Strange New Worlds 2016 (17 page)

“Cleansed?”

Valel hesitated. “You understand, of course, that returning to your own time with
knowledge of the future could have dire consequences.”

“I’m familiar with the concept of temporal pollution.”

“Then you understand.”

Reluctantly, Dax nodded. “I do.”

Valel came closer, closing the gap between them. “Do not worry. We are adept at removing
specific segments of memory. No harm will come to you or your friends.”

“Really,” Dax said, before returning her attention to the hologram.

Worf watched Dax leave with the Cardassian. Captain Sisko was engaged in conversation
with P’Tash, and the two walked toward a veranda. Worf turned to the Klingon, who
seemed in a hurry to get as far from the reception hall as possible. “I am Worf.”

The youthful Klingon seemed to cower before Worf. His shoulders slumped and he avoided
eye contact. It was an unusual posture for a young male Klingon. “I know,” he said
softly.

Worf was confused. “Are you a prisoner here?”

“What? Why would you say that?”

Worf struggled with an explanation. He did not mean to offend one of their hosts,
and yet . . . “Your clothes. They are not Klingon. I can see from how you carry yourself
that you are not accustomed to combat. Your hands are soft. You appear meek. I reason
that you have been a prisoner here for some time.” He then added, as if to cover for
any perceived rudeness, “For many years, perhaps.”

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.”