Rising Son
Page 1
Stardate 53267.5.
My Name is Jacob Sisko.
I’m human and a citizen of the United Federation of Planets. Whoever finds this, please contact any Federation outpost or any official of the planet Bajor and let them know what happened…that I ventured into the wormhole by myself and was caught in some sort of storm, one that caused irreparable damage to my shuttle. In spite of my best efforts over the last several hours, I’ve been unable to restore power to this ship, and will soon succumb to hypothermia.
These are my last words, it seems. I wish I could leave behind some profound statement about life or death, but all I can think is that this isn’t what I expected. It doesn’t seem real. All my life, I’ve heard “adults” talk about how young people don’t really understand that they’re going to die someday, and I always thought I was exempt from that particular patronizing bit of wisdom, probably because I lost my mother so early. That, and how I grew up. Who my father is. My life has been anything but sheltered.
The war changed things for everyone, I know, but even before that, before I learned firsthand about mortal terror on the front line at Ajilon Prime, I thought I understood that death was never all that far away—that it could slip in and out of somebody’s life without warning, taking, stealing, changing things. I knew, I understood, but I can see now, I didn’t feel it. Because no matter how bad things got, he was with me. My father created the foundation of who I am, guided me. He was…reality. There was a way that things weren’t real for me until I could tell him, could take or ignore his advice, could feel his love for me and know that I wasn’t alone. The way I’m alone now, finally understanding that I’m going to die—this is real.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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Cover art by Cliff Nielsen
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For Mÿk Olsen, my man
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the creative input of Marco Palmieri and Paula Block.
I’d like to thank my friends and family for their patience and support—Steve and Dianne Perry, Dal and Rachel Perry, Gwen Herzstein, Curt and Joelle, Sera, Thad and Britta, Leslie and Paul, Doctors Goldmann and Cohen. Oh, and Tamara, of course.
I’d also like to thank Denise and Michael Okuda for their compilation and reference masterpieces—and Cirroc Lofton, who was a fine, fine Jake.
Self-realization is a comedown from salvation, but it still gives us something to hope for.
—MASON COOLEY
Prologue
THERE HAD BEEN a crack in the humidity mesh that shielded the Arva nodes, which, if left unchecked, would almost certainly lead to fuel dilution. He’d had to set down, and as much as Tosk disliked dealing with the maintenance of the ship, the circumstances were ideal for such a necessity; he’d discovered as much almost immediately. Getting to the surface had been particularly difficult due to the spinning drift of ice that surrounded the small world, a minor excitement that the ochshea would appreciate…although the quad of Hunters was at least ten days behind, and he doubted that they would think to search for him here. The unnamed, uninhabited planet was one of eight within the star system closest to the Anomaly, and that alone was enough to deter traffic of all kinds, not just Hunted Tosk.
As the filters expelled their toxic moisture into the alien air, Tosk surveyed the desolate plain that surrounded him, a vast expanse of broken rock covered with blue-green algae. There was a scent that he associated with wet soil, not unpleasant. He knew from the readings he’d taken before landing that there were no mountains, no oceans, only the endless sea of watercolored stone beneath a distant gray sky. The lifeless waves formed rifts and caves, valleys and peaks. It was serene and lovely, and, like the deserts of home, a reminder of the infinite cycle—birth and train, Hunt and death, birth and train…
Tosk took a few short, deep breaths, puffing to fill the tiny sacs beneath his plated skin. The planetoid was visually appealing, but not environmentally suitable for Tosk; the atmosphere was too cool, and thick with moisture. The vast majority of the Tosk lived and trained in the second-sun hemisphere of their homeworld. Still, the planetoid would be useful to other Hunted, Tosk decided. Its position and lack of resources made it an unlikely hiding place.
I would not have set down, were it not essential, he thought, still gazing across the mute landscape. Of course, the Tosk rarely did anything that wasn’t vital, except for what was vital to the excitement and continuation of the Hunt. And in that, I have done well.
It was a proud thought, and well deserved. He had successfully kept the Hunt moving and active for more than four months now. They’d been close several times, the Hunters, enough for him to actually see their jacketed faces on three separate occasions. Even if he went to his rebirth the next day, he had earned another positive mark for the Tosk of 67, his clan by genetic material, and would die with honor. Group 67 was already near the top of requested quarry. It was a distinction beyond measure to be so acclaimed.
Behind him, he heard the soft coughing sounds that signaled the end of the humidity expulsion. The sound was small and flat in the thick atmosphere, dying quickly, and Tosk turned toward the hatch a few steps away, ready to leave. He’d already planned to double back on his trail and engage the Hunters, at the clouded stretch he’d passed through only yesterday—
—and Tosk blinked, stopping. There was a flicker of light, a glint like reflected shine coming from the shadow beneath his ship’s narrow bow. Had something fallen from the body of the ship when he’d landed? He walked toward the flicker, relieved that he’d seen it before leaving, whatever it was. Maintenance was uninteresting, but neither did he want to die of a loose panel seal during his Hunt.
Tosk crouched in front of the shining object, knees sliding to attest to the slickness of the omnipresent algae, and narrowed his eyes, still unable to identify the piece—a crystalline chunk of matter the size of a fist, of a luminous tint that seemed to shift between orange and red. It was attractive and Tosk reached for it without thinking, deeply compelled to touch the shimmering surface—
—and crack, a violent surge of energy threw him back and away. He landed hard on his side but barely felt it, as power coursed through his body, not painful but so strong that he couldn’t move, could only experience. He flickered in and out of invisibility helplessly, felt his tendons and muscles rapidly flex and release, the contractions all-encompassing and beyond his control. He couldn’t breathe, could barely see, and what he did see was impossible—even, leveled ground beneath him, a pathway, lined with colorful organic growths. Where there had been empty, open space stood a great wall that towered beyond his unsteady sight, two of them, joined, the corner of a structure. There was a sound like high, lonely wind, but the environme
nt’s fundamental emptiness was gone; he wasn’t alone, and neither was the single building, and all of it appeared and disappeared as quickly as his vision fluctuated, strobing like light, faster, his ears and mind filling with the sound of rushing air—
—and then it was over all at once, as though it had never happened. Tosk was himself again, he and the ship alone in the silent sea of damp, dusky stone. More confused than alarmed—there had been no pain, no physical damage—he sat up, breathing deeply. He looked to the red object that had inspired the strange experience and saw that it was gone, an ashy smudge where it had been.
Tosk got to his feet, checking the rudimentary proximity sensor on his sleeve, and saw what he knew he’d see—no structures within range. He had not dreamed it; Tosk didn’t dream, nor were they equipped to hallucinate. The crystal had created the encounter, to what purpose he did not know.
Nor do I care, he assured himself. He was uninjured and the ship was repaired. Tosk weren’t engineered to be overly curious, either—there was the Hunt, the apex of all education and training, and he was Tosk, the Hunted, and this was his time. To spend even a moment of that time concerned with pursuits not related went against his very being.
Tosk felt a sudden urgency to be away. He boarded his small vessel without looking back, and found himself hurrying through the simple procedures that would lift him through the planetoid’s atmosphere. Never had he felt such a desperate need to leave a place, to go…elsewhere.
The ice storms that had so troubled his descent were now merely an annoyance, an impediment to his progress. Tosk wove into the stuff, blasting himself clear when maneuvering became too difficult, his thoughts occupied with something else—although it wasn’t until he was well away from the lonely planet that he perceived his preoccupation, realized that he had actually forgotten his plan to backtrack. The urgency that continued to grow in his conflicted mind wanted for something, something that was not the Hunt. Something he didn’t know.
Riding aimlessly through the vast dark, he struggled to understand. The Hunt was all, it was what he was. And as the pressure to find this new, unknown thing grew, Tosk finally began to understand that something was horribly wrong.
1
…battles fall and fail, and there is a Time of waiting, the space between breaths as the land heals and its children retire from war. The Temple welcomes many home, the faithful and the Chosen.
A Herald, unforgotten but lost to time, a Seer of Visions to whom the Teacher Prophets sing, will return from the Temple at the end of this time to attend the birth of Hope, the Infant Avatar. The welcomed Herald shares a new understanding of the Temple with all the land’s children. Conceived by lights of war, the alien Avatar opens its eyes upon a waxing tide of Awareness.
The journey to the land hides, but is difficult; prophecies are revealed and hidden. The first child, a son, enters the Temple alone. With the Herald, he returns, and soon after, the Avatar is born. A new breath is drawn and the land rejoices in change and clarity.
* * *
Something was wrong.
Jake knew it before he was entirely conscious. He groped for understanding, roaming his mind for how and why…and because he was scared, he thought of his father, and the simple, strong emotions drew him up through the dark.
“Dad?”
He opened his eyes at the sound of his own soft, scratchy voice, felt the numbing cold, saw his bag floating amid a frozen snow of empty food packets, like a symptom of sleep, a detail of some strange dream. He was floating, too, facing the single, outdated transporter at the back of the shuttle, muted red emergency lighting taking the sting out of the unlovely decor. Obviously, the Venture’s AG had gone out…but it was the deep chill that had tipped him to wake up, that immediately had him moving before he could think clearly. Cold was bad.
Jake turned clumsily and kicked off the port wall, aiming for the tiny vessel’s decidedly dead-looking flight controls; there were no alarms sounding and even the console screen was blank, a blind eye. He arranged his thoughts on the way, ignoring the growing urge to panic even when he realized that he couldn’t hear anything—not even the soft hum of the recyclers.
I was in the wormhole, waiting, about to give up and go back to the station…and everything started spinning, the prophecy was coming true, I thought, except I couldn’t control the ship; I started to black out, and…
“And now I’m here,” he muttered, grabbing the back of the pilot’s seat and pulling himself down. Wherever that was. He tucked his feet under the chair, hooking his ankles under the manual height adjust, and tapped at the computer’s old-fashioned console keys for a diagnostic.
Nothing happened. No light, no sound. He took a deep breath and went through the sequence to call up the shuttle’s fail-safe backup system—and it failed, not even a glimmer of power. He did it again, slowly and carefully, the knot in his stomach tightening further as he understood it was a lost cause. Except for the emergency lights, which ran off an independent battery, there was nothing on the ship that was working.
Okay, okay, don’t freak out…check the main conduit, it’s got to be a blown relay, I can fix that….
A darker thought intruded. What if it’s not?
As far as anyone on the station knew, he had taken his newly acquired shuttle to Earth, to see his grandfather. He’d been too embarrassed to admit that he was following a scrap of prophetic text into the wormhole, hoping to bring his father home…though considering his current situation, finding Dad had just dropped a notch or two on his priority list. Nobody knew where Jake was, himself included, his fix-it skills were barely competent, and it was already cold enough for him to see his breath, a pale, ethereal mist hanging in front of the blank viewscreen. Where was he? How long had he been unconscious? And with the Venture completely dead, how much longer before he ran out of air, or hypothermia set in—
—or is this all part of the prophecy?
The thought stopped him, refocused his thinking. The torn bit of parchment that had brought him here stated clearly that the journey to the land would be difficult…
…but that I would enter the Temple alone and return with the “Herald” before Kas has the baby. Kas was still months from her due date; maybe this was all part of it, maybe the Prophets had him and he just had to wait awhile….
“Knock it off,” he told himself firmly. Daydreaming about salvation was as bad as straight-up panic; he knew better. He needed to check the conduit, and the relays, and about fifty other things. Anything else was a waste of time.
Jake pushed off from the chair to get his bag—there was a light panel in it he was going to need—reminding himself that he’d been in tight situations more times than he could count…definitely more than most men his age. Somehow, things always worked out. This would, too, because the alternative…there just wasn’t one.
Jake set his jaw, clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter, carefully avoiding the feelings of fear and dread that had taken root in the shadows of his mind, that were beginning to grow in the powerful absence of light.
Stardate 53267.5. My name is Jacob Sisko; I’m human and a citizen of the United Federation of Planets. Whoever finds this, please contact any Federation outpost or any official of the planet Bajor and let them know what happened…that I ventured into the wormhole by myself and was caught in some sort of storm, one that caused severe damage to my shuttle. In spite of my best efforts over the last several hours, I’ve been unable to restore power to this ship, and will soon succumb to hypothermia.
These are my last words, it seems. I wish I could leave behind some profound statement about life or death, but all I can think is that this isn’t what I expected. It doesn’t seem real. All my life, I’ve heard “adults” talk about how young people don’t really understand that they’re going to die someday, and I always thought I was exempt from that particular patronizing bit of wisdom, probably because I lost my mother so early. That, and how I grew up. Who my father is. My life has
been anything but sheltered.
The war changed things for everyone, I know, but even before that, before I learned firsthand about mortal terror on the front line at Ajilon Prime, I thought I understood that death was never all that far away—that it could slip in and out of somebody’s life without warning, taking, stealing, changing things. I knew, I understood, but I can see now, I didn’t feel it. Because no matter how bad things got, he was with me. My father created the foundation of who I am. Guided me. He was…reality. There was a way that things weren’t real for me until I could tell him, could take or ignore his advice, could feel his love for me and know that I wasn’t alone. The way I’m alone now, finally understanding that I’m going to die—this is real.
I thought I had let the need of a son for his father become the friendship of two men. I should have broken away earlier, perhaps, beyond just physical distance, beyond the surface. I should have sought my own way emotionally, looked inside of myself instead of to him…but so much of what I am is from him. It was too easy to ask instead of search, made all the easier because of his strength and certainty, even when he didn’t know the answers. He has this way of making it okay, that the answers weren’t always there, that things would unfold as they should. Maybe I should have done a lot of things different. Except…isn’t it better that I had that time with him, now that he’s gone? That we were still so close, now that it’s over? My life…
Tell them it was hypothermia. There are worse ways. Already I’m getting sleepy and my fingers are cold, very cold; I can barely feel them; I don’t know if I’m making sense anymore and I want to cry but I can’t. Tell Kas I’m sorry and that I love her, that she has become to me what I would have wanted with my mother, and I’m sorry I won’t be there for her and the baby. Tell Nog I said to look out for her, he’s my best friend and I love him, too. I just wanted to find Dad so bad, I thought I could accept it but then I started to hope and I had to come. But he’s not here and I’m alone its so cold. I was wrong and Tell them I’m sorry I died. When he comess home, tell him I couldn’t move on, I tried but wasn’t strong enouggh I miss himand love himm There was so much I wanted to be he always said I could be anythingg my father