Star Trek: Memoirs of Doctor Parkas - by Tom Boyer

I gaze out over a city devastated by conflict, ravaged by war, torn by oppression. Most of the buildings in this district are left only half-standing, some have already toppled over. Nearly all foliage that was once here has been burned away, leaving only piles of ashes on soil that is no longer fertile. However, in the midst of this turmoil, I see people rejoicing and celebrating in the streets. Bajor is free once again, after an oppressive occupation of over four decades.

I turn from my window and look over various objects in this office. Hanging on a wall adjacent to the only door to the room is an old uniform. The uniform, though severely tattered and even scorched in some places, is one of the most significant items in this room. It is a red jacket covering a light-green turtleneck sweater. The pants are black with a red stripe climbing each leg. There are a few pins on the jacket, all of which are gold in color. One bears the image of an encircled arrowhead with a wing branching out of each side located a few centimeters under the left shoulder. Another, much smaller pin is located on the bottom of a shoulder strap. It is a representation of a sun rising over three mountains. The final is a much larger one than the aforementioned, simply denoting the rank of commander.

On the left sleeve are a series of pips denoting twenty-seven years of honorable, active service to Starfleet. I have not worn this uniform in nearly forty-two years, yet somehow I have managed to hold on to it throughout the entire Occupation. An annoying ring interrupts my train of thought. I turn to my desk, suddenly realizing that someone is calling me. I press a few buttons out of habit, with no sense of feeling behind the act. The face that appears on my monitor seems to represent two familiar friends from my long-lost life in the Federation’s Starfleet. He wears a uniform that is similar, yet in some ways very different from the one that hangs on my wall. Somehow, I didn’t expect the person to be so young.

The young officer begins to speak. "Excuse me, is this the office of Doctor Parkas Trem?"

It has been a long time since any person has ever addressed me as "doctor." Once again, an act with virtually no feeling, simply rote habit, "Yes, this is he. How may I help you?"

"I’m sorry I have you at a bit of a disadvantage, don’t I?"

"In complete honesty, yes you do." My actions from this point contain more feeling than those of simply answering a communication. Obviously, this man has come with a purpose.

"My name is Commander Christopher Hobson, first officer of the Federation Starship Sutherland. The ship has come on a relief mission to deliver soil reclimators, but I was hoping to speak with you in person." The name "Hobson" is one that I have not heard in ages. I had given up hope of ever hearing that name again since the day I saw his ship among an invisible fleet. Once the blockade was penetrated forty-one years ago, I assumed that Jonathon Hobson had been killed along with Josephine. The young officer’s words must have been drifting inside my mind for the last few moments. I just realized that the youth was still speaking.

"…I suppose that what I’m really asking you for is permission to visit you. Of course, being the First Minister of Bajor, you must be a very busy man."

"Let’s not say anything prematurely, now, Commander. I am not going to be sworn into office for another week. Right now, the only thing that I really have to work on is my inaugural speech, which I have already finished."

The officer seems elated at this remark. "Thank you very much, Doctor. I assure you that I’ll try to make your time worthwhile. When do you want me to come down to your office?"

"I really don’t see what’s wrong with right now, Commander Hobson." Commander Hobson seemed to be a contradiction in terms. Everyone that I knew who possessed the family name of Hobson was destined to be a starship captain, not simply a commander. Perhaps Starfleet felt that after two Captain Hobsons with three seemingly disgraced ships, anyone named Captain Hobson was more trouble than he was worth, or than she was worth for that matter.

"Would you like me to beam down, Minister?"

"Please, just call me Trem." This officer seems to need reassurances about addressing any person outside of his formal title.

"All right, Mr. …" He breaks off in mid-sentence realizing that he made a terrible mistake in addressing a Bajoran. Our surnames are not our family names. "I’m sorry. All right, Trem. Hobson out."

To make the youth more comfortable, I simply make a friendly smile before he disconnects the communication. I return to walking about my office. In the midst of my conversation, the sun has emerged from behind today’s rather light cloud cover, filling this room with light. Within seconds, the sun disappears behind another cloud.

The office fills with light once again, but this time it is coming from another source. I turn around only to see a swirling mass of light that steadily takes the shape of a human. Millennia before now, such an occurrence would strike fear into the heart of every living Bajoran. A display of light such as that used in molecular transportation would immediately become a pagh wraith in the mind of the ancient Bajoran.

Within the five seconds that it takes to complete a transportation, the glimmer of light transforms into a human being wearing a new Starfleet uniform. He is about two meters tall, and very fit, due to the physical exams that a Starfleet officer must pass every year. He has very neatly trimmed and combed brown hair, slightly narrow eyes, and a square face, much like one of the Hobsons that I knew a long time ago.

His expression is not as cheerful as the one I recall from the conversation only a few moments ago. Nevertheless, I greet him cordially with a warm smile, gesturing him over to the two chairs that I have set aside near a window. The officer sits. I walk to the replicator embedded into the wall opposite from the door. "One Rak Tajino." A mug containing the Klingon coffee materializes in front of me. I turn to Christopher Hobson, looking out from the window over the Bajoran capital. "Would you like anything, young man?"

He was obviously deep in thought when I asked him. He turns from the window to face me, only to say in a shallow voice, "No, sir." Young Hobson seems to be very troubled.

I might as well give him the opportunity to get the weight off of his shoulders. "What is it that you came to see me about?" He remains silent, looking down at the floor. "I doubt you came directly to my office to speak about soil reclimators, Hobson." Perhaps I should change the subject. "You said your name is Commander Christopher Hobson, right?"

The officer slowly looks up, then nods in response to my question.

"Is that any relation to either Jonathon or Josephine Hobson?" This time Commander Hobson is more eager to reply. "Yes. Jon and Josephine were -" He hesitates for a moment, seemingly trying to recall precisely what his relation he had with the two. "They were my grandparents."

The fact that Chris is referring to these former captains in the past tense is seriously troubling me. Perhaps their passing is the reason he came to me. I offer a more soothing, comforting voice for the first officer to listen.

"What happened, Chris?" I make it sound as if I’ve known him for ages, and in some ways I have.

"I came to talk with you about my grandparents, Trem." His voice is rather shaky in giving me the reply. "Jon died about ten years ago in a shuttle accident. I know he was your former captain, and all. My grandmother Josephine passed away last week, after suffering from an extremely accelerated form of Irumodic syndrome. I’ve always wanted to hear about what really happened during their careers in Starfleet, but neither of my grandparents were very forthcoming to tell me anything about what happened outside of the official Starfleet reports."

Upon mentioning his grandmother’s death, I notice that Christopher was becoming very emotional about the matter. I try to make him feel more comfortable in my office. "Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink, Commander? Some ginger tea perhaps?"

"I guess some tea would be nice. Thank you."

I only nod my head in response to the officer’s words, and head across the room to the replicator. Somehow, I knew that I would never see Jon or Josephine Hobson again when I departed the Horizon four decades ago. Yet, I never expected to actually hear the news. It is obvious that the two had led very full lives, full enough to raise a family together, grow old, and die. They certainly had the time between 2327 and the present year of 2369 to do all of this. The two had a teenage son when I left my posting for Bajor, so he would have had enough time to settle as well. As I walk to the replicator, I hear the thirty-year-old officer still speaking to me.

"In Josephine’s last few days, she kept asking me to hear the story of her career from someone, and she mentioned your name to me on her death bed."

I am listening to the youth’s words as I order his ginger tea, suddenly realizing I’m still holding my Rak Tajino. I take a sip, then order "One ginger tea, hot." A mug similar to the one I am already holding materializes in an orange swirl of light. I walk back to the window and hand Chris his tea.

"Thank you, Trem." He continues. "She said that to know of her life, and of Jon’s, that I should hear yours." I notice that the officer is quite serious in his request. It’s a good thing that I did complete my inaugural address the other day.

"So…" I pause for a second for an unknown reason. "…you really want to know my life story, Commander Hobson?"

"Right now, more than anything. I’ve seen your name mentioned on occasion in my grandfather’s log entries, and in history books as well. You are credited in forming the Bajoran Resistance, aren’t you?"

"Yes, I do carry that burden. My story is familiar to that of a friend of mine, Li Nalas. You see, we’ve both been escalated to the form of legends when in fact, we’re quite simple at the core."

"That’s just it, Doctor. I don’t want to hear about Doctor Parkas Trem the Bajoran legend. I want to know the truth about your life, and about my grandparents’."

Chris’s priorities seem to change almost every time words come out of his mouth. First, he wants to tell me of his grandparents’ passing, then he wants to hear of their careers, then he wants to here my life story. Well, I do suppose that all of the stories are intertwined in one way or another.

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