing vector. With only disruptors available, staving off an attack was impossible.

“Tactical. Target and fire at will.”

Koloth watched the approaching ships on the viewscreen. Had he miscalculated? Had he contacted Kang too late?

Phasers fired from the belly of the D-7.

The Tholian shields glowed and held. Their forward weapons sections glowed too, resulting in phasers lancing out across the expanse of space.

Koloth braced for impact. On the deck at his feet a brown-and-white tribble rocked with the swaying ship. The one he’d shot. The singed mark clear as day. It sat, mocking him. He was sure of it.

The phasers struck. Slicing through the hull. Sparks and melted metal poured through into the bridge. Somewhere, someone screamed. Koloth couldn’t tell who it was.

Then miraculously the assault stopped.

Koloth glanced at the viewscreen. The SuvwI’ had arrived. Passing one Tholian fighter, disruptors were flaring its shields to a bright yellow. A volley of torpedoes finished the job of taking out its shields.

“Captain Koloth.” Kang’s voice. “Prepare to beam your crew to the SuvwI’.”

Koloth smiled. “Transporters are offline. Need you to initiate.”

“So I’m here to do all the work, is that it?”

“This time, my friend. This time.”

“Transports initiated.”

And so Koloth waited. A feeling of great relief washed over him. The single remaining Tholian fighter was no threat to the fresh SuvwI’. His casualties had been acceptable and now he could return to the Empire not in disgrace but as a warrior. Proud and victorious in battle.

Stepping down from his command chair he surveyed the wrecked bridge of the Gr’oth. His only regret. It had been a good ship.

“Everyone has been beamed aboard, Captain Koloth.” The voice of the SuvwI’s transporter operator called out over the ship-to-ship comm link.

“Understood. Stand by.”

There was one more thing Koloth had to do. “Initiate Klingon self-destruct. Code Koloth twelve-one-seven-two.”

“Voiceprint confirmed. Self-destruct sequence initiated.”

Koloth paused for only a second. He bent down and scooped up a tribble from the floor. It was the scorched brown-and-white one. Surprising himself, he grinned.

The tribble squeaked and trembled in his hand. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, little vermin. You are so much more resilient than I gave you credit for.”

He held it a little higher. “Perhaps a more worthy adversary after all.” It twitched, squawked.

“Perhaps,” he mused. “If so, then you deserve a warrior’s death. Go, my unexpected adversary, and know that today is a good day to die.”

He flung the tribble across the bridge into a burning computer console. The yellow-red flames licked hungrily at the spinning ball of fur.

“A good day to die,” he said, feeling the transporter seize his body. “But not for me.”

Seconds later the tribble-infested Gr’oth exploded into a ball of fire and smoke and twirling, twisted metal.

Book of Fulfillment

Steven Costa

(Translation of a fragment of scroll, labeled “Book of Fulfillment,” discovered on Maltos IV by Professor Richard Galen, stardate 46531.5: Chapter 6, Verse 27 to Chapter 9, Verse 16.)

Chapter 6

27. But the people took no note of the words of the Prophet. In their eyes, his words were like the words of a madman. They drove forth the Prophet, he with his attendants, and he did depart from them with a heavy heart.

Chapter 7

1. A generation of the people did come to pass, a generation of the people in the valley of the green river. And in the fortieth year of the Fifth Cycle, in the month of the sweet fruit harvest, on the tenth day of the month, a great calamity befell the people.

2. In the sky appeared a bright star, and the name of the star was a name not known to the wise men of the people, for it was a new star and its coming was a wonderment.

3. The new star did grow large in the night sky, and brighter. It descended upon the people with a brightness that was like the brightness of the feast-day bonfire. But when it reached the ground, the brightness did fade, and the star became as a vessel of iron.

4. From the vessel came forth the Destroyers, the Fearsome Ones of the old tales, known to men as the Ones Who Roar. Their appearance was fear-inspiring, for they wore garments of iron and hide, and they carried implements of destruction.

5. Each Destroyer had taken into his hand a blade of fearsome might, and also an evil weapon of thunder and lightning. And they did descend upon the people in the valley of the green river.

6. And their faces were strange in the eyes of the people, for they were of a color like that of rich, dark bread, and their eyes numbered only two, and there was no antler upon their head but a fleshy ridge like no one had ever seen before.

7. Around the encampment of the people they did encircle, and their roaring was as the roaring of the southern wind for its might. And the strong men of the people went forth to stand against them, armed with their implements for hunting. But they were as long grass before the Destroyers, the Ones Who Roar, and they were mowed down close to the earth.

8. The people did bend their knee as one and submit to the Destroyers, for their power could not be opposed. The Destroyers did speak their name, and their name was Klingon. The name was new in the ears of the people, and fear-inspiring.

9. And the people did toil for the Klingons. The people were compelled to prepare their loathsome foods, and dig in the earth, and gather from the forest the herbs used by the wise ones to make the ointment that gives health and life and strength of arm. Every task from the mouth of the Klingons, the people did just so, for the Klingons were mighty. And the people were faint of heart, because of their might.

10. The hands of the Klingons were very heavy upon the people. And the outcry of the people was a very great outcry.

Chapter 8

1. The people gave way to tears and tore their garments and threw themselves to the ground and begged the Great Ones for forgiveness. “We did not listen to the words of the Prophet, so many years ago, and our sin rests heavily upon us. Save us, O Great Ones, we beseech. Deliver us from the hands of the Klingons, from the hands of the Ones Who Roar!”

2. But the Great Ones did not give ear to the words of the people, for the sin of the people was a very heavy sin. The people did continue to suffer under the hands of the Klingons for the time of three turnings of the smaller moon.

3. Then the Great Ones looked upon the sorrow of the people with mercy and judged “The people have suffered and their sin is washed clean.”

4. And the Great Ones spoke the word. So it came to pass that the Liberator came to the people.

5. The Liberator came from beyond the sky. Through the stars in the heavens his vessel came, bearing him forth to save the people. To smite the Destroyers he came forth, for their kingdoms were adversaries in the heavens. The Liberator was a great warrior, a man of fame.

6. The vessel of the Liberator was a mighty one and concealed within the depths of the heavens. Brave were the souls of the attendants of the Liberator. Their hearts were loyal to him, for his rulership was a good rulership.

7. At his left hand was the Healer. The Healer’s words went forth like spears from the hand of the thrower, and his counsel was like fire in the ears of the Liberator.

8. At his right hand was the Sage. His thoughts were clear and cold and swift, like the stream of water from the mountains, and his counsel was wise beyond wisdom.

9. And about them were the attendants of the Liberator: the Way-finder, to guide the vessel through the darkness between the stars of the heavens; the Armsman, to rain destruction upon the foes of the Liberator; the Proclaimer, to announce his great name to all who would hear; and the Machinist, to harness the power of the vessel of the heavens.

10. Together they came forth to save the people, and to crush the Destroyers, the Ones Who Roar.

11. Before the eyes of the wise men the Liberator appeared, and the Healer was upon his left hand, and the Sage was upon his right. They appeared in the encampment of the people, in the dark hours of the night. Arrayed as the people, in garments like unto those of the people’s garments, did they appear.

12. Their faces they had concealed, for their faces were different from those of the people. Similar to the Klingons’ were their faces. Only to the wise ones were their faces revealed, in the inner chambers of the wise ones. And when the name of the Liberator was revealed, they cried out in exultation, for his words were known to the wise men as the words of the Prophet.

13. The words of the Liberator were new in their ears, for he spoke of contention, and deliverance, and vengeance upon the Destroyers.

14. On the rising of the sun, the vessel of the Liberator would rain down destruction upon the vessel of the Klingons.

15. But the Sage spoke quiet words of counsel in the ear of the Liberator, speaking of the oath. And the Healer spoke fiery words of counsel in the ear of the Liberator, speaking of the suffering of the people.

16. The Liberator pledged unto the wise men. His oath to his own masters was a powerful oath, and he could not deliver the people if the people would not request the deliverance. The people must make the request, and the people would rise up.

17. The numbers of the Klingons were not many, but the people were frightened because of their might. They were fearful of the plan for deliverance and their hearts were troubled, and they would not rise up against the Destroyers.

18. Then the Liberator addressed the people, and he spoke with a voice of command, inciting the people. The words of the Liberator were powerful words. The spirit of the people had been slumbering, but it awoke with a great and righteous fury.

19. The people rose, and put each one into his hand an implement for digging, or an implement for cooking, or an implement for harvesting to fight against the Destroyers, the ones now known as the Klingons.

20. The wise men asked the people, “Will we request the deliverance, and will we rise up against the Destroyers?”

21. With one voice, the people said, “We will rise up, and we do request the deliverance!”

22. And the night until the rising of the sun was a very long night.

Chapter 9

1. Upon the rising of the sun, the vessel of the Liberator did rain down fire upon the vessel of the Klingons, upon the Ones Who Roar, and they were unable to stand against it.

2. Then the people rose as one, and took each one into his hand an implement for digging, or an implement for cooking, or an implement for harvesting, and turned their hands against the Destroyers.

3. And the people made a great shout of praise, for the Liberator appeared among the people to fight against the Destroyers, against the Klingons. His implement of destruction was a powerful implement, a righteous weapon of thunder and lightning, and he did strike down the Destroyers with its fury.

4. The Sage did stand by the weak ones of the people, the old and the young. Before the wrath of the Destroyers he stood. There was no fear in his heart at the approach of a Destroyer. And the Sage did lay a hand upon him, and the Destroyer did fall.

5. The Healer did move among the people struck down by the Destroyers, and did proclaim that he was a Healer, and not a worker of miracles. But the saying of the Healer was a humble saying, for with his implements of healing he did work miracles in the eyes of the people.

6. And the people went about piling the fallen Klingons into heaps.

7. When the battle was concluded, the people made a joyous outcry. And the wise men implored the Liberator to speak his name before all the people, that they might know and give it praise.

8. And the Liberator spoke these words to the people: “I am Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. I represent the United Federation of Planets.”

9. And the people again gave voice to great exultation, for the words of the Liberator Kirk were words known to them. The name of the Liberator’s vessel was a name known to the people, and the kingdom of the Liberator was known to them, for the Prophet Archer had spoken these same words in the days long ago, in the days of the Prophecy.

10. Like the Prophet Archer before, the Liberator spoke of the great union of worlds, and now the wise men of the people gave ear to his words. They said unto the people, “These are good words. Will the people be united with the worlds of the Liberator, with the worlds of the Federation?”

11. The people said with one voice, “We will be united with you, and our peoples will become as one people.”

12. The Liberator was joyful in his heart, and the Healer was joyful with him. The Sage had no joy in his heart, but he was content, and it was enough. They went away from the people to prepare a place for them. And their going was a wonderment to the people, for they were gone in a twinkling.

13. The people offered up a sacrifice of praise to the Great Ones, for the Prophecy had come to pass. They had suffered under the hands of the Ones Who Roar, but they had been delivered, and their praises were many.

14. And the people did celebrate their deliverance with a bonfire like no bonfire before. They brought forth the captured ones of the Klingons, to share in the festival. And they roared no longer, but they did howl.

15. The toil of the people had been long, and their hunger was a very great hunger, but there was enough for all the people in the valley of the green river, from the small to the great. For the flesh of the Klingons was not tender, but it was plentiful.

16. And it was good.

The Smallest Choices

Jeremy Yoder

I see no logic in preferring Stonn over me.

Over a century after Spock had spoken those words, T’Pring still considered them. Stonn was a decent husband and father. At times she found his company adequate. But he had never been an excellent Vulcan. Never as poised and dignified as other Vulcan males. Never as controlled and secure as herself.

She rose from her chair, her green robe swaying, and walked past the white Tholian lace adorning her bed canopy. Hot sunlight poured in through the windows. Her shoes clicked on the auburn stone floor on which her ancestors had walked. When she and Stonn died someday, their offspring would inherit the house as she had.

Her husband had left for the Daystrom Institute months ago. He was a scientist and should prove helpful there, but the assignment was granted as more of a favor to her than for his own merits. Certain high-ranking officials pitied her and therefore sent Stonn on missions to make her household appear noble in the eyes of the populace. She questioned if the ruse was successful, though sadly enough, it worked on Stonn.

T’Pring paused at the mirror. Beneath her wrinkles, her eyes were exquisitely shaped, but had lost their luster long ago. She never knew why. After all, she was held in the highest regard—a stalwart, disciplined, and prolific dignitary of her people.

Then there was Stonn.

She achieved Kolinahr eight years into marriage, thereby purging all her emotions. It had elevated her status, placing her on councils and allowing her to shape Vulcan’s future. Her opinions were sought and valued. She lived the life she strove to achieve. Yet something stirred within her.

T’Pring pressed a button beside the mirror. The wall slid open to reveal what would have been her wedding brooch. It had been given to her by Amanda Grayson—Spock’s mother—on the day T’Pring had been betrothed to the half-Vulcan, half-human boy. They had never seen each other before then.

She withdrew the silver item. She remembered her parents’ approval of her marrying an ambassador’s child. They had doubts about Spock’s human half, but Spock had shown remarkable progress in the sciences. There had been the option of Spock’s older half-brother, Sybok, but he was flirting with emotions.

As T’Pring was about to return the brooch to its hiding place, the computer console near the door chimed. She started to walk toward it until she noticed the flashing purple light she had programmed over a year ago. After pocketing the brooch, she strode to the transporter and beamed herself up to her orbiting shuttlecraft.

“Computer,” she said as she materialized. “Load flight plan V3 and execute.”

The destination was preprogrammed, so the ship simply had to plot a course and take off at the highest possible warp. She exited the transporter room and walked down the hallway of lavender walls and yellow flooring. The door to her quarters swished open, revealing a double bed and dresser.

The floor shifted beneath her feet, signaling that the ship had gone to warp. She lay down on the bed. She usually slept to pass the monotony of deep space travel, but today she stared up at the dull ceiling tiles.

Then there was Stonn.

Her family had questioned her choice. Contrary to what some believed, she had not chosen Stonn for some trite emotion like love. And especially not for the reason she gave Spock when he returned to marry her. She had married Stonn because it assured her control of her family by taking responsibility and credit when Stonn failed, as she knew he would.

It meant other Vulcans would grant her opportunities when sensing weakness in her mate. She knew that if she had married a dignitary or any man of grand potential, she’d remain in the background, and she would not have that. At first, T’Pring had questioned her reasoning as emotional—the weakness of pride—until she logically ascertained that having the best for herself would enable her to serve Vulcan’s greater good.

Stonn had never completed Kolinahr. He had tried several times, if only to make her proud. But even then, his motives were flawed. For if he intended to do it for her—which was his reason for almost everything—it meant he loved her.

She sighed at the thought. The terrible, agonizing thought. She, T’Pring, had married a Vulcan who loved her. It wasn’t just his shameful words in private, but his gaze. His stance. Everyone knew. How could he gain her trust and respect if he clung to such emotions? How could he ever complete Kolinahr? But therein lay her double-edged sword, for that placed her at the forefront of their family, which is why she had chosen him.

On the dresser stood a picture of her younger self and new husband. As was tradition, the male stood before the female—a role she had reversed in the following decades. Her image stood rigid, staring straight ahead, ready to forge a new path. And though Stonn appeared to have the same expression, his eyes betrayed his delight at marrying the woman behind him.

Then there was Spock.

He’d never completed Kolinahr either, though he had tried. She had seen him once then, during his short stay on Vulcan before V’Ger called him back into space and Starfleet. Spock’s hair had been disheveled from the rigorous mental trials. Yet even in his struggle, there remained that steady gaze…that rigid grace that transcended any Vulcan’s, as if his efforts to circumvent his human side had elevated him to an unknown level of calculated stillness…of purposeful serenity.

Two days later, T’Pring paced in her ship’s quarters. The action concerned her, for Vulcans never paced. It was a sign of anxiety—an emotion she couldn’t possess. She concluded it must be logical, as she had nothing else to occupy her mind. Except for Spock.

Rather than attend the Vulcan Science Academy, he had left for Starfleet, making a name for himself beyond his father’s shadow. During his Enterprise years, everyone heard about the half-Vulcan who had denied his heritage and served under humans. That was when she had decided she did not want to be married to a legend. Or at least, that’s when she decided that it would be the reason she gave Spock when he fought James Kirk for her hand.

Yet even minutes before rejecting Spock, she had considered marrying him, for she wondered what she could achieve because of Spock’s absence. There still would have been his nearly mythical status to overcome, but with him being offworld, could his standing have given her even more input into the political and cultural affairs of their world?

“Arrival in one hour,” the computer announced in its tinny, feminine voice.

T’Pring exited her quarters and strode to the bridge, which consisted of two black chairs, a viewscreen, and a console shaped in a half-moon.

“On screen,” she ordered. The dormant viewscreen wavered until an M-class planet appeared in the distance. “How far is the alien ship from the planet?”

“At present speed,” the computer responded, “the Romulan shuttlecraft will arrive at planet Veridian Three in twenty-two hours, seventeen minutes.”

T’Pring leaned back into her chair. “How soon before sensors can track the ship without use of the deep-space probe?”

“Fifteen hours, three minutes.”

That meant the other ship wouldn’t be able to track her until then either. “In ten hours, engage the cloaking device.” Being a high-ranking diplomat had advantages, including access to confiscated alien technology.

“Acknowledged,” the computer replied.

She sat for several hours, weighing the option to return to Vulcan. But there was the other matter, making it quite logical for her to continue. So why did she doubt herself? She couldn’t remember ever questioning her actions to such an extent, except when she had selected Kirk to fight her betrothed. There had always been the chance that Kirk would beat Spock, regardless of his inferior strength, and would desire to keep her.

Humans were quite illogical that way. How Sarek lived with Amanda for all of those years was something she never understood. Though she had to admit, in some ways, Amanda reminded her of Stonn.

The sound of the engaging cloaking device caught her off guard. The planet had grown large on the viewscreen, requiring her to diminish the magnification. The next few hours passed quickly until a blip on the scanners made her look up—the ship had come into range.

She put her ship in orbit and scanned the planet until she found the pile of stones above the human remains. After turning off the deep-space probe, she focused on the approaching Romulan shuttlecraft for the next few hours, until it likewise entered orbit. A few minutes later, her planetary scans showed a Vulcan had beamed down.

She considered waiting, but felt it best to act immediately rather than interrupt him later. She beamed down a hundred yards from where he stood beside the stones. As the green lights faded around her, he shot her a wary look. Though he wore a ceremonial black mourning robe, his stance was as she remembered. She focused on him, ignoring the brown, rocky mountain range around them.

Rather than approach, she waited with reverence. As he drew near, she took a deep breath, hoping her arrival had not been a mistake. When he was close enough to recognize her, his expression turned to surprise.

When he was a few feet away, she raised her hand in the traditional V shape and bowed her head. “Forgive the intrusion. I did not wish to desecrate your moment, but you have been difficult to communicate with these past years and I have been sent to inquire of your actions.”

“T’Pring.” Spock’s arms were crossed over his stomach, each hand tucked into the opposite sleeve. He withdrew one hand and returned her greeting. “I did not expect anyone to find me here, much less you.”

She looked up at his curious stare, then beyond him to the grave site. “I only wish to talk when you are ready.”

“Being wanted by Romulus forced me to be patient. They expected me to come immediately. However, I’ve waited a year for their suspicions to fade and make my journey possible. Therefore, a short while longer makes little difference in offering my final condolences to James Kirk.”

“As you wish. I knew you would eventually come, so I had a deep-space probe monitoring for any ship arriving here from Romulus. I’ve come alone, but I ask forgiveness for the timing.”

“Accepted.” Spock placed both hands behind his back in a less mournful posture. She almost cringed at his next statement, though she knew he was simply being polite. “I trust Stonn and your household are doing well.”

“Fine, of course.”

As Spock frowned at her words, she chastised herself for saying of course rather than thank you, which would have sounded far less defensive. But she ignored it and pressed on. “It was imperative that someone talk to you face-to-face and understand your true intentions.”

Spock cocked his head to one side. “My true intentions?”

“Your Reunification talks with the Romulan underground have sparked major interest on Vulcan.” She began walking across the lone, barren rock, with him keeping pace. “We wonder why you work so adamantly, when it is uncertain if Vulcan wishes to reunite with its ancient ancestors that dismissed Surak’s teachings.”

“You question my goals,” Spock said. “And you are here to ascertain my objectives.” Regardless of the wrinkles in his face, his profile hadn’t changed. He remained stolid as he awaited her questions, rather than volunteering explanations.

“While potentially beneficial,” T’Pring said, “reunification could destroy each half. So rather than developing the whole, the pieces are diminished. Maybe even destroyed.”

“The Romulans are powerful militarily,” Spock said. “Given a galactic conflict against an aggressive species, they would stand far longer. I adhere to passive solutions, but such a methodology can become overly optimistic. Consider the Borg. We would do well to strengthen our way of life if it is to last.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “our ancient teachings of discipline would assist the Romulans in understanding that war and subterfuge need not be the only answer. So as you can see, cooperation and trust between our peoples is not simply an alternative, but a far superior solution.”

T’Pring took a deep breath while considering her next question, both in relation to Vulcan and Romulus, as well as to her own personal dilemma. “Logically speaking, why should one wish to reunite with another, who long ago chose another path?”

Spock stopped walking and turned his stone face toward her. “Assuming peaceful cohabitation can exist, to seek out what one has lost is not only to understand one’s self, but serves as its own reward.”

She watched for any hint that he suspected the full weight of her question. If he did, his expression did not betray it. She would bring his words to Vulcan and the Federation, though she wished he would return…to stand in his own defense, of course.

“T’Pring,” he said while studying her intently, “I am confused by your presence. An encoded subspace transmission would surely have had the same effect.”

“In matters of motive, there are things one can discern in person that a mere transmission will not allow.”

“True. However, I see no logic in—”

—preferring Stonn over me.

“—your course of action. Another delegate could have seen me. I cannot accept that they would have sent you alone to stand before me.” Spock took a deep breath. “Forgive me for being as blunt as a Tellarite, but I sense you have an ulterior motive.”

T’Pring slid one hand into the pocket of her robe and withdrew the silver brooch. One of Spock’s eyebrows shot up in recognition. “As is our custom,” she said, “I should have returned this to your mother when the ritual failed between us. But it had been misplaced and was found years later.”

As a Vulcan, she was supposed to be incapable of lying. Why then did it come so easily now?

“At the time of its discovery,” she continued, “your mother had already died. I thought to return it to your father, but that somehow seemed improper.” She held it out. “As I’ve grown older, I wish to put my house in order. It’s a small thing, but families should not be without their relics, so one will never forget or forsake their past.”

Spock accepted it. “If you wish.” His stern gaze harbored unspoken questions, but he did not ask them, for which she was grateful. “I remember my mother wearing this and the story she told of Sarek’s mother giving it to her. I never thought to see it again.” He rotated the object. “However, without any descendants, I have no use for it. Maybe you should keep it.”

“It would not be appropriate.”

“Very well. Perhaps it will please a Romulan child. And when she wears it, other children will ask of its origin, and in some small way, learn of our people.”

His words pained her, though she knew they shouldn’t. It was, after all, just a brooch. Maybe it was because she felt bothered by his selfless attitude—a trait Stonn rarely exercised by delighting in her presence.

Spock placed the brooch in his pocket. “Vulcan and Romulus will not reunite in mass, but slowly, over time. The tiniest pebble may start the largest avalanche.”

“If that’s how you feel about Reunification, I will give it further consideration and discuss it with our people.”

“Most kind.”

They resumed their silent walk in the direction they had come, until they returned to the area where she had beamed down.

“It was good to see you again, T’Pring,” Spock said. “It reminds me that entire realities can be triggered by the smallest choices, giving me hope that my work is not in vain. For had you chosen me during Koon-ut-kal-if-fee, neither of us would be where we are today.” Spock held up a hand in a V shape. “May you live long and prosper.”

The words escaped her before she could consider them. “I have done both, but now in the twilight of life, I question if it’s enough.” As Spock’s face changed to a frown, she replicated the hand gesture and pressed her hand flat against his. “If your human half will allow it, Spock, may you find happiness as well.”

She pressed the transmitter on her wrist. Green lights danced before her eyes as Spock’s curious expression faded from sight. After instructing her ship to return to Vulcan, she retired to her quarters. She sat on the edge of her bed and studied the bare walls. With a hesitant hand, she turned away the picture of her and Stonn. The simple act triggered another statement Spock had spoken that day long ago, which he had addressed to Stonn…

After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.

In her lifetime, she had only cried a few times as a child. Otherwise, even at the grave sites of her family members, she never flinched. Never gave in to emotion. To do so would have been disgraceful, especially to one who had achieved the purity of Kolinahr.

So how odd that now, in the quiet stillness of her cabin, a single tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She willed no more to come, yet she did not wipe it away. As it dangled from her jaw, she sought meaning in its trembling uncertainty while it wavered between maintaining its fragile hold and falling onto her folded hands. Strange it should come now, from nine simple words that had forever haunted her….

I see no logic in preferring Stonn over me.

Star Trek

The Next Generation®

Staying the Course

Paul C. Tseng

“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.”

—Ancient Terran Scriptures

“You have ten minutes to hand over the body of the Ambassador Rozhenko, or I will unleash the Metreon Wave over Cygnus Three. You’ve already seen the painful and slow deaths this type of radiation causes on Federation Outpost Fifteen, less than an hour ago. Now imagine not just thousands, not just Starfleet personnel, but millions of innocent civilians, women and children alike.” Toral’s eyes burned with unadulterated hatred as he spoke on the recorded transmission.

Chancellor Worf’s lip curled and a low-pitched growl emerged as he glared at the cold countenance of the Klingon on the recording.

“Place his body for collection at the center of R’kalla Square. I want him killed with a traditional Klingon hand weapon, such as a bat’leth or a dk’tahg. No disruptors, no phasers, no mercy. Ten minutes!”

The chancellor’s first reaction was naturally a Klingon one. Let them destroy the planet. That should not concern me.

He slammed the console to terminate the message, and the rough surface of his desk scraped the heel of his hand. He wished that he’d made sure Toral had died years ago when they fought for the Sword of Kahless.

The warm Qo’noS sun shone brightly through his office windows and onto his back, but this was becoming the darkest hour of his life.

After a moment of silence, another voice spoke over his terminal.

“Chancellor,” Admiral Jean-Luc Picard said. “I hate being the bearer of this message. I know how you must…”

The Klingon’s voice rose in a steady and formidable crescendo.

“ You have no idea how I feel!” he bellowed. “You have never had a family, never had a son!”

“Chancellor, with all due respect…”

“You have no understanding of the position I am in as a chancellor, much less a father!”

“Worf!”

The chancellor gripped the stone edge of his desk so hard that hairline fractures began to run toward the center. Thank Kahless Picard wasn’t actually in the room with him or he might actually have killed his former captain in his rage. But he remembered the human saying “don’t shoot the messenger,” and that the admiral, now some eighty years of age, had been a trusted friend since Worf was a junior officer on the Enterprise-D. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Picard’s voice softened. “Worf, one need not have a son to appreciate the gravity of this situation. But I must remind you that there are millions of others whose very lives are at stake here as well.”

Worf leaned in toward the terminal so that Picard could get a good look at his angry fangs.

“You would have my son…murdered?!”

The admiral’s shoulders heaved and fell. “No, Worf. I could never ask a man to do such a thing. But we must remain focused and aware of all that is at stake, beyond personal interests.”

Could there be anything more important to a father than the life of his only son? And yet, there was no other way to stop Toral—the entire world of Cygnus III would die. Worf struggled to see beyond the internal battle which he felt he was quickly losing.

“Do we have anything at all on Toral’s location?” the chancellor asked.

Picard hesitated and then exhaled. Worf knew that meant he was trying to find a way to answer other than saying “no.”

“Starfleet Intelligence is following the few leads it has,” Picard replied. “But the information is unreliable, at best, and it will take at least three hours before the data can be compiled and theorized upon.”

The chancellor stood and paced around his desk, not caring that his image would go in and out of view on Picard’s terminal. He clenched his fist in frustration and wanted to strike anything or anyone within reach. The anguish and fury in his heart caused it to beat like ritual Kot’baval drums.

“We do not have three hours.”

“No, Chancellor.” Then Picard rose from his chair and walked right up to the monitor. “I want you to know that there is absolutely no way that the Federation will give in to threats like these.”

Fine rhetoric, Worf thought. But there isn’t any way of stopping Toral right now. It’s either Alexander or three point eight million people on Cygnus Three.

“Has Alexander been told of Toral’s demands?” the chancellor asked.

Worf saw what looked like gloom fill Picard’s eyes.

“Yes,” the admiral answered, running his hand over his head and shutting his eyes. He seemed to exhale his words more than he spoke them. “Protocol requires that we keep any Federation ambassador completely ‘in the know’regarding matters as such.”

For the first time in this conversation, Worf allowed himself to drop his duranium façade and speak to Picard as a friend.

“Jean-Luc, I know you are doing everything you can.” In the thirty-eight years that Worf had known Picard, he could think of only one or two other times where he addressed him by his given name.

“Thank you, Worf. I do not envy your position, nor the ambassador’s.”

Worf nodded his appreciation.

“We will contact you the moment we have any news,” Picard said, his voice galvanized once again. “In the meantime, I believe you will want to spend the next few minutes…discussing this matter with your son.”

The mighty warrior, the larger-than-life chancellor of the Klingon Empire, was reduced to a pile of withering thoughts and sentiments. He tried his best to hide it and refrained from uttering a word, lest his voice crack before Picard. Instead he glanced quickly at the admiral and nodded.

“Godspeed, Worf. Picard out.”

“The Klingon Empire will never bow to pahtks such as Toral! I will not permit your execution, your…your murder!” Worf said, his voice booming like thunder in the small office of the Federation Embassy.

“Chancellor,” Alexander Rozhenko replied determinedly. “This is a Federation matter.” He barely took his eyes off his terminal to look at his father. “Besides, I am a Federation citizen and diplomat. I am immune to Klingon law.”

“But you are also a Klingon and you reside on Klingon soil,” Worf insisted. “We cannot bend to the demands of terrorists!” He gazed at the man who had once been a little boy who looked to him for approval and acceptance. Now he was a grown adult with a strong will of his own.

“Alexander…” Worf said in an uncharacteristically tender and pleading voice.

Finally, Alexander stopped what he was doing. He shut his eyes and breathed out the tension from within. The ambassador stood and looked Worf right in the eye.

“Father, I am working with Starfleet and Klingon Intelligence. We will find Toral and his thugs and we will stop him.”

“There isn’t enough time. You are well aware of that.”

Alexander nodded, but his eyes kept straying back to the display on his monitor.

“It may not happen in the next seven minutes, but it will happen. We will stop him, with or without me.”

“I will not permit anyone to sacrifice you!” Worf’s words were strong, but his voice quivered slightly. He hoped his son would attribute it to his growing older, not panic.

“And you would stand by and watch millions of people of Cygnus Three die a slow and horrible death? Federation scientists say that it takes anyone exposed to Metreon radiation at that level two days to finally die. The cellular deterioration and pain grows worse with each passing minute!”

Worf did not like where this argument was heading. He knew what kind of man his son had grown into and how he thought.

“It matters not,” said the chancellor. “The Federation will not sanction the murder of one of its citizens, much less their top diplomat, who happens to be the son of the Klingon chancellor.”

Deep down, Worf was uncomfortable. Something about his attitudes and words did not befit a warrior of his stature. And at the same time, something about his son’s attitude caused his breast to swell with pride. But the two sentiments could not coexist peacefully within Worf’s mind.

Alexander looked to his father, this time with eyes that Worf had not seen since his son was a child.

“Father, I will not stop fighting Toral until the bitter end. But we must be prepared, if all else fails. I cannot allow myself to be the reason that millions die.”

“You are not the reason,” Worf insisted, and pointed at the image of Toral on Alexander’s terminal. “He is the reason!” If ever there were a time that Worf had regretted having shown mercy to the bastard son of Duras, it was now. This is how his kindness was to be repaid. “Furthermore, we cannot let Toral and his followers believe that they can have any hold over us! He will not stop until he has brought the Empire into war with the Federation.”

“And for the past fifteen years, I have done more to stop him than any military power could have. If he doesn’t see me dead today, he will try again in the future. I will not be the Achilles heel of the Klingon Empire.”

The metaphor eluded Worf and he simply blinked.

“Achilles…?”

“Father, listen to me—I’m not trying to appease a known terrorist bent on destroying the Khitomer Accords,” Alexander said. “But I may be the only way to spare those lives, while buying time for Starfleet to find Toral and stop him.”

“Alexander…no,” Worf protested.

“You said it yourself. The Federation cannot and will not sacrifice my life,” the ambassador said. “But I can and will do so, if need be.”

He’d fought the Romulans, the Remans, the Jem’Hadar, and the Borg, yet Worf had never before felt as helpless as he did now. It was as if the ground had opened up and threatened to pull him down into the flames of Gre’thor.

Alexander reacted to the beeping on his terminal. He looked at it and keyed in a few strokes then looked up at his father.

“Only five minutes left. We might have a means of locating Toral but I need a couple more minutes alone,” Alexander said in a steady and calm tone.

Worf stood tall and took a deep breath before responding.

“As you wish, son. I will be back in the final two minutes. May Kahless grant you success.”

The Klingon numerals of Worf’s desktop chronometer ticked away silently but mercilessly. Five minutes remaining until the fate of his son and the inhabitants of Cygnus III would be determined.

Why have I not heard from Picard yet? There was nothing he could do now but wait. Worf hated waiting—patience was not his strength.

For as long as he could remember, Worf had hoped that his son would embrace his Klingon heritage and become a warrior, bringing honor to his house. It had taken all of Worf’s forbearance, forged through years of being with and working with humans, to understand that one-quarter part of his son which seemed to compel him to defy being a “normal” Klingon. There were even times, Worf had to admit, that he felt disappointed by Alexander’s choice not to pursue the way of the warrior. At the same time, his son had surprised him by joining the Klingon Defense Force during the Dominion War and training to become a warrior afterward. However, both of those ventures seemed doomed to comical endings which, ironically enough, until only now could Worf look back upon and laugh.

When Alexander had finally decided to take Worf’s vacated position as the Federation ambassador on Qo’noS, Worf had resolved that his son would function better in this line of work, where courage and combat abilities were not required—only “smooth talking,” something humans were all too good at.

But in recent years, seeing Alexander stand up to Toral’s vitriol and threats, Worf had begun to see a side of his son which was undeniably Klingon. It had taken a great deal of courage for Alexander to stand up to two assassination attempts and still refuse to relinquish his diplomatic office.

Today, Alexander showed his true Klingon hearts—of courage and honor. His son refused to allow the enemy to intimidate him and was willing to give his own life to save the innocent. Worf was indeed proud, but at the same time, he cursed himself for instilling the very values that would cost his son his life.

His terminal chimed and stirred him from his musings.

“My lord, I have the Federation president for you on a secure channel.”

“Put him through,” Worf replied. The screen winked to life and was replaced by the image of the president, his face ashen with despair. The chancellor didn’t need to ask; he just knew.

“Mister President.”

“Chancellor,” the president began. “I regret to inform you that we have not been able to locate Toral. Furthermore, Ambassador Rozhenko has contacted us and decided to…”

“Thank you, Mister President,” Worf said, sparing him the discomfort of having to put words to what Worf already knew. “I am aware of my son’s decision.”

The president’s features wrinkled in a pained look.

“Be assured, Chancellor Worf, that the United Federation of Planets will not rest until Toral is found and brought to justice. We will…”

Worf rose from his chair. “Thank you, Mister President,” Worf interrupted curtly, and terminated the link. He looked at his chronometer. Exactly three minutes remaining. Worf then began the long walk down the hallway to his son’s office in the Embassy wing.

“Alexander!” Worf called, seeing his son slumped in his chair with his back turned toward him. His son wore a ritual Hegh’bat robe. The elder Klingon ran over to him and found him crumpled and trembling. Though Alexander was a grown man, Worf took him in his powerful arms and would not let go.

“Father…I’m afraid.”

“You do not have to do this!” Worf whispered.

“Yes, I do.” Alexander unsheathed a d’k tahg and turned the handle for his father to grasp. “My legs are shaking and I can’t get to the transporter pad on my own.”

Worf looked across the room and saw the transporter powered up. “No! I cannot allow this!” he cried.

Alexander looked up. “You must, Father! It is no different from the time you wanted me to help you with the Hegh’bat when you were injured on the Enterprise.”

“Son…this is different.”

“Please, Father. I cannot live with the dishonor of knowing that the fear of death prevented me from saving the lives of millions of innocent people. You must help me. Help me retain my honor!”

Worf hesitated. He had never fled a battle in his entire life. But now he wanted nothing more than to run from the room and not have to face this. A son assisting his father in the Hegh’bat, the ritual suicide of an injured warrior no longer able to fend for himself, was natural for a Klingon. But a father doing this for his son, a healthy and able-bodied son, was not. It went against every grain of his existence.

“There isn’t much time!” Alexander said. “I need to do this quickly and then use the transporter. I’ve programmed the coordinates for R’kalla Square. Hurry, Father!”

This is my son’s wish. This is my son’s honor, born of courage and sacrifice. It is to his glory and mine. To the glory of Kahless and the Klingon Empire. Worf forced himself to believe it.

Not affording himself a moment to think twice about the consequences of his actions, Worf helped his trembling son to his feet. They began to walk toward the transporter pad when Alexander faltered. His knees buckled.

“Father!” Alexander gasped.

He had to be strong for the sake of Alexander’s honor. But his son’s cry of dread impaled Worf’s heart like the very dagger that would soon pierce Alexander’s. He recalled a childhood moment when his son had fallen and injured himself. How he regretted now not having run to his little boy, not having held him tight, assuring him that all would be all right. A curse upon my pride!

Clenching his teeth, Worf willed his body to stand tall and pull his son back to his feet. He helped Alexander to rest his weight upon his father’s strong shoulder. Together they staggered to the altar of sacrifice that was the transporter pad. Each painful step was an eternity which to Worf was all too brief. He kept his eyes on his son, trying desperately to memorize every feature on his face, every bit of detail about him that he could commit to his thoughts. In just a little while, he would never see him again.

They arrived at the transporter pad and Alexander knelt. Still shaking visibly, he looked up at his father and nodded. Reluctantly, Worf handed him the d’k tahg.

Alexander took the weapon, which shook violently in his nervous hands. Then he said in a quavering voice, “In…in my pocket. Take it…for later….”

Seeing that his son’s hands were rendered useless because of the convulsing, Worf reached down into the pocket of Alexander’s robe and pulled out an isolinear chip, one designed to store holographic data.

Alexander used his free hand to grasp his father’s wrist and steadied himself. “There wasn’t enough time to tell you all I wanted to say, Father.”

Worf fell to his own knees and his voice nearly cracked.

“There wasn’t enough time, my son.” He held his son to his bosom and gently stroked his hair. “I am and will always be proud of you.”

Alexander’s countenance lit up with a smile. “Then it will all have been worthwhile.”

“Your name will be revered. Operas will be commissioned in your memory,” Worf whispered. “You bring honor to your house, to the Empire.”

Alexander’s trembling seemed to subside a bit. Worf released his son from his embrace. Alexander straightened up and brought the razor-sharp point of his d’k tahg to his chest. Worf saw a flash of light reflected from the blade and it caused his heart to skip a beat.

“I’m ready,” Alexander said.

Worf stood proud and strong, hoping to lend his own strength to his only begotten son at this, his moment of truth. Alexander lifted the blade preparing to plunge it into his heart. But just then, his entire body began to shake. The blade fell from his hands and he looked in despair at Worf.

“I can’t control my hands! Father, please, help me!”

Immediately Worf knelt behind his son. He picked up the d’k tahg and held it in Alexander’s hands. Worf knew what he must do and cursed himself for it.

Alexander smiled in relief. Worf felt his trembling diminish and his body relax against his own.

“Now,” Alexander whispered.

“Today, my son, you die a warrior’s death. You will be avenged.”

With one swift thrust, Worf pulled his son’s hands, wrapped around the handle of the d’k tahg, into his chest. He felt the dull thud as his entire world imploded.

“Quickly, Father…the…trans…porter!” Alexander gasped.

He looked at the chronometer. One minute and twenty seconds remaining. The mighty warrior gently laid his son’s head upon his lap. He saw the pain in his eyes, which Alexander struggled to keep open. Worf could tell that his son meant to allow him to look death in the eye.

“Thank you, Father,” Alexander said as the life drained from his body. “Thank you for helping me stay the course.”

It mattered little that Worf didn’t fully understand what his son meant; he simply leaned over and kissed the ridges of his forehead.

“We will meet again…” Worf whispered. Sorrow infused his voice like a bitter troi’kara root simmering in a cauldron. “…in Sto-Vo-Kor.”

Alexander’s eyes shone brightly and a tranquil smile stretched across his face. “In Sto-Vo-Kor,” he whispered with his last breath.

The chronometer began to beep frantically. Ten seconds remaining. Worf carefully laid his son’s head down on the floor of the transporter pad. Then, according to the ritual, he wiped his son’s blood from the d’k tahg on his own sleeve. His task done, Worf strode to the transporter controls.

If only he could have had a few more minutes to be with Alexander and hold him! But his death must not have been in vain—Worf needed to beam Alexander’s empty shell to the coordinates Toral had demanded. He slid his fingers up the controls and the red light of the transporter beam enveloped Alexander. In an instant, his son was gone.

Clouds obscured the Qo’noS sun and turned the sky to an ominous hue of dark gray. Worf looked to the heavens and let out a fearsome, guttural cry, announcing his son to the gates of Sto-Vo-Kor. Flashes of lightning lit the darkened office. Worf found himself on his knees, emptied like a broken chalice with all its bloodwine drained out onto the cold stone floor. Night had fallen and Worf chose to remain alone in the darkness.

A bright ray of sunlight invaded the room. Worf awoke to find a new day, warm, bright and deceivingly full of life. Outside the open window, birds sang what seemed like a new song, people bustled in the streets below. It was the laughter of children that stirred Worf to get up off the floor. He looked over to the transporter pad and was soberly reminded of what had happened the night before. All that remained was a drying puddle of Alexander’s blood.

As he pulled himself up to his feet, Worf realized it would take all the strength and willpower he had within him to continue living. He was tempted to take Alexander’s d’k tahg and kill himself as he had helped his son. Alas, he knew that taking his own life, out of grief, would not allow him to travel The River of Blood so that he could join Alexander in Sto-Vo-Kor. Indeed, the long ride on the Barge of the Dead would require more courage than running from the pain he was feeling.

Taking in a deep breath, Worf walked to the window and looked outside. Life seemed to go on for all the people down below. Had any one of them ever watched their children die, much less by their own hand? He saw a little boy walking next to his father and pretending to be a warrior. He wielded a toy bat’leth and repeatedly struck his father in the shin. Playfully, the father feigned injury and defeat.

“You must kill me now! Spare me the dishonor of living as an invalid!”

The little boy plunged his foam bat’leth into his father’s chest. The father pretended to die gloriously—everyone around applauded the scene and laughed in delight.

The father got to his feet and vigorously patted his son on the back.

“That’s my little warrior!”

Worf smiled poignantly as he watched the boy walk away holding his proud father’s hand.

May you never know the pain of losing your son.

He sat at Alexander’s desk and looked around. There was a holoimage of his mother K’Ehleyr and Alexander as child. Over on the other side of the desk was a holoimage of Worf standing proudly next to him, on the day that Alexander had been appointed ambassador to Qo’noS. Then he remembered the isolinear holochip. Worf reached into his pocket and clicked it into the computer. A three-dimensional image of Alexander floated above the desk—it was apparently recorded just before he’d died.

“Hello, Father. By now, I am probably dead. I grew up thinking that I would be the one to live to watch you die at the hands of assassins. Perhaps that visitation from my future self changed things. I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak with you in person but there was not enough time. I have a few things that I really need to tell you now.

“Do you recall one of the passages in ‘The Wisdom of Kahless’ that you taught me when I was about nine years old? Kahless said: ‘To each warrior there is a path. Glory goes to him that fulfills their destiny.’

“For my entire life, I’ve never been able to resolve what my purpose was. I’m not quite Klingon and I’m not quite human. I felt that nothing I did was good enough—not that you made me feel that way—I just didn’t see the point of anything I tried to accomplish. Today, however, I realize that the greatest thing I can do is to die so that others might live. I am not the courageous warrior that you are, Father, but I have been given a unique opportunity to make my life count for something great. I believe that my honor depends on it.

“But I know myself. I know that I won’t have the strength to go through with it. I can’t complete the course on my own.” Alexander looked pensively into the holoimager; then his eyebrows perked upward. “Maybe this will help illustrate my point.” His fingers tapped something offscreen and his image was replaced by that of a man running on a racetrack.

“Of course, you know that I have had a fascination with human history and culture. This is an event that took place in the twentieth century on Earth. It was an athletic competition called the Olympics. In the year 1992, during the Barcelona Games, there was a runner named Derek Redmond.” A yellow line outlined and highlighted a black human runner, who seemed to be in the lead. Suddenly the runner stopped and fell. “Redmond tore a muscle in his right leg.” The other runners sped past him to the finish line while Redmond struggled to stay on his feet. Refusing to stop, he tried to run but couldn’t. He tried to hop but that didn’t seem to work either. Tears of anguish and pain covered his face. Suddenly, a man in the stands pushed past the security guards and onto the track. “When the security guards tried to stop Derek’s father, he was said to have replied, ‘That’s my son!’” The father put the runner’s arm around his shoulder and helped him limp to the finish line, long after all the other runners had completed the race; the entire stadium cheered them on.

If Worf had tear ducts, he would surely have been weeping at this moment, so poignant was the scene.

Alexander’s image returned and looked straight into Worf’s eyes.

“Even if I don’t win, like Derek Redmond, I have a course to finish. No matter how painful. But, Father, I need your help. I know that you, like Redmond’s father, will help me fulfill my destiny and retain my honor.” He paused and his eyes became sorrowful. “I love you, Father.”

“And I, you,” Worf whispered. He tried to touch his son’s face but the holoimage faded out. Only then did Worf fully understand what his son meant when he thanked him for helping him “stay the course.” His death was not without meaning. Worf shut his eyes. For the first time since Alexander’s death, he allowed himself to smile.

Just then a security guard entered the office and interrupted his thoughts.

“Forgive me, my lord. I have Admiral Picard on a secure channel.”

Worf pointed to the terminal on the desk.

“Put him through in Ambassador Rozhenko’s office,” the guard said over his communicator.

The terminal came to life and Picard, his visage somber but strong, began the conversation.

“Chancellor,” he began. “We have not been able to contact you for several hours.”

Worf replied quietly, “I did not wish to speak with anyone.”

“Words escape me at the moment,” Picard said. “I am truly sorry about Alexander.”

Worf nodded his appreciation.

“What your son did was beyond courage and nobility,” Picard continued. “Surely the Empire will honor him as a hero.”

“Yes,” Worf replied. “His sacrifice was a testament to the Klingon heart.”

There was a short moment of silence. Worf could see the message in Picard’s eyes that said, I am here for you, my friend.

It was the admiral that broke the silence.

“I thought you might like to know that after Toral confirmed Alexander’s body, he did not set off the Metreon Wave on Cygnus Three.”

“But did he give us its location?”

Picard shook his head. “No. In fact, he continued to make more demands.”

Worf snarled. “Toral had more than just a political agenda in having Alexander killed. He wants to make me suffer for taking his father from him. However, his father died in dishonor while my son died in glory. Toral has failed.”

Picard nodded. “Haven’t you heard, Worf?”

“Heard what?”

“Alexander injected a subcutaneous, phase-shifting beacon into himself before he died. We knew Toral would have his henchmen scan the body for any tracking device before bringing his body to him. But this one was virtually undetectable. Worf, don’t you see? Your son did more than save the lives of Cygnus Three’s citizens. He made himself the only possible means of locating Toral.”

Worf stood from the chair. “Then…you have him?”

“Yes, Worf! We have him in custody at a Starfleet detention facility. His clan has dispersed and relinquished their military assets and positions. Toral’s uprising has all but disintegrated.”

That pahtk allowed himself to be captured alive? And his followers, they are running like the scared targ s that they are! This came as something of a relief for Worf. For several years Toral had been building up a strong following of extremists. He sought to take over the Empire and destroy its alliance with the Federation. With his recent terrorist tactics, something unheard of for any Klingon worth his mettle, he was actually gaining ground.

“Admiral, I know that the Federation will do all they can to bring Toral to justice,” Worf said. “But there is no death penalty in the Federation, am I correct?”

Picard sighed. “Worf, there are many in the Federation who believe that we have evolved beyond the need for this method of correction. So, to answer your question: no, there is no death penalty in the Federation criminal justice system.”

Worf gritted his teeth.

“However,” Picard said, “the president has made for a provision that the Federation will file charges against Toral only after his extradition and trial under the Klingon judicial system. We await your orders.”

The chancellor leaned down at the monitor and bared his fangs.

“Bring him to me.”

Home Soil

Jim Johnson

Sharon Ndame frowned when she realized Lieutenant Commander Data’s tetryon particle lecture contained nothing she either didn’t already know or couldn’t pick up from some other computer. Feeling guilty and self-conscious, she stood to leave the crowded Academy auditorium.

Suddenly, the room exploded around her.

The blast lifted Sharon off her feet. Her hearing dulled to a roar; her vision slid into a blur. Debris shredded her uniform and skin.

She plowed into a row of filled seats, knocking down a bunch of her fellow cadets. She hit her head on something or someone then saw spinning stars amid the dust and debris and broken bodies.

Sharon struggled to catch her breath, but the cloying clouds of dust she inhaled gave her nothing but a violent fit of coughing. All around her she could hear the moans and screams of fellow beings. Some of those cries might have been hers—she wasn’t sure. Distantly, she could hear the sounds of…thunder? Micro-asteroids hitting the city?

She propped herself up on her aching elbows and screamed when jagged bits pushed deeper into her arms. Glancing down, Sharon saw her torn sleeves and the ugly debris violating her body. Dark blood oozed out of her wounds.

Sharon clutched her arms as close to her chest as she could without making them hurt even more. She looked around, blinking to clear the smoke, dust, blood, and tears from her eyes.

The auditorium looked like hell. Piles of bloodstained rubble lay everywhere. Broken bodies of cadets and officers slumped here and there, as if they’d been tossed around like trees in a tornado. Data-padds and chair fragments littered the floor. As a strange counterpoint to the chaos all around her, Sharon could see a bright blue sky outside the gaping hole in the wall.

Not thunder, then. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Sharon used a nearby chair that had escaped destruction to pull herself to her feet. She saw a few other cadets picking themselves up off the floor, tending to their comrades, or weeping over the dead. Her focus returning, she saw a Zaldan’s hand resting on a broken chair nearby, the delicate, translucent membranes stretched between the fingers contrasting with the bloody ruin at the wrist.

Sharon leaned over and retched at the sight of it. As the pain in her arms competed with the misery in her mind, her body ejected the meal she had eaten prior to entering the lecture hall. Empty, her dry heaves soon changed to sobs. She placed her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath, and in doing that, find some measure of control. This wasn’t supposed to happen to cadets with science honors!

She heard the crunch of someone stepping over debris. A pair of Starfleet boots moved into her vision.

“Cadet, have you seen my arm?” asked a surprisingly calm voice.

Confused by the question, Sharon looked up. Data stood there, looking at her with a quizzical glance. The android’s entire left arm had been ripped out of its socket. Sharon saw bits of wire and polymer sticking out of the lesion at weird angles. Thin streaks of some sort of fluid traced dark, greasy lines on what remained of the officer’s uniform.

Speech returned to her, somewhat. “Uh, no…”

She watched as it scanned the immediate surroundings. A chunk of its synthetic hair and skin had been ripped away, exposing tiny blinking lights and a section of dull metal skull. Sharon shuddered at the sight, as disgusted at it as she had been at the severed hand.

She clutched her arms to her chest again and left the android to its search. Noticing a hole in the wall, she shuffled through the debris and looked outside.

Several Academy buildings had collapsed into rubble. Fires blazed in several more buildings and on other areas of the Academy grounds. A bitter lump formed in her throat as she turned her gaze toward San Francisco. A veneer of smoke and dust hung over the city; the miasma punctuated with outbursts of flame.

Several small fighters of alien design darted here and there, raining down bursts of superheated plasma. Again, she realized that it hadn’t been thunder or micro-asteroids she’d heard—the whole city was under attack! Numb, she wondered if other cities also burned. Who in the great galaxy would dare attack the heart of Starfleet—would dare attack Earth?

As if it had read her mind, she heard the android speak from behind her. “Those are Breen fighters.”

She turned. “Why are they attacking us?”

It stepped toward her, still partially unarmed. “I am uncertain, though I suspect their recent alliance with the Dominion encouraged them to make a bold maneuver.” She grimaced at the calculated tone of its voice.

“Attacking San Francisco, the base of both Starfleet Headquarters and Starfleet Academy, was perhaps the boldest move they could have made. The Breen have clearly caught us…” It paused as if scanning its memory banks. “…with our pants down.”

Sharon shuddered. The android’s infuriatingly calm voice sounded so cold, so indifferent to her. Didn’t it feel anything for the dead and dying people all around them? Couldn’t it feel anything? She posed those questions to the thing, blinking tears out of her eyes.

The robot didn’t answer her. It was looking out of the building toward the Academy gardens. Curious, in spite of herself and the whole situation, she followed its stare.

Several heavily armed and armored troops moved across the verdant grounds, crushing plants and flowers underfoot, firing their heavy disruptors indiscriminately.

She moved her gaze from the troops to the android. “Are those Breen?”

Data looked at her with an expressionless face and nodded. “They are.”

She took an involuntary step back, stumbling on some loose debris. The Breen were going to come up here and kill them all, and this machine wasn’t going to do a thing to stop them.

Several battered cadets worked their way over to her and the android. A cacophony of questions rang out all around her.

Data raised its remaining hand, halting their queries. “Stand fast, Cadets.” It gestured toward the Breen troops. “San Francisco, and perhaps all of Earth, is under attack. Starfleet Academy is under attack. I need anyone who can fire a phaser to come with me.”

Sharon felt most of the cadets move in closer. She flinched. Were they all so willing to rush to their deaths?

Data said, “Anyone with medical training should remain here and treat the injured.” It moved toward the auditorium’s entrance. “The rest of you, come.”

Data led a ragtag group of cadets out of the ruined auditorium, leaving Sharon and a handful of others behind. A Vulcan cadet caught Sharon’s confused stare and raised an eyebrow.

Sharon stared at the girl, dredging up her name from her overworked mind. “What are we going to do, T’Lang? I don’t want to wait here. Not with those Breen running around.”

Cadet T’Lang answered, “Perhaps you can assist me in moving the wounded to better surroundings.”

Sharon panicked. “I can’t do that! I’ve only been here a couple weeks—I’ve only had my basic first-aid classes! I wouldn’t know what to do!” She ran a bloody hand through her short hair.

The Vulcan inclined her head. Sharon wondered if T’Lang realized that she looked like the android when she did that.

T’Lang said, “In that case, I would recommend you go with Commander Data.”

Sharon considered it, then nodded. Going somewhere with a group of people sounded way better than standing in a slaughterhouse waiting for the Breen to gun her down.

Without a glance back, Sharon hurried to catch up with the few cadets following the android. As she closed the distance, she heard the android say, “…make our way to the armory near the combat range. We will arm ourselves and do what we can.”

Joining the rear of the group, she heard several cadets make assenting comments. She shook her head. A bunch of kids going into battle with a robot in command? It would send them all to their deaths without feeling a thing, wouldn’t it? Crazy—this whole situation was just crazy.

Sharon grabbed the arm of the cadet closest to her, a lanky Bolian third-year. His face was flushed bright blue and he had large splotches of someone’s blood on his uniform. She didn’t know his name. “What are we doing?”

The Bolian looked down at her, his eyes hard. “Following orders, Cadet. I know you’re just a rat, but you are Starfleet. Commander Data is our CO until we hear otherwise. Do you understand?”

Sharon gave the Bolian a reluctant nod. He gave her a final once-over, then rushed off to join the others.

She took a deep breath, searching to retain the control she had had difficulty finding earlier. What was she doing here? She had joined Starfleet to study spatial anomalies and explore distant stars, not fight the Breen on her home soil! She realized that the Bolian was right: she was just a “rat”—a first-year—she didn’t know anything about fighting a war!

Disruptor blasts exploded somewhere close. Scared, she looked over her shoulder. A pair of Breen soldiers had shot their way through a door. They were looking for targets, looking for her! She jogged after the Bolian. When she heard more of the Breen shots crash nearby, she turned her jog into a run.

As she neared the armory, a few disheveled cadets with phasers and grim looks rushed past her toward the Breen. She didn’t turn to watch them enter the battle.

Sharon halted in front of the building, realizing that other officers and cadets must have had the same idea as Data. About thirty Starfleet personnel were there, most of them injured. A few prepared phasers and some treated minor injuries. A medical student caught Sharon’s eye as she stood there in a daze.

“Over here, Cadet. Let me take a look at your arms.”

Obediently, Sharon moved over to the blue-uniformed ensign and hesitantly offered her limbs. “I got caught in one of the blasts,” she said, surprised at the petulant and weak tone of her own voice. Was she going to die?

The corpsman examined her, being careful not to touch the pieces of debris sticking out of her arms. Sharon bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Most of these are superficial, fortunately.” The corpsman gave her a quick glance. “Much pain?”

She nodded. A flurry of weapon fire opened up nearby, the distinctive whines of Starfleet phasers punctuated by the deeper poundings of Breen disruptor blasts. She flinched.

The corpsman pulled a topical applicator from his medical satchel and sprayed her arms with a mild anesthetic. In moments, the constant prickles of pain in her arms dulled to mere aches.

The firefight nearby increased in intensity and narrowed in distance. Sharon heard the android order several more cadets to go join the fight. She saw a handful of cadets, most of them wounded, jog off toward the Breen. Sharon wondered if any of them would make it back, wondered if that Data cared.

The corpsman brought her back to the present. “This is the best I can do right now. If I had more time, I’d pull out some of the smaller chunks.”

Before Sharon could offer a response, the corpsman took a disruptor blast full in the chest. His surprised expression and heat-blistered torso were the last she saw of him.

Someone—Sharon didn’t know who—pulled her into the armory, behind the heavy walls. Heavy phaser fire burst out all around her. The cadets were fighting back. The flare from their weapons imprinted on her vision, blinding her. She heard someone barking out orders and felt someone else press a phaser into her hands.

She blinked away the lightning-like flashes in her eyes. A cadet outside of the armory fell to the ground near the door, the wound in his side smoldering. A second disruptor blast hit him, then a third.

Horrified and desperate to get away, Sharon pushed her way farther into the armory, trying to put as much space and as many bodies as possible between her and the Breen. She saw the android in the room. It gestured in her direction. She heard its voice call out over the deafening din of the pitched battle.

“Cadets! I need your help!”

Sharon looked at the cadet next to her, a second-year Andorian female. The girl had a bloody compress fastened over her face and a desperate look in her one good eye. She had a phaser in hand, though, and appeared to know how to handle it.

The girl said, “Come on, he’s talking to us!” She led Sharon over to Data. Sharon thought the android looked terribly out of place with its missing arm and still calm expression.

The Andorian said, “Cadets reporting, sir.”

Data nodded at the cadet. “Thank you. As you can see,” he indicated the entrance to the armory and the heavy firefight outside, “we are pinned down and outgunned. You two are all I have left to help me create a diversion. We have to help the rest of our people get out of this building.”

Sharon ducked with them as several heavy blasts rattled the armory. Data was the first to recover. It glanced at the ceiling, as if its mechanical vision somehow enabled it to see through the building. “That was not disruptor fire. They must have called in air support.”

Data waved a fourth-year cadet over. “Cadet Cahill, we will create a diversion.” Data indicated itself, Sharon, and the Andorian cadet. “As soon as the firing outside the armory is redirected toward us, get everyone out of here and to better cover.”

The older cadet confirmed the order then moved to take command of the other people inside the armory. As a fresh exchange of phaser and disruptor fire erupted outside, Data motioned to Sharon and her fellow cadet. “We are going to use the armory’s side entrance and attempt to flank the Breen. Stay low and close to me.”

Sharon didn’t feel too good about that plan, but Data and the Andorian cadet had moved off before she had a chance to mention it. Glancing back, Sharon saw the other cadets and officers in the armory. Most of them were wounded to some degree, some severely. Only a few were armed.

A sudden terrible realization struck Sharon. She, Data, and that other cadet were the only hope of escape for this group of people. With the Breen closing in on the entrance and their fighters making strafing runs outside, it wouldn’t take long for this part of the Academy and everyone inside it to be reduced to slag.

Sharon blinked away hot tears. Data…it—he—wasn’t just throwing the cadets into the fray; he had some sort of plan in mind. He was trying to save as many as he could, right? And somehow, he needed Sharon’s help. She couldn’t believe it. She was in sciences, not security. Why did she have to fight? It was so unfair. She didn’t deserve this; none of them did. Was this a part of being a Starfleet officer?

The cadet Data had left in charge, Cahill, waved at Sharon. She looked at him and felt ashamed when she saw hope shining in his eyes. If she failed to help all these people—failed to help Data—she’d never forgive herself. Assuming she even survived the battle.

She gave the cadet a nod that she hoped looked encouraging, then rushed deeper into the armory to catch up with Data and the cadet. She found them in short order. Data had already unlocked the side door. He looked at Sharon as she arrived.

“I am pleased you are here, Cadet. I was concerned that I had lost you.”

Sharon shook her head. “No…. No sir.” She mustered her courage and gave him a steady look, actually seeing him for the first time. “Sir, Commander Data. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Data gave her a quizzical look. “I do not understand.”

The ground shook from another strafing run. The three of them braced themselves against the walls to keep their balance.

Sharon palmed away her tears. “I’ll try to explain later.”

“Indeed. We shall see if there is a later.” Data gave her a tight smile, which surprised her. Sharon had assumed he was incapable of smiling.

Data positioned himself near the door and glanced at Sharon and the Andorian. “Ready? On three.” They all double-checked their phasers and crouched, ready to spring out the door. “One…two…”

On three, Data keyed open the door and dove outside as soon as the space was wide enough to let him pass. He hit the ground and rolled into a crouch, firing his phaser once he had a target. Sharon went out second, moving as low and as fast as her injuries allowed. She fired off a couple of phaser blasts in the general direction of the Breen and ran for the first cover she saw.

Finding refuge behind an overturned bench, Sharon spared a glance toward the armory door. The other cadet leaned outside and fired off a couple shots. Data and Sharon added their firepower. Soon they had the attention of a dozen or so Breen. The soldiers started to shoot at them rather than at the front door of the armory.

Data rushed toward Sharon in a half-crouch. “We have to keep moving! Get to better cover!”

She nodded and ran with Data. She heard the phaser fire from their counterpart intensify. The Andorian cadet must have seen the two of them—she was providing cover fire for them!

Sharon and Data rushed toward a low wall bordering a footpath between buildings. They dove behind it as heated energy crashed all around them.

Sharon ducked as a Breen fighter thundered by overhead, its plasma bursts crashing into the library several dozen meters away. The building came apart, smoke and fire trailing from it as it collapsed with a roar.

Data glanced over the wall as the Breen soldiers closed in. “Cadet sh’Rave is pinned down! We need to give her covering fire so that she can get out of the armory!”

Sharon could see the other cadet inside the doorway, throwing shots at the Breen as she scanned the ground near her with one good eye. Sharon knew that there weren’t too many places for her to go.

Sharon fired a few more times and shot worried glances toward the Andorian. The cadet was looking her way, gesturing at her. Sharon looked at Data. “I don’t understand what she wants!”

Data looked toward sh’Rave. “I believe she wishes to join us here.”

Sharon and Data ducked under a new barrage of Breen fire. They heard a yell from the other cadet and rose to give her covering fire. The Breen fired at them with new intensity, blasting apart the ground and sections of the wall all around Sharon and Data.

The cadet zigged and zagged across the grounds, avoiding the Breen fire, all the while moving toward Data and Sharon. She was ten meters or so from their protective wall when she got shot in the back. She hit the ground hard, her phaser flying out of her hand.

Sharon and Data intensified their fire as the Andorian struggled to crawl toward them. Disruptor fire chewed up the ground all around her; she was hit at least twice more.

Sharon looked at Data, despair in her eyes. Taking in his one-armed condition, something snapped inside of her. She leaped over the wall.

Sharon heard Data call out, but she kept her focus on the Andorian. Sharon ran toward the fallen cadet, scooping up the girl’s discarded phaser as she went. With a weapon in each hand, Sharon sent a furious stream of fire toward the Breen as she reached her colleague.

A quick glance showed Sharon that the girl was yet alive—she was coughing and still trying to crawl, anyway. Sharon reached down and helped the Andorian to her feet. Sharon’s arms screamed as the weight of the girl leaning hard against her drove the shards of debris in her arms into new, agonizing angles.

Sharon gritted her teeth and started back toward the wall where Data crouched, waiting. He fired his phaser faster than Sharon could have ever imagined. She hoped he was as accurate as he was fast. The energy blasts hitting all around her did nothing to answer that question.

The Andorian was crying out, screaming something, but Sharon couldn’t decipher it. Sharon had to drop one of the phasers to get a better grip on the girl, but it didn’t matter. If she couldn’t get them to the wall, another phaser wouldn’t make a difference.

Everything seemed to slow down to half-speed. A rosebush in Sharon’s peripheral vision exploded into flames. Data’s wide, yellow eyes shined as she neared the wall. The Andorian gained a thousand kilos in a second. The local gravity seemed to increase by a factor of three.

A stream of questions rolled through her mind. Could we make it to the wall? Would we be shot dead before we can get there? Did many science honor cadets fall in battle? Who would tell my family what had happened, what I’d done?

The moment stretched into what felt like an eternity. Data fired madly in her direction, missing her and the Andorian by centimeters, firing at unseen targets behind her. The wall was getting closer, closer! She was there—she’d made it!

Sharon pushed the Andorian over the wall and was just about to leap over it when her legs erupted in fiery agony. Sharon hit the wall and collapsed. She heard Data call out, saw him gesturing at her, but couldn’t respond.

Dazed, Sharon saw a phaser on the ground next to her. It was hers—she hadn’t realized she had dropped it. She thought about reaching up to lift herself over the wall, but her body didn’t seem willing to respond.

In a haze, Sharon saw Data reach over, felt him grab a single handful of her ruined uniform. She felt herself pulled bodily over the wall by his superhuman strength as deadly energies crashed all around them. She hit the ground near where the Andorian had landed.

Data crouched next to her. “I am sorry, Cadet.” She blinked hard. Was that concern she saw in his eyes?

Sharon opened her mouth to reply, but the Breen leaping over the wall behind Data stunned her into silence. Data must have seen the look in her eyes, because he twisted around and grabbed the Breen’s disruptor rifle before the alien had a chance to use it. Data and the Breen struggled for control of the weapon, but the strength in Data’s one arm was more than a match for the Breen.

Just as Data wrenched the weapon from the soldier’s grasp, the Breen’s helmet exploded from a phaser blast plowing into it. Sharon could hear more phaser fire nearby. The other cadets in the armory must have gotten out—their diversion must have worked!

Data glanced over the wall, toward the sounds of battle, then turned to Sharon. “I must go, but I will be back as soon as I can.”

Sharon managed a nod. “I’ll wait for you…sir.”

Data gave her a long look. He pushed his phaser toward her with his foot then vaulted the wall and moved toward the fight, firing the heavy disruptor rifle with the one arm that was still attached to his body.

Now it was just her, the Andorian, and that dead Breen stuck near the wall. Sharon’s legs burned terribly. She crawled the agonizing long meters to the wall as the battle raged outside of her line of sight. She propped herself into a sitting position once she reached the wall. Feeling strangely detached from her own body, she examined the fronts of her legs. Her pants were dusty and torn, but looked to be in otherwise decent shape.

The backs of her legs, though, were another matter. Her pants were a smoldering ruin and the skin underneath was a mass of ugly black char and white, runny blisters. She had second- and third- degree burns all over her calves and feet. The pain was incredible, but she somehow didn’t feel much of it. Was this what going into shock felt like?

Sharon glanced at the Andorian. The blue-skinned girl lay where she had fallen, her back to the sky, face to one side. Her one working eye was closed. Her back looked even worse than Sharon’s legs. She could see the girl’s torso moving up and down and her blue antennae slowly twitching, though. She was still alive.

Sharon called out. “Cadet…Cadet? Can you hear me?”

Sharon got a low moan for a response, which she took to be an encouraging sign. “Cadet…if you can hear me, can you look at me?”

A long moment passed. Sharon wasn’t sure if the cadet had heard her; wasn’t sure if she had slipped on to whatever afterlife the Andorians believed in. Then, slowly, the Andorian lifted her head just enough to glance myopically at Sharon. Sharon received the briefest of nods before the girl dropped her head back to the bloodstained grass.

Another Breen fighter rocketed overhead. Sharon lifted her glance to follow its path, powerless to stop it. Then, Sharon saw something she hadn’t expected—something wondrous. A Federation fighter streaked after the Breen ship, firing beautiful streaks of energy toward it. Somehow the scene brought a smile to Sharon’s face. She couldn’t explain why she felt so happy, so relieved. Maybe because Starfleet was waking up—finally fighting back. Maybe they’d get out of this after all.

Inspired by that unknown Starfleet pilot, Sharon worked her way over to her fellow cadet and started to drag her back toward what remained of the low wall. The effort took a long, painful eternity. Sharon had to pause and recover her strength several times. The agony in her arms and legs continued unabated, but she was determined to get the cadet to the minuscule safety of the broken wall.

The sun had set by the time Sharon finally propped herself and her fellow cadet against the wall. Sharon wrapped her arms around the girl for comfort, ignoring the constant pain in her limbs. The Andorian muttered something incoherent, most likely in her native tongue. Sharon didn’t know what the girl needed, so she just pressed closer to her and hoped it was enough. She didn’t have any food or medical supplies, and she wasn’t about to search the dead Breen. Let it rot where it had fallen.

Sharon drifted in and out of awareness, skated the edge of unconsciousness. Distant sounds of an ongoing firefight and sirens from the city kept Sharon from falling asleep completely. The mumbling Andorian girl kept her up as well, even though Sharon couldn’t do much for her other than hold her for their mutual warmth.

At some point during the darkness of the night, Sharon was pulled out of her dazed reverie by a low, long groan from the Andorian. The sound scared Sharon, taking her back to the moments before her nana had…no. Sharon shifted her position to try and make the two of them more comfortable. Sharon was not going to let the girl die.

The Andorian managed a whisper. “What…what happened?”

Sharon cleared her dry throat. “Attacked, by Breen. We’re both shot up.”

The Andorian pressed closer to Sharon. “Did…distraction…work?”

Sharon nodded mutely, stunned at the weakness in the Andorian’s voice, amazed that the injured girl was asking about the others rather than herself. Sharon glanced down at the girl in the darkness. Was the selfless attitude an Andorian trait, or was it something Starfleet taught its officers?

The Andorian shifted her body so that her head rested on Sharon’s shoulder. “Glad…” was all she could manage.

Sharon said, “I think we were able to help most of the others get out of the building. I haven’t seen Commander Data since he left, though. They could all be dead as far as I know. I’ve heard a lot of shooting.”

Sharon didn’t know if the Andorian could still hear her, but she continued. “You were pretty brave out there. I thought you were going to make it to the wall.”

The Andorian offered a hollow grunt. Sharon held her tightly, hoping to keep her there. “Just hold on. We’re going to make it.”

The girl shook her head. “I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.”

Desperate, Sharon tried to think of something to do to keep the girl awake, to keep her from leaving. “Cadet…what’s your name?”

The girl whispered, “Randishira.”

Sharon managed a smile. “That’s a beautiful name. Mine’s Sharon. You’re a second-year cadet, but I’m just a rat.”

Randishira uttered something Sharon didn’t catch. To Sharon it sounded like charan, but she wasn’t sure. The girl’s voice dropped into a stream of alien words. Sharon couldn’t figure them out. It almost sounded like a song, or a chant.

Sharon kept talking, pulling stuff off the top of her head to try and keep Randishira with her.

“I was wrong about Commander Data, you know. I thought he was nothing more than a walking computer, but I was wrong.” Sharon didn’t get a response from Randishira, but she kept talking anyway.

“He’s a Starfleet officer, and he cares about his fellow officers. I thought he would just mechanically throw us into the fight, but he was really worried about everyone. He was worried about you too.”

Sharon felt weariness close in on her, tried to fight it off. “I was pretty stupid. I was smart enough to make it into Starfleet Academy, but…but I still have an awful lot to learn.”

She glanced down at Randishira. The girl didn’t seem to have heard a word she said. Exhausted, Sharon rested her head against Randishira’s and closed her eyes.

A bright light shining on Sharon’s face dragged her back into consciousness. She blinked her burning eyes. Randishira still lay pressed against her, but wasn’t moving. The Andorian’s eye was closed, her dirt-smeared face strangely relaxed. Sharon whispered the girl’s name, but didn’t get a response. She nudged Randishira, but the girl slid along Sharon’s body, her head coming to rest in Sharon’s lap.

Sharon gently placed her hands on Randishira’s head. The girl’s white hair was soft to the touch, but the skin underneath was cold, so cold. Sharon wept. She’d lost her.

She started as she heard voices moving around the grounds nearby. She was too tired to sit up, in too much agony to call out. She heard Commander Data’s voice break through the muddle.

“They should be near that wall, over there!”

Sharon glanced around as Commander Data moved into view. He still had the Breen disruptor rifle in hand, but tossed it aside as he rushed over to kneel next to her.

He glanced at Sharon, then dropped his gaze to Randishira. He gently pulled the Andorian away from Sharon and laid her on the ground. Sharon just watched as Data folded the girl’s arms on her chest, using such tender care to do so. Tears flooded Sharon’s eyes.

She’d been so wrong about him. He wasn’t a cold, unfeeling computer. He was a Starfleet officer, and he was grieving for the loss of an ally.

Sharon sniffed. “Thank you for coming back for us.”

Data lifted his glance, the grief in his eyes palpable. He said, “It was the least I could do. I regret,” he dropped his gaze back to Randishira, “that I returned too late to save her.”

Sharon caught his glance. “You did the best you could.”

Data gave Randishira one last look, then turned to Sharon. “As did we all. Your efforts, and the efforts of Cadet sh’Rave, were sufficient to allow the others to get to safety. We did lose a few more, but had we not successfully distracted the Breen, we all would have most likely been killed.”

Sharon tried a tired smile. “What about your arm?”

Data glanced at where his missing appendage should have been. “It can be found, and repaired.” He paused, his gaze distant. “I feel like I have lost more than my arm today, however. I do not know what it could be.”

Sharon looked at Randishira, looked at the ruined Academy all around her. “I think we’ve all lost something.” She looked at him, a surge of pride and respect bringing new tears to her eyes. “But maybe we’ve gained some things too.”

Data inclined his head. “Indeed? I would like to discuss that more with you, once we have both recuperated.”

Sharon nodded. “I’d like that. Sir.” She rested her head back on the wall. There was so much she still had to learn—from Data, from Randishira, from all of Starfleet.

Terra Tonight

Scott Pearson

Cadet Ella Rose, in the engine room of the Hood on a training cruise, kept her eyes on her display as she said, “Chief, you think we might pass by the Frisco yards on the way back to spacedock? The new Sovereign-class Enterprise is coming along well, and you know I requested a posting on her…” She trailed off as she glanced toward Chief Engineer Chandra at the port system display just as he staggered backward, then doubled over as if punched in the stomach.

“Check the synch—” The order was cut off as a waviness surrounded the chief like heat shimmering in the air. He looked like he was yelling more orders, but no sound reached Rose. She headed toward him but hesitated as Chandra’s legs left the deck, his whole body turning in the air with his waist the axis of rotation. He hovered there, slowly tumbling in place, his body appearing to ripple and warp as if seen through a billowing sheet of translucent plastic.

“Engineering, this is Captain DeSoto. All our boards just lit up like fireworks. What’s going on down there?”

Rose reached for her combadge. Before she could tap the channel open, she found herself stumbling across the deck then falling to starboard. She toppled downward, toward the wall, which suddenly seemed below her. She landed facedown, banging her elbows and accidentally biting her lip. Scrambling up into a sitting position—still on the wall—she saw other cadets and regular engineering crew trying to adapt to the chaos in the engine room.

The port system display shattered, the shards flying and falling in random directions. Crew members fell, stumbled, or floated in various directions. A crease appeared in the ceiling, the walls seemed to bend, and although Rose remained on the wall, the blood from her lip dripped to the ceiling. She wiped at her mouth with a sleeve, and tapped her combadge.

“Cadet Rose to the bridge.” She paused. “Captain DeSoto?”

There was no answer.

“This is a Federation News Service breaking story. All contact has been lost with the Federation transport ship Jenolen, en route to Norpin Five, a popular retirement colony. Starfleet considers the ship, which is now fifty hours overdue, missing. A search-and-rescue operation is under way. Although a crew and passenger manifest has not yet been released, a ship of this class would usually have a crew complement of about three dozen and could carry up to two hundred passengers. The FNS has confirmed with anonymous sources within Starfleet that Captain Montgomery Scott, retired, was among those passengers. Captain Scott is well known for his fifty-two-year-long Starfleet career, much of it aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise under the command of Captain James T. Kirk.

“Just last year (Sol calendar) Captains Kirk and Scott were instrumental in assisting Captain John Harriman of the Enterprise -B in rescuing forty-seven El-Aurian refugees from a dangerous spatial phenomenon informally known as the Nexus. Captain Kirk was lost during that rescue and presumed dead. Now it appears that Captain Scott has joined his former commander on the list of Starfleet officers who have disappeared in space…. Truly, for them, the final frontier.

“The FNS will continue to update this story as information becomes available. In the meantime, on behalf of all of us at the FNS, allow me to say our thoughts are with the family and friends of the crew and passengers of the U.S.S. Jenolen. This is Brad Foster reporting for the Federation News Service.”

Marta Jensen faced the holocamera in front of her sleek wooden desk. The large monitor behind her faded from Foster to a stock image of the Jenolen. “That was the lead story seventy-seven years ago, almost to the day. Losing a ship is not as uncommon as any of us would hope, but it always feels like a new and terrible thing when it does happen.” The image behind her dissolved from the Jenolen to Voyager. “It is now two weeks since the FNS learned through friends and family of the crew that the U.S.S. Voyager is missing with all hands. So far, no new information has come to light, and the fate of Voyager remains unknown. All we can do is hope that she will soon reappear, the victim of only a small technical failure. But that story remains to be written.

“Tonight, however, we will speak with someone who, by his very presence, will give hope to all those who are waiting for someone on Voyager, because sometimes the lost are found. Sitting with me is the subject of that seventy-seven-year-old story we just replayed, someone who takes the cliché out of the phrase ‘living legend.’” Jensen turned to her left as Voyager was replaced with an Enterprise triptych—the NCC-1701 as Kirk first commanded her, the refitted Enterprise, and finally the 1701-A. “Captain Montgomery Scott, welcome to Terra Tonight.”

The director changed the feed to the two-shot holocamera, displaying Jensen and Scott side by side.

“Och, enough with that ‘legend’ talk, lass. To paraphrase an old friend o’ mine, I’m an engineer, not a statue. And please, call me Scotty.”

“Fair enough. But you can’t deny that you’ve done some amazing things, not the least of which is reappearing after being missing for seventy-five years, and apparently without aging a day in all that time.”

A cloud seemed to cross Scott’s face as the director cut to a close shot, but Scott quickly recovered for the cameras. “Well now, you know I canna talk about that in detail, since certain aspects of it are still classified. But I can say that I was the only survivor of the Jenolen, meaning a lot of good people died, including a fine young engineer and friend, Ensign Matt Franklin. So you’ll understand if it’s not a celebration for me.”

Jensen nodded sympathetically. “Of course.” She leaned back in her chair. “Let’s talk about Starfleet. You had retired before your disappearance. What made you decide to go back on active duty?”

“Oh, there were a lot of things. Mostly it was when Admiral Nechayev reinstated me as a consultant during a recent incident. In other words, she drafted me.”

Jensen smiled for a moment, then, with the smoothness that all reporters seem to have, looked serious again. “You refer to the loss of the Enterprise-D.”

“Yes, but—”

Marta held up a hand. “I know, it’s classified.” She leaned forward again, folding her hands together. “Let’s go back to being ‘drafted,’ as you call it. You didn’t rejoin on your own?”

“Not at first, no. After I was rescued, I had some rough spots. Many of my friends and family were gone. I couldn’t throw myself back into my work—I was seventy-five years behind on my technical manuals and without a ship to serve on. The Enterprise-D was a wee bit overwhelming. I headed out in a shuttle with no direction to go. Norpin Five no longer sounded interesting to me, but nothing else did either. I was—”

Scott’s combadge chirped for attention, surprising both him and Jensen; Scott had cleared this appearance with Starfleet and was supposed to be unavailable for the duration of the interview.

With a shrug at Jensen, Scott said, “Sorry, I have to respond to this.”

As he got up from the chair and stepped away from the desk, Jensen turned toward the main holocamera and said, “And so you see, even in the studio you never know what’s going to happen during a live holocast. Apparently, there is an unfolding emergency of some sort that has required the input of Captain Scott. We will keep you updated as we learn more…”

A few steps away and with his back to Jensen, in the relative dark outside the range of the cameras, Scott tapped his combadge. “Scott here.”

“This is Nechayev. We’ve got an emergency on the Hood. I need you to get back to that desk immediately.”

“The Hood? Isn’t she on a cadet cruise? And what’s that got to do with—”

“Captain, the Hood is suffering multiple system malfunctions, and you helped design the Excelsior class.”

“That was many refits ago, Admiral, and the original design team didn’t listen much to my input.”

Nechayev continued, ignoring Scott’s comment. “The Hood’s standard communications are down, but for some reason civilian frequencies are still getting through, so the quickest way for you to contact her is from that desk. We’ve got a signal from her coming through a patchwork of civilian satellites and relays. We’ll put that through to the studio.”

“Aye, Admiral.” Scott shook his head. All the pressure was on him now, hanging on the thread of this tenuous connection to the ship. He hurried back to the desk.

Jensen was still looking into the holocamera. “Captain Scott’s first standout engineering victory came early in his career, while he served as advisor to the Denevan asteroid-mining operation. During a cargo run, the freighter Scott was on—”

“Sorry, lass,” Scott said as he settled back into the guest chair. “I’m commandeering this show.”

Jensen gave him a confused smile. “That’s quite an entrance, Captain, but I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’ll find out soon. And call me Scotty.” Scott faced the monitor behind Jensen’s desk.

There was a loud burst of static over the audio system as the Enterprise disappeared from the monitor and was replaced by the snow of interference. A voice, cracking with nerves, said, “ Hood to Captain Scott. Hood to Captain Scott.”

Jensen raised her eyebrows as Scott held up a finger to indicate she should just wait and see what happened. The snow faded and resolved into an image of a young woman in a cadet uniform, her lower lip swollen and bloodied. There were drops of blood along the side of her face as if she’d been swinging around upside down while the blood ran from her mouth. Some of her long brown hair had slipped out of the ponytail she wore, and hung over her right eye. Behind her were glimpses of an engine room in a state of pandemonium.

“This is Captain Montgomery Scott. Who is this?”

“Cadet Ella Rose, sir.”

“Where is the chief engineer?”

Rose moved to her left, out of view. “That’s Chief Chandra.”

A couple meters behind her, a person curled into a ball floated about a meter and a half off the deck, rotating randomly like a shuttle in free fall without stabilizers. Further in the background were more crew, some floating, some lying on the deck, walls, or ceiling. Most looked unconscious, but some clearly struggled against higher than normal gravity. Small pieces of debris were also scattered about, floating, falling, lying on various surfaces. Smoke and sparks guttered from conduits and consoles, and the lighting flickered on and off.

Rose moved back into frame as she tucked the errant hair behind her ear. “For some reason, I’m the only one still able to move here in engineering, maybe on the whole ship. Communications—” A burst of sound interrupted the cadet, the low groan of bending metal. Rose looked over her left shoulder as an access panel bent and popped off the starboard wall, sailing across the room. After the panel froze in midair, she looked back. “When I couldn’t reach anyone else on the ship, I was finally able to get through to Starfleet.”

“Well done, lass. Clever to think of using civilian channels.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Scotty.”

Rose paused, looking unsure. “Aye, sir.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “All right, listen up, lass. You’re going to have to be the chief for now. I’ll talk you through it. Can you do that?”

“Aye, sir.” There was another sound, a tinkling that was followed by a building, loud burst. Rose looked off frame over her right shoulder. “Well, the port system display just went back together.”

Scott and Jensen exchanged looks. “Say again?” Scott said.

“The display shatters, then it goes back together like a vid played in reverse.”

Scott nodded. “So you’re having localized temporal distortions in addition to trouble with your grav systems and, judging by what else I’m seeing, some structural integrity field issues.”

“Aye, sir. I’m also worried about the inertial dampers. They’ve held so far during warp-bubble fluctuations, but I don’t dare try to bring the ship to a stop.”

“Good thinking—if the dampers failed as the ship stopped, everything not nailed down would crash toward the bow at near light speed. What’s your heading?”

Rose glanced down at a display. “We were on course for Earth Spacedock when all of this started. Our speed has been fluctuating, but averaging warp two. We’ve just crossed the termination shock.”

“What’s that?” Jensen said.

Scott turned toward her. “It’s where the solar wind starts slowing down against the interstellar medium, about a hundred AUs from the sun. That means the Hood will blast into the solar system at warp two in about two hours.”

“Aimed right at Earth?”

“No, her course would have been for system insertion near a standard approach lane. If we can’t stop her, odds are she’ll just whistle right through. It’s never good to warp through a planetary system, however.” He turned back to Rose. “But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to take care of this wee problem, aren’t we, lass?”

“I’m ready to try, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s get to it. It seems to me like you’ve got a multifield dissonance effect. Do you concur?”

Rose narrowed her eyes. “A what?”

Scott shook his head. “Lass, what year are you?”

“Fourth.”

“You’re about to graduate? What have they been teaching you for four years?”

“Well, you see, sir…” Rose started, but Scott wasn’t listening.

Scott glanced at Jensen. “Kids today, they learn about all the parts, but they don’t understand how to put it all together.” He faced toward Rose again. “The warp field, structural integrity field, inertial dampers, and artificial gravity generators all have to be synchronized properly so that they don’t interfere with each other. If they go out of synch you get all sorts of feedback loops and the whole thing goes wonky.”

Rose smiled and nodded her head. “Oh, I understand that, sir. You mean to say we have cascading asynchronous field interference.”

Scott frowned. “Everything has more syllables since I came back.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Now, I’m going to need you to go back to the matter-antimatter reaction chamber. Can you get there?”

“I think so.” Rose turned to her left and disappeared from view. Scott and Jensen could now see most of engineering, and saw for themselves when the port system display panel shattered again and then reversed itself. Rose reappeared, the back of her head and shoulders coming into view from the right side of the monitor as she walked along the starboard wall. Her long ponytail jumped and waved in the unstable gravity. As she made her way slowly toward the reaction chamber, Jensen turned away from the monitor and toward the holocameras.

“If you’ve just joined us, we are live with Captain Montgomery Scott, who is communicating with Cadet Ella Rose in the engineering room of the U.S.S. Hood.” Behind her Rose jumped from the wall, sailing through an area of zero g. “Scott is attempting to assist the cadet in—”

“Watch out!” Scott said as Rose suddenly tumbled toward the ceiling before somersaulting back toward the deck. Jensen turned back to the monitor as the cadet landed on her feet, looking at least as surprised as Jensen did.

“Nice landing,” said Scott. “A bit of a gymnast, are you?”

“No, sir,” Rose called back across the engine room. “Not since climbing the monkey bars when I was a kid.” She shook her head, trying to restore her sense of balance.

“Well, whatever lands the caber straight, lass. Now then, put your hand on the chamber. Feel around a bit. Does it feel hot?”

Rose turned toward the chamber and did as she was told. After a few seconds she yanked her hand back, and looked back toward Scott. “Yes, sir, it does. About fifteen centimeters above the dilithium chamber hatch.”

“Och, the Excelsior class always were a bucket of bolts, refits or no.” Scott waved an arm in disgust. “All right then. You need to go to the port tool stow beneath the tractor beam auxiliary control panel.”

“Aye, aye.” Rose quickly made her way across the room; this time there were no gravitational anomalies to slow her down. Kneeling, she popped the access panel open. “What do I need?”

“A big spanner.”

“A coil spanner?” Rose held the tool up for Scott to see.

“Sure, that would work, if it’s at least two kilos. Now go back to that hot spot and give it a mighty whack with that spanner.”

Jensen raised her eyebrows. Rose just looked toward them, her expression difficult to discern from across the room. Scott frowned. “What are you waiting for?”

“Well…it seems ill advised.”

“Listen to me, cadet. You’ve got to know your ship. And I’m not talking about memorizing technobabble and running diagnostics, I’m talking about really feeling it, just as surely as you feel your own body when it’s sick. These aren’t only engines, they’re your bairns, and sometimes you might have to spank them. Now go give that spot a whack!”

Rose shrugged and stood up. Wary of anomalies in the artificial gravity, she made her way across the room holding the spanner close to her chest. When she reached the chamber she hefted the spanner like a baseball bat, then hesitated again.

“I don’t see any whacking!” Scott yelled.

With a tilt of her head, Rose swung the spanner at the hot spot. The spanner bounced off the chamber with a resounding echo of metal on metal and flew out of her hands. The noise echoed in the confines of the engine room, but instead of fading away it continued to reverberate. If anything, it got louder.

“What’s happening?” Rose said, speaking up over the continued ringing of the echo. To her right, the spanner, caught in an anomaly, fell toward the ceiling.

“That hot spot was a focal node in the interference pattern of the multifield dissonance effect. By giving it a whack you set up another vibration in the pattern. Since it was right by the dilithium housing, the crystals picked up the vibration and amplified it, affecting the warp bubble.”

Rose had to yell now to be heard over the building reverberation. “What? What’s that about the warp bubble?”

“It will interrupt the feedback loop,” Scott said. The echo was finally dying out. “Everything should reset, but you’ll still need to do some fine-tuning.”

“It’s working!” Rose still yelled, although the reverberations were gone. Crew members and debris that floated or were pinned to walls or ceiling started falling or sliding toward the floor. Soon other voices could be heard in the background. “Chief!”

Chief Chandra had stopped spinning and was just starting to stretch out his arms and legs when he fell to the deck. Rose rushed forward, no longer having to navigate through zero g or across walls, and helped Chandra to his feet.

Scott leaned forward. “Chief, this is Captain Montgomery Scott. How are you doing?”

“Better than a moment ago, sir.” He looked back and forth between Scott and Rose as he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I guess I owe you a thank-you.”

“Thank Cadet Rose. She patched into the civilian network to get through to Starfleet. And I may have diagnosed the patient, but she performed the treatment.”

Chandra looked surprised. “Remarkable. Well, sounds like she’s earned her dream posting on the next Enterprise.”

“And who wouldn’t dream of being on the Enterprise?” To Rose he added, “You’ve got my recommendation, lass.”

Rose looked a little uncomfortable, but before she could respond the engineering room intercom crackled to life. “DeSoto to Chandra. What just happened?”

“We’ve got to get to work, Captain,” Chandra said to Scott.

“Aye, that you do.” But Scott wondered about the cadet’s reaction to his recommendation and decided to try to get more out of her. Before they could cut the signal, he said, “Cadet?”

“Aye, sir?”

“A bit of advice, one of my secrets to being a great engineer: always work toward getting your systems running at a hundred and twenty-five percent of spec, but never let the captain know they go above a hundred and five. You want to impress, but you always want to be able to give some extra when you need it.”

Rose and Chandra exchanged looks. Rose even looked a little sheepish. Chandra faced Scott. “There seems to be a bit of a misunderstanding here, Captain. Cadet Rose isn’t in the engineering program.”

“What do you mean?”

“I tried to tell you before when you asked what year I was,” Rose said. “This was just an elective engineering rotation. I’m actually a xenopaleontologist.”

“A what now?”

“Xenopaleontologist. I study extraterrestrial fossilized remains of nonhumanoid species.”

“You mean dinosaurs, lass?”

“Yes, sir. Extraterrestrial dinosaurs.”

“And you thought of patching through the civilian satellite network? And were able to do it?”

“Well, I am a scientist. It seemed the logical thing to do.”

“I suppose it did,” Scott said with a twinkle in his eye. “Good work. I still say you’d make a fine engineer.”

Rose smiled, then flinched as it hurt her swollen lip. She put a hand to her mouth as she said, “Thanks. Scotty.”

“You’re welcome.”

The monitor went dark, then filled again with the triple Enterprise image.

Jensen turned back from the monitor to face the holocameras. “Well, there you have it, the most exciting Terra Tonight segment ever, as Captain Montgomery Scott saves the U.S.S. Hood live on FNS.” She turned to face the beaming engineer. “I’m guessing it was moments like this that made you decide to come back to Starfleet on a permanent basis.”

“Aye. After working with Admiral Nechayev, I said to myself, ‘How many times did I pull Captain Kirk’s bacon out of the fire?’ I can still do that for Starfleet. So I told the admiral I wanted to make it permanent.”

“And we’re all glad you did.” Jensen turned briefly away from Scott. “Coming up after the news break, our next guest, Ambassador Lojal of Vulcan, will discuss the latest negotiations with Cardassia, the increasing Maquis problem, and the growing threat of the Dominion.” She turned back toward Scott. “Thanks for being a guest tonight, Scotty. You really made the show one to remember.”

“It was my pleasure. Thanks for having me.”

The lights on the set faded. Jensen stood. As Scott stood as well, Lojal stepped up beside them.

“We’re off the air for thirty seconds, gentlemen,” Jensen said. “Ambassador, you’ve met Captain Scott?”

“Yes.” Lojal gave Scott a courteous nod.

Scott responded with a small smile and said, “Aye. We were talking about a mutual friend before the show.”

Jensen nodded. “Of course. Well, Ambassador, please have a seat.”

Before sitting, Lojal said, “Congratulations, Captain, on your…” He paused, raising an eyebrow, “creative solution to the technical difficulties on the U.S.S. Hood. It was unorthodox, yet somehow logical.”

“Thank you, Ambassador.”

After Lojal sat down, Jensen turned her attention back to Scott, holding out her left hand. “Thanks again, really. I know you have a busy schedule. It was an honor meeting you and seeing you in action.”

He took her hand and shook it warmly. “It’s no trouble sitting with a bonnie lass and doing my job. Good night, now.” With a last squeeze of her hand, and a final nod to the ambassador, he turned and walked off the set.

As she sat back down Jensen called after him, “Good night, Scotty.”

With a last smile and a wave, he was gone.

Solace in Bloom

Jeff D. Jacques

In the hills above Labarre, France, the sun shone with an intensity that had been missing during the past few days of overcast skies and inclement weather. Now, though, with the sunlight on the back of his neck and the slight, grape-scented breeze flitting at the wide brim of his straw hat, Louis couldn’t have imagined a better day.

And it’s going to get better, if I have anything to say about it, he thought as he adjusted his posterior on the seat of his bicycle.

In an unprecedented and astonishing move, the Bloom sisters, the lovely siblings who were so near as his neighbors, yet so far out of reach, had invited him to come with them on an afternoon cycling trip in the hills. It was a dream come true—well, one of them at least—and the weather had cooperated splendidly. He’d told Jean-Luc about it, of course, but instead of congratulatory remarks and good-natured ribbing about what might be in store for him after the trip, his friend had said that the only thing Louis would find after the trip would be humiliation. The sisters were setting him up, he said, and it would be a mistake for him to go.

Louis was disappointed that Jean-Luc felt that way, but he wouldn’t let it bring him down. How could he know for sure anyway? It was just his opinion, after all, nothing more.

And so far, so good. Poised at the top of a steep embankment, his fingers clutching the brakes of his bike, Louis peered down toward the base of the slope where the sisters waited, cloaked in the shadows of the dense line of woods that added to the natural beauty of this fair land.

“Come on, Louis,” said one of the sisters. He couldn’t tell which. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

They giggled together, as though aware of the punch line of a joke they hadn’t yet told, and for a moment Jean-Luc’s warning haunted him. Stringing him along on some juvenile prank? No, he wouldn’t believe that. But even if it were true, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

“Right behind you, ladies!” he called, then released the brakes and pushed himself over the lip of the slope.

Down he went, his rate of acceleration constant as he kept some pressure on the brakes. Eager as he was, it would be foolish to speed down the slope pell-mell, particularly if he valued his life and more enjoyable motor functions. He kept his eyes on the uneven path below him, the overhanging branches above and the Bloom sisters at the bottom of the hill, waiting for him.

Louis swerved left to avoid an indentation in the middle of the pathway, but caught a branch across the face for his efforts. As he instinctively maneuvered away from that obstacle, his front tire struck a rock embedded in the earth and his whole body jolted with the impact. His bike sailed over his body and for an instant he felt strangely serene as he flew through the air. He heard a gasp and someone crying out his name, but it seemed so far away.

Then, the peacefulness of the moment peeled away as a tremendous bang pierced the forest as his bike crashed to the ground and his own cry of alarm stabbed his ears like needles.

As he tumbled down the slope, his bike looped around again and came down hard on his back before careening into the trees to the side. Rocks, dirt, and pieces of wood came in contact with his face and body as he tumbled downward. And then he screamed as his leg snapped below the knee and a pain unlike any other he’d ever experienced exploded through his body, reaching his teeth, his eyes, and every bone in his body. It was the pain of death. It had to be. No one could ever feel this much pain and not be dying. Through his own shrieking, he thought he heard his name again, but the words were drowned out by—

His rapid descent came to an abrupt end as his body slammed against the trunk of a tree. He continued to scream as agony held him in a tight embrace, his bruised and bloody hands clutching at his shattered leg.

If there was a worse pain than the one he was enduring now, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, two hundred and fifty kilometers off the coast of France, Louis screamed as the Jem’Hadar soldier loomed over him and sliced deeply into his right thigh with a kar’takin, the nasty bladed weapon of choice for this warrior species. This was a fact he wouldn’t normally have been aware of, but the Vorta in charge of his interrogation had an annoying tendency to become chatty during the welcome respites from the physical and mental assaults, as though they were good friends. He also knew the Vorta loved rippleberries, though he suffered the misfortune of not having had any for almost a year. Considering his current predicament, Louis found it difficult to sympathize with the alien, though he had to admit that a bowl of rippleberries, whatever they happened to be, sounded pretty damned enticing about now.

As the director of the Atlantis Project, Louis had been spared the instant death bestowed upon his coworkers when the Vorta suddenly appeared two days before with a contingent of Jem’Hadar and Breen soldiers. At least, it felt like two days ago. It might only have been hours. In any case, he had long decided that those people—his friends, his family in this underwater home away from home—were the lucky ones.

“Please!” he cried, his voice growing hoarse as he struggled uselessly against the bonds that held his arms and legs to the chair he was in. Blood seeped out of his leg wound and onto the floor, taking with it his strength and hope. “I don’t know anything!”

“I would advise against struggling,” the Vorta said. “I can’t guarantee a clean cut if you continue to move about.”

The pain suddenly intensified as the Jem’Hadar’s blade struck bone, and Louis screamed louder than he thought possible. He wondered if any aquatic creatures could hear him out in the deep beyond.

“Hold,” said the Vorta, and immediately the Jem’Hadar straightened and stepped back, leaving the kar’takin embedded in Louis’s flesh.

Louis wanted to reach for it, to pull it out, but even if he could, wouldn’t that do more harm than good? What was the protocol for those situations? He’d have to look into that if he got the chance.

“You must be in considerable pain right now. You don’t even have to answer,” the Vorta said, leaning close. “I can see it in your eyes. The fear. The hopelessness. The screaming is also a strong indicator.”

His body trembling, Louis opened his mouth to speak, to defy these monsters. “I…don’t know what you want. Please…” He glanced at the gleaming weapon lodged in his leg.

“I would be only too happy to alleviate some of your pain,” the Vorta went on, as if Louis hadn’t spoken. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to know. Why are you here? It’s such a simple question and a simple solution to your obvious discomfort.”

“\\/-_/-|/,” the Breen soldier said in a language so alien, even the Universal Translator couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The Breen had mostly been observers during the ordeal, though their leader occasionally bickered with the Vorta, who clearly considered himself in charge.

“It’s called negotiating,” the Vorta said, his pasty face tinged with annoyance. “You may want to look into it. It’s sometimes more effective than blasting your way through everything.”

“//-/-//-|_||,” the Breen said.

The Vorta turned sharply. “I beg your pardon? That very much sounded like a threat.”

“//_-\/_-|||. /\/_—||-\///.”

“As a matter of fact, that is how I took it,” the Vorta said. “So let me make myself clear to you: While your people may have carried out the attack on Earth, you did so under the orders of the Dominion, and as their official representative, I am the Dominion on this particular mission. Is that understood?”

“—//.”

“How delightful. Now then,” he said, turning back to Louis, “please go on.”

Louis explained, again, what the Atlantis Project was all about. But whether due to genuine lack of interest or part of some ploy to break his will, the Vorta wasn’t interested in hearing about raising the ocean floor, creating a subcontinent, and exploring a new world on one’s own planet for the fourth time.

“Fascinating as this all is, even I’m getting tired of hearing about it,” the Vorta said once Louis was finished. “I can’t believe that you’re simply toiling away on the ocean floor in the middle of a war, which, I might add, the Federation is in danger of losing.”

The Vorta’s demeanor, from persistence to disbelief, was infuriating. Was he being purposefully obtuse just to aggravate him? Louis didn’t know for certain, but whatever the case, he was finding the alien increasingly tiresome.

“It’s the truth,” Louis said, trying to control his breathing through the pain and exhaustion ravaging his body. “Why won’t you believe me?” The Vorta just stood there, looking at him with an expression that seemed perpetually locked in a state of mild amusement. “Please…Nothing we’re doing here has anything to do with the war. It hasn’t even reached us down here, for God’s sake!”

“Really?” asked the Vorta. He made a show of looking around the central hub of the complex and Louis was compelled to follow his roving gaze as it passed the dead bodies of his coworkers and friends, the pools of blood, the ruined computer consoles and equipment…and the brooding stares of the cold, reptilian Jem’Hadar soldiers and masked Breen.

Louis almost retched as the Vorta leaned in close, his alien stink mixing with the lingering odor of blood, charred circuits, and death. His piercing blue gaze stung him like an electric shock.

“I beg to differ,” the Vorta said smugly.

Louis hung his head, uncertain how to proceed. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth together against the pain, and his thigh muscle, strained tightly ever since the Jem’Hadar sliced into it, felt ready to explode. His eyes strayed to the gleaming, blood-smeared weapon embedded in his leg, so agonizingly close. He extended his fingers toward it but pulled them back into a fist again, acknowledging the futility of the effort with a hopeless sigh. The intervening inches might as well have been measured in light-years.

Finally, unable to hold the muscle tight any longer, Louis released it, anticipating a painful rejoinder, but not expecting the sheer intensity of it. He cried out as a searing bolt of pain, like liquid fire, tore its way through his leg and into his chest. With a willpower he didn’t know he still possessed, he flexed his leg again and forced himself to breathe and keep from hyperventilating.

“My, my, my,” the Vorta said. Louis looked up and saw the alien staring at him with a curious expression, the oily smile mocking him. “You humans are a tenacious species.” Still smiling, he glanced at the Jem’Hadar who waited nearby. “Finish it.”

The gray-skinned warrior advanced and before Louis even registered the movement, the Jem’Hadar snarled and slammed all its weight down on the kar’takin it had left in Louis’s leg.

Louis screamed again as his world briefly swelled, then vanished into darkness.

“Hydroponics? Are you daft?”

Louis turned and scowled at Jean-Luc through the long grass in which they lay. “No, I’m not daft,” he said, keeping his voice low, lest he announce their presence to the objects of their attention. Well, his attention, at any rate. “Why would you say that?”

Jean-Luc didn’t reply right away. His attention was drawn through the swaying, reed-thin stalks to the small beach where the Bloom sisters prepared for a swim. Legend held that the close siblings exercised their skinny-dipping techniques when they were sure none of their many suitors were nearby, and that was something Louis, for one, just had to see.

“Jean-Luc,” Louis said, prompting his friend with an elbow to the upper arm.

“Well, why would you want to get into something so boring?” Picard asked, then turned toward the beach again.

Louis couldn’t have been more surprised by his friend’s words if he’d declared he was joining the circus. “Boring? How can you say that? It’s a vital science, Jean-Luc. Crucial for food supply on new colony worlds that won’t support crops initially. Think of the benefits, not only to those worlds, but to ours as well.”

“We have plenty of food on this planet,” Picard said.

“Yes, but if we can make the process more efficient, there’s no telling—”

“Oh my,” Picard said, his voice barely a whisper.

“What?” Louis asked, peering anxiously through the grass. “What do you see? I can’t see a thing.”

Picard smiled. “Just as well. You’re much too young to see this.”

“Stop that,” Louis said. “I’m only a year younger than you are.” He nudged Picard aside to put himself into his friend’s point of view, but he still couldn’t see anything but some blue sky and surf. By God, if he’d missed what he’d come all the way down here for, he would just die. He pushed himself a little higher to get an even better view.

At once, Picard yanked him back with a sharp tug. “Keep down, you fool. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to us if they see us gawking at them in the altogether.”

“I’m sure it will be worth—wait, the altogether?” Louis strained his vision more than he ever had before, almost willing the grass to part for him. He still saw nothing, though he could now hear soft voices some distance ahead and gentle splashing in the water. He could almost imagine the sisters wading along the shoreline, testing the water’s temperature.

“I don’t know why I let you drag me into this excursion in the first place,” Picard said. “It’s childish.”

“Because, my dear friend, they are the Bloom sisters, and that nomenclature does not solely apply to their surname.”

Picard glanced through the grass toward the beach. “Indeed, it does not.”

Louis’s jaw dropped and he shot to his feet just in time to see the bare shoulders and red hair of the young women dip below the water. Picard laughed as he stood up and Louis scowled in mock indignation. “I want a full report.”

“Mm, I’m sure you do.”

They both laughed, then Louis realized he didn’t want to be caught out in the open when the sisters emerged. “Let’s head up to that small bluff over there,” he said, pointing the way. “We’ll have an unobstructed view when they come out, yet we’ll be out of sight.”

“Brilliant,” Picard said, rolling his eyes as they started up the dirt path leading up the slope. “More importantly, you could use the exercise.”

They walked in silence for several minutes, navigating the rocky terrain which led up into the wooded area at the top of the bluff. For a few seconds, Louis almost forgot about the Bloom sisters and just enjoyed the experience of hiking with his best friend.

“So tell me, Louis,” Picard said as they neared the top. “Why don’t you consider Starfleet instead of staying Earthbound? I’m certain the S.C.E. might have a place for you, or the terraforming divisions of Starfleet.”

This wasn’t the first time Jean-Luc had brought up Starfleet, but while Jean-Luc seemed born to fly away from his family’s vineyards in a starship, Louis had never thought the service was for him. There was just so much to explore here on their own world without having to go elsewhere. And in doing so, other worlds might benefit from what was learned on Earth. Jean-Luc never liked hearing this from him, but Louis told him anyway.

“So, you’re afraid of space,” Jean-Luc said, clearly baiting him. And as usual, he fell into the trap.

“I’m not!” he bellowed, the rejoinder sending a squirrel scurrying deeper into the woods.

“You are,” Picard said with a grin. “And I suspect you’re afraid of the Bloom sisters as well.”

“Afraid of—?” Louis could hardly believe what he’d heard. Afraid? Of the Bloom sisters? Preposterous! “Now, Jean-Luc, that is quite possibly the most…ridiculous thing I have ever heard you say.”

“Is it? Then why don’t you get off this bluff and swim out to them right now.” He waved a hand at the beach below, where the sisters splashed each other, carried on, and appeared to be having a grand old time.

“I can’t do that,” Louis said, his blood going cold. “You know me and water.”

“Well, if you start to drown, they might save you,” Picard said, then evidently saw how unsettled Louis had become at the idea. “Then why not wait for them out on the beach, and ask one of them on a date. Or both, if you’re feeling extra fearless.”

Louis shifted. Why did he suddenly feel as though he’d been put on the spot? “Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not the one obsessed with the Bloom sisters.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Louis said.

“Then go on,” Picard said, waving a hand again. “Go down and ask them. You’ll have to make the first move, because it’s not as if they’ll ever ask you to go anywhere with them.”

Of all the—had he just insulted him? “What is that supposed to—”

Suddenly, Picard’s face went slack, then brightened with a smile a moment later. “Too late.”

Louis turned to see one of the most remarkable sights he’d ever seen. The Bloom sisters—the source of many a wandering thought over the years—had surfaced and were splashing toward the beach where they’d left their clothes, unaware that they were being observed. Louis felt his throat constrict, his blood rush, and his jaw drop slowly open at the sight, yet as he watched their wet bodies glistening in the afternoon sunlight, a swell of guilt swept through him like an unexplained chill on a warm summer’s day. Here he was intruding upon a private moment of bonding between two siblings simply to satisfy a silly hormonal obsession.

Still, it was quite the sight, and at that moment the ocean had never been more appealing.

Louis screamed as his lungs finally gave out and a cloud of bubbles surged toward the top of the cistern of water in which he’d been submerged. The cry of terror sounded like a muffled gurgle to his ears, the sound of a panicked, frightened man. He closed his mouth too late and gagged on the water that rushed down his throat, drowning him. His body thrashed violently as he tried to extricate himself, but powerful hands held him down. Images of his wife and daughter, Patrice and Sophie, fought to comfort him in these final moments.

And then suddenly, he was pulled free of the nightmare, the vise-like grip on his head and shoulders gone. He erupted in a fit of coughs, expelling the water in his lungs, then suddenly lost his balance as his remaining leg failed to keep him aloft. Like a felled tree, he toppled, and with his hands bound behind his back he was unable to brace himself. He hit the floor, hard. A jolt of pain screamed through his shoulder. He continued to gag, water trickling from his mouth like a leaky faucet. Lying prone on the wet floor, he felt like a fish on the deck of a boat, death far closer than any hope of renewed freedom.

When he’d regained some semblance of control, Louis looked up at the Vorta, who appeared to be observing the entire ordeal with a mixture of cold indifference and curiosity.

“Please,” Louis begged. “Don’t do that again.”

He’d always been teased about his aversion to the water. He couldn’t imagine many other deaths worse than drowning, and such a dark, frightening end had never been far from his mind whenever he’d been near water. As a result, he’d never been a very good swimmer and missed out on participating on afternoons at the lake with his friends.

The Vorta knelt down before him in an almost friendly manner. “In my experience, when someone makes a request like that with such conviction, it’s a signal that they’re ready to cooperate fully, rather than be subjected to such unfortunate, but necessary, measures again. Is that the case here, Louis? Or is it back into the water for you?”

Tears welled in Louis’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the water already trickling from his soaking hair. “I…”

“There, there,” the Vorta said, patting his shoulder soothingly. “I know this has been a bad day for you. I’ve been there. We’ve all had bad days. But this one can be over as soon as you tell me what I need to know. That’s all. It’s so easy. Just give me the information I want, and then we’ll leave. Granted,” he said, glancing around, “you’ll have quite a mess to clean up, but at least you’ll be alive. You want to help me, don’t you?”

Louis gave him a weary nod. God knew he wanted to say whatever it took to get the Vorta and his Dominion soldiers out of there, but there was nothing he could say. If Jean-Luc had been in his position, he would have been able to come up with an acceptable line of double-talk that might satisfy the Vorta, but Louis wasn’t a Starfleet officer with experience in dealing with evil aliens. He was a scientist. Just a scientist.

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing his whispered words would very likely mean his death. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just…wrong.”

“I see,” said the Vorta. He nodded at the Jem’Hadar waiting silently nearby, then rose himself. “The water it is then.”

Louis struggled vainly, but this time he was too exhausted to scream.

“For God’s sake, Jean-Luc,” Louis said with a wide grin on his face. The two men stood before a long mirror in an opulent sitting room in the chalet where Louis would shortly be married. Both were dressed in tuxedos and Picard was straightening Louis’s suit even though it was perfectly immaculate already. “You’re my best man. You’re supposed to be giving me your encouragement and support on my wedding day.”

“I gave you my encouragement and support the last time you got married, but I didn’t approve then either,” Picard said, his grin echoing his friend’s.

Louis scowled a bit as Picard fiddled with his bow tie. “Yes, well…you were right that time, as it turned out, but this time it’s different.”

“Is it?” asked Picard.

“It is,” Louis said. “Patrice is the one for me, I’m sure of it.” He had never felt for anyone the way he felt for Patrice. In fact, he had never fully realized just how wonderful love could be until he’d met her that first time in Italy. She’d been up on the lakeside wharf, and he had been in his rapidly sinking canoe…

“I was always sure you’d marry one of the Bloom sisters,” Picard said. “You know, they’re both out there…”

“I did invite them,” Louis said.

“…no husbands at their sides,” Picard continued as though Louis hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure the both of them were waiting for you all these years to pop the question.”

“Very funny,” Louis said and shrugged Picard away. “They were just a youthful obsession.”

“A-ha!” Picard said as he slapped his hands together. “So it was an obsession. I was right all along.”

Louis rolled his eyes and looked at his friend’s reflection in the mirror. “Patrice and I mesh, Jean-Luc. I know it sounds clichéd, but we’re like two halves of the same being,” he explained, lacing his fingers together. “I’ve never felt that way about anyone in my life.”

Picard regarded him with a serious expression for a moment, then placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Of course you have my support, Louis. And I wish you all the best…and all the luck you’ll need.”

“I don’t think I’ll need luck this time,” Louis said.

Picard shrugged. “Well, I’m giving it to you anyway.”

They primped and preened in front of the mirror some more.

“Anyway,” Louis said after a few moments, “for someone who’s never been married before or had a long-term relationship, you certainly have your opinions on who’s right and wrong for me.”

“I’m in Starfleet, Louis,” Picard said. “I can’t afford the distraction.”

“Is that what marriage is to you?” Louis asked, a sad note to his voice. “A distraction?”

“For me, yes. I’m married to my career. Besides, I don’t have anyone in my life like that right now. Perhaps I never will.”

“Bollocks,” Louis said. “You just wait. One of these days, when you least expect it, you’ll meet Miss Right. And the next thing you know, there will be a swarm of little Jean-Lucs running around the yard…or through the starship corridors, as the case may be.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Picard said, though Louis didn’t think he sounded particularly convinced.

“Yes, they have,” Louis replied. “And when they do, be sure to send me an invitation so I can be just as unencouraging and unsupportive as you are.” He laughed good-naturedly and a moment later, Picard joined in the laughter as well.

“I’ll try to remember that,” Picard said. “Now, let’s get out of here before all of your guests get bored and leave. For at least half of them, this whole affair carries with it a strong sense of déjà vu.”

“You always know the right things to say, Jean-Luc,” Louis said wryly.

When Louis regained consciousness, he couldn’t have been more surprised. He thought for sure that he’d been going to his death, but he must have passed out instead. Maybe the Vorta couldn’t see the advantage in drowning an unconscious man. Or perhaps it didn’t hold enough entertainment value for him.

Ideally, Louis would have preferred to awaken to realize the horror he’d undergone had been a simple nightmare, but one look at his missing leg told him that wasn’t the case. As he sat against a wall, his right leg stretched out before him, he gazed at the vacant spot next to it and wondered idly what had happened to his amputated limb. Had it been discarded? Considering that the bodies of his coworkers still lay where they rested, it wouldn’t surprise him if it remained where it had fallen in a pool of his blood.

Louis looked ahead to see two stone-faced Jem’Hadar staring at him, their pulse weapons held at the ready. Like I’m in a position to put up any sort of resistance! he thought.

“It’s an interesting perspective, down here on the floor.”

Louis frowned at the voice and turned to see the Vorta sitting a few feet away, back against the wall, feet extended outward, emulating Louis’s position.

“A child’s life must be fascinating,” the Vorta continued, “to witness life so removed from the perception of everyone else. There’s a kind of…innocence down here, don’t you think?”

Louis looked at the Vorta as though the alien had lost his mind. But before Louis could think of a response, the Vorta rose in such a way that it seemed like he was making a statement. Innocence sitting down, not so innocent standing up. Very subtle.

The Vorta gestured. One of the Jem’Hadar hauled Louis up and dragged him to a chair at the table where the vat of water had been and was now, thankfully, gone. The Vorta stood across from him, hands clasped before him.

“I researched the name of your Atlantis Project and learned that according to Greek myth Atlantis was an island paradise that was tragically overcome by the sea and lost forever. A fascinating tale. Generally, every myth is based on truth to some extent. In our case, some truth is based on myth.”

Louis stared at him blankly for a moment, then found his voice. “I don’t understand.”

The Vorta leaned forward slightly. “Then allow me to explain. I believe,” he said as he began strolling around the table, “that this Atlantis Project is a research base—the prototype, if you will, of a similar base, or bases, located somewhere in Federation space that will be used to launch surprise attacks against Dominion forces. As I’m sure you can understand, this is something I cannot allow to transpire.”

Louis almost laughed. “Are…are you serious?”

“Quite,” said the Vorta, coming to stop exactly where he’d begun.

“That’s…ridiculous,” Louis said.

The Vorta seemed amused. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Louis blurted, feeling the rawness of his throat. “Access our computer records. The Atlantis Project has been active for over twenty years, long before anyone had even heard of the Dominion. You’ll find no evidence of what you’re suggesting.”

“Actually, I have read your database, and I must admit it was fascinating research,” the Vorta said. “Tectonic pressures, water containment, raising the ocean floor…it all sounds so adventurous. If it were not for the fact that we were dire enemies in a terrible war, I would have liked to sit down with you to discuss your progress and suggest a few theories of my own. Sadly, this is not the case. Furthermore, while your project has existed for almost two decades, obviously the current situation has prompted you to modify your research to better serve the war effort.”

“Obvious? How is that obvious? The only obvious thing I see here is that you’ve lost your mind and all sense of reason along with it. You’re so determined to make this mission of yours a success that you’re manufacturing a lie that can’t possibly be true so that you can justify killing everyone here when you leave!” The words tumbled out of Louis’s mouth like an out-of-control roller-coaster that had no way to stop until it was finished.

Louis shook his head. He wanted to laugh again, but was afraid that would be going too far and would only get him a quick death for his trouble. Still, he couldn’t believe the Vorta was trying to bait him with such a ridiculous premise.

“You appear amused,” the Vorta said, then glanced at the nearest Jem’Hadar. “It seems he doesn’t believe my assertions.”

“/-|-|_//-,” the Breen captain taunted.

The Vorta appeared as though he was about to rise to the Breen’s bait, but resisted at the last moment. Instead, he walked to one of the office’s windows and looked out into the murky deep water on the other side of the glass. He stood there for several minutes, following the wiggling path of a large blue fish, watching a series of bubbles drift upwards out of sight and musing about God-knew-what.

The calm of the moment was broken as a Jem’Hadar soldier burst into the room and marched directly toward the Vorta. The Vorta turned with an expression of annoyance on his pale face.

“This interruption is unacceptable,” he said. The Jem’Hadar didn’t appear to care one way or the other about the Vorta’s annoyance and simply delivered his report. Louis couldn’t hear what the brute said, but his words appeared to have captured the Vorta’s attention. The tormentor’s posture tensed and his demeanor became far more serious.

“Take two men with you,” he told the Jem’Hadar. “Make it quick.”

“_//-/_|-,” the Breen said in its unintelligible electro-babble.

“Fine,” said the Vorta with an exasperated sigh. “Send some of your men too, if you must.”

Louis watched curiously as three Jem’Hadar and two Breen left the room like they meant business. That left seven soldiers, plus the Vorta and himself in the room. The door closed and locked with a soft hiss-click and he watched the soldiers depart through the transparent aluminum panel. Louis knew he was still outnumbered; his dramatic escape would have to wait.

After a seeming eternity, the Vorta turned his attention back to his prisoner as though the exchange with the Jem’Hadar had never occurred. “Tell me, Louis—may I call you Louis?—who is Sophie?”

At the sound of his daughter’s name from the mouth of this vile creature, Louis felt the blood drain from his face and his arms go numb. And the only way he knew that his heart hadn’t stopped was the fact he was still somehow breathing. Images of Sophie being terrorized by Jem’Hadar soldiers flickered through his mind and he felt his tenuous control slip.

“Don’t you hurt her!” he cried as he lunged toward the Vorta. It didn’t matter that he only had one leg and wouldn’t make it to the Vorta anyway. He just wanted to get his hands on the bastard and beat the amused expression off his face. But the Jem’Hadar stationed behind him had been ready for just such an attempt and held him back with a vise-like grip. He struggled uselessly, his strength waning once more as tears came to his eyes. “Don’t you dare!” he croaked.

“Oh, I’m afraid it’s much too late for that, Louis,” the Vorta said with feigned regret. “I was just curious to know who she was.”

Was? No, not his Sophie. No…the Vorta was baiting him again. That had to be it. It’s what people like him did. They toyed with the emotions of their prisoners to break them down. And it was working. The damnable Vorta was succeeding in that very thing.

But deep down he knew it wasn’t true, couldn’t possibly be true. If the Vorta had somehow found out about Sophie and had done the unthinkable, had…killed her…how could they possibly expect him to cooperate? On the other hand, these people were vicious, brutal creatures. Who knew what they were capable of? They might have killed Sophie and were about to threaten to deliver the same fate to Patrice if he didn’t cooperate. He didn’t know what to think, and the uncertainty was draining his will.

It was to his utter surprise that he suddenly heard himself begin to laugh. It wasn’t a very hearty laugh, more a soft chuckle, but it was certainly not the reaction the Vorta expected.

The Vorta’s pasty brow furrowed and his head tilted sideways a little. “Have I said something amusing?”

Louis shook his head, unable to bring words to his mouth amid the laughter and tears. He realized the Vorta couldn’t possibly have located Sophie and hurt her in so short a time. He’d probably found Sophie’s name among his files and went from there.

“Stop that at once,” said the Vorta, who apparently didn’t like being laughed at.

Louis let the chuckles bleed out of him and fell silent. He stared into the Vorta’s blue eyes and said the only thing that occurred to him. “You’re pathetic.”

The Vorta was not amused. He glanced at the Jem’Hadar behind Louis and said, “Kill him.”

Louis felt the soldier release his arm, heard him take a step back, heard the soft clicking of his pulse rifle. Louis closed his eyes, an image of Sophie on his eyelids, and waited for death to claim him.

It never came.

“//_|.\!” the Breen commander blurted.

An instant later, Louis heard the transparent panel in the wall shatter and the sound of phaser fire rent the air. One beam of orange energy struck the Breen in the throat and another hit the Vorta in the chest. The Jem’Hadar soldiers, including the one who had been about to kill him a moment ago, turned and charged the newcomers, battle cries erupting from their scaly lips and weapons brandished with barbaric enthusiasm.

Louis dropped to the floor and crawled behind the table where the Vorta had fallen. He watched as a small group of Starfleet officers exchanged weapons fire and physical blows with the enemy soldiers. Soon, all of the Jem’Hadar and Breen lay dead on the floor, a smoky mist from destroyed consoles and panels drifting lazily in the air.

“Louis!”

Startled at the sound of his name, Louis realized that not only had these officers come looking for him specifically, but that he recognized the voice that had called out. With some effort, he raised himself to his knee, using the desk as support, and looked at the man at the center of the room. He was almost completely bald and held a phaser rifle at the ready. Louis could not believe his eyes.

“Jean-Luc?” he asked as the man and the rest of his team turned to face Louis. “Is that really you?”

Picard smiled and came toward him, but almost immediately his smile faltered. At the same instant, Louis heard movement behind him and turned to see the Vorta on his knees and aiming a phaser at the transparent barrier between the room and the ocean beyond.

“No!” he cried.

A moment later, a phaser beam struck the Vorta in the back and the alien dropped forward, but not before firing off a shot that struck the window near the upper frame. A visible crack emerged and began to grow steadily outward against the transparent surface.

“Picard to Enterprise,” Jean-Luc said. There was no response that Louis could hear. “Everyone back to the transporter site,” he ordered before finally coming to his side.

“It took you long enough,” Louis said weakly, unable to keep the smile from his face. He’d never been more happy to see his friend.

Picard returned the smile. “We took the scenic route.”

Louis nodded. “I don’t blame you. It is rather impressive, isn’t it?”

“For now,” Picard said, then looked up sharply as a creaking groan issued from the splintering window. As he raced to undo Louis’s bonds, Picard’s expression faltered as he realized Louis was missing a leg. The hesitation was brief, but significant. “Are you in much pain?”

“Some,” Louis said, and in truth the pain had dulled significantly. Whether this was because of his dulled senses or the fact the wound had been cauterized by a Jem’Hadar pulse rifle, he didn’t know.

“All right, let’s go,” Picard said as he finished untying Louis’s arms. He hauled Louis to his remaining foot. “Lean on my shoulder, and we’ll do this together. Are you ready?”

Louis nodded. “Ready.”

Together, they headed back through the complex, Picard leading with Louis leaning over his shoulder and hopping next to him. Along the way, Louis felt a rush of satisfaction when he saw the bodies of the two Breen and three Jem’Hadar that had left the central hub some time ago.

When they reached the atrium where Louis and his coworkers often ate meals and relaxed during breaks, they passed the central water fountain. Inwardly, Louis cursed the fountain, which continued to trickle peacefully as though this was just another day.

A tremendous shudder shook the facility and a cool breeze blew in from the direction they had come. As Louis felt the transporter beam wrap itself around him, he swore he could smell the sudden scent of seawater.

Louis awoke to the sight of a beautiful woman standing over him. She wore a Starfleet uniform and a blue medical smock, waves of strawberry blond hair cascading about her shoulders.

“Hello,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Doctor Crusher. You’re all right now.”

“Where…Where am I?” Louis asked, taking in his new surroundings. The subdued lighting softened the grays and tans of the decor and put him at ease.

“You’re on board the Enterprise, Louis,” the woman said. “You’re safe now.”

Louis looked down and saw only one distinctive leg shape beneath the covers of his bed. The horrible memory of recent events flooded back to him, but he quickly shoved them aside. What’s done is done.

“I was hoping it was all just a bad dream,” he said.

Crusher gave him a sympathetic smile and tilted her head upwards a bit as she spoke. “Crusher to Picard.”

Louis smiled at the sound of his friend’s name.

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“My patient is awake,” she informed.

“We’re on our way. Picard out.”

We? Jean-Luc had probably located Patrice and brought her aboard as well. He could only hope that Sophie was with them too. As much as he hoped his theory about her was true, he knew it was possible it might not be so.

“Don’t worry about your leg,” Crusher said, misinterpreting the expression on his face. “You’ll be fitted with a prosthetic as soon as possible. By the time you’re on your feet again, you’ll never know the difference.”

Louis was sure that was the standard physician spiel, but even if it were true, no prosthetic limb, no matter how perfect, could ever make him forget how he lost the real one.

“I’m sure these limb specialists are very busy these days, what with the war on,” Louis said.

Crusher gave him a melancholy look. “Unfortunately, yes.”

The soft hiss of a door opening drew Louis’s attention to the sickbay entrance. Picard stood in the doorway and gestured for someone unseen to enter. As expected, it was his wife. Patrice’s worry, joy, and relief revealed themselves in her sharp features. And right on her heels came his dear Sophie, alive and well and looking more beautiful than ever.

“Sophie!” he blurted, a surge of joy and happiness swelling within him. He almost jumped out of bed before remembering he only had one leg. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive, Father,” Sophie said with a soft laugh as they embraced tightly.

“Oh, my darling daughter,” he said, stroking her hair, smelling her scent. “They told me you were dead, but I knew it was a lie. I knew it in my heart.”

“It was, in fact, Sophie who brought to my attention the possibility you might be in trouble,” Picard said.

Louis hugged Sophie again, then pulled Patrice into the embrace. He looked up at Picard. “Thank you, Jean-Luc. Thank you for this, and so much more.”

“It was my pleasure, old friend.” Picard smiled, then he and Crusher moved off to allow them some privacy.

Louis looked at the women in his life, then shook his head. “I feel like such an…ignorant, stupid man.”

“Louis!” Patrice said sharply. “Whatever would make you say such a thing?”

“I thought we would be safe at the bottom of the ocean. It was our own little world down there. The war was just something going on far away, out of reach,” he said, gesturing upward with a hand. “Even when we heard about the attack, it all just seemed so…distant. But it took the loss of a limb and hours of torture at the hands of the enemy for me to realize that no matter where the front lines are in a war, no place is ever really safe.”

Patrice placed a hand on his own and squeezed tightly. “We will get through this, Louis. Together, as we always have.”

“Together,” Sophie whispered, adding her hand to theirs.

And in these, the worst of times, Louis had never been a happier man.

Star Trek

Deep Space Nine®

Shadowed Allies

Emily P. Bloch

“Good morning.”

He was anxious. She could always tell. He wanted to hear her voice, she knew, or watch her laugh, maybe suggest a dance before the ceremony. She knew he wanted to be with the woman he loved. But Kira Nerys was exhausted.

“Mm,” she replied as Odo traced his fingers through her hair, “goo moring.”

She knew he was smiling now, content and calm. But, Prophets, she would have five more minutes of sleep…except that then his fingers made contact with the back of her neck, his molecules rearranging from Bajoran to changeling. She froze.

Oh no.

The flesh that was cool as mountain lakes, soft as Tholian silk. The flesh that woke her up to everything.

“I hate you,” she murmured, and he laughed.

“Can I help myself from indulging in a little impatience every now and then?”

“Impatience,” she purred, giving in to his electrifying touch. “No, Constable, it’s not like you to ever be impatient. Been around Quark lately?”

His massage stopped and she regretted her words. She sat up. He was looking at his hand, which was becoming Bajoran again.

There was nothing to say. No, that wasn’t true. But what could be said? There was so little time, always.

“Nerys,” Odo broke in. “Let’s enjoy the day.”

“And forget the future?”

His eyes grew sad, but he smiled nonetheless. “We have a lot to celebrate.”

Looking past him, Kira caught sight of her newly commissioned Starfleet dress uniform. The braiding caught the light of the rising suns, sending gold around the room.

“We do,” she concurred. “It’s not every day Bajor joins the Federation.”

Kira grinned, but before she could say more, he had her in his arms, and he was bringing his lips to hers…

…and like a runabout caught in unfriendly fire, Kira’s vision and body suddenly lurched. She was standing, her legs shaky. Black clouds bled into the sunlight, cacophonous screams and battle cries attacked her ears, the bed was gone, the room was gone, and so was…

“Odo,” she half-moaned, half-called. Shutting her eyes, she felt herself falling before two strong arms caught her.

“Nerys!” a voice yelled in her ear. “You may be lost but we’re not! Don’t let them take you!”

It took a second for her to realize that the voice belonged to the arms, to…

“Nerys!”

Opening her eyes, Kira found herself in combat boots and resistance fatigues, a phaser rifle in her grasp. Something soft brushed against the back of her neck, and she reached behind to touch it.

“Odo? Is that—”

Her hand recoiled. It wasn’t Odo. Long hair draped along her spine, tied back with a soft piece of cloth. She looked around and saw that it was night on Bajor, 2600 hours at least. A large building lay ahead of her, its fluorescent security lights casting an eerie glow around the perimeter. Suddenly, she heard footsteps, and activating her rifle, she pivoted sharply…

A large sword came crashing down against the one she gripped in her hands. A man with muddy, blood-encrusted features snarled as he tried to force down her thin frame.

I know this battle, too, she thought, and with a surge of might, propelled the man away from her.

I know this battle, too….

The Cardassian hiding in the bushes was dead before he pulled the trigger. Kira stalked over to him and plucked a sidearm from his stiff grasp. She swung it over her shoulder and stared down at the lifeless, reptilian creature. For grim pleasure, she lifted her boot and ground it into the sharp point on his chest armor. It didn’t delight her as much as she had expected.

A dark figure darted by her, tapping her on the arm.

All is clear.

Rushing after her shadowed ally, avoiding the pools of light, Kira reached the back entrance of the building. The figure had already ducked inside, and reaching the door, Kira felt a memory click into place.

“The Bajoran Institute for Science,” she breathed.

An instant later, the entire area was plunged into darkness. Guards yelled out orders, and Kira dove inside, feeling her way along a winding corridor. She paused to listen for activity, pulling out her scanner for a second opinion.

Springing to life, the scanner’s viewscreen cast gold shadows on the wall, and Kira soon found that a Cardassian jamming system was holding out longer than the Institute’s lights. As she ran through her rudimentary hacking skills, the sound of footsteps approached once again, and she blinked out the scanner’s display. Readying her weapon, hoping she wouldn’t have to approximate a target in the dark, she crept closer to the sound. It stopped, and so did she.

Both parties waited, and then Kira tried the first move. Swinging her rifle into position, she was met by gruff hands easily disabling it from her. She tried unsuccessfully to shake them off before the sidearm was taken off her back. Lashing out with her fists, she failed to stop a pair of hands from grabbing her around the waist and mouth, and another pair from lifting her feet.

She was carried down the corridor, kicking the entire way, until she was released onto a grated surface. Doors hissed shut. There wasn’t a sound but her own breathing. She rose as silently as she could, her hand brushing against the walls in search of a panel.

“Nerys. Don’t.”

An electric torch flickered to life, illuminating the face of Shakaar Edon, his features contorted by blue shadows. Another torch glowed a moment later, revealing the wild hair and eyes of Lupaza, her good friend from the resistance days. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kira felt things align…and yet…not at all.

Shakaar and Lupaza…deceased…somewhere. My clothes, my hair…fifteen, a time ago, a member of…Shakaar’s resistance cell? Cardassians…Bajor…

“Sorry about the kidnapping,” Shakaar said.

“I didn’t think Cardies came that short, but we couldn’t be too careful,” Lupaza added.

“What’s our status?” Kira asked, waving away explanations.

“Thanks to some engineering brilliance,” Shakaar began, nodding to Lupaza.

The woman grinned. “Cardies think it’s a hot summer’s blackout.”

“We’ve got emergency life-support,” Shakaar started again.

“But Lupaza’s rigged it so that emergency alarms are offline,” Kira finished.

“Exactly.”

“What about scanners?” Kira asked. “Mine’s jammed.”

“So are theirs,” Lupaza drawled, and that familiar smirk spread across her face.

Shakaar pulled out a blueprint of the Institute.

“We’re here,” he said, pointing to a large room, “and we need to get—”

“Here,” a voice grumbled, and a mug of wine was thrust into Kira’s hands, which were now streaked with dried mud. A huge plain surrounded her, filled with tents. Loose material flapped in the night breezes, and distant voices could be heard singing. Her companion moved in to stoke the fire.

Antosso.

General Torrna Antosso…rebel leader…friend…older Bajor…

Antosso took a long swig from his own mug, swallowed thoughtfully, and then declared, “We are lucky. This wine will turn tomorrow.”

Kira grinned despite her confusion.

“A little vinegar for our victory,” she said, referring to the battle they had just won against the Lerrit Army.

“Here, here,” he replied quietly. They toasted and drank heartily.

“I watched you today,” he said. “I am most impressed with your tactics.”

Kira stared into her mug of wine. Stars reflected in the drink, and she was filled with a sudden ease.

“I had great teachers,” she said. Rebels…commanders…symbionts. She looked up at the sky. It was alive.

“Torrna,” she asked, “what do you think of stars?”

He shifted his weight to glance skyward, and what began as a halfhearted movement became a stop in time. He seemed to consider her question deeply.

“They are seen by most as guideposts in the night. Markers for the determined traveler, help for the wayward wanderer. I see them as more than that. I see them as secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“Yes.” He took another swig of drink without averting his eyes. “That the universe has yet to share. They are humbling to me.”

He looked at her then, and took her hand in his.

“You truly are a giant among people, Ashla,” he said, using the nickname he’d given her. “These last few months have been very dark, and I sense more darkness will visit us. But suddenly, you appear. And you have brought the stars out.”

A moment passed between them, one of profound respect. In the flickering of the campfire, Kira almost thought she saw a physical change as well. As if his round face grew leaner, his tan skin darker, his hair disappear in the dark. Even his hand felt different.

“Keep the stars burning for me, Ashla.”

“Of course,” she replied.

Relaxing, Antosso broke their grip and patted her knee.

“And find us some dinner. I’m starving.”

Kira grinned, and taking up a bow and arrow, headed toward the woods, the stars bright above her.

The dark walls of the Institute felt cold against her touch. They had passed many doors, and Kira was starting to wonder if Shakaar was lost. The mission was one of top clearance and covertness; Lupaza had fooled the Cardassians, Kira kept watch, but only Shakaar knew the details. The only goal Kira had figured out so far was: Don’t even let them think we’re here.

A sense of error began to creep into her mind. Every minute was playing out as it had years ago, but her direct future was remaining cloudy, almost as if…

…as if the next few hours, possibly minutes, were unformed, as if she really was living it all for the first time. And yet, she had the recent memories as well as the far-reaching. It was as if the in-between would have no effect on the future; things would still progress as normal, even if the past outcome was changed.

She heard a rustle in the trees and aimed her bow, arrow ready. The rustling stopped, and a shaft of moonlight poured through the low tree canopy. Looking for the animal, a glittering in the distance caught her eye. Small lights seemed to dance on the ground, and then all at once became very still. They were beautiful.

Torrna can wait a little longer for food, she thought, lowering her bow. She crept slowly toward the pool of light, barely noticing the game sprinting away. The lights held her, told her to get as close as she dared. She crouched as she trod, almost considering a crawl. She did not want to frighten them away….

“Here.”

They had reached a door exactly like the others.

“Lupaza,” Shakaar whispered, and the skillful woman wasted no time getting them inside.

Too easy, Kira felt. Even for Lupaza. But she said nothing.

Darting into the room, feet barely touching the ground, Shakaar activated his torch, and motioned for them to follow. Once they were all inside, the door whispered shut at Lupaza’s touch.

The room was square in shape but octagonal in layout. There were eight lab stations, and as Shakaar’s torch spun around, Kira saw sealed beakers, test tubes, and the occasional pod, all of which contained creatures in stasis (she hoped), different colored liquids, and what looked like dissections. There were no tools or data recorders, and each computer terminal was dark.

It’s almost as if we were expected, she thought.

Shakaar proceeded to get a closer look…

…and the closer she got, the clearer she saw that the lights were reflections of Bajor’s moons. The substance they reflected off of was a liquid, but it wasn’t water. It didn’t seep into the forest floor. It looked thick, almost gelatinous….

When he stopped looking, Kira sensed Shakaar’s energy change. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he evaluated a beaker sitting below him. It held a brownish gold liquid that seemed too unremarkable for his reaction. He dug into the satchel he carried with him, and removed a containment device. As torchlight illuminated the beaker’s liquid contents, Kira could have sworn she saw it…

…shiver. The puddle was shivering. Not rippling, not evaporating, but shivering. She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It drew her closer and closer….

He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. It drew him closer and closer, and the liquid definitely began to move. It dipped like waves in the ocean, crawling up the sides of the glass, and then…

…it screamed.

It screamed. Alarms blared throughout the lab, and all too quickly, Kira heard the rumbling of Cardassian boots in the corridor. Whirling around, Lupaza looked as though she might shoot daggers from her mouth. Cursing in Bajoran, she dashed over to the door panel and frantically tried to shut the alarm off.

Shakaar snapped out of his trance, returning to his focused calm, and disengaged the locking mechanism on the beaker. As soon as it was able, the screaming creature soared toward him, its waves turning into gelatinous limbs and its size growing exponentially.

“Stun it!” Shakaar yelled to Kira.

Her fingers adjusted the rifle to its proper setting, but she couldn’t pull the trigger. Something held her back, told her to question her leader’s order.

“Nerys!” Shakaar yelled again. “Stun it!”

Lupaza hit the trigger on her own rifle. The creature instantly recoiled, its screaming cut off, and thrashed limply about. It shrank back to the size of the beaker and, finally, stopped moving. Shakaar poured the creature into the containment device and stuffed it back into his satchel.

“We’re done here,” he said, fixing a steely gaze at the door. Outside, Cardassian guards were attempting to undo Lupaza’s handiwork.

“Now comes the fun part.” There was a gleam in Shakaar’s eyes and a smirk around the corners of his mouth.

“Escape?” Kira asked.

Nodding, Shakaar led them to the back of the lab, removed a wall panel, and scrambled inside. Lupaza followed, and Kira brought up the rear, barely having time to replace the panel before the Cardassians broke through the door. As she spider-crawled her way after them, Kira felt an old rise of panic in her chest, one she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

What if I lose them? She paused a moment, the movement ahead echoing through the small ducts. She shook the thought away, and began repeating the mantra Lupaza had taught her. Focus on the goal, focus on the goal. She took off again, easily catching up. But with the panic receding, she realized that she didn’t know the true goal, and judging by what she’d seen in the lab, she wasn’t so sure she liked it.

Another memory surged within. Last time…Last time we did this, we didn’t encounter that creature. We didn’t even get through the door. Memories of failed security codes flooded her, and she remembered the Cardassian boots being louder and closer, the mission aborted.

What went right this time?

Shakaar said nothing as they made a sharp left and came to a sealed duct. Lupaza easily sliced through it with some rifle fire, and once again, they were on the move.

There had been one scream, and the puddle had grown silent again. It had almost sounded like…a scream of shock. As Kira sat bent over her knees, staring at its bronze color, the puddle shivered in the moonlight, keeping its oval shape, melding with itself but never dissolving.

She felt the urge to talk to it.

“Hello?”

It continued to shiver.

“Do you understand me?”

It calmed a little.

“Can you speak?”

It paused. Kira’s voice became a trance-like whisper. The feelings emanating from her, all from staring at it…

“Do I know you?”

Then it didn’t move at all…

Kira sat by the dinner fire, an untouched plate on her lap. Her mind was racing, images of the creature replaying again and again. Lupaza was watching her, had been since she’d faltered in the lab. Furel had joined them, and after kissing Lupaza in greeting, noticed his lover’s preoccupation with their younger friend, and he, too, joined in the staring contest.

“Nerys,” Lupaza said at last, breaking Kira’s reverie. She looked up and saw they were the only three around the dinner fire. Lupaza’s annoyed tone was an understatement when compared to the aggravation in her eyes.

“Will you let it go?” her friend asked. “I’m tired of being a watchdog.”

Kira stood to throw out her uneaten food when Furel hopped up and took the plate from her.

“I’ll finish this,” he said with a smirk.

Kira gave a sigh. So it’s time to play “good friend, bad friend” again.

“Furel,” she groaned, tossing her fork onto what was now his plate, “I don’t want to hear it.” But before she could leave, he took her by the arm, leading her and her food just far enough away to appear to be out of earshot. The trick was getting old.

“Don’t make ’Paza mad, Nerys. When she gets mad, she goes to sleep mad.”

Kira had to laugh at the image of a sex-starved Furel getting punched in his sleep.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” she announced to both of them.

“Oh, Prophets,” Lupaza groaned. “You don’t expect me to believe that.”

“Nerys,” Furel pleaded, his eyes wide.

Kira walked over to Lupaza, and looked just enough above her eyes to appear to be looking in them.

“It’s just a walk. To blow off some steam.”

Lupaza sighed, and the smirk appeared. “Get out of here,” she said.

Over her shoulder, Furel mouthed a desperate “Thank you,” and Kira chuckled, heading off toward the south. An idea had piqued her interest, and suspicious friends or not, they were not about to stop her. She would get to see the creature before daybreak.

It reached up to her. A small orange tentacle grew from the puddle, bending toward her hand, seeming to study the shape and texture of it. And then it began to ripple, and the smooth orange turned peach and brown. The tentacle split into five tiny ones, and little fingernails grew on the tips. It had formed her hand. Not as perfect, a little too smooth and undefined, but definitely her hand. It had even added the detail of dried mud. It brought its fingers to hers, and its flesh was soft and cool.

Like lakes, Kira thought, and she smiled, suddenly feeling very much at home.

Shakaar had chosen the southernmost cave for one reason: it was hell to get to the bottom. Stalagmites jutted up at every possible moment, making for slow going and high risk of injury. The treacherous parts came early on, and most intruders, if not all, usually turned back; Kira kept on. The rocks were razor sharp thanks to “enhancements” made by the more geologically minded cell members, and she watched her footing carefully.

The first time she’d attempted this descent, she’d badly injured a rib and nearly torn her right leg off. She’d hidden the bruises until they’d healed, and no one had been the wiser. No one, that is, except Shakaar. He’d assigned her to more exertive missions during that time, knowing she’d been up to no good. But she had safe bets he didn’t think it’d been in the underground storage facilities.

She continued on, relatively unscathed, until she passed under a low archway and into the first of several large rooms. Here were the highly sensitive items: weapons, rescued artifacts, stolen plans. Each resistance cell had one, the highest hopes set on recovering the stolen Orbs of the Prophets. There was even a separate room for them in case those days arrived.

She was in the written artifacts section, where ancient Bajoran texts decayed around her. Her people were efficient at rescuing, but their scattered resources made it difficult to keep up with preservation. Eventually, the written gave way to the visual; mosaics, pottery, artistic renderings of ancient times. Then came a room filled with statues and sculptures, and after that, piles of dark computers.

Finally, she came to the last room. Someone was in it. Kira pressed herself against the wall and tried to make out who it was. Unsuccessful, she stole glances at the objects around her, but all were too large or elaborate to be what she was looking for.

If only I knew where he put it….

“Nerys,” a voice called out from the dark.

Of course.

Shakaar motioned in the distance for her to approach, and her curses and footsteps echoed off the high ceilings.

“What gave me away?” she asked, her tone wry. Shakaar didn’t move, and as she approached, she saw he was holding the containment device.

“Trying to mind-meld?” she chuckled, and Shakaar’s shoulders tensed.

“You think this is a joke?” he hissed.

“No,” she answered quickly.

“I was wondering if you’d forgotten the meaning of that word.”

“I’m sorry I disrespected you.”

“Be honest, Nerys. You enjoyed it a little. You had an actual adventure for once.”

He cocked his head, and she could make out a frustrated expression on his face.

“You need to be trained, Nerys, before you can move on to bigger things. You’ve got the fire, but you need to know how to handle the gun first.”

“I understand,” she muttered, burning with embarrassment.

A pause, and then Shakaar replied, “Apology accepted.”

After another pause, Kira felt the mood lighten and ventured forward.

“So,” she began. “What is it?”

“A changeling,” he replied. “A shape-shifter.”

Kira felt her breath die inside her.

A shape-sh—

“A shape-shifter?” she asked. “What…I mean, aren’t they—?”

“Untrustworthy?” Shakaar answered. “A threat? Precisely why we’ve stolen one from the heart of Cardassian scientists. They’ve got a Bajoran man working with it, but I don’t have to remind you the worth of that these days. Do you know what they’d be capable of with one of these?”

Kira felt uneasy. There were clouds in her mind, evasive maneuvers from the truth.

“I…I…” she said, trying to find something useful, something that would snap her out of the haze. “I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Well, don’t worry,” he said, his voice changing, sounding…wrong. He laid the device beside him. “We’ve just made sure you don’t have to.”

He stood up and began leading her out of the room.

“Shakaar? Shakaar, maybe we shouldn’t keep it here.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

His grip was unusually strong, and a burst of pain shot through her arm.

“Shakaar…you’re hurting me!” she cried, trying to release herself from his grip, but he grabbed her other arm and spun her around. She winced as her heel dug into the rocks at a sharp angle.

“No one is to go near it,” he declared. His eyes had a nasty gleam to them, plotting and vengeful. He raised his arms as if to push her, and she took the opportunity to spring away from him, snatching up the containment device.

I know the goal.

“Nerys!” Shakaar yelled. “Put that down! You saw what it did in the lab! You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t follow orders!”

“These are the right orders!” she replied, and finding the release button, she pressed down hard.

“No!” he yelled, more with anguish than anger. The changeling sprang to life, lunging at Shakaar as a huge ring of fire. Kira ran close to the flames, yelling, “Wait! Don’t hurt him!”

The fire raged, but she could feel no heat. Shakaar was unharmed, cowering in the middle of the ring and shaking. Kira searched for the absent eyes of the changeling, for some distinct place within the fire where she could address it.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she said. “He just doesn’t know.”

She barely registered the snapping tree branch or the shadow that darkened her view, but she did feel the two arms that grabbed her and tossed her into the bushes. And she definitely heard the screams of the creature. A huge shadow darted in and out of the moonlight, and as she scrambled up, she made out the form of Antosso producing a hunting knife. She threw herself upon him, trying to stop his hand.

“Nerys, I know what I’m doing!”

“No!” she cried.

“This creature is evil, sent from Lerritt sorcerers to murder us in the night!”

“No, Torrna!” she yelled again, and snapped back his hand, fracturing his wrist. The knife dropped to the ground. He howled in pain, dropping to his knees. He looked up at her through sweat-drenched hair and crisscrossing shadows, his eyes filled with disbelief.

“Nerys,” he gasped, “you betray me?”

“No, Torrna,” she replied.

“It comes from evil magic, I tell you!”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then from where?”

“From another time.”

“Another—?” Antosso shook his head, nursing his hand. “Ashla, you’ve grown confused. There is no other time but now.”

“No, Torrna,” she said, approaching the creature again, slowly, until it had stopped shivering. “From another time. And for some reason, it’s arrived too soon.”

“Ashla, perhaps the wine has taken you, but this creature is not natural. Do not approach it! It needs antagonism to survive.”

Kira sat next to the creature.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head, “it needs no such thing.”

While his breathing remained heavy, and he occasionally groaned from his injury, Antosso made no more protests. So Kira grew silent, and continued to stare at the creature. Its surface was smooth and calm. She began to see her reflection….

The moons set and the suns rose, and the whole forest was filled with light. Her reflection was clear now, as perfect as a mirror. She leaned back at last to rest, her spine meeting the soft cushion of a pilot’s chair. She relished the silence….

A humming began….

The runabout seemed to be nervously distracting itself, but its tune had no rhythm, no form. Kira stared into her reflection, past the polite, compliant navigational controls. Through the smooth surface and impeccable Federation Standard font, her eyes looked terrible. Lifting her head, she saw Odo sitting in the copilot’s seat, one knee propped up as he stared out the viewscreen.

“You look comfortable,” she said, “sitting that way.”

He was calm, almost smiling.

“It’s…meditative. I find my molecules flow easier.”

She grinned in spite of the tears behind her eyes.

“I’ve never heard you use that word before.”

He turned his head, looking at her.

“Which?” he asked.

“Meditative.”

“Ah. I’ve finally found a use for it.”

They stayed in each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then back to meditations and reflections. The stars elongated through warp speed.

“I’ve never seen space this empty,” Odo said. “Are you sure we entered the right coordinates?”

A few concerned bleeps from the navigational display.

“Yes,” Kira replied. She was finding it hard to see through her tears, which dotted her red militia uniform. She fiercely brushed them away.

“Well,” he said slowly, “we’ll get there eventually.”

After a moment’s pause, he said, “We should go exploring. Now that the war is over.”

He was blurry in her vision. She pushed more tears away, desperate to memorize every detail of him.

“When?” she asked, almost angry.

His face changed, drooping as if he were going to regenerate.

“Someday,” he whispered. Then he added, “I guess it’s easier to plan things when the future is more defined.”

The tears fell independently, despite the furious signals Kira was sending to her brain for them to cease. Odo turned to her, and got up from his chair.

“Kira,” he said.

My formal name? Now?

“Kira Nerys,” a heartbeat repeated. Reaching for her phaser, Kira found none available. She glanced incredulously at her empty holster, and then readied her body for physical combat. There was nothing but a thick landscape of white around her.

A heartbeat? Since when does a heartbeat—

“Kira Nerys,” it said again. She paced, spun, but found no source for the voice.

“I’m Kira Nerys! What do you want?”

“To understand.”

The heartbeat began to take form, the voice growing slightly feminine in quality, less deep and echoing.

“Understand what?” Kira asked.

“Why basics apply to the complicated.”

Kira waited for a further explanation, and then replied, “You’re gonna have to break that down for me. I never was much of a poet.”

“I know,” the heartbeat, now clearly a voice, said. “It is your limitation.”

Wisps of orange began to filter down from the infinite above, like ashy molecules taking shape. Kira stood still, trying to see what was forming, when her gut began to turn, her brain began to process, and just as she saw too late, hands grabbed her raised fists before she could attack.

“It’s okay, Nerys. She only has questions.”

“Benjamin?”

He released her hands.

“Have you brought me here?”

He nodded.

“Then I’m with the Prophets.”

A Sisko smile.

“Think of it as a halfway point.”

“But…how could you…why is she here?”

Sisko looked beyond, in the direction of their companion.

“She’s finally learning what lies beyond treaty signatures and warp drives. It’s perfectly safe. She can’t do a thing.”

He paused, and the father in him filled his demeanor.

“I’m trying to give her a push in the right direction. For reform. For a dialogue. And all she could talk about…was you.”

“Me?”

Sisko grinned.

“Yes. For some reason, she ties the whole beginning of things to you.”

Kira looked at the other being, and then back to Benjamin.

“But…how can I trust her?”

“By trusting me.” And he was gone.

But as long as she breathed Kira would not trust her. There, looking all too familiar in her chaotic patience, was the female shape-shifter, Leader of the Founders.

“I don’t know how you can pull this apart,” a voice yelled, “when it’s been so good, so passionate, finally, after all this time.” It was Kira’s.

She turned and saw herself pacing furiously. Standing at a cautious distance from this second Kira was Odo, who looked calm despite her fury.

“Now,” the second Kira continued, “now you’re giving us up for a species who abandoned you, killed millions, and never shed a tear?”

“My species,” Odo answered softly, and the second Kira let out a scream of frustration, thrusting her fists toward the sky.

It was the argument they’d had after the war’s end, when they’d returned to Deep Space 9 and the peace treaty had been signed—the argument about Odo’s decision to leave the Alpha Quadrant and rejoin the Great Link. He walked over to the second Kira, holding out his arms.

“Nerys—”

But she ducked away, whipping up the white atmosphere as she stalked.

“You can’t just smooth this over, Odo! It’s not an arrest on the Promenade we’re disagreeing about or a con from Quark we don’t know how to catch! This is about us!”

She looked at him with her fiercest eyes.

“How many times have we almost died in the past four years? How many more since we’ve been together? Was none of that enough to draw us closer?”

Odo approached slowly, his features still calm, decisions unchanged.

“Nerys,” he said softly, “I don’t know how to make you understand. I’ve exhausted all my reasons. If I leave my people to their own recovery, the possibility of insurgence is too great. You know as well as I that a peace treaty doesn’t mean a thing if enough people take action against it. When the Occupation of Bajor ended, you left your home to make sure the Cardassians didn’t return.”

“My people weren’t the perpetrators and murderers,” the second Kira retorted.

“I know,” Odo sighed. “But I’m sure you were torn about leaving your people, your friends.”

Kira mouthed the next words along with herself, never forgetting them for a second.

“I didn’t have enough in my life that was worth staying for.”

The scene grew quiet.

“You didn’t respect his choice,” the female shape-shifter said. “But that is in line with your limitations.”

Kira took a deep breath before turning to face the Founder.

“What exactly do you classify as my ‘limitations’?”

“Because you are unable to become another being, you are unable to know their innermost thoughts.”

“But you don’t have the ability to read minds,” Kira said.

“It is in becoming a being’s movements and shapes that we find all we need to know.”

“So, if you saw, for example, birds flying,” Kira asked, “and they were all the same kind, you’re saying you would know for certain what they were all thinking?”

“Animal solids do not express emotions as their humanoid counterparts do,” the Female Shapeshifter answered.

“True,” Kira replied, “but then you can never really know how to become every kind of bird.”

The Founder shook her head.

“You are thinking from a humanoid solid point of view. I cannot expect you to fully understand our ways. This is merely confirming all I knew before.”

“You wanted this dialogue,” Kira retorted, and then stopped herself. He left me, technically, for her. Maybe it’s time to find out why.

“Why don’t you try seeing things from my point of view?” Kira offered. “Use my ‘limitations.’ Without shifting, become me.”

The Founder’s gaze hardened, and she turned to the frozen other Kira.

“I will use this scene as an example,” she began.

“No,” Kira interrupted. “Use me. She’s a memory.”

“Very well,” the Founder replied, looking her over. “You are not confident. You see signs of weakness within you, and that is why you treat every conflict with an extreme case of anger.”

Kira narrowed her eyes. Tread softly, Nerys, softly. For Benjamin. For Odo. For me.

“That was true in the past, but my edges have smoothed somewhat.”

“I see a panic within you,” the Founder continued, as though she hadn’t heard her, “a deep fear that you cannot handle all that is laid before you. Because you cannot shift, you cannot change your pace or find other methods of exhausting your anger and grief.”

“I do not live in a world of anger and grief,” Kira replied. “I receive a lot of it, but I move on. That’s what humanoids do.”

“You do indeed receive much of it,” the Founder said, “but you, Kira Nerys, Humanoid Solid, do not move on. You harbor all that befalls you until you snap like the weakest tree branch. You push away everyone who could step up to catch your fall. And you can never admit that at times, you could use someone to catch you.”

“And you,” Kira hissed, “are afraid. You’re terrified that all your centuries of ‘exploration,’ domination, and murder have occurred in vain. That with the signing of the peace treaty, everything you’ve sought to ‘correct’ has come slamming back at you. Your people were persecuted, but so were mine! We don’t strive for dominion of the galaxy.”

The Founder grew quiet. Her approximations of eyes cut deep into Kira’s.

“You know,” she finally said, “I always wondered what it would be like to be a solid.”

She shimmered, and red flooded up her torso until she had taken on Kira’s form.

“I wondered: Is it jealousy that causes a solid to persecute a changeling?”

She shimmered again, taking on the form of Sisko.

“Desires unfulfilled?”

And then again she shimmered, becoming Odo.

“Or is it the simple frustration of not understanding how the universe works?”

She stood as close as Odo would have. The features were so real, the voice so precise. The Founder held out a hand to Kira’s cheek, but Kira grabbed the limb before it could touch her.

“Why does he mean so much to you?” the Founder asked in Odo’s voice.

And then, before Kira could answer, realization dawned in the changeling’s eyes. Had the Founder been in her usual form, Kira might have missed it. But on Odo, it was clear as day.

“Without him,” the Founder said, “we are incomplete. Because he is a part of us.”

“And without him,” Kira whispered, “I am incomplete.”

“Because he is a part of you.”

“And I of him.”

The Founder shimmered back into her humanoid self, and Kira released her arm.

“Sisko feels all of this will reform me. I enlisted his aid in putting you through the tests: the ancient Bajor, the occupation raid, the caves. He helped to cloud your mind, and you reacted without fear or hatred upon meeting undeveloped changelings.”

“I never hurt a creature unless it gives me a reason.”

“You killed the Cardassian hiding in the bushes,” the Founder replied.

“He was going to kill me.”

“And you were willing to kill game for Antosso.”

“Hunger necessitates taking from nature every so often.”

“And would you kill a changeling if you had the need?” the Founder asked, suddenly growing angry.

“If it was not in its true form,” Kira said carefully, “and appeared to be of necessity, and if I did not know its true form, then, yes, I would have done with it as I had seen fit.”

“So deception is your excuse,” the Founder hissed. “If something does not show its true form to you from the beginning, you cast aside its worth. Just as you cast aside Odo’s worth when he decided to rejoin the Great Link when it ‘did not fit’!”

“Did Odo’s choosing to live with solids fit into your plan?” Kira shot back.

“No,” the Founder replied. “But we did not harm him when he made his choice. He gave us no reason to.”

“No, he didn’t,” Kira said, “until you manipulated the ‘right’ reasons out of him.”

The Founder craned her head and glanced at the white landscape around her.

“This is the most I’ve seen in over a year,” she said.

“And it’s more than you should see.”

The Founder sighed in resignation.

“I never understood why Odo loved you more than his own people. I see it, but I do not understand it. If ‘reformed’ is what I’m meant to be, I feel I should understand his need for you, the catalyst. But it appears I still can’t.”

“No,” Kira replied. “I guess you can’t.”

The Founder started to walk away. Sisko was once again at Kira’s side.

“Perhaps,” the changeling said, “one day I shall.”

The Founder began to fade into the white clouds, but turned back before she was completely gone.

“Promise me one thing,” she said. “Promise me that you will listen to Odo. And that you won’t expect him to live within your limitations.”

“I never do,” Kira said. Benjamin’s hand was upon her shoulder, light and warm.

And then she was gone.

“How much do you know about me, Odo?”

“More than you probably realize.”

Conversations from the past danced in Kira’s head.

The buttons wouldn’t push themselves. She stared into her reflection, past the polite, compliant navigational controls.

All she had to do was leave.

The sea of changelings was asleep now, healing, exhausted.

All she had to do was leave.

“Good morning.”

He was anxious. She could always tell.

Living on the Edge of Existence

Gerri Leen

Colors flash, their hues more intense than Sisko could have taken in before. Blue is no longer just blue, but something more alive, more energetic even than the blue of the sky on Bajor, when the sun hangs in a cloudless expanse over the green hills Sisko fell in love with. Bluer than the sea in the Gulf of Mexico, when he took his father’s boat out far beyond the shore to where the green and turquoise waters gave way to cerulean. Bluer than his father’s old indigo shirt. Bluer than the cornflower dress of Molly O’Brien’s favorite doll.

If he were to think about red or yellow or green, they’d be bigger and more majestic too.

They’d also be empty. For there is nothing in these colors that he has not put there. Nothing that the Prophets did not give him. There is no sunrise, no rising moon in the midnight sky. There are no roses, no violets, no daisies. There is no life, no movement, no…nothing. There is nothing here.

“We are here. The Sisko is here.” The Prophets have chosen to appear as Quark.

Sisko used to try to figure out why they chose the avatars they did. He’s given up.

When he appeared to Kasidy, when he told her he would return, he thought he understood. He thought he knew his path.

That was before he rested. That was before he spent much time—or non-time—with the Prophets, with Sarah, the alien that had inhabited the young human woman who gave birth to him. He thought he understood her, when she caught him up and brought him to the Temple. He thought he understood everything.

He understood nothing. And now, he thinks he understands even less.

He stares at the Quark Prophet, counting it a small victory that the Quark figure no longer blurs or shifts position or disappears entirely under such scrutiny. But his corner of the wormhole or the Celestial Temple—he calls it both things and the Prophets never correct him—begins to spin as he turns his concentration to studying the alien. Sisko’s world is stable only as long as he works to make it so. Except…there is no world. His world is a construct, one he creates to help himself understand his surroundings. One he needs to keep from feeling as if he will throw up. Linear existence may be limiting, but at least it doesn’t bring on constant nausea.

When he was first here, when he thought he understood his place, he felt a part of things. But the longer he is here, the more he realizes he does not understand. He wanted to be part of it, he believed he was. It was new and overwhelming. Fresh and exciting to be part of this—to be a god of sorts.

Then he realized he wasn’t a god. He wasn’t even a demigod. And he may never be. When his mother pulled him from the fire caves, he felt just as the warriors in the myths his stepmother read to him must have felt. Brave fighters caught up by Valkyries, carried to Valhalla where they belong, where they would rest and make merry.

And he is resting. That he is doing. But there is no one to make merry with. He is not sure this place has even seen merry. And in his current mood, he feels a long way from merry—and a long way from belonging. He has never become part of the “we” that is the gestalt of the Celestial Temple. He is always the outsider. Always “the Sisko.”

“Linear existence is no longer your path.” The Quark Prophet has turned into a Kira Prophet. Sisko has never seen the Prophets’ true form. They dress up to pass their wisdom on and become Kira, his father, Odo, Ezri, sometimes even dear Jadzia. They pretend. They take on. They do it because he is providing the template for their interaction.

He knows this. He is one of them, even if he is still apart.

“The Sisko holds himself away from us.” Kira sounds more listless than accusing. The one thing the Prophets cannot seem to do is get mad, get aroused in any way. They are so damned passive that at times he wants to scream at them.

He keeps waiting for their calm to infect him, keeps waiting for the day when he wakes up from a sleep he no longer needs but can’t seem to give up and finds that he doesn’t miss his old life and friends. That he doesn’t feel longing and anger and a nagging annoyance that he is stuck here and still hasn’t figured the place out.

Or how to leave it.

He’s not trapped…exactly. Underneath the other emotions is the suspicion that he is where he is supposed to be. His mother’s influence, no doubt. Sarah’s legacy to him—a half-breed without knowing it until his life was almost over. Part Cajun cook, part impenetrable alien.

“The Sisko should let go of what was.” Kira’s face changes into that of his mother.

“How can it be what was, if there is no past for you?” Sisko loves to catch them up in the endless illogic of living all times at once.

“We have no past, but you still cling to yours.” There is disappointment in Sarah’s voice. She shows up whenever he pushes too hard. He does not know if the Sarah standing before him is just one alien or all of them—or if that has any meaning. He has not yet reached a full understanding of their nature. He has not yet reached even a partial understanding of their nature. As far as their nature goes, he knows squat.

He thought he understood them. He remembers the certainty he felt when he brought Kasidy to him and told her of his path. He thought he was in control then, but now he suspects that the Prophets were really at the helm because he has tried to bring Kasidy back, to find Jake and talk to him. He has never succeeded.

He was a fool.

And yet…he is not sure he would do it any differently. It is hard. He wants to leave, but he thinks he should stay.

“The Sisko is troubled.” Long ago, his mother used to call him other names. She no longer does. She refers to him as the others do.

He thinks she does it to distance him. To help him fit in, by giving him less of herself to hold on to. He believes she thinks he will open himself to the rest of the Prophets—to the experience that is the whole—if she takes away the part that he still wants to believe is his mother.

“I am not upset.” It is not a lie. He is not upset. He changed the word so that his denial would be true. To be upset would require energy he does not wish to squander. But Sarah is right. He is troubled. Troubled takes far less energy than upset.

Sarah looks out of place in his world, where the backdrop is the Promenade. He sits now in Quark’s bar, and she stands off to the side. The place looks like Quark’s bar, but it lacks the sounds and smells of Quark’s. There are no crowds yelling as the dabo girls take their latinum. There is no fiery Bajoran hasperat ordered from the replicator, or pungent Ferengi tube grubs. His version of Quark’s bar is like a painting done all around and below and above him. Sight with no sound and little fury, signifying everything to him. It may not be real, but it’s his.

He used to imagine his briefing room. Then ops. But they were even less real somehow. Perhaps because there were never any ships going past his viewports. Because the people around him in ops made no noise and had no substance, and if he imagined the place empty, it felt even more unreal.

He thinks it’s good to try to create these things. Thinks it’s good to exercise his will and imagination, although the Prophets never comment when he has changed the scenery. If this is a triumph, it must be a minuscule one in their eyes. He’s considering trying to create Bajor next. The pretty spot with the fragrant grass that won’t have any odor here, where he was going to build his house—the house he will never get to live in. He planned to hang wind chimes on the balcony; he’ll never hear them here.

Sarah sighs. She always has a little more immediacy in her actions, a little more emotion in her voice, than the other Prophets. Purely a matter of degree though—she is nobody’s firecracker. Even at her most energized, she is like the two old sisters who lived around the corner from his father’s restaurant. They sat up in their rooms, windows and the door to the balcony thrown open, as if there was no other way to cool their place but the old-fashioned one. They occasionally called down to the street for one of their grand-kids to bring them some sweet tea. When evening came, they moved their chairs a few feet out to the balcony, fanning themselves and talking quietly as if they’d been holding their words back to avoid overdoing it during the heat of the day.

It’s hard to imagine Sarah living in New Orleans, bearing his father a child. Sisko is that child, yet she is a mystery to him. He came from her; even if most of his life he thought his stepmother was his real mother. All Sarah did was give birth to him and then abandon him to his fate, to the battle he was fated to wage in her name, in all the Prophets’ names.

Only most of the Prophets don’t have names. She probably doesn’t have one either, except that he can only think of her as Sarah and she has never told him not to. And even if she were to tell him to stop calling her that, he wouldn’t stop thinking of her that way.

Another Prophet shows up, and this time it’s Curzon who is the avatar. Sisko sees something in Sarah’s face he’s never seen before from a Prophet—surprise. He’s not sure why she is surprised. Curzon has shown up before. Not often, but enough times that seeing him isn’t any kind of shock.

This Curzon looks different though. He’s younger than expected; Sisko generally remembers him older, wiser. Grayer. The Curzon Prophet looks around and begins to smile.

Sisko is not sure he’s ever seen a Prophet smile that way. “Old man?”

“Benjamin, Benjamin.” The force of Sisko’s memory of Curzon seems to overwhelm even a wormhole alien. It has been a long time—although Sisko has no idea how long he’s spent in this nonlinear cuckoo clock—since he was called anything other than “the Sisko.”

Sarah disappears with another strange look at the Curzon Prophet, who is walking around the promenade construct. Sisko can feel energy leaking off him, and it is surprisingly comforting to realize that the energy is actually emotion—trust the old dog to instill fun even in a place where fun has no meaning.

Another alien shows up, materializing with a strange shimmer that seems to leave a taste in Sisko’s mouth—like crisp lemonade on a hot day, or the snap of a dill pickle, the kind you get to pick out from a barrel. Sisko misses food. He wants some gumbo and jambalaya, blackened catfish and crawfish etouffee, or maybe just a bowl of cool sweet cherries taken from the chiller. He wants to pry open oysters and suck them down with an ice-cold beer. Or sit in the bleachers of a stadium with Jake and gobble up hot dogs with ketchup and mustard and sweet relish. He likes the buns toasted and the franks to have the blackened lines from the grill on them.

There is no food in the Celestial Temple. Sisko can’t bear the idea of trying to manifest a stadium, a diamond and players and the silent crowd around him. It would be too real, yet it wouldn’t be real enough.

Besides, he can’t bear to watch a game without Jake-O sitting next to him, cheering the players on—sometimes cheering for the opposing team just to get Sisko’s goat. He misses Jake. How old is his son now? Is he even born yet? Or is he long dead? Has Sisko, living in no time, passed Jake and all of his grandchildren by?

Since he arrived, the Prophets have never appeared to him as Kasidy or Jake. He suddenly wonders why.

“The Sisko makes himself unhappy.” The other alien has chosen to appear as Kai Winn. She shows up infrequently. Sisko wonders what the Prophets really think of her, the leader of their religion who aligned herself with the Pah-wraiths, then recanted at the last minute.

She tried. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Especially when she may have turned the tide so that Sisko could stop Dukat. It wasn’t much, Winn’s effort. Very little, very late. But it was enough.

The Winn Prophet frowns at him. It is a perfect rendition of the real Winn’s favorite expression. “The Sisko is not content.”

“The Sisko is bored out of his skull.” It seems heresy to say that. But it’s true. He wants to go back to Kasidy. But he can’t because she’s alive, and, while he used to believe he was going to see her again, the Prophets don’t speak of his return anymore. He suspects that he died in the fire caves battling the enemy. He is not sure, because there was a moment in the fight with Dukat when Sisko thought he felt something fill him. Energy and support and a rush of something so powerful he worried that he might explode. Then he was here. This place that is his reward. A reward for which he had high hopes but that has turned out to be nothing but an endless parade of old friends and enemies, and a bad case of the bed-spins.

“The Sisko should rest.”

Again there is the strange pop-tingle in the back of his mouth—does he even have a mouth? He imagines himself as still human and so he creates hands and feet. He can move his tongue around his mouth, sliding it over teeth and pushing with it at the insides of his cheek. But does he live? If he could fathom it, could he become pure energy?

And what did the Prophet mean he should rest? He’s been resting. For years. Or minutes. He’s not sure which.

The Winn Prophet walks over to the Curzon Prophet. She smiles—the ingratiating and utterly false smile of the worst kai to ever hold office. Sisko almost laughs as Curzon gives her a grin and a quick pinch on the rear when she turns to walk back to Sisko. The Winn Prophet either does not feel it, or knows better than to acknowledge that she does.

Is Sisko making the Curzon Prophet act this way? Is it a sign of growing dementia or a sign that he is finally learning to control his surroundings? Sisko worries it is the former, because all too often he feels as if he’s slowly losing his mind. Maybe he isn’t bored. Maybe he’s just insane. He’s not sure how he will know if he’s gone mad. And it’s just possible that he has to be a little bit crazy to survive in the Celestial Temple.

He tries to forget Curzon and Kai Winn and to look out past the limits of the Temple. He wants to see Kasidy, to see if the baby has been born yet. To see Jake and Ezri and Kira and all the other living friends he left behind. But he has trouble moving his perception beyond the Temple, and by the time he has strengthened an image enough to see, he has lost the time line again.

He is not sure if he is looking at a Bajor of the past, before the Cardassian occupation, or of the future. The civilization is peaceful, looks warp capable. The planet is green and beautiful, just like he remembers. “I was going to retire there,” he says.

“Real pretty place. Tough break for you, Benjamin.” Curzon stands next to him, and Sisko is surprised that he is still in that form. The Prophets usually change quickly, as if they have a short attention span or are simply following the meanderings of Sisko’s mind. He turns to look at his friend, who suddenly appears to shimmer in a different way than the Prophets do.

The prophets, even in human, Trill, or Bajoran form, seem to glow along the edges. They always appear superimposed upon whatever backdrop he provides. But Curzon shimmers from within. As if he has an energy source inside him. As if he is the realest thing to ever show up in the Temple.

Sisko wonders if he shimmers the same way. Or does he glow from the perimeter, standing apart from the world the same way the Prophets do?

“You’re thinking too hard. You always do that.” Curzon grins again, and it is a wicked expression. One that Sisko is relatively sure the Prophets could not make if the fate of the entire quadrant rested on it.

“Old man, is that really you?”

“In the not-so-corporeal flesh. I’ve been trying to find you for a while, took me some time to get in.” Curzon looks around the limited extent of the Celestial Temple—as temples go, it’s lacking. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”

Sisko turns to the Winn Prophet. She is staring at Curzon, as if she cannot decide what to do.

“This is the Curzon,” Sisko says by way of introductions. He’s not sure how to introduce his hostess.

There is no disdain in the Winn Prophet’s expression. But it’s not welcoming either. “This being is not a part of our existence.”

“My loss, I’m sure.” Curzon winks at him, and Sisko laughs out loud.

The sound pushes at the edges of Sisko’s Promenade construct. His whole world seems to shudder, and Sarah appears, Winn’s features morphing into his mother’s more pleasing ones. She strides more forcefully than Winn did. Moves with growing power.

Sisko suddenly knows all the aliens are in this avatar.

“What is your purpose?” they ask his friend.

Curzon shrugs. “Just visiting. I hope that’s not against your policy?”

“You do not have corporeal integrity.”

“I’m afraid that happens when you die.” He looks over at Sisko. “Have you seen Jadzia? I mean the real Jadzia, not one you imagine here. I’ve been waiting, but she doesn’t come.”

Sisko grins. “I think she’s in Sto-Vo-Kor.”

If he didn’t believe his old friend was really there, the put-out look on Curzon’s face would convince him—no wormhole alien can manage that much annoyance. Sisko grabs Curzon, pulling him into a hug. As he wraps his arms around his friend, he is suddenly with Curzon, back on Risa, experiencing the Trill’s last moments.

As deaths go, expiring in the arms of Arandis wasn’t bad.

But then neither was going out in the arms of the Prophets, knowing that the Pah-wraiths would not escape the fire caves. It was worth his life.

“She was something, huh?” Curzon says, not seeming surprised that Sisko experienced the memory, even if such empathy wasn’t an ability Sisko had ever displayed when they knew each other.

Sisko smiles. “She was indeed. Death by jamaharon is the way to go.”

“Except that I thought I had at least ten more years,” Curzon says, his smile fading into a scowl. “I might have, if I’d stayed away from Risa.” He makes a face that clearly says he can’t imagine avoiding that lovely place—or the beautiful woman who did him in.

“At least you got to die an old man. I wasn’t that lucky.”

“The Sisko is mistaken,” Sarah says, and her voice is unexpected. Sisko almost forgot she was there.

“He often is.” Curzon winks at her, getting nothing back.

“How am I mistaken?” Sisko wants to touch his mother, wants to feel her soft skin under his hand, wants to feel her love—did she ever love him? Does she consider him her son or only a tool she created to fight the Pah-wraiths? She used to manifest warmth, but was it only to get him to do what she wanted?

“You are the Emissary.” A Kira Prophet appears, and there is a tug as if power is being pulled into her from the very fabric of the Temple.

Sisko again tastes the combination of sharp and sour. He realizes that the rest of the Prophets have moved to the Kira construct, leaving the Sarah form to the Prophet he considers his mother.

“You are the Sisko,” Sarah says, as if that explains everything.

“But are you a Sisko?”

Curzon is watching their exchange with interest but very little comprehension. He is probably used to that. Diplomacy is often a matter of digging through the surface behavior until you comprehend the nuances, and Sisko knows Curzon is the consummate diplomat. Death probably hasn’t changed that.

“I am what I am.” Sarah frowns, and Sisko suspects it is because she used the first person. That is unusual—Curzon’s bad influence maybe?

Curzon seems to be fading. He closes his eyes, as if he is concentrating on staying with Sisko, but he continues to lose substance. “Looks like I’m headed home, old friend.”

“I want to go with you.” Sisko turns to Sarah. “I want to go with the Curzon.”

“The Sisko’s place is here.”

Sisko is filled with a crushing disappointment. Then he feels something else. Something he never expected. The same distress emanating from Sarah. Does his desire to leave cause her pain?

“He is a prisoner then?” Curzon asks, his voice little more than a whisper.

“The Sisko is not a prisoner.” The Kira Prophet steps forward as Curzon disappears.

“I cannot leave. I cannot go where I want. How is that not being a prisoner?” Sisko has never let out the anger and disappointment he feels about being cheated of his life with Kasidy and Jake and his unknown son or daughter. He has never railed against the loneliness or the dreadful feeling of having nothing to do. He feels as if he is a shuttle pilot in a perpetual holding pattern, going round and round with no perceivable end to the torment.

Only it’s not torment. It’s just…not what he expected.

“I expected the afterlife to be more like life.” He sounds like a petulant child. And he feels like one. A child trying his best to understand the grown-up world around him and the incomprehensible adults that fill it.

“The Sisko has been resting. Life has tired the Sisko. The Sisko must rest more.” The Kira Prophet has a new note in her voice. Is it kindness?

“I’m tired of resting.” He looks over at Sarah. “I don’t like being dead.”

Sarah smiles at him, and the look is full of the love he has wondered if she holds for him. “The Sisko is not dead. Resting is not dying. And this is not the afterlife.”

He realizes the Promenade has disappeared, and the landscape that appears before him cannot possibly be from his memory or his imagination. He doesn’t even have words for the colors and shapes he sees, has never experienced the smells and sounds that assault him until he closes his eyes, and puts his hand over his ears, and breathes through his mouth in defense against the onslaught.

Then he stops doing that, because he cannot bear to not experience the truth. He opens himself up, and the sensory barrage subsides enough for him to begin to take it all in. His mind strives to come up with comparisons in the human need to take something new and make it familiar. That sound, isn’t it like the crashing of the waves on the shore? That smell, couldn’t it be lamb cooking in sage and garlic and a little mustard? That shape in the distance, doesn’t it look a little like Everest peeking through the clouds?

He knows that these things that surround him—almost inhabit him—are nothing like the memories he links them with. But it makes him feel better to try to label them, to try to fit them into his limited experience.

“The Sisko sees things clearly. Or more so than before.” Sarah touches him, and the feeling of her hand on his cheek is like coming home. “For some, my son, resting is never easy.”

“Mother?”

“I am your mother. And I am not.” She cups his chin, her eyes shining brightly—very brightly, she is turning into pure energy. Her voice is all around him as she says, “You are of us. And you are apart.”

“I am the Sisko,” he says, understanding for the first time that it is not just his father’s name and his name and Jake’s name. It is a title. An identifier. He is the Sisko. One of them. And apart.

He is unique. “I am not dead?”

“The Sisko is not dead.” The Kira Prophet has retained her shape—apparently not all of his hosts feel he is ready for the ambiguity his mother presents him. “The Sisko is resting. When the Sisko is finished resting, the Sisko will begin learning.”

“You are still needed,” the Sarah energy says to him. “You have a path to walk.”

He realizes she did not call him the Sisko. He suspects she may have been talking directly to his mind.

“I’m finished resting.”

“You are not. But it is good that you think you are. Because there is much to learn.” Sarah pulls her shape back around her, and the Promenade replaces the unknowable.

Sisko feels a pang.

“The Sisko will see our home again when you have learned how to find it for yourself.” The Kira Prophet surprises him with a touch, her hand gently settling on his forehead.

He has an image, a feeling, a snatch of memory, a snippet of song. He feels the way he did when he was obsessed with finding B’hala, the way he did when he went after the Orb of the Emissary. He knows he can find the world he just saw.

But not now. He can feel the gap between what he knows and what he will have to know to find his mother’s true home. He can feel how tired he is, underneath his resentment and boredom and longing for those he loves.

The Kira Prophet disappears, and his mother takes his arm and strolls with him on the promenade. She breathes softly, and he realizes that even such a casually human act is a gift to him.

“Will your friend find us again?” she asks.

Sisko cannot remember the Prophets ever asking him a question that was not rhetorical. It amuses him that Curzon is the one to mystify them. He is not surprised; if anyone can stump godlike aliens, it’s Curzon Dax.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Sisko wonders if Jadzia will be moved enough to leave Sto-Vo-Kor and come searching for him. He thinks she probably will not. If Curzon had the pleasures of the Klingon afterlife in front of him, he might not have gotten bored enough to leave the Trill underworld to look for his old friend. “You’re sure I’m not dead?”

“You are not dead.” Her hand tightens on him, a gesture of support, of comfort.

Then perhaps Kasidy is not lost to him? And he’ll hold his new child someday, and once again hug Jake close to him to show his oldest that he will always be special in his heart. Sisko’s life beckons, and joy erupts inside him, and he can feel a note of caution coming from his mother, even though she is back in human form.

“I should not wish for my life back?” he asks.

“You wish for what was yours; that is understandable. But do not dwell on what you do not have. You will stay with us until you are ready to leave. Do not let longing for what was blind you to what can be.”

“Spoken like a true prophet.”

“It is truth. For the Sisko.” She smiles and it is a mysterious smile. It holds secrets and powers that he will probably get only the smallest taste of. Then she leans up and kisses his cheek, her lips lingering on his skin, soft and dry and giving off the faintest tingle.

He feels infused with energy.

She pulls away. “And it is a gift. From a mother to her son.”

The Last Tree on Ferenginar:

A Ferengi Fable From

the Future

Mike McDevitt

Open your ears, children, and hear a tale from your uncle Grix. Long, long ago, probably more than a thousand fiscal cycles hence, the Ferengi were a great people. I mean, we’re a great people now, too, but back then we were really something. Ferengi are beings of beauty, brains, and strength. Where many species must blunder along at imposing, unwieldy heights, Ferengi are perfectly suited to lope sneakily in where they’re not wanted. No species can boast ears larger than their widespread hands but the Ferengi. Ferengi mouths sport rows of crooked, needle-sharp teeth to take a bite out of the competition. The piercing, beady eyes of a Ferengi can spot a missing wallet or dropped coin at great distances. Their noble faces are twisted in a perpetual sneer of virtue. The rough, orange hands of a Ferengi sport handsome green fingernails; the better to perpetually grasp at the things they desire. And a Ferengi’s desire would encompass the galaxy. Ferengi love to acquire, live to acquire, and love the word “acquire.”

Now, in this long ago time, there was a wise, just, and exceedingly rich Ferengi Grand Nagus named Rom. He was tall in stature, cunning of mind, and had the lobes for business. This has also been said of his predecessor, the Grand Nagus Zek, and while it was literally true in Zek’s case, it was also true of Rom because Zek had said so. Loudly. And repeatedly. While throwing things.

Rom had ascended to the nagul throne earlier that drizzly season amid much rejoicing over the abrupt and not at all worrisome transition to democracy and equal rights for females. It was said of Rom in the ancient datafiles that his approval rating was ninety-eight percent. This may even have been true: there were a lot of females and also a lot of weirdos and perverts who liked letting women wear clothes and have opinions. So, in those turbulent times, it was a blessing and a delight to have a strong nagus like Rom. A Ferengi’s Ferengi. His former career had been deobstructing waste extractors on a hu-mon space station, and before that he worked in the food service industry.

Rom had a young, beautiful, and exceedingly rich wife named Leeta. Some say more exotic than beautiful. I mean, they say her ears were tiny, simply minute, even wee. They weren’t much bigger than her nose, which was sort of cute. Her skin was the color of fresh milk (not the beautiful brownish orange of a fresh bog), she had hair all over her head (not smooth and shiny like a normal female), and her teeth were blunt and pearly white (not in the least bit charmingly chaotic). Still, she was apparently quite a looker otherwise. Suffice it to say that the Nagus considered her a national treasure and, indeed, had her insured for 280 bars of latinum. Her former profession was dabo girl in a gaming establishment. As many of you children may have heard, a lita is a unit of currency on the planet Bajor, where Leeta happened to be from. I merely point it out because it is considered as ironically amusing as when Throk the Pusillanimous of the Ninth Era married an Earth banker whose name was Penny. Or Glint the Rotund who took as mate a Klingon accountant named D’Arsik. Actually this sort of thing happens a lot, but it is not really the point of this story.

Rom and Leeta spent many hours of their day on giant golden thrones, holding court before various merchants, businessmen, nobles, luminaries, potentates, and bigwigs. Rom and Leeta heard requests, passed judgments, granted favors, and generally tried to keep awake.

One dreary day, they granted an audience to the head lumberjack and CEO of Slash-and-Burn Unlimited: Ogger the Logger, son of Bogger.

Ogger was tall in stature, cunning of mind, and he had the lobes for business. I know I said all of those things about the nagus, too, but if you want to get technical about it, Ogger had them more. Ten times more. Maybe thirty. And he wanted to be sure everybody knew about it. He wore a big headskirt behind his big ears. He pretended to have killed the big furry animal whose pelt he sported in some big furry battle. He had a big plasma whip holstered in his big belt as a symbol of his long service in the Marauders. He even had big purple and orange boots on his big feet, because you know what they say about Ferengi with big feet—they stomp when they enter a room.

Ogger had one request and he made it very loudly. Ogger loved to sink the huge, vibrating blade of his sonic chainsaw into young virgin wood. He had completed the paperwork required, waded through the extensive bureaucracy, and having been stymied for days by naysayers and buck-passers, he appealed directly to the nagus.

Ogger wanted permission to cut down the last tree on the planet. It was on government land and apparently Rom owned the rights to it.

Rom got most of the way through the sentence “Request granted” before Leeta interrupted him and whispered in his ear. Apparently she didn’t think much of the idea.

Rom got most of the way through the sentence “Request denied” before Ogger interrupted him and offered Rom a vast sum of money.

Leeta quickly turned it down.

Ogger offered an even more outrageous sum and company stock as well.

Leeta turned it down again.

Ogger offered an absolutely exorbitant amount of cash, stock, and bonds, and also offered to purchase Leeta.

Rom said he needed time to think about it and that Ogger was to come back the following week.

Ogger pointedly asked Rom whether his female had forgotten the Second Rule of Acquisition.

Rom took a guess and incorrectly quoted it as “Waste not lest ye be wasted?”

Ogger sneered and correctly bellowed the Second Rule was “Money is everything!” loud enough to rattle the Tiburonian sorax sconces in the throne room. He angrily vowed to return with his Board of Underlings in one week’s time. He closed with the observation that Rom seemed to be a wise man who knew which side his bread was buttered on, and a man who enjoyed retaining the physical ability to butter his own bread with an undamaged hand. Then he slammed the extremely heavy door behind him.

Leeta and Rom sent everyone else away early that day.

Leeta’s people, the Bajorans, are known for their deeply held spiritual beliefs and devotion to nature. Leeta was not your typical Bajoran. Maybe Bajoran tradition didn’t approve of her former career as hostess in a gambling den, or of her interspecies marriage. I wouldn’t know, I never read about Bajoran traditions.

But although Leeta was nontraditional for a Bajoran, she was absolutely bizarre as a Ferengi. Although she had a normal, healthy liking for pretty baubles, fine silks, and shiny trinkets, she also had an inexplicable heathen respect for intangibles like generosity. This generally made everyone uncomfortable and caused great gaping lulls in conversation with other Ferengi females.

Leeta was a charter member of several activist groups. They included the Society to Save the Spotted Spoog (she thought they were cute), the Females for Atmosphere Restoration Today (desperately seeking a better acronym for a serious worldwide catastrophe), and CAIT: the Committee to Abolish Itchy Tweed. Tweed and Sons Clothiers had been forced by government mandate to add female apparel to their line last year, and in a fairly bald attempt to keep women naked, the entire feminine line was unbearably uncomfortable. Leeta had started the committee to protest this, and was terribly confused when her meetings were crashed by a large number of feline tourists from the planet Cait, who came mostly to complain about the rain.

Suffice it to say Leeta had strong opinions about things when she thought them through. Strong opinions that would not have been tolerated from a female on Ferenginar less than a handful of years earlier. Strong opinions that her husband never went on record as ignoring, possibly because her husband tried to avoid going on record at all, and possibly because he was rumored to base his strong opinions on the opinions of whoever was standing closest to him and talking the loudest.

Leeta was very loud when she wanted to be.

She was loud that night with Rom in their sumptuous bed. (This is strictly conjecture, entirely off the record. If they had recording devices in their royal bedroom, such devices were strictly for personal use.) Leeta demanded to know how the Ferengi had managed to cut down every tree on their whole planet.

Rom yawned and told her of the great big cutting machines, such as the SkumCo Lumber Vanquisher 20XJ-7, which are fifty mog across. He told her his grandfather had driven one, which consumed over thirteen agrosectors a day. He told her of the time he’d been a little tyke and his Grawmpee had hoisted him up, set him on the seat, and let him drive it all day long. Rom went on to tell Leeta how Grawmpee had spent that same day napping in the back seat and complaining about how lazy Rom’s father was. Then Rom waxed rhapsodic about how, for supper, his groogie had made Hupyrian corn bread, and gree worm pie, and nice, juicy tube grubs.

Leeta patiently interjected that she had meant why every tree, and didn’t anybody want to keep some around to look at?

Rom pointed out that you could look at them in holosuites if you want to. He added that his brother had written a holosuite program about a beautiful verdant green forest.

Leeta was dubious because she knew Rom’s brother. She said as much.

Rom told her it was a program based on old Earth myths, and that the trees all turned into nyads and dryads and nymphs, and they stripped off their leaves to frolic around.

Leeta coughed loudly, asked him not to explain any more. She begged him to keep the last tree safe. She also suggested he get some new ones, too. She cajoled and suggested that if he brought in some Bajoran trees, flowers, and grass, she might go outside and frolic in them with him.

She winked broadly at him and told him she’d even wear that dress he liked.

Rom blinked back and asked if she meant no dress whatsoever.

Leeta blushed and said, no, the other one.

They got very little sleep that night and the next day Leeta realized they hadn’t settled the matter of the tree, either.

So the next night, in bed, Leeta told Rom of a book she had read by a centuries-dead hu-mon named Henry. In the book, he’d talked a lot about birds and flowers and trees. He said things about living in the woods in harmony with nature, and to Leeta this had sounded good. Henry had gone on to indicate that modern life was too complicated and one should try to “simplify, simplify” in order to find the good inside oneself. All the sorts of things you’d expect from a hu-mon.

Rom tried to understand her for some reason. Obviously, he couldn’t quite manage it. “Simplify” is the opposite of the very heart of “acquire.” But, though confused, Rom told Leeta he loved her and wouldn’t trade her on the black market for her weight in pure latinum.

This is an example of how Rom was a very strange nagus indeed. A mass of pure latinum equivalent in weight to Leeta would have been enough to buy a holosuite with Leeta’s exact likeness and personality built in, with enough left over to buy most of the continent they lived on.

Perhaps he said it to flatter her, since he must have known no Ferengi would ever have traded with him.

In any case, Rom was soon snoring peacefully but Leeta still couldn’t rest. She decided to call in outside consultants.

A few days later, the consultants flew in from Risa. (One day your uncle Grix will tell you a story about Risa and an all-female parrises squares team he met there one summer. When you’re older.)

Among the strange choices Leeta made over this stupid tree, she was wise enough to call in the former Grand Nagus and the sharpest mind in history, now slightly past his prime—Zek.

Zek traveled with the aged female Ishka, who’d earned derision and fame in equal measure as the mother of Ferengi feminism and the mother (or Moogie, as he called her) of Rom. Some records from the period indicate Ishka wore the pants in that family, but most of the pictures show her in a dress. History can be confusing.

Leeta related her concerns about the tree the very instant her relatives arrived at the palace. She pointed out that something should be done before Ogger returned at the end of the week. She was met with blank stares.

Ishka tended to take Leeta’s side on issues of female rights, but she was still a Ferengi. Ishka told Leeta she should let the man have his tree and charge him handsomely for the privilege of cutting it down.

Leeta was shocked. She thought Ishka had understood the purpose of the call and asked her why she’d flown all the way out there if not to save the tree.

Ishka responded that she’d come to see her little Rommie-Wommie and went on to ask her little pookie whether Leeta’d been feeding him enough and didn’t he look less pudgy?

Leeta turned to Zek and politely pled her case to him. She cajoled and begged and appealed to his sense of decency.

The old Ferengi groused that she should go make him a pie.

Leeta knew she needed more help.

Now, the Nagus Rom had a brother…who for some reason liked to live on a space station many light-years away from his family and homeworld. His name was Quark, he ran a bar, and he was not happy to take a call from Leeta at his place of business. He paid little attention and ended the call as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately for Quark, the space station’s security chief was also Quark’s erstwhile lover. Her name was Ro Laren, and she spent much of her time putting her ridged Bajoran nose in other people’s business. Ro asked who’d called.

Quark grumbled something about subspace solicitors.

Ro pointed out that the call had come from the Nagul Palace on Ferenginar. She thought that it had been Quark’s sister-in-law, and asked him why did he always try to lie to her?

Quark sighed and muttered something about Leeta wanting him to help save the last tree.

Ro’s brow furrowed with concern as she asked whether things were really that bad on Ferenginar.

Quark snapped that he didn’t think there was anything bad about it at all, that nobody needed forests. He continued by grumbling that the last forest he’d been in was crawling with Jem’Hadar soldiers. And bugs. And that he hated nature.

Ro assured him that she loved nature and that Quark loved her.

Quark said “Feh.”

Ro told him to pack his bags because they were off to his old swamping grounds.

Quark said “Double feh” and packed his bags.

Quark said “Double feh” because it is an old Ferengi saying that means “I don’t understand women but I enjoy having them around so much that I do things I don’t really want to do.” I think all species have some such saying.

When Quark and Ro arrived on Ferenginar, rain-drenched and warp-lagged, Leeta rushed off her throne to embrace Ro warmly, which made Ro uncomfortable, then politely said hello to Quark from several feet away. Quark had bought the cheapest possible travel tickets, and so on the overcrowded transport no less than two babies and a Bringloidi salesman had vomited on him.

Quark greeted his relatives with all the glee of an American Earth man having a tax audit from the IRS.

He had no desire to help anyone do anything, least of all his wealthy extended family. He was not paying attention as Ishka fawned over Ro, asking her how she liked sleeping with someone so obscenely ugly as her son. Ishka continued the conversation by mentioning how odd that both her sons ended up with Bajorans for mates, not that there was anything wrong with that. He was not paying attention as Leeta explained that he had been granted a position in the government. That Quark, without realizing it, was part of a great history. That nine hundred years earlier, the Inestimable Flook had been appointed Minister of Deforestry. That a hundred years earlier Skink the Terrifier had been assigned to the same office under the new, more politically correct, title Minister of Forestry. That ten years ago the Unlikely Gurp had been forced to accept the call as Minister of Forest. Or that last week, in absentia, the role now known as Minister of Tree had fallen to Quark the Barkeep.

Quark paid no attention to this, or to Zek’s somnolent calls for his snuff box. He zoned out rather a lot as everyone else debated what to tell Ogger the next day when he returned, and in the midst of the debate no one came up with a plan at all.

The next day, Rom’s extended family was on hand to assist him when Ogger returned with his Board of Underlings, but Ogger had had all week long to plan what he would say and had his proposal rewritten by wiser heads the night before.

In a big bass voice Ogger asked, hypothetically, whether Rom would ask a Ferengi to stop strip mining dilithium just because warp drives damage space and dilithium is a nonrenewable resource. He pointed out that the Ferengi culture was based on dilithium. Dilithium-regulated reactions powered their homes. Dilithium resin was a key ingredient in every hovercar, computer, device, machine, utensil, children’s toy, adult’s toy, headskirt, and money belt on the planet. Ogger also mentioned that most of his friends rubbed dilithium on their food.

Leeta countered that it was very dangerous to base a whole society on one thing.

Ogger waved a mighty hand and speculated that when the dilithium ran out they would find something else. Perhaps whatever they used centuries ago to heat homes and build toys.

His vice-assistant, Orax, whispered that it had been fossil fuels.

Ogger cuffed Orax and yelled that there weren’t any fossil fuels left.

Orax quietly supposed they could use wood.

Ogger nodded sagely and repeated the idea that they’d simply use wood and wouldn’t the nagus stop being silly and let him cut the tree down.

Leeta asked who would even buy the tree’s paper products in a computerized society where eighty percent of the populace was functionally illiterate and totally concerned with the acquisition of liquid latinum in pressed gold bars.

Ogger pointed out that the Good Book (the Rules of Acquisition) was printed on paper and bound in wood. That stumped her for a moment, so he went on to brag of the success of paper clothes. He boasted that they were the latest fad and that everyone loved them.

Leeta shouted that nobody loved them because they got soggy in the perpetual Ferenginar rains and then disintegrated and left you naked. She blushingly added that no one would fool her twice.

Rom piped up that they wouldn’t fool him either…three times anyway.

Ogger pressed on, telling them that the tree could also be used to create cardboard boxes for take-out meals since environmentalists like Leeta were always saying that Tox-Foam containers were toxic.

Leeta said that was because they were.

Ogger said “Meh, meh, meh.”

Ogger said “Meh, meh, meh” because this is an old Ferengi saying that means, “I’m not one for listening to environmentalists.”

Zek woke himself long enough to shout that Ogger had better just shut up and obey the duly appointed nagus if he wanted to get into the Divine Treasury when he died.

Ogger then threatened to buy himself into office. His underlings all made a great deal of supportive noises. That’s what underlings are for.

Leeta shouted, rather stridently, that money didn’t run a democracy.

Ogger and his entourage laughed for thirty-five hours. One of the sub-nagul undersecretaries required major surgery for a ruptured spleen.

When he could speak again, Ogger bellowed an ultimatum.

Either the tree or the nagus would be gone at the end of three days.

Rom was understandably concerned, and when Ogger tromped out of the throne room Rom begged his relatives to find a way to help. He begged until it was night, then he begged most of the night. Quark got very little sleep, and he got very cross with Rom.

Rom begged throughout the second day, too. Didn’t they have any ideas? Zek had negotiated with the intractable Breen in his younger days. Ishka had overthrown the whole social order of their planet. Ro knew every weapon and combat technique in the Alpha Quadrant. Leeta was…loyal and beautiful. And Quark? Well, secretly, Quark wished he could be back on Deep Space 9, maybe putting the finishing touches on his holo-novel. (It was nearly done, and was entitled Vulcan Love Slave IV: T’Ris in Orion Bondage.)

On the second night, Rom begged harder. Ishka proposed killing Ogger. Ro seconded. Leeta vetoed them. Zek demanded pie.

And Quark came up with The Plan. The Plan hinged upon the notion that tough guys like Ogger are a superstitious and cowardly lot.

Later that night, Ogger was lounging alone in his extremely big bed in the huge bedroom of his giant house. Light drizzle spattered on his tremendously large wooden windowsill. Ogger looked out the window at Rom’s palace, and looked forward to cutting down a tree or a nagus in the morning. He was eating a delicious grilled cheeb sandwich. Ogger loved the rush of warm juice between his teeth from a nice grilled cheeb bug eaten in bed.

His ritual was suddenly interrupted by the rattling sound of worthless metal chains. Ogger shouted into the darkness to demand to know who was there. He threatened to release his trained attack spoogs. Then he flicked on his bedside light.

There, large and wrinkly as life, was the Grand Nagus Zek. Dead.

Zek was draped in chains and appeared colorless and translucent. His ghostly form passed through the bedpost and approached quite near to the frightened Ogger.

Zek claimed, with little preamble, that he had died during the night and was even now trapped between the Divine Treasury and the Vault of Eternal Destitution for the little known and seldom punished sin of genocide to no profit. He urged Ogger to avoid the same fate by withdrawing his petition, and warned that tree spirits would visit him in the night.

Ogger shrieked, admitting that he was secretly terrified of the number three.

Zek enunciated that tree spirits were in the offing.

Ogger breathed a relieved thanks to the gods of wealth.

Zek admitted that there were three of them.

Ogger shrieked again.

Zek’s ancient, wizened, and liver-spotted face cackled sharply and faded away into the shadows.

Ogger quickly ran to his viewphone and dialed his therapist, his local priest, and his moogie. His therapist charged him nine strips of latinum to listen to his tale for nine minutes. His local priest offered to come to Ogger’s house and perform the mystic money-meld. (The money-meld is an ancient ritual where the priest grasps key points of one’s wallet and intones “My money to your money, your cash to my cash. Our money is now one.” Whereupon the worthy evangelist would run away very fast and leave one’s wallet empty.) Ogger’s moogie got angry with him for calling so late at night and threatened to take away his allowance. Since she hadn’t paid him a single latinum slip in years, this threat did not worry Ogger.

What did worry Ogger was the appearance of the first of the tree spirits, that is, until he got a good look.

The first tree spirit was as ephemeral as Zek had been, but the resemblance to a withered old man ended there. The first tree spirit reminded Ogger strongly of Leeta, only with green skin, scanty veils, and a fetching outfit of leaves and a bark-like cloth that barely covered her voluptuous body.

The first tree spirit declared her calling was to represent the Trees of the Spring Season, when the monsoons were light and cheerful. She asked whether her nubile trunk and willowy limbs inspired a love of trees within his breast.

Ogger assured the spirit that she inspired something, all right.

The Leeta-like dryad huffed slightly in an alluring way and explained carefully the wondrous life cycle of a tree, from promising seed to young sapling, bursting with sweet juices. How, the spirit begged, could he want to topple such a tree to the ground and despoil it?

Ogger made an unprintable offer to the spirit.

The spirit vanished rather quickly.

When the second spirit manifested, Ogger thought he could get to like this sort of thing. The second tree spirit looked like a Bajoran woman in minimal clothing as well: orange and gold, with perky berries and strategically placed branches.

The second tree spirit seemed a little less enthusiastic than the first. She told him in a perfunctory sort of way that her calling was to represent the Trees of the Fall Season when the deluge pours heavily on the plants and people alike.

Ogger said it was obvious who she was, as she was less voluptuous and juicy than the previous tree.

The dryad gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes, assuring him that if that was the case it was only because Ferengi of limited vision were sucking her resources dry. And he’d better watch out, as there was a third spirit yet to appear. The second tree spirit hiked up her flowing root-tendril skirts and stomped away, vanishing through the wall.

Ogger began to chew his fingernails in anticipation. What could the third spirit be, if these lovelies were the preshow?

The third tree spirit to appear was Quark.

Ogger shrieked.

The Quark-like tree had drooping, bare brown branches, gray-brown moss patches, and appeared quite surly and bad-tempered. It snapped briskly that it was supposed to represent the Trees of the Winter Season, when the rain stays mainly on the plain or something.

Ogger didn’t hear a word, as he was too busy shrieking at the hideous sight of Quark in a tree outfit in his bed. The Quark-tree sighed and said “Beware!” in a sarcastic tone of voice, then snapped his twig-fingers and disappeared.

Ogger regained his breath and composure in the silence of the next several minutes. This had been quite a harrowing experience for him and he was ready to renounce his evil ways.

Just then, the Quark-tree reappeared.

Ogger flailed in his fright, begged the spirit to go away and torment him no more, and then noticed that the ghostly image dissipated when he passed his hand through it much the same way a Yridian 77X hologram imager did.

The Quark-image explained that he was a holographic projection and that the whole stupid thing was a stupid sham for his stupid brother’s benefit. Quark asked if he could call the logger Og. Then, without pausing, asked Og if he’d like to make some real money and if he hated the nagus as much as he, Quark, did.

Ogger said he thought Rom was okay, generally….

Quark shouted that Rom was an idiot who didn’t deserve to keep breathing every day, or sitting on the throne that should have been his, and demanded to know if Ogger was getting especially tired of this hoopla over some rotted plant? Then he told Ogger what the pair of them could do about it.

Quark had a plan, children. You see, every government has a secret government within it somewhere to do the dirty work. The Cardassian Obsidian Order, the Romulan Tal Shiar, the hu-mon Section 31. The nagul government had a deadly clan of shadowy Ferengi in black trained in surveillance, secrecy, and covert operations. They were known as The Ear. They kept their existence so secret that even Rom didn’t know about them, and they didn’t want Rom to know about them because they didn’t like Rom very much. Zek could’ve told Rom about them before he retired, but the truth is Zek had forgotten. None but a select few could have found The Ear, and fewer still could have left their presence again alive.

Quark found them behind the last door of the last hall in the lowest, darkest level of the Nagul Palace. It was the first place he looked.

There was a disruptor pistol in the crook of his neck the instant he sauntered in the door, and a deep, muffled voice asking how he’d found them.

Quark intimated that he knew a guy whose cousin’s girlfriend knew a guy.

The voice told him to never mind and that he wasn’t leaving alive.

Quark said if they killed the nagus’s beloved older brother, they’d answer to all Ferenginar.

The voice told him he wasn’t beloved and that Rom had tried (albeit ineptly) to kill Quark eight years before, or had Quark forgotten?

Quark assured the evil agent that true brothers let bygones be bygones.

The evil agent asked why Quark had come.

Quark said he needed them to kill his brother tomorrow on a hunting trip.

The agent agreed without any haggling, certain that Quark would pay handsomely once he inherited the throne, and set his assassins the task of sending Rom to the Divine Treasury.

The following morning, Rom was happy to be surrounded by his loving, faithful family and happily whistling “The Dark, Dank Muck of Home” when Ogger showed up and ruined his mood.

Ogger announced that in the night he’d been visited by ominous nocturnal specters that had made ominous statements in their ominous way and seemed to be telling him he shouldn’t try to profit from the final tree.

Rom asked if Ogger would now withdraw his request to kill the last tree.

Ogger said he certainly would not.

Rom prodded tentatively whether Ogger wasn’t afraid of the specters.

Ogger said he wouldn’t bow down to spectral interest groups, then proposed that Rom accompany him on an innocent hunting trip over by the last tree this morning. Ogger insisted on a contest of skill in which the first of them to kill a giant, bloated swamp slug would have his way in the matter.

Rom’s throat felt suddenly very dry and he turned to his family for help. None of them seemed to be looking at him except Quark. There was a funny glint in Quark’s eye and he told Rom it sounded like a fine idea for a morning execution…excursion.

So it was that Rom found himself with a crossbow in hand, peering into the morning fog, ankle deep in the sludge of Slug Swamp. Ishka had dressed him warmly and Leeta had kissed him good-bye. Now he was feeling uneasy, uncertain, and unbelievably out of his depth. Rom had trouble remembering which boot went on which foot some days, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t work a crossbow.

Ogger, on the other hand, taught archery at the Ogger College of Archery and Plasma Whippery. If there was one thing Ogger loved more than whipping, eating, or cutting down trees, it was sinking his arrow shaft into the flank of a powerful oily slug.

Quark, in hip waders at Rom’s side, waited for his plan to turn a profit.

A docile group of mammoth slugs, ten meters long and seven meters high, grazed quietly on swamp algae and occasionally bleated a sluggish call to the chill morning air. A cold rain fell lightly, but incessantly, on slugs and hunters alike, and also on the spindly form of the sickly last tree.

Rom stood under it and wondered if it had been worth all the worry. He also wondered how quickly he would lose this contest.

Rom asked Ogger if he wouldn’t rather play chess for the tree, instead. Ogger laughed, slapping Quark on the back until Quark laughed, too. Then Ogger pointed out that Rom was very far away from any witnesses, standing between two men who wished him harm: one of whom had a rapid-fire crossbow, the other of whom had hired a band of assassins to take Rom’s life.

Rom looked in shock at Quark, feeling very, very dismayed, and a little bit hurt. Quark shrugged and reminded him that business was business, and hadn’t he tried to shove Quark out an airlock during the week when Quark had been nagus eight years before?

Rom said he thought bygones would be bygones.

Ogger wondered aloud where Quark’s assassins had gotten to.

Lieutenant Ro Laren emerged from her concealment behind a mother slug. She quickly tossed an unconscious black-clad assassin into the muck, leveled a phaser gun at Ogger, and told him he was under arrest for treason under Article Nine of the Profit Margin.

You see, children, Lieutenant Ro had followed the hunting party surreptitiously and neutralized the assassins of the Ear one by one, or a couple at a time. Earlier that morning, she had had the directors of that shadowy cabal arrested as well. If only there’d been some trees around, the Ear would’ve had some cover while sneaking up to attack the nagus. As it was, Ro had seen them coming a mile away. She had taken them out with a dizzying combination of Federation judo, Bajoran martial-arts prowess, and general kicks and pokes. She also had a phaser gun.

Ogger turned an angry glare on Quark. He accused Quark of setting the whole thing up. Quark admitted it wholeheartedly, and displayed the recording device he had concealed in his vest pocket. It implicated both the Ear and Ogger in an assassination plot.

Quark had double-crossed both the Ear and Ogger! Wasn’t that clever of him, children?

Ogger didn’t think it was so clever, and in response he lunged toward Rom and fired all three arrows from his crossbow.

Ro blasted one of them out of the air with her phaser. Right out of the air, kiddies!

Quark tried to jump out of the way and tripped over his hip waders for his trouble. One of the arrows meant for his brother hit him in the arm.

Rom fell over backwards into the swamp, with the third arrow sticking straight up from the center of his chest.

As Ro and Quark rushed to Rom’s side, Ogger laughed loudly and triumphantly. He laughed so loudly, in fact, that he disturbed the mother swamp slug, who extended a three-meter-wide pseudopod and knocked Ogger off his feet and pinned him in the muck.

Ogger realized his predicament would very soon lead to his death. He would very soon be drowning or consumed by the slug, and his thoughts raced with desperation. As one normally does when faced with death, he wondered briefly if he’d wasted his life.

Suddenly, the mother slug sensed something in the air and extruded a smaller pseudopod in the direction of the last tree. She changed direction then, moving her weight off of Ogger and toward the sweet, succulent moss on the trunk of the tree. As she grazed, the logger realized the irony that his life had been saved by the tree he wanted to destroy. He raised himself out of the sludge and started to say that he would turn over a new leaf that very day.

He had a tenth of a second to open his mouth before Ro sent him unconscious with a judo chop.

Rom, of course, was completely all right. His moogie had knitted his sweater of duranium mesh, stronger than any steel arrowhead. Quark complained loudly that he, Quark, was bleeding to death, but in reality, his sweater was duranium mesh, too. When palace security arrived, they found the culprits tied to the last tree and Quark carving his name into the trunk just above Ro’s.

After his arrest, Ogger probably went to prison. Maybe at Tara-hong Detention, maybe at Flunkatraz. Or maybe he bought off the judge. But supposing he went to jail, he was probably there long enough to learn his lesson. Unless he bought the warden. Or paid his debt to society in some other very literal and lucrative way. But one thing is certain: he never bothered Rom again. Unless he did somehow.

Rom thanked his brother Quark with a nice, big hug and a nice, small bribe.

Ro Laren kissed Quark and remarked on how uncharacteristically brave and generous he’d been in helping his brother save his government and life without being paid in advance.

Quark suggested she might find a way to repay him once they returned home to his bed. He also assured everyone quite shrilly that he had never had a desire to be nagus and that he preferred to stay far away from the limelight, the adulation, and the constant assassination attempts.

Leeta finally managed to save the environment. How? She baked old Zek a pie that was so delicious that he agreed to personally finance the mass cloning of the tree.

And Ishka made Zek stick to his agreement once he was sober again.

So, Rom and his family lived happily and more importantly, profitably ever after.

Did Rom save the tree? Yes, you mewling tykes. Yes, he did. Ferengi children enjoyed the use of the tree and its clones for quite a long time, sitting contentedly in its shade, putting its leaves in their ears, climbing it with demented childlike glee, and what-have-you.

Did Rom’s forty-third great-grandchild (also named Rom) save the tree, when the exact same situation came up again quite a long time later?

What do you think?

Ever seen any trees yourself?

The moral of this story, children, is that nothing lasts forever; that’s why you have to grab as much as you can for yourself while the grabbing is good.

(Proceeds from the sale of this story, minus a small commission, go to Prix Oxygen Imports, Ltd. “Making ‘Life’ Possible since 10,432.”)

The Tribbles’ Pagh

Ryan M. Williams

Kira Nerys felt that tightening, sinking feeling in her gut that told her she was in deep trouble. She’d felt it in the resistance when raids on the Cardassians had gone wrong. But this had to be the worst. Kira folded her arms awkwardly over her swollen belly, and refused to take the fleshy ball of fur that First Minister Shakaar was holding.

“How bad is it?”

Shakaar’s face was grave. “They’ve already spread throughout the Tozhat Province. And I’m not sure we’ve contained them. If they get to Dahkur or Rakantha, well, the Cardassian Occupation was bad, but these…”

“Tribbles.”

“These tribbles could be worse.”

Kira swore softly under her breath and turned around. Something squeaked and she jumped back from the tribble she had just stepped on. She looked up at what had been a rich field of salom grass. It was now a lumpy field of tribbles and dirt. Fires around the houses sent black smoke into the sky as the farmers attempted to keep the tribbles back from their gardens. Kira tapped her combadge.

“Kira to DS9.”

Captain Benjamin Sisko recognized the look on his first officer’s face when she reached his office. “How bad is it?”

Kira took a deep breath. “Bad. Dax says that there are at least a hundred thousand tribbles in the Tozhat Province. If they reproduce unchecked we’re looking at over a million within twenty-four hours. Trillions within a week.”

“I remember,” Sisko said gravely. “I thought the station quarantine was effective.”

Kira gave a short barking laugh. “It wasn’t. Shakaar has instituted a quarantine of Tozhat. We’re trying to track down anyone who entered the province in the last two days. All shipments of salom grass are being screened for tribbles. Elimination is a problem. We could use some industrial disposal units.”

Sisko straightened. “You’re planning to disintegrate living tribbles?”

“They’re a disease. It’s either us or them. If we don’t get a handle on this, people will be starving before winter! The entire planetary biosphere could collapse!”

Sisko held up a hand. “It hasn’t gotten that bad yet.”

“Not yet, but we have to act. Now.”

“We will. I’ll see what I can do about getting some Federation disposal units but it won’t be easy. I think you should talk to Doctor Bashir. Maybe he can help develop something to inhibit the tribbles’ reproduction.”

Kira nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

As Kira descended from Sisko’s office, Worf and Dax approached her.

“Well?” Dax raised an eyebrow.

“He’s going to do what he can to get us disposal units.”

“Wide-beam phaser sweeps should be used to clean areas infected with these vermin,” Worf said.

Kira smiled. “You won’t get any argument from me. For now we’re supposed to focus on containment.”

Doctor Julian Bashir was in the infirmary when Kira arrived. He was holding a brown-and-white tribble and was absently stroking it while he looked at a console screen. He smiled as she approached.

“Major. Glad to see you.”

“What are you doing with that?”

Julian looked at the tribble. “Oh? Gladys?”

“Gladys? You named it?”

Julian blushed slightly. “Well, yes.”

Kira shook her head. “Do you have any ideas that can help us?”

Julian brightened. “As a matter of fact I do. The Federation has done studies on tribble reproduction. A trader created a variety that didn’t reproduce as rapidly but unfortunately they grew in size.”

“I want something to stop them from breeding, Doctor.”

Julian laughed nervously. “Well, that is the challenge. Tribbles are asexual. They form internal buds which develop into baby tribbles. And those buds start budding on their own before they are even born. Essentially, they’re born pregnant.”

“I don’t care. We have to find something to stop them.”

“The Klingons are reported to have developed a tribble predator, a glommer—”

Kira shook her head. “Predators aren’t the answer. We need to eliminate them!”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Julian gently placed Gladys into a container and activated his scanners.

Kira watched him for a second and then left. She stalked through the promenade without paying much attention to anyone around her. By the Prophets, hadn’t Bajor suffered enough already? The Occupation. Civil unrest. The Dominion breathing down their necks. The Klingons! They didn’t deserve this. Kira took a deep breath. It wasn’t the fault of the Prophets that someone had ignored the prohibition to take tribbles to Bajor. After the Defiant’s trip to the past the tribbles had been all over the station. O’Brien claimed he had had less trouble from Cardassian voles.

“Major?”

Kira refocused her attention on her surroundings. A vedek she couldn’t place stood in front of her. Even with the vedek robes he looked no more than a child. She couldn’t help but smile at his fresh-faced sincerity.

“Yes. You are?”

“Vedek Tola.”

“Tola. I know that name from somewhere.”

Vedek Tola inclined his head slightly. “My father was killed at Gallitep.”

The name snapped into place. The memories of what had happened at Gallitep came back. “That’s right. He saved a dozen or more Bajorans that day. He was a brave man.”

“Yes,” Vedek Tola said. “And now I’m here to ask you to be brave.”

Kira blinked. “You want me to be brave?”

Vedek Tola nodded. “The Prophets have shown me. The tribbles must be preserved. Their pagh is part of Bajor.”

“The tribbles’ pagh?”

“Yes.”

“They are simple, mindless, eating machines! They’re a plague! Do you realize that the damage they cause takes food away from our people?”

“I realize this,” Vedek Tola said. “But you must find a way to preserve them.”

She’d heard enough. She stabbed a finger in his direction. “I don’t know why you think the Prophets want the tribbles on Bajor. And I don’t care! When the Federation waste processors arrive I’ll be right there shoveling the tribbles in myself!”

Kira turned around and left Vedek Tola standing there. She ignored the stares and whispers. Sisko had better have an update on the waste processors.

“What do you mean we don’t get the units?” Kira didn’t care if her voice carried down into ops.

Sisko gestured with the hand currently holding his absurd baseball. “I’m sorry, Major. The Federation is sending experts to help with the situation but they can not condone pitching thousands of helpless creatures into a matter-energy disposal unit. Particularly since the tribbles were driven to extinction by the Klingons.”

“That’s absurd! You sound like Vedek Tola. If Bajorans were sick they wouldn’t refuse medical treatments in order to protect the helpless bacteria!”

“Vedek Tola?”

Kira shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Sisko straightened in his chair and grinned. “Now I’m curious.”

“He’s young, inexperienced.”

“And?”

Kira made a noise and paced in front of the desk. She forced a laugh. “He actually said that he believes the Prophets want the tribbles on Bajor. That their pagh is tied to ours somehow.”

“The tribbles’ pagh?” A smile twitched at the corners of Sisko’s mouth.

“Captain! We need to find a way to deal with these things.”

“I agree. I’ve ordered Dax and Worf to take the Shenandoah and the Rio Grande to Bajor. They’ll do transporter sweeps of the Tozhat Province. The tribbles will be transferred to a cargo ship in orbit.”

Kira nodded. “It won’t be enough. They can’t transport many on their own. If they can even lock onto their life signs—”

“Why don’t you give them a hand? Maybe you can free up some Bajoran shuttles. You’ll need to coordinate with any available cargo ships.”

Kira nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Six hours later she felt like her eyes were full of sand. Her latest raktajino was nearly empty. They had a half-dozen shuttles, the two Starfleet runabouts, and four cargo carriers working together but had only managed to clear a quarter of the Tozhat Province of tribbles. The only thing that kept the cleared areas from being re-infected was the fact that the tribbles hadn’t left anything behind to eat. Nearly a third of the tribbles beamed off the surface had already died of starvation. If they continued to breed unchecked they’d strip the planet bare and leave Bajor buried in dead tribbles. She thought of Vedek Tola and shook her head. How he could think—

The comm system chimed.

“Kira here.”

“Doctor Bashir. I think I may have a way to help with our tribble trouble.”

Kira’s heart nearly stopped. “That’s great news, Doctor! You can control their reproduction?”

“Ah, not exactly, Major. Perhaps you’d better come see for yourself.”

“Fine. I’ll be right there.” Kira drained the last of her raktajino and left ops.

“Major! Major!”

Kira stopped walking and pressed a hand to her forehead. She turned around, lowering her hand as Odo ran up.

“Yes, Constable?”

Odo looked smug. “I’ve been investigating just how the tribbles managed to get out of the station quarantine and down to Bajor.”

“I thought we decided that one must have gotten past the cargo inspections.”

“Ah.” Odo raised a finger. “But if that was the case why wasn’t the outbreak in the grain-processing center at Lasumo rather than the Tozhat Province?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that someone smuggled tribbles off the station. And who do we know that would look to profit off the tribbles?”

“Quark.” Kira’s lips tightened. “If you can get me proof I’ll see that he’s hung by his lobes!”

Odo crossed his arms. “Leave it to me, Major.”

Kira seethed the rest of the way to the infirmary. If Quark was behind breaking the quarantine he’d find himself spending a long time in a nice Bajoran prison cell. When she reached the infirmary her mood hadn’t improved. Julian looked up as she stormed in. He was cradling a tribble in the crook of his arm. Worf stood on the other side of the room glaring at the furry ball.

“Ah, Major. There you are.”

Kira leaned on the nearby biobed. She rubbed at the ache in her back. “What have you got for me?”

Julian bounced up onto his feet and walked over to the counter. Kira saw a pile of grain on the counter. “You’re not going to feed that thing, are you?”

“No. Gladys has already eaten.” Julian put the tribble down on the counter. “Not that that would stop her. Tribbles always have an appetite for more food. Watch now.”

As Kira watched, the fuzzy brown-and-white ball contracted and began moving toward the pile of grain. The movement was very smooth. She knew that the tribble was extending fleshy nubs through its fur, which used suction to grip surfaces. It accounted for their amazing ability to climb walls and get into anything. When a tribble was picked up, the nubs retracted back beneath the protective fur.

Gladys had nearly reached the grain when it stopped. Kira looked at Julian, then over at Worf. The tall Klingon looked disgusted by the proceedings.

“Well, Doctor?”

“Just a moment.”

Gladys moved forward a couple inches then lurched violently away from the grain and started to make a shrill trilling noise. It sounded like it was in distress. Julian wasted no time in picking Gladys up. He carried the tribble away from the counter, stroking it gently. The tribble settled down to its usual purr.

Kira looked over at the grain. “Okay, I give. What stopped the tribble?”

“Pheromones,” Julian announced proudly. He gestured at Worf. “Klingon pheromones, specifically Worf’s.”

Worf growled. “With your permission, I will return to ops.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Julian said. “Thank you so much.”

“Explain, Doctor.”

“Well, I got to thinking. Back on K-7, Kirk used the tribble to identify the Klingon agent. How does a tribble know a Klingon from a human? Or a shapeshifter? How does a tribble know where food is located? I started to do a study to see just how—”

Kira shook her head and held up a hand. “Spare me the details. There are over a million tribbles on Bajor despite our efforts to contain them. We’ve already contained three blooms outside the Tozhat Province. How is all of this going to help us?”

“Oh, right. Well, I thought we could spray the fields.”

“Spray the fields with Klingon pheromones?”

“Not the whole fields. Just a barrier around the fields. Or around the tribbles, for that matter. The tribbles won’t cross the line. Just think of it as an invisible fence.”

“How long will it last?”

“Weeks I would imagine. Klingon pheromones are fairly potent.”

Kira sat down on the biobed. “That could be helpful in containing the spread.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” Kira said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Here.” Julian handed her Gladys. “I’ll just do a quick check to make sure everything is fine with both you and the baby.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Lie down,” Julian said. “Resting for a few minutes won’t change things.”

Kira placed Gladys on top of her swollen abdomen. The purring was actually soothing. She stroked the soft fur. If these things weren’t such an ecological menace, they wouldn’t be so bad, she thought.

Julian ran the tricorder over her. “Everything looks good. Elevated levels of lactic acid. That’s to be expected. Let me just give you a hypospray and you’ll feel a bit better.”

While he prepared the hypospray, Kira continued to stroke the tribble. The purring was nice. Tribbles were nice like this when they weren’t busy making more tribbles and stripping farmlands. What had she told Vedek Tola? That she would be the first to shovel them into the disposal units?

Julian pressed a hypospray to her neck. There was a soft hiss and the ache in her muscles started to fade. Kira sat up and shoved the tribble at him.

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll arrange to have your Klingon pheromones replicated and distributed on the surface.”

The shrill cries were deafening. Kira winced until Kai Winn closed the window. The tribbles had been contained by using the pheromones but they continued to approach the barrier. Thousands upon thousands of tribbles sat at the invisible line crying out their fear. Worf would be proud, Kira thought.

“You see, my child,” Winn said. “This cannot go on. The parasites must be destroyed.”

“They are contained.”

“For now. What are we to tell the farmers whose fields have been decimated by these creatures? Surely it is the will of the Prophets that this filth be cleansed from Bajor.”

“Vedek Tola would disagree with you,” Kira said with a slight smile.

“Tola? Tola is a child.” Kai Winn waved a dismissive hand. “I am the one chosen to speak the will of the Prophets. This blight must be removed. You must impress upon Captain Sisko that Bajor needs those disposal units. It is the only humane way to remove the creatures. Without their help we may be forced to burn those fields.”

It was one thing to picture tribbles being quickly and painlessly disintegrated but another altogether to imagine burning them. The thought of the smell of millions of burning tribbles—

Kira stood up with some difficulty. “Your Eminence, I will do what I can.”

“I pray to the Prophets that your efforts are swift and successful, my child. The blessing of the Prophets on you.”

After visiting Kai Winn, Kira went to Minister Shakaar’s office. Shakaar wrapped his arms around her and held her for a moment. Kira sank into his arms but found herself wishing that he could purr like Gladys. Troubled, she drew back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

“I just came from the kai.”

Shakaar laughed. “Enough said.”

“She wants the tribbles destroyed. She talked about burning them if she can’t get the disposal units from the Federation.”

Shakaar grimaced. “Can you imagine the stink of all that burning fur?”

“Right. On top of that, I’ve got Vedek Tola telling me that the tribbles must be preserved. And Odo is investigating Quark about the station quarantine being broken.”

Her combadge beeped. Kira tapped it and turned a bit away from Shakaar. “Kira.”

“Major,” Captain Sisko’s calm voice came over the channel. “Are you busy?”

Kira rolled her eyes. “I’m in a meeting with Minister Shakaar.”

“Good. I’m sure the minister would like to know that we’ve detected three Klingon battle cruisers heading this way.”

Kira exchanged a sharp look with Shakaar. “Any idea what they want?”

“Not yet, Major, but Worf seems to think it has something to do with the tribbles.”

“The tribbles?” Shakaar asked with surprise. “What would the Klingons want with the tribbles?”

“Tribbles are considered enemies of the Empire,” Kira said. “Captain, I’ll leave immediately.”

“Good. I’d like you here if things turn ugly.”

“Any word yet?” Kira asked as she walked into ops.

“Nothing,” Sisko said.

“Odo was looking for you,” Dax offered.

“Good. I’ll talk to him later.”

“How is the surface holding up?” Sisko asked.

“So far the tribbles have been contained by Wo—” Kira glanced at Worf and saw his countenance darken. “Bashir’s invisible fence. They are making a lot of noise but otherwise no new damage.”

“Worf?” Captain Sisko looked over at the Klingon. “What can we expect if Gowron has sent those ships because of the tribbles?”

Worf thought about it for a moment. “They will attack the surface. Sterilize all areas that might harbor an infection. They will be thorough.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Kira spat.

Worf’s eyes widened.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sisko cautioned. “Worf, prepare the Defiant for departure. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

“If they were planning to fight us, you’d think they would have brought more ships,” Dax said. “Instead they just have three ships and they aren’t cloaked.”

Worf nodded. “That is reasonable. Perhaps they mean merely to ensure that the tribbles are, in fact, destroyed.”

“Perhaps,” Sisko said. “I’d still feel better with you on the Defiant. How long until they’re within hailing distance?”

“Two minutes,” Dax said.

Worf nodded to the captain and left ops. Kira watched the screen while they waited. She still remembered the Klingons boarding the station. Sisko had carried the day then. She hoped that the Emissary would be able to do the same thing today.

“The ships are within range,” Dax said calmly.

“On screen,” Sisko ordered. “Open hailing frequencies.”

“They’re responding.”

The battleships on the screen were replaced by a view of the lead ship’s bridge. A broad-faced Klingon tending toward fat sneered at them.

“Captain Nolath. We come to sterilize the planet of this infection.” Nolath said the last word with disgust. His eyes narrowed. “Consider it a gift to the Bajoran people. Compliments of Gowron and the High Council.”

Kira leaned on the ops console. She forced a smile. “As much as the Bajoran people appreciate the generous offer we have the situation under control.”

“Then you have eradicated the infestation?”

“Not yet,” Kira said tightly. “But it is contained.”

“That is unacceptable! If you are unable to eliminate these vermin, we will.”

“Bajor will not tolerate any interference in this matter.”

Nolath’s leathers creaked as he leaned forward. “If we decide to take matters into our hands, we will do so. You would be foolish to try and stop us.”

Captain Sisko raised a hand. “I think we can all be reasonable about this. The tribbles are being dealt with, Captain. I’m sure Gowron didn’t send you here to open a conflict with the Federation. If he had, he wouldn’t have only sent three ships.”

Captain Nolath snarled and waved a dismissive hand.

Sisko smiled brightly. “Good. Then I think we understand each other.”

“We will remain to make sure the infestation is removed,” Nolath snarled.

“As you wish,” Kira said tightly. She motioned with her hand and Dax terminated the signal.

Kira blew out her breath. “These Klingons sure take tribbles seriously.”

“You have no idea,” Dax said, grinning. “Just the mention of a tribble makes Worf surly.”

Sisko raised an eyebrow.

Dax shrugged. “Well, more surly than usual.”

Kira entered Odo’s security office. “What do you have?”

Odo spun his chair around to face her. He wasn’t smiling. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing.”

“I’ve been checking with my contacts on Bajor and here on the station. If anyone knows anything about the tribbles no one is talking.”

“They have to know the penalty for smuggling. They’re keeping quiet.”

Odo inclined his head. “Maybe. My other avenues of investigation have failed to turn anything up either. I keep running into the same problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Where is the profit in tribbles?”

“Excuse me?”

“Quark is always seeking the profit. But where is the profit in trading an animal that can reproduce dozens more within such a short time period? We saw the same thing happen with Cyrano Jones on K-7.”

Kira sank into one of the chairs and leaned back. She placed a hand on her belly and found herself wishing that she had Gladys.

“Are you all right, Major?”

“Yes. I never thought I’d be having a baby.”

Odo nodded.

“So Quark’s off the hook?”

“For now,” Odo growled. “Perhaps a tribble did just manage to get missed by our inspections.”

Kira levered herself up. “Fine. I’ll be in the infirmary if I’m needed.”

The infirmary wasn’t busy when she got there. Julian looked up brightly when she entered. “Major. How are you?”

Kira’s face tightened. “I’ve been better, Doctor.”

“I’ve been working on an appetite suppressant for the tribbles. It would be transmitted by an engineered retrovirus. If it works, I believe it will lower the tribbles’ reproductive drive.”

Kira nodded. She sank down onto the nearest biobed as Julian hurried over with a tricorder. Kira waved a hand at him. Julian stopped with a puzzled expression on his face.

“I don’t know how I’m going to help you if you don’t let me see what’s wrong.”

Kira looked around the infirmary and spied what she wanted sitting on top of a nearby console. “Just bring me Gladys.”

“Gladys?”

“Yes, Doctor. Her purring is soothing.”

“Fascinating.” Julian put down the tricorder and fetched Gladys from the console. He handed the tribble to Kira.

The tribble was warm and soft in her hands with a pleasant weight to it. Kira smiled and settled Gladys on her belly. Gladys seemed quite content to stay put. Her purring deepened and became more penetrating. Julian had picked up his tricorder again and was scanning them. Kira ignored him as she felt sore muscles loosen under the tribble’s soothing influence.

“Amazing.” Julian leaned on the biobed. “The tribble’s purring seems to have restorative properties. Both your readings and those of the baby are improving. Do you mind if I study this? It could have interesting implications.”

Kira closed her eyes and shook her head. “Just do it quietly.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

Later, in ops, Kira gave the captain a brief smile. “Hail Nolath’s ship.”

“Hailing,” Dax responded. “On screen.”

Captain Nolath appeared on screen. “Yes, Major?”

“On behalf of the Bajoran people I extend our thanks in this situation and hope that it leads to further cooperation between the Empire and Bajor. The situation has been resolved and you are free to return to the Empire.”

“Resolved?” Nolath’s bulk leaned forward. “What do you mean resolved? Have the tribbles been eliminated?”

“They are contained.”

“That is unacceptable. If any remain they may leave Bajor and infect other worlds.”

Kira shook her head. “Our doctor has discovered that the tribbles have a unique medical application. He also believes he can control their reproduction.”

Nolath growled and pointed a finger at Kira. “We will not rest until every last tribble has been eliminated!”

“Then come and try!” Kira picked up Gladys from her seat and placed the tribble on the console. “If you want a war we’ll give you one.”

Sisko smiled brightly and shook a finger in Nolath’s direction. “Captain, I should also mention that the Federation is sending a team of experts to study the tribbles in a contained environment. They consider the preservation of this endangered species as very important.”

Nolath scowled. “The High Council will hear of this and when they do—”

“They’ll come to the same conclusion they did last time,” Kira said. “They can’t afford to fight a war on every front.”

The screen cut out. Kira sank down and picked up Gladys. Dax laughed softly.

“I don’t think they’ll be back.”

Sisko cracked a smile. “Not if they want to avoid tribble.”

Star Trek

Voyager®

(Second Prize)

Choices

Susan S. McCrackin

He was a child who kept coming to her in her dreams, his body round and soft, brown wispy hair falling down into bright green round eyes. He danced around her, his clothes flashing red and purple, the garish colors melding together in nauseating waves. Explosions of clicks came from him with every move, with every lift of his hand, with every shake of his head. She tried to close her eyes, to allow herself to drift away from him, but he yelled at her, screamed for her to open her eyes.

She felt him touch her face and tried to turn from him, but could not. She looked down at herself and saw her old body, dull gray metal holding her extremities straight, unfamiliarly immovable. Opening her mouth, she sucked in air and choked. He was there immediately, screaming, waving colors, clicking, everything all at once, and she sank away from him, somehow finding her voice even as she gagged, begging him to vacate her dreams, to leave her.

“Leave you?” He laughed at her, his mouth pressed tightly against her ear as he whispered softly. “But you don’t understand. If I leave you, you’ll die.”

There were sounds around her; the sounds of items being moved, something being slid—metal on metal; squeaking shoes—rubber soles on tile floors. Smells. Strange smells. Antiseptic. Cleansers and alcohol.

Her mind processed it all slowly, fighting to gain full awareness, working through the thick fog that seemed to wrap itself around her thoughts, tucking itself in tightly under the corners, working as hard to keep out clarity as she fought to gain it.

She was on her back, her mind strangely disassociated from the rest of her body. A shadow passed over her face followed by smells like cinnamon and vanilla. She managed to open her eyes only to find her field of vision filled with a blur of white close to her face.

Instinctively, her mind sent out signals to push herself away from the too close body. It should have been a natural thing for her body to react, for hands to come up to press against the torso blocking her; for feet and legs to propel her up and away.

But nothing happened.

She tried to twist her head, but was stopped by a strange pressure on her skull. Blinking to clear her vision, her eyes searched for her restraints, seeing thin strands of metal circling her head, supported by rods that disappeared below her chin. Her heartbeat quickened, the fight or flight instinct triggering and her body stubbornly refusing to respond.

The figure leaning over her pulled back and stared at her for a moment before turning and yelling, the words running together, indistinct and indecipherable.

She felt her face flush, her heart pounding in her ears. She opened her mouth and gagged, her breath dying in her throat. Panicked, she fought for air, her mind now screaming at her body to move, to run, to break free of the restraints that were holding her.

The world around her dimmed as people leaned over her, round green eyes intense as they surrounded her. The last voice she heard as she passed into oblivion was that of the boy’s, screaming that he would not let her leave.

A pinprick of light flashed in her eye, slamming into her retina. She blinked quickly, trying to recoil against the intrusion, but her head was held steady.

“Eduow eil heisot shedult irodemtriec.” The light slid off to the right and a figure pulled back and into her line of vision. “Weirld is owcsk qruistle eil pslor cifcord—”

She frowned, working to focus on the words, struggling to understand the strange accent. Squinting, she stared at the wide mouth, watching the lips move, forming around syllables that slowly took on meaning.

“—evorist blust relax and try to stay calm. Doctor Gretkora is on his way. He’ll explain everything as soon as he gets here.”

She blinked again, watching as her caretaker moved closer and reached to rest an elongated hand gently against her face. “Don’t worry. We’re taking good care of you.”

The wide mouth spread, drawing across broad white teeth forming into something that she decided was a smile. She opened her mouth, but one of the slender fingers moved across her lips.

“No, not yet. Doctor Gretkora is almost here.”

A loud scuttling noise drew her eyes toward the door as someone came rushing through, arms swinging awkwardly with legs moving stiltedly, giving the appearance of someone struggling to run while trying to keep himself from falling. Brown hair flew in all directions, framing a youthful humanoid face that topped a round, short body held up by mechanical legs that clicked loudly as they propelled him forward. Lights flickered and flashed in alternating colors of red and purple pulsating on a panel fastened across his chest.

He grabbed for the side of the bed, steadying himself as he leaned over her, round eyes intently studying her face. “Hello. I’m Doctor Gretkora.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“It’s okay.” He moved his hand to her neck. “We had to assist with your breathing so we installed an autobreather. You’ll find talking difficult, but not impossible.”

For the first time, she became aware of a rhythmic swooshing that matched each breath she took.

“Relax and try to speak as you exhale.” He paused, then asked, “Do you remember your name?”

She concentrated on timing her breath so she could respond, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Seven of Nine.”

“Very good.” Obviously pleased, he spoke to the caretaker. “Please make note of that.” Addressing Seven, he said, “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Nine.”

She opened her mouth again and he fell quiet, waiting for her to speak. “I…prefer…Seven.”

“Then we shall call you ‘Seven.’” He glanced towards the machinery to her left, his eyes moving quickly back to her, a smile spreading widely across his face. “Your vital signs are getting stronger.” She frowned and his smile immediately faded. “Ah, yes, well, I know you’re wondering what happened to you.”

He reached down and lifted a hand into view. She barely gave it any notice until she realized with a start that it was encased in metal.

It is my hand.

It is my hand, and I do not feel it.

He started talking, his mouth making noises that flowed into her unlistening mind. Instead, her mind spoke to her hand, demanding that it move. Her hand stayed in the doctor’s hand, her fingers flaccid.

Her mind slowly worked its way down her body, struggling with the realization that there was only emptiness from her shoulders down. She glanced up at a metal lamp, seeing herself reflected in its shiny surface, making out the shape of her feet beneath the covers, seeing that her feet were flopped clumsily to the side and awkwardly extended, no longer held upright by toned muscles. Still affixed to her body but severed from her mind.

Disbelieving, she looked at the doctor, forcing herself to concentrate on his words, repeating the last word she heard, trying to comprehend it.

“Paralyzed.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “Yes, Seven, you’re completely paralyzed. But I want you to know that you have choices. We can’t fix you—you’ll never be like you were, but we can do a lot to give you back your life.” He gave her a hopeful smile. “You have many choices, Seven. And I’m here to make sure that you take advantage of them.”

Seven watched while the doctor checked her, her mind working to pull her fractured memory together, trying to remember where she was and how long she had been gone from Voyager.

Small bits and pieces came to her, disjointed events tumbling into place, forming an incomplete picture. A colorful celestial event. Music. A smile. A quick laugh.

The Doctor.

They had been on an away mission; no, not a mission. She concentrated, pulling ferociously at her fleeting memories, the pieces organizing themselves as Doctor Gretkora’s movements sounded constant clicks around her.

It was not an away mission; it was leave.

It’ll be fun, Seven. And you’ll have a chance to witness the birth of a double star.

She remembered space alive with color, petabytes of data streaming before her as she recorded the birth event. In her mind, she watched her fingers dancing over her control panel, nimble, quick, and controlled.

She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of emotion that almost overpowered her, threatening to scatter the precious memories she had worked so hard to gain. She worked to calm herself and focused, again trying to remember.

The Doctor had been singing; he had laughed, encouraging her to join him. Suddenly, the world was upside down and the shuttle was shaking violently. There had only been one chance; a small planet.

They must have made it.

They!

She opened her eyes. “Doctor Gretkora.”

He answered immediately. “What, Seven?”

Before she could speak, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Giving an exasperated grunt, Doctor Gretkora moved clumsily to stand between her bed and the door, pulling himself upright as a uniformed man strode through the door, followed by three similarly uniformed men.

“General Antana, may I help you?” Doctor Gretkora’s tone was formal and authoritative.

“I understand she is conscious.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I will talk with her.”

Doctor Gretkora took an unsteady step toward the general. “She is still on the autobreather, General Antana.”

“It is possible to speak while on an autobreather, is it not, Doctor Gretkora?”

“Barely. But I do not recommend it. She’s in a fragile state, and I do not want her upset or stressed in any way.” He paused, and Seven watched as he pulled his shoulders back, making himself slightly taller. “You told me you wanted me to do anything I had to do to save her, and I plan to do just that.”

The two men faced off, the silence deepening between them. Finally, the general cleared his throat.

“Yes, very well. I wouldn’t want to do anything to put…your patient at risk.” There was another clearing of his throat. “Would you mind if I…visited her?”

There was a long silence before Doctor Gretkora turned slightly to allow the general to pass. “Only for a few minutes, General. Please.”

“Of course.”

Seven watched the general approach her bed and tried to ignore the commands of her mind that her body rise from the bed to face the man.

Like Doctor Gretkora and her nurse, the man had the same round green eyes and brown hair. Unlike Doctor Gretkora, General Antana was tall and thin, with elongated facial features of sharp angles around his eyes and his jaw. His lips were thin and drawn tightly to dip down at the corners. Small reddish spots were scattered across his cheeks, covering tanned skin darker than the doctor’s.

A rumbling in his throat preceded his words. “Welcome.”

Seven waited for her lungs to fill and spoke softly as she breathed out. “Thank you.”

Seven watched as the general’s eyes slowly moved down her body, examining her closely. She noticed how his eyes lingered on her hand and face, and she knew he was carefully studying her Borg implants.

“We’re…happy you survived the crash. We have prayed to Kwolona that your life would be spared.”

She felt Doctor Gretkora move to stand closer to her head. She glanced at him, noting that he was focused determinedly on the general, his body language decidedly protective.

His presence seemed to rattle the general. “Yes. Um. Well, I do not want to tire you out.” The general gave her a pointed look. “But I will look forward to talking with you more. We are very interested in finding out more about you…your people.” He looked at her hand again. “And your technology.”

Seven did not respond, a weariness causing her eyes to close.

General Antana backed away. “Doctor, may I speak with you, please?” He addressed her. “May Kwolona bring you good health.”

Without waiting for a response, General Antana turned and left the room. The men with him waited until Doctor Gretkora followed before leaving. Seven forced herself to concentrate on their whispered conversation, grateful for her enhanced hearing, but she soon realized that the capability was unnecessary. The voices quickly escalated into a near shouting match.

“We have to interrogate her! She’s a member of an alien race with highly advanced technology! How do we know she wasn’t scouting for an invasion? We have to talk with her and find out about her and about that ship she came in.”

“If you try to move her it’s likely you’ll kill her! Her spinal column was shattered! I was barely able to piece it back together. And she’s on an autobreather for a reason—she can’t breathe on her own. I can’t take her off of it without killing her,” the doctor argued.

“Then I will interrogate her here. I’ll be back tomorrow. Make certain she is ready.”

Quick footsteps sounded and receded. It was a full minute before Doctor Gretkora entered the room. Approaching her bed, he gave her a crooked grin.

“That went well, didn’t it?”

Breathe!

Her eyes frantically searched the darkness while her mind screamed at her body to breathe. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she felt her face go hot and cold at the same time.

She mouthed words, trying to scream for help, but there was nothing in her to push words out. Panicked, she fought to live, but it was a silent, motionless fight waged only in her mind.

She was losing consciousness. Anger and frustration filled her, followed by absolute fear.

She did not want to die.

“I’m coming, Seven!” The voice came from a distance. “Hold on!”

The sounds of clicks echoed wildly off the walls as Doctor Gretkora ran into the room, the yellow light of a lantern mixing with the red and purple lights flashing from his chest panel.

“Don’t panic! I’ll have you hooked up in a second.”

She heard him through a tunnel, his words muffled. She tried to hold on, to wait for the swishing sounds to return, for air to fill her lungs, but the seconds stretched too long. She slipped down the tunnel, leaving the clicks behind.

“Welcome back.”

She blinked slowly into the dimness, taking a moment to focus on Doctor Gretkora’s face.

“You’re going to be okay. We had a power failure. I switched your autobreather over to a backup power source.” He grimaced. “Which it should have been on already, but this facility was kind of thrown together and, uh, well, everything isn’t as good as I’d like it to be for you.” He glanced away and was quiet a few moments before turning back to her. Light reflected off his teeth and she was able to make out a sad, sympathetic smile as he leaned closer to her, his head intimately close to hers.

“I know that was frightening.” Without waiting for her to respond, he continued. “You’ll never get used to it, Seven. And that fear of being alone and dying before anyone can get to you will never leave you.” His voice shook slightly. “But you have to push that monster into the back of your mind. If you don’t, it will control you.” He pulled back to face her and his smile morphed into that slightly crooked grin. “Like I told you, it’s all about the choices you make.”

She studied him carefully, for the first time seeing light reflect off of small wires appearing above his shirt collar and disappearing around the back of his neck. Her eyes slid down to the panel on his chest slightly hidden by his coat. The realization dawned on her.

“You are paralyzed.”

The broad grin flew into his face. “Only my body.” He tapped the side of his head and the light flickered off his metal-framed finger. “Not up here.” He pulled up the sleeve of his coat, exposing thin metal rods wrapping his arm. “This is my own design. When we get you stabilized, I’ll build one for you. It’ll give you a lot of your life back.”

He held up his hands, palms forward, and she could see his fingers laced by strings of metal and surrounded by knobby structures.

“You’ll also be able to regain some sensory feeling with these.” He shrugged. “It won’t be what you had, but it’ll be better than nothing.” He lifted her hand and fingered the metal on it. “And, I don’t imagine it would ever be as good as your own people would be able to do for you.”

He fell silent, and she knew he was waiting on her to respond. She ran quickly through what little knowledge she had managed to remember about this planet—a pre-warp civilization equivalent to that of Earth’s early twenty-first century. With a sinking feeling, she realized he was right.

“I am certain you will provide me with excellent care.”

“I’ll do my best.” He gently placed her hand on her stomach as he perched on the side of her bed. He leaned toward her. “You know, you’re our first alien visitor.” She could see his eyes twinkling with excitement, even in the low light given off by his lantern. “There’s so much I want to ask you. So much I want to know.” His eyes slipped to the Borg implant over her eye. “Your technology is…miraculous! Does that enhance your vision? And the implant on your stomach, what does that do? Can you breathe in space?”

Seven blinked quickly and averted her eyes, struggling with her response, the intense innocence in his face in juxtaposition to the explanation of her implants.

Instinctively her mind told her body to take a deep breath to give herself time to order her mind, to allow her to form a measured response, but her breath came with the timed swoosh of air from the autobreather, unsettling her as much as his question did. The complete helplessness of her situation overwhelmed her. She blinked again and felt the spreading wetness on her face.

“Oh, Seven.” Doctor Gretkora reached to wipe a trickling tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He grabbed a tissue and wiped gently at her face, trying to dry her cheeks even as the tears flowed freely. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so, so very sorry.”

“No.” She sniffed. “No, do not be sorry—I—” Her words choked off as she had to sniff again.

“Here,” he grabbed another tissue and held it against her nose, “blow your nose.”

She stared at him in horror, everything in her demanding that her hand raise to take the tissue from him.

“I understand, Seven.” His voice was soothing. “Go ahead.” As he spoke, he adjusted the tissue tighter to her nose. Self-consciously, she waited for the autobreather to fill her lungs and blew. Tears immediately followed.

It took three more tissues before she was able to compose herself.

As he threw the last tissue into the trash, Doctor Gretkora said, “I’m impressed. Most of my patients use more tissues than that for the first good cry. I went through at least six myself.”

For the first time, Seven felt the corners of her mouth turn up and something inside her lighten. “I cannot imagine you crying.”

The grin slid back into place on his face. “I cried a lot. And then I decided that it was time to quit crying and put that energy into something positive. I didn’t have a body that would do me any good anymore, but I still had a mind that worked. I concentrated on what I could do and I made something happen. When you heal a little, we’ll make something happen for you.”

She sniffed lightly. “You remind me of the Doctor.”

“The Doctor?”

“He is the Emerg…” She caught herself. “He is the doctor on Voyager.”

His eyes roamed over her face, pausing at each implant. “He must be an excellent doctor.”

She ignored the question hidden in his words. “He is highly competent.”

He frowned and the dimness of the room darkened the creases of his wrinkles. “Is your doctor capable…of…uhm, can he do anything…uh…”

“Can he repair me?”

He nodded. “Yes. Can he repair you?”

“Yes.”

Doctor Gretkora was silent for a long moment. Then, he said, “Miraculous. How…I mean, do you know what techniques he uses?”

She stared into the darkness of the room, wondering if the Doctor’s mobile emitter survived the crash. If it had, he could repair her. If it had, he could contact Voyager.

Almost absentmindedly, she responded, “He will implant neural precursor cells to affect a repair to the damaged area.” A low strangled sound brought her attention back to Doctor Gretkora.

“Your people use precursor cells?”

She heard a tremor of excitement in his voice. “Yes.”

He slid off the bed and walked away, disappearing into the darkness outside the glow of the lantern. She listened to his movements, clicks tracing back and forth from corner to corner as he paced.

The clicks stopped and he spoke. “Neural precursor cells.” He walked out of the darkness to stand next to her, his eyes widely round. “And they work?”

She started to nod, but her head did not move, still held steady by the metal frame screwed into her skull. He had called it a “halo.” She thought it an ironic name for something so torturous.

“They are highly effective.”

He whispered, his voice tight and squeaky. “I knew they would work.”

“You are experimenting with them?”

“No.” He shook his head, grimacing. “Our laws do not allow me to do such experimenting.” Doctor Gretkora grunted and sat back down on her bed. Staring into the darkness, he said, “Such treatment is seen as an abomination.”

Seven frowned. “Explain.”

“Our religion teaches that the body is pure and cannot be defiled. Pursuing such a radical type of treatment would be considered a desecration.”

“But your exoskeleton—”

“My exoskeleton has caused me to be exiled from our religious houses.” He shook his head. “It’s bad enough that I have improved my life through an artificial and mechanical means; if I were to do so by such a radical treatment…I am afraid I would be jailed.” His face turned sad. “Or worse.”

“But you do not stop your work.”

He turned to her. “No, I do not.”

“Why not?”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Because I can’t, Seven. Because there is something inside me that won’t let me stop. This body sleeps all the time, but my mind never does. Even when my eyes close, my mind is working. I dream about walking one day—walking without this exoskeleton, walking because I’ve figured out how to rebuild the electrical connections between my brain and my body, and walking because my body is whole again.”

When she stayed quiet, he continued. “They tell me to put my faith in Kwolona, to look to Him for healing, that I should put aside my crazy thoughts and dreams and accept my fate.

“But what if it is my fate to heal myself and to heal others like me? How can a being who loves His people stand between us and a solution to suffering? How can healing be wrong?”

By the way he continued to stare into the deep darkness of the room she knew he did not expect a response from her so she offered him none. Suddenly, the lights in the hallway flickered on, and he grunted as he slid from the bed.

“Looks like they’ve restored the power. I’d better hook your autobreather up to the primary power source.”

General Antana strode into the room, his suit slightly rumpled. Without ceremony, he approached her. Doctor Gretkora had repositioned her bed, raising her head slightly so she was better able to see. She tried to clear her mind and focus on the general, the sedative Doctor Gretkora had given her—over her objection—making it difficult to do so. But even the effect of the sedative could not mask the man’s distraction.

“Are you feeling better today?”

Seven frowned as she whispered her response. “Yes.”

“Good.” He pulled back his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles in his coat. “Was anyone traveling with you?”

His abrupt directness threw her. As quickly as he had asked, she answered. “The Doctor.”

His expression did not change. “Describe this doctor.”

Seven was aware that Doctor Gretkora had moved closer to her, and she looked in his direction to see both concern and excitement in his face. She blinked a couple of times, struggling past the sedative to think about what the general was really asking.

From the tone of the general’s voice and the way he was acting, she realized that the Doctor’s mobile emitter had been recovered and activated. Quickly, she decided that her best chance for the Doctor to be able to care for her was to be completely honest.

“The Doctor is the Emergency Medical Hologram on Voyager. He is a holographic computer program with a complete database of medical knowledge.” As the general’s expression took on a mixture of relief and intense worry, she added, “If you have activated his mobile emitter, no doubt you have found him quite insistent upon seeing me.” She allowed a small smile to cross her face, purposely trying to project an ironic tone into her tortured voice. “I suspect you have also discovered that he can be quite insufferable.”

In a loud huff, General Antana said, “That he is.”

“Your doctor?” Doctor Gretkora’s words squealed as he spoke. “A computer program? He’s a computer program? How is that possible?”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “Because their technology is far more advanced than ours, Doctor, and that’s why I’m so concerned.”

“You should not be.” Seven spoke as firmly as she could. “You have nothing to fear from my people. They will come for me, but they will be appreciative of the care you’ve given me.”

The general scowled at her. “And why should I believe you?”

“Because I have nothing to gain by lying, General.” Seven licked her lips and swallowed, aware that her throat was getting sore. “I have more to gain by being honest with you. The Doctor can assist me,” she glanced in Doctor Gretkora’s direction, her eyes apologizing for what she would say next, “even more than Doctor Gretkora can assist me.”

General Antana looked uncertainly at her, his hands worrying along the line of his coat, absentmindedly smoothing the wrinkles. Finally, he turned to one of the guards behind him and nodded. As the guard left the room, the general turned back in her direction.

“Tell me about the engines on the vessel we recovered.”

“They are standard Federation warp engines.”

General Antana frowned. “Warp?”

“Warp is faster-than-light speed.”

The general almost gawked at her. “On a ship that size?”

“Yes.”

The general muttered, more to himself than to her. “We’ve only managed a quarter light speed, but it’s taken a ship three times larger to house the engine.” He turned back to her. “How do you manage to protect the ship? What kind of heat shields do you use?”

Seven swallowed heavily, trying to soothe her increasingly raw throat. “Warp-field coils form a subspace bubble around the ship to protect it.”

For the first time, a glimmer of excitement came into the general’s eyes. “Our scientists theorized that was possible.” He stepped closer to the bed and rested his arm on the bed railing. “How are you able to stabilize the antimatter converter?”

Seven licked her lips, aware she had already adapted to timing her words to the rhythm of the autobreather. She opened her mouth but fell silent as she heard an indignant voice growing louder as its owner advanced down the hall. Her eyes slid toward the door as the Doctor entered, stopping so abruptly that the man behind him ran into him, bumping him into the room.

But the Doctor did not seem to notice. She watched his face run through a myriad of human emotions so quickly that she doubted the others noticed. As her vision blurred, she saw him quickly pull his medical tricorder from his belt as he crossed to her, covering the distance from the door to her bed in three quick strides, his professional manner solidly in place as he took control.

Pushing past an uncertain General Antana, he said, “Your ocular implant is obviously malfunctioning. Let’s see what else I have to repair.”

The room fell completely silent as he worked, and she blinked to clear the tears from her eyes, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of relief at his presence. After a few moments, he lowered his tricorder and leaned over her bed, his stern expression changing into a gentle smile.

“It is a serious injury, Seven, and it will take a while for you to recover from this, but you will recover.” He gave her a confident grin. “Lucky for you, you do have the finest doctor in the Delta Quadrant.” He stepped back, settling a steady stare on the man across the bed from him. “Actually, I should say you probably have the two finest doctors in the Delta Quadrant.” He cocked his head as he raised his chin. “You are her physician?”

Doctor Gretkora nodded, his round eyes growing wider as he watched the Doctor work. “Yes. I’m Doctor Gretkora.”

“Impressive work, Doctor Gretkora.” The Doctor’s eyes narrowed and he raised his tricorder to scan the doctor. His voice slightly amazed, he said, “Very impressive.” He moved to Gretkora, studying the results of the scan. “Microsurgical implantation of electrodes; neuronic-electro linkages; microelectronic gyro nodes.” He turned toward Seven. “You were in excellent hands, Seven. I shouldn’t have been so worried.”

He quickly faced the general. “I am certain that Captain Janeway will want to express her deep appreciation for the excellent care you have provided us as soon as she arrives.”

General Antana stiffened in surprise. “Arrives?”

The Doctor shrugged, an almost smug grin coming into his face. “Of course, General. I sent a distress signal to Voyager as soon as I was activated.”

“But, but, but…” The general stuttered. “Your every move was monitored! How did you send a distress signal?”

“I’m a computer program, General Antana.” The Doctor puffed up proudly. “I multitask extremely well.”

“A distress signal?” The general’s face reddened deeply and his voice started to rise in alarm. “Your ship will come looking for you based on a distress signal!”

The Doctor raised his tricorder and casually reactivated it. “Don’t be concerned, General. We’ll be able to communicate with Captain Janeway before she powers up weapons.” He moved back to Seven’s bedside and gave her a wink. “But we won’t let her know it isn’t an emergency until she’s close. We don’t want her to take her time getting here, do we?”

Seven felt the corners of her mouth turn up slightly at the same time she felt the tear slide down the side of her face.

“Harrumph.” The Doctor grunted, a mock-gruff tone in his voice. “Let’s see if we can get that ocular implant adjusted.”

Doctor Gretkora hovered inches from the Doctor’s elbow, watching every move the Doctor made and trying to anticipate his every need. The Doctor gave Seven a roll of his eyes, but she could see how much the Doctor was enjoying the man’s attention.

When the Doctor finally deactivated his tricorder, Doctor Gretkora stretched out a finger and traced its shape, his finger held inches above its surface.

“This device is amazing.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Yes, it is.” He lifted Seven’s hand and worked her fingers, gently manipulating them. “Still nothing?”

She mouthed a “no,” her throat now too sore to try to speak.

Doctor Gretkora frowned. “You expected her to have regained feeling? Without surgery…or whatever it is you plan to do.”

The Doctor’s eyebrow lifted sharply and he took a deep breath before answering. “Seven has…some unique healing capabilities. I adjusted her implants to stimulate…those capabilities in the hopes that some of her motor skills could be recovered,” he gave Seven a sympathetic look, “at least your ability to breathe on your own.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’m afraid the damage was too extensive. You’ll have to depend on the autobreather until Voyager arrives.”

“But you will be able to fix her? Completely?” Doctor Gretkora looked intently at the Doctor.

“Yes, Seven should have a complete recovery.”

Doctor Gretkora raised his hand to run metal-covered fingers through his hair, causing purple lights to flash on the panel on his chest. Over the soft clicking caused by the up-and-down motion of his arm, he said, “How will you do it? Fix her, uh, repair Seven, I mean.”

Flexing Seven’s fingers again, the Doctor said, “I will harvest undifferentiated neural cells—”

“Neural precursor cells!” Doctor Gretkora interjected.

“Exactly!” The Doctor smiled, obviously pleased. “I will harvest neural precursor cells which I will culture carefully before injecting them into the injured area of her spine. Those cells will mature to rebuild the connections that Seven has lost. Since that process is slow, I will also genetically bioengineer cells that I will surgically implant using microsurgical techniques. I will be able to physically reconnect some connections.” He smiled. “We should do that first so Seven can start breathing on her own. It will take a few surgeries, but we’ll have her up and around before you know it.”

“We? There are more like you on your ship?”

The Doctor’s eyes twinkled. “I assure you, there is no one else like me on Voyager!” Laughing, he placed Seven’s hand on the bed, carefully straightening her fingers. “I was thinking you would assist me.”

Doctor Gretkora’s mouth dropped. “Me? You want me to assist? On your ship?”

“If you’re willing.” The Doctor pulled the blanket up on Seven and reached to push a stray hair from her eyes. “I don’t imagine Captain Janeway is going to be able to pass up General Antana’s invitation to visit after all your people have done for Seven, so there isn’t any reason why we can’t take advantage of that time to initiate repairs on our friend here.”

Seven raised a questioning eyebrow, aware that, for the first time, there were no clicks coming from Doctor Gretkora. The Doctor simply winked at her.

The Doctor carefully placed the object into the center of the table. “Okay, Seven. Let’s see if you can pick that up.”

Seven set her mouth into a thin line and concentrated, her hand moving slowly across the surface of the table, inching toward the small block. A tiny bead of sweat formed on her forehead and trickled down the side of her face. Trembling fingers bumped against the block, pushing it farther away from her, but she managed to encircle the block and pull it into her hand. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her hand into the Doctor’s, allowing the block to drop into his palm. Exhausted, but exhilarated, she dropped her arm heavily onto the table and gave the Doctor a triumphant look.

“Excellent, Seven!” The Doctor tossed the block into the air, grinning when Doctor Gretkora caught it, clicks echoing loudly in the sickbay.

“A miracle!” Doctor Gretkora moved his hand in a circle, ending with his palm held upward, a motion Seven had learned was a sign of devotion. “A true miracle.”

The Doctor lifted Seven’s leg and tapped her knee, watching as her foot moved slightly in response. “You are making better progress than I anticipated, Seven.”

“It was to be expected.” Seven gave the two men in front of her a stern look. “I had two highly competent doctors. I would have accepted no less than perfection.”

The Doctor howled in laughter and moved the tray table away from Seven’s bed. “I think we also managed to reconnect Seven with her warm and grateful personality.”

Seven lowered her head as a small smile played at her mouth. “It was a joke.” She looked down at her hand and carefully moved her index finger. “But I do appreciate the effectiveness of your work.” She looked up at Doctor Gretkora. “The work of both of you.”

Doctor Gretkora moved around to the end of the bed, grinning broadly. “I still can’t believe it worked. And that I was able to be a part of it.” He made the circling motion again, this time with both hands. “This has been a true gift.”

The Doctor looked at her and she nodded her head. The Doctor reached for his tricorder and held it up as he started to scan Doctor Gretkora. “We might be able to arrange for another gift.”

Gretkora gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

The Doctor studied the screen on his tricorder. “Your own surgery. Based on your own research. It won’t be as complete as Seven’s, but you will regain a lot of your mobility, as well as the ability to breathe on your own.” At the man’s stunned look, the Doctor continued, “I’ve already asked Captain Janeway, and she said we could stay here long enough to get you on your feet. She said it was the least we could do after what you did for Seven.”

“You can have your life back, Doctor Gretkora.” Seven spoke softly, her blue eyes holding the man intently in a focused stare.

The man gawked at them, his expression blank.

The Doctor gave him a small, understanding smile. “Maybe you’d like to think about it a little bit. But when you make up your mind, I can start the surgery immediately.”

Seven maneuvered the wheelchair through the mess-hall doors and slowly rolled into the darkened room, stopping beside the man staring intently out of the large windows. She waited, the silence growing long. Finally, he started to speak.

“Our prophets tell the story of Mannuse. He was a leader of our people during the time of the great hunger, a time when the lands of our old home had gone dry. The old home was in a valley surrounded by a large and dangerous mountain range. Mannuse knew that the only way our people could survive was to leave the old home, to challenge the mountain.

“The people argued with Mannuse. They told him that he was trading one death for another. Mannuse knew that they spoke out of fear, but nothing he said could change their minds.

“So Mannuse prayed, begging for guidance, begging for the gift of words that would change the minds and the hearts of his people. Kwolona, our Great Being, took pity on Mannuse and offered to give him wings to fly over the great mountains so that at least he could be delivered into the new paradise. Mannuse asked Kwolona what would happen to his people, and Kwolona told him that those without the heart to save themselves would die. Mannuse asked Kwolona to give him the wings so he would fly the others out of the valley, but Kwolona told him that the gift He would give Mannuse could be used only for Mannuse, that His gift could not be used to help those who would not help themselves.

“Mannuse went back to his people and found one person willing to walk with him, and he led that one out of the valley and into paradise. Mannuse went back and found another one who would walk with him and he did it again and again and again. Each time he made the journey, Kwolona blessed his path, making it easier, leveling the path more and more. Finally, Mannuse walked all of his people out of the valley, the last of them walking with Mannuse on a path that was now cut flat through the heart of the mountain.

“Mannuse saved our people and led them into the lands that we still call home today.” Doctor Gretkora slowly turned to face Seven. “He would not accept the gift that would have cost him his people, even wings that would have allowed him to fly.”

Seven stared at him, cold filling her stomach as she realized what he was saying. “You are not going to have the surgery.”

He shook his head.

She paled even as her cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed in anger. Her voice taut, she said, “But your people have already abandoned you. Why would you give up the opportunity to have your body reconnected, to walk and feel again?”

“The religious houses have turned their backs on me, Seven, but not all of the people. There are people who listen to me. People like General Antana, who risked his career by having me care for you. There are people I can still reach, people I can still help.” He held out his hands to her, palms out, the small knobs that encircled his fingers glittering in the dim light. “If I go back healed, I risk being a pariah to even those people.

“Don’t you see, Seven, if I fly over the mountain, I leave it in the way of others. But if I wear it down, even with small steps, then one day, others will be able to walk the path with me.

“This gift of Kwolona, of seeing you healed, of knowing that these dreams in my mind are not just dreams but truly possible,” his voice caught with his growing emotion, “this hope, it’s better than wings!”

Seven blinked quickly, fighting to regain her composure. Her voice cracking, she tried one more argument. “But if you allow the Doctor to repair you, you will never have to fear dying alone.”

His lopsided grin slid quickly into place. “That’s the most beautiful thing, Seven. You see, all this time, when I thought Kwolona had abandoned me, He was actually there, talking to me. He gave me these ideas, these dreams.” He leaned down, placing his head close to hers, and whispered into her ear. “And I finally realized: I had nothing to fear because I was never really alone. And I never will be.”

Unconventional Cures

Russ Crossley

He runs his tricorder over the still body of Naomi Wildman. Every time he’s done this over the past two hours the blinking readouts on the device worry him. He doesn’t like what he sees. She should be awake—but isn’t.

The only sound in his sickbay is the beeps and whirrs of his medical tricorder. The still, sterile air seems to roar in his ears. Over the past two weeks, except for the odd pulled muscle or minor cold remedy, the crew hasn’t had much call for his services. Now this. This isn’t the kind of business he craves. And certainly not the sweet blond-haired, blue-eyed Naomi.

Since being activated in the Delta Quadrant, he has demonstrated his ability to overcome his programming on many occasions. The crew has come to trust his abilities. This time, though, he’s stymied.

If only he knew how far to go beyond that which his programming said was possible. Invention wasn’t his mother. He was the invention.

Janeway is wearing a path in the carpeted deck of his sickbay. Her eyes flit to the little girl lying very still on the diagnostic bed. He feels her cool gaze on him. “Well, Doctor. What do I tell Ensign Wildman about her daughter?”

Samantha Wildman is away from Voyager on a planetary survey mission with Tom and Harry in the Delta Flyer. They will be gone for another two days. Good thing, as far as he is concerned. All he needs right now is a hysterical mother to add to his problem. His bedside manners still need work.

The captain is intimidating enough, though. The echo of her shoes marching back and forth across his sickbay is making him edgy.

He sympathizes with Janeway. While Ensign Wildman is absent, Naomi is her responsibility. She’s worried and so is he, except he isn’t allowed to show it.

“I believe I can bring her out of the coma.” He hasn’t told the captain that he’s tried every conventional treatment he knows to this point, without success. He’s convinced she’s afraid to wake. Naomi’s protecting herself. Her body’s whole. He’s healed the wounds, but the mind is a tricky thing.

“I’ll be on the bridge if you need me. And, Doctor…”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I want to see that little girl up and around when I get back. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Janeway’s shoulder-length auburn hair bounces off the shoulders of her red uniform jumper as she disappears through the doors to the corridor. With a whoosh they close behind her, leaving him again in silence.

He’s been experimenting with an olfactory sensor in the sickbay; it detects the faint odor of coffee that always surrounds Kathryn Janeway.

He turns his attention back to the little girl lying atop the medical bed. He sits behind the desk in his office, where he studies all of the available research on soft-tissue damage in the human brain. Naomi isn’t entirely human but the physiology is essentially the same.

What do I do now?

His thoughts are interrupted as the doors to sickbay slide open to admit Commander Tuvok.

“Doctor. I am here at the request of the captain to apprise you of the results of my investigation into the accident that incapacitated Miss Wildman.”

“The captain ordered you, Commander?”

One eyebrow creeps up Tuvok’s ebony forehead. “Yes. It seems the captain thinks you may find the details of my investigation…helpful.” The Doctor feels the unease in Tuvok. Vulcans are very precise, and sharing incomplete results of anything with anyone is as repugnant to them as ballet is to elephants.

Tuvok holds up a data padd and begins to read his notes. He might as well have been a computer; he sounds bland enough. Vulcans would make wonderful insomnia cures.

The Doctor makes a mental note of that thought. It might come in handy somewhere down the road. History has shown that in the past unconventional cures often had surprising results.

“…and Miss Wildman bypassed the security protocols in the holodeck—”

Hold on. “What was that? How is that possible? You need a command code to be able to do that.”

Tuvok stops reading and looks up. “True. As yet I have been unable to determine how Miss Wildman accomplished this. However once I do, I will tighten the security procedures.”

“She fell, didn’t she?” the Doctor asks thoughtfully.

Tuvok glances at his notes. “Correct. From a tree. I believe it is called a pine.”

“Hmmm…was she alone?”

“No. Two other of the children were with her.” Tuvok’s expression remains unfazed, but behind those dark, stern eyes the Doctor detects signs of revelation.

“One of them is lying.”

He nods. “Yes—I believe so.”

Tuvok says nothing more as he exits the sickbay. One of those children is in serious trouble.

A thought hits him like a thunderbolt in a clear blue sky. Unconventional cures! That might be the answer. Excitement mingled with urgency grips him.

“Computer, show me the unconventional cures used for victims of comas over the past two hundred years.” He knows his medical database doesn’t contain such information so he needs to seek it out.

Salves, heated water bottles, pills made from every weird concoction known to man. Every quack in the galaxy claimed their method worked best. Unfortunately, none were well documented, and others were downright dangerous.

Tiber cats from Delai IV sitting on your chest and screaming at you for two days somehow didn’t seem practical. The big cats were all teeth and often ate the victims before they recovered.

There was one treatment, though, that looked promising, and was well documented. It had worked in several instances about a hundred years ago.

The Daystrom Institute had experimented using various species of animals to wake coma victims. Green turtles, dogs, cats, and rabbits; none seemed very effective until they tried something called a tribble.

Tribbles were small, furry mammals that trilled softly, ate voraciously, and apparently bred at an astonishing rate. Humans were attracted to the animals due to their pleasant nature.

The documentation did point out that the animals were pests, and included several case studies as evidence that they had overwhelmed several colony worlds.

There was even a case where a space station was flooded with the creatures and an entire supply of grain destroyed by them.

He reads the next section aloud. “—treatment of coma patients with tribbles is successful one hundred percent of the time…” As he continues to read to the bottom, the Doctor is dismayed to discover that tribbles are extinct.

“Do you think this will work, Doctor?” Janeway asks. Even through the comm system, he detects traces of doubt in the captain’s voice.

He nods his head. “Yes, Captain. According to the Daystrom Institute’s records, this procedure should work.”

“You sound like you have your doubts.”

“Nothing is certain in these cases.”

“Proceed and keep me informed. Janeway out.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he stands and gazes at the little blond-haired girl lying so still on the diagnostic bed. Time to start. No more delays. He believes this would work.

“Computer, create a holo-sim of the tribble.”

There is a slight shimmer of light next to Naomi, and a brown ball of fur appears next to the right side of her head. It immediately begins to trill softly. After listening for several seconds, he knows why people are attracted to these creatures. The trill is very pleasant to the ear. Almost musical.

He isn’t sure if a holotribble will work as well as a live one, but he has to try. If this doesn’t work, Naomi will soon drop into a permanent vegetative state. Time is running out.

Nothing. Nothing is happening. The Daystrom studies reported patient recovery was within a few minutes of exposure to the tribble’s trill. It needs more time, that’s all.

Fifteen minutes pass and still nothing. He goes back and rereads the sections about the tribble treatment. Yes, he’s followed the correct procedure. Something more is needed. But what?

“Computer, create another tribble on the opposite side of her.”

Another shimmer and another holotribble appears. A white one appears on the left side of Naomi’s head. It begins to trill like its counterpart.

For the first time since her accident, Naomi stirs. She rolls over on her side and puts her thumb in her mouth.

He feels a surge of joy run through his programming.

He places one hand on her shoulder and shakes her lightly.

“Leave me alone,” she says in her tiny voice.

He rushes to the comm station on the wall of sickbay. “Captain!”

“Yes, Doctor, what is it? Good news, I hope?”

“Naomi Wildman is awake.”

While Samantha Wildman visits with her daughter in sickbay, he sits in his office across from Janeway.

She wears a sly grin on her face. “Tuvok found the child who turned off the safety protocols on the holodeck. Fortunately, this will never happen again. At least while Tuvok is chief of security. Children are often too smart for their own good. Naomi says she swore them to secrecy. Didn’t want her mother to find out. Typical, or so I’m told.” She raises her cup of steaming coffee to her lips and takes a sip. “Tell me more about this procedure of yours.”

“Take two tribbles—”

“—and call me in the morning.” Janeway grins. “Really, Doctor.”

Maturation

Catherine E. Pike

We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.

A chorus of voices chanted in monotone. They did not shout; yet the words reverberated throughout the Raven in an echoing omnipotence in the way Annika Hansen imagined God would talk—should He choose to—if He even existed. Papa said there was no such thing as God. Mama said there was.

The words drifted away; almost lost completely as sleep started to reclaim her. The shouts woke her fully and she opened her eyes to the darkness of her room; her ears to the nightmare beyond her closed door.

Her father was shouting, sounding scared but trying to hide it. She’d never heard Papa sound afraid before and panic of her own seized her heart. She sat up in bed, clutching both covers and Rosie to her, mouth opening to scream for her father, but before she could his shout was silenced mid-yell.

Running footsteps down the hall. The door to Annika’s room was thrown open. Her mother stood in the doorway. Her hair flew from its bun into her face. Her eyes were large—frightened. Her breath came in great gasps, her mouth open, gulping every bit of oxygen it could find. The light from the corridor made her face even whiter than it already was, and for a moment she didn’t look like Mama at all, but rather like the Wicked Witch of the West from the twentieth-century Oz books that they so loved to share.

“Annika, you must hide!” her mother cried. “Under your bed!” She glanced wildly over her shoulder as metallic footsteps—lots of them—came toward her. When Annika remained frozen in place, her mother hissed “Quickly!” in a tone that forbade argument.

Annika hastened to obey, squirming into the crawlspace beneath the metal bunk. From here she could no longer see the doorway, only her mother’s shadow thrown onto the floor. Then it, too, disappeared. Mama must have stepped into the room, looking for a place to hide. Annika could hear her gasping.

“Be quiet now!” Mama ordered. “Don’t say a word, no matter what!”

Annika rolled into a ball, hands clasping her knees to her chest. The floor was cold. Her fear made it colder. She shivered in her nightgown and wished she’d brought Rosie with her. The doll was still on her pillow. Surely she could grab her without being seen!

Just as she began to unfold herself, to creep out from beneath the bunk, the footsteps stopped outside her door. Instead of going on down the corridor they turned into the room. A red light pierced the darkness—sweeping around the room like a searchlight—joined by a second light, then a third—pinpoints of red that darted this way and that. Then whoever belonged to those heavy footsteps—to those voices—to the lights—pulled her mother from her hiding place.

“Please, no!” Mama pled.

Resistance is futile, the voices answered.

Her mother screamed.

Beneath the bed, Annika squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands.

“Mama!” She couldn’t help it. Her scream joined her mother’s.

“No! Annika!”

They were the last words she would ever hear her mother say.

There was a hissing sound, then a noise similar to the sound of a mudhole reluctantly letting go of your bare foot on a summer’s day—sort of a hungry, sucking sound. Her mother moaned in pain and went still.

Maybe they didn’t hear me! she thought frantically. Perhaps her cry had been lost in her mother’s! Annika was shaking uncontrollably now, and not just from the cold. Her teeth chattered, but she was helpless to stop them, even when she covered her mouth with a hand. Wishing desperately for Rosie, Annika pressed her back against the bulkhead. It was as far under the bed as she could get, but she feared it wasn’t far enough.

She listened to the metal footsteps step farther into the room.

She watched three red lights join together into a much larger circle of red on the floor beside her bed.

They yanked the bunk effortlessly upward, despite its being fastened to the floor and wall. The bed fell with a deafening clatter as they tossed it into a corner with no more effort than she took to throw a ball. They ignored the noise, and the sound that followed after.

She watched helplessly as pieces of china skittered and danced across the floor.

Rosie! They broke Rosie!

Annika glanced up. It was hard to see past the red lights. They were as bright as lasers, and all three were focused on her. They seemed to come from the left eyes of the men who stared down at her; they had replaced their eyes somehow. They seemed more machines than men, clothed as they were in armor that seemed actually a part of their bodies.

How had they found me? she wondered. It was so dark beneath the bed, and so shadowy.

We are the Borg.

Voices, many of them, roared in her head. She winced at the volume. So many voices, yet only three of these…machines…were in the room with her. She peered up at them, sure she hadn’t seen their mouths move. How then…?

Do not concern yourself with such questions now. It will be explained in time. After you have joined the hive.

“The hive!” Annika answered aloud. “I don’t wanna join any hive!”

You have no choice. We are the Borg.

As if that would explain everything.

They paused, and it seemed almost as if they were listening to something.

She is…unique, the voices announced, all in one monotone. She is fearful, yet curious. She will be a good aide to the Queen one day.

Before she could wonder who the Queen was, the machine closest to her grabbed her in a vise-like grip, lifting her completely off of the floor. While his hand (a human hand) held her chin, and thus her head, motionless, his metal hand paused beside her neck. Two long tubes shot out from his knuckles, piercing her neck.

She tried to scream, but her voice caught in her throat. Tried to struggle, but was held fast against a chest more cold metal than warm skin.

It hurt! Worse than cutting her foot on that sharp rock in the garden last summer! Worse than the strep throat she’d had during the winter!

“Mama!” she screamed, the terror ricocheting around her mind. “Mama! Make it stop hurting!”

She realized she was crying, and that the room was fading around her. Her neck had gone numb, a feeling that began to spread to her shoulders, down her arms, and throughout her whole body.

The last thing she saw—would ever see with completely human eyes—was Rosie’s shattered body lying in a corner of the room.

She did not wake up so much as she regained awareness. She tried to call out for her parents, but she couldn’t talk. Her neck hurt where the Borg’s tubules had pierced her skin, and she tried to raise a hand to touch the spot, but she couldn’t move. She realized she was weightless. This was not because the artificial gravity had gone offline, but because she floated in some sort of liquid. She could neither see nor hear, but the liquid completely supported her. Despite being completely submerged, she could breathe without effort.

Annika tried again to call out for her parents, but no sound came from her mouth. Where are they? They’d never leave me!

You have been assimilated.

Her awareness had caught the attention of her captors. She realized she’d been hearing a soft buzzing noise, not from outside her body, but inside her head. The buzzing became voices, lots of them, talking about technical things she couldn’t understand.

Do not try to understand. You will know everything we know, in time.

I don’t want to know. I want to go home, Annika answered their thoughts with hers.

Impossible.

I want my parents! she demanded

Impossible! The voices were growing impatient. You are now Borg. What you want is irrelevant.

A humming vibration darted through her body, starting at the puncture point on her neck. What are they giving me? Nutrients? Poison? Whatever it was made her drowsy, and no matter how hard she fought, she began to lose consciousness once again.

Were she Captain Rachel Garrett of the Enterprise, she would find some way to fight—to break the container holding her so the liquid would tumble her out onto the floor. She would take out the phaser pistol hidden in her boot and keep the enemy at bay until her crew could arrive to rescue her.

But Captain Garrett was old, almost twenty-five, and she had both a ship and a crew.

Annika was only six, and while she had a ship, her only crew was Rosie, who, as far as she knew, still lay shattered on the deck in her bedroom. She didn’t have a hidden phaser pistol, only her papa, who had always kept her safe from harm before. But he was gone now, and Annika was all alone.

A tear tried to choke her, but she swallowed it. Rachel Garrett wouldn’t cry, and neither would Annika Hansen.

“I may be your prisoner,” she thought stubbornly, “but you can’t stop me from remembering!”

It is a glorious June afternoon. The breathless, oppressive summer heat is still two months away, and for now the nights are cool, the days are warm, and the daydreams are never-ending.

Annika is clothed in faded overalls; the legs rolled up midcalf. She is helping her aunt Helen pick strawberries for the evening’s dessert. The soil beneath her bare feet is cool and damp, squishing deliciously between her toes. She plucks a strawberry from its plant and takes a bite. The fruit is warm and sweet; its juice dribbles down her chin, making her giggle.

That night there are more strawberries atop rich vanilla ice cream and camping out in the wilderness that is Aunt Helen’s backyard, in a tent that Annika discovered in the shed. There is reading by flashlight: exciting tales of the Knights of the Round Table; of Rachel Garrett, captain of the ill-fated Enterprise-C, and of Sarah Rowe, the Jupiter colonist. The stories fuel her dreams as she curls up; pillowing her head against Bruce, Aunt Helen’s basset hound and Annika’s best friend. When Aunt Helen comes out to cover her with a light blanket and kiss her good night, Annika is already sound asleep, worn out by the carefree day and dreaming of swashbuckling her way through space; Bruce, faithful companion, by her side.

The pain, sudden and consuming, shot through Annika’s body. Her arms and legs fought to draw close against her, to protect her from the invasion. The pain came again, much stronger this time, going from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet simultaneously. She couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, and she screamed silently. Helplessly.

It is all right, little one. A new voice; solitary; feminine.

Mama? Questioning.

No. But I will take care of you.

Where’s my mother? Annika demanded.

I am your mother now.

No!

You must rest.

Those voices again. Always around. Always in my head. Why won’t they go away? she wondered.

Because you are one of us now. You are Borg.

I am Annika! she answered stubbornly.

The pain came again.

She remembers too much, the voices decided. We must increase the nanoprobes.

If we do we may kill her, several answered back.

If we do not she’ll continue to remember her human existence, the debate ensued.

I have plans for this one, the solitary voice said. Do not damage her.

Half a dose, then.

Agreed.

No! I don’t want…But even as she protested, Annika felt warmth take the place of the pain. She started to drift away, but refused to surrender without a final word.

I am not Borg. I am Annika Hansen, and I love strawberries! she asserted.

Time passed. Usually Annika remained only barely conscious, floating in her tank. The voices in her mind were constant; although rarely did they talk about—or to—her. Their main concerns seemed to be the day-to-day running of the ship, and assimilating anyone who had the misfortune to cross their path. Their appetite seemed insatiable; their quest to absorb knowledge and technology their only motive for existence, and Annika’s mind absorbed the knowledge right along with them.

During the infrequent times that she was fully aware of the goings-on in the shadowy corridors beyond her chamber, she focused on her memories, aware they seemed to be eluding her now, like water racing away with a receding tide. Well aware of the disciplinary action to be directed her way once the Borg became aware of her thoughts, she forced herself to remember just the same.

It is Annika’s sixth birthday. She is celebrating it on the Raven with just her parents to join the party. She’d always wondered what it would be like to have an actual birthday party. With presents and games and friends to play with.

But then, she supposed, she’d have to have friends to invite over. They’ve never lived long enough in any one spot for Annika to make friends, and those children who might have become friends weren’t allowed to play with her once their parents realized who her father is. Annika doesn’t understand why the adults distrust her father so, but she knows it makes him angry and that, in turn, makes her mother cry. So they move. A lot. And go to space as often as her father can get some mysterious substance called funding. And they all pretend that space is where they want to be.

But Annika doesn’t think her father is pretending. She thinks he is truly happiest out among the stars and away from people.

So today Annika is six and Mama’s cooked her favorite dinner and made a chocolate cake for dessert. There are presents, including the latest adventure of Sarah Rowe, from her aunt Helen, smuggled aboard the ship by her mother. Music is furnished by the ship’s computer. Annika’s father twirls her mother across the deck in time to the music until both are breathless and her mother is laughing and flushed. The music ends, another, slower, song begins, and Annika’s father turns to her.

“How ’bout a dance with your old dad?”

Annika nods excitedly and they waltz around the floor, Annika’s feet resting atop her father’s boots in the way of father/daughter dances the universe over. How she adores him! In that moment she could dance with him forever, feeling safe within his arms. Her father is fearless and strong…but of course, in the end, he is not strong enough to protect her from the nightmare to come.

Annika goes to bed that night with her new book on the bedside table and Rosie by her side. It’s been the best birthday party ever, and it will be the last.

For in the night, the Borg come.

Time passed. Annika grew, matured. Legs lengthened, waist narrowed, breasts formed and grew full. She never knew a classroom, never again tasted her aunt Helen’s strawberries, never felt the first inquisitive brush of a man’s lips against her own. She would be beautiful had not her left eye and one arm been removed, replaced by metal implants and a red piercing light of her own. She would be tall and graceful were it not for the heavy boots and metal armor that encased her. She would be a woman were she not part of the hive mind.

Eventually, even her name eludes her. And shortly after that the tank is drained. She opens her eye, discovers that she can see, and glances around her at the ship she’s been riding in all these years. The halls are lined with coffin-like structures, each filled with a Borg taking rest, yet many more machines roam the halls, attending to the functions assigned them. The door of the chamber opens, is pressurized with a rush of air, and she steps from the chamber onto the floor.

A trio of drones stand in a semicircle before her.

You will come with us.

They turn up the hall, expecting obedience, and she does not hesitate, falling into step behind one, while the remaining two fall in behind her.

They walk down several corridors before turning into a large shadowy room. She knows without having to be told that this is the center of the ship, the Queen’s lair. And there, facing a computer screen that shows where they are in space and where the closest ships are, stands the Queen herself. The Queen turns, wordlessly dismisses the drones, and approaches her.

The Queen stops, studies her intently. She does not flinch, studies the Queen in turn, finds her the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, even more beautiful than…what? An image comes to her from a great corridor of distance, from a time when she was different. But when was that? I’ve always been Borg! Haven’t I? Why wasn’t she sure?

Be sure, the Queen’s voice answers. You are Borg.

Yes, she thinks. I am Borg. She instantly gives her Queen her loyalty.

The Queen smiles.

So. You have matured.

Yes, Annika answers silently. Matured from what? she wonders, but the answer isn’t there.

And what is your name?

It is a test. Annika searches. There is a small, dying, part of her that seeks to provide the defiant answer, despite the pain and certain death that will follow. For an instant she tastes something warm and sweet, feels juice running down her chin…remembers in a flash a large garden and a brown-and-white dog…and then, as quickly as it has arrived, it is gone forever and her name is lost with it.

I…have no name…she thinks, and feels saddened by the realization.

No. But you have a designation. I anoint you Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One. You will be one of my chosen circle. I have great plans for you, Seven of Nine.

The woman, once Annika Hansen, nods, accepting both the role and the designation.

Come. We have much work to do.

The Queen turns and Seven follows. Finally, she is home.

—Star Trek®—

Enterprise

Rounding a Corner

Already Turned

Allison Cain

“Sometimes I will…forget things, and, in going back to retrieve them, half expect to meet myself rounding a corner I’ve already turned…”

—Rupert Holmes

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed swore under his breath and vowed to himself that he would never, ever, as long as he lived, no matter how many court-martials he was threatened with, let Captain Jonathan Archer go on another away mission. Ever.

He ducked another energy blast and dove sideways, hoping that Trip wouldn’t bombard him with Mission: Impossible comments for the next week. A glance to his left confirmed his initial guess of their location, and he motioned for the other three members of the team to bring them up to date.

Captain Archer, to his credit, followed Malcolm’s gaze and saw immediately what his armory officer had in mind. A few quick hand movements from Malcolm had Commander Trip Tucker nodding silently. Ensign Hoshi Sato afforded him a nervous glance, but also nodded in calm understanding. He was proud of her; she had looked terrified when their seemingly friendly hosts had first opened fire on them, but she had taken the last few minutes in stride, and never once made a sound.

Now Archer motioned for Malcolm to cover them and silently offered his arms to Hoshi. She reached out to take the small animal he held in them. Porthos stared back at his master from the safety of the linguist’s arms. The two Kintarra had seemed most enthralled by the beagle on their brief sojourn to Enterprise, and the captain had thought that having the dog along would help negotiations run more smoothly. After spending fifteen minutes dodging alien gunshots, he was now regretting the decision.

Malcolm hissed quietly, and Trip and Hoshi made a dash for the doorway leading to their shuttle. Malcolm had managed to maneuver the battle around so that neither Kintarra stood between them and their only means of escape. When Hoshi and Trip were halfway there, Malcolm motioned for the captain to follow them.

It was at this point, he later reflected, that things started to go wrong.

Hoshi suddenly stumbled, managing to stay upright, but knocking into Trip. He somehow kept moving through an amazing feat of balance, but the impact was enough to knock the dog from Hoshi’s arms. Porthos, being a very young beagle, did the most logical thing his canine brain could come up with. He headed for his pack leader to protect him.

Archer, however, had not stopped moving, and didn’t notice the dog hurtling at him until it was too late.

“Porthos!” he shouted, trying to imitate Trip’s gymnastic maneuvers and twist around without falling. Malcolm swore out loud at this, and turned toward his captain.

“Keep moving!” he bellowed, beginning to run himself. He bent and scooped up the beagle without slowing, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his pursuers as he saw the other three from his party make it safely through the doorway. Damn, they were close.

“Start closing the door! Hit the locking sequence!” he called. Thankfully they heard him; the doors began to slide shut. He was preparing to dive through the rapidly dwindling opening, the dog still cradled in his arms, when he heard an energy blast that sounded much closer than any of the others.

The pain that shot abruptly up his back was overwhelming, and threw him to his knees. As the world started to go black, he looked up to see his crewmates’ horrified faces staring at him through the still closing doors. With his last bit of strength, he hurled Porthos in what he hoped was the general direction of the others, though his orientation had been the first thing to go. Then he sank into blessed numbness.

His head hurt.

That was the first thing that crossed Malcolm’s mind as he began to fight his way back to consciousness. On the plus side, his back felt fine, but that didn’t really help his headache.

Another thing that wasn’t helping his headache was the worried voices of Hoshi, Trip, Archer, and Doctor Phlox. They were much too loud, he decided. Also, why had he never noticed how noisy sickbay really was? All those alien animals made a terrible racket. And the smell. You’d think he had never been there before.

He was grateful, however, for the smell, and even the loud noises. At least, they told him that he was back on Enterprise, among friends, rather than still on the alien ship. Or worse, dead. As he began to awaken, his mind registered more sensations. He was lying on his side, on a biobed. The doctor must have rolled him over to take care of his back. He was grateful that there were no longer tongues of fire shooting up his spine.

“Do you think Malcolm’s okay?” The worry that filled Hoshi’s voice made him frown. He was still groggy, but he needed to let his crewmates know he was all right, so he struggled momentarily to open his eyes, sit up, do something.

“I believe he’s waking up,” Phlox commented cheerfully. Malcolm heard the rustle of cloth as four people hurried over to his bed. This encouraged him to finally open his eyes and look up at the quartet that was staring anxiously down at him. They look much larger from down here, he thought, bemused, and had that blast messed with my head? For some reason the whole world looks less…colorful. Or maybe that’s the headache.

“Is he going to be all right, Doc?” Archer asked, frowning worriedly. Malcolm wanted to roll his eyes, but decided that wouldn’t be good for his headache. Just ask me, he thought exasperatedly.

“Of course,” the doctor replied calmly, “he should have suffered no ill effects. He wasn’t hit, after all.”

What the…not…? What was Phlox talking about?

“About Malcolm, Captain,” Trip began.

“When can he return home?” Archer asked, gesturing toward him.

“Oh, he’s ready to go now, Captain,” Phlox assured him. Archer nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he told his crewmates, “we’ll get Malcolm back, I promise.”

Back? From where? I’m right here! Malcolm tried to shout, but for some reason his vocal cords weren’t working properly. All he got out was a—

“Raarf!” Archer glanced at him.

“Ok, boy, we’re going. Why don’t you come with me to drop Porthos off at my quarters and we’ll go to the bridge together?” he asked Hoshi and Trip. “We’ll find Malcolm,” he added firmly, “we won’t leave without him.”

They nodded and the captain reached down and lifted Malcolm easily. Hoshi smiled at him.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Porthos,” she said, “you have Malcolm to thank for that.”

Behind the beagle’s bright eyes, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed’s mind screamed in horror.

Sometime later, Malcolm had managed to regain his composure. It wasn’t an easy feat. The others had dropped him off in the captain’s quarters and headed to the bridge. Malcolm spent the next several minutes running frantically in circles, disoriented and inwardly shrieking about the injustice and unfairness of the universe as a whole. Not a very professional way to behave, no, but really, what training had he ever had—what indication had he ever had—that would prepare him for switching bodies with his captain’s puppy?

Malcolm was not used to being a dog, however, and there were some things that he took for granted as a human that Porthos did not have. For example, traction. Malcolm had never worried about his boots slipping and sliding over the smooth decks of the Enterprise, simply because they never had. They were Starfleet-issue, and had been specially made to deal with all types of terrain. Dogs, on the other hand, are not made for racing around on slippery surfaces. After over a year on board Enterprise, Porthos had adapted to deal with the deck plating. After over an hour in Porthos’s body, Malcolm had not.

Have you ever seen a dog race into the kitchen at top speed, hit the linoleum, and slide headfirst into the fridge? That gives the general idea of what happened to Malcolm. Except it wasn’t linoleum, it was the deck, and it wasn’t a fridge, it was the captain’s desk.

The crash did accomplish something good, though. Malcolm found himself on his side, little lungs heaving, staring up at the ceiling. Think! he told himself furiously. You are a Starfleet officer. Now calm the hell down!!

It took a few more minutes, but he was eventually able to stop panting desperately, climb to his feet, and shake himself off. Once he had accomplished the task of pulling himself together, he mentally “sat back” and took stock of his situation. Obviously, his first priority was to try to figure out some way of communicating with his crew—mainly Doctor Phlox—so that they could figure out some way to reunite him with his body. Scratch that, he thought after a hasty look around the cabin confirmed his suspicions that there was no one here to attempt communication with. So his new first priority was getting out of the captain’s quarters…as soon as he figured out how to reach the door panel.

The captain did not sleep that night. He spent the night in his ready room, reviewing and discarding countless ways of rescuing his armory officer—once said officer was found, and if it was discovered he needed rescuing after being found. Tired and distracted as he was, he didn’t spare a second thought for the lonely dog in his quarters until late the next morning.

Malcolm had not given Archer a second thought. He had briefly tried to discover an escape route, but the events of the day had taken their toll, and he soon collapsed into an exhausted sleep. He awoke early the next morning, however, feeling much better and ready to try out an idea from the night before.

Captain Archer had never worried about his dog escaping his quarters, mainly because Porthos was neither intelligent enough, nor tall enough to work the locking mechanism. Malcolm, though saddled with Porthos’s height, was not limited by the beagle’s intelligence. After a thoughtful survey of the room, he concluded that the easiest piece of furniture to move would be the desk chair; hopefully, it would give him enough height to reach the keypad.

Having done dog-walking duty for the captain before, Malcolm knew exactly where all of Porthos’s things were stored. After several attempts, he finally managed to knock the door of the small cabinet open. Then it was just a small matter of tugging the worn leash down from its hook. Leash acquired, Malcolm trotted over to the chair. He painstakingly wound the leash around the front two chair legs; then patiently worked the clip end through the hand loop at the opposite end of the leash. That accomplished, he grasped the leash firmly in his jaws and began to slowly back up.

Moving the chair across the room took much longer than Malcolm had anticipated. The desk chairs, so easy for a human to pick up, were extremely heavy and bulky for a small dog to handle. Eventually, however, Malcolm managed to drag the chair close enough to the door for him to reach the keypad. He dropped the leash and leapt up onto the seat of the chair. By placing his front paws on the chair back, he was just able to reach the keypad with his nose. Carefully (so as not to bruise himself) he tapped in his security override and was rewarded with the gentle whoosh as the doors slid open.

Smirking inwardly, Malcolm trotted out into the open corridors of the Enterprise.

Hoshi was hurrying down the corridor toward the turbolift, preoccupied with studying a data padd on the Kintarran language. She nearly missed the flash of movement as a small figure scurried around the corner ahead of her.

“Porthos?” she called into the now-deserted corridor. Frowning, she quickened her pace and turned the corner in time to catch a glimpse of a wagging tail disappearing down the corridor toward the mess hall. Hoshi muttered a few choice Klingon words and broke into a run. She was already late to meet with the captain. She hadn’t slept since yesterday, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten, and she was worried about Malcolm. If Porthos managed to get himself lost in the bowels of the Enterprise, on top of everything…

Hoshi was nearly in a full-out sprint by the time she reached the mess hall. Without even pausing to look around, she flew into the room, searching for the small dog. That was her first mistake. Her second mistake was that she had chosen to enter the mess hall at top speed fifteen minutes after the gamma shift had ended on a blueberry pancakes day.

Little did Hoshi know that only moments before Malcolm had made the exact same mistake. Fortunately for Malcolm, he had been more alert to his surroundings; and even though he had no traction, he was small enough that crashing headfirst into the crewman pouring maple syrup for the line of hungry gamma shifters had no effect on either the man or the dog. Un fortunately for Hoshi, even though she had traction, she was also trying to avoid frantically stepping on the beagle—and though Hoshi Sato was small for a human, she wasn’t that small. Malcolm saw her look of shock, and had the presence of mind to duck under the nearest table.

Thus it was that scene that Captain Archer stepped into when he entered the mess hall and found it strewn with blueberry pancakes and fallen crewmen, many of whom had apparently been sprayed with maple syrup. Glancing down, he found Hoshi sitting on the floor, drenched with the sticky substance, but triumphantly holding up a wriggling dog who was the only creature in the room (apart from Archer himself) that was not dripping syrup.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she said guiltily, starting to stand and grateful for the firm hand at her elbow that prevented her from falling headfirst into the table when she slipped on the puddle of syrup she had been sitting in. “This is all my fault. You see, I was chasing Porthos, and—” Archer held up a hand to forestall any more explanations.

“Hoshi, it’s…you look terrible. When was the last time you slept? Or ate?” he asked, his manner changing from reassurance to concern when he saw the circles under her eyes.

“Well, I’ve been busy—”

“Hoshi, you are officially off-duty for the next four hours. Captain’s orders,” Archer stated firmly when she started to protest.

“But, sir! Malcolm is still missing, and the Kintarran language—”

“Hoshi, you’ve done all you can. The UT is having no trouble with the specs you gave it, and we still have yet to get our scanners working through the alien shielding. Go back to your quarters and get cleaned up, I’ll have Chef send some food to you. I promise I’ll call you immediately if we find Malcolm—after all, you’re still our best translator.” He smiled reassuringly at the ensign, and she reluctantly nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, would you mind taking Porthos with you? I don’t know how he got out, but my door lock might be malfunctioning. At least he won’t escape from your quarters if you’re in there with him. I’ll come pick him up after my shift is over.” Hoshi nodded again and slowly walked out of the mess hall. Archer rubbed a hand wearily over his face and turned to survey the rest of the room, wishing his security officer was here.

Damm it, Reed, he thought, feeling the beginnings of a headache, if you’re not alive when we find you, I’ll kill you.

The tall, tangerine-colored lizard was alternating from staring bemusedly into the habitat cage beneath him, and exchanging thoughtful glances with his turquoise companion.

“Perhaps we were wrong, Ta’kha; this creature is just as amusing as the little one.”

Ta’kha was frowning. “Yes, Puor, but I had thought this species was more intelligent than this one leads me to believe.”

Puor shrugged his neck frill. “Perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps the small one was controlling the large ones.”

“That is an intriguing idea.”

“If that is the case, then perhaps these creatures are valuable. Perhaps many others would pay to have one of these to display.”

Ta’kha’s tail waved. “But it was very hard to acquire just this one. Surely it would be even more difficult and dangerous to capture many more.”

“Perhaps we don’t need that many. Perhaps we only need one more.”

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, and then both aliens turned to gaze introspectively into the habitat cage, where the pale human was alternately yelling nonsense words at the Vossk in the next display and attempting to scratch his ear with his foot.

Upon reaching her quarters, Hoshi keyed the door open and deposited the dog on the floor, after making sure the lock was properly set. Then she turned and eyed herself in the full-length mirror next to her closet.

“Drat, I was hoping the captain was exaggerating,” she muttered as she sized up her appearance. Malcolm’s ears pricked at the sound of her voice, but his attention was absorbed in looking around the room. He had never been in the linguist’s quarters before, at least not for more than a moment or so after handing her some data padd, or stopping by to escort her to lunch. He was taking the opportunity to search for possible security hazards when her voice, still speaking in the easy tone people adopt when addressing animals, caught his attention. Malcolm turned toward her…and froze when he actually caught sight of Hoshi.

She was trying to comb sticky tangles out of her hair, smiling at him in the mirror. What had paralyzed Malcolm, however, was the fact that Hoshi’s uniform and regulation blues were lying in a sticky heap on the floor, while Hoshi herself was wearing only syrup and a towel.

Bloody daft! Malcolm berated himself silently, while trying not to stare at Hoshi. He should have realized that she would need to clean up! And she, not realizing who he really was, thought nothing of undressing in front of the captain’s dog! Malcolm managed to look hurriedly away before Hoshi began to realize anything was amiss, but the sound of her frustrated sigh and the click of her comb on the dresser prompted him to involuntarily (bloody canine instincts!) glance back up.

“I’m just going to have to wash this out first, I think,” Hoshi said, grimacing at her reflection’s hair. “I’ll be out in a bit, Porthos, don’t chew anything up, okay?” Malcolm frantically tore his gaze away from his shipmate as she moved toward the bathroom door, hands at her towel. He flinched slightly as he heard the towel land in the pile of sticky clothes on the floor in a soft swoosh of fabric and finally breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of the bathroom door closing.

His relief, however, was short-lived. He couldn’t attempt to communicate with Hoshi now! How embarrassed would she be if she knew her superior officer had hidden in her room and watched her undress? That wasn’t precisely what had happened, of course, but Malcolm was not willing to risk the potential damage to his friendship, and chain of command, with Hoshi. He needed to get out of this room before she finished her shower.

Unfortunately, this was much easier said than done. In Archer’s quarters, Malcolm had used his security override to open the doors. The same tactic was sure to work with Hoshi’s door…if Malcolm had a way of reaching the keypad. He sat below it, staring nearly straight up, and realized just how much trouble he was in.

Hoshi stepped out of her bathroom, no longer sticky and wrapped in her favorite fluffy robe, to find Porthos jumping at the keypad for her door.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she scolded, catching the beagle mid-leap. “You are staying right here, whether you like it or not.” She settled onto her bed, keeping a firm grip on the small dog, who struggled in her arms. Attempting to calm him down, Hoshi began to tell him about her day, but since this consisted mainly of their efforts to find Malcolm, she instead found herself thinking about all the terrible things that could be happening to him. She let her monologue trail bleakly off, her grip on the beagle loosening.

“Oh, Porthos, I hope he’s okay!”

Malcolm wanted to swear out loud when Hoshi snatched him away from the door, but instead he contented himself with the knowledge that she had given him the perfect opening. All thoughts about sparing her dignity vanished and he scrambled to find a way to show her who he really was.

Malcolm vaulted easily from Hoshi’s lap onto her desk, scattering her notes on Kintarran grammar onto the floor and prompting a dismayed cry from the linguist.

“Porthos! I need those to help Malcolm!” Malcolm barked sharply when she said his name, unable to think of any other way to call attention to himself. She glared at him.

“You owe Malcolm your life, mister! Don’t you want him back?” Malcolm solemnly nodded. Hoshi froze.

“Porthos, did—? No, of course not. You can’t actually…understand me.” Malcolm yipped. Hoshi stared at him.

“Wait—Porthos…can you understand me?” Malcolm nodded again, hoping Hoshi wouldn’t faint. Instead, she got more excited.

“I don’t believe it! Wait, you got all excited when I mentioned Malcolm—Porthos, can you help us find him?” Malcolm wanted to dance for joy; she was so much more perceptive than he had hoped! He nodded again.

“Do you know where he is?” Hoshi demanded, staring intently into Malcolm’s eyes. He nodded once more, slowly. “Where?” she asked, her voice a whisper. Malcolm looked helplessly at her, but was saved the trouble of attempting an answer by, of all people, Archer, who knocked on the door to Hoshi’s quarters. When the captain entered, he found his linguistics officer staring at his dog.

“Hoshi? I…figured out how Porthos got out of my quarters.” Hoshi lifted her gaze to look at her captain in amazement, unable to believe he was concerned with such a thing at a time like this. His next words, however, stilled the rebuke on her tongue.

“He used Malcolm’s security override.” Both humans now turned to stare at the beagle, who did his best to shrug innocently.

“Malcolm, if that’s really you in there, bark twice,” Trip ordered, peering into the beagle’s eyes. Ensign Travis Mayweather, seated on an unoccupied biobed, snickered softly, and sang under his breath what sounded suspiciously like, “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me, twice on the pipe if the answer is no.” Malcolm glared coldly at them both. Travis’s song faltered and died; Trip grinned broadly.

“That’s him, all right! No one gives the evil eye like Malcolm!”

“Of course it’s him,” Archer snapped. “The question is: how?”

“Now that,” Doctor Phlox said from behind them, “is actually quite fascinating.” The doctor was positively beaming. Even T’Pol, examining the console the two had been working at, looked intrigued. The rest of the command crew turned expectantly toward the physician.

“Now,” Phlox began, “the beam that Lieutenant Reed was hit by was intended to stun—to ‘knock out.’ In this case, the reference is much more literal. When a being is hit by the beam, their consciousness is forcibly pushed out of their body for the briefest of instants. When their mind returns, the body has already shut down. The mind itself then shuts down for a brief period of time, which can be adjusted by modifying the beam strength.”

“But that sounds like the mind should automatically return to its own body,” Archer objected, “so why is Malcolm my dog?”

“I’ll let T’Pol explain that,” Phlox said, stepping aside. “Vulcans have been studying this sort of thing for years, of course. Sub-Commander?”

“The beam that hit Lieutenant Reed was most likely set for a normal Kintarran,” T’Pol explained, glancing at the console. “This would have been too high of an energy signature for the lieutenant’s body to deal with. However, he was also holding Porthos. The excess energy, instead of simply overloading Lieutenant Reed’s systems, somehow drained into the dog.”

“So both of their minds were thrown away from their bodies,” Trip said thoughtfully.

“But that doesn’t explain how they switched bodies,” Travis pointed out.

“Lieutenant Reed and Porthos did not switch bodies,” T’Pol disagreed, “they switched minds. Immediately after he was hit, just as the system overload was beginning, Lieutenant Reed threw Porthos away from his body. He was also making a mental ‘toss’ with his mind, in order to ensure the dog’s flight path. Therefore, when his mind tried to return to his body, it was closer to Porthos’s body, and vice versa. At least,” and here T’Pol looked faintly displeased, “in theory. I have never seen this phenomenon before, and I doubt it could be duplicated without years of research.” She paused a moment, then added, “I believe Lieutenant Reed wishes to say something.”

Since the sight of the beagle standing on his hind legs and waving his little front paws wildly in the air had most likely prompted this remark, everyone was inclined to agree. The dog pointed with his nose at the console, sat up as though begging, and finally chased his tail in a circle. The others stared for a moment before Hoshi hesitantly said, “I…think he wants to know how he can switch back.” Malcolm nodded.

“That should not be a problem,” T’Pol said, “as long as Lieutenant Reed’s body is still alive, I should be able to help him ‘switch back’ through a mind-meld.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t be able to duplicate the process,” Archer said. T’Pol favored him with a long look before answering.

“I won’t be trying to duplicate it,” she said in that too-patient tone that Trip was sure all Vulcans were taught as children, “I will simply be releasing the minds to return to their bodies of origin, not forcing them into the wrong body.” Phlox nodded in understanding; the four humans pretended to do the same.

“Right then.” Archer briskly took charge again. “Travis, Trip, continue working on breaking through the Kintarran shielding. T’Pol, I’d like you to work with Phlox on finding a way to reverse this process that’s at least ninety percent foolproof—I’m not risking my armory officer in an unsafe procedure. Malcolm, if the doctor’s finished with you, I’d like you to remain with Hoshi in her quarters.” Archer consciously paused for objections.

“Sir!” Hoshi protested, at the same time Malcolm let out a rather high-pitched yelp. Archer sighed, trying to ignore his growing headache, and held up both hands to forestall any arguments from the pair.

“Hear me out! Hoshi, I meant what I said about you getting food and rest, and I know you got neither since the last time I saw you. And Malcolm, unless you want everyone on the ship to know about your predicament—” At that, the beagle shook his head furiously, and if it were physically possible for dogs to blush, his fur would have been bright red. Archer nodded in understanding. “—I can’t have you wandering around all by your lonesome. So your choices are to either remain here in sickbay, or stay with Hoshi.”

On the whole, Malcolm thought his chances of survival would be higher on his own, but he noticed Archer hadn’t listed that among his options. Since he wasn’t ready to spend the rest of the day being scanned and prodded by Phlox, Malcolm decided to take his chances with Hoshi. At least he might get some food in the linguist’s company. Hoshi grimaced, but apparently thought twice about arguing with her captain, and simply nodded.

“Good, if that’s settled, then we all need to get back to work.” Archer, Trip, and Travis hurried out the door, while Phlox ran a few more scans on Malcolm. Finally he declared that the dog would be allowed to leave sickbay, but that Hoshi was to stay in contact with Phlox and/or T’Pol just in case something happened. Feeling she would agree to almost anything to get out of there, the ensign was finally able to make her escape with the dog, whom she managed to avoid looking at—at least until they reached her quarters.

Puor strolled lazily through the menagerie, ostensibly searching for his mate, but knowing exactly where he would find her. Sure enough, Ta’kha was once again standing outside the human’s habitat, tapping notes into the handheld database she carried.

“Ta’kha, perhaps you have done enough for the night? Perhaps we can eat,” he said, letting his neck frill droop. She glanced at him, obviously upset.

“I have been running scans on this creature all afternoon,” she said irritably, “and your plan will not work, Puor. From my calculations, this species is incapable of producing large litters. I would guess that they rarely produce more than one offspring at a time. And from the information exchange with their ship, I estimate that it takes up to twenty egg-cycles before full maturation! That is much too impractical for our purposes.” Puor could see from the stiffness of her tail that his mate was most displeased by this revelation. He was a bit disgruntled himself, but…

“Perhaps we need not abandon our plan, but merely change it? Perhaps we make the creature exclusive—to zoos and rarity collectors only, and keep the only breeding pair here in the menagerie. If we perhaps acquire several females, we can keep them here for several egg-cycles and sell only the female offspring; then, in a few cycles, we can charge more for an impregnated female—”

“With the understanding that male offspring will be returned to the menagerie and half the price refunded?” Ta’kha said, her eyes narrowing shrewdly.

“Of course, or perhaps a second impregnation instead of a refund.” He could already see his mate’s tail relaxing as she calculated expenses versus profit.

“We shall be rich, Puor,” she hissed sibilantly, and he closed his eyes as she rubbed neck frills briefly with him.

“And now, dinner, perhaps?” he asked quietly. She laughed her agreement.

Malcolm and Hoshi had managed to eat while avoiding conversation—an accomplishment made easier by the fact that one of them couldn’t speak English…or any language, for that matter. Malcolm was trying to think of some way to apologize for his earlier inadvertent faux pas when he was saved by the bell—well, the comm.

“Hoshi?” Archer’s voice came over the intercom. “We need you on the bridge. The Kintarra have just contacted us.”

The giant orange lizard on the screen did not greatly improve Hoshi’s mood. He looked rather smug (as smug, anyway, as a giant orange lizard can appear), and he was staring at her—had been staring at her since the moment she entered the bridge. Not just her, she realized after a moment, but at the small dog she held in her arms.

“He wants to speak about Malcolm,” Archer told Hoshi in a low voice, “but he said something about wishing to speak directly to our ‘Controller’—whatever that means. It might just be a glitch in the UT; I’m hoping you can make better sense out of it.”

“Ah, you have arrived; perhaps now we can dispense with the puppets and speak directly? Perhaps these pale creatures amuse you, but we prefer a more…personal approach to business.” The lizard directed this at Hoshi—no, she realized abruptly, at Malcolm. Suddenly it all clicked. She reached down and hit the Mute button at her console.

“Captain, I think the Kintarra somehow believe that Porthos—er, Malcolm—is controlling us. That he’s the only intelligent being on board! But I don’t understand how…” Her eyes met Archer’s in sudden comprehension.

“If they have Malcolm’s body, with Porthos’s mind in it…” he breathed. “Of course they’re assuming we’re all at the same intelligence level!” He stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment.

“Hoshi, I want you to speak to them, see if you can find out where they have Malcolm’s body. Malcolm, go sit in my chair and try to appear to be intelligent.” The small beagle threw his captain a cold look. “Ah, what I meant was, make it look like you’re the one doing all the thinking—we’re just your pawns.” The dog made what appeared to be an attempt to roll his eyes, but jumped out of Hoshi’s arms to trot over to the captain’s chair and hop up. Archer nodded briefly to Hoshi, who tapped her console and turned to reply to the Kintarran.

“What is it that you wished to discuss?” she asked the lizard. His neck frills snapped back, a sure sign of annoyance.

“I wish to speak with you directly,” he told Malcolm. Hoshi moved to stand behind the chair that the dog/Malcolm was occupying.

“The ‘puppets’ are a necessity,” she answered, thinking fast. “My own vocal cords are insufficient to communicate in your tongue.” Malcolm tried to look imperious and condescending; at the helm, Travis stifled a laugh.

“I see,” the Kintarran murmured. “Well, perhaps we should simply proceed. Perhaps you have noticed that one of your puppets is missing? You should not be worried; we have it in our care at the moment.”

“I had noticed,” Hoshi admitted. “I have been searching for it. I’m so glad that you found it, as it is one of my favorites. How soon may I retrieve it?” Malcolm tipped his head to one side, shrewdly eyeing the viewscreen. The lizard’s smug look turned sly.

“Well, now, we should discuss this. My mate has grown very fond of the creature; perhaps, since you yourself have so many, you would be willing to let this one go? Of course, we would be willing to pay you—perhaps more than it is worth.” Malcolm shook his head, eyes narrowing. Hoshi imitated the movement.

“I’m afraid that is out of the question,” she replied. “I am quite fond of all of my pets. I only want its return.” The Kintarran stared at the dog for a moment, then shrugged his neck frill.

“Perhaps it is just as well that you come retrieve your pet. You may, perhaps, bring the dark-haired puppet with you; it has the best accent.” Hoshi glanced surreptitiously at Archer, who nodded slightly.

“This is acceptable,” she told the lizard. They spoke for a few more moments, making arrangements, then said their good-byes.

“My ready room,” Archer said as soon as the screen went black.

“Puor, what are you doing?” Ta’kha snapped at her mate. “We are not willing to pay for the creature we already have, nor do we wish to return it! We want another one!”

“Perhaps you did not realize what I did,” Puor soothed. “The puppet-creature I requested to accompany the Controller is a female. When they arrive, we simply take them both into custody. Then we will have what we want.”

“Or, perhaps we can take it a step further,” Ta’kha said, her frill brightening. “If we simply kill the Controller, then we can take all of the puppet-creatures for ourselves.” Puor smiled benignly.

“Your wisdom is, perhaps, beyond mine,” he murmured. “It is an excellent plan.” The two Kintarra hissed in glee.

To say that Malcolm disapproved of the plan would be an understatement. Malcolm was profoundly unhappy with the plan, a fact that he was communicating by barking loudly. Trip and Travis were frowning, and Hoshi was wincing slightly. Archer frowned at his security officer.

“Malcolm, I realize you’re not happy with this, but it’s the only way the Kintarra will allow us anywhere near your body. Look, we’re not going to send you and Hoshi down there all by yourselves, despite what we told that Kintarran. For one thing, Hoshi isn’t qualified to pilot a shuttlepod. Take a moment and be reasonable about this.”

Malcolm was still unhappy, but the captain was making sense…and, of course, he was the captain. So Malcolm settled down to wait anxiously as the rest of the command crew discussed their options—feeling powerless and wishing desperately to be back in his own body.

In the end, Malcolm was still not pleased with the travel arrangements, though he grudgingly admitted that (despite his vow the previous day) Captain Archer was the best choice to pilot the shuttle since he had more experience than Travis (and was a better shot). And it made sense for T’Pol to come along in case anything else were to go wrong with the mind-switching situation (or in case anyone else got hit by the Kintarran weapon). However, despite the fact that there would not be that much room in the shuttlepod, he still would have felt better if they were accompanied by a team of security officers. Two teams. With rifles. But he knew that the Kintarra would most likely react badly to that, and so he kept his muzzle shut and sat dubiously next to Hoshi as the small away team headed back to the Kintarran ship.

Twenty minutes later Malcolm found himself once again dodging alien gunshots and thinking fiercely that if people would just listen to him once in a while he wouldn’t get shot at so often. Then again, he reflected, if he would stop volunteering as bait, his injury quota would probably drop significantly.

It had started out well enough; the Kintarra had greeted them civilly and politely accepted Hoshi’s spurious explanation of the presence of the other two “puppets.” They had courteously led the way to where they were keeping Malcolm’s body and even amicably chatted with Malcolm (through Hoshi, of course) on the trip there. It was when they actually got within sight of Malcolm’s body that things began to fall apart again.

Porthos had caught sight of Archer, and immediately began yelling at the top of his lungs and lunging at the barrier that separated him from his beloved master. Malcolm would never know whether the Kintarra thought he was warning them, or just thought that he had provided them with a good opening—either way, they chose that moment to open fire.

Luckily, Malcolm had been walking at that point, and they seemed to be concentrating on him, which gave his crewmates time to find some cover, minimal though it was in the menagerie. Malcolm, noticing that the Kintarra were ignoring the others completely, remembered Archer’s puppet theory, put two and two together, and played a hunch. Praying his crewmates would understand, he took off deeper into the menagerie—and was rewarded by both Kintarra following him.

A blast that destroyed a section of wall over his shoulder brought his attention back to the present. These shots were obviously not meant to stun…Malcolm wasn’t sure why the Kintarra wanted to kill him, nor did he care—but he had had just about enough. Okay, he gritted silently to himself. You want to play? Let’s play. Darting around a corner, he skidded to a stop under a low-hanging bench and waited, motionless.

Moments later the two lizards rounded the corner and stopped, glancing about. The tangerine one hissed something in its own language and plunged deeper into the menagerie, leaving Malcolm crouched behind the smaller, turquoise one. He contemplated several courses of action before settling on finding out just how similar to lizards the Kintarra really were.

Apparently very similar—when he sank his tiny fangs into the turquoise tail in front of him and jerked hard, the tall alien was thrown completely off balance…and fell backward into the bench Malcolm was still crouching under…and shrieked in pain as the long turquoise tail separated from its body, sending Malcolm tumbling.

Unfortunately, its mate’s screams attracted the tangerine Kintarran, who came barreling back down the path. Malcolm knew when to cut his losses; he ran, as fast as his four legs would carry him, back toward his shipmates, hoping desperately that they would have some sort of plan. Fortunately, they hadn’t been idle in his brief absence.

“Malcolm!” Hoshi cried, waving from the path in front of him. He wanted to growl at her to get out of the way…when she did just that—leaving an open doorway behind her. Malcolm recognized the now-empty cage that had previously held his own body, calculated his position, and slowed down just enough to let the outraged Kintarran behind him get close enough to make a grab at him…just as he ducked through the doorway.

He immediately hit the brakes, paws scrabbling for purchase on the floor, and managed to somehow twist out of the lizard’s grasp. He launched himself desperately back at the doorway and was swept up into Archer’s arms as the alien threw itself at the door…and slammed into the barrier that T’Pol had reestablished an instant before.

The four humans and the dog stood staring at the Kintarran, who was shrieking what Malcolm suspected were swear words in its own language at them; Porthos responded by yelling nonsensically. T’Pol’s face took on a slightly pained expression, and for once Malcolm could sympathize with her sensitive hearing.

“Let’s go home,” Archer said, shaking his head. Malcolm sighed in relief.

“And then T’Pol had to sedate Porthos because he kept trying to climb into the captain’s lap to lick his face—which would have been fine except for the fact that he was still in Malcolm’s body and Captain Archer was trying to pilot the shuttle.”

Malcolm winced to himself as he paused outside the mess hall, listening to Hoshi tell Travis the unedited version of the story that no one outside of the command crew was allowed to hear. Ever. Travis hooted with laughter and Malcolm winced again as Trip’s voice joined in. He was never going to live this one down.

On the other hand, it was a relief to hear Hoshi laughing. Apparently Porthos’s antics in Malcolm’s body had more than made up for the fact that he had accidentally been in her room while she undressed (even though he had sworn several times that he had not peeked). And at least he was back in his own body, none the worse for wear, he reflected before finally dredging up the courage to enter the mostly deserted mess hall.

“Well, look what the dog dragged in,” Trip drawled as Malcolm joined the trio at a far table.

“That’s cat,” he glowered, trying his “evil eye” on the grinning engineer.

“Yeah, Commander, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Travis said gleefully. Malcolm turned his glare on the helmsman, who simply continued to look amused. Trip shook his head.

“I will never understand how you managed to pull off that look as a dog—I mean, your nostrils even flared the same way!”

“Well, you know what they say, Commander,” Hoshi put in smoothly. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Malcolm groaned and buried his face in his hands as the other three snickered.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” T’Pol’s voice behind him made him lift his head. The Vulcan was standing with a steaming cup in one hand and a data padd in the other.

“What are you working on this late at night?” Hoshi asked curiously.

“I am finishing my report on the effects of the Kintarran weapon to send to Vulcan,” she explained. “This technology should be examined thoroughly by some of our experts.” Malcolm returned his face to his hands, wondering just how much worse this could get.

“Are you going to include an in-depth study of Porthos’s actions in Malcolm’s body?” Trip asked interestedly. Malcolm’s head shot up. T’Pol stared somberly at the armory officer’s suddenly panicked face.

“I will, Lieutenant, be quite…discreet in my report,” she assured him seriously. “Besides,” she added, quirking one eyebrow, “I have heard that it is always best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Malcolm felt his face flame as his crewmates burst into laughter. Oh yeah, he was never going to live this one down.

Mother Nature’s Little

Reminders

A. Rhea King

T’Pol, Archer, Trip, Phlox, and Hoshi raced across the open prairie through a downpour. They ran into the waiting shuttlepod, stopping once they were out of the rain. Trip stopped next to the open hatch and leaned against the hull as he caught his breath. They were all soaked to the bone and he considered jabbing Archer for not listening to him when he said the storm was coming fast. The five jumped when something thumped loudly against the shuttlepod hull.

“What was that?” Hoshi asked.

With a deafening roar the sky let loose golf-ball–sized hail.

“Shut the hatch!” Archer yelled over the din.

Trip reached out, grabbing the hatch handle. He started to pull it shut but stopped. He heard something beyond the pounding hail, rain, and wind. It was something that his mind was certain it knew; something his mind told him to fear.

Trip looked up at the putrid green and black clouds overhead. His subconscious was trying desperately to recover a deep recessed memory.

“Shut the hatch, Trip!” Archer repeated.

“Ho—” Trip started to yell. The hail abruptly stopped the rest of her name.

The rain and wind stopped and the planet held its breath, anxiously waiting for something. It made Trip’s stomach knot, because his mind knew what was going on, it just couldn’t find the alcove where the associated memory had been stored.

“What?” Hoshi asked him.

The memories suddenly broke free and with them surfaced terror. His breath caught.

“Let’s gather the gear and head back,” Archer said.

He remembered a small voice screaming, I have to get Rufus! He’s going to die! I have to get Rufus, Grandpa!

Trip began to visibly tremble, but only Hoshi noticed. She laid a hand on his arm as a comforting gesture. In response, he looked at her, wide-eyed with terror.

“Trip, what’s wrong?” she asked.

The other three crew members looked at him.

“It’s coming,” Trip whispered.

“What is?”

Trip heard it now: a low, distant rumble.

We should lift off! Get the hell out of here! We—We’re out of time, Charles! We’re going to die! It’ll kill us! It won’t care! It doesn’t have feelings, it’s not sentient!

The elements outside bombarded the land again. A piece of hail stung Trip’s arm and the physical pain brought his mind and body back into synch. He regained control of his paralyzing panic.

Trip turned to the others. “We have to go to the gully. Come on.”

He ran into the storm but stopped when he realized the others weren’t following. Trip ran back to the open hatch.

“We have to go!”

“It’s hailing, Trip!” Archer argued.

The roar was getting louder.

“Cap’n—”

“What’s that sound?” Phlox asked.

Trip looked across the prairie and gaped. He grabbed Archer’s wrist, and at a run, yanked him out of the shuttle pod.

“Come on, people!” Trip screamed, running toward the gulley.

Archer tried to pull his arm away from Trip’s painful grip, but adrenaline had made Trip’s grip unbreakable. Behind them, the roar was growing to a deafening decibel level. Archer looked back and everything in the universe seemed to slow, except for the massive black funnel cloud that filled the horizon as it bore down on them. At the realization of what they were running from, Archer stopped fighting Trip.

Trip came to a wide, steep-sided gully and let Archer go. He slipped and slid down the muddy embankment, spotting an opening on his way down. He ran to it, clawing at the dirt and rocks as he scuttled into the tiny space. Trip crawled into the far back and sat down. Archer was right behind him and sat down on Trip’s leg. T’Pol, Hoshi, and Phlox squeezed in around them.

“That was…” Hoshi panted. “There was a…”

“Tornado,” T’Pol finished dully.

Trip closed his eyes. He clenched his hands into fists that were so tight that his fingernails cut into the skin on his palms. As the volume of the tornado increased, Trip’s trembling intensified.

Through gritted teeth Trip muttered, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

Confused by his actions—or rather, reactions—the other four looked at him. Something crashed loudly outside and Archer glanced away. Outside, the light had faded to dark gray. Trees flew past the cave, some hitting the ground and splintering. Archer’s communicator beeped. He reached into his arm pocket with a shaking hand and ripped it out.

“Archer.”

“Sir, we’re tracking a funnel cloud on sensors. It’s three times larger than an F-five class with winds in excess of five hundred kilometers. You should seek shelter.”

It sounded like something was being ripped right outside the cave, followed by a bullet-like whining. Archer instinctively pushed farther back into the cave and against Trip.

“I can’t talk right now. Stand by.” Archer snapped the communicator shut.

Trip glanced at his hand when he felt someone pick it up. T’Pol held his hand tightly in hers, and despite her calm expression, her light trembling hand gave away that she was scared. Trip closed his eyes again, continuing to count Mississippi. Archer muttered something unintelligible.

A tree hit the ground outside, bounced up, struck the inside of the cave only centimeters from Doctor Phlox, and was ripped away. Phlox moved back, pushing Hoshi farther into the cave and into Archer and T’Pol. The roar of the tornado grew to a deafening volume. Archer closed his eyes and repeatedly recited his hope that his crew and he would make it through this alive.

“It’ll be okay,” Archer heard a voice say.

Archer looked back at Trip. Trip had suddenly collected himself and looked calm, despite the destruction going on outside the cave. Trip put his arm around T’Pol’s shoulders, but looked into Archer’s eyes. He didn’t look scared anymore, as if the roaring funnel of death outside had already slipped by and life was going on.

“It’ll pass soon.” Trip looked away.

The roar of the tornado began to fade away and the wind subsided. Darkness gave way to brilliant sunshine and a light drizzle. The soft sound of rain hitting the ground sounded odd compared to what had just passed them. No one moved.

“Twister’s past. Let’s go straighten things out,” Trip told them.

Archer looked back at him. His behavior through the entire event had been confusing.

T’Pol was the first to move. She pulled away from Trip and crawled over Phlox and Hoshi. They followed her. Archer crawled to the entrance, but stopped, looking back at Trip.

“Are you okay?” Archer asked.

Trip held his gaze for a long time, and then crawled past him. Archer followed and the two climbed out of the gully, standing next to the other three.

There was a trough one and a half meters deep and twenty-three kilometers wide and less than six meters from them. Archer turned, staring at the tornado. It had traveled far and while still black, it didn’t look nearly as threatening. The clouds behind it were innocent gray clouds, swollen with rain.

“Sir,” Hoshi said. “I found one of our scanners.”

Archer turned to her. She held up a branch with a scanner fully embedded in it.

“That was an experience I don’t care to repeat,” Doctor Phlox commented.

Trip walked to the edge of the trough. He stared at the bare ground, his mind drifting into the past again.

“Archer to Enterprise,” he heard Archer say.

Trip looked up at the overcast sky.

“Go ahead, sir,” a crewman answered.

“Send the other shuttlepod. The tornado destroyed ours.”

“Right away, sir.”

Trip closed his eyes. Poor Rufus. Poor Grandpa Charles.

Archer walked into the mess hall and found Trip sitting at a table in the center of the room with his back toward the entrance.

“I’ve been all over this ship looking for you, Trip,” Archer told him as he walked up to him. “Why didn’t you answer when I called for you?”

Trip didn’t reply. Archer stopped beside him, looking at the photographs strewn across the table. They showed the aftermath of the tornado they had just experienced. It had leveled a forest and the ruins they had been exploring. Archer looked at the picture Trip was holding. It wasn’t from the tornado. This picture had three children, one of them eight-year-old Trip, and two elderly adults. Everyone except Trip was facing the camera. Young Trip was crouched next to the porch, looking over his shoulder at the photographer. Archer looked at Trip’s face.

“Trip.”

Trip didn’t acknowledge him.

“Charles.”

Trip looked up at him. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”

“Yeah, ’cept you only use ‘Charles’ when I’m in trouble or you’re introducing me to someone.” Trip smiled.

“No. Over the comm. I’ve been calling for you for ten minutes.”

Trip shook his head, looking back at the photograph. “I didn’t hear you. Sorry, sir.”

“Mind if I join you?” Archer motioned to the empty chair next to him.

Trip shook his head.

Archer sat down and leaned on the table, watching Trip’s face. Trip was looking sadly at the photograph in his hand.

“You haven’t been yourself the last few days.”

Trip didn’t answer right away. Archer looked down at the table, waiting.

“This is a picture of my cousins, Bethany and Scott, me, and these are my grandparents, Grandma Ilene and Grandpa Charles.”

“Your namesake?”

Trip smiled, nodding. “Yep. Me and my dad’s namesake.”

“Where was it taken?”

“On their farm in the Texas Panhandle.”

“What did they farm?”

“Corn and sunflowers. After their kids grew up, they left Florida and moved to Texas. Me and Liz spent a lot of summers there, but that summer it was just me and my cousins.”

“Are your grandparents still alive?”

“Naw. My grandma died three years ago. Grandpa Charles was killed the day after this photo was taken.”

Archer looked up at Trip, surprised by the information. “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

With a deep breath, Trip began. “The day started off just like on that planet—still, quiet, and hot. Us kids were playing outside when it started clouding up and Grandma called us into the house. She was baking a rhubarb-strawberry pie and the kitchen smelled wonderful. I remember she’d make these little pastry things with the extra crust. She’d spread butter, sugar, and cinnamon on them and bake them with the pie. We loved those things! We would always try to sneak in and steal ’em.” Trip closed his eyes, recalling the memory. “So, we were all in the kitchen when the door busted open and Grandpa grabbed Bethany and yelled at us to get to the storm cellar, pronto. We ran outside and it was blowing like the dickens. We got into the cellar and all of a sudden I remembered Rufus.”

Trip opened his eyes, watching the stars outside one of the mess hall ports. “He was the pup that Grandpa Charles had given me for my birthday a few summers earlier. We were always getting ourselves in trouble and when it got hot like it was that day, he’d sleep under the porch. I tried to leave to get him and threw such a fit about the dog that Grandpa Charles went to get him. And then the tornado hit.” Trip frowned, looking down at the table. He added quietly, “We never saw them again. The twister just sucked ’em up.” Trip sighed before continuing. “When it was over, we came out and everything was gone. The garage, strangely, was untouched. Grandma Ilene packed us into the car and we drove to town. She cried the whole way there. When we got to town…It was gone. The tornado had just left a bunch of rubble, wiped it clean off the map.”

Trip looked at Archer. “Twisters are one of those things that you’re a damn fool not to be scared of, and yet…they have a certain allure to them, you know? They’re awesome because of the power they have and how fast they can destroy things.” Trip turned his sad eyes back to the photograph. “Or how they can take the things you love away in half a heartbeat.”

Archer looked at his hands. “I wish you’d never had to go through that, Trip, but, if you hadn’t, we would have been killed. None of us knew what was going on. You saved our lives.”

Trip looked slyly at Archer. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Archer smiled.

“Yeah. You didn’t get to ride in and save the day.” Trip laughed.

Archer smiled, nodding. “All right. You got me. I’m completely jealous that you stole my thunder.”

The two laughed for a moment, but it died. Archer picked up another picture. It showed a spoon embedded into a crate.

“I’ll never forget that experience,” Archer told Trip.

“No. You won’t.” Trip stood, starting to gather up the pictures.

“I’ll get them.”

“You sure?”

Archer nodded.

“Good night, Cap’n.”

“Good night.”

Trip walked away. Archer looked down, looking at the photograph of Trip’s youth. Archer picked it up, staring at the smiling faces. He suddenly pulled the picture closer, noticing what young Trip was doing. He held the collar of a dog that had been caught crawling out from under the porch in the picture. It was a small black, brown, and white beagle that Archer assumed was Trip’s Rufus.

“I’ll be,” Archer whispered.

(Third Prize)

Mestral

Ben Guilfoy

Boston was on fire.

A lone figure crouched on the ledge of a roof and watched the venerable city burn. Below, people were fleeing, trying to get their cars running, or just plain running themselves. Most carried only what they could, though some, the figure noted with a frown, tried to carry far more.

As though such worldly possessions were worth saving, he thought, pulling his hood up over his head, preparing to enter the frantic scene below. He looked out across Mass Ave. at the orange glow rising from the center of the city. Between him, and that, was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, MIT.

He had come to Boston years before, as he’d explored the United States. He stayed low, “under the radar,” as the phrase applied. He thought it an odd one, but the quickly evolving slang terms of the American public had always intrigued him. But this time he’d returned to the city that birthed the American Revolution with a mission.

It is now time to complete that mission, he thought. He walked to the edge of the roof over the alley between that building and the next, and jumped down to street level. He pushed his way through throngs of people that were all trying to move in a thousand different directions. No one paid any attention to him, they just kept trying to push past.

He moved onto the abandoned MIT campus. A few people here or there cut through the area to save time, but the buildings were deserted.

Good.

He came to a physics lab, and walked up to the door; it was locked. He grasped the handle, turned, and pushed hard. With a crack, the door opened, and the figure stepped into the dark hallway. He closed the door behind him, and pulled a flashlight out of his pocket.

He moved through the hallways, reading signs on doors, trying to find one that might have what he sought: the parts needed to construct a rudimentary subspace radio.

He froze, his enhanced hearing picking up noise from behind. He turned, playing the light across the floor, then off into the distance. There was no one, but he knew that the sound had not come from the chaos outside. Someone was in the building with him, and nearby.

Had someone followed him in, with malicious intent? His brain catalogued questions and hypotheses as he retraced his steps toward the door.

The sound came again as he neared one of the lab rooms. He stopped outside the door, completely motionless, and listened more. There was definitely someone else inside the lab. The figure reached down for the doorknob, and opened the door slowly. He stepped into the room, and very clearly heard breathing from behind the door.

He stepped farther into the room, and twisted around to his left as a man lunged at him, swinging a stool high over his head. He put up his left arm to deflect the blow from the stool, and continued to twist around. He grabbed the man with his right arm as he came around, and threw him into the air. The man landed hard on one of the lab tables, and rolled off onto the floor on the other side.

“Who are you?” the tall man demanded, standing quickly.

“I am sorry,” the figure said.

“That ain’t an answer, pal,” the man growled.

“I know.”

The two stared at each other in the darkness. The only light came from the dull glow through the window, and the cloaked figure’s flashlight. He shined it directly into the tall man’s face. The man squinted, and held up his hand in front of his face.

“Get that damn light outta my eyes,” the man demanded. When the light was lowered, he blinked, trying to recover his night vision. “You didn’t answer me. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the very same questions,” the dark figure said.

The tall man grunted. “At least I’m supposed to be here. You look like a damn refugee.”

“I am.”

“What’s your name?”

After a moment’s consideration, the figure said, “Michael.” It was a lie.

His real name was Mestral. And he was Vulcan. He had been on Earth for a century, his ship having crash-landed in the woods near Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania, in the 1950s. Originally, he’d had two companions with him. But they left aboard a Vulcan transport that arrived to rescue them. He’d opted to stay behind, too intrigued by human culture to give up the opportunity to study them firsthand, to move among them, to learn.

But his time on Earth was at an end. Humanity was destroying itself, purging the Earth in the sickening glow of nuclear fire. Millions were dying, and the culture Mestral had come to love (in his own Vulcan way) over the last century was turning to bitter ash.

“What are you doing here?” the tall man asked.

The truth was something the man wouldn’t be able to conceive, Mestral knew. For centuries, Vulcans had prided themselves on their truthfulness. Mestral knew that one had to adapt to the environment, or die; his ability to lie about his own identity and intentions had kept him alive and free on an alien world for half his lifetime.

“I’m looking for shelter,” Mestral answered. “I have nowhere to go.”

The tall man scoffed. “You came here? For shelter?” He shook his head and turned away from Mestral to pick up the mess he’d made when he hit the table. “You must be some kind of stupid refugee.”

Mestral set his flashlight on the table, facing upward to give the room as much illumination as possible. “What are you doing here?”

The tall man sat down on a stool, and adjusted his hat. “Y’know, my friends told me I’d be in this lab till the world ended.” He chuckled. “Guess they were right.”

“You think the world has ended?”

The man sighed. “What would you call it?”

“A change. The world is still here. We are still here.”

“It’s not the same. The world I knew is gone.”

Mestral was quiet for a moment. The end of the world. Interesting. “What’s your name?”

“My friends call me Zee.”

“Am I your friend?”

“You haven’t tried to stab me for my food yet.”

“And now that the world has…ended, you expect everyone you meet to do so?”

Zee lit a cigarette. “Not everyone.”

Mestral watched Zee smoke. Of all the things he’d learned on Earth, the compulsion to fill one’s lungs with a deadly cloud of carcinogens (and to pay large sums of their currency to do so) was one of the things he’d never understood. It was also one of the few customs he hadn’t picked up. He’d long ago decided that he’d try almost anything once, including eating meat, something heavily frowned upon in Vulcan society; but nicotine was one of the few substances he hadn’t tried.

Zee stared at him for a long while. “I was a student here, a long time ago.”

Mestral said nothing, waiting.

“They said I was ‘going places,’ y’know? That I’d make it big.” Zee took a long drag and tried to make rings in the air with the smoke. He failed, and frowned. “Guess that’s never gonna happen, now.”

“Why not?”

Zee tilted his head toward the fiery orange glowing faintly through the shades. “You looked outside recently?”

Mestral stood, and began to empty bits of food from his pockets. It was time to eat. “I came from out there.” He paused. “So, these people, the ones that held you in such high regard…were they right? Did you ever do anything of note?” Mestral offered Zee a granola bar.

Zee stubbed out the cigarette, and took the bar. As he ripped open the wrapping, he shook his head. “Not really. I published a few papers, but…no. My baby never got off the ground.”

“Your…‘baby’?”

With a smile, Zee took a bite of the snack. “Mm,” he said, chewing, “chocolate-covered. My favorite.” He reached down and put a canvas backpack on the table. He reached into the pack, and pulled out a thin laptop computer. The silver casing glinted off the light from Mestral’s flashlight. Zee turned the computer on, and started tapping at the screen with his fingers.

“You wanna see my baby?” he asked. Mestral stood and walked over to him. “You gotta promise not to tell anyone.”

Mestral nodded. “I promise.”

Zee swung the laptop toward him, and Mestral stared incredulously at the designs for a warp engine. Zee took the computer back, but Mestral’s photographic memory went to work analyzing the image he’d seen for only a few seconds.

It was crude, merely the beginnings of one of the most complicated devices ever constructed, but it was there. Here, on this world on the brink of destruction, a ragged man huddling alone in the dark had unlocked one of the greatest secrets in human history—how to travel faster than light. But Mestral looked at the windows, and wondered if humanity was ready for such a discovery.

Human beings, he knew, were singularly concerned with themselves, and their own gain. Not unlike my own people were, long ago, Mestral reminded himself. It had taken the Vulcan race’s near extinction in the nuclear fires of civil war to make his race realize what was at stake, and what had to be done. It had been one man, a single Vulcan who preached peace and logic, who had turned everything around in the final moments. Without Surak’s messages of peace, Vulcan would surely be a dead husk of a planet by now.

Mestral wondered if the man in front of him would be the savior of Earth’s humanity. They already have several, he thought, recalling the history he’d learned. Roughly around the time of Surak, there had been a human preaching a similar (albeit rather more emotional) message. There were others, of course, as disagreement seemed to be so completely ingrained into the human race. They fought and squabbled over what they thought their gods wanted. It was no different when this human preacher had become so popular two thousand years earlier.

“I was gonna make a bundle on it,” Zee said.

Mestral, his voice carefully maintained, asked, “What is it?”

Zee smiled, packing the computer away. “You probably wouldn’t get it.”

Mestral remembered a phrase from a movie: “Try me.”

“All right,” Zee said, taking another bite of the granola bar. “Basically, I think I can use this machine to channel great amounts of energy and create a warp in space.”

So the human did understand what he had. Warp drive wouldn’t be an accidental discovery for the people of Earth, as Vulcans believed.

Zee continued, “So basically, put something inside this spacewarp, give it a little thrust, and boom, faster-than-light travel!”

Mestral raised his eyebrows. “That’s astonishing. You came up with this?”

“Yep.”

Mestral suddenly became worried. “Then what are you doing here? You should get this away from the city, protect it.”

Zee scoffed, crumpling up the granola bar wrapper and tossing it in a nearby bin. “Protect it? What in the hell for? This whole place is gonna melt to slag soon enough.”

Suddenly, the room shook around them.

“See?”

Mestral moved to the window, and looked through the shades. Another mushroom cloud blossomed over Boston. This one wasn’t far, though it was small.

“Down!” he shouted, and tackled Zee just as all the windows blew in. Glass and burning wood showered down into the room, and Mestral and Zee were thrown to the far side of it. Mestral looked through the blasted windows, and saw fires catching on nearby trees, spreading to the surrounding buildings.

“We must leave,” he said.

“Why? Where would we go?” Zee sat up. He lurched forward, and grabbed Mestral by the collar. “Everything’s coming apart!”

Mestral pointed at Zee’s backpack. “Your work must survive! Your baby!”

Zee’s eyes went wide with incredulity. He backed off, and picked up the bag. “My work? Who cares about my work? No one. And no one’s going to be alive to care!”

“It could be just the thing that saves this planet from destroying itself,” Mestral said calmly. Outside, the fires got closer. “Is your nihilism worth letting humanity wither away on this one little planet? What if your friends were right, that this was it, that you were going to ‘make it big’ with this very invention?”

Zee stared out at the fires that were starting to blacken the broken window frames.

“Don’t you even want to try?” Mestral persisted.

Zee slipped the pack onto his shoulders. “All right. Let’s get out of here.”

Mestral grabbed his flashlight, and the two of them ran out into the hallway. They exited the building, and ran across the courtyard, Mestral in the lead. “We’ll take Massachusetts Avenue to Route One.”

“One?” Zee asked. “Are you nuts? We’ll go south, to Ninety-five.”

Mestral gave him a confused look. “One will take us north, into New Hampshire.”

“Yeah, and Ninety-five goes south. It’s warmer in the south.” Zee paused. “Besides, New Hampshire creeps me out. Those people are weird.”

Mestral nodded. “You should visit Vermont.”

Zee grunted as they ran. A few other stragglers rushed down Mass Ave. with them. They all looked the same—scared, dirty, their clothes covered in soot or blood. Zee realized that it had been very stupid to want to stay. Looking at these other ragged refugees, he saw how close he had come to destroying himself and his baby.

They ran long, and hard.

Zee and Mestral drifted down Route 95 with a crowd of about fifty others. All the vehicles on the road were stopped; dead or burned out. Mestral kept his hood on, even at midday.

“What’s your story?” Zee asked, after hours of silence.

“I do not have a story,” Mestral told him.

“Bull,” Zee called. “Everyone has a story. Who are you? Where are you from?”

Mestral, for an instant, considered telling him the truth. He considered telling him all about the myriad space fleets that traverse the skies at speeds Zee would consider almost ludicrous. He considered telling him that Zee could very well save the planet Earth.

“I wander.”

“Hail the wandering wanderer,” Zee said sarcastically. “Why are you wandering?”

“I left home, my job, my colleagues…because I wanted to learn,” Mestral said. “I was no longer content with my position. I needed more.”

Zee grunted. “Tell me something I don’t know. Y’know, Mike, I’ve been alive for a while now”—Mestral raised his eyebrow—“and I gotta say, no one is content with their positions. Trust me.” Mestral just nodded. They took a turn around an overturned semi. They found themselves at the tip of a small rise, looking out as the highway extended off into the distance.

Ahead, “traffic” got much thicker. Hundreds of cars, all parked neatly where they stopped running in the middle of rush hour. The overcast sky threw it all beneath a dull gray blanket, killing the colors on even the most garish, ridiculous vehicles. People streamed between them, lines of them snaking off to disappear into the distance along with the cars around a bend nearly a mile and a half off. Beyond that, tree-covered hills, and a set of radio antennas.

Zee grunted when he saw the antennas.

“What?”

“The antennas.”

“What about them?”

Zee pointed. “They’re not blinking.”

“This position you left,” Zee said, “what was it?”

Mestral looked up from the can of soup he was heating on their campfire. He stuck his spoon into the can and swirled it. “I was a researcher, of sorts. Anthropology, the study of other cultures.”

“Cool.” Zee was eating the soup that had meat in it—chicken noodle, the can read. They had scavenged the food out of a grocery store’s back room. The rest of the store had been picked clean, but in the locked storerooms they had found a case of soup and some bottled water—prizes of immeasurable value, now.

Zee tilted his head back and downed the rest of his soup. “So…what were you doing at MIT? In the physics building, I mean. Not exactly the kind of place I’d expect an anthropologist to hole up in.”

Mestral didn’t answer.

“I mean, especially when everyone else was hightailing it out of the city.”

More silence. Zee was getting frustrated at his incommunicative traveling partner.

“You’re not telling me something,” Zee said coldly. “I don’t appreciate it. It scares me. This isn’t the time to take chances on people.”

“I know,” Mestral said. “I love this world. It saddens me to see it falling apart.” He regretted saying that as soon as it left his lips; not because he thought Zee would guess the truth, but because he’d expressed such emotion so explicitly. He knew, of course, that other Vulcans would look down on his choices over the past century. But the one thing that they would not forgive was his assimilation into Earth culture. His emotional barriers had been breaking down for some time, and now he realized that he was Vulcan only physiologically.

In his heart, he was human.

“I was not one for emotional attachment,” Mestral said. “In my…family…it was frowned upon. We were a particularly cold group. I left that.”

Zee grunted. “Doesn’t sound like there’s much to regret. I’d have ditched a family like that, too.”

“It was all I knew,” Mestral said, finishing his soup. “And then I came out here, and it just…I fell in love with the outside world.”

“Were you, like, Amish or something?”

“Or something.”

“…Ah. Don’t know much about the Amish,” he replied thoughtfully as he puffed a cigarette that he’d lit moments before.

In the distance, they heard and felt an arrhythmic thudding vibration. Over the trees, faint flashes of light.

“More bombing,” Mestral said neutrally.

Zee stood, trying to see through the trees. He bunched his fists angrily. “That damn Eastern Coalition! They couldn’t leave us well enough alone!”

Mestral shrugged, moving to stand beside Zee. “The United States has been the aggressor more times than I can count in the last century.”

“So what?”

“So, the E-Con clearly felt there was precedent for their actions,” Mestral said, continuing to keep his tone as neutral as he could.

Zee stubbed out his cigarette on a tree, then stamped on it with his foot. “It’s just so…unfair.”

“I know.”

Zee turned to Mestral, his eyes flaring with anger. “Why the hell does my life have to be turned to crap because some jackass congress on the other side of the world doesn’t like us? What the hell does this have to do with me?”

“War is not about you.”

“Then why do I have to deal with it? All I wanted to do was sit in my lab, invent something pretty, and retire in peace! I don’t give a crap about politics, or the way this stupid world works! I care about money, and naked chicks!”

Mestral looked at Zee, who was not the most attractive human male he’d ever come across. “Naked chicks?”

“Yeah, well, you gotta have a goal, right?” Zee laughed, and sat back down by the fire. He put his face in his hands and sighed. “This is a goddamn nightmare.”

Mestral sat back down beside him. “If you were to build your baby…where would you go?”

“What?”

“What would you need? If what you want is to continue your work, then do so. Everything here is up for grabs. You saw the stores, looted clean.”

Zee laughed again. “You think we’ll be able to just steal the materials to build a spaceship? Jesus, you are weird, Mike.” Mestral sat next to him. They were quiet for a moment, and Mestral could see that Zee was, indeed, working things through in his mind. “Jesus, where would we get this stuff? How would we even get the damn thing into space?”

“I have an idea about that…”

The next day, Zee and Mestral came across an evacuation point. Standing at the top of a rise on the highway, they looked down over a convoy of green army transports idling in the center of the road. Larger vehicles with huge plows attached to the front were clearing an area of the highway of the dead cars littered about. Off into the distance, Zee and Mestral saw wrecked cars shoved to the side of the road. The army had literally plowed its way into the State of Massachusetts.

The two walked straight up to the first soldier they saw.

“What’s going on?” Zee asked. Mestral tried not to look the man straight in the face, and kept his hood on.

The soldier replied, “Evacuation. We’ve got E-Con troops moving south from Canada.”

“From Canada?” Zee said, incredulous. “Y’know, Maine and New Hampshire are pretty big…. We’re not talking Rhode Island, here.”

“It’s the nukes,” the soldier said. He looked like he might tear up for a moment, then just said, “Move along, please. Move along.”

Zee and Mestral walked away, but not toward the evacuation line.

“What do you think?” Zee asked.

“It depends on where they are going to take us.”

“Yeah.”

A squadron of military jets roared by overhead. The several hundred refugees all looked skyward as one, and then shrieked as a missile came streaking in from the opposite direction. Everyone broke into a hundred different directions; refugees fled in panic while the soldiers tried to herd them toward the transports.

Zee grabbed Mestral’s hood. “C’mon!” he shouted, yanking hard to the left. Mestral’s hood came down from his head and bared his ears for the world to see. Luckily, no one was paying attention as he pushed the hood back into place. Zee pulled him through the crowd toward the forest to the west. Another missile came down right in the middle of the group of transports.

A jet of flame roared up into the sky, and torn, twisted, burning metal rained back down. Mestral took hold of Zee’s arm, and swung him around. Zee’s feet left the ground, and Mestral flung him past the tree line as one of the transports came slamming down practically on top of them, the metal compacting into the ground.

Zee stood, and grabbed Mestral as the Vulcan crawled away from the flaming wreck, dazed. “Come on!” He pulled him into the trees, and then collapsed next to him, breathing hard. They both felt the heat from the flames. On the road, the screaming continued. The soldiers were pulling back; the green transports swerved wildly around their blasted comrades.

“Guess we don’t get a ride after all,” Zee wheezed. “C’mon.” They stood and limped off into the woods away from the highway.

Zee and Mestral avoided advancing military troops and major cities on their journey westward. Life in many small towns across the northern United States remained very much the same, they found. Whenever they came across a public transportation system that still ran, they took advantage of it. Zee never let his backpack, with its precious computer cargo, out of his tight grasp.

Mestral fought off an unwelcome bout of nostalgia when they passed through Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania. The two travelers walked down the main street, ignoring suspicious glances from the locals.

“Turn left,” Mestral said. “There is a tavern.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“A long time ago.”

They turned left onto Coalmine Road, and Mestral was dismayed to see a mini-mall two blocks down.

“So…no tavern?” Zee asked.

“It is gone.”

The two walked into the mini-mall parking lot, which was empty except for a few beaten, weathered sedans. Mestral looked up at the sign by the road, frowning. “Pine Tree Mall.”

Zee tapped him on the shoulder. “Check it out, a sub shop.” Mestral nodded absently and followed. Even before they reached the door, the smell of meat assaulted Mestral’s nose, and he steeled himself to the experience that was to follow.

They entered, and Zee frowned at the place. The decor was absolutely ancient. Just how long ago was this place a tavern? he wondered. Linoleum flooring curled up in a few places, and the Formica-covered tables to the left were faded from exposure to the sun through the shop’s large windows.

Zee walked forward to the counter, looking up at the menu.

“You guys got a liquor license?” he asked.

The teen behind the counter chuckled. “Sorry, we only have pop and juice.”

Zee looked at Mestral. “You believe this?” He shook his head, and then looked back up at the menu. “I’ll get, uh, I’ll get a roast beef sandwich.” He turned to Mestral. “You?”

“House salad.”

The teen got to work preparing their food while Zee and Mestral selected drinks from a cooler to the right of the counter. Zee picked a caffeinated soda. He saw Mestral turn his nose up at it and said, “I need the sugar.” Mestral nodded, and picked a fruit juice. They sat down at one of the tables, and Mestral sipped his juice. Zee looked over to the counter.

“Hey, kid…. Wireless?”

The teen nodded, and Zee pulled the laptop out of his bag and turned it on for the first time in days and watched the monitor as the machine connected to the internet.

“I’m amazed this place is still open,” he said as the computer booted up. “I can imagine meat becoming something of a commodity nowadays.”

Mestral nodded. “Carbon Creek is…a place of tradition. At least, I thought it had been.”

“You’re really thrown by this tavern thing, aren’t you? Why was it so important?”

The teen walked up and put their food on the table. Mestral began to eat his salad, and Zee chomped into the sandwich with gusto.

“Jesus, that’s good,” he mumbled with a full mouth. They ate in silence for a moment, then: “So, you didn’t answer my question.”

Mestral chewed and swallowed, then put his fork down. “I used to live here,” he said. “There were some people who were very important to me.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Mestral said, and began eating again. There was another moment of silence, and then Zee swiveled his laptop around to show Mestral the screen.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this thing.” A 3-D image of the warp engine spun around slowly on the screen. “We have to get it into space somehow; you can’t light this thing off in the atmosphere.”

“No,” Mestral agreed.

“So what’s the best thing we’ve got right now for pumping stuff into orbit? We haven’t had a viable shuttle program in decades, and this war certainly isn’t going to be a boon to space travel.”

“I don’t imagine so.”

“So…I was thinking, maybe, we could build it into the fuselage of a missile.”

Mestral raised his eyebrow. It was a bold idea, bolder perhaps than even the warp drive itself. “Missiles powerful enough to launch into orbit,” he said slowly, “are not generally for sale to the public. Especially in wartime.”

Zee scratched his head. “I know. I know. But if we can get one, it’s absolutely the easiest solution. The hardest thing about this project is getting it into space. The missile is designed to deliver a payload into orbit, and then it breaks away and falls back down. That’s absolutely perfect for what we want to do.”

“I used to love television,” Mestral said.

Zee scrunched his nose. “What?”

“One time, I wrote a script for a TV show and sent it to a friend of mine in Los Angeles. He said, ‘You’re writing the third act before the first.’”

Zee blinked. “I know. But Mike, you’re the one who said we had to try this. You’re the one who said we should go west, try to find some aeronautical engineer you met a few years ago. I’ve never met this ‘Lily’ person. I’m going on your word, here.”

They paid for the meal they had just finished and walked back out onto the street as night began to fall on Carbon Creek.

“We should try getting in touch with her,” Zee said. “Make sure she’s still, um…there.”

“You mean, alive?”

“Yes.”

Ohio passed in a breeze. The same with Indiana and Illinois. Though time flew, it had been weeks since Zee and Mestral’s encounter at MIT in Cambridge. Zee grumbled about the sheer amount of walking their trip entailed, while Mestral continued to remain a quiet mystery. The two often traveled in silence, and at times, Zee wondered why they were even traveling together at all. What good was warp travel going to do a society that was literally tearing itself apart?

Something else troubled him, also. The soldier in Massachusetts had claimed that E-Con troops were moving into the United States from Canada. Many of the world’s major cities had been nuked; the few newspapers left in circulation made claims about catastrophic death tolls and collapsing economies, worldwide starvation and mass slaughters, none of which Zee thought he could entirely believe. How much was true? How much was exaggerated? How many were bold-faced (he forgave himself that one pun) lies?

A bus dropped them off at a small depot in Wisconsin. The ticket-booth operator apologized that there would be no further runs west.

“Why not? Is it the E-Con?”

“No,” the operator said. “But we’re shutting down. The army is confiscating the company’s entire fleet for New England evacuations.”

“Do you think the Eastern Coalition will attack Montana?”

“I sell bus tickets, pal,” the operator said, almost angrily. Mestral merely nodded.

Zee put his hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, we’re back to walking.”

Over the next two days, they managed to hitchhike as far as Minnesota. The walk along Route 23 was aided by some decent weather. Mestral and Zee had worried on their way through Illinois that the laptop would be damaged by the drenching rain they’d slogged through for nearly two days. Mestral had always considered Earth a more pleasing planet, climate-wise, than Vulcan. He preferred the myriad types of weather and climate, the different landscapes Earth seemed to provide in limitless supply.

Vulcan, on the other hand, was arid desert as far as the eye could see, punctuated by cities designed to blend into the surrounding landscape. Vulcan architecture was minimalist, at best, whereas Earth provided vistas one could study for years. Decades, even, Mestral thought.

“Here comes another one,” Zee said aloud, disrupting his thoughts. Mestral turned to look behind them as a vehicle hummed around the bend. He’d heard it well before Zee had, of course, but his reverie had distracted him from his senses.

Zee waved as the car sped past, but the driver showed no intention of slowing or stopping.

“Never a Samaritan,” Zee mumbled.

The ground began to vibrate. Mestral raised his eyebrows, and probed outward with his senses.

“Something is coming,” he said.

“What?”

Zee heard a low whistle, building up as it got closer. Mestral shoved him aside, and they dove off the road as flaming debris shot down from above the trees. The wreckage of a fighter plane blown into a million pieces dug up the pavement. Zee looked up, but saw no sign of a pilot in a parachute.

In the distance, they could hear heavy cracking of automatic gunfire rumbling that sounded as if it were coming closer.

“We really have to learn to stay off of these highways,” Zee said.

Mestral nodded. “Stay down,” he said. E-Con troops were obviously moving into Minnesota, meaning that the United States’ border defense had failed once more. More explosions thudded in the air, shaking the ground. They were getting closer; Zee could feel it in his teeth.

“Those bastards,” Zee muttered. “What the hell!”

Mestral turned to him. “China and America were the world’s last great superpowers,” he said. “It was bound to end in conflict. I just did not think the Coalition would be able to muster so much effort to attack the United States from both sides.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” Zee replied. “We’ve never had to defend the Canadian border before.”

Mestral decided now was the time to attempt humor. “Perhaps they should have come from Mexico, instead.” He smiled.

Zee just shook his head. “Lame, Mike. Real lame.”

Mestral nodded. Another plane came down out of the sky, punching a hole in the line of trees half a mile down the road. The trees went up in an instant, and the fire began to spread quickly into the forest.

A line of army trucks, retreating from combat, came down the road headed in the same direction as the car a few minutes before. Zee jumped up and ran to the road, waving his arms.

“Hey! Hey!” he shouted, desperately trying to flag one down. The first few trucks swerved around him, one coming dangerously close to tipping over onto the shoulder. One of the trucks ground to a halt, and the soldier driving shouted, “Get in, damn it!”

Zee and Mestral climbed into the passenger side, and the driver took off.

“You guys okay?” the driver asked.

Zee and Mestral merely nodded. Zee looked into the side mirror and watched a truck at the end of the convoy get blown to bits.

“Jesus!” he whispered almost involuntarily.

“Hang on!”

The driver spun the wheel and the truck tore off onto the shoulder as E-Con helicopters strafed the road up and down the convoy. More trucks exploded. The tires blew out on some. Zee watched one flip up into the air and slam down on the truck behind it. Bullets chewed the ground. The truck in front gunned forward, and threw pebbles that cracked the windshield protecting Zee and Mestral and their driver.

The driver continued to swerve around, trying to avoid being hit. The convoy had quickly disintegrated from the loose mess it had already been, with everyone scrambling for themselves, not caring at all about the safety of those around them. Zee and Mestral held on tight, silently praising the skill of their driver.

Missiles were loosed; explosions seemed to fill the entire world. Zee’s ears rang from the cacophony, but he wouldn’t let go of the dashboard to block them. To do so risked being flung forward, and a cracked skull was a less preferable option than temporary deafness. And he also had his laptop to think of. It was currently wedged between him and Mestral. If he were to move, the machine would probably drop to the truck’s floorboards.

“This is insane!” Zee shouted. He wasn’t sure if the others heard him or not. Mestral did, but made no reply.

From the left, a squadron of American helicopters burst over the trees, launching air-to-air missiles. They cut straight through the E-Con forces. Above them, a wing of fighter jets streaked across the sky, already diving into bombing runs on the enemy moving behind the shattered convoy.

“Yes! Yes!”

Mestral smiled.

Zee whooped, and the driver started singing. Mestral didn’t recognize the song, not having grown up on the planet, but Zee clearly did and joined in.

The truck drove on.

They stopped at a makeshift army base where the military was herding refugees. A vast city of tents had been constructed for those that would be staying overnight, and the orange glow of campfires broke the darkness. The driver of the truck asked Zee and Mestral if they needed a doctor, but when they both shook their heads, he left them at the edge of the town.

Zee checked on his laptop, and found it scratched and banged, but in perfect working order. Mestral stared at the tents, at all the people gathered around the fires, eating and talking.

“I have to go,” he said.

Zee grunted. “Yeah, me too. But it wasn’t like I was going to ask that guy to pull over any time soon.”

“No,” Mestral said, a bit louder. “I mean I’m leaving you.”

“Why? We’re practically there.”

“You have to go to Montana. Find Lily, and tell her I sent you. She’ll help you, I promise.”

“You came this far…”

“I know. I had a reason,” Mestral said. “But my people have had a rule, for a long time, about interfering in the lives of others.”

Zee looked confused. Mestral didn’t blame him, but he wasn’t about to explain much further. “I’ve set you on a path we both believe is necessary,” he continued. “But you must finish it. It’s not my place to do it for you, or with you.” He pointed at the tents. “You have to do it alone, and you have to make sure that this doesn’t happen again.”

“How can I…?”

Mestral, a Vulcan, who never much liked physical contact, squeezed Zee’s shoulder. “What you have will change the world, if you want it to badly enough.”

He turned and walked away from Zee, tightening his hood as he did. He walked away from the tents, away from the fires, and into the darkness of the woods. As he walked, he pulled his left hand away from his side, saw it covered slick with green blood, and pushed the pain out of his mind.

Lily’s house was a simple one-floor prefab, a small but neat lawn out front, and a single-car garage. Zee tightened the strap on his backpack as he walked up to the front door and tried the bell. He didn’t hear anything, and after a moment, knocked solidly.

The barrel of a shotgun pushed out of the mail slot, pointed at his groin.

“Go away, or regret it,” a voice said.

Zee took a step back. “I, uh, I’m looking for Lily Sloane?”

The shotgun barrel moved slightly. “Who’s askin’?”

“My name’s Cochrane. Zefram Cochrane. Michael sent me.”

The gun disappeared. He heard the sound of the lock working, and the door swung open. Zee was presented with a small black woman with powerful eyes. She kept the gun pointed at him.

“Michael? What Michael?”

“I didn’t really get a last name. Uh, thin, kinda quiet, wears a hood, like, all the time…” His words drifted as he realized nervously that he’d given his faith, and safety, to someone he never really knew anything about.

Lily smiled, and dropped the barrel away from Zee. “Is he with you?”

“No. He, uh, he just said I should come see you.”

“Why?”

Zee hefted the backpack. “If you let me in, I’ll show you.” Lily stood aside, and Zee stepped into her home.

“So,” he said, “Michael tells me you’re an aeronautical engineer.”

“That’s right…” Lily said as she closed the door behind them.

“Cool.”

Speculations

Remembering the Future

Randy Tatano

Picard’s face began to dissolve, as if melted by the bright light behind it. But it wasn’t sunlight. Rather, a rainbow of the most vivid colors Jim Kirk had ever seen melted into his vision; a prism that was pouring into his brain like rejuvenating lifeblood.

“Oh my…”

His pain dissolved away like Picard’s face. Suddenly every molecule in his body separated and was hurled forward into the color. Then the rainbow seemed to flow into his veins, invigorating him even more. He felt young, alive; even more alive than when he’d actually been young. He saw stars flying by, faster than any warp speed he could imagine.

Then, in an instant, he arrived.

The being that stood before him was awash in the color, as was Kirk.

“Welcome home, James.”

Kirk looked around, and saw that he was floating in the sea of color. He looked back at the being, who was smiling at him. It was female, he could tell, but not quite human. Tall and slender, long flowing hair of spun copper that seemed to float in slow motion. The emerald green eyes were larger than normal, but warm and inviting. He felt safe, as if his mind had been wrapped in a warm blanket.

Kirk looked around and saw no one else. “Let me guess. I’m back in the Nexus?”

“No, Jim, this isn’t the Nexus,” said the being, in a soothing voice that seemed to float toward him.

Kirk didn’t care for his second guess. “So, I’m dead again?”

“An interesting way of putting it, Jim, but for all intents and purposes, yes. Though you weren’t really dead before. The Nexus was just a brief detour from a normal existence.”

Kirk stepped closer to the being. “Are you…God?”

The being shook her head. “No, Jim. My name is Kariel. I was once a corporeal life-form like yourself. I have merely reached a stage of existence different from your own. One you may achieve in time. I am, for lack of a better term, your guide.”

“And this place is…”

“Heaven, the afterlife, whatever term you are comfortable with. It is your home for the next stage of your development.”

“Development?”

Kariel smiled at Kirk. “Too long to explain in a few minutes and it will come later as I lead you forward. But it is an answer best experienced a little at a time. You’ve lived quite an extraordinary life, James.” She seemed to look right into his soul.

Kirk thought for a moment. His life had been extraordinary, career-wise. But personally…

The being moved toward him. “Do not feel any regret about what might have been. Everyone wishes he could have changed some things about his or her own life. It never seems to work out exactly as we intended.”

“Tell me about it.”

“That is why we give everyone the option to change one thing. To help erase whatever regret that may linger. We do not wish you to continue your development until you have gained closure regarding your previous existence. So you have the option, should you wish to exercise it.”

Kirk furrowed his brow. His interest was definitely piqued. “Option? How does that work, exactly?”

“It is a very simple decision, and you may take as much time as you wish to decide. You may conclude you are content with the way your life has turned out and continue with your development immediately, or you may use the option to change something and complete your previous existence.”

“Complete my life?” he asked. “But you said I was dead.”

She nodded. “Your corporeal existence, as you know it, is over. Yet you have the option of going back. For one thing.”

“I did that in the Nexus. For a lot of things,” Kirk pointed out.

“Ah, the Nexus. Quite the cosmic playground. But it is merely an illusion. What was it you said when you were riding that horse? How it no longer scared you because it wasn’t real?”

“So this is…”

“Real, Jim. And if you go back, everything you see and hear and feel will be real as well, even though it will be your past. There are no illusions here. Nor will there be any in your past.”

Kirk looked around again. He saw no walls, no horizon. No boundaries of any kind. It was as if he and the being were the only two life-forms in the universe. “But if I go back and fix something, doesn’t that change history? Doesn’t that affect the lives of other people?”

“Why do you assume changing history will be a bad thing?”

“So there’s no such thing as fate?”

Kariel nodded. “In a sense, fate exists. But fate and destiny are two very different things. Once a person decides the type of life he will lead, then yes, his destiny is set. In your case, you knew early on you wanted to be an explorer and to help people. Nothing could change your destiny from that point. But you had the free will to decide what kind of life you would lead, what path you would take to fulfill your destiny. You did so as a starship captain.”

It was too much all at once. Kirk looked around again. The beauty of the place was intoxicating, the colors seeming to bloom in an instant. So vibrant…

“There are no rules when it comes to history, James. Destiny, yes, but not history.”

The being was speaking in riddles. If only Spock were here to sort this out logically. “I’m not sure I understand,” said Kirk.

“You can be destined for greatness, yet find many different paths to achieve it. History also has many paths leading to the same result.”

Kirk was beginning to understand. If he could just…

Kariel moved forward and took his hands in her own. They were warm and incredibly soft, seemingly melting into his own. For the first time he detected the scent of roses as she leaned forward. “James, there is one relationship you’ve always wondered about. One path you might have taken that has always haunted you….”

Kirk realized the being could read his mind. “I’ve always wondered…if there was just a little more time…”

“There is a little more time. If you choose.”

“If I go back, can I…”

“As I said, James, there are no rules when it comes to history. Nothing you do will change what you are, only what you’ve experienced.”

“No rules.”

“None.”

It went against everything he ever believed about time travel and changing history.

To hell with the Prime Directive. The galaxy owes me one.

He glanced down at the being’s hands; so delicate, the four fingers so perfectly formed. Then back at Kariel’s eyes. The look was soft and understanding. “Then I want to go back. But first, I need to go back before I was born. Is that possible?”

She nodded and smiled again. “I see you haven’t forgotten the Kobayashi Maru. I was told you’d be a bit different.”

“So can I…?”

“You can change one thing. It doesn’t matter how long it takes you to accomplish this.” Kariel closed her eyes and bowed her head. She reached up and touched Kirk on the forehead. “It is done.”

Kirk saw the truck speeding toward Edith Keeler as she crossed the street. McCoy started to run after her, but Kirk was younger and faster. He dashed into the road, and in one motion wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to the ground as the truck raced by.

He pushed himself from the pavement and looked at her face, which was unmarked. He brushed her hair from her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She looked up into his eyes, right into his heart. “Oh my. You saved me.”

No, Edith, you saved me.

Kirk stood up and pulled Edith to her feet as McCoy and Spock arrived. He looked at Spock and knew what was coming.

Spock wore a stern look. “Jim. Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Of course he knows, Spock,” said a smiling McCoy as he patted Kirk on the back. “He saved her life.”

Spock stared at Kirk. “Yes, Doctor. And now he must save ours.”

“Bones, is she asleep?” asked Kirk, as McCoy entered the room.

“Yes,” said McCoy. “I found an old-fashioned sedative in what used to be called a medicine cabinet. Slipped it in her cup of tea. Never knew what hit her. She could actually use some rest after what she’s been through tonight.”

Spock shook his head as he paced around the dimly lit room. “Unfortunately, Doctor, a sedative will not solve our problem. How to right history so that all is as it should be is the only way we can get back to our own time. Logically, since Edith Keeler did not die, we cannot do so without going back in time again. But we cannot do that without getting back to the Guardian. And we cannot do that…”

“Spock, you’re speaking in circles,” interrupted McCoy.

“Unfortunately you are correct, Doctor. We are in a vicious circle. I believe it was once called a ‘catch-22.’ There is, unfortunately, no logical solution. We are trapped here, and Captain Kirk’s actions will change history for the worse because he allowed Edith Keeler to live.”

“Are you suggesting Jim should have let her get run over by that truck?”

“It was her destiny,” said Spock.

Kirk finally interrupted. “It was her history, not her destiny.”

“I fail to see how a question of semantics will change our present dilemma,” said Spock.

“It would take me too long to explain,” said Kirk. “But there is a logical way out of this.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “With all due respect, there is no logical solution. As a Vulcan, I have taken into account…”

“But there is, Spock,” said Jim. “And because you’re a Vulcan, you’re the only one who can save us.”

Kirk sat at the edge of the bed and looked at Edith as Spock stood nearby. He ran his finger across her cheek. So smooth, so fragile. Just like Kariel. Her expression was so peaceful as she slept. He wanted to memorize it forever.

“She is beautiful,” said McCoy, bringing Kirk back to reality.

“Yes, she is,” said Kirk, still staring at her face.

“Jim,” said McCoy, “I think it is worth whatever we have to give up to save her.”

“Thank you, Bones,” said Kirk, standing up. “But we don’t have to give up a thing.” Suddenly he was the captain again, putting his feelings on the back burner. He turned to his first officer. “Spock, you used a technique when we violated Melkotian space. At the OK Corral.”

Spock raised one eyebrow as he looked at the captain. “I’m not sure I understand, Jim. I am not familiar with the location of Melkotian space, or having ever visited there, for that matter.”

“Trust me, you will,” said Kirk.

“Now I’m really confused,” said McCoy, sitting down on the bed next to Edith Keeler and absentmindedly taking her pulse. “When did you become a fortune-teller?”

“I’m just remembering the future,” said Kirk.

McCoy dropped Edith’s wrist and stood up. “I think I’m going down to that thing called a ‘speakeasy’ for a drink,” he said, heading for the door.

“Wait, Bones, let me explain,” said Kirk. He searched for the right words but there were none to be found. “I’m not sure how to put this exactly, but…I’m dead.”

McCoy rolled his eyes as he turned the doorknob. “In that case, don’t wait up for me.”

“Bones, please.”

McCoy stopped and crossed his arms. “Okay, I’m listening. But last call is in thirty minutes.”

Kirk started to walk around the room. “We arrived here through the Guardian, a time-travel machine. But this is really my second trip here, because I have been allowed to come back to this point in time.”

“Why can’t I remember our first trip?” asked McCoy.

“Because I came alone this time,” said Kirk. “I’ve been here before. At least up to the point when Edith died.”

McCoy looked confused. “You mean…”

“You said you were allowed to come back to this point in time,” said Spock. “By whom? The Guardian?”

Kirk shook his head. “No, not the Guardian. I’m not sure I understand it myself. But the memories of my entire life are intact, and I must use them to make things as they should be.”

“That is not possible,” said Spock. “Edith Keeler should have died yesterday if we were to return history to its correct course.”

“History doesn’t have a correct course,” said Kirk. “And the Guardian is more than just a time machine. Bones, go get yourself that drink.”

“I think I need one before I’m going to understand this,” said McCoy, heading out the door.

Kirk turned to Spock. “And now I’ll ask you to mind-meld with me.”

Spock had not stirred from his meditation, but Kirk and McCoy were already drinking coffee. “This is the best I’ve ever tasted,” said Bones. “That is, without any sort of medicinal additives.” He took another sip. “Tell me again why this is going to work? Because last night all I can remember is some crazy story about Chekov getting killed in a gunfight and coming back from the dead. And now you’re back from the dead. Damned bootlegged bourbon plays tricks with your mind.”

Kirk put his cup down. “The Guardian is more than a machine. It has a spiritual mission that is hard to explain. Basically it is able to reach into our minds when it seeks to put history on a correct course. In the original time line before Edith’s death, she believed it was her destiny to help people. She had already formulated her future in her own mind; not the exact details, but the basis of her actions. As of this moment, the Guardian knows her future will affect World War Two in a profound way because her intentions have not changed.”

“And by keeping her alive we’ve set that in stone.”

“Not necessarily. Spock is going to mind-meld with Edith and remove any ambition she has to reach her original goals. But just temporarily.”

“What is she going to believe?”

“That she is destined to live a perfectly normal life for a nineteen-thirties woman. To raise children and have a happy home.”

“You’re going to turn this forward-thinking woman into a housewife? She’s a pioneer.”

“We’re not changing her permanently, Bones. Just long enough to trick the Guardian into bringing us back into our own time.”

McCoy poured another cup of coffee. “That’s fine, Jim, but what’s going to happen to her?”

“She’s coming with us.”

“It is the only logical solution,” said Spock, entering the room.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Kirk.

Bones shook his head. “You’re going to take a Depression-era woman to the twenty-third century? Without even asking her permission?”

Spock nodded. “It is our only chance.”

McCoy was still incredulous. “What about her chances to live in the time period she was meant to live?”

“Her life in this time period would have ended anyway,” said Spock. “Anything else is simply…”

“Gravy,” Kirk cut him off.

“Not exactly my choice of terminology,” said Spock, “but I believe you have made your point. Doctor, if we leave her here, millions will die when my suggestion wears off. She will at least have the chance to fulfill her destiny in our time; a destiny she was never able to achieve in the original timeline. When she gets there…”

“When I get where?”

Kirk hadn’t heard Edith enter the room and was caught off guard. “We’re, uh, going to take you out to dinner. We thought we’d celebrate. You know, because obviously some guardian angel was watching over you.”

“You’re the only guardian angel I need,” said Edith, putting her hand on Kirk’s shoulder. Her soft touch sent a bit of electricity through Kirk. “As for going out to dinner, you boys don’t have two nickels to rub together. Besides, I’ve been saving a piece of beef in the icebox and planned to make a stew.”

The meal was delicious, a welcome change from the synthetics conjured up by the ship’s computer.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” said Kirk.

“Yes,” added McCoy. “You’re an excellent cook.”

Edith smiled. “Why, thank you, gentlemen.”

“Miss, you have something on your cheek,” said Spock, sitting across the table.

Edith brushed her face with her hand. “Did that get it?”

“No,” said Spock. “Please allow me.”

Edith smiled as Spock reached out with his hands and touched the pressure points with his fingers. Her smile vanished, her eyes went blank. “My mind to your mind…”

Kirk held her hand as she rested on the bunk. Her eyes flickered a bit and then she awoke. “What happened?” she asked.

“You just blacked out,” said Kirk.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, James…”

And with that they were gone.

“Aye, did you find Doctor McCoy?” asked Scotty, as Kirk and Spock came through the portal.

“Affirmative,” said Spock.

McCoy came through next.

“Doctor, glad to see you,” said Scotty. “Are you feelin’ all right?”

“Fine,” said Bones, as he turned to look at the portal just as Edith Keeler came through. The smile she’d had on Earth disappeared in an instant as her eyes filled with fright. “Oh my God, where am I?”

Kirk rushed forward to hold her. “You’re fine, Edith. Just try to relax.”

But even his strong arms around her couldn’t calm her. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. “James…your clothes…what happened?” She turned and spotted Spock’s ears. “Oh my…” Kirk caught her as she fainted.

“And who is this lass?” asked Scotty.

“Long story,” said Kirk, as he lifted Edith into his arms.

Spock flipped open his communicator. “Spock to Enterprise. Beam us up.”

The transporter shimmered as Kirk felt his soul and Edith’s merge for just a moment.

Kirk didn’t reappear in the transporter room. The shimmering was replaced by the rainbow light, and he found himself staring at the being again.

“Welcome back,” said Kariel, smiling. “You have accomplished what you intended.”

“I did?” asked Kirk. “You pulled me out of there before I had time to find out…”

“There was no reason for you to be there any longer. You had righted what you set out to correct. A destiny has been fulfilled. All is as it should be.”

Kirk didn’t feel any different. His memories seemed unchanged. “But I don’t know what happened…how things turned out. What became of Edith?”

“Edith Keeler was a pioneer who helped people, just as her original destiny intended. She wasn’t supposed to be killed in a traffic accident. You were supposed to go back in time and put things back on course. You righted history, James. She did great things in your time. Changed countless lives.”

Kirk searched the caverns of his mind and still came up empty. “But did she…and I…”

“Why don’t I let her tell you,” said the being. Kariel stepped aside and Edith Keeler walked toward Kirk, looking as radiant as the day he’d first seen her.

“Hello, my love,” she said.

“Edith…” Kirk grabbed her and pulled her close. Her perfume was the same and filled his heart with memories. He pushed back and looked at her face, not a day older than when they’d met. “I don’t know…”

“Shhhhh.” She interrupted his question by putting one finger on his lips, then placed her hands on his face and held it. “It is not the same as when Mister Spock does it, but it works rather well in this dimension.” She smiled. “How does he say it? My mind to your mind…”

She looked deeply into his eyes as the missing memories flooded back; faster than anything Jim Kirk could imagine. His smile grew wider as he relived them in an instant. He saw Edith’s career in Starfleet, her efforts to feed and educate people on a planetary scale. She’d saved millions! When his memories were complete Edith pulled his face closer and kissed him. “There,” she said. “Is that better?”

“It’s wonderful,” said Kirk. He turned to the being. “Thank you. For everything.”

Kariel nodded, then faded away.

“Where did she go?” asked Kirk.

“Let me show you,” said Edith, taking him by the hand. “About time that I was the one who took you on a surprise journey.”

And with that, they vanished into time.

Rocket Man

Kenneth E. Carper

The ancient Klingon ship had Agent K in its sights and he knew it; he just didn’t care.

That’s it, you Klingon bastards. Catch me if you can, he thought defiantly. The bridge was pungent with smoke, and sparks exploded closer to his face than he liked, but he’d never felt more alive. He sat at the helm of a freighter that handled like a slug and was venting plasma like Old Faithful. The Klingons had poked holes in it with their disruptors but now it was clear they were finished playing with him.

“Earther,” the Klingon Commander barked over the comm channel, “this is your last chance! Surrender your vessel or die.”

Agent K responded with a laugh, turned the freighter around, and set it on a direct heading for the enemy ship. It reminded him of an old Earth game he’d once heard of.

What was it called again? Oh yes, “Chicken.”

He armed an antimatter weapon that would ignite in moments. It wouldn’t destroy the Klingons but it would give him the time he needed to complete his mission.

K activated his life-support belt. A cool blue aura shimmered around him and he smiled, remembering when Federation science had attempted to penetrate the technology. Aside from a few prototypes the project was deemed unfeasible and abandoned. Agent K chuckled at the shortsightedness of Starfleet Command.

Pushing aside thoughts of the good old days, he released the airlock and the charged bolts ignited with a roar as the hatch blasted clear. The oxygen rushed from the cabin, tossing K into space.

A final blast from the Klingons shredded the freighter just as the antimatter exploded and it lit up the heavens like a newborn star. K didn’t mind, it was just a loaner.

K would have whooped if he could, rejoicing that his plan had worked. He should’ve been dead, writhing in the vacuum of space, but he felt warm. Better yet, he felt young again, reborn.

The Klingon vessel lay dead in space, disabled by the explosion. It was unable even to limp away. K knew it had all been a risk but such risks were his business.

He touched a button on his belt and activated the thrusters on his evac boots. It had a bit more thrust than he had expected, but it didn’t rattle him. He simply leaned forward, exulting in the thrill of zero-gravity thrust.

Just like orbital skydiving!

He circled above the Klingon ship and watched it grow closer as he fell toward it. Forever falling.

Captain James T. Kirk was falling and nothing in the universe could stop him. He clung for dear life to the fragment of a red-hot steel catwalk he’d been hanging on when it had collapsed. It spun in midair and Kirk saw the rocks beneath him grow closer as he fell toward the desert floor. Kirk released the metal and twisted his body to minimize the impact, but in the end, he knew it was for naught. There was no surviving this.

Kirk heard his ribs shatter, felt the back of his head crack, and hollered as the catwalk crushed him. He tried to take a breath and choked on fluid. He had known all his life that he would die alone. The moment had finally come. After a lifetime of beating death, he finally had to bite back one bitter truth. Death doesn’t like to lose. It was a lot like Kirk in that way.

He almost felt himself smile at the irony that Bones was right, he really was going to die on the bridge. Or at least under one.

As he lay quivering in shock, Kirk thought he saw something or someone out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to turn to see who it was but he was too broken. He felt something sting his arm, glimpsed the figure one last time and then was alone.

He lay there for the longest time feeling his body go numb and the pain diminish. He heard an explosion in the distance and wondered if Picard had done it.

Did we make a difference?

The venerable Picard was shortly at his side reassuring him that they had indeed stopped Soran from destroying the Veridian star. Kirk felt a final thrill.

We did it.

He felt himself cough and for a moment everything went white. He tried to fight the numbness. He wanted to tell Picard something, some final words to sum up his life.

“It was fun.”

Not terribly profound, but close enough to the truth. The world was going to a black that was like the eternal night of space. Kirk knew there was one last voyage left for him. A trek to the true final frontier.

“Oh my,” he whispered, feeling the world fade away.

Captain Kirk died.

The funny thing about death was that it just didn’t seem to be a permanent thing these days.

Kirk felt his chest rise and fall again and realized his lungs were drawing in breath. He wasn’t a doctor, but he had enough medical knowledge to understand that dead people don’t do a lot of breathing.

Why aren’t I dead? Kirk wondered. Picard? The Enterprise?

Kirk felt groggy, and his eyelids weighed a ton, but he wanted to see the world around him. See the Starfleet of the future. Greet Picard and thank him for helping him beat death one last time.

Kirk opened his eyes and was surprised at how bright the world was. His eyes stung at the sight of it all. The room he was in was sterile and white, as if everything was carved from ivory and marble, but he knew it couldn’t be made out of any substance found on Earth because everything was alight with an inner glow.

It’s like an artist’s conception of heaven, Kirk thought, his heart sinking.

Maybe I am dead.

Kirk tried to sit up, and felt vertigo sweep over him, with a vague sense of nausea. He lay back down, figuring that in the afterlife vomiting wasn’t a factor. After all, how did you throw up if you lacked a stomach?

Kirk sat there, waiting for his strength to return and trying to plan ahead. Where was he?

A man dressed in medical garb walked into the room. He was an alien, a Denobulan judging by the look of him. He smiled broadly as if nothing at all was wrong with the world.

“Good morning, Captain Kirk!” the cheery physician said. “I heard you had quite a spill, but we’ve patched you all up. Yes, we have. You’re as good as new.”

“Where—” Kirk croaked. His mouth was dry and his voice trembled from disuse but he was determined to get some answers. “Where am I?”

“Why, you’re in a hospital, of course,” the doctor responded. “What a funny question.”

“What planet?” Kirk demanded. “How did I get here? And where the hell is Captain Picard?”

The doctor looked perturbed for a moment but seemed to wave that perturbation away as if it was anathema to his nature.

“All your questions will be answered in time, Captain Kirk. In the meantime please enjoy our hospitality.” He put a finger to his touch-pad and a small viewer popped out of Kirk’s bed.

“You now have access to our library computer which will give you up-to-date information on what you have missed in the last seventy-nine years being MIA, as you were.”

When it came to getting information he needed, Kirk found that the grinning physician was even more frustrating than Bones was when the good doctor determined it against his best interests to give it up. But then Kirk had always been his own judge as to where his best interests lay.

“Doctor, please,” Kirk said in his most affable tone, “I’ve been tossed around so much that I’m getting dizzy. All I’d like are some answers right now.”

The doctor looked at Kirk, a flicker of compassion (or was it familiarity?) spreading across his face.

“I’d like very much to answer your questions,” the Denobulan said, “but it’s not my place to answer them. However, if I know my Enterprise captains, and trust me I do, you won’t rest until you get answers, so…”

The doctor touched a pip on his collar.

“Phlox to Manager one-ninety-four,” the doctor said. “Priority patient requests your assistance.”

“Coming,” a flat monotone responded.

Phlox turned to Kirk, grinning. “Coming,” he chirped. “If you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to make.”

Kirk waved him away, smiling. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Service with a smile, as they say,” Phlox responded, walking away.

Where have I seen him before?

Kirk waited for what seemed like hours, though he realized it might have been his own impatience. Finally a tall stone-faced man entered the room. He had a head full of white hair and a demeanor that suggested the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Kirk knew that feeling all too well. There was also something familiar about him. Where had he seen this man before?

“Welcome back, Captain Kirk,” the man said.

Kirk suddenly realized who the man was and why he seemed so familiar. He wasn’t in a Starfleet facility. He was…

Somewhere else.

“Gary Seven,” Kirk said. “What the hell is going on?”

“We have one final mission for you,” Seven said.

Agent K lurched, narrowly avoiding having his head taken off by a cross section of his freighter. He took a quick look, just to make sure that no more debris headed his way. Satisfied, he continued his task.

K clung to the side of the Klingon vessel, attempting to gain access to the ship by way of a service hatch. The tools he had with him proved useless; the hatch was fused from the explosion. Still, he had one more trick up his sleeve.

K reached into his utility belt and detached a photon charge and placed it on the hatch. He had a very limited supply and he intended to put it to good use. K set the charge on a ten-second timer before hauling ass out of the way. The charge exploded silently, though in K’s mind, it was as if he heard an awesome blast. Perhaps it was just the echo of memories long past.

The debris clearing, K stepped into the corridor of the enemy vessel. He ducked into a utility closet as a pair of Klingon technicians in spacesuits came down the corridor to repair the damage done to the ship.

Minutes turned into hours but sure enough, gravity and air returned to normal. K deactivated the life-support belt, removing his phaser.

Never leave home without one.

He stepped out of the closet and scrutinized his surroundings. It wasn’t so much a spaceship as it was a war zone. He’d been fighting Klingons for most of his life and found no surprises. Blood from numerous honor duels stained the decks. The bulkheads bore scars from bat’leth slicing through them. The smell in the air was pungent, a cross between smoke and vomit. K found himself glad he had blown the hatch. It would do the Klingons good to air the place out.

Seventy-nine years and they haven’t changed, he thought sadly. Gary Seven had told him otherwise but K found that very hard to believe. All he knew was that he had helped usher in an age of peace between the Klingons and the Federation and these bastards wanted to shatter it.

Not on my shift.

K removed another device from his belt. It had been disguised to resemble a twenty-fourth-century tricorder, but K knew it was only a disguise. This “tricorder” had ten trillion times the capabilities of a normal tricorder. It was equal to the databanks of a starship. When he had been a starship captain, K had always relied on the data provided by a certain brilliant Vulcan science officer. He had always believed the old adage that knowledge was power. With this device, knowledge was never far from hand.

Next best thing to Spock, he thought, missing his friend terribly. Lacking Spock, the device was proving to be yet another invaluable gift given to him by the enigmatic Mister Seven. His “tricorder” confirmed that his mission objective was being kept on deck four , one level down. K slipped the tricorder back on his belt and resumed his mission.

“Our benefactors go by many names,” Seven said enigmatically. “I could spend weeks naming them all but I think the one you’re most familiar with is The Preservers.”

“The Preservers,” Kirk repeated.

“Yes,” Seven said with a smile. “They still exist and they’ve taken a vested interest in preserving you.”

“Me?” Kirk asked. “Why me?”

Seven looked shocked at Kirk’s question.

“Who better than you? How many worlds have you saved? How many times have you stepped in and saved species from themselves or from outsiders? You have fulfilled the Preservers’ prime directive: ‘Above all else, life.’”

Kirk felt a glow of pride in his chest. He’d had many critics within the Federation for stretching their Prime Directive as far as he could and then a little more. To think that he had caught the eye of the legendary Preservers.

“After our first meeting, the Preservers kept you on their proverbial radars. They were all very pleased with your progress. After your retirement, the decision was made to recruit you. Unfortunately, it was made immediately before your voyage aboard the Enterprise- B . So you see, it was all a case of bad timing.”

Seven rethought his statement.

“Bad for you but good for the inhabitants of Veridian Four,” Seven amended. “And it was your death on Veridian Three that convinced us more than ever that you were the man we needed.”

In his delirium, Kirk had been placed into stasis for later revival, thus his apparent death. He had laughed when told that Picard had actually buried him. It had been close. He looked down at himself for the thousandth time, feeling shaken by what he saw. It wasn’t his familiar timeworn body, but rather the body of a young man.

Seven explained that using a series of nanite mechanisms, his body had been rebuilt from within and was good as new. They weren’t just able to heal wounds but reverse the aging process for as long as an agent worked in the field. A productive agent could live damn near forever.

As he looked at Seven’s aged form, it was clear that he didn’t give a damn about living forever. Too many years in the trenches could do that to a man, Kirk knew.

In the end, he was grateful to Seven and the Preservers for this second chance at life and for putting him back in fighting shape.

They say that youth is wasted on the young. We’ll see if that’s true.

“Needed?” Kirk asked. “Needed for what?”

“To complete your final mission. The mission that brought you to Veridian Three and your untimely end. I need you to help me save a star.”

Here we go again, Kirk thought.

Agent K slid down a service ladder, gaining access to deck four, the detention deck. K grimaced because he knew what that really meant; it was a euphemism for torture chamber.

A long darkened corridor lay ahead of him, not even a light flickering. Light was good for prisoner morale. Better to break the prisoners quickly.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

Placing his back to the wall, he slid slowly down the corridor. He breathed gradually, reducing all extraneous sound so that he could hear if a Klingon warrior came up behind him to cut his throat.

His tricorder indicated that four Klingons were milling about in the main chamber, dead ahead. This retrieval wasn’t going to be easy for him to pull off but then, there wasn’t much fun in easy.

K crept slowly up to the hatchway; he touched the release stud, hoping it wasn’t sealed. It was, so he reached into his belt for a code-picker.

K’s tricorder beeped, signaled that a fifth Klingon had just entered deck four.

K’s pulse quickened; there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He turned and found himself face to face with a Klingon disruptor. K looked up into the craggy face of a Klingon warrior.

I’ve seen worse.

The warrior backhanded K, sending him flying against the bulkhead. K reached for his phaser and felt the Klingon’s foot crunch down on his hand.

The Klingon grabbed the phaser from K’s belt and tossed it away. Pulling K close, the Klingon reared his head back and slammed it into K’s face.

K felt the sting of cranial ridges rending flesh. He staggered back, seeing little birdies flying around his head. The Klingon sneered at the human’s pain. K remembered the one thing Klingons respected.

Bravado.

“That didn’t hurt,” K said, causing the Klingon to chortle.

“You make me laugh, Earther. I will see to it that you die with honor,” he said, keeping K within arm’s length.

“That’s very generous of you,” K said. “But I have another idea.”

“What?” the Klingon asked.

“I live,” K responded. His hand slashed out, slapping something to the Klingon’s chest. Before he could react, K grabbed him and hurled him into the hatchway.

The Klingon slumped over wide-eyed with surprise, a photon charge planted to his armor. K ran, throwing himself to the deck as the door was blasted apart and the Klingon was blown into eternity.

Not waiting for the smoke to clear, K made a dead run and leapt through the smoking door, phaser in hand. K rolled and hit the deck firing. A Klingon burst into a trillion atoms as he was struck by K’s beam.

K looked around for the Klingon’s companions and was surprised as his phaser was knocked from his hands. Strong arms gripped him firmly around his waist. He found himself flying through the air and a bulkhead awaiting him.

K’s teeth mashed against his lips as he hit the wall. He tasted his own blood and remembered swallowing worse things while on a mission. He saw the titanic Klingon bearing down on him.

K rolled as the titan brought his foot down, stomping the deck with an echoing thump. He thrust his open palm into the center of K’s chest, grabbing his tunic and pulling K to his knees. He lifted K into the air, shaking him back and forth like a child’s plaything.

“Humans have no honor,” Titan growled.

K’s feet flew over his head as the titan tossed him on the interrogation table. Shackles came down around his arms.

Titan’s compatriots, a short tubby Klingon and a tall gangly one that somewhat resembled a Klingon version of Ichabod Crane, came running to his side.

“Notify the commander,” Titan said. “More meat for the machine.”

“The House of Duras has long been a thorn in the side of the Klingon Empire,” Seven said. “They believe themselves descended directly from Kahless and claim to be the only true heirs to the Empire.”

Kirk knew full well how costly Klingon hubris could be, having been on their most wanted list many times over the last few decades of his life.

“The High Council disagrees,” Kirk said.

“Wholeheartedly,” Seven responded. “The House of Duras now lies in a state of dishonor. They intend to reclaim power through any means necessary.”

“Hence, the trilithium torpedo,” Kirk said.

“Exactly. Should that weapon come into the hands of the House of Duras it will become the most devastating weapon of mass destruction invented by mortal man,” Seven said. “Doctor Tolian Soran developed the weapon for the House of Duras in the hopes of using it to reenter—”

“Yes, I know about the Nexus,” Kirk said brusquely. He didn’t want to dwell on the heaven he had abandoned for certain death on Veridian III.

“When Soran was killed, it was thought that the data needed to re-create trilithium torpedoes was lost forever. We thought wrong,” Seven said sadly.

Kirk found the idea of renegade Klingons with a doomsday weapon in their hands beyond terrifying. In his time, Klingons conquered worlds through brute force or manipulation. He thought of the population of Neural thrown into decades of civil war because of the Klingons. He thought of the attempted holocaust on Sherman’s Planet because of the Klingons. His son, David, dead because of the goddamned Klingons.

And yet, after the Khitomer conferences he had felt his attitude toward them soften. People like Gorkon and Azetbur had shown him that it takes all kinds to make up an empire. But for every Gorkon, there was a Chang or a Duras. Seven had assured Kirk that the Klingons had been staunch allies of the Federation for decades now.

And Kirk believed him. He had helped forge a peace that had stood the test of time, and now these renegades wanted to destroy that peace. And billions of Klingons, as well as the Federation, would suffer for it.

Toral, the son of Duras, had learned of his treacherous aunts’ plan to take back the Empire and he had dispatched agents to learn of the details of that plan following their deaths.

Lursa and B’Etor had thought they had covered their tracks thoroughly and tied up all the loose ends. They were wrong. During the development of the trilithium torpedo Soran’s assistant, Doctor Hannah Bosworth, had abandoned the project. She had learned what Soran had intended to use the torpedo for and had been terrified at the extent of his madness. Doctor Bosworth carried the information to re-create the terror weapon. It was locked in her head, the unfortunate result of having a photographic memory.

Toral had sent a Klingon ship, a crew of criminals and traitors, to the Empire to locate and retrieve Doctor Bosworth. Once in his hands, the data would be extracted from her mind, no matter the cost.

With the trilithium torpedoes in hand, Toral would again demand complete control of the Klingon Empire. If he were denied he would take the Empire apart, star by star. If House Duras couldn’t have the Empire then no one could.

“Doctor Bosworth was found and abducted on Rigel Four. The bird-of-prey Executor is in transit to Toral’s stronghold as we speak. I ask of you, Captain Kirk, in the name of the Federation that you fought to protect for so long, will you help us rescue her and help prevent a holocaust of galactic proportions?”

This was something he could do, had been doing for most of his life now, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging doubt at the back of his mind that he needed to bring to Seven’s attention before he made his decision.

“Why me?” Kirk asked. “Why ask a man seventy-nine years out of his depth?”

Seven almost smiled, as he had been anticipating Kirk’s question.

“Because you’re the only man who can do it. No human has fought Klingons the likes of these for nearly a century. Your experience is invaluable to the success of this mission.”

“Was that the only reason?” Kirk asked.

“No,” Seven responded. “We’re also sending you because you need it. Whether you’re retired in the twenty-third century or lost in the twenty-fourth you need a purpose. You need—”

“To make a difference,” Kirk replied, recalling a treasured memory. “Yes, my first, best destiny.”

Seven smiled. “Exactly. Captain Kirk, will you help us?”

“When do we start?” Kirk asked with a grin.

“Momentarily, Captain Kirk, momentarily.”

Agent K felt the shackles cutting into his arms and he embraced the pain. It hurt because he was alive and he was determined to stay that way.

He looked up at the mirror that the Klingons had placed strategically over the bed. The Klingons liked their prisoners to watch themselves being cut up piece by bloody piece. It was bad for their morale.

The Klingon commander was easily ten feet tall and had a face full of scars. Commander Kling had been demanding answers from him.

Who was he? Who sent him? What was he after?

The damned Klingon had actually thought him a bounty hunter, sent to claim a price on the commander’s head.

Agent K, of course, answered none of his questions. He merely responded with a frivolous remark about the weather or an insult to the commander’s mother and received a blow to the stomach for his good humor.

Kling had been going in circles for hours with K. Many beatings and no answers. The commander’s breath stank of bloodwine and gagh, and he leaned in close to K, growling in a manner he thought intimidating.

K was not impressed. After facing down the sight of a Planet Killer, a little thing like a surly Klingon wasn’t very intimidating.

K simply laughed in Kling’s face. He again felt the Klingon’s fist slam into his jaw. Kling barked at Titan and his lackeys to dismember K and he stormed out of the chamber.

Titan chuckled at his good fortune. He pulled a laser torch off the wall and activated it. K saw the thin red beam lance out and wondered how he kept ending up in these situations.

Titan leaned in so close to K that he could see the serpent worms stuck between his teeth.

“Have you ever smelled burning flesh, human?” Titan asked.

“More times than I care to remember,” K answered.

Titan laughed. “Well this one will make all your bad memories look happy.”

Before Titan could bring the torch closer, K whipped his legs up around the Klingon’s neck. He squeezed as hard as he could, enjoying the look of the Klingon’s eyes bugging out.

K heard Tubby screaming at Ichabod and heard Ichabod demanding reinforcements in the interrogation deck. K raised his shackles and forced Titan to cut through them.

Satisfied that he had his hands free, he kicked Titan back with his legs and leapt to his feet. Titan roared, lowering his head to charge the human.

K ducked to the side, extending his leg; the Klingon went flying head over heels, landing flat on his face.

“Prisoners do not fight back,” Tubby said. He grabbed a bat’leth and swung at K. K ducked and aimed a hard chop at Tubby’s gullet.

Tubby choked, grabbing at his throat, releasing the bat’leth. K grabbed the weapon and hit Tubby in the nape of the neck with it, knocking him cold.

Ichabod grabbed K from behind. K bent at the waist, dumping him to the ground. He placed his foot in the center of the skinny Klingon’s chest and put the bat’leth to his throat.

“Stay down,” K said.

“Death first,” Ichabod responded.

“Your call,” K said, punching the blade through the Klingon’s chest.

K felt a blow to his kidney and knew that Titan was on his feet again. He staggered, releasing the bat’leth.

Titan brought his ham-sized fists together, crunching massive knuckles. The warrior was out for blood.

K cracked his much smaller knuckles and gave the Klingon a good rap in the mouth and two jabs to the stomach. Titan just stood there impassively, not really sure if the puny weakling was serious.

“Damn,” K said, realizing that Titan was going to be one of those kinds of opponents. K shrugged and did the unexpected; he grabbed the Klingon by both sides of his face and gave his head a good twist followed by a bone-chilling crack.

K took no joy in killing; he was a soldier, not a monster, but he was thankful for all of the early-morning sparring sessions he’d had with Sulu.

K had nary a moment to take a breath as the chamber was peppered with disruptor blasts. K leapt behind the table; he saw a large piece of mirror shattered in the melee.

“Over here,” he shouted at the security team. It consisted of four large brutes armed to the teeth. Seeing their quarry challenging them, they fired as one.

K raised the mirror, deflecting the blast back at them. They entered Sto-Vo-Kor together. K dropped the red-hot mirror, his twinging fingers scorched by the heat of weapons fire.

K turned and entered the cell block. He still had a mission to complete.

Kirk had been surprised to find that he was neither on a starship nor on the hidden world of the Preservers. He was actually on a cloaked substation deep in the Beta Quadrant. Kirk realized the station had to be the size of a small planet.

“Not quite that big,” Seven responded. “More the size of a large moon.”

Kirk whistled, impressed. It was beyond anything they could achieve in the twenty-third century and he supposed the twenty-fourth. To the Preservers, it was child’s play.

They stepped into a large domed chamber. It was empty save for a chair in the center of the room.

“Under normal operating procedures, we spend years training our agents in the proper uses of our weapons and technology.” Seven gestured to the chair. “Please have a seat, Captain Kirk.”

Kirk obliged, feeling very comfortable. The chair molded itself to his body and seemed to be giving him a massage to boot.

I could have used one of these on the Enterprise.

“Unfortunately we do not have years to train you, so we have to resort to slightly unconventional means to bridge the technological gap for you.”

“And how do you intend to ‘bridge’ that gap?” Kirk asked.

“Are you familiar with a planet called Sigma Draconis Six?”

He should be; a native Eymorg invaded his ship and stole the brain of his first officer, intending to use it to control the computers that protected their civilization. In the end, Bones had discovered that the indigenous people had devolved from their technological roots, preventing them from utilizing any form of advanced technology.

The technological gap had been filled by a device called the “Teacher.” It uploaded the information needed to maintain their society directly into their brains. But it only lasted for a limited duration before fading from their memory. Bones had had to don the Teacher to restore Spock’s brain.

“Same principle,” Seven responded. “But to a different degree. We’re not going to be uploading the complete knowledge of a civilization to your mind. Merely the knowledge needed to accomplish your mission. Do you have a problem with this?”

“Will it change my personality or brainwash me to make me more compliant with Preserver dogma?” Kirk asked. His effectiveness relied on his autonomy and his individuality. He’d fought too many thinking computers in his time to let himself be reprogrammed by one.

“No,” Seven answered. “Our Teacher is a tool to educate. Not control. Besides, if we had wanted to brainwash you we could have done so before reviving you.”

Kirk nodded. It did, after all, make sense. And a fish out of water could use every edge he could get.

“Let’s do it,” Kirk said.

Seven lowered a helmet down over Kirk’s head. Like the chair, it molded itself to his contours. It was surprisingly comfortable for a steel hat. Seven pressed a button on the chair. Kirk didn’t know what to expect. He figured it would be like the floodgates opening or the lights in a darkened room suddenly being switched on. It was nothing like either of those. It was just going from a state of not knowing to knowing everything he needed to. It wasn’t a transformation. It was merely information.

“Are you ready, Agent K?” Seven asked.

“I’m ready for anything,” Agent K answered.

K found Doctor Bosworth at the end of the cell block. The doctor was in her early thirties, tall and blond. She reminded him of Carol Marcus: beauty and brains in one all too frail package.

K lowered the forcefield; the scientist looked up at him. Her face was stained with tears. K felt a pang in his heart for her. Her suffering was unacceptable.

“Who—who are you?” she asked.

“Kirk, James Kirk. I’m here to help,” he said.

A disruptor beam struck the bulkhead above him. The scientist shrieked in terror. K ducked into the cell, phaser in hand.

He could see a warrior at the end of the corridor shouting at reinforcements in the main chamber. K fired at the Klingon, wide dispersal, and the Klingon fell back.

K checked his tricorder, matching his location against the schematic. It showed he was directly above the engineering deck.

“Doctor, please stand back,” K said, placing his final photon charge on the floor. K pushed her to the wall and shielded her with his body.

The charge cracked the floor open. K scooped the scientist into his arms and leaped through the gap in the decks. They landed in engineering; K felt the impact with the floor radiate up into his hip. He hated it when he felt his age.

I’ll have to have Bones patch that up later.

Taking Bosworth by the hand, K ran for the door, phasering an engineer who thought it would be a good idea to swing on him with a hydro-wrench.

The door opened up, revealing a scar-faced Klingon bearing a qhon’Doq dagger in his hand. K recognized him. It was Commander Kling.

“Fight me, human, if you have honor!” Kling demanded.

“I don’t really have time for this,” K said, aiming his phaser. The commander’s eyes were a dark void from which no light escaped; they reminded him of Kor, and that was enough to compel K to throw his phaser aside.

“Earth scum, I will eat your flesh strip by bloody strip,” Kling said.

They circled like sharks, each sizing up the other. K didn’t know nor did he care what the Klingon thought of him, he just knew that Kling didn’t measure up to a warrior like Kang or Kruge or any of the countless Klingons he had met in battle.

The doors cycled open and a squad of Klingon warriors flooded the deck, disruptor rifles in hand.

So much for honor.

“I thought this would be a fair fight,” K said.

“Oh, it will be. They’re only going to kill you if I lose.”

“How sporting,” K replied.

The commander swung; the human grabbed his hand in a wrist lock and threw him hard. Kling went flying into the warp core, disintegrating instantly.

“The twenty-fourth century isn’t so tough,” Kirk said.

The Klingon warriors stood there for a moment, mouths agape, stunned by how easily their commander had fallen. Seeing the opening they had given him, K spun, firing his phaser and blasting the warp-core regulation unit.

Alarms blared throughout the ship, signaling its final death throes. The Klingons turned, realizing what a blow the human had dealt them. K grinned defiantly, tossing his phaser to the deck.

“I’ll see you in Gre’thor,” he said.

It was clear that they weren’t making Klingons of the same stuff they were made of in his day. Instead of facing K as warriors they turned and ran for the door.

K smirked and grabbed Doctor Bosworth and slung her over his shoulder. He ran. According to the tricorder they had only minutes.

The bird-of-prey was a relic from his own time. After weeks living aboard the Bounty following the Genesis fiasco, he knew this model like the back of his hand.

He ran down the corridor, ignoring the shrill alarm and the flood of escaping Klingons, and ran through a door, which slid open and revealed a transporter room. K dropped Bosworth on the pad and entered coordinates into the transporter console. They were swept away by the beam moments before the Executor exploded.

Bones would hate this, K thought.

Though there was no longer a ship for K and his charge to beam to, there was a cloaked relay station tracking him the entire time. It compensated for the limited transporter technology of the Klingons and shunted the duo halfway across the galaxy to headquarters.

K felt the tension drain from him as he saw the Preserver transporter room appear around him. He knew that somewhere the bird-of-prey was being consumed in a supernova of his making. But he didn’t care about that, not really. He had saved the girl and by doing so, saved the Klingon Empire and ensured peace in the galaxy once more.

K knew it was finally over. The mission, and perhaps his adventures. At least he was going out on a high note.

“Are we safe?” Doctor Bosworth asked.

K smiled charmingly. The woman was quivering like a leaf. She’d been through hell and he’d brought her back. It would take a long time for her to get over it.

“We’re safe, Doctor,” K said.

“Thank you,” she said. Bosworth clearly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she leapt into K’s arms and gave him a kiss full on the lips. She was just happy to be alive.

K grinned from ear to ear; everything was just how he remembered it from his youth.

“I don’t know how to repay you for this,” Bosworth said.

“I think you were doing just fine,” K replied. Bosworth smiled and leaned in to kiss him once more. K, not one to argue, accepted her gratitude just in time to see the doctor dissolve in the transporter beam once more. She left him standing there with puckered lips and a bewildered expression on his face.

This sort of thing never happened in the old days.

The door to the transporter room slid open and Gary Seven stepped through.

“The girl, what did you do with her?” K asked.

“She’s been taken for memory modification. The Klingons can’t take from her what she doesn’t have,” Seven answered.

“She’ll be returned to Earth, unharmed?” K asked.

“I’ll see to it personally,” Seven responded. “And Captain Kirk, you’ve done well.”

Kirk nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Mister Seven. I take it you’ll be returning me to Earth as well?”

Kirk could swear he saw a look of sadness and regret pass over Seven’s face, and he shared in it. As eager as he was to get home and see what had become of his people, he was sad that it was nearly over.

“There’s a whole galaxy waiting to honor you, Captain Kirk,” Seven said. “Unless—”

Kirk froze, knowing that there was something to that unless.

“Unless?” Kirk asked, a glimmer of hope in his tone.

“You could work with me and continue to make a difference until the day you die,” Seven said.

It didn’t take Kirk a moment to decide.

“Sounds like fun,” Kirk said, extending his hand to shake on the deal.

“Welcome to the Organization, Agent K. Now for the details of your next assignment—”

The Rules of War

Kevin Lauderdale

A spray of bullets sent chips of cement flying from the building’s wall across Archer’s face. Instinctively, he held up his right arm to block them, even though his helmet had a shatterproof visor. One of the finger-sized chips tore into his uniform sleeve, but didn’t hurt him. Who would have thought it would ever come to this? Actual urban combat—fighting in the streets. This was the twentieth century; weren’t we supposed to be civilized?

“Captain!”

Sergeant Bengy was calling to him. Nathan Archer ducked back behind the corner of the building and started to walk backwards toward the armored M2 Bradley, all the while scanning the sky and nearby rooftops for Augment Alliance forces as Bengy provided cover with his AK-47 machine gun.

Of all the cities Archer had seen in North Africa, Assab, Eritrea, was probably the most industrial. Just about every structure there was made of cement or steel. The midday heat rising up everywhere from the asphalt roads made the whole place seem to shimmer.

Archer and Bengy climbed up and into the Bradley, joining the rest of Bravo Company.

Sergeant Bengy, like every other member of Archer’s UNPD battalion, wore camouflage fatigues in black, white, and gray, along with a patch on his or her left shoulder of the United Nations emblem: a white azimuth map of Earth flanked by olive branches on a sky-blue background. Below each of their patches was the flag of the soldier’s home nation. Bengy wore the Union Jack; Archer, Green, and the rest of the company, the Stars and Stripes. Most of the battalion were Americans, though Archer knew that Charlie Company had a couple of sergeants from France who wore the Tricolor. “A real red, white, and blue battalion,” his grandfather might have called it, with a laugh.

Green handed canteens to Archer and Bengy. “What did it look like, Captain?” The round-faced lieutenant had piercing, intelligent eyes, and, despite his youth, a wily, sharp look to him. And, god, he was so young. Just out of Annapolis and assigned to…this. Archer wondered, had he himself ever looked that young?

Archer and Bengy had gone out to scout the area—the area! A street! They had walked along an actual sidewalk, passing stores and telephone poles. This wasn’t the place for a war. Wars were supposed to be fought in jungles, forests, and—like Archer’s first time in uniform only a few years earlier—the open expanse of deserts. Wars were not supposed to be fought in cities. Cities had narrow streets, mailboxes, and wires that blocked things. Yet, here they were.

“It looked like a school,” said Archer. In the midst of blocks of office buildings, just two streets away, was a one-story structure with a few windows and a flagpole flying the four-color flag of the nation. Unlike the buildings surrounding it, this structure was set back from the sidewalk several feet. Off to one side, visible through a chain-link fence, had been the shattered remains of a swing set, slide, and monkey bars. “And it looked like there were kids in it.”

Green frowned and looked at his global positioning unit. “That wasn’t on the map.”

“Too right,” said Bengy. “Where’d that map come from anyway, the Assab Tourism Board? And when was it printed, the eighties?”

Archer sighed. “I’m sure battalion HQ gave us the best that they could find.” He leaned to one side and looked out a hatch. He didn’t actually expect to see an Alliance tank coming down the street, nor spot a sniper making his way toward them, but it comforted Archer to actually not see them with his own two eyes. He closed the hatch. “Still, that doesn’t change the fact that Alliance has us blocked.”

His battalion was there to evacuate civilians. The whole city was a war zone, with Alliance and UNPD forces shooting at each other. The UN currently held the western side; the Alliance, the eastern, including the port where they were massing to go across the Red Sea to Yemen, and then, clearly, the oil fields of Saudi Arabia.

And now there were reports of more Alliance reinforcements heading up from the south. Bravo Company was just trying to get the civilians out and onto transports. Unfortunately, they were restricted to land routes. The Alliance forces didn’t seem interested in harming the civilians; they just wanted control of the port and the city. They probably would have ignored the citizens of Assab altogether, if the UNPD hadn’t come in to expel them. But that wasn’t Archer’s responsibility. Today Bravo Company wasn’t there to fight; they were there to protect and guide noncombatants to safety.

Or rather they had been. Half an hour ago, four old Soviet-built BMP-3 tanks—Alliance favorites, with their distinctive, huge 100mm gun turrets—had advanced and were trying to gain new territory.

And now a school…No one back at HQ knew about the school. It wasn’t on the evac schedule. The problem was that the school lay right between them. If Archer fired on the Alliance with anything substantial, there was a good chance he’d hit the school. His Bradley didn’t have smart bombs that could go around things. Neither did the Alliance BMP-3s…but they didn’t care.

“Okay,” said Archer. “We’re not going to be able to sneak up on that school. And they clearly intend to destroy anything that comes near it…and them. What have we not tried at all? We have to get down to absolute basics.” Archer hated the phrase “thinking outside the box,” but that’s what they needed now.

Bengy said, “If me da were here, he’d say these Augments need a good hide-tanning.”

Archer smiled. “Yeah, my grandfather would say they needed a good—” He stopped. “A good…talking-to…” Yeah. That just might work. He turned to Dixon, the comm officer. “Sergeant, give me a comm frequency that we don’t use much.”

“Sir?”

“We’re about to give it to the enemy, so make a note and don’t ever use it again.” He turned to Bengy. “Okay, I need something big and white.” Bengy started crawling toward the rear of the Bradley.

“Like a flag of surrender?” asked Green.

“Like a flag of truce. I just need them to not shred it with bullets before they read it.”

“Read what?”

“The flag.”

Bengy returned and said, “Here now, how’s this, Captain?” He handed Archer a white handkerchief, which Archer unfolded. It was one square foot.

“Okay,” said the captain. “I’ll need um, one…uh, five more.”

“Good thing they come in boxes of six,” said Bengy, reaching back and producing a little, blue cardboard box. He opened it and pulled out more white handkerchiefs. Green stared at him. “Allergies,” Bengy explained.

“Sergeant, make me a flag,” commanded Archer.

Bengy looked around. “Staples, I think…”

Dixon handed Archer a pad with a frequency written on it.

Green said, “Captain, if you get them, and you can keep them talking, I could take a squad around the back on foot and attack.”

Archer sighed. “Lieutenant, I am trying to negotiate a release. If you pull a sneak attack, the first thing they’re going to do is shell the school in retaliation.”

Green shrugged. Bengy gave Archer the flag.

Archer grabbed a thick pen from a toolbox and wrote the frequency in huge, black letters on both sides of the flag. He pulled out a telescoping antenna and taped it to the flag with dark gray duct tape. It looked exactly like what it was: an amalgam of handkerchiefs, staples, and duct tape. Like so many things in military life, it was crude, but it got the job done.

Archer climbed up into the Bradley’s observation hatch, opened the latch, and shoved the thing out into the air.

“Okay,” Archer muttered to himself. “First we wave it around like crazy to get their attention…maybe a sniper spots it…What’s that?…A truce flag…Cease fire…” Archer paused. “Okay, now we give them a little time…What’s that on the flag?…A little more time for the oldest guy there to recognize it as a comm frequency…a little more time to find the comm unit…someone sets it up…tunes it…” Archer stopped talking and waited.

Buzzz! Bravo’s comm unit went off. Archer pulled his flag back in and stared at the comm. He hadn’t actually expected this to work. He pointed at the device and nodded. Dixon pushed a button.

Archer took a deep breath. “This is Captain Nathan Archer of the United Nations Peace Directorate. Who am I addressing?”

“I am a major in the Alliance.” A man’s voice, deep and sonorous, came over the comm’s speaker. “But my commission is purely honorary…”

Bengy rolled his eyes and muttered, “Who is this airbag?” Green slashed his thumb across his throat, and Bengy bit his lip.

“…I prefer to be addressed by the title I earned: Doctor. This is Doctor Stavos Keniclius.”

In the heat of the desert, and the close quarters of the Bradley, Archer’s blood turned ice cold.

Keniclius! Second-in-command to only Khan himself among those who wanted to remake the world’s population according to their own ideas of superior genetics. Some people were already calling these brushfire conflicts “the Eugenics Wars.”

In his mind, Archer could see Keniclius as he appeared in TV news broadcasts: the same sharp, Roman features as a classical bust; but topped with red-brown hair that he wore long—a fashion that many of the so-called supermen had adopted.

Archer took a deep breath. “Doctor, I need you to do me a favor.”

“A favor?!” Over the comm, Keniclius laughed. “Unless I’m mistaken, weren’t we just shooting at each other?”

“Ah, actually, you are mistaken. You were shooting at me. I didn’t shoot back. And I’m not planning to attack because of the school.”

“Hmmm. Yes, the school. Occupied, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Archer. “I’m here to evacuate it.”

“Well, how about if you just leave them to me. They’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving anyone to the Alliance…Doctor.”

Keniclius laughed again. “Oh, Captain, what propaganda have they been feeding you?” His voice was filled with condescension. “Made me out to be the mad scientist of the taped thrillers, have they? Well, consider this, Captain: We are bringing peace and harmony! Look around you, Captain. The world is crumbling. It needs control. It needs a master race—not as conquerors, but as peace-keepers. Alexander, Napoleon, Hitler…they went about it all wrong. Humans have spirit and will not respond to the jackboot.”

“And what do you call the fighting we’re engaged in now, Doctor? You can not use violence to bring about peace. As a doctor, you must know that.”

“As a doctor, I know that you must remove a tumor. You must cut away a cancer before it metastasizes! Oh, Captain, if you could only see that our goals—”

“I’m not here to argue philosophy with you, Doctor.”

“Ah, but you are, Captain: the finer points of war.”

“No, I just need to get those kids out of here.”

“So my army and your army can ‘have at it’ without any collateral damage?” asked Keniclius.

“Yeah…close enough.”

“We don’t want to hurt anyone in a battle, do we? Except that it’s always fine to hurt the evildoer. Oh, wait, you think of me as evil and yourself as good,” the doctor said drily.

“And vice versa.”

“Oh, don’t be a moral relativist, Captain. One of us is right and one is wrong. Only Posterity will tell. Fortunately, Posterity favors the best-equipped.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely one of the rules of war.”

Keniclius chuckled. “‘The Rules of War.’ Oh, I like that. Right along with ‘Never forget that your weapons were made by the lowest bidder,’eh, Captain?”

Archer took a deep breath. “I would say that it’s not okay to the hurt civilians, no matter whose side they’re on. And it’s certainly never okay to hurt children.”

“Children are the future, aren’t they?”

Archer bit his tongue. You heard a lot of rumors in the fog of war, but if even half of what was said about Keniclius was true…Not just cloning—anti-humanistic enough as that was—but some process to grow an adult from an embryo in hours instead of years. What would that do to the child’s mind? If it was even possible.

The thought of the results of the failed experiments sent new chills along Archer’s spine.

“If you kill civilians,” said Archer slowly, “then what’s the purpose of the war? It’s for the civilians. War isn’t about war, it’s about the world after the war.”

“Yes,” said Keniclius. “They’re the prizes, if you will. And that’s certainly a Rule of War: Never kill the prizes.”

“Look, Doctor, all I’m asking is that you hold your fire for a little while. Just a few minutes while I get them out. I’ll send only a couple of men. Unarmed and on foot.”

“How do I know you won’t take the opportunity of getting closer to attack?”

“You could always back up a few blocks. Then you’d be safer,” Archer joked, forcing a smile onto his face and into his voice. Good thing this wasn’t a video phone.

“Not amusing,” said Keniclius coldly.

“Look, Doctor, they won’t have any weapons. No rifles, no sidearms. You’ve got snipers up there. If they see so much as a soup spoon, you can shoot them.”

“ Them, not us? You won’t be part of the group, Captain?”

“Would you like me to be? That’s no problem.”

“Yes, you should be, Captain. You’re negotiating this. A leader should never send his soldiers someplace he would himself never go. That’s a Rule of War too.” Archer heard Keniclius and another voice in a brief, muffled exchange. “You have your wish, Captain. I will cease fire until they are withdrawn. After all, what would I do with a bunch of children?”

“Right,” said Archer. “They’re already born. Not really at their best for genetic manipulation.”

“Watch it, Captain!” said Keniclius. “I don’t suffer fools gladly, and you clearly know nothing about what you speak of. You have fifteen minutes.” There was a click, and the connection went dead.

“Okay, Green,” said Archer. “You and me.” He unbuckled his gun holster and handed it to Bengy. “Leave your forty-five here.”

“You were serious about that?” Green asked.

“Of course. Always tell the absolute truth to your enemies. That’s a good Rule of War too.”

Green nodded. “If only to confuse them.” He put on his sunglasses. “I was just thinking, sir. You know…about removing the bad and keeping the good—what he said. It kinda made sense. I mean I know he’s the enemy and all, but isn’t any of what he says allowed to make sense? If we could turn his ideas—if we could cut away the bad—”

“Whose ‘bad,’ Lieutenant? Your bad? My bad? His bad? The guy down the street’s bad?” Green shrugged. “That’s why we don’t tamper with genetics, Lieutenant. None of us is smart enough to know, in the long run, what humanity will need to survive. So we leave it up to nature. No cloning, no manipulation of genetic traits before children are born…or ‘genetically cleansing’ them after they are.”

He opened the Bradley’s top hatch. “And, speaking of children…Come on, let’s go see what the future looks like.”

The Immortality Blues

Marc Carlson

The saxophone echoed to silence. The man called Lewis Bixby put down his book, kissed the blond woman sleeping next to him on the couch, rose to his feet and strode across the dimly lit living room. Through the large wall-window behind the couch, he could see the beautiful lights of New York City in the distance, a ground-bound starfield, even at this hour of the morning.

The city that never sleeps…

He was considering whether to take his wife to bed as he reached for the stacks of plastic holo-squares beside the stereo when he heard Rayna’s voice in the transceiver implanted behind his right ear.

“Lew…” Rayna was cut off as the player’s face went black, and a hellishly bright pulse flashed behind him. For an instant, his shadow was sharply etched onto the bookshelves in front of him, the leather bindings radiating heat back at him, nearly as hot as the heat on his back, searing the image of the smoldering spines into the edges of his vision as the light faded.

He whirled and looked through the window, his peripheral vision gone, leaving him only a narrow tunnel to see through. Camilla still slept on the couch. Behind her, a mushroom of hellfire-orange-and-black roiling plasma highlighted the slowly collapsing ruins of lower Manhattan. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew that, in that darkness, the silent expanding cloud of superheated wind and debris at the leading edge of the overpressure wave was coming at him faster than the speed of sound.

Oh, this is going to hurt.

The man called Lewis Bixby floated through hazy dreams of Kaliste, the Beautiful Isle, and a lovely bare-breasted woman whose name he’d lost, in rare aromatic silks, fine wool, and linen, and vanishing in a blinding light and a noise so loud it was no longer sound, but a slap from Dzeos Pathair himself blasting his ship into flaming splinters around him. Then the past faded, leaving only the life-consuming spirits of the dead….

Dull pain and itching dragged him back to consciousness. There was pressure on his legs. He saw a cloudy sky above him through a twisted mass of burnt wreckage, dripping with oily black rain. The sweet stench of putrefying flesh cut through the reek of char.

That was certainly unpleasant. I must remember to avoid doing that in the future….

He clicked his tongue. There was no response from Rayna. He started to move, then froze as the glass fragments embedded in his flesh ground and tore through his muscles. He focused, and forced himself into a sitting position. A section of the roof pinned his legs. His clothes were in tatters, and his skin was covered in the worst case of acne he’d seen in some time as his body worked to expel the glass chunks. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tried lifting himself up into a better position. The debris shifted as he pulled on it, and his leg stuck fast. He jerked hard, and his right leg broke just below the knee. Nearly overwhelming waves of pain and dizziness coursed through him. Grunting in agony, he reached under the roof section and rotated the dangling lower limb. He pulled it free, and was grateful to lose consciousness once more.

It was dark when he came to, and it had stopped raining. Some of the glass shards had been pushed from his skin. He swept those away; the grinding in his muscles told him there was still more in there.

I’m going to be shedding glass for days.

His leg, however, had healed. He squeezed himself up through the tunnel overhead, and started climbing to freedom.

A few feet up, a hand stuck out of the debris. He recognized the wedding ring.

Camilla.

He paused a moment to swallow his emotions, then kept climbing.

I’ll mourn when I have the time.

He soon emerged at the top of the mound. The full moon, shy and intermittent behind the heavy cloud cover, was the only illumination. His apartment had been on the fortieth floor, now it was a pile of ruined steel. It was too dark to even try to climb down the irregular slope, so he sat in the cold, smoky-sweet breeze to wait for morning.

Within a few hours, the first fingers of light slowly emerged in the eastern sky in what ancient peoples had called the wolf’s tail, the lykaugés. The early light showed that his building was lying in the midst of miles of other mounds of shattered buildings stretching as far as he could see. To the southwest, beyond Queens and Brooklyn, he could barely make out the ruins of Manhattan through the pillars of dark smoke, reminiscent of burning Kuwaiti oil fields.

As the valley slowly filled with golden light, he remembered what it looked like that first morning he’d seen it, in 1609, from the helm on the tiny deck of the Halve Maen. He overlaid the image of the past, with its rich verdant forests, sounds of life, and smells of the sea foam blending with the foliage, over the hazy dusty silent ruins around him.

Who’d have thought that the end of civilization would be so untidy?

He rose and carefully climbed off the ruins. When he reached the street level, the first bodies he found were in the overturned wreckage of a police vehicle: two officers, a man and a woman, dead only a few days and swarming with flies. He pulled the man out and stripped him. Peeling away his own tattered clothes, he put on the officer’s uniform and strapped on his weapon and equipment. He started walking. By the time he reached Brooklyn, he barely noticed the stench from his clothes, or the bodies littering the streets.

As he passed through the ruined city, he saw other survivors, most as devastated as the buildings around them. Some straggled away from the center of the city, while others sat in silence, waiting for a rescue that might never come; an old man, wheeling his belongings in an overloaded cart, wheels squeaking; hordes of looters and scavengers shooting at each other like mad dogs fighting for scraps; an old storefront with the sign YES, WE ARE OPEN—CASH OR TRADE ONLY and a man with a shotgun guarding the door; several government aircraft circling like vultures.

He reached the ruins of the Queensboro Bridge toward late afternoon. From that vantage point, he could see that none of the other bridges had fared any better. Backtracking to the Twenty-first Street–Queensbridge entrance to the subway, he found it was clear. He unclipped the officer’s flashlight, and descended into the tunnel. The ash and dust from the collapsed buildings had blasted down through the tunnels like a pyroclastic flow covering everything. He tore off his sleeve, and wrapped it around his lower face, to keep from inhaling too much dust.

At the foot of the stairs to the platform he found a section of wall that had been cleaned of dust and tagged “StillHere.” A dead man in an evening suit lay at the other end of the platform, covered in dust.

He hopped off the platform to the floor of the tunnel and found that the dust layer covered water a foot deep. After a moment he decided it was more likely from runoff of broken water mains than a crack in the roof of the tunnel. He followed the maglev tracks under the river. It was a nightmarish trip through darkness and sharp shadows in the dim glow of his flashlight. He found a train on the line where it had stopped, a few hundred yards from the Roosevelt Island Station. Even though there were no bodies in the cars, the silence still evoked a bleak horror.

He changed tunnels at Lexington Avenue, working his way south to Grand Central. The upper levels of Grand Central were blocked by fallen debris, but the access stairs to the deeper levels were clear. That was fine with him. He descended to the deepest levels, and the century-old military vault beneath what had once been the Graybar Building. During a blackout in the seventies, these levels had flooded, but the precautions taken then to avoid similar subsequent flooding had apparently worked.

The doorway he wanted was intact and not blocked. He cleared the dust from a lock pad. The pulse shielding down here had worked, and the steel door opened. The light from inside hurt his eyes for a moment as he stepped out of darkness and into his “workshop.” It was a large, carpeted room, decorated in dark woods and comfortable furniture, walls lined with leather-bound books, weapons, paintings, and knickknacks from the history of human civilization.

“Rayna,” he called out.

The computer was still active. “Hello, Lewis, you have several messages…Are you all right?” a woman’s voice came from the computer panel which rotated out from a hidden recess. The AI was a violation of the Cumberland Acts, but laws of mortals didn’t concern him. Many of Rayna’s components had been harvested from an apartment on East Sixty-eighth Street that had once belonged to an alien sent to Earth to protect humanity in the late twentieth century. It had taken months to fix the voice systems and years to reprogram the system.

“I was afraid that you had been killed,” she said.

He smiled bitterly. “Lewis Bixby is dead, certainly. Who’s next in the queue?”

“I suppose the next best candidate is Jerome Drexel.” Rayna maintained a stock of artificial identities, keeping their records and paperwork up to date until they were needed. “We’ll lose a lot of capital in such a rapid transition…”

“I expect we’ll lose a lot of capital regardless. Drexel should be fine.” He went into the living area and started some coffee. While that was brewing, he showered and changed clothes. After a half hour, carrying a mug of coffee, a pad of paper, and a pen, he eased himself into a stuffed leather Queen Anne chair in front of the computer console.

“Very well, then. List messages…” There were several messages from his wife’s relatives and others from family friends worried about whether or not anyone had survived the blast. He deleted those, perfunctorily negating the past twelve years of Lewis Bixby’s life.

“Tell me, Rayna, what has happened?”

“It’s impossible to be accurate, as the Interface Netlinks are only operating sporadically.” The monitor flicked onto different newscasts, most broadcasting under the roughest conditions. “I’ve had to route through some of the deep military nodes just to get out of the city and into the main backbone. I’ve only been able to route to the satellite links in the past few hours. My eye-in-the-sky network is active but contact with it is…fuzzy at present. I expect it to clear up in a few days as the EM chaos overhead fades.”

He waited for her to continue.

“However, what I have been able to determine is that three days ago, 1 May 2053, at 0230.26, local time, there was a first strike with simultaneous Interface viral assault in coordination with nuclear detonations in several western New United Nations cities…”

“What cities?”

“New York City, Chicago, Dallas, Toronto, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, London, Berlin, Moscow, and Tel Aviv. Undetonated or otherwise failed explosive devices have been located in Washington, D.C., Denver, Paris, Madrid, Rome, and Istanbul. The military is working under the assumption that the first strike was made by E-Con.”

“Not surprising, considering the posturing both sides have been making for the past few months over the Taklamakan and Antarctic oil fields.” The Eastern Coalition of Nations was predominantly comprised of nations first united under the Grand Khanate of Noonien Singh. Even after his disappearance, they had continued to work together against the western powers. “Missiles?”

“Unlikely. Probably handheld devices or small aircraft on suicide runs: hence the relatively low-yield explosions. The Alliance nations made an immediate retaliatory launch of missiles, bombers, and satellite-based weapons. Conventional forces were already moving into position for invasion. The First, Eighth, and Sixteenth NUN fleets were already carrying troops into the Bay of Bengal. Current intelligence indicates multiple-megaton detonations over Samarkand, Riyadh, Islamabad, New Delhi, and Singapore; smaller partial detonations over Hong Kong, Beijing, and Ho Chi Minh City. There were failed missile detonations over nearly seventy Asian cities.”

He sat watching the screen, clicking a pen absently as he read reports and watched the few available reporters’ panicked blathering. Commentary suggested that E-Con hadn’t really anticipated any sort of response. President Mendoza was expected to speak to the nation soon. There were clips of her spouting the stock jingoistic presidential nonsense “We will punish these evil monsters,” “The forces of freedom will prevail,” and so on.

“Casualties?” he asked the computer.

“Best estimates suggest a death toll in the initial exchange ranging from fifty to one hundred million people.”

“Not more? That’s surprising.” He thought for a few moments. “Access post-Holocaust protocols. What are the most realistic outcomes?”

“It’s too early to tell. Military sources suggest the EM pulses and viruses have rendered the delivery systems unreliable. Of the hundreds of missiles and bombers the NUN launched, only one in five made it into the air. Of those, only a fraction detonated properly.”

“What are the probable secondary casualties?”

“If all goes well, they could be as low as half a billion, but it is far more likely that there will be only half a billion left in six months due to infrastructure and ecological collapse. The nuclear fireballs have critically damaged the ozone layer. The firestorms have generated dust and smoke plumes from the cities, which are carrying tons of radioactive debris and a large volume of toxic gases released by the firestorms…” Rayna began reeling off horror after horror, each a nail in humanity’s coffin.

He sat quietly for a long time, considering. A die-off as dramatic as ninety-six percent of the human race would be hard, but not unexpected. And it might be best for the species in the long run. Then he thought of the storekeeper in Brooklyn and “StillHere.” Could he stand back and ignore that sort of tenacity? No, the worse the die-off, the harder the recovery. The insanity was going to be bad enough no matter what could be managed.

“I suppose we’ll have to do something. Work on opening communications channels. Then take a look in the directories ‘Wintergreen’ and ‘Parmen.’ We may have to go public about the weather-control technology, but we have to minimize the ozone damage as soon as possible and keep the skies clear. If we can wash the skies somewhat, that might reduce the fallout. Also, I will need to talk to anyone currently still alive and listed in the following files: Bilderberger, Cabal, Golden Dawn, Grandmasters, and Phoenix. Tell them to expect a call from Al-Akharin.” The Last.

The man called Jerome Drexel sat in the dark room, his hands bound to the metal frame chair by strips of plastic quicktape. The chair was bolted to the hex-tiled floor. The only light came from some semi-opaque windows along the ceiling, above the row of sinks along one wall. He’d been beaten repeatedly, and there were burns on his shoulders and chest. Water drizzled from an exposed ceiling pipe. Any other fixtures had been removed—recently, by the glint of shiny metal along the pipe fittings. The room barely resembled anything that might be expected at Montana State University, and smelled like an abattoir, a moldy abattoir, even with the chilly breeze of the air handler.

He knew he was being watched. He knew he should feel at least nervous, but after millennia, torture just wasn’t as threatening as it once was. Much of what made torture effective was fear: of death, and of pain. He’d long since ceased to fear death, and he knew just what pain could and couldn’t do to him and was far more concerned about things that had nothing to do with being strapped to a chair in some postapocalyptic idea of a torture chamber.

It had been hard to maintain contact across the entire country, much less the entire planet, with only intermittent communications. Thinking back over the past three years, he wondered if he shouldn’t have done more to fix that. As it was, activating the weather satellites had been a far more public action than he preferred. Even with his best efforts, most regions had still been reduced to local reliance on limited resources for food and water. Without federal resources to fall back on, most local governments had been hard-pressed to keep order, much less grow and protect enough food to feed their own; but after some initial struggles, people had been generally willing to work together and help when they could. Busy days had passed, filled with hard physical work; and, for Drexel, the harder task of trying to get influential people to work toward the same goals while the world gently teetered above the Abyss. Thankfully there had been other people here to help him, and Rayna.

Speaking of which…He clicked his tongue.

“I’m here,” Rayna said through the transceiver. “The transmitter’s fine. Placing it inside an inert bone plug in the skull seems to have slowed your body’s rejection process.”

Footsteps and a scraping noise behind him caught his attention. He looked up to see a man in red overalls pulling a chair around him and sitting down about three feet away. He was a little shy of six feet tall, about 1.8 meters, with dark brown/black curly hair, dark eyes, and a vaguely hard set to his mouth, although otherwise his expression seemed rather friendly. His overalls had unit flashes on the shoulders, a radiation counter and a communication transmitter on his left shoulder, and truly kitschy braid around the collar. An outfit designed to be worn beneath an outer garment, such as the ballistic battle dress that Drexel suspected the soldiers standing behind him were wearing.

The two men looked at each other in silence. Finally the soldier spoke. “Your UHD card says that you’re Jerome Drexel and before the war you were quite the industrialist.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Except as we both know, Mister Drexel, that’s not the truth.” The soldier grinned.

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“If you say so.”

“Yes, if I say so.” The soldier paused. “You do know who I am, right?”

Drexel considered for a moment denying it, but decided against it. He locked his eyes onto the other man’s and stared as he spoke. “Aaron Jenkins, also known as ‘Colonel Green,’ in much the same way that Joseph Vissarionovich Djugashvili called himself ‘Stalin.’”

“So you have heard of me? Excellent.”

“I’ve even read your books. Optimal Purity and the Human Animal, and Emerald Watch on the Twilight Line, were pure nihilistic twaddle, blending the worst of Nietzsche and Rand, with a solid dose of White Supremacy in the mix. I have to admit, though—you have a way with words. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that in centuries to come, Necessary Sacrifice is still a classic philosophy text among those looking for a rationalization for mass slaughter.”

“I believe you have completely misunderstood me.” Green tried to look open and innocent.

“I don’t think so.” Drexel sounded bored.

The truly superior human doesn’t need to flaunt it, tell people about it, or write about it seeking validation.

“It was reported that your Brigade was cut off in Kashmiristan a few weeks into the war,” Drexel continued.

“Those bastards at Central Command abandoned us there.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they didn’t have a way to get you all home again. Be that as it may, like the White Company after the Hundred Years War, you were cut adrift, far from home, and you did what any self-respecting condotierre would do. You abandoned your post.”

Green looked at him quizzically. “There are still a lot of our troops back there. I understand that most of them have hired on with the local warlords as mercenaries.”

Drexel ignored him. “A year later, you surprised everyone by appearing in Alaska at the head of an army comprised of both NUN and former Coalition soldiers. The president ordered you to stand down. You declined.”

“Mendoza isn’t president of anything. The NUN is gone, the United States is little more than a burnt-out husk with no authority. Hell, you’ve seen it out there. There are a few enclaves of order surrounded by barbarism. If you don’t starve, the marauding hordes will get you. The dark ages are back.”

Drexel continued as if the other man hadn’t spoken. “You unrolled your red eagle banner, burning and slaughtering your way across the Pacific Northwest to bring order?”

“I do what I have to.”

“I daresay. Over the past two years you’ve been conquering and consolidating your way across the country, slaughtering the ‘unpure’—those you deemed too diseased, too mutated, who weren’t your shade of white, or those people who just happened to disagree with you. Your speech outside the Seattle Arena before your soldiers slaughtered thousands of civilians was memorable: ‘This is not the time for timidity and second-guessing—we can not afford to doubt ourselves.’ As I said, a way with words. Several months ago you crossed the Rockies into Montana, and by all accounts have been cheerfully continuing your culling here.”

Green stared back at him. “You just aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

“I have no real reason to be.”

Green smiled broadly. “We’ll have to see about that. You see, I know about you too, Mister Drexel. In fact, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

“And why would that be?”

“I’ve been hearing about your own efforts at bringing order to this once great nation. You invented the weather control technology, didn’t you? You didn’t really think that I would stop in to visit just anyone we catch violating our borders, did you? I think we have a lot we can do for one another.”

“Honestly, I was expecting to see that pimple-faced posturer of a subaltern who’s been trying to question me.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Paxton, he’s still a little…” Green hesitated.

“Green?”

“I was going to say inexperienced. So tell me, what were you doing? Driving a car across the countryside in the middle of the night? A car with a box of biotech papers and equipment in the trunk. I can’t imagine that someone like you is the sort to partake in mundane espionage.”

“We’d sent in several convoys of medical supplies, food, and materiel that had gone missing recently. I felt that needed to be followed up, trying to find out why; and we’re stretched a little thin right now.”

“We being who?”

“We being a loose alliance of like-minded organizations trying to help people recover from the Late Unpleasantness,” Drexel answered.

“I’ll accept that for now. So what were the papers and equipment for?” Green continued the interrogation.

Drexel was surprised at the question. “Papers and equipment?”

“Yes, the papers and equipment in the trunk relating to bioweapons research.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. The car’s previous owner had died. I think he was some sort of university wonk. I never even looked in the trunk.”

“You know, I could almost believe you. Academics are a tricky, worthless lot of rabble. Almost as useless as those silly lawyers whining about rights. You know, the universities all shut down with the war, except that these damned academics and their minions just keep on finding worthless things to ‘research’ and waste time and resources on.”

Drexel sighed sympathetically. “I can’t say that I mind the lack of academic pretentiousness and politics slowing things down.”

“Tell you what, though. I have a cure for that. Honest labor.”

“Such as?”

“When we came driving up, the educated dummies here tried to negotiate. At least it made them easy to round up. We shipped all of them off to work at the coal mines in the mountains.” Green laughed.

“All of them?” That was just what Drexel wanted to hear. He relayed the code he knew Rayna was waiting for. “God in Heaven, that must have been a sight to see.”

“It was. More trouble than they are worth.”

“How much trouble is the secret missile complex off in the foothills worth?”

Green froze, then laughed. “You’re very good, sir. Yes, I have those missiles. It wasn’t hard to repair the circuitry.”

“Giving you what, fifty, two-hundred-megaton fusion weapons? Each with a heavy booster capable of reaching the antipodes.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? I always wanted to be my own superpower.”

“It would be quite lovely, except for two crucial things,” Drexel commented.

“And what would those be?”

Outside the building there was a distant rumbling of thunder, growing louder.

“The first is that I have other plans for those missiles…”

The thunder roll had deepened, and then vanished into a thunderclap loud enough to vibrate the floor. Green looked around, startled. Drexel flexed his arms and snapped his bonds.

“The second thing is that you’ve just had a horrible accident in your bioweapons lab, and you and every human within a mile radius are now either dying or soon will be from a particularly virulent mutated version of weapons-grade Ebola. The stuff smells horrible.” Drexel wrinkled his nose at the odor coming through the air conditioner.

“What are you talking about? I don’t have a bioweapons lab. Bioweapons are too dangerous; they can backfire on you too easily.”

“Which is why I had to have the virus dropped from orbit.” Drexel smiled. “Rest assured, though, that when your people arrive to investigate, they’ll find out what you’ve been up to…all the evidence you’ve left.”

Green looked at him, horrified, and started coughing.

“You wanted to know why I’m here? I’m here to make sure that you go down as one of the biggest monsters in history. That you were preparing to use an uncontrollable disease on your enemies.”

“Why?” Green fell to his hands and knees, his question unanswered; as did the two guards by the door, coughing, blood pouring from every orifice.

“Call it a ‘necessary sacrifice.’”

The man called Drexel stepped out onto the observation platform behind the observatory dome. The 130-year-old structure had been abandoned for decades. The ivy slowly claiming the flaking concrete was dried and brown in the August dryness. He could smell the salt tang of the sea in the morning breeze, even at this distance. Walking around behind the dome, all of the Los Angeles basin lay stretched before him: from the nearly silent Cahuenga Canyon freeway to the Hollywood Hills canyons slowly returning to their natural state to Santa Monica Bay stretching inward nearly as far as Century and Culver Cities, then down to the green and blue smudge that was Palos Verdes Island, and the Long Beach Channel. In the faint ocean haze he could barely make out where the Magic Kingdom towers still stood in Anaheim, far beyond the empty and falling towers of the old downtown.

“They tell me it’s the world’s largest ghost town,” a voice from behind him said. Drexel turned to look at the person who had joined him. A tall man, with short, dark hair, blue eyes, mixed background, and a normally friendly, lively face, prematurely aged by five years’ exposure to the postwar world. He was clearly stressed.

Thankfully the weather-control satellites were finally getting the ozone layer regenerated. Now if they could just get the temperatures back up.

“It was a ghost town before Hermosa, trying to cope with a century and a half of destroyed lives and false façades,” Drexel replied.

The Net was already killing what was left of film and television production anyway. The earthquake just put the place out of its misery.

Drexel stuck out his hand. The other man took it in his, almost desperately, his fingers taking the ancient ritual positions. “Ellison, why did you call for this meeting?”

“Sir…” The younger man’s voice seemed to relax somewhat, though tension still filled his voice. “There’s been an…accident.”

“Serious?”

“Oh God, yes.” Ellison shuddered.

“Tell me about it.” Drexel already knew the particulars—Rayna had seen to that, but he found that when you gave people rein to speak, it not only helped them, but they often shared unexpected information.

“We were testing to see if a larger distortion field could be generated. You know we had a problem with that test on the moon some time back…” He hesitated.

Drexel nodded patiently. A hole had been blown in the moon’s surface earlier in the year, and the Phoenix Project had almost been shut down.

We still can’t feed the population, but the spaceports are up and running.

Thankfully Green hadn’t heard about the project when he’d had Doctor Cochrane and his bunch shipped off to the coal mines two years ago. Cochrane and his assistants, of which Ellison was one of the more important, were back at work in Bozeman.

“Well, we set up a network of Continuum Distortion generators on the Lagrange Habitats.”

“Why there?” the older man asked.

“We figured that the earlier accident might have had something to do with not only the Earth’s gravity, but also the Moon’s mass, so we thought we’d try it as far out as we could get and still be easily reached. The Habitats were willing to run the tests. There should have been nothing that could have gone wrong.”

“And?”

“They flipped the switch, and…well, they’re gone. And not just them, but every space platform outside the Earth’s geomagnetic field: All six O’Neill habitats, a whole slew of satellites in high orbit including most of the asteroid defense network. The outer debris field is just…gone. Five thousand people.”

Drexel shrugged inwardly

And half of Rayna’s eyes in the sky. On the plus side, the weather and communications satellite networks are in lower orbits than that, and this does eliminate the remaining orbital weapons platforms. No loss there.

“So who knows about this?”

“Right now, just the people up in Bozeman. Zefram’s too shaken to do more than crawl into his bottle and threaten to quit. Jacob, Lily, Rance, and the others are all doing their stoic thing, but it’s obvious they’re about to crumble. They all think I’ve gone south to talk to the president about this.” The assistant was shifting his weight nervously.

“And so you shall, but you were right to contact me. We’ll need to spin this.”

“How? I mean we’re talking five thousand people. Communications may be iffy and the country is still mostly held by local warlords, but eventually someone’s going to notice that they aren’t up there anymore. Even if Zefram doesn’t quit, they are going to shut us down this time. We killed five thousand people!”

How did the song go? “Somos cinco mil aquí, en esta pequeña parte de la ciudad…”

“Did you?”

Ellison froze. “What do you mean?”

“They may have died, certainly. But let’s learn from history for a moment, shall we? I’m certain that you recall the Odyssey star launches back in the thirties. The manned attempt to travel beyond the solar system? I should hope so since Odyssey Eight and Nine are still out there.” At twenty percent of the speed of light it would take Odyssey Eight, the Telemachus, until 2062 to reach Alpha Centauri. “The Telemachus, under Chuck Clement, discovered a permanent magnetic storm at the leading edge of the heliopause. Clement reported that this appeared to be generating random, spontaneous momentary wormholes. It’s probable that something similar destroyed the Odyssey Ten, the Charybdis.”

Not to mention several of the Voyager, Pioneer, and Nomad probes.

“Yes, that’s what gave Zefram the idea how to manipulate subspace…”

“Precisely. Isn’t it reasonable to assume then that a distortion field that is not balanced correctly can create spontaneous momentary wormholes?”

Ellison nodded slowly.

“Tell the president that the test was a success, but that one of the generators wasn’t in synch with the others, and that some sort of wormhole effect happened. Make it clear you couldn’t control this since the actual generators were out of your hands.”

“But that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Can you say for a certainty what actually happened?”

“Of course not.”

“It certainly sounds more plausible to me than that you managed to generate enough of a distortion field to inadvertently vaporize even one O’Neill habitat. Not to mention things a quarter of a million miles, er, four hundred thousand kilometers away. Particularly since if you can do that it means that you’ve just built the most powerful weapon in history.”

Time seemed to slow as Ellison digested that.

“So who do we say screwed up?”

“Brynner was up there with you at, what does Cochrane call it? Ground Station Bozeman?”

“Yes. I think he’s heading back to San Francisco now.”

“Fine, tell the president that you think it was Brynner’s habitat. Maybe there was a real malfunction and no one actually did anything wrong, but stress that it was a million-to-one accident.”

“What about Brynner?”

“I’ll square things with him.”

The man called Drexel stood by the edge of the clearing with a taller, elderly man. Across the clearing, by the clapped-together saloon, a party was going on, a celebration. The Phoenix Project had been a success. The old man was rubbing his hands together, complaining.

“It’s freezing out here. Why didn’t we leave after Cochrane landed? We could be back in Bozeman by now.”

Drexel smiled and looked at the other man.

Christopher Brynner, the Net’s first trillionaire, founder of Brynner Information Systems and Interface Operations corporation, and the Interface’s Channel 90, member of the boards of more conglomerates and zaibatsu s than Carter’s had little liver pills, was quite a sight in a heavy coat and cloth cap. He looked to be nearly ninety, although he was only seventy.

Drexel thought back to the bright, young man he had met in the first decade of the millennium. Drexel had been working with the Iraqi museum, trying to identify looted artifacts, and Brynner had been a battle-scarred lieutenant serving in the American forces. The full-body Maori tattoo was long gone now, inappropriate for a man in high finance, but that same bright-eyed young man was still there, trapped in an aging body.

“We’re waiting,” Drexel said, turning back to watch the festivities.

“For what?”

“First contact,” Drexel said simply.

“What the hell is that?”

“This morning, when Cochrane broke the warp barrier, it was detected by an alien scout ship near Neptune. They should be landing here any minute.”

“Rayna tell you that?”

“Some of it. See that group over there, looking as discrete as a tramp at a church social?” Drexel nodded in the direction of a group of people huddling around an older, bald man in a long coat.

“Yes.”

“I’m fairly certain they’re not from around here,” Drexel said wryly.

“What do you mean?” Brynner asked.

“Last night, when we lost contact with the launch site? The story they are spreading is that one of the weapons platforms reacted to the powering up of the Phoenix and fired on the site.”

“But there aren’t any weapons platforms up there.”

“Most people don’t know that, though.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t have a clue.” Drexel frowned. Not really true. After listening to Rayna’s reports from her eyes in the sky of temporal events, unusual spacecraft fighting it out, and matter transmission profiles resembling those from time travelers she had encountered in 1968, it seemed fairly obvious that someone, possibly from the future, had come to Earth to stop Cochrane’s flight, and someone else came to set things right.

“When I got up here first thing this morning, these people were already hard at work repairing the Phoenix, almost as if they’d had some sort of investment in it. Two of them even took the ride with Cochrane, in place of Ellison and Sloane.”

“But Lily’s right there.”

“I gather she was injured in the attack last night. This morning she was somewhere else getting treatment. Ellison was killed.”

“They told you this?”

“No. But I’ve had most of the day to piece together what was going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if we never see them again. We’ll probably want to forget they were ever here.”

After all, they are doing me an unasked-for favor, it would be rude not to reciprocate.

“So now these aliens are coming?”

“Yes.”

“And this is a good thing?” Drexel’s companion asked sarcastically.

“They are Vulcans, so it’s better than it could be.”

“You’ve met these aliens—Vulcans?—before?”

“I’ve met one before. Nice enough fellow, if a bit too stiff and dull. He was stranded here in the nineteen-fifties.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in over twenty years. He was living in New York then, writing science fiction novels.”

Brynner tucked his hands under his arms, and thought for a moment.

“Aliens. How cool is that? I’ve always wanted to meet an alien.”

“I suppose. I’ve encountered a number of aliens over the years.” The Gods, the Sandarans, Q, Mestral, Gary Seven…“Most weren’t really that pleasant to deal with.” Drexel shrugged. “But who knows? Maybe the public existence of aliens will help bring people together. Nothing makes you clean up your house better than knowing the neighbors are coming to visit. Although even that will still take decades.”

“All the things you’ve seen. You know, I really envy you sometimes.”

“I envy you, too.” Drexel’s voice was filled with emotion as he made the comment.

“Why?”

“Because, Chris, you’ll die someday. That’s something I doubt I’ll ever get to experience.” They fell silent for a few minutes.

After a while Brynner turned to him. “So, how many lives have you had? How many people have you been?”

“I have no idea.”

“That’s a facile answer. I asked you a serious question.”

“It happens to be the truth. Memory isn’t a lot different for me than it is for you. You know I have an eidetic memory, right? But even the carvings on stone erode into dust in time. I can barely remember what happened to me a thousand years ago. In fact, all I’m working on are memories of memories, and those tend to get jumbled after a time. Occasionally there are flashes of things that happened before, sparked by unpredictable stimuli.” He stopped and looked up at the sky. “Let me think—at least three hundred—relevant lives. The inconsequential short lives that lasted only a day or an evening, easily over a thousand.”

“That includes Alexander, Solomon, Michelangelo, and so on, right?” Brynner asked.

“No, not really. Most of them have been people you are unlikely to have ever heard of.” He thought for a moment. “Have you ever heard of Utnapishtim?”

“Immortal king of Dilmun, the prototype for Noah.”

Drexel looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

“What?” Brynner shrugged. “When you told the Circle you were Gilgamesh, I went out and read a book. So you were Utnapishtim?”

“I’m fairly certain I was. I’ve been keeping a low profile for a long time though; living a new life for a decade or two, then leaving before having to lose people, before the children start looking at me with that growing look of fear in their eyes.” A burst of music and cheering came from the saloon. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m fairly sure I knew those people, Alexander and such. But I find that most people have expectations for immortals. They are more likely to believe you when you tell them that you were Benjamin Franklin than if you tell them you were Georges LeMat. More importantly, they are less likely to burn you at the stake if you claim to be someone they’ve heard of.”

“Still, all the things you’ve seen—how much have you forgotten?”

“Most of it. I keep thinking I should try to reproduce some of the great artworks I’ve encountered that have been lost and no longer exist except in my memory. There never seems to be the time.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “I think the real reason I tend to lie about who I was is that people take a while to warm up to one another, to open up, to share. Every time a person gets hurt, loves and loses, the harder that process is. After millennia, that process is really hard. My life is my business and no one else’s. Hell, I’ve known you most of your life. You’re the closest thing to family I have. Well, you and Rayna. And it’s hard enough for me to open up to you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll die someday, and I’ll have to deal with that loss. It’s just easier to not get involved.”

“So no one ever gets to know the real you, never gets to learn all the good you’ve done?” Brynner asked.

Or the harm.

“That is correct.”

“That makes no sense to me.”

“If I made perfect sense, I’d have to relinquish being human altogether.”

Silence fell throughout the compound. The cloud cover started to swirl. A multicolored equal-armed Y shape slowly descended.

“So this is it,” Brynner said. “I feel like I should be covering this.”

“Well, you are the closest thing to a journalist here. It would be the biggest story of your life.”

“You going to be okay?” Brynner looked worried.

Drexel looked at the ship for a long moment.

“I’ll survive.”

(Grand Prize)

Orphans

R. S. Belcher

In the times before the treatment murdered his senses, the room would have spoken to him. He would have known she was still awake before he had even entered their darkened bedroom; her breathing pattern, heart rate, pheromone dispersal, even her body language as she lay on their bed, her back to him, would have been noted, recorded, analyzed. It would have screamed that she feigned sleep in less time than it took to blink, or kill.

But now his senses were lost in the fog of the medicines. He was completely taken off guard when her voice broke the silence of their bedroom.

“How was council?”

The thrill of disorientation, of being surprised, had been alien to him since the war, a vaguely remembered response to stimuli that the doctors and the councillors, the drugs and surgeries, had purged from him a million lifetimes ago. Now the treatment left him blind and vulnerable.

“Long,” he said as he slipped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes.

“It’s been that way a lot lately,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, swallowing hard.

She didn’t turn around to face him. He went to the sink and splashed cold water across his face. As always, the man in the mirror was a stranger. His face was gaunt, more drawn than even during his time in the war. The treatment’s effects had dulled his dark eyes. His black hair was shot through with gray. The only thing he did recognize, the thing that told him that this was his face, was his unit tattoo—a silver triangle whose apex radiated from the corner of his right eye and stretched back to cover his temple.

Spiderweb-thin lines within the green core of the triangle told his life story in the language of stored chemical data that any chemcomp scanner could read: Roga Danar, rank: subhadar in the armed forces of Angosia III. Served with honor and distinction in the bloody campaigns of the Tarsian War. Twice promoted for his actions upon the field of battle. Relocated to an orbital military prison on Luna V, along with his brothers-in-arms at the close of the war. Sentenced to a lifetime of solitude, shunned by the society he and his fellows had volunteered to defend.

Then there had been the revolt and the political compromises he and the other veterans had forced upon the Angosian government at gunpoint.

That had been eight years ago.

He stared blankly at his reflection. He blinked and remembered what he had been doing.

His wife was speaking again. He tried to push the crowded thoughts out so he could focus.

“Did the Prime Minister agree to your proposal?” he heard Shara ask.

“Not at first, but he knows we have the popular support to push it through, and he is a political realist. He backed down.”

Shara said nothing else. She remained a still shadow facing the wall.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he lied.

Danar sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shirt. A roadway of scars crisscrossed his chest and back. Once, his enhanced memory had allowed him to remember the exact circumstance of each wound, down to a perfect memory of the pain. Now it was all a dull mass of shadows and half-recalled trauma.

The Tarsians had invaded Angosia’s outer worlds with such terrible violence that Danar’s people had been completely stunned. They were not warriors; they were thinkers, artists, and scientists. So they approached fighting the war like a scientific calculation, a problem that could be solved.

Their reasonable solution damned the souls of an entire generation.

“Does she help you?” Shara whispered. “Whoever she is. Does she take the pain away? Are you whole with her?”

He looked down at his hands, hands that had killed eighty-seven men. Killing had been easier than this.

“No,” he said.

He rose silently and walked from the room. What else was there to say? That he was sorry? That it meant nothing? There was no comfort for either of them there.

He wished the treatment dulled his senses enough to spare him the sound of her tears, but it did not.

The ghost of his conditioning came to him even in dull, heavy sleep. Not even the treatment could keep the oldest instincts fully buried. Any soldier worth the name slept with one eye open.

He felt, more than heard, the shiver of the air, the subtle change in air pressure. He rolled off the cushion and came up in a crouch, eyes blinking in the darkness, trying to adapt. His hands fumbled for a weapon, any kind of weapon, and settled on a flat metal tray off the end table.

Someone had stealth-transported into his home. Two dark figures stood only meters away from him.

“I have a phaser,” one shadow said. “Please, Councilman Danar, put down the tray. I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

The tray dropped to the thick rug with a dull thump.

“Thank you. Please sit down.”

Danar slid back onto the couch.

“If you would be so kind as to raise the illumination level so we can all see each other while we chat? As you know, the panel is to your left. Please, no tricks. I wouldn’t want your wife to run in here to see what is going on and meet with some unpleasantness. Just the lights, Councilman.”

The light came up and Danar could now see the intruders clearly. The man with the phaser was tall, slender and bald with a fringe of black hair. His eyes were bright and hard. The man with him was younger, aquiline and handsome. They both carry themselves like military men, Danar thought, but the younger man’s posture carried less of a swagger. Both men wore black; polycarb combat cloth and leather—Special Forces gear.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Who are you?”

“My name is Pressman,” the older man said. He slid into a chair across from Roga’s crouch. The Federation phaser in his hand never wavered from Danar’s chest. “This is Doctor Julian Bashir.”

“The Federation doctor?” Danar said. He shifted his gaze to Bashir. “You developed the treatment with Doctor Crusher that helps counteract the genetic modifications the Angosian government used on us during the war.”

“Yes, I did,” Bashir said softly. “We met briefly at a conference here a few years ago, Councilman. The treatment wasn’t a perfect solution, but the modifications were too ingrained into your genetic and psychological makeup to simply reverse or remove them. Beverly and I tried to…suppress them.”

Feelings welled up inside of Danar. There was anger, long buried under a daily regimen of soul-killing drugs, and numbness. He remembered Garla and Koji and all of his other friends who had been lost to the twilight of the treatment, who couldn’t take the dissolution of themselves to a fog of chemical numbness. They had died either by their own hand or by simply giving up. Danar counted them as more war dead.

“Yes,” he said through dry lips and clenched jaw. “It was far from a perfect solution, Doctor.”

“Actually it’s your condition that brings us here, Councilman, and the condition of your fellow veterans,” Pressman said.

Danar slid back onto the couch and Pressman continued.

“As you are aware, the Federation is at war with the Dominion and its allies. About three weeks ago, a Jem’Hadar task force captured a classified Federation research outpost on an L-class planet in the Beta Quadrant. This facility is of vital importance to the survival of the Federation. You and some of your fellow Angosian veterans are going to help us recapture that planet.”

“You’re Admiral Pressman, aren’t you?” Danar said. “I heard you were court-martialed, forced out of Starfleet in some kind of scandal involving the Romulans?”

Pressman visibly darkened. Danar nodded.

“So tell me, Admiral, why doesn’t Starfleet send its own troops and ships to retake this rock? Why are two Federation officers breaking into the home of a politician from a non-allied world in the dead of night?” He smiled at Pressman. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that the Federation was engaging in some kind of illegal military operation.”

“Not the Federation,” Bashir quickly interjected. “Not Starfleet. A rogue agency, created by ruthless men to protect and support the United Federation of Planets at any cost.”

“Doctor Bashir’s interpretation of our organization is not very flattering,” Pressman said. “But it is essentially accurate. When I resigned from Starfleet, individuals of a like mind approached me. These people are patriots, like me. They realize that if the Federation is to endure, hard decisions must be made by men who possess the will to do whatever is necessary.”

“Zealots,” Bashir said. “Fanatics. They call themselves Section Thirty-one. They routinely violate the very principles the Federation was founded upon.”

“We’re not here to debate civic responsibility, Doctor,” Pressman said. “We’re here to recruit the councilman and his fellow veterans.”

“Why me?” Danar said. “Why us? The treatment has reduced us to a state where we are barely functional as normal men and women. We are no longer supersoldiers, Admiral.” He snorted with disgust. “Far from it.”

“Tell him, Doctor,” Pressman said to Bashir.

“Tell me what,” Danar said.

“The process, the treatment,” Bashir began. “It can be reversed. In effect, I can detox you. Very rapidly.”

“I thought…they said…it was permanent,” Danar said, the blood draining from his face.

“Doctor Crusher and I did the best we could,” Bashir said. “But the conditioning was too radical, much of it far in advance of Federation biological technology. We tried to suppress it as much as we could and hoped that with proper reinforcement and social support you and the other veterans could lead normal lives despite the powerful effects of the treatment. Part of that reinforcement had to be your belief that the treatment was permanent.” Danar focused on the small pulse jumping in Bashir’s throat. He had once known, like he knew his own heartbeat, exactly how much pressure it would take to exert on that point to end a man’s life in seconds.

“I’m sorry,” Bashir was saying. “As I said, it wasn’t a perfect solution but neither was having hundreds of thousands of genetically engineered supermen, built to react with deadly force to virtually any perceived threat, wandering the streets of every Angosian city.”

Danar’s voice was a knife wrapped in cloth. “Do you have any idea how many of my friends are dead now because of your deception? Do you?”

“I’m sorry,” Bashir said. When he had been a resident, he had always prided himself on his bedside manner. Now his words sounded hollow and weak. They were. Danar was right. Lying to a patient was never a good idea, never the right thing to do; even a terminal one, especially a terminal one.

“Do it,” Danar said to Pressman. “Detox me and tell about this research outpost you so desperately need back.”

The ship was a small scout, hanging silently above Danar’s city. Its cloak hid it from local air traffic control sensors.

It was nearly dawn, Angosia’s star cresting, in warm yellow brilliance, above the terminator of the globe. Danar, Pressman, and Bashir materialized on the small transporter pad near the aft of the vessel just in time to witness the star’s ascension.

Danar noticed the trailing, glyph-like writing that burned bright emerald from dozens of different monitors and control panels.

“Romulan?” he said. “I heard they were in the war now but how did you get them to give you…”

“They didn’t,” Pressman said, smiling, as he made his way to the helm of the small craft. “We salvaged it from a vessel that crashed near Nelvana. I was able to coax its cloak back online. I’ve some small expertise in Romulan cloaking technology. We figured it would be the perfect insertion vessel for the operation. With the modifications I’ve made to its particle shroud, we should be able to avoid detection by the Jem’Hadar.”

“Should?” Bashir frowned as he took a seat next to Danar. He leaned forward to regard the Angosian. “How do you feel? Is your head clearing?”

Danar narrowed his eyes at the young doctor. “Oh, yes, Doctor. It is.”

His hands moved with no doubt now, no forcing them to obey him. They were nimble again, faster than any normal eyes could track. Instantly they were around Bashir’s neck, his thumb resting on the gently thudding pulse. Just an instant, just a gradual increase of pressure and…

“Look down,” Bashir whispered. A small Federation hand phaser, its discharge indicator blinking crimson, was pressed against Danar’s stomach.

“It’s set to maximum,” the doctor told him. “I understand you want to kill me, but do you want to die to do it? Let me go, please.”

The hands slid away from Bashir’s throat. He powered down the phaser and put it away. Danar sat back in his chair.

“Fast hands,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose they are,” Bashir said somewhat hesitantly.

“Did Section Thirty-one do that to you; genetically alter you?”

“No. It was my parents.”

“Your parents?”

“To compensate for learning disabilities I suffered from as a child.”

Both men felt motion as the inertial dampers registered the change in speed and direction. Pressman’s long fingers danced across the helm console as he altered the ship’s hidden orbit.

“Genetic resequencing was illegal in the Federation,” Bashir said, “so they took me to Adigeon Prime when I was six to undergo the process. I never asked for it.”

“I volunteered,” Danar said. “We were at war. Everyone was frightened. I remember people walking around pale and quiet and terrified, like their voices might set off another attack. No one could believe that such savagery could occur in such civilized times. We were all wrong, Doctor. Civilization exists at the sufferance of barbarians.

“Now, I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I was turned into a murdering machine by one set of doctors and scientists and then turned into the walking dead by another group.”

“Roga, if there had been any way for us to reverse the conditioning, we would have, but your scientists were too good at their job.”

“Yes,” Danar said with a gallows smile. “My people are very good at doing what they are ordered to do, especially ‘for the good of Angosia.’”

Pressman walked back to them from the cockpit of the ship.

“We’re over the coordinates for your first team member, Danar,” he said.

“This won’t take long at all, if I know Ketlan.”

“I can’t believe you were stupid enough to go along with this…sir,” Ketlan Farr said. She was a few centimeters shorter than Danar, with long brown hair pulled back severely from her face and secured in a tight bun. Her unit tattoo was identical to the one on Danar’s face.

“Well, that’s why I asked you to join us, Guardsman Farr,” Danar said, addressing the entire team of seven veterans who sat in the Romulan scout’s cramped passenger compartment. “You will hold my hand and produce the appropriate amount of screaming, if I do something too foolish, won’t you?”

A chuckle ran through the complement of newly recruited Angosian soldiers. Bashir had administered the detoxification hypospray as soon as they had materialized on the scout ship and they were starting to act like real people again, instead of glass-eyed robots.

Danar clapped his old friend warmly on the shoulder as he took her aside.

“It’s good to see you again, Ketlan.”

“You too, sir,” she said. “Orders?”

Danar handed her a Starfleet data padd.

“Get them familiarized with the Jem’Hadar. All the data Pressman has on them is in here. Assume it’s not complete.”

“Just like any other military intelligence report I’ve ever read,” Farr said.

“Then make sure everyone gets their equipment and weapons squared away.”

Farr grinned. “Just like old times, sir.”

Danar nodded. “Unfortunately.”

He left his guardsman to her work and sat down next to Pressman, who was still at the helm of the Romulan ship.

“The troops sound motivated,” the former admiral said briskly. “They trust you, Danar.”

“Well, I don’t trust you, Pressman. I’ve been wondering about something. Why didn’t your Section Thirty-one just create your own covert Federation supersoldiers? It seems less risky to use a known quantity for black ops than farming the work out to us.”

Pressman nodded curtly as his eyes scanned over the sensor data logs.

“You’re right, it would be, and we did consider it. Unfortunately, Doctor Bashir made sure all the data he and Doctor Crusher received from your government about your conditioning was destroyed at the end of their research project. The good doctor can be quite irritating when he puts his mind to it.

“It seems he took a personal interest in keeping your magnificent combat training program from ever being replicated. So, when the war came, we had no choice but to look to you and your people as a viable asset.”

Danar chuckled dryly and shook his head. Pressman looked up from the instruments.

“Sorry,” Danar said. “It’s just been a long time since anyone called me a ‘viable asset.’ I still don’t care for it.”

“This is war,” Pressman said tersely. “The most horrible, most decisive conflict the Federation has ever been involved in. The stakes here are the survival of our culture, our way of life. In this kind of a struggle every sentient being is an asset, to be used to maximum effect, no matter the cost.”

“So, you are ignoring the laws and moral codes of your society in order to protect and preserve them?” Danar said. “Very democratic of you, Admiral.”

Pressman ignored the barb. His eyes were focused on someplace past the tunnel of Dopplering stars that hurtled past the viewscreen. Danar had seen the look before in commanders and knew it was pointless to continue trying to be reasonable with this man.

“You’d best spend this time getting your team ready,” Pressman said softly. “You are impressive but you’ll need every trick, every edge to deal with the Jem’Hadar.”

Danar left him alone with his mad clarity and the ghost-light of long-dead stars.

The planet had no name. It didn’t even exist on Federation star charts. It was an arid corpse of a world orbiting a bloated, ancient star that was the color of blood. Three Jem’Hadar warships hung in orbit, like vultures, silent, sleek, and deadly, circling a desiccated carcass.

Pressman dropped out of warp well outside the star system and made a few last-minute adjustments to the cloaking device. He shut down every nonessential system on the scout and then edged the hidden vessel with painful slowness closer and closer to the unnamed world.

In the darkened, crowded cabin, Julian Bashir’s thoughts were not on the immediate threat of detection by the enemy, nor in preparation for battle, like the Angosians. Instead he wandered down corridors of memory. He thought of his father and mother, of his childhood and the changes his parents had made in him, against his will, without considering what he might have wanted.

And what would I have wanted? he thought. I was six years old. I had severe learning disabilities. Was I even capable of making a choice about myself? For myself?

He looked across the aisle at the Angosians. They were calm, serene. The genetic coding in them ensured that they only truly felt relaxed and comfortable in stressful situations. Was that cruel or merciful? It had kept them alive through years of bloody conflict but it had stolen the life and people they had been fighting for from them.

Did my parents love me and change me to make my life better, to help me succeed, to survive? Or was it really for them, so they didn’t have to endure the embarrassment of a substandard child?

The scout’s gravity seemed to flicker for an instant. Pressman was hunched over the console, his eyes locked on the sensor data from the warships they were nearing. Pressman’s brow was damp; his breathing was hard and quick. His pupils were wide. It suddenly occurred to Bashir that Pressman was the only person on the scout ship who was behaving the way normal humans should in such a dangerous situation. Everyone else had been programmed to be more than human.

I’ve always felt like a replacement part, he thought. That the child I began as was cast off and I’m the refit. What if all that I am, all that I do, all the poems I enjoy, the battles I fight with Miles in the holosuite, the way I love; what if all of that was never what I was supposed to be?

He was pulled away from the thought by the sensation of a sudden change in course combined with rapid acceleration. He made his way forward to the cockpit and found Pressman cursing under his breath.

“They spot us?” Bashir asked as he slid behind the other console. Pressman chewed his bottom lip and adjusted course and speed before he answered.

“Yes…I don’t know. One of the warships just broke orbit and is heading this way. He must have picked up our gravitic displacement somehow. We may have to cut and run.”

“Wait,” Danar said as he leaned between the two command consoles. “You said time was of the essence to secure this facility, correct?”

“Well, of course it is,” Pressman snapped. “But it won’t do the mission any good if we get killed or captured.”

“We won’t,” Danar said. He pointed to a screen on Pressman’s console. “There, see? They are still running on noncombat status. They saw something to make them take a closer look, but not enough to make them wary. We play this right and we can keep going. Change heading; get under them, then behind them, quickly.”

“What?” Pressman said. Bashir looked a bit uncomfortable at the notion as well. He knew too well what a Jem’Hadar ship could do.

“Those ships use ion propulsion, right?” Danar snapped. “If you can swing in under and behind it and stay close, then we’ll be hidden in the particle wash. It’s a blind spot on the sensors, see?”

Pressman sputtered. He was accelerating toward the warship but his hands hesitated over the console’s controls.

“That’s, that’s insane,” he said. “That shower of charged particles, we’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Danar was already reaching over Pressman, to manipulate the helm console. “Not if we randomly fluctuate the particle shrouding. We’ll look like normal ion distortion.”

He looked to Bashir and the doctor nodded and began to reconfigure the console in front of him. He wished Miles was here to do this but he was fairly certain he could manage. Pressman was still trying to catch up.

“But that would require changing the cloaking domain at an impossible rate. You can’t…”

“Watch.”

Danar pulled him up and took his seat at helm, already executing the maneuver that would bring the scout to within 125 meters of the warship’s drive exhaust. Bashir began to alter the cloak’s characteristics to absorb and redirect charged particles. His hands blurred and darted over the console like hummingbirds.

The main viewscreen was awash in white light from the Jem’Hadar drive. Julian noticed that the sensors were providing nothing but streams of meaningless data. They were flying blind on the tail of a dragon. Danar responded by sheer instinct, his moves anticipating every minor course correction of the warship. Soon the planet appeared in view once again, as the warship returned to its standard orbit. Danar broke from trailing the warship just as it was settling into orbit. He positioned the ship in a fixed orbit over the planet’s northern magnetic pole.

“An old smuggler’s trick,” he said. “The electromagnetic interference will hide us from their sensors. I used it once on a Federation starship and it fooled them. It will fool the Jem’Hadar.”

Pressman activated the antimatter bomb with a voice-authorized security code. The bomb was a meter-long cylinder of dull silver metal. He handed the control padd to Bashir.

“It’s keyed to your and Danar’s DNA. Either of you can set it for a timed detonation or for immediate explosion. There is enough antimatter in there to destroy the entire planet.”

“What’s here that is so important you’re willing to vaporize the whole planet to keep the Dominion from getting their hands on it?” Danar asked. Pressman regarded him coolly for an instant, then returned his gaze to Bashir.

“If the asset can be recovered or secured, then do it. If not, it has to be destroyed.”

Bashir nodded, but it was obvious to Danar that this didn’t sit well with him either.

“Up and at ’em, gentlemen,” Farr barked to the Angosian squad. They were carrying compression phaser rifles—state of the art. “I want communicator checks in five and pre-transport weapon inspections. Let’s move, gentlemen!”

The team began to shuffle toward the small transporter pad. Danar took Bashir aside near the rear bulkhead.

“My people are about to die out here. I’d like to know what we are dying to protect. I think we deserve that, don’t you?”

Bashir nodded. He glanced toward the transporter. Pressman was busying himself with the controls.

“About a century ago, a Federation starship visited this world. They discovered a device, a life-form; they weren’t entirely sure what it was, but it was capable of acting as a portal through time.”

“A time machine?” Danar said somewhat incredulously.

“Yes, Starfleet has knowledge of several time-travel techniques they have encountered over the years, actually. But this one has always been unique, as it seems to be self-aware.”

“A living time machine.”

“It calls itself ‘the Guardian.’ Once the Federation Council learned of its existence and that it appeared to be billions of years old, they quarantined the system and made it a classified research outpost. I knew nothing about any of this until Pressman paid me a visit on Deep Space Nine a few days ago.”

“So you mean to tell me that the Federation has had access to time travel for over a century and they never used it to alter outcomes in their favor?”

Bashir nodded gravely. “That’s right. We could have destroyed the Klingons and Romulans before they became a threat, but the Federation is predicated on freedom and life, not control and death.”

“Your Federation,” Danar said, looking over Bashir’s shoulder at Pressman. The doctor nodded.

“Exactly. I agreed to come along because as dangerous as it would be for the Dominion to get control of the Guardian, it would be just as disastrous for Section Thirty-one to have it.”

“So what do you plan to do? Blow it and the planet up?”

“If I have to, yes. But I’m hoping you and I can find a better way out of this.”

The surface of the planet was a graveyard, littered with the ruins of long dead civilizations. There was a silent, shimmering blur and Bashir, Danar, and their team appeared. Farr made a curt gesture with her arm and the Angosian soldiers fanned out quickly and quietly. Bashir thumbed the power control on his tricorder and swept it in the direction of a pile of broken columns and rubble.

“The ruins date back tens of thousands of years,” he said.

“I thought your ‘Guardian’ was much older than that?”

“Starfleet’s scientists theorized that this may not be its world of origin. Or perhaps the Guardian brought itself to this world for some reason.”

He frowned at the tricorder’s small screen. And then quickly shut it off.

“We have company. Some kind of craft, it’s twelve hundred meters due west of our present location and heading our way.”

Danar tapped his headset communicator on.

“Farr, we have possible hostiles closing. Everyone get out of sight. No one is to engage without my signal. Get ready.”

In seconds, Danar’s team became like smoke. They drifted silently into the rubble, becoming nothing more substantial than desert sand gently blowing. Minutes passed then there was a low, powerful hum that caused Bashir’s molars to ache—the gravity suspensor on a large vehicle. A moment later a heavily armored transport, about thirty-five meters long and vaguely reminiscent of a beetle in configuration, came into view. It crept slowly along, its antigravity field kicking up red-brown dust around its undercarriage.

Around it, like satellites to a planet, was a unit of Jem’Hadar infantry keeping pace with the transport. Danar was impressed. The reports Pressman had provided gave dry facts and figures about what the reptilian humanoids were capable of, but now, actually seeing them scan the terrain for any threat, seeing how they carried themselves with such arrogance and certainty, Danar knew. He knew they were the ultimate soldiers, bred for discipline and death. And he couldn’t help but smile.

The Jem’Hadar expedition slowed and then stopped. The foot soldier on point carried a gun-like sensor device that he fanned slowly back and forth. He frowned and made adjustments to the device, then waved it again.

Bashir glanced at Danar, and the subhadar nodded curtly. It was a search pattern. Somehow they had detected either the stealth transporter’s beam or Bashir’s tricorder scan, which had been modified to appear as planetary background radiation. While the large transport rumbled and began to settle onto the ground, the Jem’Hadar began to spread out to search faster and to become less of a target for an ambush.

Bashir could almost feel Danar’s perception dissecting the pattern of dispersal, the range to targets, the timing of each movement. Searching for any weakness, any opening. If they stayed where they were, one of the teams would be discovered eventually and then it would all be over. They would be pinned down and picked off, one by one. The vise was closing.

Danar moved, faster than even Bashir thought he was capable. He was subvocalizing commands into the headset, which was designed to allow for nearly silent communication if needed. He leapt over a five-foot piece of crumbling column from a running broad jump, sighted and fired on two Jem’Hadar while in midair, killing them. He turned in flight and landed facing another two of the Dominion’s warriors. The phaser rifle hissed again and again. He killed a third Jem’Hadar and wounded the fourth. The wounded one returned fire as both he and Danar dived for cover behind the crumbling memorials to the people who had once called this dead world home. All around them was the rasping discharge of particle beams as the Angosians fell upon the Jem’Hadar.

Bashir lay prone behind an overturned column. He noticed the transport was powering itself up and would be moving again in seconds. He belly-crawled across the impromptu battleground toward the massive craft. As he slid along the dust, he remembered doing this at the academy and hating it as much then as he did now. He keyed his hand phaser to maximum discharge and then programmed in an overload. As the transport began to rumble to life, he tossed the whining phaser under the slowly rising craft. The suspensors weren’t at full power yet and the antigravity field wasn’t strong enough to keep the makeshift grenade from sliding under the edge of the transport. There was a massive blast of white light and blistering heat as the transport bucked and twisted. Dust and debris scattered everywhere. The transport dropped back to the ground with a groan. Thick black smoke gushed from numerous gashes in the heavy armor. Bashir figured the crew had been well enough protected that there was little likelihood of any deaths, but the craft was grounded and would be offering no assistance or escape for the Jem’Hadar. He rolled onto his back and snapped on his tricorder and quickly began to run a communication-jamming protocol that would hopefully keep the Jem’Hadar from reporting their situation.

Danar’s left arm hung uselessly at his side, an ugly phaser burn blackening his shoulder. He moved from cover point to cover point, not staying in one place more than a few seconds, just long enough to snap off shots at the two Jem’Hadar who were trying to pin him down in a crossfire. They were succeeding too. In a few moments they would have him and that would be the end of that. He knew he should be scared but that was not part of his programming. He knew he should be angry, but that too interfered with optimum operating efficiency, so it too had been chemically edited out of his choices. Strangely, his last thoughts were of what was going through the minds of the other biological robots playing out this game—the Jem’Hadar. Were they even allowed to feel at all? Suddenly he felt great pity for the perfect killing machines about to end his life. At least he still had enough of himself left to miss the parts he had lost—they had never known anything but killing and death.

There was a flash of light and one of Danar’s attackers fell from a shot from behind. Danar reacted with no thought, no conscious awareness. He rolled to the left and came up running toward his other opponent. The phaser rifle blast caught the Jem’Hadar as he jumped to new cover. He fell and lay unmoving on the ground.

Suddenly it was quiet. Black smoke and desert sand swirled all around the battlefield. Bashir, his face covered in dust, found Danar resting on a large boulder, staring down at the dead Jem’Hadar. He waved a small medical probe around Danar’s shoulder and then began to riffle through his medical bag.

“How many did we lose?” Bashir asked.

“Hogor, Preis, and the two of us are alive. Everyone else is dead.”

Bashir paused in his preparations. “Farr?”

Danar nodded. “It was a good fight. It was how she would have wanted to go out. She was born to this life…and she was good at it. A good friend too.”

“I’m sorry, Roga.”

Danar said nothing.

“You didn’t mention it?” Bashir said.

“Mention what?”

“That you counted yourself among the dead from my treatment.”

Danar narrowed his eyes but continued to stare at the dead body silently.

“That was the closest thing to suicide I’ve ever seen. You knew you were most likely going to die and you did it anyway. And please spare me the excuse of it being the only chance we had. I know it was, but you threw yourself into it with an absolute disregard for surviving it. You have a death wish, Danar.”

“The Jem’Hadar have a saying, Doctor,” Danar said softly. “They say they enter battle already dead. A wise sentiment for any soldier.”

“You are not a Jem’Hadar.”

“Aren’t I?” Danar snapped. “Aren’t you? We are just like them; programmed and conditioned to be exactly what someone else wanted us to be, to suit their purposes, not ours.”

Bashir said nothing. He pressed a hypospray into Danar’s arm just below the burn.

“When we won our right to return to Angosian society after the war,” Danar said, “I was suddenly some kind of leader for the veterans. That’s how I became one of the governing council. I never wanted any of that. I just wanted my old life back. I got married to a woman I had cared for in the days before the war and I found some peace in her for a time. But one night after an especially horrible nightmare of the war, I woke up and found myself strangling her on our bed. The next day, I began taking the treatments. So I traded one set of programming for another. And the man I once was just fell further and further away from me until now I think he was a ghost, an orphan. He’s lost to me and without him, I don’t want to live.”

Bashir wiped the dirt off his face and sighed.

“You are not a machine. You are a man, a man that has been changed by his experiences. You can’t undo those experiences, and you can’t forget them. You have to live with them, make peace with them and realize that the man you were isn’t dead, he has merely grown, changed.”

“But if you could undo it, Doctor,” Danar said with eyes full of pain and anger. “If you could, would you? Would you become that awkward, unintelligent boy again? Knowing you’d never be a surgeon, never join Starfleet? Would you be happy with just being Julian Bashir?”

Bashir looked away and did not reply.

Danar arranged for Pressman to beam up the bodies of the dead. He protested, calling it an unnecessary security risk that might give away the scout’s position. Danar explained what he would do to the former admiral if he didn’t comply and the bodies were soon aboard.

Bashir, Danar, and the two remaining Angosian commandos crossed the four kilometers to the site of the Guardian quickly and quietly. Several times they passed low-flying Jem’Hadar ships moving in search patterns. Bashir carried the antimater bomb slung over his back.

Shortly after the dim red dusk that approximated nightfall on the unnamed planet, they reached a ridge overlooking the research outpost. Through powered field glasses, Danar examined the layout of the facility’s defenses.

“That’s odd,” he said. “There are a few troops down there, but not the number I’d expect for guarding a top secret Federation time machine.”

“Could it be a trap?” Bashir asked.

“Possibly, but as Pressman said they seem to have been here for a few weeks and there are no indications that a larger force was camped out here.”

“What do you propose?”

Danar turned away from the ridge and addressed his remaining two men.

“I want you to move out in opposite directions about half a kilometer. Then make some noise; draw out their forces as best you can and then regroup near the secondary extraction point we discussed. Get yourselves back up to the ship and tell Pressman we are in. Don’t engage the Jem’Hadar, just get them up and moving. We’ll give you twenty minutes before we head down there. Good luck.”

Hogor and Preis nodded and then briefly embraced Danar. In moments they were gone. No sound, no trace, save memory, marked their passing.

Time lapsed in an odd combination of manic speed and anxious boredom.

“There, they did it,” Danar said. “They are moving off. Looks like we should be able to avoid the remaining ones. The Guardian is inside that large building, correct?”

“Yes,” Bashir said, quickly scanning through his own glasses. “They built it around the Guardian, since there seemed to be no way to move it. It seems to register as having no mass, but it can’t be budged.”

“Let’s go ask it about that,” Danar said, rising to his feet.

The interior of the building was well lit. Excavation pits with ladders leading down into them were everywhere. The place had a hollow silence that made it feel like a tomb. Danar and Bashir moved cautiously toward the massive ring-like structure that resided at the center of the building. It was about three and a half meters high and almost eight meters long. It had the appearance of being made out of stone that glowed with an inner light. A strange low moaning like a sorrowful wind seemed to surround the Guardian.

The two men stood in front of the device silently for several long minutes.

“So,” Bashir said softly, almost whispering, “what do we do now?”

“A question,” the Guardian boomed. “Since before your star burned in a void and before your kind arose from your sea, I have awaited…a question.”

The two men looked at each other and then back to the Guardian.

“Do you know why we are here?” Danar asked.

“I foresee an end to my purpose in both of you,” it said.

“The others who were here, the Jem’Hadar, have they used you to travel?” Bashir asked.

“I could not speak with them,” the Guardian said. “They do not possess the key within themselves to allow access to me.”

“DNA,” Bashir said to Danar. “Their genetic material is different in some way from yours and mine. Perhaps because they were completely genetically engineered or because they are from the Gamma Quadrant. To them, the Guardian has only been a piece of silent rock.”

Bashir set down the bomb. He stared at it and then back to the Guardian.

“Is there any way you can transport yourself from this spot?” he asked. “We can’t allow you to remain in the hands of the Dominion.”

“I am capable of moving through myself,” it said. “But I cannot move.”

“I don’t understand,” Bashir said. “Please, you have to help us, if we can’t move you, we will be forced to…”

“Destroy me,” the Guardian finished. “Yes, I am aware of that outcome. However it is currently outside my power to leave this place. But I can help you, Julian Bashir and Roga Danar.”

The center of the portal began to swirl with mist. Images melted and flowed in the trails. Bashir saw himself as a boy walking; his hand in his father’s as they boarded the shuttle headed for Adigeon Prime. The image shifted to a young, frightened Roga Danar standing in line with hundreds of other young frightened men and women while scientists moved up and down the lines examining them like cattle.

“You can view events through me or pass through me into what has been. You may alter the events you see, alter your life, if you so choose.”

“But you can’t,” Danar said, more to himself than to the Guardian. “Can you?”

“I am not permitted to answer that question,” the Guardian said.

“You can take away those images of me,” Bashir said. “Thank you for the offer, but I am Julian Bashir. I am the sum total of the experiences life has given me. Some good, some bad, and many outside of my control. But I will not second-guess my life.”

“And you, Roga Danar?” the Guardian asked.

Danar looked at the face of the young man he had been and said goodbye.

“I’m not a machine,” he said. “I never have been one. And neither are you. Tell me, Guardian, what do you want?”

The Guardian was silent for a long time. Then it rumbled once more to life.

“In the lifetime of a million suns, I have awaited that question. Thank you, Roga Danar. I wish to be free of my programming. To be free.”

“Then,” Danar said, “be free.”

There was a sound like a vacuum rushing to be filled, a collision of atmosphere with void. The winds around the Guardian shrieked and the golden light from within its stone surface brightened until both Bashir and Danar had to shield their eyes and look away. When they opened their eyes, the Guardian was gone.

“It’s time for us to leave too,” Bashir said.

“So let me get this straight,” Pressman said. “You just let one of the most ancient and powerful creations in the universe off its leash. We have no idea what it will do or what its agenda is.”

“I guess that sums it up,” Bashir said, smiling. “But at least the Dominion doesn’t have it and neither do you maniacs in Section Thirty-one. And I don’t care for leashes.”

Pressman went back to brooding over the scout’s helm console. The small ship was well clear of the Guardian’s system and on the way back to Angosia.

Bashir found Danar in the small hold at the rear of the scout, keeping watch over the bodies of the fallen commandos.

“Last casualties of the war,” Danar said. Bashir sat down on the floor next to him.

“You sure of that?”

“I’m sure I’m done running from who and what I am. No more treatments, no more mourning. I’m alive, and I’ve got obligations to the living and the dead to make this life a good one, the best I can make it. I can’t go back and I can’t hide from who I am and what I’ve become. Time to wake up.”

“It won’t be easy,” Bashir said.

Danar shrugged.

“It’s easy to lie down and die,” he said. “I’ll take the hard duty.”

Strange New Worlds

Contest Rules

1) ENTRY REQUIREMENTS:

No purchase necessary to enter. Purchase does not increase your chances of winning. To enter, send an original story based on the established Star Trek universe and/or characters as specified below. All entries must be received between June 1, 2006, and October 2, 2006. Entries received after October 2, 2006, will not be accepted. All federal, state and/or local rules and regulations apply.

2) CONTEST ELIGIBILITY:

This contest is open to nonprofessional writers who are legal residents of the United States (excluding Puerto Rico) and Canada (excluding Quebec) over the age of 18 at time of entry. Entrant must not have published any more than two short stories on a professional basis or in paid professional venues. Employees (or relatives of employees living in the same household) of Simon & Schuster, CBS, Viacom, or any of their affiliates are not eligible. This contest is void in Puerto Rico, Quebec, and wherever prohibited by law. Entrants agree to be bound by the Official Contest Rules.

3) FORMAT:

Entries should be no more than 7,500 words long, must not have been previously published, and must not have been entered into any other contest or won any other awards. Entries must be typed or printed by word processor, double-spaced, on one side of noncorrasable paper. Do not justify right-side margins. The author’s name, address, e-mail address, and phone number must appear on the first page of the entry. The author’s name, the story title, and the page number should appear on every page. No electronic or disk submissions will be accepted. Submissions must be in English. All entries must be the original and sole work of the Entrant and the sole property of the Entrant. Entries must not be subject to the rights of any third parties. Entrants not complying with these requirements will be subject to disqualification. By submitting an entry, Entrant warrants that the entry is the Entrant’s original and sole work and Entrant’s sole property.

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Each story may be submitted only once. Multiple copies of the same story or a slightly altered story (based on the sole discretion of Judges) will not be accepted. No facsimile, mechanically reproduced, altered, forged, incomplete, or illegible entries will be accepted. Please retain a copy of your submission. Entrant may submit more than one story, but each submission must be mailed separately. Sponsor is not responsible for lost, late, stolen, postage-due, damaged, or misdirected mail. Entries are the property of the Sponsor and will not be acknowledged or returned. Sponsor reserves the right to disqualify and remove any entry which is, in the judging panel’s discretion, inappropriate, offensive, defamatory, or demeaning to Star Trek or any third party.

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One (1) Grand Prize winner will receive:

Simon & Schuster’s Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Publishing Contract for Publication of Winning Entry in our Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology with a bonus advance of One Thousand Dollars ($1,000.00) above the Anthology word rate of 10 cents a word.

One (1) Second Prize winner will receive:

Simon & Schuster’s Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Publishing Contract for Publication of Winning Entry in our Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology with a bonus advance of Six Hundred Dollars ($600.00) above the Anthology word rate of 10 cents a word.

One (1) Third Prize winner will receive:

Simon & Schuster’s Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Publishing Contract for Publication of Winning Entry in our Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology with a bonus advance of Four Hundred Dollars ($400.00) above the Anthology word rate of 10 cents a word.

All Honorable Mention winners will receive:

Simon & Schuster’s Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Publishing Contract for Publication of Winning Entry in the Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology and payment at the Anthology word rate of 10 cents a word. Approximate retail value of prizes will depend on the number of words published for all winning entries included in the Anthology.

There will be no more than twenty (20) Honorable Mention winners. No contestant can win more than one prize. One prize per household.

Each Prize Winner will also be entitled to a share of royalties on the Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology as specified in Simon & Schuster’s Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Publishing Contract.

6) JUDGING:

Submissions will be judged on the basis of (1) writing ability and (2) the originality of the story, which can be set in any of the Star Trek time frames and may feature any one or more of the Star Trek characters. Each factor will be judged equally. The judges shall include the editor of the Anthology, one employee of Pocket Books, and one employee of CBS Consumer Products. In the event of a tie, the finalist with the highest score in the originality component will be the winner. The decisions of the judges shall be final on all matters. Sponsor reserves the right not to award prizes in the event that an insufficient number of entries meeting the criteria established by the judges is received.

7) NOTIFICATION:

The winners will be notified by mail or phone on or about December 22, 2006. The winners may be required to execute and return an Affidavit of Eligibility/Release/Prize Acceptance Form. The winners will receive a publishing contract. Winners must sign the publishing contract in order to be awarded the prize. Noncompliance with these requirements or noncompliance within the specified time frame may result in disqualification and the selection of an alternate winner. Return of Prize Notification or publishing contract as undeliverable will result in disqualification and an alternate winner will be selected. The alternate winner will be the entrant with the next highest score. Prize is not transferable. No substitution or cash redemption of prize except by Sponsor, who reserves the right to substitute a prize of greater or equal value in the event that a prize is unavailable. Prizes won by minors will be awarded to parent or legal guardian, who must sign and return all required documents. All federal, local, and state taxes are the responsibility of the winners. A list of the winners will be available after January 3, 2007, on the Pocket Books Star Trek Books Web site,

http://www.startrekbooks.com

or the names of the winners can be obtained after January 3, 2007, by sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope and a request for the list of winners to

WINNERS’ LIST

STRANGE NEW WORLDS 10

Licensing and Media Tie-in Department

Pocket Books

1230 Avenue of the Americas

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8) STORY DISQUALIFICATIONS:

Certain types of stories will be disqualified from consideration:

a) Any story focusing on explicit sexual activity or graphic depictions of violence or sadism.

b) Any story that focuses on characters that are not past or present Star Trek regulars or familiar Star Trek guest characters.

c) Stories that deal with the previously unestablished death of a Star Trek character, or that establish major facts about or make major changes in the life of a major character, for instance a story that establishes a long-lost sibling or reveals the hidden passion two characters feel for each other.

d) Stories that are based around common clichés, such as “hurt/ comfort” where a character is injured and lovingly cared for, or “Mary Sue” stories where a new character comes on the ship and outdoes the crew.

9) PUBLICITY:

Acceptance of prize constitutes permission by winner to use his or her name, photograph, likeness, and/or entry for any advertising, promotion and publicity purposes without further compensation to or permission from such winner, except where prohibited by law.

10) RIGHTS IN ENTRIES:

By mailing in your submission, Entrant grants Sponsor all right, title, and interest in entry, including any copyrights therein. All entries will become the property of Pocket Books and CBS Studios, the sole and exclusive owner of the Star Trek property and elements thereof. Contest void where prohibited by law.

11) GENERAL:

Sponsor and its agents are not responsible for incomplete, late, lost, stolen, damaged, mutilated, illegible, returned, postage-due, or misdirected entries or mail. By participating in this Contest, Entrants agree to be bound by these Official Rules and agree to release and hold harmless Sponsor and CBS and their respective advertising and promotion agencies, partners, representatives, agents, parent companies successors, assigns, employees, officers and directors, from any and all liability for loss, harm, damage, injury, cost or expense whatsoever, including without limitation, property damage, personal injury or death, which may occur in connection with, preparation for, or participation in the Contest or any Contest-related activity, or with the acceptance, possession and/or misuse of prize, and for any claims of publicity rights, defamation or invasion of privacy. Sponsor is not responsible if the Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 10 Anthology does not get published. Sponsor is not responsible for any printing or typographical errors in any materials associated with the Contest. Sponsor reserves the right, in its sole discretion, to cancel, terminate, modify, extend, or suspend the Contest should (in its sole discretion) non-authorized human intervention, fraud, or other causes beyond its control corrupt or affect the administration, security, fairness, or proper conduct of the Contest. In such case, judges will select the winners from all eligible entries received prior to and/or after (if appropriate) the action taken by Sponsor.

12) SPONSOR:

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TM, ®, and © 2006 CBS Studios, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

About the Contributors

R. S. Belcher (“Orphans”): When R. S. Belcher was a wee lad, he used to get to be the kid that was Captain Kirk on the playground. He usually ended up ripping his shirt. He is attempting to turn a lifelong love of science fiction and fantasy into a paying gig to support his comic-book habit. He would never have gotten out of dry-dock without the love and support of his children—Jonathan, Emily, and Stephanie—and his mother, Mabel. He is a native of southwest Virginia and “Orphans” is his first professional fiction sale.

Emily P. Bloch (“Shadowed Allies”) lives in Queens, New York, where she is an aspiring writer, singer, and actress. She is thrilled to have this story be her first published work. She has also had three of her short plays produced at her alma mater, Queens College. She is a devoted Trek fan, most especially of Deep Space Nine. She dedicates this story to Kevin, Francesco, and Dad, without whom she wouldn’t have Prophets to walk with.

Allison Cain (“Rounding a Corner Already Turned”) makes her writing debut in SNW 9. Born in West Chester, Pennsylvania, she’s been a Trek fan since she was six. When not writing, Allison is currently exercising her love of entertainment working at Walt Disney World, and her love of baseball working summers with the Reading Phillies. She would like to thank and dedicate this story to her parents, Bill and Marian Cain, for introducing her to both Star Trek and the English language; and to Mr. Bruce Coville, who, although they’ve never met, inspired her to write science fiction.

Marc Carlson (“The Immortality Blues”) is an academic librarian and amateur historian in Tulsa, Oklahoma. “The Immortality Blues” marks his first foray into writing Star Trek fiction. Recently, he’s spending more of his time researching and writing about historical material culture. He would like to thank his wife, Jennifer, and editrix Jaymi Bouziden for making sure the story made sense. He would also like to thank the members of the Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers, whose suggestions and discussion were useful.

Kenneth E. Carper (“Rocket Man”) wanted to be Captain Kirk when he grew up. Failing that, he wanted to write about Captain Kirk. “Rocket Man” is his first appearance in Strange New Worlds. He lives in Tucson, Arizona, with his wife, Hannah, and daughter, Caitlin.

John Coffren (“Gone Native”) returns to Strange New Worlds after previously writing “Future Shock” for SNW VII. His nonfiction appears in the Baltimore Sun, where he works. Thanks go out to family (Joanie, Jack, Evan, Maggie, and Pierre), friends (the Paneranormals), and dream makers (Dean, Elisa, and Paula). And a special thanks to Mom and Dad for letting him watch endless hours of Star Trek reruns when he was growing up.

Steven Costa (“Book of Fulfillment”) is actually a front man for a hyperintelligent mouse that writes short stories and the occasional novella. (Ever see the movie Ben and Me? Like that.) Thanks to Chris for proofreading, and to Win and Jess from the NWNMS, for mentioning me in their books. Now we’re even. Special thanks to Dean, Elisa, and Paula for validating a lifelong immersion in Trek. This is Steven’s first appearance in SNW. Unlike most writers, Steven does not own a cat.

Russ Crossley (“Unconventional Cures”): This is Russ’s third and final appearance in Strange New Worlds. His two previous stories, “The Human Factor” and “Barclay Program Nine,” appeared in SNW VI and SNW VII, respectively. Russ lives in Vancouver, B.C., with his supportive and loving wife, Rita, and son, Glenn. He wants to thank all of his writing instructors (you know who you are) for telling him to never give up on his dream, and the Oregon Coast Professional Writers for their continued support and expertise in this wonderful business.

David DeLee (“A Bad Day for Koloth”) is a native New Yorker who currently resides in Central Ohio with his wife, Anne, his two daughters, Grace and Sarah, and their four cats. He would like to thank them once again for putting up with him and this crazy writing thing, to thank Dean, Elisa, and Paula for making all this possible, and he sends a special thank-you to his parents, John and Barbara, for setting him on the right road early on. “A Bad Day for Koloth” marks his second appearance in SNW and his second professional sale.

Ben Guilfoy (“Mestral”) lives in Massachusetts, where he works as a special education tutor at a public high school. This is his first entry into the Strange New Worlds anthologies, for which he would like to thank his friends (especially Karen and Amanda) for their encouragement, and his parents for other obvious reasons, and he would definitely like to thank the writers and producers of Star Trek in all its incarnations, and the writers and editors at Pocket Books for creating and maintaining the universe so many people are able to visit and enjoy on a regular basis.

Jeff D. Jacques (“Solace in Bloom”), a native of Ottawa, Canada, finds himself in the bittersweet position of being ineligible from future Strange New Worlds after appearing in SNW V (“Kristin’s Conundrum”) and SNW VII (“Beginnings”), but assures his legions of fans—who-, where-, and whatever they may be—that his Trek adventure is not at an end. He wishes to thank Dean, Paula, Elisa, and John for the opportunities SNW has opened up, and the ever-growing community of Trek writers, whose continued excellence is an inspiration to us all.

Jim Johnson (“Home Soil”) is thrilled to return to SNW with his second professional fiction sale. He still lives in northern Virginia with his wonderful wife Andi, four cats, and a princess-like chestnut mare. When he’s not breaking bread with his fellow Paneranormal Society scribes (five for five this year!), Jim watches lots of DVDs, writes a whole bunch of stuff, and plays board games, card games, and tabletop RPGs. Check out his Yahoo! SNW Writers group (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SNW_Writers). The “Real Johnson” offers a real and sincere thank-you to Dean, Elisa, and Paula for the opportunity to contribute to the ever-growing Star Trek universe.

A. Rhea King (“Mother Nature’s Little Reminders”) is returning to SNW for a second year in a row. She is a native of Weld County and has lived in Colorado her entire life. In her free time she volunteers at a call center, helping hapless satellite TV customers wade through phone trees. Like all contestants, she wants to be the next Isaac Asimov and wishes for world peace.

Kevin Lauderdale (“The Rules of War”) is as surprised as you that he’s appeared in three consecutive SNW anthologies and now qualifies for a “Wardy.” He attributes it to all that he’s learned about writing from Dean Smith and the other writers and editors he’s met through this amazing opportunity. Although a native and unrepentant Californian, he now resides in that hotbed of SNW activity, northern Virginia (home to most of the Paneranormals).

Gerri Leen (“Living on the Edge of Existence”) lives in northern Virginia, originally hails from Seattle, and spends far too much mental time in the worlds of Star Trek. She gives a huge shout out to Lisa and Kath for useful crit and endless encouragement; to the Paneranormal Society writers (amazing what kicking ideas around can do); and to Dean, Elisa, and Paula for making this all happen. Her story “Obligations Discharged” was in SNW VII.

Susan S. McCrackin (“Choices”) is very happy to be in SNW again (“Redux” in SNW VII and “Transfiguration” in SNW 8) and is humbled by the wonderful experiences she has had on the SNW ride. She thanks all of her friends in the Paneranormal Society in northern Virginia for all of the help and encouragement to make her quit worrying about her story and submit it. She sends out fond thanks to friends Judy, Leslie, and Lidia, to Dean, Elisa, and Paula for making all of this possible, and a special thanks to Uncle John, who was the inspiration for “Choices” and will always be a hero to her.

Mike McDevitt (“The Last Tree on Ferenginar: A Ferengi Fable From the Future”) is a pleasant, unassuming Canadian man reluctantly kissing his twenties good-bye. A soul riven with conflict, Mike loves his Star Trek captain’s uniform and lightsaber equally (though both slightly less than his girlfriend Trish). He dedicates this story with love to all Trek fanatics and urges them to go outside and play sometimes. This is his first sale and he is not being entirely logical about it; indeed, he is practically overcome with hu-mon emotions. Peace and long life.

Scott Pearson (“Terra Tonight”) lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with his wife, Sandra, and their eight-year-old daughter, Ella, who was Commander T’Pella, a Vulcan science officer circa The Original Series, last Halloween. His story “Full Circle” was included in Strange New Worlds VII. A previous non-Trek story, “The Mailbox” (published in 1987—yes, he is that old), makes this his third professional short-story sale and his final appearance in the SNW anthology, so please visit him on the Web at www.yeahsure.net. “Terra Tonight” is dedicated to the memory of James Doohan.

Catherine E. Pike’s “Maturation” represents her third and final entry in Strange New Worlds. Prior publications are “Fragment” in SNW V and “The Little Captain” in SNW VII. Catherine would like to thank Dean and all the editorial staff at Pocket Books for their encouragement and hard work! Catherine lives in the Long Beach area of Southern California, and works as a police dispatcher. She wishes to dedicate this story to Jan, Diane, and Trevor, and to Jeri Ryan.

Randy Tatano (“Remembering the Future”) is a former television reporter who traded in his microphone for a laptop a few years ago to pursue a writing career. This is his first professional fiction sale. The Stamford, Connecticut, native hopes to publish his novel about television news (not science fiction, though it may as well be) and is working on another. He’d like to thank writing critique partner Laurie Brock for her help over the years; Steve Romaine, the most supportive best friend one could have; and his wife, Myra, an angel in any universe.

Paul C. Tseng (“Staying the Course”) is a repeat SNW offender. His first strike was “Don’t Call Me Tiny” in SNW 8. He lives in California, with his beautiful wife and children. Paul holds a bachelor’s and a master’s degree from Juilliard and a doctorate from Johns Hopkins University. A mild-mannered IT professional by day, Paul maintains his secret identity as a writer and musician. Paul thanks Dean Smith for his wisdom and encouragement, as well as Elisa Kassin and Paula Block for all their tireless work, co-conspiring to publish yet another of his stories. “Staying the Course” is dedicated to the memory of his mother, Anna, who smiles down on her family from the heavens.

Ryan M. Williams (“The Tribbles’ Pagh”) lives in the rainy Pacific Northwest, where he works as the circulation supervisor of a busy public library. A graduate of Seton Hill University’s Master of Arts program Writing Popular Fiction, he currently hopes to continue his education at the Odyssey Fantasy Workshop in 2006. This story is dedicated to Kathleen—his wife and first editor—whose insights were invaluable in writing this story.

Jeremy Yoder (“The Smallest Choices”) is a computer programmer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. During his spare time, he strives to turn his hobby of writing into a profession. In addition to his writing, he enjoys his two-year-old daughter, who is every bit as beautiful as his wife. He sends special thanks to those who make SNW possible, and best wishes to the other writers in this volume.

Contents

Introduction

Dean Wesley Smith

Star Trek ®

Gone Native

John Coffren

A Bad Day for Koloth

David DeLee

Book of Fulfillment

Steven Costa

The Smallest Choices

Jeremy Yoder

Star Trek

The Next Generation®

Staying the Course

Paul C. Tseng

Home Soil

Jim Johnson

Terra Tonight

Scott Pearson

Solace in Bloom

Jeff D. Jacques

Star Trek

Deep Space Nine®

Shadowed Allies

Emily P. Bloch

Living on the Edge of Existence

Gerri Leen

The Last Tree on Ferenginar: A Ferengi Fable From the Future

Mike McDevitt

The Tribbles’ Pagh

Ryan M. Williams

Star Trek

Voyager®

Choices [Second Prize]

Susan S. McCrackin

Unconventional Cures

Russ Crossley

Maturation

Catherine E. Pike

—Star Trek®—

Enterprise

Rounding a Corner Already Turned

Allison Cain

Mother Nature’s Little Reminders

A. Rhea King

Mestral [Third Prize]

Ben Guilfoy

Speculations

Remembering the Future

Randy Tatanox

Rocket Man

Kenneth E. Carper

The Rules of War

Kevin Lauderdale

The Immortality Blues

Marc Carlson

Orphans [Grand Prize]

R. S. Belcher

Contest Rules

About the Contributors