Prologue: The History of the Future
71201.00
by February Grace
==========
December 1, 2468
=/\= Symbiosis Commission: Trill =/\=
71201.00
by February Grace
==========
December 1, 2468
=/\= Symbiosis Commission: Trill =/\=
"If you'll just come this way, we will begin again."
The Guardian spoke the words softly; barely audibly.
He was a small, thin man called Ligle, and he gestured with an open palm toward a now familiar room at the end of a long, carpeted corridor.
The Host took a few steps forward, and a deep breath. He'd been preparing for years for the events of the past few days- and now he was down to the final moments. It was nearly over.
Being in this particular building, he had discovered with dismay, had caused all sorts of odd and unexpected memories to flash through his mind. Memories he hadn't quite sorted and properly filed away yet.
Vivid flashes of images imprinted upon him though they were remnants from another life; accompanied by voices faint and difficult to hear. The words echoed clearly in his mind, even though it seemed the people speaking were very far away.
*"If we don't get her out now, we never will,"
"Have you ever flown a hover-ambulance before?"
"Please, don't give up. We'll get you home, I promise. I promise, February."
The Host stepped into the dimly lit room, where the Zhian'tara flame burned intensely in the middle of the ceremonial brazier. The triangular metal rods --which held the basin of milky liquid from the Caves at Mak'ala suspended in mid-air were hot to the touch--something he only realized after he rested his hands against them to try to steady his stance.
He yanked them away with a sharp inhalation the only indication that he'd almost burned his palms.
"Are you all right?" Ligle asked, worry altering his otherwise pleasant, delicate features.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." He hadn't been this nervous about meeting any of the other previous hosts. Only this woman.
The last one.
Even after hearing about, and assimilating the histories of the first six, he still felt uneasy. Because this was the one who had looked him in the eye in her last moments of life.
This was the one who had asked him a desperate question, but not heard the answer before softly expelling her final breath.
"Maybe we should wait until morning," Ligle pursed his lips skeptically. "You're tired, it's late,"
"No. I want to have all the time I need to process this. To process her. All night, all day tomorrow. Days, if that's what it takes." He nodded, feeling ready and determined now. "Let's go!"
"Very well. I'll get your friend." The Guardian beckoned someone in from the hallway, as the Host stood and prepared himself.
This had been at traditional Zhian'tara, so far; unlike that of the Symbiont's last host. That ritual had been done in reverse as an experiment to try to restore lost neural connections between Host and Symbiont.
The experiment had worked, and one by one, through his own Zhian'tara, this Host had been introduced to the Symbiont's previous selves.
*My previous selves,* he corrected himself.
He would gather what he could from the experience, and he would return to his assigned ship and crew, hopefully with a wider view of the universe and the beings in it, at last truly seeing as if through the eyes of all seven previous hosts.
He had chosen friends and crew mates to play a part in this ritual. Now his best friend, a young Betazoid female by the name of Anya, was about to embody the memories and personality of that last host.
She stood before the brazier beside him, shaking, as nervous as he was.
Ligle put a hand against the Host's abdomen, and his other hand at the back of Anya's head. He closed his eyes, and began the ritual chant; words millennia old.
"I'nora ja'kala Grace zhian'shee,
February tanus rem, Gondar Aidran tor,
Aidran zhian'tara vok. Tu Grace zhian'tani ress,
Zhian'par February garu' koj."
Anya inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. She blinked slowly, as if awaking from a long and contented slumber, and spoke one word.
It was a name, actually, and one that the new host recognized immediately.
"Dabin."
As if rolling over in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, the former Host expected that when she looked up and turned her head, she would see the man she spoke of, right there. Floppy hair, brilliant eyes, and wicked grin, all present.
Her expression changed as she took in her surroundings, and her eyes filled instantly with tears. Her chin quivered and she turned away. "I'm sorry, if you could just, give me a minute please?"
"It's all right, take your time," Aidran Grace replied. "We're in no hurry."
The Guardian nodded to him and quietly left the room. Aidran looked again at the woman he knew as Anya; she looked so different to him. Frail, and tired. She sighed as she sat down on the couch and held her head in her hands.
"So," she said finally, looking up only as she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and found Aidran ready to wipe the tears from her cheeks with a real linen handkerchief. "Oh, thank you dear. So, if I'm here, but I'm not me, then you must be the new me." A sad smile crossed her face, and she touched his face tenderly. "I was so afraid that this day would never come."
The Guardian spoke the words softly; barely audibly.
He was a small, thin man called Ligle, and he gestured with an open palm toward a now familiar room at the end of a long, carpeted corridor.
The Host took a few steps forward, and a deep breath. He'd been preparing for years for the events of the past few days- and now he was down to the final moments. It was nearly over.
Being in this particular building, he had discovered with dismay, had caused all sorts of odd and unexpected memories to flash through his mind. Memories he hadn't quite sorted and properly filed away yet.
Vivid flashes of images imprinted upon him though they were remnants from another life; accompanied by voices faint and difficult to hear. The words echoed clearly in his mind, even though it seemed the people speaking were very far away.
*"If we don't get her out now, we never will,"
"Have you ever flown a hover-ambulance before?"
"Please, don't give up. We'll get you home, I promise. I promise, February."
The Host stepped into the dimly lit room, where the Zhian'tara flame burned intensely in the middle of the ceremonial brazier. The triangular metal rods --which held the basin of milky liquid from the Caves at Mak'ala suspended in mid-air were hot to the touch--something he only realized after he rested his hands against them to try to steady his stance.
He yanked them away with a sharp inhalation the only indication that he'd almost burned his palms.
"Are you all right?" Ligle asked, worry altering his otherwise pleasant, delicate features.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." He hadn't been this nervous about meeting any of the other previous hosts. Only this woman.
The last one.
Even after hearing about, and assimilating the histories of the first six, he still felt uneasy. Because this was the one who had looked him in the eye in her last moments of life.
This was the one who had asked him a desperate question, but not heard the answer before softly expelling her final breath.
"Maybe we should wait until morning," Ligle pursed his lips skeptically. "You're tired, it's late,"
"No. I want to have all the time I need to process this. To process her. All night, all day tomorrow. Days, if that's what it takes." He nodded, feeling ready and determined now. "Let's go!"
"Very well. I'll get your friend." The Guardian beckoned someone in from the hallway, as the Host stood and prepared himself.
This had been at traditional Zhian'tara, so far; unlike that of the Symbiont's last host. That ritual had been done in reverse as an experiment to try to restore lost neural connections between Host and Symbiont.
The experiment had worked, and one by one, through his own Zhian'tara, this Host had been introduced to the Symbiont's previous selves.
*My previous selves,* he corrected himself.
He would gather what he could from the experience, and he would return to his assigned ship and crew, hopefully with a wider view of the universe and the beings in it, at last truly seeing as if through the eyes of all seven previous hosts.
He had chosen friends and crew mates to play a part in this ritual. Now his best friend, a young Betazoid female by the name of Anya, was about to embody the memories and personality of that last host.
She stood before the brazier beside him, shaking, as nervous as he was.
Ligle put a hand against the Host's abdomen, and his other hand at the back of Anya's head. He closed his eyes, and began the ritual chant; words millennia old.
"I'nora ja'kala Grace zhian'shee,
February tanus rem, Gondar Aidran tor,
Aidran zhian'tara vok. Tu Grace zhian'tani ress,
Zhian'par February garu' koj."
Anya inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. She blinked slowly, as if awaking from a long and contented slumber, and spoke one word.
It was a name, actually, and one that the new host recognized immediately.
"Dabin."
As if rolling over in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, the former Host expected that when she looked up and turned her head, she would see the man she spoke of, right there. Floppy hair, brilliant eyes, and wicked grin, all present.
Her expression changed as she took in her surroundings, and her eyes filled instantly with tears. Her chin quivered and she turned away. "I'm sorry, if you could just, give me a minute please?"
"It's all right, take your time," Aidran Grace replied. "We're in no hurry."
The Guardian nodded to him and quietly left the room. Aidran looked again at the woman he knew as Anya; she looked so different to him. Frail, and tired. She sighed as she sat down on the couch and held her head in her hands.
"So," she said finally, looking up only as she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and found Aidran ready to wipe the tears from her cheeks with a real linen handkerchief. "Oh, thank you dear. So, if I'm here, but I'm not me, then you must be the new me." A sad smile crossed her face, and she touched his face tenderly. "I was so afraid that this day would never come."
"But it's here," Aidran whispered as he folded the handkerchief, damp with her tears, and handed it to her. "You did it." he paused, "I should ask you, do you know who you are?"
"I most certainly do, young man. Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm senile!" She poked a finger into his chest now, and Aidran had to resist the impulse to laugh at his friend, with this altered voice and personality, speaking to him as if she were a centenarian.
He bit his tongue to fight the urge, and nodded, eyes wide. The woman she was embodying had been more than a hundred years of age at the end of her life, after all, and he wanted to respect that.
"Yes, ma'am. But the Guardian said I should ask you, especially considering all that happened with-" he stopped short of saying the name of the man she'd been married to, for fear of making her cry any more.
The man who, in Reassociating with her joined her in breaking every tradition of the Trill and risking that neither of them would ever see their Symbiont joined to another host.
*Thank the gods that we finally outgrew that barbaric stigma,* Aidran thought to himself. *Otherwise, she really would have been the last Host.*
"My name is February," the old woman's stuttering voice continued, and she turned kind eyes upon the young man sitting beside her. "And you are?"