Narrated by Vedek Lira
Hope was. Hope is. Hope will be.
The Council gathered one last time at the table of starlight. The lanterns burned low, their glow caught in the glass of bottles and the eyes of beings older than memory. Cards were played. The hands revealed. And what remained — what always remains — was faith.
The Council of the Roundup
Qylarin leaned back, watch glinting.
“Well,” he said, “here’s the big hand. Let’s see if the kid plays it straight.”
Tavrel folded calm hands.
“He will. Because he chooses to.”
Zeyara’s crystalline gaze softened.
“The scales tilt. For now, to hope.”
Ilios sighed, luminous with quiet pride.
“Perhaps Charlie was not in vain.”
Kaelen smiled faintly.
“Dream hammered into steel.”
Maelis nodded.
“Wrath did not win. Forgiveness carried them.”
Seraphine laughed, parasol spinning like a solar flare.
“At last! Rockets, aliens, applause! A spectacle worthy of me.”
And I, Vedek Lira, spoke the words that sealed the circle:
“The Phoenix rises. The Vulcans wait. Humanity begins.”
Montana, April 5, 2063
The Phoenix stood tall — a cathedral of welded metal and mortal dreams.
Zefram Cochrane climbed aboard, muttering:
“Don’t blow up. Please don’t blow up.”
The engines roared. Fire split the clouds. Humanity’s first warp field bloomed like dawn breaking through apocalypse.
In orbit, a Vulcan survey ship paused mid-flight. Logic faltered; wonder triumphed. They turned back toward the little blue world.
Hours later, on that Montana field, the Vulcan captain stepped forward and raised his hand.
“Live long and prosper.”
Cochrane squinted, then extended his hand instead.
A brief hesitation. Then — contact.
The future, reborn in a handshake.
The Toast
Back at the Last Roundup, the Council watched. Lanterns flickered. Time exhaled.
Qylarin raised his glass. Tavrel bowed. Zeyara shimmered away. Maelis dissolved into a cloud of starlight. Kaelen smiled and stepped into the next fold of time. Seraphine curtsied and vanished in laughter.
And I said, softly,
“Humanity is not finished. Humanity has begun.”
The saloon emptied. The music faded. The great oak table stood alone — until Qylarin lingered.
The Prophet and the Q
The air rippled between us, settling into the hush of eternity. Qylarin’s grin was gone now; in its place, curiosity. He flicked his watch once more — but this time, the ticking sounded almost reverent.
Qylarin: “You think they’ll make it?”
Vedek Lira: “They already have. Every ending you witnessed was a beginning.”
He arched an eyebrow, amused.
Qylarin: “So all this… was rehearsal? For what — their next war?”
Vedek Lira: “For the questions yet unasked.”
He tilted his head, intrigued.
“You mean Picard.”
“And Sisko,” I said. “He will carry our voice — half flesh, half fire. When the Emissary comes, he will wrestle not only with faith, but with the shadows of this age. What he builds will redeem what they broke.”
Qylarin tapped the edge of the table.
“And Picard — the philosopher captain. Always asking, always doubting.”
I smiled.
“He will meet your kind and learn that even omnipotence must bow to conscience. You will test him, as you tested me tonight. But you will find him unshaken.”
Qylarin: “You sound awfully sure of a man who hasn’t been born yet.”
Vedek Lira: “Time folds, Qylarin. To us, all destinies are already written — but humanity still writes them anyway. That is their genius.”
The young Q leaned forward, watch ticking softly.
“So, when I push him — when I drive Picard to the edge of despair, to show him what his species really is — you’ll be whispering in the prophets’ ear to remind Sisko what his species can still become?”
“Something like that,” I said, and allowed myself a smile. “Between us, perhaps we can keep them balanced. You prod the intellect. I tend the soul.”
Qylarin chuckled.
“A curious partnership — a Prophet and a Q. The preacher and the jester.”
“Both necessary,” I said. “The cosmos survives because the sacred and the absurd still speak.”
He rose, pocketing his watch.
“Then here’s to the long game, old friend.”
“To the long game,” I echoed. “And to the captains who will carry its light.”
He paused, one eyebrow raised.
“I rather like them, you know. These humans.”
“So do I,” I said. “They make us remember why eternity bothers to continue.”
Qylarin grinned, tipped an invisible hat, and vanished into light.
Epilogue
The Last Roundup stood empty now, its lanterns dimmed, its walls alive with echoes of laughter and prophecy. I looked once more through the window of stars. Below, Earth spun, green veins glowing where cities once burned.
Hope was. Hope is. Hope will be.
And somewhere, in the centuries to come, two captains would hear its call — one through logic, the other through faith — both guided by what was learned in the long night after the Eugenics Wars.
The Phoenix had risen.
And the stars were watching.
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