Hold Your Dominion {Star Trek Fan Fiction}

Fifth Stage - Acceptance

"Thanks for coming," Gina said, "No, Dad, I'll get that."

"It's all right," he said.

They always, always, always put the dishes into the sanitizer the wrong way, she thought. Eh, whatever. It's fine. Go along to get along, go along to get along.

"Well, we weren't going to let you spend Christmas alone," her mother said, "And we'll be back when the baby comes."

"Yes, of course," Gina said.

"Have you thought of names?" her father asked.

"Yes," she said, "maybe Gabrielle. It means heroine of God."

"Not for Michael? You could go with Michael, or maybe Michelle," her mother suggested.

"No, I can't," she said.

"Moving right along," her father said, "I saw they gave you a flag and a lot of other things."

"Yeah." As if a flag could fix things.

"Do you know where the square is?" her mother inquired.

"Yeah, it's a few blocks from here. It had to be a small street, so that not too many people would get messed up. Washington Street was out of the question. It's too long. But this little street, it opens out into a little square. Here, let's walk there," Gina said.

They walked together. It was December twenty-sixth. There was no snow; the terraforming of Proxima Centauri involved a lot of radiation and its byproduct was heat. The place, usually, felt a lot like Miami on Earth.

A few blocks, a few hundred steps or maybe a few thousand or so. "It's the next street," she said, but it wasn't.

"Are you sure, Gina?" asked her father.

"No, wait, wait a second. I'm all turned around. Hmm." She walked over to a street sign, then clicked on her PADD. "Stupid map isn't updated yet."

"Wait, I think I found it," her mother said.

"Yes, that's right, it crosses Kennedy Street," Gina said.

And there it was: Michael Nolan Square.

It was only a block wide on each side. It was not really a square at all; just an intersection. Nothing that exciting. There was a plaque.

Her father went over to the plaque and read it aloud.

This square is dedicated to Xenobotanist Michael G. Nolan, born July first, 2341. Nolan died on October tenth, 2375, at his lab in Beijing, when the Breen attacked Earth. He left a wife and a daughter.

"It was," he said, "probably a lot for you to request that the government do this."

"Well, it's not like, uh, he wasn't a battlefield hero," Gina admitted.

"It doesn't mean he wasn't a hero," her mother said.

"I suppose that's so. But he wasn't, like, he didn't go out with a blaze of glory or anything like that. He was probably just, just pouring something from one test tube to another or something of the sort. And he didn't even know, I bet. That, that kind of comforts me, that he didn't know. I, uh, if there's anything I can, I can thank the Breen for, it's for making it swift and sudden. He was minding his own business. Millions of other people were in business meetings, or checking their PADDs, or daydreaming or something. And then they were suddenly gone."

"It's not fair," her father said.

"It wasn't meant to be fair," Gina said, "and that's not just because of the Breen. It's, in general. It's never meant to be fair. It's death, and while I think it holds account books, I also don't kid myself. It's not a simple equation. It's not like we gathered all the bad people together, and then told the Breen to have at it. It's not that. And it's not God taking the most righteous or that kind of bull, either. It was just a bunch of people who drew the unlucky card that day. If I didn't have my teaching job here, I would have been living in Beijing, too. And then Gabrielle and I would be gone, too."

"Thank God you were here," her mother said.

"I just drew the lucky card. Like I did one other time."

"One other time?" her father asked.

Gina nodded. "I drew the lucky card when I met him."