|
|||
My father would be proud.
I guess that goes without saying. One thing he always told me was to never give up. If you truly want something, don't let anything stand in your way.
And what I've wanted for the past three years is recognition for my work.
Looking back, I wonder if Mrs. O'Brien did more harm than good when she introduced to me to the folks at the Pendleton School. That was over four years ago, and what have I accomplished in that time? Besides the occasional piece for the Federation News Service, not much. Journalism is one thing. But it's not writing. Not the type of writing I want for myself.
You see, for three years, I've had my eye on an Ordover award. For those of you unfamiliar with 24th century literature, the Ordover is to writing what the Cochrane is to science. Pendleton hands out a few every year, and it is quite possibly the most prestigious award any up-and-coming author could hope to receive. An Ordover can make your career.
When I first entered the contest back in '50, I was no Hemingway. This is not to imply that I see myself as him today, far from it. I only point out that since that first year I have grown as a writer. I was something of a novice at the time, and perhaps I was only entering to boost my already over-inflated ego. What did I know about great literature?
As if my inexperience weren't enough, I also had another strike against me - time. Not enough of it. There never is. I only heard about the contest a week before the deadline. Hardly ideal. And of course, this pressure culminated in what was quite possibly the worst case of writer's block I've ever experienced. When I was younger, I had a thousand new ideas every day that I didn't know what to do with. On that day, I would have insulted a Klingon's mother for just one. One lousy idea. But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for, you may get it. For it was a very lousy idea indeed.
Ask any great author, Mark Twain for example, and they'll all tell you the same thing. Write about what you know. Sounds simple in theory. Twain never met a Ferengi. Though I seem to recall that he did meet a Klingon once, but that's a story for another time. The Ferengi in question is Quark, owner and proprietor of the local gambling hall/watering hole here on DS9. Ferengis tend to make good subplots in any current literature, but putting them up front always spells disaster. I learned that mistake the hard way.
But getting back to Quark, in all the years I've known him (seven, at last count), I've seen no signs of character development, if you'll pardon the obvious writer's pun. He is most definitely a product of his society. Greedy, successful, and always on the prowl for new business opportunities. I always wondered if Quark had a hu-mon side, and how I could express that to my audience. A chance encounter provided the answer.
I was sitting in Quark's jotting down some story ideas and downing my third raktajino, when Dad came in with a Vulcan ambassador. Sulon by name. The Federation had sent him to conduct negotiations with the Lobari, a race from the Gamma Quadrant. The Lobari were interested in joining the Federation, and with the threat of an all-out war with the Dominion hanging over our heads, the Federation was looking for new allies. And what better place to have one than in the Dominion's own backyard? The negotiations were a mere formality. Quark waited on them, and it was at that moment that I noticed the odd trio. Dad, sitting between the always logical Vulcan ambassador, and Quark, the most illogical humanoid I have ever known. Such opposites I thought. And that's when the idea hit me.
It's been said that Vulcans have eternal souls. This is not entirely true. While no Vulcan could live indefinitely, the "katra," or spirit if you will, can be placed in a host body. This is a very private matter for Vulcans, one that they keep enshrouded in mystery. Little of it is known to outsiders, leaving the fledgling author, such as myself, plenty of open space in which to play. So what would happen if a bizarre set of circumstances culminated in Quark's "possession" by a Vulcan ambassador? Six days later, I had the answer to that question.
For nearly a week, I became Quark's shadow. It didn't take him long to figure out something was up, and being Quark, he was less than thrilled by my explanation. "Seventy percent of the royalties," he shouted, "if you're going to base a character on yours truly."
"Sure Quark, whatever."
"That's an oral contract. I'll hold you to it!"
It was easy for me to agree to such a deal, cause I knew I would never have to pay it off. The story wasn't shaping out as I'd hoped for, and it was becoming apparent that it never would. I had a first draft ready, and decided to get some peer advice.
"Wonderful! Your best work ever. I couldn't put it down!" If those words had come from anyone else, I might have believed them. But coming from dad, they were as useful to me as a catcher's glove is to a horta.
"You really liked it dad?"
"What's not to like?"
"Well, it's still a little rough around the edges. I might change Sulon's murderer from a Changeling to a Mugato."
"What a wonderful idea!" Dad exclaimed, failing my little test miserably. As my father, he had no choice but to encourage every decision I made. A mugato killing a Vulcan on a Federation starbase, in full view of a dozen security guards? Please. Nobody would buy that one.
Next up was Quark, the other main character in my story. Talk about going from one extreme to the other. Quark hated it just as much as dad had loved it. Maybe even a little more.
"What is all this nonsense about my "being a better person" because of the mind meld? What's wrong with who I am?"
"Nothing. It's just that-----"
"Sure, your story starts off fine. A noble young Ferengi trying to make a living on a desolate outpost of humanity. Then this Vulcan hijacks his body, and the next thing you know, I'm quoting Surak and playing Kal-toh! I have half a mind to sue you for slander!"
"Well, what would you suggest?"
"I was hoping you'd ask. Forget all the stuff about Vulcans, and peace treaties. Do away with the entire cast of Deep Space Nine."
"It doesn't take place on the station?"
"I'm picturing Ferenginar, thirty some years ago, and a young boy earning his first apprenticeship in his uncle's Orion bordello."
Needless to say, I didn't use Quark's suggestion. There was no time for a re-write of that scale. Hell, that was an entirely new story altogether.
So I decided to check with Doctor Bashir. Though I would never admit it to him, Julian is the smartest man I have ever known. He was also a kind, caring man, and I valued his opinion immensely.
"Well, what did you think?"
"Jake, I mainly read history. It wasn't my kind of story."
"What do you mean? You're in it! It's fiction based on reality."
"Well, that's just it. It was too familiar. The characters obviously, but the story as well. My freshman year at the academy, I saw a holoplay about a Starfleet Captain who sacrificed his career for the life of his Vulcan first officer. It was called "The Search For Spock." Perhaps you've heard of it?"
"I have now."
"The point is, there were too many parallels between your story and that play. I'm sorry Jake, there just wasn't anything original about it."
"I understand. Thanks."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Delete the story. Forget that I ever wrote it."
"Now wait a minute Jake. Don't throw it away just because of me. Remember that first and foremost, I'm a doctor, not a literary critic. Send it in. What do you have to lose?"
"Why? It won't do any good."
"Because it's important to you. Besides, even if you don't win, it will better prepare you for next year. Remember, those judges have to critique your work. Their comments will come in handy next year."
So I sent it in.
At that point, the only thing I could do was play the waiting game. Weeks went by, with no word from Pendleton. I buried myself in a new job, in a futile attempt to put the whole thing out of my mind. And I had plenty of help.
The day that dad and the others had feared for so long had finally arrived. The war began. It was official. The Federation and its allies stood against the combined forces of the Dominion and the Cardassians. And I was right in the middle of it.
DS9 was the first to fall, and as Bajor had signed a pacifist agreement with the Dominion, control of the station reverted to them. Despite dad's objections, I chose to stay behind, as I had just been hired by the FNS as a field reporter. Living on the front lines was obviously quite exciting, but as many reporters in my position have discovered through the years, I did not have "carte blanche" with my stories. Weyoun, the station's resident Vorta, censored just about every piece that I wrote. It wasn't that he suppressed them, it was that he rewrote them to better suit the Dominion's role in the war. I don't think he realized it, but he never fooled anyone.
But getting back to Pendleton, I never did hear back from them, even after the war reverted to Cardassian space. In fact, I didn't even know who had won until I saw the book on sale in a Bajoran shop. You see, in addition to winning the prized Ordover, the author of the winning piece gets his story published in an annual tome put out by Pendleton. Looking back, I realized with complete horror that almost a year had passed! Had I been so swept up in the war that I had completely forgotten about the Ordover? For there, on the cover, was the deadline for 51. And it was just a month away. It was time to do some serious brainstorming.
Earlier that year, the Alpha Quadrant had become abuzz with an incredible story of human survival. Three years prior, a Federation starship had mysteriously disappeared in the Badlands, an area of space dominated by plasma storms, which is generally avoided by Federation traffic. On this occasion however, the starship Voyager had intentionally gone into the Badlands, in search of a missing Maquis vessel. Voyager never returned to port. No trace of the vessel was ever found, and eventually, it was assumed that it had been lost with all hands aboard. Well, you know what they say about those who assume.
I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that after three years, Starfleet finally had evidence that Voyager had survived, and was struggling to make it's way home from the Delta Quadrant. The ship was over 60,000 light years from home, with little hope of returning within the crew's lifetime.
Isn't it strange how one simple action can affect us for such an incredible length of time? Here this crew had gone on what they thought was going to be a simple retrieval mission, and suddenly they found themselves on the other side of the galaxy, stranded from their friends and colleagues, and most importantly, their families. This is the stuff that great stories are made of.
I did my research. I read every piece that FNS did on the story. I conducted interviews with those who knew the missing crewmen - their families, their fellow officers. I was even fortunate enough to find people here on DS9 who had met the officers. In fact, Greskrendrek had given up on ever seeing his wife again, only to discover that not only was she still alive, but that he was a father! I spent three hours in Quark's with the huge Ktarian listening to wonderful stories of his life and his marriage, and how he couldn't wait to meet his daughter. It was the most emotional I had ever seen a Ktarian. Looking at them, one is reminded of the Klingons, another race not generally known for its sentimentality. But it was there nonetheless.
And despite the mistake I'd made before, I found myself once again turning to Quark for story ideas.
"I'll never forget those hu-mons as long as I live," Quark had said. He never caught their names, but apparently two of Voyager's crewmen had tried to purchase some gemstones from him.
"Morn and I were busy discussing the unique cultural influence that the Bajoran religion has had on this sector, when these two drunken junior officers barged in, and started tearing up the place. Well naturally I tried to stop them, but they insisted that I turn over my entire stock of lobai crystals. The entire stock. At retail price!"
"Go on," I said.
"Well, when I wouldn't do it, they spouted out racial slurs against my people. I had no choice but to throw them out. As for their accident, well it serves them right."
For some reason, I didn't exactly believe Quark's version of events. Nevertheless, I was now confident that I had enough background material on the crew of Voyager to write a truly memorable piece of fiction.
I was fascinated by the Maquis. What irony, that two such diverse crews would find themselves relying on one another to find a way home. Like it or not, they had to put their past differences behind them. The writing opportunities were tremendous. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the whole thing had been designed by Asimov, Ellison, or Bradbury as a mere template for great science fiction.
After three years, the two crews had meshed into an efficient unit with one goal - to get home. Gone were the political and social circumstances that had put these people on opposite sides of the fence. For my story, I decided to re-ignite those emotions. But how to do this? I found the answer in a book, but not just any book. An autobiography.
I Am Spock was published in 2294, a year after the Federation's most renowned Vulcan retired from Starfleet. For Starfleet cadets, it's required reading at the Academy. My roommate, Nog, had been a cadet, and he still kept a copy of the book in the quarters we shared. I'd noticed it before, but on this occasion, I was drawn to it. Perhaps subconsciously, I was still stinging over the role Spock had played in my story the year before. Now it felt like poetic justice, for I turned to his life for an inspirational story.
Some will say that Vulcan literature is bland, and they may be right. However, as Spock would be loathe to admit, he was not entirely Vulcan.
I read the book in a day, savoring each chapter. And from the history of the Enterprise, I learned how to make the Maquis hate again.
The creature never had a name, at least no one knew if it did. But since a designation was needed for historical records, Spock named it after the planet where they'd first encountered it. Beta XII-A. There over one hundred years ago, the Enterprise fell into the trap laid out by this monstrous entity. It thrived on hate. It lived for conflict. With each passing battle, it grew stronger and stronger. Quite simply, it needed a war to sustain itself.
It also had the ability to alter minds, to make things appear differently than they really were. Which it did very well.
On one side, it had the Enterprise and her crew, and who better to start a conflict with than their old enemies the Klingons. It brought them together in such a unique fashion, and doomed them for all eternity to a never-ending conflict.
Oh, did I forget to mention that it could resurrect the dead? It could. And it did. The crews of the Enterprise and the Klingon ship were each killed numerous times, but the entity needed them alive.
Eventually, the two crews worked together to snuff out the alien instigator. It disappeared into space, and was never seen again. That is, until I got wind of it.
As I started the first draft, I couldn't help but think of the irony. Here I was in the middle of a war zone, and I was basing my story on a creature that was dying, because it could not find any war with which to sustain itself. I was optimistic that the Federation and its allies would come out on top, so I opened my story among the ruins of the planet Cardassia. A war had been lost. An empire destroyed. And a creature who had feeded off the planet for nearly two years was dying.
In a bid to preserve itself, it scanned the galaxy for any signs of the Maquis, a group who really knew how to hate Cardassians. Most of their forces in the Alpha Quadrant had been killed during the war, the first to fall at the hands of the Dominion. But what if there was a surviving unit, somewhere deep in space? Even a single soldier would have sufficed.
It found them. It found Voyager.
In the Delta Quadrant, Captain Janeway and her crew had stumbled across a very mysterious "crack" in the universe. Not exactly a wormhole, but not entirely different either. Hopes were still high that this would be their salvation, a ticket to the Alpha Quadrant, which is exactly what it turned out to be.
Meanwhile, almost 60,000 light years away, the creature had begun its attack, using a small Cardassian scout vessel for its evil plan. The ship had been assigned to patrol the border, as Cardassian security was in a high state of alert. That's why it came as quite a shock to its crew when the Gul in command ordered them on a course far outside Cardassian space. But being loyal Cardassian soldiers, they dared not voice their concerns. And when they stumbled upon the "wormhole," they accepted his orders to enter the passage. Of course, they had no way of knowing that they were mere pawns in a game being orchestrated by a being older than the universe itself, or that their Gul had been possessed by the creature. But that information would come in time.
On board Voyager, hope turned to exhilaration when it was confirmed that the passage led back to the Alpha Quadrant. Their journey was over. It was time to go home. But before they could depart, the Cardassian vessel emerged from the opening, setting off a chain of events none could have predicted.
"Captain, that's a------''
"Cardassians!" Chakotay bellowed. "Shields up! Arm all phaser banks. Prepare a spread of photon torpedoes!"
"Belay those orders!" Janeway interrupted.
"Captain, those are Cardassians-----''
"And they're new to this part of the galaxy Commander. I'm all too aware of your history with them, but right now we need information from them. And they may need our help."
"Katherine, you can't seriously be considering helping them?"
"Commander, if you can't maintain self-control, I'll ask you to remove yourself from my bridge." And remove himself he did. Chakotay, the former leader of the Maquis unit, reassembled his team from the ranks of the Voyager crew.
As for the Cardassians, they were unwilling to believe anything Janeway had to say. In typical Cardassian arrogance, they were convinced that they were still in the Alpha Quadrant, and that Voyager was playing an elaborate ruse on them. So the decision to board Voyager seemed the logical one. A three way war began, with the Federation caught between two old rivals. Countless crewmen were killed, only to be resurrected by hate. A human named Paris, a Klingon named Torres, and a man who was native to the Delta Quadrant, known only as "Neelix," all fell at the hands of the Cardassians.
In the end, it was the cunning of Janeway, her ship's holographic physician, and a former Borg drone that brought an end to the war, when they realized what they were fighting. As their defeated enemy, in the form of a Cardassian Gul, died at her feet, Janeway learned the true nature of the "wormhole." It had been created by the being, to unite these two crews for its own selfish needs. And when he died, the wormhole could no longer be sustained, finally collapsing. The crews hatred had cost them what they most desired. What better moral could a story have?
I was much more confident than I had been a year earlier. Here was a story I had sewn from actual historical events, pieces of Federation history that appeared different by themselves, but came together in a wonderful way. How could anyone not love this story?
Well, apparently no one did. Weeks went by, and there wasn't a word from Pendleton. I was beginning to think that Earth had fallen to the Dominion, and we just never heard about it. Or perhaps the Borg had assimilated the judges, and the contest was deemed "irrelevant." In any case, I tried to put it out of my mind, and get back to FNS. I had already missed two deadlines, and wasn't about to miss a third. It was only a piece about Bolian hairstyles, but it was still a job. The contest still lingered in the back of my mind.
After a few months went by, and I had still not heard anything, I decided to contact the school itself. I certainly had nothing to lose. You can imagine my surprise when I received the great Ordover himself.
My question was a simple one. "When do you plan to announce the winners of this year's contest?"
He tried to be polite, but it was obvious he was annoyed with me. Perhaps he'd heard this question a few too many times recently.
"Son, we announced those months ago."
"Is the list still available?"
"I've just transmitted it to you. Ordover out."
So there it was, deep inside my padd, generating in me the same anxiety I use to feel the day Mrs. O'Brien would issue report cards. The contents of this file would have a direct affect on my life for the next year. Unfortunately, it would not be in the manner in which I'd hoped.
I should have realized that if the winners had been posted months earlier that I had come up dry once again. Still, a part of me was hoping that my congratulatory communiqu, had been misdirected. I just never received, that's all. Yeah right.
I scanned the list of this year's winners, and was disappointed not once, but twice. The first reason was obvious, I hadn't won. I took a few minutes to let that sink in. But taking another look at it, something upset me even more. I hoped I was mistaken, but I had a sinking feeling that I wasn't.
I reached for my copy of last year's winners, and confirmed that the two lists had some of the same names. How could this be? The point of this contest was to give new writers a break. It hurt for a while, but I realized it was just sour grapes. I was mad because they were published and I wasn't. I know that if the situation had been reversed, they'd have been envious of me. But damn, I still wanted to feel that way!
This only added to my inspiration, and even though the deadline for next year's contest was still nine months away, I set about to write the greatest story ever told.
I decided to go to Risa for a few weeks, just to get away from it all. I thought that maybe the cool breezes, the sand beneath my toes, and an endless assortment of beautiful women would help me to relax. I was looking for inspiration, and Risa was certainly the place for it. But it was not to be.
Dad's oldest friend, a Trill by the name of Dax, was killed in the line of duty. He took it very hard. And it only complicated matters when the wormhole was closed, sealing off Bajor from its ethereal gods. You see, in addition to being a Starfleet Captain, dad is also an icon in the Bajoran religion. Hit by dual tragedies, he needed to get away, and he needed me by his side. It was never even an issue. "When do we leave?"
For the next two months, I found myself working in my grandfather's restaurant back on Earth. I had always heard that most writers start their careers by waiting tables. I was just getting a head start. Dad starting acting strange, as parents are oft to do. But this was a little different. For some reason, he was being contacted by the prophets. At first we didn't know why, but after we learned a family secret, it became clear that dad was in fact a prophet himself. His whole life had been planned by them. He was created to serve them.
We went off on a grand expedition, and after successfully re-opening the wormhole, we returned to DS9. Soon, my thoughts returned to Ordover, and I decided it was past time to write my story.
Finding the time was turning out to be a real challenge though. The war was getting bloodier and bloodier. Starfleet was barely holding its position, to say nothing of advancing on the enemy. To make matters worse, the Breen, a race shrouded in mystery, entered into the war, siding with the Dominion. It was truly Starfleet's darkest hour, but a great man refused to give up. My father, Benjamin Sisko, set a plan in motion to aid the Cardassians in uprising against their Dominion allies. He was successful, and with the help of the Cardassians, the Federation defeated the Dominion, and sent them running back to the Gamma Quadrant.
The very next day, my father died.
Perhaps he's dead. Perhaps not. All I really know is that he's taken his place in the celestial temple. He's returned to the prophets who made possible his existence. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but I know he's watching over me.
So there you have it. I guess this year's story is the story of me. And as I finish this sentence, I still don't know just how it will end.