Think

Arcadia was cold, colder than Stephanie had expected: Not frigid like Antarctica, but still freezing, this part of the planet.  She thought she had escaped the cold.  A hard wind battered across the plain, down from the mountains.

She pressed the cameo to the gravestone.  Nano-adhesive gripped the marble, but Arcadian winds could be so fierce; she wasn't sure.  Holding it with her thumb to be certain it held, she studied the brunette's face in the portrait, then let go, stepping back, snuggling Paul for warmth.

"Do you think they're together now?"

"They're together, here."  Paul pulled her tight, shivering.

Stephanie found it somewhat comforting, even if the woman didn't deserve her place on the grave.  She gave Paul a kiss on the cheek.  The woman in the image smiled from the shoulder-high stone, next to her father.  They stood for a few moments, the two of them, against the wind, then turned, walking back to the aircar.

The Fields of the Fallen sprawled in all directions, row after row of white gravestones, stretching for miles... so many, the cemetery was visible from space.  Every human who died in service to the cause, every Humanist, every Arcadian, every sympathizer who gave their life had a place here; if not buried, then at least marked, all facing east, in the direction of the rising sun.  Cemeteries seemed such sad, lonely places.

"It's not fair," Stephanie said.

"A lot of things in life aren't."

"She didn't deserve him, Paul."

"She didn't deserve what happened to her, either.  You can blame the Federation for that.  That's why we have to keep fighting."

His last words came back to her.  "I should have told him how I feel."

"He knew, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but..."  She sighed.  "I should have said more.  If only I had talked him out of it...."

"It was his decision."

Zhivago found nothing out of the ordinary.  At the very least, the holoid doctor should have been suspicious.

Midak was.  Since the interview, he had relived his past; experienced strange thoughts, new thoughts, old thoughts long buried.  Why?  Why now?

Moros altered his neuropatterns.  He made Midak think, and re-examine things: His past, his life... his future.  In that sense, the Terran documentarian had indeed altered his mind, a given and obvious conclusion.

Yet Midak was Cardassian.  Cardassians had orderly thoughts.  He controlled what he wanted to think.  He did not want to recall the things he recalled... things he now thought, and re-thought; things Starfleet did not want him dwelling on, as a captain or an officer, certainly not a Cardassian.  The latter might have been proof of Starfleet mental conditioning, and that, of course, was not supposed to be.  The very notion set off warning alarms, to

not think that,

(Starfleet?) resist,

(mental conditioning?) dismiss it,

(stop) being paranoid.

Obediently, Midak tried to push such thoughts out of mind.  But he could not be sure he succeeded, without thinking about them.

In sickbay, he laid patiently on the biobed.  Planes of false light shifted in the holo-doctor's hologenerated face.  Zhivago examined (pretended to examine) the scans for Midak's benefit.  What did the holoprogram really see?  Holoids did not see with the eyes in their holographic faces.  That was an illusion, for the sake of organics not tied in to the invisible world of computer brains.  What was it really thinking, or believe it saw and thought?

Against Midak's expectations, the doctor suddenly dismissed him, as if Midak's earlier, voiced suspicion of psychotropic manipulation meant nothing.

Midak could have gotten up and checked the scan-results, personally, but not being a doctor... nor a program... he was not sure he would know what to look for.  He could have brought another doctor on duty and gotten another opinion.  He did not do that either.

He suspected a new Humanist weapon: Subliminal programming.  Subliminal transmissions could affect more than organics.  They could reprogram computers, alter programs themselves, through processed data, including visual information.  What was a mind?: A program of a sort, as bodies were machines; organic machines.  Starfleet ships were supposedly shielded; computers, impervious.

Perhaps they had found a bypass.  The doctor should have performed a self-diagnostic, to determine if its routines had been altered.  It should have done so, voluntarily.  Should, and didn't, that Midak could tell.  It mystified Midak, that it did not.

Midak mystified himself, when he did not order the diagnostic, either.  Did Moros' interview affect him?  The ship?  Which part?  The questions?  The transmission?  Moros himself?  All or none of the above?  Was it subliminal?

What was going on?  What was going on in Midak's head?  The doctor's?  Did Moros impair their judgment?  Had the interview influenced, or altered, his very ability to make decisions?

He still had the dream.

Leaving the lunar surface.  Earth, big, blue, ominous, growing larger in the shuttle's viewport.  It scared him, a little, and excited him.  It always felt new.  Different.  Strange.  They called it planetary gravity.

That was nothing compared to daytime sunlight.  And that was nothing compared to the people.

"You've been there, before, Paul," mom assured him, though he had said nothing.  (It was a dream.)

"Your sister lives there; it can't be too bad."  Dad, glancing up from his padd.  Always a padd, a computer; always working.

Paula lived at her new school, now.  Hyde Park, Chicago.  They were going to visit, in person.  She liked it there, she said.

She could have it.  Paul hated school.  In his limited, ten-year-old's purview, he figured they were all the same.  He sure didn't want to live there.  Didn't want to move to Earth, either.  He liked the moon.  It was home.  He didn't want to leave.  He didn't even really like coming to visit.

Touchdown.  Light, light everywhere, as the hatch opened, light, and wind, and heat; bright, blasting... He couldn't escape it.  Not the cool, comfortable halls and rooms and transparent sky-domes of the moon; not the easy, black sky, full of stars.  Just light, and heat, and wind, and everywhere, people, people, more "people" than he could imagine, throughout the spaceport, across the city: Different colors, shapes, sizes, bodies, coming, going, talking, arguing, in as many different languages.

They scared him, more than anything.  Made him think of storybook monsters, the kinds parents told kids, for the same effect.

Off the shuttle, he looked up for home, tried to find it in the blinding blue sky he had to squint at.  On Earth, they could only see it at night, it was said, and then, not always.  If only they were so lucky, on the moon.  Up there, they couldn't get Earth out of their natural skyline.  It was there... without end.  Why couldn't they land at night?  If he could see home, he might feel better.

Rushing across town, to catch the rail.  Paul stayed close to his parents, mindful of those... people.  (It wasn't polite to call them aliens.)

In the dream, they watched him, walking by, turning towards him, expressions hostile, hideous, sensing his fear.  He cowered and clung harder to mom, hiding his face behind her arm.  Low, conspiratorial voices, in languages he didn't know, whispered up his back, setting hairs on his neck in a tizzy.  When he dared a glance, they stopped.

Dad's friend, Jack, met them at the station.  Immediately talking about work.  Paul never understood why making parts for ships was so interesting.  They had a Starfleet contract, and boy, were they happy.  Jack sat next to Paul, and made jokes, which Paul never got, but he was nice.

More of them were on the rail.  Watching.  They were out to get him.  He was sure of it.

Back in the sun.  Massive, towering buildings closed in; sunlight grew short, shadows long.  (Night in the day, night without moon.)  A dark steel jungle.  People... them... a lot more of them.

Coming.  They were coming.  Paul felt it: A sense of foreboding.  Heart, beating faster.  Hairs rising on arms and neck.  Scared, terrified, mom, dad, let's go back, let's go home... Please...!

Not listening.  Dad and Jack, talking louder, harder, faster, drowning him out.

Mom, on the communicator, yes, hi, Paula; it's mom, we'll be there in a few minutes....

Couldn't they see them?  Hear them?  Mom!  Dad!  Listen to me!

The next instant

    The monsters

    out to get him

Dad, laying on the pavement, bleeding

Mom, beside him, not moving (was she dead?)

    Arms, swinging, beating

Don't die

        Pipes, sticks,

Paul!  Paul!  Jack, yelling; arms, dragging him away

    No, don't let them

        Don't, don't

Paul rubbed his hands over his head, struggling from the sleep he (thought he) didn't need, trying to get his orientation.  Dark silhouettes painted the room.  How long was he out?  Illumination came up, slowly, fading in.  The chronometer glowed next to his bed: Six hours.  Should be getting close to Meloc.  He wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers.  "What's the problem?"

Midak stepped onto the bridge, eyes magnetized to the holodisplay.  "The Future?"

"Or Arcadia, as they're calling it."  Corgan said it with distaste, her views known on the matter: How dare those bigots name their ship that; the name of the ship she and Midak once served on.  Terrorists, in control of Federation starships: What was the world coming to?

At Midak's command, via complant, the flight computer opened a transwarp conduit.  Bristol joined the display, on course to the intermittent signal.  "Mr. Santos, prepare for intercept."

"Aye sir."  The Hispanic at tactical operated his console, setting cloak, weapons and defensive systems to engage before they emerged.  The alert went out to the other ships in the group, nearby.

"What's the plan?" Corgan said.

Midak took his seat next to the first officer.  "They've eluded two capture attempts.  The last time they destroyed two ships.  We stop them, whatever it takes.  They won't get away again."

"Those are Starfleet's orders?"

Midak swiveled his chair.  His eyes drilled into her, under that gray brow.  "Do you mean to imply something, Commander?"

"No, sir.  Sorry, sir.  I didn't mean to imply anything."  Ignoring the suspicion in his tone, Corgan turned away and found interest in her chairside controls.

He knew what she was thinking.  Midak served Starfleet.  He was loyal.  But with few Cardassian COs in Starfleet, there was a concern over what they might do, with so much recent unrest.

Midak's resentment for Corgan bordered on hatred.  She was so... average.  He resented her placement as XO, and being Cardassian, resented her: An adequate officer, average, maybe sub-average, capable of obeying orders, but... so woefully lacking in that quality certain humans carried in abundance.  Corgan was incapable of original thinking.  Her Starfleet record proved equally unremarkable.  She did nothing to warrant her position.  Starfleet put her on Bristol for one reason: She was a token officer.  Starfleet: An equal opportunity employer.  Did that speak of Starfleet's attitude toward the Bristol?  No.  Destroyers in general?  No.  It could only indicate their attitude towards him.

Her predecessor was little better.  Midak wanted Bristol to be effective.  An effective ship needed an effective captain.  To be an effective captain, he needed an effective XO.  When he requested a replacement, someone with moxie, they gave him... Corgan.  Why?  Because they once served together on another ship, 21 standard years ago?

Against hope, he decided to test her, requesting her tactical suggestions: How would she stop the Humanist ship's advance?

She had the expression of a deer in headlights.  She could not even say, I don't know.  Instead she sat staring at him, dumbfounded, as if the question passed right through her.

"You're the captain," she finally said under the weight of his stare, as if that settled it.

How did she get to be lieutenant commander, let alone first officer?  Someone had made a serious misjudgment, promoting her.

Midak gave into his Cardassian instincts.  Compelled by Cardassian smugness, a biological need for social dominance, he prodded her, insistent.  Corgan resorted to cliché, predictable responses; patterns practiced twenty years ago.  Her approach reeked of conventional, book-taught methods; of what little she had learned aboard the first UFS Arcadia, those twenty-one years ago, involving phasers, torpedoes, warp maneuvers; two-dimensional tactics any cadet could devise with fair knowledge of Starfleet armaments.  Space combat and starship tactics was a constantly evolving field.  Uninterested in further showing her up, for her own sake – she would certainly fail to appreciate the effort – he returned his attention to the hologrid, and did not request her advice again.

The Humanists possessed a brilliant tactician.  With one ship, they had trounced several others in two separate engagements, destroyed two in the third, and escaped with minimal damage.  Midak saw the reports.  Those ships' commanders tried the same more-or-less conventional techniques, as Corgan would.  'Conventional' would not work.  Nor would direct confrontations.  In fact, he did not believe the sensor grid had gotten the better of that ship.  They were aware of the intermittent signal they emanated.  They had to be.  It was an elementary ploy, too apparent, plainly deceptive; meant to lure enemies.  But were they banking on more of the stupidity they'd encountered, trying to make it appear obvious?  Or had they in fact slipped?  Midak did not believe the latter, for a second.

Corgan disappointed him.  She did not grasp her own people's capability.  She would have fallen for the trap.  She had the curse of the common masses, common herself.  No... not common: She was even less than that.  Trying to understand the distinction, he reviewed her personal profile, looking for distinctions, what separated her from her fellow humans.  She descended from an ethnic subgroup once enslaved by others.  That had to be it, he reasoned.  The paradigm was common.  On planets with ethnic splits, some proved superior to others.  Cardassia once had different races, until one wiped out the rest.  Despite a mix of ethnic ancestries, this was, analysis indicated, a common flaw of those inferiors' descendants: Mediocrity.  Lower intelligence.  Inferiors, boosted solely by the blind generosity of their superiors.  A 'dumb' gene.  They retained it, even when mixing with other races.

Midak respected certain species.  He could not deny, in his mind, humans rated near the top of that very select list.  After, and despite, centuries of federation, lulled into complacency, a sense of paradise and superiority, humans remained, at their racial core, adaptable, creative, innovative, even treacherous, full of guile, when pressed into a corner... a guile any Cardassian had to respect.

But not all humans: Only a handful; the special few.  Having studied their history and culture, he knew those special few, the truly creative, innovative humans, originated from northern latitudes on their homeworld: Europeans, Caucasians, as most Humanists were.  The Humanists epitomized that aspect of nature's dichotomy in the essence of their design, compared to non-humans.

Case in point: Cardassia.  Cardassia suffered its fate due to an intractable rut in thought, entrenched in centuries of stagnation and repetition, a fate which befell many Federation worlds... as it would Kronos, Romulus, other former Federation enemies.  It would happen.  They would become members, and learn, sooner or later, what Cardassia learned: Humans progressed.  They evolved, and surpassed.  Nature favored Darwinian development, survival of the fittest (fittingly, a human concept), and there, humans conquered.  They served as the Federation's long arm; they achieved its objectives, more than any other species calling itself a member.  Humans had the ability to escape that rut.

After all, it was not humans joining the Klingon or Romulan militaries; humans did not serve Bajor's or Cardassia's fleets.  Humans did not follow the Vulcan or Dominion colonization of the galaxy.  These others came to the Federation, and joined Starfleet, trained in Starfleet Academy, served on Starfleet vessels.  Humans had led the way; others followed.  No one could deny it.  Yet now non-humans were given precedence, overtaking humans... and the Federation grew increasingly unstable, spiraling towards a social meltdown and political destruction.

The Humanists were humans above all else, fiercely human, with a goal and determination to reach that goal: In essence, more human than the humans living under the Federation's banner.  Already innovative, they were getting more innovative, and winning.  Indeed, perhaps they represented the future of humanity.  Midak's respect for this 'United Freedom Front' grew with every report received of their latest victories.  The Front's power and influence grew, as well.  They wanted a world free of unwanted aliens.  How could he, a Cardassian, whose people were being trampled under alien domination, not respect that?

Corgan had been trying his patience, far too long.  He contemplated her transfer after this engagement, or reassigning her to a lower position, if he could get another first officer... another replacement.

Deep in the back of his mind, he could not help the thought which followed: Privately wishing for her demise.  Starfleet personnel were not supposed to think such things, certainly not captains.  The ship's computer monitored for socially aberrant thoughts and behavior.  As a Cardassian, he earned extra scrutiny.  Since Moros, the interview...

He worried Zhivago would appear with a security detail, anyway, declaring him unfit for duty.  Then Corgan would be in command.

Midak focused himself on the situation at hand.  They were heading for the Badlands.  How interesting.  How very interesting.  He'd fought the Maquis, thirty-five years ago.  Several altercations took place in the Badlands, a region of high-density plasma storms, troublesome, if not dangerous, for most ships.  The lines had been redrawn since then, and now Starfleet faced a new Maquis, a new thorn in the Federation's side.

Starfleet had adapted its technology for such areas, but Midak knew the Badlands.  He knew what ships could do there, and people, with that knowledge.  How likely was it the Humanists had such experience?  He would have an advantage.

Stephanie and George reclined on the chaise, in the quarters assigned on boarding, watching star-streaks in the viewport.  She laid against him, head on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You didn't mean it."  Her words taunted him, from earlier: I'm not your daughter, George.  He said, "You were right."

"I'm still sorry.  I was rude."

"You're still right.  Mine left.  You don't have to carry the burden."

Stephanie wasn't his daughter, though he'd viewed her as such, a replacement for his Gaea.

Gaea: Named for their planet, their home... the home they'd left behind, a planet lost.  George hadn't seen her in six years.  Years went by so fast.  It took time to put it behind.  He never really could.  He had sons, but only one daughter.  Not knowing her whereabouts, her condition, whether she was alive or dead: It was one of the hardest things for a parent to bear.

He had loved her so much... given her all he had.  Then she married that loathsome Ferengi and left.  His Gaea: His Earth.  His daughter, his home.  Both lost.

"It's not a burden."  Stephanie hugged him.  "You've taken care of me, like you promised.  Of all the men in my life, you're one of the closest I've had to a father."

"A father?  Really?"

"Well... a favorite uncle."  She managed a grin.

He grinned too and returned the hug, appreciative, then turned somber.  "When we get to Arcadia, I won't be staying."

Stephanie sat up, looked him in the eye.

"You made me think," he said.  "You never knew your father.  My girl knew hers.  I let her go.  If you love someone, you're supposed to let them go, but... maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I should have tried harder, held on to her, told her how I feel.  I don't know where she is, but I have to find her.  If it's not too late.  She might even need my protection, even though she doesn't believe it.  Or didn't, once upon a time."

Stephanie looked past him to the fake viewport and sat up, away from him.  "George..."

"It's nothing personal against you, kiddo."

"If they catch you..."

"I know."  He shrugged, and caressed her shoulder affectionately.  "But I can't let her go, Steph.  You know now, don't you?  Better than anyone... How much we've all sacrificed, cutting our losses to keep our eyes on the future.  I can't pretend she doesn't mean anything, despite whatever she's done."

Stephanie folded her hands in her lap and tried not to shake.  Feelings of fear, desperation, solitude had been creeping at the edges of emotions barely held in check.  She had been fighting it.  George, a familiar face, provided a cushion after the loss of her mother, mere hours ago.  Now she felt that disappearing, her resolve, deserting her.  Her mother wanted her to carry on.  She didn't know how she could, by herself.  Other humans surrounded her, on this ship, but still strangers.

The door chimed; George got up.  It was the young blond captain, who looked too young to be a captain of a ship this big.

"You said you flew for the Maquis."  He addressed George, but kept tossing occasional glances at Stephanie.  George nodded.  Paul said, "Did that include navigating the Badlands?"

George nodded again, curiosity piqued.

Paul willed up a holochart, reproducing a tactical view that, unknown to them, appeared similar to the one seen on the bridge of the Bristol.  "A Starfleet task force may be trying to herd us into the Badlands."

George studied the view and agreed.  "That's what they're trying to do."

"We have good helmsmen, but no one experienced with navigating in those conditions.  Will you come to the bridge and give us some guidance?"

"I'll do you one better," George offered.  "I can fly this ship, if you'll let me."

"Have you ever flown a ship this size?"

"Captain, I had to take a Sheliak cargo hauler through the Badlands, evading Cardassian dreadnoughts.  Those Corporate monsters are twice the size of this beauty.  Once you learn how to maneuver those hulks, anything less is child's play."

Paul seemed suitably impressed.  "Okay; you're on."  He started for the door, George following.  At the door, Paul hesitated, looking to Stephanie.  "Uh, miss..."

Stephanie found herself irritated by the way he kept looking at her, not completely sure why: Probably his refusal to go back for her mother, whom they had left behind on Earth, though she understood his reasoning.  But there was more.  It was as if, when he looked at her, he knew her, but she didn't know him.  "What?" she snapped.

"I'm sorry... you just looked kind of lonely.  If you want to come to the bridge, you're welcome...."

"No thanks."

Paul looked at George, who signaled with a jerk of his head towards the door that they should just leave her be.  Paul didn't argue.  The two men left.