THE GIFT
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount Pictures. This story is copyright 1997 by Christine Collins. The boy had spent all week designing the holo picture. Sometimes, during school hours, his mind had drifted and he'd found himself thinking of new ways to bring the image - a pack of barawa wolves hunting down their prey - to life. And then, back home in the afternoons, he'd locked himself into his room and spent hours upon hours in front of the terminal composing, designing, creating. One evening, dissatisfied with his work, he had deleted everything and started again from scratch. This was, after all, what he'd been told all his life. 'Good' was never good enough. Not for him, anyway. He was different from all other children, therefore he had to be better. And so he'd stayed up until the early hours of the following day, but it had been worth the extra effort: The design was as close to perfection as it would ever be. And now it was finished! He transferred the data into a holocube, and a proud smile crossed his face as he entered the Run command and watched the scene unfold. Half a dozen of the magnificent predators, ivory fangs bared, muscles shifting under black leathery skin, charged at the doomed kayaya from all angles at incredible speed; then, having successfully surrounded their prey, they lay down, their lean bellies touching the yellow desert sand, their thin tails lashing about in anticipation of the kill, waiting for the pack leader to begin the actual attack. The boy cocked his head a little as he watched the spectacle with intense interest.
Yes, the way he had captured the large herbivore's mortal terror as it became aware of its
imminent On the evening of his 45th birthday, Enabran Tain had achieved almost everything a Cardassian could ever hope to achieve. He had an unparalleled career in the omnipresent Obsidian Order, and with that had come power, possessions and prestige beyond anything imaginable. Enabran Tain did not, however, have an immediate family, which was unfortunate, of course, especially in view of the tragic circumstances: His wife had, barely a year after the wedding, given birth to a seemingly healthy baby boy who had mysteriously died in his infancy; two miscarriages and a stillbirth had followed, and eventually the doctors had found evidence that she suffered from a rare hereditary disease and that none of her children would ever survive infancy. This had brought on a serious bout of depression in the young woman and one morning Tain had found his wife dead, killed by an overdose of the very medication the doctors had prescribed to lift her mood. This had happened about nine years ago, and Tain had never remarried. The boy had been told about the tragedy by his mother, Tain's housekeeper, some years after it had occurred, and he'd had to give her his word that he wouldn't mention any of it to anybody, not to the children at school, not to the servants in the house, and most certainly not to Tain himself. The boy had only been six years old then, but he'd understood. It was just one of the many things you didn't talk about or question. The absence of his father, his mother's family and his own uncertain future were other such things. Not talking about them, however, didn't make you stop thinking about them - quite the reverse, in fact. The boy walked along the dimly lit corridor toward Enabran Tain's bedroom. His heart was beating loud and fast, as usual - no, louder, faster even. He hesitated, briefly, when he reached the door, contemplated turning around and returning to his room, but no, there was no time for such silly, counterproductive thoughts. He had come to give Tain a birthday gift, and if he was going to so he had better hurry because the party was going to start in less than an hour, and then there'd be no more opportunity. So he knocked on the door. "Yes?" came Tain's voice. "It's...it's only me." The boy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "May I talk to you for a moment?" "Of course. Come on in." He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was large but sparsely furnished which made it appear even more spacious. Tain had apparently been working, but now rose from his chair at the terminal to welcome his young visitor. "Elim," he said. "What can I do for you?" The boy shook his head, indicating that he wanted nothing, then, as an explanation, held the holocube up. "I'd like to give you this," he said and, more eagerly now, added, "It is a present. I made it myself." The last words came out with such pride that, embarrassed, he stopped and bit his lip. Tain, however, smiled and, encouraged by this, the boy looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Happy birthday." "Why thank you, Elim," replied Tain and took the holocube from the boy's hands. "Let's have a look at it then, shall we?" He crossed to the small table and sat and with a gesture of his hand indicated that the boy should do the same. The boy complied and took a seat. Then Tain watched the hunting scene unfold; the boy, however, watched the man, anxiously trying to read his expression and awaiting the verdict. "Very good work, Elim," Tain said eventually. "I must say I'm very impressed. Thank you." The boy's face lit up in response. "Thank you, sir," he said, which sounded a bit awkward. Annoyed with himself, he fell silent again. He was by no means a tongue-tied child by nature; on the contrary, he often surprised his teachers with his eloquence and quick wit. Tain did not deactivate the program but kept gazing at the dead kayaya a while longer.
Over this he began a non-committal conversation with the boy. How had school been
that day? How was his mother coping with the preparations for the party? What where his
plans for the rest of the evening? The boy replied politely to each question. It had been
a successful day at school; his mother was coping fine, thank you, and everything was
ready for the party to begin; himself, he would have to study for a test in modern
literature which Professor Khibor had announced for the following day. No, the test
didn't bother him, he At this juncure Tain interrupted and did an excellent and very funny impression of the eccentric science teacher. The boy laughed out loud at this, and suddenly he realised that, miraculously, all his anxiety and nervousness had gone. How foolish he had been, he thought, to be nervous of his benefactor, his mentor, his... "I'd better start getting dressed for the party now," Tain said and rose from his chair. The boy nodded and got to his feet, but for some reason didn't want to leave just yet. He cast his eyes around the room, looking for a reason to stay a minute longer. Tain's best evening suit had been left out on a hanger; an elaborate three-piece outfit consisting of tunic, trousers and waistcoat. The boy immediately recognised his mother's work. "May I have a look?" he asked, already halfway across the room. "Mila made this for you, didn't she?" he asked again and reached to feel the exquisite material. Tain didn't reply immediately, so the boy looked back over his shoulder. His gaze fell on the computer terminal. The open file was a picture. A young, petite woman with long braided hair and midnight blue eyes was holding a baby in her arms. The mother was exquisitely beautiful; the child - maybe four or five months old - looked up at her with the disarming curiosity of an infant. Forgotten was the evening suit, forgotten even Tain's presence. Utterly mesmerised the boy stepped close to the console to get an even better look at the picture. A shadow fell on the image as Tain's hand hit the End Program command; then it flickered and dissolved. "I think you should leave now," Tain said, calmly. He could tell from Tain's tone of voice that he had made a mistake. Tain did not
tolerate mistakes. He was going to punish him. All he could do now was do as he was told
and leave - and hope that the punishment would not be too severe. Head bowed, the boy
turned around and walked toward the door. Then he hesitated. If he had left that moment,
things would have been all right; his punishment would have been a light one, after all;
all he had done was look at a picture. But he hesitated and did something far more
terrible: "I know you miss your family," he said, quietly, without looking at
Tain; for that he couldn't pick up the courage. "I know you miss your son, and that
you wish he could be with you tonight, and "Silence!" Tain demanded and his voice was harsh with anger as he hit the boy for a second time. The child in his distress backed away until he bumped into the table and nearly knocked it over. He spun around and reached with his hands to steady it; the holocube, however, still activated, was knocked to the ground. The image of the dead kayaya flickered and became distorted. "So you want to be my son, do you, Elim?" Tain said, scornfully, but much calmer now that his first rage was spent. "Well, I'll tell you what you really are: You are an ungrateful, worthless mongrel." He paused for effect. "A mongrel, Elim, that's what you are. Still, I feed you and your worthless mother. I let you live under my roof. I send you to the best school in the city. I even tutor you myself. Without me, what would you be?" He paused, evidently expecting an answer, but the boy was too shaken, too upset even to speak. "Without me, you are nothing. Do you understand?" The boy nodded. "Good," said Tain and slowly and deliberately stepped on the holocube which broke under his foot with a cracking noise. The image of the dead kayaya was gone. "Good. Now go to the room and think about what you have just learned." * * * The boy was sitting in complete darkness on the cold floor in the middle of the tiny room, the one that was situated just underneath the roof in the uninhabited tract of the building. He was sitting in the middle because this way he couldn't see the walls and if he couldn't see them, it wasn't so hard to pretend that they weren't there. He was talking to himself, because if he did it was easier to pretend that he was not alone in there. If he could keep this up for long enough, maybe the night would be over and someone would come and let him out before he started being sick or screaming and banging his fists against the walls, or did something equally silly and undignified. Maybe he could even manage to go to sleep for a while. And so the boy was sitting in the middle of the room, reciting random passages from his school books, while his heart was pounding louder and faster by the minute. When finally his mouth became too dry to talk he shut his eyes and imagined that he could hear the voices and the laughter from the main hall downstairs where Enabran Tain was celebrating his 45th birthday. ~~ end ~~ |