Kasidy smiled. “I’d like that.”
Sisko left the cabin with a spring in his step. But as he headed for the turbolift, he thought again about Rebecca. Sisko loved his daughter dearly, and she was special to him for countless reasons, but he also wondered about her—not for the first time. Over the nine-plus years of her life, he had on rare occasions whispered about her—to Kasidy, to Jake, to Jasmine Tey. They all believed her special, and perhaps not just in the way family members and friends felt about any child. Sisko had seldom allowed himself to think about it in any depth.
I don’t want to think about it now, he told himself. But he couldn’t suppress the relevant details about his daughter that he knew to be true—starting with the fact that a Prophet had inhabited Rebecca’s grandmother in order to ensure Sisko’s conception and birth. He didn’t know if that made him part Prophet—he’d never believed that it had. But he could not deny that he’d had innumerable experiences that few, if any, had ever had.
Regardless of his own status, what did that mean about his daughter? Could she be part Prophet? The idea terrified him—because of the implications it held for Rebecca, but also because of how it might affect Kasidy.
Ahead of Sisko, the doors of a turbolift parted. He stepped inside and specified his destination as the bridge. As the lift ascended, the captain shook his head, as though he could physically clear his thoughts. By the time he reached the bridge, he had refocused all his attention on ordering Robinson to continue on its mission of exploration.
Epilogue
Agent
Already bored, Rebecca kicked her legs forward and back as they dangled from the chair in Counselor Althouse’s office. It was the second time her mother had brought her there, and she guessed that it wouldn’t be the last. She actually liked the counselor—she was kind and funny, and Rebecca loved her short, choppy blond hairstyle—but she didn’t like having to talk and talk about things.
Especially bad things.
Rebecca remembered when, a long time ago, back on Bajor, her parents had made her talk with somebody else, again and again, for what seemed like forever. That was after the sad man had taken her—the sad man who wanted to hurt her, and maybe to hurt himself too. Though she really didn’t understand it at the time, she stopped him, and when it was all over, the last thing she wanted to do was talk about it.
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling, Rebecca?” the counselor asked her. “Just in general, when you’re in school, when you’re in your cabin with your parents, when you’re with friends?”
“Um,” Rebecca said. She raised her shoulders once, then a second time. “Okay.” She knew she would have to say something, if only to avoid being rude. But she really didn’t want to talk about what had happened down on that planet, with those strange robots. They hadn’t wanted to hurt her, not exactly, but they tried to steal her thoughts . . . her mind.
They didn’t just try, Rebecca told herself. Just like the sad man on Bajor didn’t just try to hurt her; he did hurt her. He set off a bomb right in front of her. She saw it and felt it and knew that bad things were going to happen to her.
So she stopped it. She stopped it by relocating herself, by moving to a fork in the path of her life, and putting down a marker for others to follow. She didn’t exactly know how she did it, and she didn’t even really remember it very well, until the other day, when the strange robots tried to hurt her. She stopped them, too, by shifting her position within her life so that she could take a different path.
Rebecca still didn’t know how she’d done it, but she’d undone something that had happened, made time go another way. She didn’t know if she was allowed to do that, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She thought it would upset Mommy and Daddy.
Even so, Rebecca kind of liked that she could do that. She liked that she had used that ability. Twice, it kept her from being hurt—or worse.
“Rebecca,” the counselor asked, “can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”
Rebecca thought about that for a moment. She knew that she should answer, and she wanted to find the right word. Rebecca considered what she had done—considered what she could do under the right circumstances. It felt like a gift, and it made her smile.
“Rebecca,” the counselor asked again, “how do you feel?”
“Powerful,” she said.
Acknowledgments
It has been said with eloquence and humility that it takes a village to raise a child. A similar statement could be made about publishing a novel. Yes, there’s the writer, of course, but the process requires the participation of so many more people. It starts with an acquisitions editor and continues with a content editor, a copyeditor, and a proofreader. In the case of media tie-in works such as Star Trek novels, an individual representing the licensing department of the copyright owner must approve the manuscript and give notes. An artist must create a cover. Salespeople must market and sell the book. A slew of people in Production must format and typeset the novel; produce first-pass, second-pass, and final-pass pages for the author to review; and print and bind the book. Folks in Distribution are tasked with packing and shipping copies of the novel to bookstores and other retailers.
In other words, publishing is typically not a one-person operation. To all of the people involved in the creation of Original Sin, I offer my thanks. In particular, I want to single out Margaret Clark, who acquired the book in the first place, and then helped me take it from an idea to a narrative outline, from an outline to a first draft, and then on to its final form. She is a fine editor, with a wealth of experience and armed with excellent skills, who just also happens to possess a keen understanding and appreciation of Star Trek. Not only are Trek writers well served by Margaret, so are Trek readers.
I also want to thank Ed Schlesinger, another editor at Simon & Schuster. Ed is my point of contact at S&S and has been involved for the long haul. Without the stationmaster, the trains don’t run.
On the personal side of life, I am a very lucky man. I have longtime, stalwart friends who not only support me in all I do but also help keep at bay the ruminations of the seventeenth-century English philosopher Thomas Hobbes, who noted that “. . . without other security . . . the life of man [is] solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short.” But I have the security of people in my life who bring joy and strength to my days.
There are, for example, the many friends I have made through our shared days on and around the baseball diamond. From my time playing with the Giants and the Silicon Valley Seals, there are Larry and Mary Ann Candelaria, Bill and Mary Dunlap, Mark and Bev Gemello, Ellen Gordon, Richie Hertz and Kathy Rogers, Scott Lueders, Bill Pederson, Doug “J.C.” Penney, Phil Rogers and Angela Narvasa, Jackie Roman and her children Becky and Ryan, Steve “Sman” and Gail Schiffman, Carl and Gayle Shanks, Angie and Michael Simon and their sons Alex and Ben, Dan and Lori Steinberg, Jeanette and Rich Thomas, Rob Weber, and Sandi and Mike Weir. From my Dodgers days, there are Art Aaronson and Cynthia Roman, Terry Calhoun, Tom and Judie Ebert, Chris and Kathy Fabos, Harold and Lori Gainey, Carl Hartman, Barb Sennet Hauser, Dan and Debbie Hofstedt, Harry Horowitz, Anne Lewis, Frank Nevarez, Howard Rubin, Steve Samuelson, Alan Shapiro, Jeff Sherman, Gary Stern, Mark and Meri Sullivan and their daughter Katie, Teddy Tannenbaum, Gary Turner, and Gordie and Joanna Woo. And from my time on the Creoles and the California Condors, there are Don Agronsky, Jerry Carville, Rick Gari, Bud Golditch, and Art Lacher.
I’ve also made many friends in Los Angeles. From the world of the arts—film and television, music, and theater—there are Patricia Albrecht and Bruce Wallenstein, Michael Andreas and Julie Fleischer, Tony and Kelly Battelle, Skylar Boorman, Van Boudreaux and Pascale Gigon, Adam Conger, Roger Kent Cruz, Yancey Dunham, Kat’ Ferson, Dan Frischman, Roger Garcia and Sean Stack, Michelle Gigon, Merritt Graves, Louis Herthum, Therese Lentz and Chris Albright, Arden Lewis and Charlie Mount, Ernie Mc Daniel, Kathleen McEntee, Phil McKeown, David Mingrino, Don and Alexa Moss, Clark Prestridge,
Bruce Ravid, Tim and Kelly Reischauer, Kent Rogers and Andy Coakley, Colette Rosario, Gil Roscoe, Chloé Rosenthal, Alan Schack, Ben Scuglia, Julia Silverman, Amy Simon, Galadriel Stineman and Kevin Joy, Trevor Tamboline and Katrina Merrem, Ashley Taylor and Stephen Monroe Taylor and their son Killian, Darryl and Laura Vinyard and their daughters Julia and Grace, Sandy Weinstein, Adlee and Frank Williams, and Pat and Paul Willson. From my wife’s time dancing hula, there are Lynn Angeles, Marissa Berg, Laurie McVey, John Luckman and Roberto San Luis, Leslie De Luco, Yoko Foster, Daisy and Quan Huynh, Cindy Scott, Chase Keoki Wang, and Ligaya Ybarra. Also in L.A., there are Phil Althouse and Diana Shaw, Matt Harris and Adam Rogers and their sons Javier and Marcel, Mary Ann Plumley, Vahe Shahinian, and Chandler Smith.
As you might imagine, I also have friends among the community of writers and editors working in the Star Trek universe: Kirsten Beyer (to whom this book is dedicated) and David Permenter and their daughter Anorah, Keith R.A. DeCandido and Wrenn Simms, Kevin Dilmore, Jack Doner and Margaret Wander Bonanno, Michael Jan Friedman, Dave and Simantha Galanter, Allyn Gibson, Bob and Deb Greenberger, Glenn and Brandy Hauman, Bill Leisner, David Mack and Kara Bain, Marco Palmieri, Scott Pearson and Sandra Immerman and their daughter Ella, Aaron Rosenberg, Paul Simpson and Barbara Holroyd, Amy Sisson, and Dayton and Michi Ward.
There are also family members, notably Charlene and John Costello, and Audrey and Bob Nemes. And then there are those who fit into no particular category, but who still occupy important places in my life: John Collins, John H. Collins III, Rich DePascal, Glenn Elder, Gary Friedrich, Ted and Joan Frost, Bud and Tulay Furrow, Kathy Golec, Barbara and Matty Hahn and their daughter Faith, Marilyn Hyler, Rik Palieri, Steve and Cheryl Pilchik and their sons Brian and Josh, John Ratnaswamy and Victoria Zimmerman and their children Alec, Julia, and Lily, Dana and Marie Robitaille, Ryan and Jen Van Riper and their daughters Claire and Audrey, Brenda and Phil Sencer, Michael and Peggy Sperber, Rick Stratos, and Steve Subject and Sally Morrison.
Unfortunately, I have also lost a number of people whose absence I will always feel. Barry Berman enthusiastically shared his love of baseball, and he was the first person to truly welcome me to Los Angeles. I enjoyed many adventures at various tournaments with Dennis McCroskey and Harry Wade, both of whom were singular personalities. Terry Weinstein always made it fun to step onto a diamond, whether playing with him or against him. Tim Hauser played baseball too, but he had a wealth of other interests and abilities, including helping found The Manhattan Transfer and performing with them for forty-five years (for which he won ten Grammy Awards). Herb Lewis provided inspiration to me at every turn, playing baseball well into his nineties, staying joyously married for seventy-four years, and passing away at the ripe old age of one hundred after a long and happy life. My grandfather John Walenista left me with a lifetime of memories that will never leave me, from riding horses with him around Pocono Downs to when he met my future wife for the first time and told us that we were “a peach of a pair.” I miss the three grandes dames of my wife’s family that are no longer with us: Elizabeth Knezo Ragan, Lillian Ragan, and Audrey Collins Ragan, all of whom always treated me with great love and kindness. Marty Nedboy, also known as America’s Guest, was one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, and I and so many others will tell stories about him until we ourselves are gone. And Paul Roman, with whom I shared a special relationship that started as pitcher-catcher and became one of the most meaningful friendships in my life, stood up with me as a best man at my wedding and left us far too soon.
Last year, we also lost a fine person in Joan Roman. A loving wife and mother, a devoted sister, and a good friend, Joan lived a positive and optimistic life that buoyed the people around her. I met her through her husband, Dan, a good man with whom I have played many baseball games. My heart aches for his loss.
Among all the many people who contribute so much to my life, there are those who stand out. Walter Ragan welcomed me into his family on the first day I met him, and he has done nothing but stand by me ever since. I value the examples he sets, and I feel fortunate to have such a wonderful relationship with him.
Colleen Ragan, the Qveen of All She Surveys, is one of my favorite people. By turns strong and sweet, earnest and funny, she makes every visit memorable. I love her like a sister.
I also love Anita Smith like a sister. A successful woman, she lives a balanced life of hard work and happiness—and more than a little bit of golf. Our family could not have benefited more when Anita chose to join it.
I also have an actual sister. I am proud to be Jennifer George’s brother. Sharp, kind, adventurous, accomplished, and funny, she makes the most out of life. Her love and support mean the world to me.
I am also grateful for Patricia Walenista. I cannot count all the intangible gifts has given me—and continues to give me. I marvel and delight at her happy and active life.
Finally, inevitably, gloriously, there is the unparalleled Karen Ragan-George. I am continuously impressed by my wife’s spirit—artistic, bold, compassionate, curious, intelligent, kind, loving, principled and informed, strong, supportive, and virtuous. Karen is like no one else I have ever met. Fortune smiled on me when she came into my life, and it has offered a constant grin ever since. I love Karen more than words can say.
About the Author
You can learn all you want to know—and then some—about David R. George III on his website, DRGIII.com. From there, you can access his Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Tumblr, and Twitter accounts.
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