The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [104]
The alien’s candor struck any thought of argument from him. He could see the paths clearly now, if he closed his eyes and imagined them. The path he had trodden, and then this one, branching and diverging but ultimately leading toward darkness.
A darkness with a single point of light. “Mika…”
“She exists where you do,” said the Traveler. “You can still find her there, if you choose to.”
“And all this?” he asked. “What happens to all this, to the people, to Dorvan V?”
“Time and causality will return to their original form, if you allow it. The tragedy about to unfold will not occur.” For the last time, the alien offered Wesley his hand. “Are you ready to go back?”
Wes leaned close to Mika’s cheek, taking in the scent of her skin, the warmth of her closeness. He kissed her gently and then stepped back from the static tableau.
“I’m ready,” he said. “I’ve made my choice.”
The Traveler smiled as the world around them became ghostly and insubstantial. “We have a long journey ahead of us. But the first step on any road is always the hardest.”
“Where are we going?” Wes asked.
The alien’s smile deepened. “You tell me.”
‘Twould Ring the Bells of Heaven
Amy Sisson
Historian’s note:
This tale is set between “All Good Things,” the series finale of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and the feature film Star Trek Generations.
AMY SISSON
Amy Sisson is an academic librarian living in Houston, Texas, with her NASA husband, Paul Abell, without whom “‘Twould Ring the Bells of Heaven” would not exist. Her Trek fiction includes “The Law of Averages” in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds VII and “You May Kiss the Bride” in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds 8. Short stories in her “Unlikely Patron Saints” series have appeared in Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and Irregular Quarterly. She is a graduate of the Clarion West class of 2000.
In addition to library work, Amy regularly reviews books for Voice of Youth Advocates (VOYA) and Magill Book Reviews. She also writes encyclopedia articles on random subjects ranging from Pixar Studios to Qantas Airlines to the Doobie Brothers, and tends to her collection of ex-parking-lot cats, which she only recently learned (from fellow Trek author Jim Johnson) can be termed a “clowder.”
AS THE SPACE-SUITED FIGURES PULLED DATA THROUGH THE airlock, the android struggled to move, to speak—to simply understand what was happening. But the struggle was entirely internal. His brain sent commands that were not received; he lay limp and uncomprehending while he was dragged several meters and propped against a rocky outcropping.
One of the figures stooped down, placing itself in Data’s unmoving line of vision. Its mouth moved, but even if Data’s auditory input had been functioning properly, he dimly realized that he would have heard nothing, because there was no atmosphere. He tried to make sense of the mouthed words, but he was distracted by the face inside the helmet. It was attractive by humanoid standards, he knew. It was familiar.
And then it was gone.
As Data once again tried in vain to reestablish control over his motor functions, the departing ship crossed the edge of his field of vision, leaving only distant stars in its wake.
Ennis Outpost director Jarod Maher looked older in person than he had over a viewscreen. His pleasant countenance was frequently creased with anxiety, and his short, sandy hair was streaked with gray.
As Maher led the visitors from the shuttlebay into which they’d transported and down a crowded corridor, Commander Deanna Troi looked around with interest. The outpost was obviously in its infancy; packing crates lined every wall, with exposed power conduits peeking around the untidy stacks. It was easy to forget how luxurious life aboard the Enterprise was, she thought. Spacious private quarters for the senior crew, replicators programmed with an endless variety of food…Here, she was reminded that