STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Read online

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney The Promenade

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-7073-7

  First Pocket Books trade paperback edition September 2003

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover art by Cliff Nielsen

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected].

  Contents

  Introduction:

  Revisited, Part One

  Ha’mara

  Kevin G. Summers

  The Orb of Opportunity

  Michael A. Martin

  Andy Mangels

  Broken Oaths

  Keith R.A. DeCandido

  ... Loved I Not Honor More

  Christopher L. Bennett

  Three Sides to Every Story

  Terri Osborne

  The Devil You Know

  Heather Jarman

  Foundlings

  Jeffrey Lang

  Chiaroscuro

  Geoffrey Thorne

  Face Value

  Una McCormack

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Epilogue

  The Calling

  Andrew J. Robinson

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  Epilogue

  Revisited, Part Two

  About the e-Book

  Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis

  Introduction:

  “What We Left Behind”

  When Star Trek: Deep Space Nine debuted in 1993, we had no idea how big a part of our lives it would become. For seven years, we ate, drank, and slept Deep Space Nine, gathering the details that one day would appear within our book, the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Companion. Watching those 176 hours of television over and over again could have become an onerous chore. But it never did, thanks to the largely unsung efforts of the brilliant writers, the phenomenal actors, and all those behind-the-scenes people whose names, we suspect, too few viewers remember. The show kept getting better and better, with storylines that grew ever richer and more complex. The primary characters came to feel like friends, completely capturing our hearts. And not since Shakespeare has a more fascinating group of spear-carriers supported the ranks.

  When the series completed its seven-season run, the two of us would have gone into serious withdrawal if we hadn’t had our temporary crutch. For nearly a year after the series ended, we continued to be absorbed in completing the work on that doorstop of a tome mentioned above. During those months, we could almost imagine that the characters were still around. While we were writing, Kira commanded a daily portion of our lives. Odo insinuated his way into every conversation. Garak skulked about in our heads as we reviewed the galleys.

  Then we finished the Companion, and our connection to those characters was severed. Marco Palmieri and the other fine folks at Pocket Books launched a series of wonderful novels that move the characters forward, exploring their lives after the close of the Dominion War, after Sisko had joined the Prophets, after Odo had gone home. But still we missed that seven-year period when they all were together on the station, living their day-to-day lives. When O’Brien could count on meeting Bashir at Quark’s for an evening round of darts. When Jake and Nog could hang out together, their legs dangling above the Promenade. When the characters were learning as much about one another as we were learning about them.

  Now, thanks to this book, we have brand-new stories from that extraordinary period that bring our friends back to us, exactly as they were.

  Some of these stories convey the moments that must have taken place for the characters, either between scenes or between episodes, but that we didn’t get to see on-screen: The triumphant moment when Nog makes a decision that will change the course of his life; The bittersweet moment when Jadzia opens her mind to the prospect of a future of hope, rather than numbing sorrow.

  Some of the stories take the characters into new adventures that would have made wonderful episodes of their own: A visit from the former chief of security on Deep Space 9 draws Odo into a compelling mystery; Romance leads Quark to a not-so-pleasant realization about his true nature; Garak sends a fascinating communication to Doctor Bashir ... but would you expect anything less than fascinating from the likes of Garak? Particularly in a story written by the plain, simple tailor’s alter ego, Andy Robinson?

  As Vic Fontaine once observed, “Nothing lasts forever.” But on the pages that follow, you’ll find everything it takes to get you back into the “zone” (as O’Brien might have put it), at least for a while.

  Depends how fast you read, pallie.

  Terry J. Erdmann and Paula M. Block

  Los Angeles,

  March 2003

  Revisited, Part One

  Anonymous

  The author gratefully acknowledges the work of Michael Taylor, upon whose Star Trek: Deep Space Nine script, “The Visitor,” this story is based.

  It was raining in the bayou that night.

  Softly pelting the window pane, the droplets merged and ran together over the glass, weaving a veil of streaming silver, the rivulets becoming incandescent against occasional flashes of distant lightning. In those instances, fleeting glimpses of dense greenery outside the old house became possible, but then vanished just as quickly, leaving only the delayed echo of the lightning to fill the void beyond the rain.

  Jake Sisko treasured such nights; the storm had come as a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t expected it, although he should have. Such things were foreseeable, after all—had been for centuries. But even now, in his advanced years, Jake found he still cherished his uncertainty of what the next day, the next hour, the next moment, would bring, especially when looking back over a life in which past, present, and future so often seemed to merge and run together.

  Almost without thinking, Jake reached for the baseball on his desk, gnarled fingers brushing its old worn hide, tracing the path of its stitching before his hand closed around it. It felt good against his palm, as it always did; a simple pleasure in his old age. Playfully, he tossed it in the air, his hand staying open to catch it when gravity called it back.

  As the ball reached the apex of its short flight, the door chimed.

  Jake caught the baseball and half-turned toward the sound, wondering who would be calling at such a late hour, and on such a night. He returned the baseball to its pedestal, got up, and crossed the living room to the door.

  There was a face framed in the diamond window—a young woman, by the look of her, and soaked to the
bone. Jake tsked to himself as he hit the touchpad on the wall, and the double doors parted.

  “May I help you?” Jake asked.

  The young woman stared fixedly at him, her big round eyes conveying both optimism and awkwardness. She’d draped a shawl of some kind over her head—futile protection from the plump, heavy rain. “Sorry to bother you. It’s just that ... I’ve been ...”

  Jake noticed a nasty cut on her forehead. He ushered her inside and the doors closed. “You’re hurt,” he said, relieving her of the drenched shawl.

  The young woman touched her forehead, saw the blood on her fingertips. “Yeah, I must have scraped myself on a branch.”

  “Ah, that’s what happens when you go tromping around the bayou in the middle of the night,” Jake said good-naturedly, guiding her toward the fireplace and laying the wet shawl over the back of the couch. “Come, warm yourself by the fire. I have a first aid kit around here somewhere. Now, where is it ... ?” Spotting the kit across the room on a high shelf, Jake went to retrieve it. “So what are you doing out here, anyway?”

  His guest drew back some stray wet locks of blond hair behind her ears and tried to sound confident. “I’m a writer,” she said. Then, reconsidering her statement, she admitted, “At least, I want to be. And the truth is ... I was looking for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You are Jake Sisko ... the writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe I’m really here. Talking to you. You’re my favorite author of all time.”

  Jake smiled wryly as he took out the dermal regenerator and activated it over her wound. “You should read more.”

  “I mean it. Your books—they’re so insightful ...”

  “I’m glad you like them.” Jake withdrew the device and returned it to the kit. “There. Good as new.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jake wondered if she had any idea how eager she sounded. Probably not. But it was flattering, nonetheless. “You certainly have gone to a lot of trouble to tell me what you think of my books.”

  She blushed. “A friend of mine recommended Anslem to me and I read it straight through, twice in one night.”

  Jake blinked. “Twice? In one night?” His first novel, written decades ago when he was still a teenager, under what he considered to be disturbing circumstances at best, had almost never seen the light of day. It was years before he’d come to terms with what had happened and accepted the idea that Anslem was, in fact, wholly his own, despite the taint of Onaya.

  “It made me want to read everything you’d ever written,” she went on. “And I did! Your novels, your short stories, your plays, your poetry, your essays ...”

  Jake brought over a blanket and draped it across her shoulders. “You don’t look worse for the wear.”

  “You’re joking, I know that. But I want you to know, you’ve given me so much joy. You’ve made me think. I don’t know how else to explain it ...”

  Jake held up a hand. “That’s all right. I appreciate the sentiment. There’s no higher praise you could offer me. What’s your name?”

  She looked embarrassed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. It’s Melanie.”

  “Well, Melanie, I’m gonna get us some tea. Make yourself at home,” he told her, and went into the kitchen.

  Minutes later, he returned with the tea tray to find Melanie studying his bookshelf. “See anything you haven’t read?” he asked as he set the tray down.

  She turned to him and shook her head. “No, I own every one of these. Although,” she added with a hint of wistfulness, her gaze returning to the gold-embossed spines, “just seeing the titles brings back memories of reading them for the first time.”

  “And there’s only one first time for everything, isn’t there? I hope you like Tarkalean,” he said as he poured. “An old friend of mine was quite fond of it.”

  Melanie joined him on the couch. “Thank you,” she said as she accepted the cup. She took a sip and smiled. “It’s wonderful.”

  He lifted his cup and nodded. “Just what the doctor ordered.” Jake sipped his tea and regarded her. She shifted nervously. So eager. Was I ever that young?

  “I read a biography about you,” she said at length. “It said you started writing when you were a boy.”

  “Is that what you came to find out?” Jake asked.

  Melanie hesitated, then looked down and shook her head. “Not really.” Silence settled between them. Jake waited. Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”

  Jake nodded.

  “In all your writings, you never talk about the station where you grew up. About Deep Space 9. Why not?”

  “Oh, that,” he chuckled, shrugging dismissively. “Well, really, what would be the point? There’s so much out there already. The declassified logs of the crew alone ...”

  “That’s the official record,” Melanie said. “And you’re right, everyone knows that stuff, it’s well documented. I just thought you’d have something to add. I mean, you of all people ...”

  “Now, what could I possibly add to the official record?”

  “Only everything it doesn’t have!” She laughed, sounding incredulous. “All the writing you did during your years there and since—I’m just amazed that none of it was about those people, those times. ... It seems like it must have been a formative chapter of your life, and yet you never write about it.”

  Jake sighed and set down his cup, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Every chapter of our lives is formative. You realize that when you get to be my age. You look back on your life with the idea of trying to pin down the single most crucial moment, the one that set your life on its path, and brought you to where you are ... and you suddenly realize that they were all crucial. Each moment affects every one that follows it, like a drop of water hitting a window, or a baseball thrown at a batter. ...” Jake drifted off, lost in memory.

  Melanie was watching him carefully. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” she asked. “There’s so much more to those days than is generally known.”

  Jake looked back at her and shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Please?”

  Jake leaned back, considering the unexpected request, and the stranger who was making it. “So you came for a story,” he said, nodding in approval. “And here I am, thinking after all these years that maybe it’s time I shared with someone those things that only a few people know about, the stories that happened between the stories, and those that came after.”

  Jake reached for the kettle and refilled her cup. Then he settled back into the couch, and with his visitor listening, he began his tales.

  Ha’mara

  Kevin G. Summers

  Historian’s note: This story is set a few days after the events of “Emissary,” the pilot episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

  Kevin G. Summers

  Kevin G. Summers is the author of the critically acclaimed short story “Isolation Ward 4,” which appeared in the Star Trek: Strange New Worlds IV anthology. Outside of DS9, Kevin’s obsessions include Moby Dick, the works of Kurt Vonnegut, Cherry Coke®, and rare steak. In the alternate universe, he works as a graphic artist. Acknowledgments go to The Lost Sea in Sweetwater, Tennessee, for their advice on elements of this story. Kevin would also like to thank his mom and dad, Sandy, Nell, Katherine, his sister Anne, and, of course, Marco. Kevin lives in Leesburg, Virginia, with his beautiful wife, Rachel, and a moderately well-behaved dog named Fistandantilus.

  It was a time to sing.

  Alone in her chambers, Kai Opaka stood at the narrow window, her eyes closed against the breeze. She smiled slightly as she listened to the distant voices of the gathering multitude united in song. Opening her eyes, she looked out over the domes and spires and verdant gardens of Ashalla, watching as the people below flocked to the foot of the steps leading up to the ancient monastery. The meek and the strong, peacemakers and freedom fighters, farmers and politicians—from every village, from eve
ry province they had come to hear what she had to say.

  The sound of a bell rang softly behind her. Without turning, she called out and bade her visitor to enter.

  She heard the door open and close again. “Eminence,” a voice said.

  Opaka smiled, still watching the crowd. “How often must I remind you that I have never cared for that title, Tanin? Especially from you.”

  “I ask your forgiveness, Kai. My old mind is not what it once was.”

  She almost laughed. “I think, old friend, that you have probably forgotten more than I can remember, and remember far more that I will ever know.”

  “Indeed. Then perhaps you can mention that to my wife when you see her next.”

  Opaka did laugh then, but she never took her eyes from her people. Their voices continued to float up to her.

  “The day is finally upon us,” she said after a moment.

  “So it would appear.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “Not of what has happened ...”

  “But ... ?”

  Tanin hesitated. He had served Opaka as her teacher, her advisor, her supporter and her friend for decades. To find himself suddenly conflicted by her judgment could not have been easy for him.

  But then, she reflected, these are uneasy times.

  “The prophecies aren’t always clear,” Tanin admitted. “The path of Prophets even less so ...”

  “Which is why faith is faith, and not mathematics,” Opaka said.

  “... But what you are about to tell them will put that faith to the test in ways not even the prophecies have foretold.”

  “Is that what concerns you? That our faith may not endure this test?”

  “Sulan,” Tanin said softly. Opaka turned away from the window to look at him. He seldom used her given name anymore, not since she became kai. “Are you sure about this? He is an alien. A nonbeliever ...”