Andy Mangels, Michael A. Martin The Good That Men Do
“I’m so sorry, Captain,” Phlox was
saying in tones that dripped with grief.
“He’s gone.”
A pause. Then Phlox spoke again: “Computer, record that death occurred at nineteen‑hundred and thirty‑three hours, fourteen February, 2155.”
Feeling unaccountably calmed by the knowledge that the deed had finally been done, Trip opened his eyes. He looked up again at his reflection, which looked bizarre and funhouse‑distorted in the curved, too‑close metal ceiling of the chamber. He could see that the Denobulan physician had certainly managed to make him look gruesome, in spite of the haste with which he’d had to work. A large, livid burn snaked down his neck, and a profusion of other wounds and smudges covered both his flesh and his torn uniform.
So this is what it’s like to be dead,he thought, really trying on the idea for the first time. Funny. Doesn’t hurt quite as much as I thought it would.
Historian’s Note
The main events in this book take place early in 2155, just after the crew of the Enterprisestops the xenophobic group Terra Prime from destroying Starfleet Command (“Demons” and “Terra Prime”).
“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”
–George Orwell (1903–1950)
“He that would live in peace and at ease must not speak all he knows or all he sees.”
–Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790)
“All war is deception.
”–Sun Tzu (5th century B.C.)
“The future is up for grabs. It belongs to any and all who will take the risk.”
–Robert Anton Wilson (1932– )
“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrиd with their bones.”
–William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
Prologue
The early twenty‑fifth century
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana
ALTHOUGH LIGHT‑YEARS SEPARATED HIM from his homeworld, the cool rain falling through the moss‑covered trees reminded Nog of Ferenginar. The smell was different here, of course; the Louisiana swamps were redolent with decay and rot, and the lukewarm rain–falling at not quite a glebbeninglevel yet, but close–added a dampness that made the humid air almost palpably pungent.
Nog stepped wide to avoid a greasy‑looking puddle, and almost immediately regretted it as a sharp twinge went up his hyperextended left leg. Making sure the pack he carried slung over his shoulder was secure, he crouched down onto his right knee, his fingers deftly massaging the pained left leg.
It seemed strange to him that the newer leg, regrown from his own tissues years ago to replace the biosynthetic limb he’d needed because of an injury suffered during the Dominion War, should always be the one that gave him trouble. Of course, a few of his other joints suffered aches and pains as well–it was all just part of the process of getting older–but his new left leg should have felt better, not worse, than either his natural limbs or the now‑discarded biosynthetic one. His doctors had examined him several times in recent years, but they could never find anything inherently wrong with the new leg, and always ended up telling him that he probably just favored it differently than the bionic part he’d spent so many years getting used to, thus creating unfamiliar stressor points on his left side.
Nog stood, peering up the path before him and thinking about his friend. Why did he choose to make his home so far off the beaten track?He imagined young Jennifer probably didn’t relish playing in the yard– if he evenhas a yard–since hew‑mons generally seemed to have an aversion to muck and dampness.
Another dozen meters, and as he rounded a bend in the pathway, he saw the two‑story house directly ahead. Soft light was visible through several round‑topped windows, and a wisp of smoke curled out of a chimney on the home’s southernmost wall, drifting lazily up through the damp twilight air. The fact that a fire was burning and lights were on gave Nog hope; he wanted to surprise his old friend, and hadn’t contacted him to let him know he was coming.
The murky pathway ended at the edge of a small expanse of open, well‑tended lawn, and Nog stepped onto a cobblestone walkway that meandered through the green on its way toward the home’s front door. He wondered idly if Jake had helped create the walkway.
Nog stood in front of the door, his hand raised and poised to knock. He noticed that Jake didn’t appear to have any other kind of signaling device mounted on or near the door, and wondered when his old friend had become such a Luddite. No com panel, no security device…it was so different from what Nog was used to.
He rapped his knuckles loudly against the door four times, then took a step back. He heard something–or someone–stirring inside, then heard indistinct muttering. The sound made his heart leap; although he couldn’t make out what was being said, it was the speaker that mattered, not the speech.
The door cracked open several centimeters, and light spilled out from inside, momentarily silhouetting the tall, dark‑skinned man who stood there peering out.
“Greetings, old man,” Nog said, remembering what Benjamin Sisko used to call Dax. It seemed somehow appropriate now, here, as he saw his friend’s eyes widen in delighted surprise.
“Nog!” Jake Sisko’s voice cracked slightly as he shouted his friend’s name, and then he opened the door wide, holding his arms out.
Nog stepped forward, opening his own arms and clasping them around Jake’s torso. It was only after he had hugged his friend for several seconds that he remembered that he was soaking wet. He pulled back, looking up at Jake.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” Nog said.
Jake’s expression changed instantly–was it bemusement registering there?–and he good‑naturedly whacked the Ferengi on his shoulder with the palm of his hand. “Right. Whatever. Bygones, Nog.”
Turning, he gestured inside. “Let’s get you out of the rain and into my warm, dry den. Then you can tell me what brought you out to my hideaway in the middle of hurricane season!”
Nog stepped inside, purposely keeping the grin on his face. He wondered if the problem he was bringing Jake would constitute a stronger storm than the weather outside.
Jake Sisko pulled the cork from the top of the bottle with as much йlan as he could muster, given the way his fingers were cramping up these days. He poured two glasses of the dark liquid and set the bottle down as Nog reached for one of the deep, round wineglasses.
“Twenty‑three seventy‑six? That was an…interesting year,” Jake said, looking at the date on the bottle. Nog had chosen an Italian wine, a rich pinot noir that smelled enticingly of fruit and oaken casks.
“Not as interesting as twenty‑three seventy‑seven,” Nog said, grinning. “But I know how much you hewmons like the older vintage beverages.” He hoisted his glass toward Jake.
Jake raised his glass as well, regarding the dark liquid inside thoughtfully and giving it a gentle swirl. “You’ve certainly come a long way since the old root beer days back on the station.”
Nog snickered. “We live and we learn, Jake.” He paused to swirl the contents of his own glass. “To an old friendship.”
Jake clinked his glass against Nog’s. “Not soold,” he said, smiling. He took a sip, eyeing the Ferengi over the rim of his glass. His friend still looked barely a week older than his teens.
“Well, not so old for you,” Jake finally added, smiling. “I swear, you Ferengi don’t ever seem to age.”
Nog grinned back, his sharp, pointed teeth gleaming. “Oh, I’ve had a few nips and tucks over the years, Jake,” he said, running his right hand over his right lobe. “Don’t want my lobes to get too droopy. Hard to get another wife if I look like a melting candle.”