Archer felt himself shudder involuntarily. Shran’s final comment could be interpreted either as a warning about the Romulans or as a threat from Shran himself.
He had no doubt that the passionate Andorian, even though stripped of both his rank and his ship, could indeed be quite a formidable foe….
Seven
The early twenty‑fifth century
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana
JAKE SISKO REACHED FORWARD with his right hand, tapping a symbol on one of the pair of padds sitting next to each other on the desk. They had already paused the other moments ago. Nog had brought both of the devices with him, since they had sizable holo‑imagers built into them. The effect was like having simultaneous mini‑holodecks running side by side, like bizarre living doll‑houses. Except this time, though the story began the same for both, the divergences were notable.
He turned toward Nog. “Okay, this is weird. Not alternate universe weird, but it’s not adding up right.”
Nog nodded, his mouth full after taking a hefty gulp of his wine. Swallowing, he said, “I knew you’d be intrigued.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m intrigued, or just plain troubled.”
“Well, it’s not the first time hew‑mon history has gotten distorted,” Nog said. “Look at Zefram Cochrane. He’s still hailed as a great hero at the Academy, even though Troi’s memoir describes him as more of a scared, drunken genius than the larger‑than‑life figure everybody thinks they know.”
“Yeah, but this is morethan that,” Jake said, reaching for his glass. “Cochrane’s personalitywas one thing; we’re seeing whole sequences of history that are different from the version that just about everybody accepts.”
Jake’s stomach gurgled suddenly, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten yet. Rena often joked that if she wasn’t around, he’d starve to death and be eaten by the cat before anyone found him. “Excuse my rumbling,” he said. “I’m going to fix myself a sandwich. Do you want anything to eat?”
“What local delicacy would be good with a pinot noir?” Nog thought for a moment, then grinned. “Do you have any fresh nutria?”
Jake blanched. “Ugh! Not unless you want to go out in the bayou and try to catch them. I can replicate you some, if you really have your heart set on it.”
“Won’t taste quite the same as the wild version, but I suppose it’ll have to do,” Nog said, his shoulders drooping in mock resignation.
Jake stood up and began walking toward the kitchen, rolling his shoulder to try to work a kink out of it. “You know, Nietzsche said, ‘History is nothing more than the belief in the senses, the belief in falsehood.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if a significant amount of what we think we know to be true in our own histories could be represented completely differently two hundred years from now.”
He unwrapped a loaf of bread and sliced two pieces from it with a serrated knife from a wooden rack on the kitchen’s tidy counter. “I remember Dad once telling me about the American presidents, pre‑World War III. He said that history always told people that George Washington was the father of the United States, and that he had been the first president of this country. But there were actually over a dozen men that preceded him, although their powers were different and they were called ‘President of the United States in Congress Assembled.”’
Nog had followed Jake to the kitchen. “You hewmons and your territorialism. You think the history of the Grand Naguses is any different?” He smiled widely. “You should hear some of the ‘facts’ about even recenthistory I’ve been told during my visits to Ferenginar. Some of what’s being taught to my younger brother and sisters about Rom sounds almost like a fairy tale.”
“Well, you have your world, I have mine,” Jake said, slicing some salami he’d pulled from the refrigeration unit. “I knew that World War III had pretty much caused havoc with files and data back in the twenty‑first century, but I don’t think–I didn’tthink that Earth’s history could have gotten so messed up since then.”
Nog picked up the salami log and sniffed at it, then wrinkled his nose as if in disgust. “This smells awful.” He took another sniff. “Why don’t you go ahead and make me a sandwich from it as well?”
Jake snorted a laugh and reached for the loaf of bread. “So, history is being rewritten all over the place, and this is no different, is that what we’re saying?”
Nog put his hands up, protesting. “Not me. I think there’s something more to this.”
“Okay, so returning to the mystery at hand, the accepted holoprogram of 2161 says that Shran was a military hero who disgraced himself in private business and had to fake his own death,” Jake said as he continued cutting the sandwich fixings. “And that he had a five‑year‑old daughter with Jhamel, whom he had met in 2154, and that it was their daughter that was kidnapped. The new holoprogram, that is reported to be from data recorded in 2155, says that Shran was disgraced due to the destruction of his ship, wasn’t even one of Jhamel’s bondmates, and therefore had produced no children with her, and reports that Jhamelwas actually the one who got kidnapped.”
Nog nodded, watching Jake cut the salami. “I don’t think Shran is the real focus of this mystery, though. I think it’s Commander Tucker. More of the foul‑smelling meat, please?”
Jake looked at his friend and affected a perplexed expression. “Commander Tucker has exactly whatto do with foul meat? Oh, you want more on your sandwich.” He gamely sliced off a few more pieces, then began assembling the sandwiches with a graceful economy of movement he’d picked up over the years he’d spent working in his grandfather Joseph’s restaurant in New Orleans. “ Thanksfor spoiling the surprise for me, Nog. You, of course, have seenall this already, so you know what’s coming.”
Nog shook his head. “Actually, I haven’t seen all of it yet. But I didwatch and read through enough of it to get the basic gist before I decided to journey out here to see you.”
Jake cut the sandwiches in half, then slid the knife under them and transferred them to small plates. He handed one to Nog. “Here. Feed yourself, and don’tspoil any more surprises for me.”
“So, you don’t want to hear about the–”
Jake put a hand up over Nog’s mouth, and glared at him sternly. “ No.I’ve already gotten my history through one filter, and now I’m seeing it through another. I don’t need to hear yet another version through the Nog‑filter.”
He picked up his plate and his wineglass and padded toward the desk, a similarly encumbered Nog trailing after him.
“Boy, you can be as grumpy as your dad sometimes,” Nog said, almost under his breath.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Jake said, sitting down in his comfortable writing chair and setting his sandwich to the side. His hand trembled slightly as he moved to activate the padds again.
“Now hush up, and let’s see what comes next.”
Eight
Day Twenty‑One, Month of Tasmeen
Somewhere in Romulan space
DOCTOR EHREHIN WAS AWAKENED in the semidarkness by a hard jolt of confusion. He was unsure for the moment exactly where he was as he rose slowly in his bed, his back protesting as he moved carefully to a sitting position.
“Cunaehr?” he called out, then listened attentively to the silence that answered.
At length he rose from the bed and cinched his robe tightly about his slight frame, tiny lightning bolts of pain assaulting his lower spine. Ignoring the familiar discomfort, he padded barefoot across the thick white carpet toward the heavy curtains that lined the richly appointed bedroom’s wide transparisteel window. He pulled on the sash, letting in the wan of light of the dawn that was just beginning to tease the horizon of this arid, relatively undeveloped planet.