by Various
The young Klingon laughed loudly.
“Why is this amusing?” Worf demanded.
“I am not a prisoner,” he said. “My name is Lorac. I am a medical practitioner. I helped to save you and your crew.”
Worf, uncertain of what to say, simply said, “Thank you.”
Lorac bowed. “Not at all, Worf. I am no warrior. In fact, there are no warriors anymore.”
“No warriors?”
“Because there are no more wars.”
Worf was contemplating the implications of this and almost failed to see the figure rapidly approaching from behind Lorac. With a growl, Worf flung Lorac aside and lunged at the Romulan approaching them. His hands seized the Romulan by the neck and bent him back across the table. The Romulan’s hands clawed feebly at Worf’s fingers.
“No!” screamed Lorac, as he grabbed Worf’s arm. “Stop! Do not hurt him!”
Benjamin Sisko looked out over the unfamiliar Bajor. The view from the Citadel’s veranda was spectacular. He recognized the Yolja River stretching out before them. But little else was recognizable. The buildings he once knew, the statuary, the rainbow of colors and delights, were now all gone. “This is a different Bajor,” he said.
“Do not be sad, Captain Sisko. This is a Bajor at peace. A content Bajor.” P’Tash joined Sisko at a railing and watched him as he gazed down into the valley.
Sisko looked at her. “I’m happy to see that some things have not changed. I’ve fished in that river with my son.”
P’Tash looked at the river as if seeing it for the first time. “Yes, it is lovely.”
“How did you know who we were?”
“Forgive our curiosity.” P’Tash smiled. “We learned everything about you and the others from the computer on your ship. It was a remarkable glimpse into the past.” Her smile lingered before slowly fading.
“See something you didn’t like?” He meant it somewhat in jest but the reaction from P’Tash was swift.
“It was horrible. Your time was a period of barbarism and strife. We know nothing of the kind now.”
“Each generation improves upon the last. Or so I would like to think.”
“And so it is.”
“Thank the Prophets,” he said.
P’Tash glanced at him with a look somewhere between concern and fear. “What does that mean?”
Before Sisko could say anything he heard what sounded like the bellow of an enraged animal from inside the hall. “Worf!”
Worf’s grip tightened around the Romulan’s neck.
Sisko grabbed him by the shoulders, shouted his name, and brought his face close to Worf’s. “Mister Worf! Stand down!”
Like white-hot steel slowly cooling, Worf released the Romulan, who sagged to the floor. Lorac quickly knelt by the Romulan’s side. The man was sputtering, and tears ran down his cheeks. P’Tash stood apart from them. Her fear verged on panic.
“Mister Worf. Report.”
Worf’s eyes seemed to shift and focus on Sisko. The blood lust was gone. “This . . . Romulan . . .”
“Is a friend,” Lorac finished. “He is my colleague. You had no cause to attack him.”
“He is a Romulan!”
Sisko continued to grip Worf by the shoulders. “This is another time. Do you understand?”
Worf straightened and brought himself to attention. “Yes. I understand.”
He approached Lorac and the Romulan who was struggling to his feet. Worf stretched down a hand. “I am . . . sorry. I should not have attacked you without provocation.” The Romulan allowed Worf to haul him to his feet, and then he and Lorac quickly left the room. Worf turned to P’Tash. “I apologize for my actions.”
P’Tash, her face ashen and her voice barely audible, said, “Let us hope repairs to your ship will be completed soon.”
They weren’t.
Dax and Valel conducted a preliminary assessment of the damaged runabout and estimated that repairs could take four to five days.
Sisko left them to work on it, while he and Worf decided to explore the future Bajor. It was near dusk when Sisko found himself wandering through the market stalls that spread across one side of the wide river. He’d been absentminded in his meandering, only occasionally taking notice of some bolt of cloth for sale, an engraved vase displayed on a table, or bushels of fruit being picked through by curious shoppers. In what he assumed was the center of the market was a ten-meter-tall statue. It was a crude representation of a fisherman and showed little of the artistry of the Bajor he knew. His disappointment must have been apparent, for after a while one of the sellers came from behind her display of spices to ask him what was the matter.
Sisko apologized. “I was lost in thought.”
“You were staring at the statue,” she said, not unkindly.
“I was comparing it to others I’ve seen,” he explained. “The craftsmanship is interesting. How old is it?”
“It is nearly forty years old,” she said proudly.
“Nearly?”
She nodded and offered him an apple. “Please, have one as a gift.” Sisko thanked her, and she returned to her stall.
The familiar crunch and sweet tang of the rose-colored apple was a welcome familiarity. As he ate, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Dax and Worf earlier . . .
“Four or five days isn’t too bad,” he said to Dax.
Dax threw her hands up in mock surprise. “Not too bad? That’s incredible. But what’s really interesting to me is that Valel seems very keen to have us gone. And soon. There’s something happening, Benjamin. Something is happening soon.” She looked at Sisko and Worf. The Klingon seemed to be hardly listening. He was even more sullen than usual. “There’s a deadline that Valel hasn’t explained, and when I pressed him, he became evasive.”
Sisko leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “P’Tash too. I feel like we’ve shown up late for a wedding we weren’t invited to.”
Dax’s lips curled into a smile. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Captain.”
“Lorac,” said Worf suddenly, “is not a Klingon name.”
“Explain,” said Sisko.
“Klingon names have meaning. Many are ancient. Your name carries great importance.”
Dax cut in. “Like Alexander?”
A momentary flash of anger filled Worf’s eyes. He was in no mood for Jadzia Dax’s playfulness. “My son is named after a great warrior.”
Sisko cocked his head to the side. “P’Tash. Valel. Those are not Bajoran or Cardassian names either. Can things have changed so much?”
Dax shrugged. “Twelve hundred years is a long time, Benjamin. Compare twelfth-century Earth to twenty-fourth century Earth, for example. What are you getting at?”
Sisko breathed out a deep sigh. “Nothing, maybe. Nothing at all. They saved our lives and seem eager to help us. I suppose that’s all we can ask for.”
“Agreed,” said Worf. “The sooner we leave the better.”
So lost in thought was the Starfleet captain that he nearly collided with a small girl.
She gawked at him with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name is Benjamin. Are you hurt?”
“She’s fine,” said an elderly man approaching. He took the girl by the hand. “Marisa has had her share of bumps and bruises. Before she reaches her grandfather’s age she will doubtless have many more.” His eyes squinted as he examined Sisko. “So the rumors are true. We have special visitors.”
Sisko grinned. “I don’t know about special. But I am a visitor. Benjamin Sisko.”
“I am Gen. Please, join Marisa and me for a walk by the river.”
“Is it true you are ancient?” asked Marisa as they strolled along the riverbank.
G
en arched an eyebrow. “From the young, come true questions.”
“I can see that,” said Sisko. He tossed the apple core into the river and watched it float away. He said to Marisa, “I am ancient. And wise.”
Marisa smiled at that. “Not as wise as Grandfather.”
The old man nodded and squeezed her hand. “Perhaps that is so. Let us see. Do you have any questions for our special visitor, young one?”
She thought for a moment. “I can’t think of anything. Maybe he has a question for me.”
Sisko chuckled. “I do, I do. Tell me about the history of Bajor. I’m curious about all that has changed in the millennium since my time. I recognize very little. In fact, I recognize nothing at all. Only the river remains.”
Marisa furrowed her brow and looked at her grandfather. “I don’t understand.”
The old man sat down on a large rock and patted a spot beside him for Marisa to sit. “He is talking about the past, dear one. The past beyond memory. He comes from a time before Renewal.”
“Renewal?” Sisko asked.
Gen sighed deeply. “I’m talking about the burdens of history, Benjamin Sisko. Past grievances, ancestral obligations, injustices long forgotten. Imagine being free of the weight of centuries and starting anew. Turn the page and move on. Every fifty years.”
Now it was Sisko’s turn to furrow his brow. “I don’t understand.”
“Renewal. Every half century we literally wipe away the past. Relics are destroyed. History tossed into the bonfire, the ashes buried. And then, and only then, do we erase our memories. Willingly, I might add. Each one of us, every one of us, starts over again. Oh, we retain the memory of some things. Our role as parents, for example. Those with special skills retain the knowledge needed to take care of society. Doctors and engineers. But everything else . . . is gone. Even our names.”
Sisko sat down slowly beside the old man and his granddaughter. “People willingly forget who they are?”
“We are given a chance to re-create ourselves.”
“All that you love . . .”
“And hate.”
“Gone?” Sisko said.
“And with it, the enmity that builds over time. There have been no wars for . . .” Gen paused to consider. “No wars for centuries.”
“How would you know if the history books are being rewritten every fifty years?”
The old man nodded. “True. I don’t. But we are told that war only leads to more war. Call it vengeance or justice, but one act of violence always leads to another.”
Sisko thought back to the tapestries he’d seen in the bazaar. There had been a newness to them that he hadn’t quite been able to grasp when he saw them hanging in the market stalls. And there was something else. He cursed himself for not noticing much earlier; the absence of the traditional Bajoran earring. No one wore it this era. It was now an ancient tradition long gone. “You speak of history. But what of culture?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “The art, the literature, the poetry of your people?”
“Renewed.”
“You mean erased.”
The old man nodded. “For the betterment of society.” Gen moved a clump of dirt with the tip of his booted toe. “Art is a reflection of society. Stories contain the emotions and feelings of a time. They can perpetuate grievances and prejudices. These can lead to disorder and discord. Even death.”
Sisko turned the idea over in his mind. “When does Renewal begin?”
Gen stroked his granddaughter’s hair. “As it happens, Benjamin Sisko, it starts tomorrow. Over the next several days, we will begin the destruction of the past in order to prepare for a new future.”
Sisko looked back at the market.
“Yes,” said Gen. “All of that will be destroyed. The paintings, the pottery, and the poetry. And then on the eighth day, a button will be pressed somewhere and in an instant we will forget it all. Forget everything.” His hand stopped brushing Marisa’s hair.
“And will you forget your granddaughter’s name?”
The old man’s eyes were watery. “Yes. And she will forget me, too. We will return to our family home before the process, so that we will know we are family. And over time we may . . . . will . . . learn to love each other again.”
Now Marisa took Gen’s hand in hers and squeezed.
“It is too bad you are leaving. I would have enjoyed hearing stories of our ancient past.”
Sisko gazed out over the river. “I don’t know what to say. Bajor’s culture is, or was, unique. If you ever leave Bajor, I hope you are able to visit a museum to see what your ancestors created. In my time, a museum on Rigel IV had a stunning collection of ancient Bajoran frescoes.”
“You misunderstand something, Benjamin.”
Sisko returned his attention to Gen.
The old man said, “There are no museums anymore. Renewal happens everywhere to everyone in the known galaxy. In the here and now there are no such things as museums.”
Dax looked with no small satisfaction at the holographic representation of the Rio Grande. For Valel, the nanoprobes slowly piecing together the runabout seemed to take an eternity. Dax tried to explain that in her time the ship would’ve been simply scrapped. Satisfied with the progress, she returned to the topic of their conversation.
“Explain how Renewal is accomplished. How is it possible that it occurs simultaneously in the same instant across the galaxy?”
The Cardassian simply shrugged. “Does it matter? It simply happens.” He could see that Dax was not satisfied with this answer. “You are a true scientist, Jadzia Dax. I respect that.” In an instant the image of the runabout vanished. “Repairs will be complete within three-point-seven-two days. The same technology that repairs your ship aids in Renewal. After the ceremony of destruction occurs, nanoprobes are released in the atmosphere and are inhaled. They act on key areas of the brain. Each planet is responsible for itself. The timing is carefully planned so that it seems to happen simultaneously across vast amounts of space and time.”
Dax smirked. “The ceremony of destruction?”
Valel raised his hands in front of him. “It’s not called that officially. But some of us refer to it as such.”
“You sound conflicted.”
“Do I?”
“You’re a scientist. You must find such wholesale destruction offensive.”
“They are only material objects. It is for the greater good.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Valel stiffened and his face lost all expression as he momentarily became lost in thought. Then he seemed to come to a decision and stepped closer to Dax. “There are some who fear your arrival. You are a reminder of a shameful past.” Dax opened her mouth to say something, but he quickly continued. “And there are others who see you as a beacon of hope.”
Dax raised one eyebrow. “Hope? For what?”
“A hope to restore the past. Will you come with me? I want to show you something.”
Dax considered it for a moment before saying, “The last person to say that to me was a Ferengi just before I sent him to the medical bay with a broken fibula. Okay. Show me.”
Worf caught up with Sisko as the captain was striding down the corridor toward the reception hall. “Captain, I have been investigating the offensive and defensive capabilities of the local militia.”
“And?”
“Apart from a rudimentary constabulary, there is no planet-wide military capable of defense or offense. In fact, Captain”—Worf looked meaningfully at Sisko—“there is no Starfleet.”
Sisko paused at the door. “Given what I’ve learned, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I have spoken to many of the locals, both native to Bajor and not. The United Federation of Planets still exists as an organization. In fact, there
is not a planetary system that is not a member. The Romulans, Ferengi, Breen, and even the Jem’Hadar are all part of this Federation.” Noticing Sisko’s reaction to this, he said, “You do not seem pleased.”
“I’m not sure, Mister Worf. In theory this should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? The ideals of the Federation are noble. We’re the good guys, after all. At least in our time.” He pushed open the door and found P’Tash waiting by the veranda.
“Captain Sisko. You have had a busy day exploring our world. I understand that you and your officers have been asking lots of questions.”
Sisko joined her by the open veranda door. A cool evening breeze wafted through, gently stirring the sheer curtains. Sisko sensed an even greater coldness from P’Tash. “We have. And I’m not sure I like the answers.”
“Renewal.”
“Yes. It’s not something I necessarily agree with.”
“Then it is a good thing you will be leaving soon. A good thing for you and a good thing for us.”
“You seem to think we are some sort of virus that can infect your people. As if simply talking to us could be dangerous.”
“The past is dangerous. The past is where anger and fear and hatred live. All of that is gone. Now there is galactic peace.”
“But at what cost? You must destroy and re-create yourselves every generation.”
A shiver ran through the Bajoran, and she closed the veranda door. “Every cycle, there are those who ask the same questions you do. Of course there is a price for peace. But it is a price worth paying. The price of war is far greater.” She looked from Sisko to Worf. “You are soldiers from an era of bloody conflict. I would hope you could appreciate what we have accomplished.”
How many lives were lost in the war with the Dominion? Sisko wondered. How many friends had died? “I can’t argue with you. There is something undeniably appealing about your philosophy.”
P’Tash smiled. “Let us hope Valel and Dax will soon be finished. If you are still here in eight days, then you will experience Renewal yourself firsthand. You will forget all that you were and you will never be able to leave.”
