Strange New Worlds 2016 (20 page)

Sisko had memorized the passage to the Archives, which was located deep below the
Citadel. It was a long march, and any fear that they would be impeded or that P’Tash
would not follow vanished as the party seemed to grow noticeably larger. At last they
came to a passage that ended in a dead end. “Open it, Valel.”

Resigned to his fate, Valel did not argue but simply pressed a series of stone panels
that caused a section of the wall to recede. Sisko stepped forward and pushed open
the door. “Take a look, P’Tash.”

She followed him in, and the crowd behind them surged forward. Sisko and P’Tash found
themselves carried along to the bottom of the stairs as dozens and dozens of people
descended the stairs in astonishment.
Like children in a toy store,
thought Sisko.

“What is this?” asked P’Tash.

“The past is full of terrible things, but it is full of wonder as well,” Sisko said.
“In my time we struggled to define ourselves. We used the past as a guideline for
the future. But we’re not defined by our past. We used it to build a better tomorrow.”
He looked around and, for a moment, shared in the wonder of it all. He pushed past
a number of people and mounted the stairs. “Listen to me!” Sisko yelled to the crowd.
“Listen!” They all were listening. “If you destroy your past you have nothing on which
to build your future. And right now, you have no future. Only endless beginnings.
A world without history is a world without identity. It is the past that makes the
present worth living in. We learn from our mistakes. We learn from our ancestors.
And we move on. The sins of the father are warnings to the children: it doesn’t have
to be this way. If there is no yesterday, there is nothing today, and no hope for
tomorrow.”

“Captain!” P’Tash’s voice was strong and clear. “Why do you persist in trying to save
the past?”

“I’m not trying to save the past. I’m fighting for the future.” He caught sight of
Gen, who carried Marisa in his arms. “You deserve a world where a little girl can
learn from her grandfather. You want a world where stories can be passed down from
generation to generation. You need a world were music evolves like a living thing
and grows and changes. And, yes, a world where bad things can happen. But only if
you let them. Look around you! All this came from the past, some of it thousands of
years old. We did horrible things in my time, but we were also capable of creating
great beauty. We didn’t hide from the brutality of our forefathers. We used it as
inspiration to do better.”

He looked at P’Tash. “Go ahead. Destroy all this or lock it away. It doesn’t really
matter. You don’t need to revisit the past. Create a new past. Starting today you
can be masters of your own fate. Don’t surrender to the fear of free will and the
ugly side of emotions. Learn from it instead. Master it. It begins here. It begins
now.”

Gen, still carrying Marisa, moved through the crowd. All was silent as the old man
approached the Starfleet captain. “This isn’t just a new chapter. This is a whole
new book.” He turned to P’Tash but said nothing. The old man held her gaze and Sisko
wondered if there was an understanding between them. Or perhaps there had been something,
three decades ago.

Marisa looked at Sisko with crystal blue eyes. “You are ancient and wise.”

Sisko smiled and joined P’Tash and Gen. He took Marisa in his arms and said, “It is
a new book. And all of you can be the authors. How it ends is up to you.”

They stayed for the eighth day.

P’Tash did not release the nanoprobes. Across the planet there was great fear and
confusion, but also growing joy. They knew, from reports, the galaxy had changed around
them and only they remembered the last fifty years. By the ninth day, P’Tash’s earlier
resolve and confidence was returning. She decreed that the vault should remain closed;
one day they would share their gifts with the galaxy. Starting now, they were going
to rebuild all that they had destroyed.

“What you’ve done has taken great courage,” Sisko said to her.

“Or enormous stupidity. It won’t take long for word of our noncompliance to leak out
to the rest of the Federation. But we’ll be ready for them when they come. It’s been
a long time since anyone fought a war. I doubt they would know what to do with us.
And there are sympathizers everywhere, Valel tells me.”

Worf approached Lorac, who remained impassive. If he was wary, he did not show it.
Worf approved. “You are a Klingon.”

“What does that mean? What is it to be a Klingon?”

Worf thought for a moment. “For thousands of centuries our people have been warriors.
We have accomplished feats of heroism and valor. Our deeds are known throughout the
galaxy.” He glanced over at Sisko, who was saying his farewells to P’Tash. “But many
think of us as a savage and barbaric race that revels in destruction. Violence. Aggression.
Those were the ways of my people. Those were the Klingon way.” He placed a gentle
hand on the other’s shoulder. “It does not have to be that way.”

Worf joined Sisko and Dax in the center of the hall, and then they were gone.

The burst of light brought a wave of heat and searing pain. Benjamin Sisko squeezed
his eyes shut and choked on the acrid smoke that filled his nose, mouth, and lungs.
The environmental systems labored with clearing the runabout and pumping fresh oxygen,
but the damage was done. Sisko wondered if they would die of suffocation before being
blown up.

“Environmental systems operating at twenty-two percent!” Worf yelled before another
volley of photon torpedoes jarred the hapless runabout.

At the helm, Jadzia Dax struggled furiously. She swore. “Phasers are offline!”

What good would it do,
wondered Sisko,
to fight?
They were already lost.

Another burst of light, this one blinding like the heart of a white sun.

This is it,
he thought.
Good-bye, Jake. I’m sorry.

Sisko took his next breath—his last, he thought—and felt invigorating, fresh oxygen
fill his lungs. He looked around. The air was clear of smoke and, while damaged, the
console in front of him was intact. Dax sat upright in her seat, her hands resting
in front of her. “Old man?”

As if from a stupor, she turned slowly to face him. “Benjamin?”

Behind him, Worf stood statue-like. “What has happened?”

Dax scanned her console. “We’re three-point-two light-years from where we just were.
I don’t understand.”

Sisko analyzed the data on the screen beside him, the same screen he was certain had
just exploded moments ago. “Life-support systems are functioning normally.”

“Phasers are online,” Dax reported.

“Where are the Jem’Hadar?” demanded Worf.

Dax ran a sensor sweep, twice. “They are nowhere to be found.”

Sisko was running his own level-1 diagnostic. “We’ll have to analyze this data back
at the station, but it appears as if we were caught in an explosion that hurled us
light-years from the fight.”

Worf growled. “We should return and punish the Jem’Hadar for their cowardly ambush.”

Dax let out a sound that sounded like a snort. “We got lucky once. This is a one-in-a-trillion
opportunity. Let’s not waste it.”

Puzzled, Sisko sat back in his chair. It didn’t make sense. It seemed impossible.
But maybe it was a one-in-a-trillion opportunity as Dax put it. “Agreed. Let’s go
home and count ourselves lucky. Tomorrow’s another day.”

T
HE
M
ANHUNT
P
OOL

Nancy Debretsion

W
IPING SWEAT FROM HIS LIP
,
Julian Bashir recalled Quark’s words when he’d opened the latest Manhunt Pool: “Odo
always gets his man.” If only Deep Space 9’s head of security wasn’t relying on him.
Sure, he’d played interplanetary sleuths in holosuite thrillers, but that wasn’t preparation
for facing an actual Yridian con man. What if the man was packing a weapon?

Forcing his jaw to unclench, Bashir paced the length of the vacant shop. “Dicky Poole’s
business opportunity intrigues me. Are you sure this space is large enough for a Best
Nest franchise?”

“Not for the Nest Replicator Deluxe, but the Mini can provide the optimum sleep chamber
for any being that shows up on Deep Space 9.” The Yridian smiled—though his face was
so baggy, Bashir couldn’t be sure. “Except maybe a Nehrantha Giant.”

The doctor offered a nervous chuckle. “You don’t need to convince me of the importance
of the regenerative cycle. I’m a doctor.”

“Ninety-nine point nine percent of all sentient creatures rely on it. And with the
Jem’Hadar threat, who couldn’t use a good night’s rest?”

“That’s my primary interest—enhancing the health of my fellow beings. But still . . .”
Bashir glanced at the bag he’d left by the door—at the bar of gold-pressed latinum
poking out the top. If he couldn’t get the con man to take it, Odo couldn’t make his
arrest.

The Yridian edged closer to the bait. “Sometimes even humans need a little currency.”

“Exactly. I can’t rely on luck at dabo.”

The Yridian jiggled his voluminous jowls. “The sooner you set up shop, the sooner
you’ll profit. Never fear. Best Nest Intergalactic Limited will ship your equipment,
train your employees, and advertise your grand opening no later than half a year from
now.”

Bashir gave an appropriate gasp. “That long?”

The Yridian shrugged. “Bajorans. The freighter captains argue with the port managers
who then argue with the cargo handlers. And the construction crews! If only I had
a little—”

“Gold-pressed latinum?” As soon as the eager words left Bashir’s mouth, he realized
his mistake. The folds wreathing the Yridian’s eyes couldn’t hide his suspicion. Then
the con man glanced at the bag by the door and flexed his webbed hands.

“A couple of bars.”

Bashir held his breath as the Yridian reached down. The moment he grabbed a bar, it
melted. When golden goo ran through his fingers, he yelped. Touching the deck, the
substance quickly built into legs, body, arms, and head—properly clothed in an unassuming
brown uniform. When the liquid solidified into Odo’s stern face, Bashir’s tension
drained. The constable had transformed himself already gripping the con man’s wrist.

The Yridian tried to jerk free—unsuccessfully, of course. “In good faith, I made a
deal—”

“—that you’ve repeated dozens of times across this sector. And not one shop has opened.
Up until now, you’ve pilfered your victims’ life savings electronically. Now that
you’ve been recorded taking a payment—”

“Payment?” Unfolding his neck like an accordion, the Yridian thrust out his head.
“What I took was you!”

“If you’d prefer a charge of trafficking in sapient beings . . .” Odo snorted. “I
didn’t think so.” He raised his free hand, and Bashir saw two Bajoran officers trot
out of the security office across the Promenade.

Finally
. “I need a drink.”

Garak set down his glass of
kanar
. “Two days as I predicted. Pay up, Quark.”

The barkeep glanced at Odo, then raised his eyebrows at the losers, Bashir and O’Brien.
“Third Manhunt Pool you’ve won in a row. You must have inside information.”

Garak watched the Ferengi slide a welcome pile of latinum strips across the bar. Though
his words had been accusing, his manner was carefree. Why not? Garak thought. For
operating the pool, Quark claimed half the take.

“I’m merely a simple tailor.” Garak put on his most charming smile—half innocent,
half rascal. As Tain always said, “If people distrust you, make a joke of it. If they
think they’ve figured you out, they haven’t.”

“Surely, you’re not suggesting I spy on the constable.”

Odo harrumphed. “I’d like to see you try.”

If you saw me, that would mean I’ve lost my touch.
As the Cardassian pocketed the means to upgrade the embroidery mode on his laser-guided
stitcher, he noted the good doctor fidget on his stool.

“If I hadn’t helped catch him,” Bashir said, “I might have won my bet of five days.”

“Really, Doctor.” The shapeshifter cupped a hand around his elbow and curled the other
under his chin. “It’s only fair you helped catch him. After all, you helped set him
up in business.”

Bashir grimaced. “No need to bore everyone with the details.”

Garak hid his smirk behind another sip of
kanar
. Though Odo’s approximation of a face remained expressionless, his pose of humanoid
smugness was perfect.

“Julian helped the con man?” Chief O’Brien asked. “How?”

Odo waggled his head. “Not intentionally, of course. The doctor was duped.”

Chuckling, Garak clapped Bashir on the back. “Maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson:
to avoid treachery, expect it.”

The doctor raised his chin. “That’s a lesson I’ll continue to skip. The way I see
it, if one is suspicious of everything, one won’t recognize the truth, even if it
jumps up and slaps you in the face.”

Garak glanced at Odo. His eyes—or what the shapeshifter offered as eyes—shot him a
rare look of commiseration.
The United Federation of Planets: its members’ naïveté
is only matched by their stubbornness.

“The story, Odo,” O’Brien said. “We’re dying to hear.”

Quark leaned on his bar. “I’m all ears.”

Basking in the group attention, Odo seemed to grow taller. “If you insist.” But before
he could begin, his eyes focused on something past Garak’s shoulder. He shrank a little.
“Another time. I have business.” Instead of confronting whatever was upsetting him,
he turned on his heel and strode out the opposite exit.

Curious, Garak swiveled to see Major Kira walking toward them, flanked by two Bajorans.

“Where’s the constable gone to? These old friends want to visit, and we also need
to arrange security.”

Beside Garak, the doctor slid off his stool. “You’re Dal Cerys and Lubaar Pem. You’re
presenting at the First Contact Symposium tomorrow. How do you know Odo?”

“We worked with him,” the man said.

“Literally,” the woman added. “We were researchers with Doctor Mora Pol at the Bajoran
Center for Science when the Cardassians brought him in as an unknown specimen.” For
the first time, Doctor Dal seemed to notice that a member of the one-time occupying
force was watching her. Garak returned her nervous smile.

“That explains why Odo dashed out.” Kira pursed her lips. “The constable hates recalling
those days.”

“Nonsense,” Doctor Lubaar said. “We had fun. Once we discovered the blob could change
its shape consciously, he became the life of the party.

Doctor Dal glared at him in a way that suggested to Garak they were not just colleagues
but spouses. “You never understood Odo. He hated playing jester.”

Doctor Lubaar arched an eyebrow. “Then why did you keep asking him to be a chair?”

Garak signaled Quark for another
kanar
. Too bad Odo had worked so hard to overcome the Bajorans’ underestimation of him.
In his place, he’d have taken advantage of it.

Early the next morning, Odo changed the key code on the empty shop before turning
it over to the entrepreneurs Commander Sisko had authorized to move in: the Shaloza
brothers.

The older Bajoran, Shaloza Rokor, offered the security office padd to the younger,
Shaloza Trestan. One glance, and he handed it back to Odo. “Memorized it.” Then he
ran over to a stack of crates standing outside the shop and wrestled with the top
one’s lid.

Odo read the labels: caging towers, grooming brushes, exercise wheels, feed. “You’re
really opening a pet store. On a space station.”

“Don’t worry. Each animal is implanted with a nanochip. Anyone who buys one will fit
their quarters with mini–force fields that will activate should their Banean dog,
Romulan
set’leth
, or Cardassian lemur decide to dash out. Chief O’Brien approved the technology himself.”

Odo growled. “So long as you don’t sell Klingon
targ
s . . .”

“Nothing above six kilograms.”

His duty done, Odo gave a curt nod. “Your security code is fifteen characters long.
Should you forget it, ask me.”

Rokor smiled. “When Tres was a boy, he heard Cardassians had photographic memories.
He worked hard to develop one.”

“Smart young man.” Odo glanced at him. Already the Bajoran had unpacked three boxes.
“Industrious, too.”

“Very.” Rokor touched the silvery symbol of his faith hanging from his ear as if acknowledging
his good fortune. “He was forced to leave school during the Occupation. In three years,
he’s caught up enough to start university.”

The pride in the older brother’s voice made Odo linger. Expressions of familial devotion
intrigued him. Then he heard the young man whoop.

“Roki! That’s him. I can’t believe it.”

Turning, Odo saw Garak standing frozen in the entrance to his shop. The expression
on his face was as pained as Odo had felt the night before when his two former handlers
had entered the bar.

“I heard there was one Cardassian left on the station.” Rokor tucked in his chin.
“Tres, it’s best we keep our distance.”

His brother shook his head. “You don’t understand. That’s
him.
The night the soldiers picked up my friends and me—the night I wondered how much torture
I could stand before I died and went home to the Prophets—that’s the Cardassian who
set us free.”

On his way to lunch, Bashir made a point of stopping at Garak’s Clothiers. His enigmatic
friend looked pleased to see him—until he blurted out the reason for his visit.