by Various
He wished he would’ve gotten the idea to smash the boy’s face against the men’s room mirrors when he started instead of at the end. Didn’t matter none now. The Negro janitor would be blamed for the bloodied and broken mirrors, and it would come out of that coon’s pay.
“What’s a-matter, boy?” Russell’s silence bothered Richards; even after breaking both his hands the boy barely cried out. “I thought you a writer? Where’s all them fancy words now?” Russell looked like he was someplace far away; he’d have to work on that. “You know, boy, I can think of a word to describe you, and it sure as hell ain’t writer. Welcome back to isolation ward four.”
The hall echoed with Richards’s laughter as he locked the padded cell.
Benny Russell stared at his hands—hands that had caressed Cassie’s beautiful face, that were the instruments of his imagination, that had created worlds far beyond the stars. Yet so much had slipped through them. Could it really be true? Could what he created—those people and places—truly exist in the future? If they did, then he had condemned them, condemned . . . everything to an existence of eternal damnation.
A dim ray of light reflected from the shards embedded in his broken hands. He couldn’t let anything else slip through his fingers. Hope was still in his hands. Slowly, painfully, he realized what he had to do.
The flames rushed across the pages like a beast starved for the words that would feed its madness. The Pah-wraith watched in silent rapture as the boxes that contained the future relented against the onslaught of heat and dissipated into ash. The gesture had no impact upon the already written history, but it was a powerful precursor. Soon, in the twenty-fourth century, the same would be said for every planet, every ship, and every soul in the universe, consumed in the flames of the Kosst Amojan for all eternity.
The Pah-wraith smiled and an instant later appeared inside the darkened isolation cell of her creator, her prisoner. He looked much like the way she’d found him all those years ago: huddled in a corner, his back to her, unaware of her presence. As she watched from the darkness, she realized that he was doing something.
He was writing.
Quickly the Pah-wraith raised her hand to do what she’d come for, increase the temperature in his brain, leaving him a vegetable for the remainder of his life.
Suddenly, a column of energy slammed into the Pah-wraith, forcing her through the pads on the wall and into concrete.
“Get away from him!” Ben Sisko looked down at his hands, unsure of what he had done or the nature of the cerulean energy emanating from them. Then, as if looking for answers, he walked over to the man in the corner who was writing on the floor, a man he knew but had never met: Benny Russell.
The Pah-wraith stared up from the rubble, enraged. “The Sisko—no matter, dreamer and dream will die at the hands of the Kosst Amojan.” The Pah-wraith stood, unleashing a firestorm around her, incinerating, consuming, and obliterating everything except for the small corner where Benjamin Sisko stood in front of the man who continued to write, oblivious to the battle that waged around him, because of him.
Sisko watched the flames tear apart the room. Concrete became ash, steel liquefied, yet he felt no heat, heard no sound save the steady and rhythmic beating of his own heart. The enraged Kosst Amojan was screaming at him. Flames shot from her hands and eyes as she attempted to destroy him. He pitied her.
“Enough.” The Emissary of the Prophets raised his hand and the firestorm and Pah-wraith stilled, frozen in a chronon of his creation. Sisko walked through the suspended inferno. “I finally understand what I am, I understand . . . everything.” He looked into the hate-filled eyes of the possessed woman. “This isn’t your fight.”
Sisko touched her, releasing a finite amount of anti-time, and she disappeared, receding to the period before the Pah-wraith possessed her. In her stead was a writhing form of energy.
“I understand now why the Prophets never destroyed you—how could they destroy their children?!” Sisko felt its hatred and the inferno slowly recede as he absorbed the mass of energy into himself.
A faint voice called to Sisko from the corner, calling his name, “Ben.” The Starfleet officer rushed over.
Benny Russell looked up into the face that was so like his own, the face that had lived the life he had dreamed of, a life of prosperity instead of prejudice, hope instead of hatred. “I had to know for sure. You . . . exist—the future I created . . . it’s real.”
“Yes, it’s real.” Benjamin Lafayette Sisko looked down at a face so much like his own, yet unlike his, which wore the ravages of racism, bigotry, and segregation. “It exists.”
Russell had so much he wanted to say, but there was no time. Instead, he held Sisko’s hand and smiled as he spoke his final words. “When I made you the Emissary, I always thought it was of Bajor. But I was wrong. Now I see who you were truly meant to be the emissary of—”
Gently, as if placing a baby to sleep, Ben Sisko laid Benny Russell’s head to rest. Next to the body were strewn passages written in the only thing the author had to write with: his own life, his blood. The last section caught Sisko’s attention.
Enlightened to the timeless power that had been passed to him, Jake Sisko absentmindedly ran his fingers along the stitching of the weathered baseball as he stared at the blank page. Finally, he used the antiquated ink pen to write the words:
Past Prologue: The Dreamer and the Dream
By
Jake Sisko
As the light from the setting sun washed over the house that he’d built with his own hands in Kendra Province, Jake thought about the title and how much the words meant to the people on Deep Space 9 and in every corner of the universe. He thought about how much the words meant to his family and how he thought he’d never write again.
Then the final words he had been searching for came to him: “I dedicate this novel to my father, who’s coming home.”
The figure behind Jake Sisko treaded lightly as he approached. The writer smiled to himself as he depressed the button on the ancient ink pen that bore the inscription: INCREDIBLE TALES 740 BROADWAY.
“I can hear you, Jonathan.”
The seven-year-old giggled at being discovered, then rushed up alongside his big brother. “Grandpa says dinner is ready and Mister Odo is arguing with Uncle Quark for trying to sell root beers from the fridge again.” The little boy stood on his toes as he tried to look over his brother’s shoulder. “Mom says not to bother you when you’re in here, but you’ve been in here forever! Is it finished yet? You promised you would read it to me first. What’s it about?”
Jake placed the cover page with the rest of the completed manuscript and turned to look at his brother. The ancient Bajoran rune on his face that rejected dermal regeneration was barely visible now, a whisper of what once was. It made him smile.
“It’s about the future.”
STAR TREK:
VOYAGER®
THE LAST REFUGE
Roger McCoy
THE ORCHID IN THE VASE at the edge of the bed was dying. Still, against all odds, it had managed to outlive its owner.
Tuvok could not deny that he felt a connection with orchids. They had played a large role in his life, ranging from his own prize-winning orchid breeding many years ago to the unlikely but temporary merging of himself and Neelix due to an accident involving a symbiogenetic orchid and a transporter. But these orchids held special meaning to Tuvok: The late Lon Suder, with whom he had spent so many hours working, had grown this crossbreed from various orchids Voyager had encountered on her journey through the Delta Quadrant. More than that, he had proposed to name it the Tuvok orchid.
While the orchid was struggling, it was a miracle it was still alive at all. Tuvok and most of the crew of Voyager had spent weeks exiled to Hanon IV during the Kazon possession of the ship. Though it was true that Suder had been t
rapped on Voyager with the Kazon, Tuvok couldn’t imagine that he had much time to tend to flowers while trying to remain alive and retake the vessel.
And yet the purplish leaves were only now shriveling despite the minimal attention it must have received. Perhaps Suder had succeeded in creating an orchid that had an unusual resilience. It seemed appropriate if he had done so. Unusual resilience had allowed most of Voyager’s crew to survive the exile, to say nothing of Suder, who had survived crawling through corridors and evading the Kazon for weeks . . . at least until his heroic sacrifice that allowed the crew to retake Voyager.
It was a tragic irony. Suder had reveled in violence. Only after many months of work together had Suder taken control of his violent nature, only to be forced to resort to violence again in order to survive. In the end Suder had both lived and died by the sword despite his efforts otherwise.
Tuvok had taken it upon himself to clean out Suder’s quarters after his passing. The Vulcan considered discarding the dying orchid, but something impelled him to hold on to it. Perhaps he could revive it or breed a new generation. Tuvok reached out to lift the pot when an unexpected voice called out to him.
“Hello, Tuvok.”
Tuvok clutched the pot as he turned to see the late Lon Suder’s face on the viewscreen of his desk computer.
“If you’re seeing this, it means that I’m dead.” Suder spoke with the calm logic of a Vulcan, but his face contorted slightly as he thought. “Well, I hope I’m not dead, but if you’re seeing this, then it seems likely I didn’t survive. I’m glad you managed to make it back to Voyager. Slightly disappointed that I’m not there to greet you, but after surviving this much I suppose I can’t complain.
“If I’m dead, then I assume the Kazon killed me, but I suppose it’s just as possible that you were forced to kill me while trying to keep my worse nature under control.” Suder’s face was pensive as he considered this possibility. “I hope not, but if that’s the case, then know that I understand and I forgive you. I can never thank you enough for all of the help you gave me.” His eyes glistened as he took a moment to strengthen his composure.
“But that’s not why I recorded this. Think of this message as a deathbed confession. I suppose it’s better that you find out this way so I don’t have to see your disappointment in me.” Suder nodded knowingly. “You try to hide it, but I see it. When I make a mistake. When my worse nature reveals itself. Anyway, it’s time I just admitted what you may have already figured out from our sessions together.
“I’m the one who tried to kill Captain Janeway.”
More than sixteen months before Tuvok would see the message from Crewman Suder, Chakotay sat by the viewport in Janeway’s ready room while he looked over a padd displaying current crew assignments. “I think we should give Ayala some more responsibility,” he said. “He’s a good man, and he can handle it.”
Janeway looked up from her own padd and leaned back in her chair. “He tried to attack Tuvok when you first arrived on Voyager,” she said with skepticism.
“I wanted to attack Tuvok.” He quickly held up a hand in apology to Tuvok, who stood near the captain’s desk. “No offense, Tuvok, but we had just found out you were planning to turn us over to Starfleet.”
“No offense taken.”
“Well, I still feel we need to be cautious.” She set the padd on her desk. “I don’t want to generalize, but a few of the former Maquis have displayed a very aggressive nature. I think we need to be sure that’s under control before we place any more in key positions.”
Chakotay was taken aback. “Is that still a concern? We’ve served together for months.”
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Chakotay. Most of the Maquis are doing a wonderful job integrating. There are just a few who are proving . . . problematic.” Janeway flipped through personnel reports. “We’ve already had to reassign Seska from sciences after that time she nearly punched Ensign Wildman.”
“To be fair, the way I heard it Wildman was asking for it.”
Janeway raised her head. Chakotay felt scolded by her gaze. It didn’t help that Ensign Wildman was generally very affable. “She had been making insinuations about the Maquis crew,” he added in explanation.
“That’s not the point.” Janeway was in her stern captain mode. “We don’t come out swinging every time someone says a cruel word.”
Chakotay started to open his mouth to say something, but he caught himself. His instinct was to protect his crew, but he knew it was better to concede in this case. “Fair point.”
“That said, we may have to start shuffling around some of the other Maquis.” Janeway picked her padd back up and started indicating crew members. “Many aren’t doing well in their assignments. Crewman Chell is proving unreliable. And he’s hardly the only one.”
Tuvok chimed in, “Some are far more concerning. I have heard that Crewman Jarvin was speaking of mutiny when he first arrived on Voyager.”
“Yes, but it was all talk,” Chakotay said, feeling more and more defensive. “They’ve become accustomed to working together since then.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I find that cold comfort,” Janeway quipped.
Chakotay sighed. He stood and began to pace to burn off some nervous energy, but he stopped quickly once he had gathered his thoughts. “Listen, Captain, with all due respect, this is a difficult situation, and you don’t understand all of the backgrounds involved. We’re going to have a hard time integrating my people if you don’t trust my judgment about them.”
“But that’s exactly the problem,” Janeway said, leaning back with a hand on her temple as if fighting a headache. “I’ve said this before: They aren’t your people anymore. They’re our people. We need to find some way to make them feel like a unit before this comes apart at the seams.”
Chakotay sat in silence, his lips clenched together, as he all but literally bit his tongue. Janeway softened as she saw his discomfort. “I’m sorry, Chakotay, I know I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. We’re on the same side here.” She rubbed a hand on her cheek. “I think I need another cup of coffee.”
Janeway inclined her head to the replicator across the room and called out, “Coffee, black.” A whir filled the replicator as the drink materialized. “Commander, would you mind grabbing that for me?”
“Not at all.” Despite his general discomfort, Chakotay was happy to offer this small kindness. “I’d like to see if we can give Dalby a little more responsibility too,” he continued as he walked to the replicator. “Maybe on the gamma shift. He’s shown some good initiative.”
“Perhaps a bit too much initiative,” Tuvok retorted.
Chakotay was growing weary of having to defend so many of the former Maquis. He carefully considered his response as he took the coffee mug, but he halted when he glanced at its contents.
“Chakotay?” Janeway’s voice pitched in concern.
“Captain, I think someone’s playing a joke on you.”
“I’m sorry?”
Chakotay lifted the mug out of the replicator and turned to face the captain. “I think this is about as far as you can get from having black coffee.” The cup was overflowing with what appeared to be powdered nondairy creamer, but there wasn’t a drop of coffee to be found.
Janeway leaned forward in her chair and squinted in confusion. “What in the world?”
The whirling light pattern of a Starfleet transporter swirled over the mug in Chakotay’s hand. A small purple disk came into existence. By the time gravity took its hold on the disk, a dozen small protrusions had flicked out of the sides and began spewing sparks in a 360-degree arc. Chakotay noted that the sparks resembled fireworks as he found himself shoved across the room by Tuvok’s lightning-quick Vulcan reflexes. He was hurled backward, losing his grip on the mug. A thin cloud of white powder formed in the air as th
e creamer flew out in all directions.
Tuvok shoved Chakotay, shouting, “Computer, emergency fire suppression.” He had predicted a danger that the ship’s computer hadn’t. A force field formed around the sparkler, catching Tuvok and a small portion of the creamer cloud. It didn’t catch much, but the powder that was inside the field ignited into a ball of purple flame, which flared against the edge of the force field.
With Tuvok enveloped inside.
Tuvok’s face and arms burned in the purple flames. The force field limited the spread of the flames, but how much damage would they do before they burned out?
“Computer, override fire suppression!” Janeway shouted, removing a wall panel to grab a handheld fire extinguisher, but the purplish flame burning Tuvok was dying quickly.
Chakotay tapped his combadge. “Medical emergency in the captain’s ready room.”
A huff came over the comm system. “I’d be happy to come help, but I don’t believe I have that—”
Before the Emergency Medical Hologram could even finish complaining, Janeway was already calling out, “Janeway to transporter room, beam Lieutenant Tuvok directly to sickbay.”
The transporter beam took Tuvok away in mere seconds, leaving the unscathed but shaken Chakotay standing with his captain amidst the sparks and debris in the ready room.
“Okay, I didn’t really ‘try to kill’ the captain. I hoped she would escape unharmed. I think I did anyway.” Suder’s face contorted as he bit the inside of his lower lip. “My goal wasn’t to kill or even injure the captain, or Commander Chakotay, and certainly not you. Frankly, I didn’t even know who else would be there when the coffee order would trigger the replicator malfunction or the beam-in. I can’t say I had given it much thought beforehand.” Suder’s guilt showed in his expression, something that a mere six months ago would’ve been unimaginable.