The Long Journey Back

In Adigeon's chief spaceport, two travelers watched, on holofeed, a Bolian report the latest news dominating the headlines.  The riots over the assassination were only getting worse.

One commented to the other, "I knew he'd be the death of the Federation."

"Sisko?"  The second traveler shook his head.  "He's just a puppet.  A symptom of the sickness."

"Think the Humanists are behind it?" the first traveler said.

"Hell no," said the second.  "The Bajorans put him there.  They set Sisko up just so he could be killed.  Then they roll out Toskey, an 'avowed Humanist'.  A patsy, an excuse for them to come after the rest.  Made-up excuses.  Everything gets blamed on the Humanists.  But who attacked Arcadia and started this whole fiasco?  Diversions for the public."

"Think so?"

"I know so."

"Not a Sisko fan either, eh?"  The first traveler studied his companion.  "What brings you to Adigeon?"

The second traveler eyed the first with due suspicion.  "Are you a Fed?"

"A Federation agent?"  The first traveler laughed – a forced, harsh bark.  He didn't laugh much.  "For which federation?"

"What brings you?" the second traveler asked.

"Why does anyone come to Adigeon?"

"There you go, then."

Adigeon was a popular destination for those who wanted genetic reconfiguration... and not too many questions.

You can never go home again.

Poised in the turbolift's open door, looking onto the UFS Arcadia's empty bridge, this thought ran through the mind of Christopher Dominic Gray.  He could never go home again.  But then, where else was there, to go?

He stepped out of the lift and stood quietly.  The bridge was dark, deserted but for one other individual.  At the center of the room, a blue steel rail surrounded a set of supervisory officers' chairs: The 'command ring'.  The only light flickered from consoles in stand-by mode.  The main viewscreen was turned off.  Most of the ship was on minimal power for the long trip home: Galaxy Alpha, where the Federation waited.

But not the Federation Arcadia left, over a year ago.

In the captain's chair sat an enigma.  Over the edge of the rail, in the dim light, Gray spotted a crescent of sandy brown hair, lining a humanoid head... the eerie, mysterious Topaz, often occupying the bridge alone in such desolate moments.  A faint blue haze filled the air, joined by a god-awful stench.

Smoking was against the rules aboard Starfleet ships, let alone drinking on duty.  But Gray knew, circling that rail, he would come face to face with the ship's captain... an alcoholic beverage in one hand, a cigarette in the other.  Replicators were on ration mode, and did not manufacture alcohol or tobacco products... but somehow, Topaz always conjured a supply, when wanted.

A year-and-a-half in the Andromeda galaxy, battling Kelvans, had eroded the boundaries of acceptable conduct.  Not that it affected many: The crew had been reduced to a handful, barely more than a skeleton crew, assisted in operating the ship by automation.  Topaz sent most back to the Federation a year ago, and only he knew for sure who made it back, if they did, or how many.  The Arc had been operating at less than capacity for a year now.  Good thing, automation.  Without it, the Quantum-class starship might have been dead in the Andromeda galaxy's radioactive waters, before now... as dead as the Olympia.

Topaz bothered him.  No one knew exactly where he came from, how or when he entered Starfleet.  Everything about him was enigmatic, essentially a big question-mark.  Visitor from another reality, he once called himself.  Gray believed it.  When the commanding officer's hard stare, those green eyes, settled on a person, he seemed to look straight through them, as if they weren't there... or weren't real.  He had made comments to that effect, and treated Gray so, personally – along with every other member of the crew: as if none were real, or didn't matter – and it seemed not far from the truth.  By virtue of whatever power he possessed, Topaz made things happen in secret, unseen ways that defied nature's limits... like coming up with booze and cigarettes.  The crew seemed superfluous.  If confronted about it, he brushed them aside, or, however he did it, made them stop asking.  Some speculated at a connection with the Q, though Topaz denied it.

Gray had no doubt Topaz was aware of his presence, without looking.  Trying to sneak up on him was pointless.  He claimed to not be telepathic, either, yet somehow sensed another's thoughts or presence.  'Eyes in the back of his head... X-ray, telescopic eyes,' was how one crewmember had described him.

Glancing around the bridge to be sure they were alone... and wishing they weren't... Gray gripped the padd in his hand and walked around the rail, past the vacant science and operations consoles.  As he thought: Seated in the central command chair, Topaz, in his customary brown and black uniform, legs stretched out, feet crossed – in one hand a brown glass bottle, and hanging between his lips, a burning cigarette.  More bottles decorated the deck around the command chair, some empty, some waiting to be emptied.

"Captain?"  Gray had given up quoting rules and regs.  The captain knew them... or should have known.  Still, he felt compelled to say, by rote, "You shouldn't do that."

Taking the cigarette out, holding it between his fingers, the captain looked at it.  Blue smoke curled through the air around him.  Air filters scrubbed and purified the shipboard environment, but those too were on minimal power, sucking the smoke out slower than normal.  The bridge resembled the inside of a bar at happy hour... except missing people.  He shrugged, puffed, then exhaled in Gray's direction.  The first officer coughed.

"It's bad for your health," Gray added.  Not to mention mine, he thought.

"Yours," Topaz said, as if he found that amusing.  "What are you, my subconscious?  Another voice in my head?  Hmm?"  He sighed – "If you knew what I've been through... well..." – then paused.  "Shit... I'm talking to myself again."  He raised the bottle to his lips and tipped up in a swig.

Gray frowned and studied the markings on the bottle: Shiny blue and white lettering... 'Bud Light'.  Whatever that meant.

Topaz set the bottle between his legs.  "Little before your time," he answered the unvoiced question.

"Captain... if something's bothering you...."  Gray noted the bottle collection.  It seemed wrong that someone of Topaz's... stature... felt the need to drink himself into a stupor – if he could get drunk.  For all his drinking, he seemed unfazed.  But why did he feel the need?

"You're not a counselor, Commander.  So..."  Topaz clucked.  He had sent the ship's counselor home, too.  "What brings you?"

Gray held out the padd.  "Deflector status update."

Topaz replaced the cigarette between his lips and took it, squinting as he thumbed the display.

Gray looked around the bridge and felt conspicuous.  Deflector reports seemed equally pointless.  Unimaginable forces poured through the ship's engines and deflector array.  The long trip home... in one shot, on one operational deflector, across the intergalactic void, in a matter of days; a trip which required centuries, even at slipstream... was, frankly, impossible.  The deflector had been operating every moment, for the last few days, around the clock, surpassing its operational lifetime under these conditions.  It should have been fried by now.  Yet it remained intact... stable... and no one was quite certain why, or how.

Unless no one accounted for the man in charge – if he could be called a man.  Who else would suggest this method of getting home... then dismiss every objection and claim that it wouldn't work?  Against every odd and law of physics, it did.

In mid-2407, Arcadia traveled to the Andromeda galaxy on a search and rescue mission.  The UFS Olympia, another Quantum-class vessel, had encountered Kelvans... the alien race that once ruled the massive Kelvan Empire, until rising radiation levels threatened their existence... and sent a distress signal back to the Federation.  Arcadia used a special long-range application of the wormhole network to reach the distant galaxy, in order to render assistance.

While Arc was away, the wormhole network was shut down, signaling trouble at home.  The two ships and crews had to find another way back.  The solution: A redesign of quantum slipstream drive, providing endlessly recycling interspatial energy, powered by the slipstream itself.  Benamite crystal days were over.  But the long journey back would fry the deflector.  Once deactivated, a replacement would be needed.  It could be weeks before another was available, ready and installed.  Even the current deflector was not the one Arcadia had, heading out.  They had taken Olympia's, along with other vital components, dismantling the Arc's sister ship then destroying the stripped-down husk.  Gray was Olympia's former XO.

Gray believed Topaz could shorten the trip, make the ship go faster if he chose, but had his own reasons for prolonging it, reasons he chose not to share.  He did what he did, when he wanted to, on his own time.  Gray couldn't say he disliked working with him, yet didn't relish it either... and never showed it openly, yet believed Topaz was aware.  The captain knew things no other living being should have known.  Gray felt certain Topaz knew what was happening in the Federation when the conflict began, before the first reports filtered in... like when Arcadia picked up Shuzo Nakencha in Andromeda, millions of light-years from where the Axanarian should have been.  Topaz acted nonchalant, as if it was a minor detail in a bigger scheme.

A few more hours... and then it would be back, almost where it started.  Except they could never truly go back, all the way.  No one could ever go home again.  Home was just a memory... certainly not the Federation Gray remembered, or thought he knew.  He called it home, once.  Could it be called home ever again?

Dealing with Kelvans was nothing compared to what awaited Arcadia's impending return.  Everything was a mess in the Federation.  In the ship's absence, madness and chaos had descended.  Xindi religious terrorists, stepping up their holy attrition, bombed a Talaxian embassy.  Breen mercenaries kidnapped the Ferengi's Grand Nagus.  Klingon ships, without official sanction, ambushed Romulan merchants bound for Vulcan.  The Cardassian insurrection blew into all-out armed secession.  The Gorns and Tholians were at each other's throats.  In the Gamma Quadrant, Jem'Hadar loyalists refused to recognize the Dominion's union with the Federation, responding by slaughtering Vorta diplomats; and in the Delta Quadrant, the Kazon had incorporated Borg technology, making them more than a mere gang of interstellar thugs.

On Tendara Prime, Ferengi youth had bypassed security in a private enclave and gotten into the home of former Federation president Jean-Luc Picard, where they beat him to death with a small model starship.

But that was held in small regard, practically unreported, in light of the Sisko assassination.  Joseph Sisko II, son of the late Benjamin Sisko, successor of the Emissary, and newest Federation Council president – the man who would bring "change" – had been vaporized, publicly executed in broad daylight, before thousands of spectators both real and virtual.  It was the day's hot topic, the latest "story of the century" (only less than eight years old), the one they would be talking about for years to come (according to the army of commentators who sprang from nowhere after such events).

Everyone saw the holofeed.  Thirty-two-year old Joe Sisko, an Earth man of African ancestry, threaded a crowd of supporters, shaking hands, touching babies, smiling at the holorecorders and enraptured faces of those who believed in him, who believed his campaign promises.  Bodyguards flocked around the president – purely for show: No amount of bodies could have prevented attack upon his person.  The real protection was invisible, as invisible as the means used to take him out.  A fair-skinned human male, twentyish, reached for Sisko's hand.  Sisko took it, and promptly exploded in a puff of incinerated flesh.  The microgrenade looked spectacular when it worked, needlessly spattering blood over the crowd, trailing sparks and embers.  Show.  Everything was for show.  The assassin wanted a spectacle.  He wanted everyone to see.  And because of Sisko's religious beliefs, as the Emissary, messenger of the Bajoran faith (critics denied any real religious conviction), he would not be cloned, regenerated or resurrected, by his own strict specification.  But because of who he was, and the manner of his death, when he died, that was not the end of him.

Election campaigns were practically unheard-of.  The Federation Council picked its chairmen, who automatically gained the title of Federation president, from among their own ranks.  Joe Sisko had little real experience with politics; he was more of a symbolic leader, tenuously supported by the Bajorans, whose spreading religion made them powerful, with a commensurate rise in Sisko's popularity.  But he had challenged the Council repeatedly over the years, then made a bid for the coveted chair.  He wanted to be the next president, publicly proclaiming the Council system "flawed", promising he would reform it, and held enough popularity among the masses to back his bid.  Translated: If he didn't get it, there would be hell to pay.  Anyone with a brain knew the Bajorans actually ran everything; the campaign, like everything else, was for show.  So long as he had the kai, who commanded the Bajorans as their spiritual leader, in his corner – and he did; Kira Nerys had been close to his father – his ascension seemed assured.

So when he was executed – It wasn't an assassination: It was an execution; there could be no other word for it, despite persistent labels otherwise – Bajoran fingers pointed at the Humanists.

The assassin openly revealed himself as one of their number.  Kneuel Toskey was a hard-edged, battle-bred war vet.  He had seen action in the Cardassian occupation; he fought on the Tzenkethi border.  He had pulled men back from the brink of death, and sent other men over.  He was also a radical, an extremist; an avowed Humanist.  He had been trained for secret ops, guerilla warfare, and the fine art of assassination.  At his arrest, he proudly took credit for the death of Joe Sisko, spouting how Sisko was the product of alien breeding, the evil offspring of humans and alien demons (Bajor's Prophets)... an enemy of true humans, only interested in helping non-humans (as if they were entitled; as if they didn't have enough or get enough help already)... who would bring ruin to the Federation, and drive the once-proud human race into extinction.

Whisked into weeks of high-security detention, he never resurfaced.  On the day of his hearing, at which he never arrived, his transporter mysteriously malfunctioned, en route to the court room.  He was declared dead.

A mystique quickly built up around the death of Joseph Benjamin Sisko.  He was more popular dead than alive.  A martyr.  A hero, the press called him; a champion for the common man, whose efforts on behalf of burgeoning beliefs in the sanctity of Bajoran religion, the blessings of the Prophets, should be preserved, honored and continued.  He was, as much as his killer, a puppet of more powerful people and groups, who benefited from his campaign and death.  The Bajoran church gained more converts in the year of his murder than they did in the entire thirty-year-span since Bajor joined the Federation.

Conspiracy theorists were having a field day, declaring this all part of an eons-old, orchestrated plan by pah wraiths – malevolent energy lifeforms, "anti-Prophets", the "demons of Bajor"... the real rulers of Bajor and the Federation, they claimed – to wipe out or enslave organic life.  Reports indicated that Jordan Rampart, a former Starfleet Cadre team-leader and temporal agent, played a big role.  Through Rampart, the wraiths... known as the Halj'rai... had (supposedly) taken over, ruling in secret since before the Federation existed.

Even the scientific community was in an uproar, coming to blows over the Hosch revelation – the discovery (some said hoax) by Philidor Hosch of Diniadon V, that all known sentient life, especially humanoids, originated from humans.  But while all were human in a sense, not all were equal.  True humans were separating themselves from the Federation(s) in massive numbers.  The planet Arcadia, base of Humanist operations, now had its own federation of sorts, built on Humanist ideals.

In an alternate timeline, Humanists were blamed for causing the Federation's collapse.  Arcadia's former CO, Stephen April, sought to prevent that timeline, separating it and creating a new reality.  But the Meta-Force... the mysterious will governing the cosmos and history's direction – what some called fate, providence, karma, destiny... would not be denied.  It was happening anyway.  History repeated itself.  Details changed, but the war still came.  How could the galaxy extricate itself from this maelstrom?

It required a bold and major decision, and someone with the power to execute it.  Someone who could step beyond the limits, and work outside of the rules.  Someone who could clean it up, sweep it aside, put things back on track.  Yet who had that kind of power?

Gray regarded Topaz, then stepped away to circle the bridge, checking systems displays.  "What do we do when we get back?  Judging by recent transmissions, will there still be a Federation when we arrive?"  He was testing, fishing for Topaz's response, but the speculation was not far-fetched.

"We'll figure out something," was the response.  Standing up, the captain stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the chair's armrest.  "But, I regret to inform you, when we do arrive, you won't be continuing as XO."

"Oh?  No, sir?"

"You do good work, Chris.  But, certain rules have to be followed... promises kept.  Got another XO coming."

Gray halted, uneasy.  He would have welcomed such news... but when Captain Topaz addressed someone personally in such circumstances, it usually meant a mishap, some unfortunate fate, waited in the wings.  "What does that mean for me, sir?"

Topaz considered his words.  "Well... it's good and bad."

Gray's tension clenched tighter.  With Topaz, good was very good... bad, very bad.

"Let me put it this way," Topaz said.  "No one will forget the name Christopher Dominic Gray."

"Captain...."

Life wasn't easy, living with a mark on your head.  Against all odds, the crew and complement of the UFFS (United Freedom Front Starship) Arcadia had held out, surviving repeated attempts to capture or destroy them, for over a year.  Starfleet... the Klingons... the Romulans... the Cardassians, the Bajorans... she eluded them all.  The United Freedom Front persevered.

The only solution for survival against a massive, corrupt and powerful Federation was to split it apart.  Secession.  Separation.  These things the UFF accomplished, though by no specific plan.  In that time, Paul Thunder returned to Arcadia as the new Coda, Arcadia's unofficial protector, handing command to his best friend and first officer, Mick McMann.  They had met on Yle, where McMann finally exacted revenge on Klodd, killing the Klingon who tried to murder him the year before.

Unfortunately, the higher the odds got stacked...

"Klingons," said Mick McMann.  "I hate Klingons."

Ever since one tried to kill him, and Mick exacted revenge, the Klingons never stopped coming after him.  They had finally caught up with him, gotten him off-guard.  The Humanist-held starship, captured and manned by the Freedom Front over a year ago... entrusted to his command by Paul Thunder... was disintegrating around them.  Explosive decompressions wracked the ship, tossing it about.  Shields were gone.  Weapons weren't responding.  The Klingons could finish them off any moment.  The only reason they didn't: Enjoying their victory, watching the massive, three-mile-long ship flounder in its death throes.

On the ship's bridge, 'Lucky Lou' Reynolds, the tactical officer, said, "Klingons aren't smart enough to take down a Universe-class starship.  They had help."

"No doubt," Mick said.  Starfleet had been busy, upgrading Klingon ships with new technology.  The particle weapon had knocked out main power, including engines.  Klingons always did their best work as cowards... decloaking and springing out of nowhere, to catch their victims in an ambush.

So it came to an end.  Mick checked choppy readouts on internal sensors.  Distress signals had auto-activated.  "That's it.  We're done.  Launch all lifeboats."

Tasha Drake, the blond woman at helm, looked at him.  "So they can pick us off, one by one?  Capture us?  Torture us?"

Aboard the Klingon ship, a Negh'var-class cruiser, Starfleet officer Baron Jones eyed the tactical display until the signal faded, and no ship remained for sensors to detect – only escape pods.  He sat back and sighed.

"It's over.  Their ship has been destroyed."

Jones didn't like helping Klingons.  With the depletion of Starfleet, many personnel had been reassigned to whatever local navy existed, there to do the best they could, assisting loyal governments in the Federation's struggle.  The problem was, there was no real Federation to speak of, anymore.  In the midst of shifting politics and borders, it was difficult to know, sometimes, where one's loyalty belonged.

The Klingon captain, Urkas, gave a satisfied growl, turned and stalked back to the command chair.  He barked at his lackeys in command tones, and Jones recognized the feel of the ship making a hard impulse turn.  Inertial dampeners on Klingon ships were shoddy, not as sophisticated or subtle as Starfleet's.  Without Starfleet or other foreign assistance, Klingons wouldn't even have starships.

"Target the survivors," Urkas said.

Jones was about to object, until a new signal appeared on his monitor, drawing his attention.  The Klingon CO ordered a delay and jumped up, returning to Jones' side.  "You said they were destroyed."

"I did.  I mean, they were.  But..."  Jones ran a quick targeting scan.  "No... it's not the same ship.  It's..."

He waited, lips tight, for the stubborn sensors to yield their information.

Then it came.  A slipstream had opened, depositing a ship in the vicinity.  Jones' jaw dropped.  "Ohmigods.  That's the Arcadia."

"Arcadia?"  The captain looked from Jones to the screen and back, baffled, impatient.  "We just destroyed the Arcadia!"

"Not the Universe-class.  The original... Quantum-class.  Lost over a year ago."

The Klingon snapped a command to his weapons officer.  "We'll destroy them too!"

"You can't," Jones said, facing him.  "The treaty forbids attacking any ship lost before the war, until intent has been determined."

The Klingon bent forward, breathing foul, noxious breath into Jones' face.  The inside of his mouth smelled like something had crawled in and died.  "Watch."  Flecks of spittle hissed from his lips.  He swiveled on a heel and marched back to his chair.  "Weapons, fire when ready!"

"Barbarians," someone said.  He was standing on the bridge, in a brown and black Starfleet uniform.  He had sandy blonde hair, dark green eyes, and a scowling demeanor.  "Kirk was right.  You are animals.  I don't know what anyone sees in you."  He glanced at the weapons officer, who wasn't moving.  He sat frozen at his station, hands almost, but not quite, touching the controls.  The same condition had befallen the other Klingons.

The mysterious newcomer turned to Jones.  "I never was quite sure what to do with you, Jones.  Couldn't decide if you were a good guy, a bad guy, or what.  But look.  Here you are... on a Klingon ship... helping these... things.  Guess that means I made my decision."  A lit cigarette appeared between the man's lips.  "Too bad.  I thought you had potential."

"Who–" Jones managed to get out, before losing his ability to speak.

Gray, in the first officer's chair, watched the reactivated viewscreen as the ship suddenly wasn't there.  He looked at Topaz, leaning against a console near the large screen.  At that moment, a crewmember below decks called up, informing him that they had acquired several dozen passengers.  What just happened?

As predicted, the deflector had promptly failed, the moment Arcadia exited slipstream.  Warp remained available.  As the old Quantum-class ship leapt into the Adigeon system, security warnings came, warning of a high-speed pursuit.  Police drones chased a shuttle, outbound from the system's inner reaches.  Detecting the starship's arrival, they requested assistance.

Gray had looked to Topaz, wondering if the captain would pull another proverbial rabbit from the hat.  Topaz instructed Gray to comply.  He did, but his heart wasn't in it.  He kept wondering, waiting, and trying not to worry.

In minutes, they had apprehended the fleeing shuttle's lone occupant, and took orbit.  Before agreeing to transport him, Topaz locked himself away with the man, in the detention cell where they beamed him.  The fugitive had no file in the public database.  Erased, somehow.  Obviously a wanted man... but there were many wanted men, war criminals and the like, in this war-torn Federation.

For example, Admiral Steel.

In ancient Rome, in times of national emergency... national meaning the city-state, before it became an empire; everything was smaller scale, then... power was given to one man, entrusted to save it: A dictator.  In those days, 'dictator'... from Latin dictare, frequentative of dicere, 'to speak' (hence the word "dictate")... didn't carry the negative flavor later attributed to it.  No, it was because of what dictators did with their power, that gave the title a bad rap.  Dictators had a great responsibility.  Once their task was accomplished, and the emergency over, they were expected to relinquish that power.

The Federation had become an empire... a modern Rome.  When the civil war threatened, politicians were deadlocked and couldn't agree on everything.  Along came an idea: Use the Roman model.  Supreme authority was handed to a Starfleet admiral of repute: Alexander Steel, whose honor was seen as incorruptible, and asked to save the Federation from itself... by any means he deemed necessary.

And he did.  Steel's name popped up in bulletins over the past year, often at the center of controversy.  The irony was, his Resolution 197... the hotly debated act which saved the Federation, by forcing its reintegration... made him highly unpopular.  Steel didn't stick around for the lynch mobs.  He went into hiding – the most wanted man in the nation he had saved.  In doing what was asked of him, he sacrificed everything, including possibly his life, if they ever caught him.  Some felt that made him a hero.  Others felt it made him a criminal.

Gray wondered at the identity of the fugitive they caught.  Adigeon had extensive body banks... a refuge for wanted criminals, who could afford genetic reconfiguration.

Exhausted after a long day on duty, Gray turned command over to a watch officer and retired to his quarters.  Walking in, he stopped as he came face to face with... himself.  Struck speechless, he stopped and stared, as the other Gray stared at him.

In the outer depths of the universe, where human eyes had barely seen and human hands never yet touched, the universe had a very different shape.  Galactic superclusters sat in thin, tangled strings, like luminescent cobwebs.  On a scale unimaginable to most minds, dwarfing even the densest of these, stood a man... one hand in the structure, without disturbing it to the knowledge of those within.

Galaxies sifted through his grasp, falling from his fingers like grains.  He sorted through them, plucking and flicking them from view, reducing scale and immensity until one filled his sight... a galaxy, in the palm of his hand.  He beheld the stars, their planets, assorted nebulae, anomalies, people and things they created.

He could crush it.  He could close his fist and shatter the entire structure... reach through the barriers linking separate dimensions, twisting and ripping everything asunder, beyond repair, then walk away and leave it.  He looked, and saw everything, how it all fit and locked together... the various levels of infinity; amorphous, startling shapes, swimming in and around each other.  He could have ended it... all of it.

What would that say about him?  What did that say about anyone, who traded a fist for an open hand?  If he could look at himself and see this, was it worth it, to show others?  Would others ever follow suit?

The worlds and people he remembered, good or bad, he could not forget, and would not cast aside.  Part of them would always remain... would always be.  The strange virtue of memory, of memory's imprint – from a life, or of a make-believe world – was that, once made, it could never be unmade... only forgotten.

But he could introduce change.  What did life matter, if that life never made a difference?  He could make a difference.  He had a choice... as did others.  The choice of his involvement came down to him.  He could be part of it.  He was part of it.  Others needed him to make it work.  He had the choice of whether to be involved again... to make it happen.

Obviously, he was already involved... making it happen that very instant, with words, written, unfolding, on a page.  He had made his choice.

People needed change.  The kind of change they needed, they did not want to face, or accept.  Instead, they wanted to escape... to escape what they could not escape.  This world could offer that.  It was what they wanted.  No one could escape reality, but then, that was what reality was for.  He understood.  Occasionally, once in a while, he needed escape, too.

Things needed to change.  Looking at this old, familiar galaxy, he saw new potential.  He concentrated, applying a different kind of pressure, watching it glow brighter, changing... energy creating energy.

What did the future hold?  What would it bring?  He did not know.  Some things seemed certain, but there was no way to ever know for sure.  Not really.

The Federation civil war, called the "Humanist war", turned out to be the bloodiest period ever in Federation history.  Centered around the Humanist contention that aliens endangered humanity... and the aliens' aggressive response... it threatened everything.  Metagenic weapons, "gene killers", targeted both human and non-human DNA.  Millions perished.  Entire species vanished.  Planets went lifeless... leaving them open for recolonization, some suggested.  Starfleet was accused of mass genocide.  Starfleet ships turned on each other.  Trilithium-based weapons obliterated entire star systems.  Alien-operated media labeled humans "evil" and demanded their slaughter.  Everywhere raged war, mistrust, suspicion, and hatred.

Paul Thunder stood on top of the Monster, the massive monolithic structure rising out of the center of New Albany.  Against his shoulder stood Stephanie, the unexpected love of his life... who, after long indecision, had legally added April to her surname, Shoemaker.

They cuddled together in silence, surrounded by personal forcefields – insulated from the chill of fierce winds at this height, but not their force – taking in the view.  Beyond the city, vast green plains stretched in all directions.  The planet Arcadia, once incessantly cold and gray, wracked by rain and thunderstorms of mythical proportions, was changing.  Sunlight suffused everything with heat and invigorating light.  Twenty years of terraforming had changed the world both now called home; a change they would not have known, if not for changes sweeping the Federation, making their home safe – if not for whoever wrought those changes.  The war had ended.  The long, dark period of human suffering and endangerment was over.  A new day dawned.

"I can't believe it," Paul said, finally breaking the silence.  "We won."

"We sure did," Stephanie said, and hugged him tight.

Paul returned the hug and glanced to the sky.  "But what I can't figure out is... how.  Who?  Who did it?"

"I don't know."  Stephanie shook her head, also nonplussed.  "You haven't... heard from him... have you?"

"Not since the last time.  Have you?"

"No."  Her own gaze traveled upwards, imagining her father... whatever Stephen April had become, wherever he was... somewhere out there, past the sky, perhaps beyond the universe itself... part of the mysterious Meta-Force.  Like her mother, the late Brenda Shoemaker... who after vanishing in captivity on Earth, came to Stephanie in a dream, explaining that she had gone to join her father... wherever he was.  Wherever those who joined the Meta-Force went... whatever they became.

"You miss your parents, don't you," Paul said, sensing her apprehension.

"Sort of."  Like Paul, with whom she had so much else in common, she was now parent-less... but never alone.  She knew they weren't really gone.  "No more than you do yours, sweetie."

Then, also, she had Paul.  She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

He caught the look and smiled back, uncertain.  "What."

"Let's go home, babe.  We need to talk."

They walked off together, holding hands.  "About...?"

Arcadia was spacedocked in the Meloc system, orbiting the planet ostensibly named after it... the planet Arcadia, once called Meloc II.  Though Arcadian laws barred non-humans from setting foot on its surface, the orbital dock-yards were state-of-the-art facilities for starship modification and repair, thanks to gains by the United Freedom Front.  The crew and complement of another ship named Arcadia, who fought the good fight against a tyrannical, corrupt superpower for thirteen months, had gone home.

The ship had a new CO.  New components had been installed, including a new bridge module.  Everything felt new... along with new personnel – a mostly human complement, but perhaps that was for the best.  No species could be more imaginative, competitive or innovative.  Humans thought up everything.

For the first time in years, the first time in the ship's illustrious history, a totally new crew walked its decks, rooms and corridors.  The air, the very fabric of the universe, seemed to have a charge... something different from what had gone before.  Cleaner.  Brighter.  Refreshed and invigorated.  The darkness of recent months was fading quickly, like a bad dream.

Driana Zakova twiddled strands of blonde hair around one finger, chewing on the ends as she studied the duty roster.

There was something very odd about this ship.  Numerous stories surrounded the UFS Arcadia... where it had been the last couple years (some said it was actually missing close to 22 years), the many prestigious missions it accomplished... places it had been, things her previous crew had seen... some too amazing to believe.  Zakova didn't pay those stories much attention – every ship had its tall tales and ghost stories – until she got on board.  On one deck, changing turbolifts, she saw what appeared to be a snowman, walking down the hall.  Waddling, to be more precise, since he had no legs.  He wore a black top-hat, two bits of coal for eyes, wooden branches for arms, and a large carrot in the middle of his face.  When she blinked, he was gone.  Did he pass around a corner, out of sight... or was it true, what they said, about this ship?

She didn't have time to dwell on it.  She had to find her quarters, get into proper uniform, and be on duty and ready to go, an hour later.

New to being a duty officer, she struggled to juggle all of the different names and skill-sets.  She was terrible with names.  The first officer, Dan someone – where did it go? – she had lost it... where was he?  Not on board yet.  And a diplomatic officer... Ria... Ria Santos?  No... oh heck, what was it...

And where was the captain?  He was supposed to be here... somewhere.  She looked down the corridor on deck four, through the sea of officers' faces, also new to this ship, searching for their quarters.

What she saw made her jaw drop, literally.

A white-bearded fat man in a red suit and hat came zipping down the hall, on roller-skates.  From a green sack, he shoved gifts wrapped in colored paper to each crewmember he passed, laughing at the looks on their faces... in rather jolly fashion, belly jiggling.

Zakova remembered the snowman and cocked her head, lost for words.  Everyone stopped in their tracks, and stared.

The most perplexing part of it was, he had four rank pips.  The captain?

He rolled up before her and stopped.  "Hi there."

Zakova realized she was standing in front of the door to his quarters... assuming this was, in fact, the captain, and someone wasn't playing a joke.

"Are you captain..."  She bit her lip and searched the padd again.

"Gray," he said, and grinned through the beard.  "Christopher Dominic Gray, but I prefer Dominic.  Or Dom.  Or Nick.  Nick.  Get it?"  He laughed.  "Of course, that's captain to you, dear."  He bent over, rummaged in the sack and pulled out a brightly colored, decorated box, wrapped in a bow.  "Merry Christmas."

Zakova remembered: On the old Earth calendar, it would have been late in the month of December, the year 2408.

She looked at the gift.  The tag had her name on it.  Down the hall, others opened theirs.  There were cries of amazement.  Apparently they liked whatever they got.  Maybe it was even something they wanted.  "Thank you... sir," she said, taking it, and couldn't restrain a smile.  "I didn't think anyone still celebrated that old holiday."

The captain... Gray... smiled back.  "Open it."

The box held a unicorn on a pedestal, arched on its hind legs, sculpted in iridescent, glittering Tholian marble... so beautiful, it took Zakova's breath away.  "I love unicorns," she gasped.  "And... Tholian marble...?  How did you know?"

He winked at her.  "Captain's secret.  Enjoy."