The Portrait

[STSF Corizon 0]

A slow stroke of the brush against the canvas left a thick, ragged black mark. A second left a slightly thinner, more even stroke in the same pitch black paint. A third, fourth and fifth stroke followed quickly before a pause and sixth stroke in red. Successive strokes began forming shapes, and as the shapes began taking form, so did the painting. It had been many years since the painter had so clearly translated his thoughts and emotions onto a canvas, and as each stroke defined the portrait, the small smile forming on his face grew wider.

 

The painting, like the torrent of emotions filling his body and brain was a confluence. Each individual stroke added to the whole to form a larger picture. Scattered with deep reds, grays and black, the image of the self began to finally form, and amid the chaos there was an odd serenity. Corizon took a deep breath, looking at the painting before him, his self-portrait capturing the moment, a snap-shot of everything he felt.

 

He'd never wanted this life. Years ago, he'd dreamed of a quiet life on his homeworld, high in the mountain temples practicing the five excellences and living a peaceful, calm, and vitreous life, but like so much in his strange life, the winds of fate had carried him along their currents to another place. How differently his life had turned out from a small boy praying at the alters. So much had happened to him, to everyone around him—the world he'd once known was gone, replaced by a new and frightening world.

 

It had started when he enrolled in Starfleet. His mentor had all but insisted, saying that a man of Corizon's potential would be wasted in the snow-covered temples praying to the gods. The current had taken him to San Francisco, a strange and exciting place. In the fifties, only a handful of his people had ever served in Starfleet, and few of his people ventured off world, so to suddenly be surrounded by such variety was startling, terrifying, and thrilling all at once.

 

Then there had been ATAG. Had he known then, had he seen the things he'd seen now, he would never have signed on when offered the position. The Cardassian War was ramping up, the tension high...ATAG had been given the assignment of making sure that Starfleet's eye and ears were properly focused. At first it was standard enough, he was assigned, ostensibly, to the Academy as an professor of combat psychology by day, and an intelligence analyst by night.

 

For the remainder of the fifties and even the sixties little changed; at some point though, ATAG began to do more than just analyze the intelligence coming in—they began collecting their own independent information for 'assessment.' Soon, the professor found himself spending less time in the classroom and more time in the field.

 

That was when he had his first run in with the Cardassian Obsidian Order. Rather friendly bunch really, if you were into daily torture and being the subject of a maniacal Gul who considered you his personal pet. His life would have likely ended that way too, had it not been for the well timed escape attempt of another of the Gul's pets that allowed him to escape and make his way back to the Federation.

 

And then the Borg came. Wolf 359 had been an utterly shocking, terrifying experience for everyone in the Federation, let alone anyone who'd managed to somehow survive the carnage of that battle. Over 40 of the Federation's best ships completely destroyed in minutes. As long as he lived, he'd never forget how helpless he'd felt as his ship floated aimlessly as the black cube sailed off towards Earth.

 

The experience with the Cardassians had almost caused him to retire, to go live that life he'd so wanted, but the Borg changed that. How could he leave Starfleet then? How could leave them when there was such a grave and evil threat lurking in the shadows? He couldn't. He pressed on.

 

The next years brought still yet graver threats for he and ATAG to tackle, their was the Marquis, a resurgent Romulus, Klingon instabilities, the Cardassians loomed as they licked their wound and waited for another chance at glory.

 

During all that the missions he was sent on became more and more clandestine, it wasn't just gathering intelligence it was preemptive strikes against potential threats to the Federation. All the while, he justified it as being for the greater good, and slowly, inch by inch, he hardened. The life he'd so wished for slipped further and further away. Duty became his life. Starfleet became his life. He became Starfleet.

 

All the while, the Universe turned against him and Starfleet. Cardassia got it's second chance at imperial glory when Dukat welcomed the Dominion into the Quadrant. Suddenly an aggressive species hell bent on destroying anyone who challenged them had a foothold in the Alpha Quadrant. Dukat, in one bold move, packed the entire known galaxy into the hand basket and set course for hell. What unfolded over the next three years was nothing short of it, anyway.

 

When the smoke finally cleared, trillions were dead. Starfleet had come within an inch of defeat, the Klingon Empire had been severely tested, the Romulans were left with their heaviest causalities since the Earth-Romulan War, and Cardassia lay in ruin, a shadow of it's former self. The toll on Corizon was just as high. His homeworld has been sieged by the Dominion, his parents casualties of the bombardment of the capitol city...and the things he'd seen... and done.

 

Following the cessation of hostilities and the ratification of the Treaty of Bajor, he'd once again contemplated retirement. Once again though, he was reminded of how threatened Starfleet truly was. Sure, the Dominion had been beaten back into the Gamma Quadrant, but in it's weakened state, how long would it be before someone else challenged the Federation? In the past decade, nearly every major power had challenged the Federation, so he'd stayed.

 

The post war years were quiet and he rarely regretted retirement. Starfleet had begun righting itself, healing the wounds of the Dominion War, and the rest of the galaxy, it seemed, has decided that peace deserved a chance. Of course, nothing ever stayed calm, and even the best intentions can end in mayhem and disaster.

 

Such had been the Camelot Project. A dream given form, a shining beacon in space. When he'd first heard that the Federation, Romulan, Klingon and Dominion governments were working together to create at station in the Gamma Quadrant, he'd thought it was a really bad idea. Within six months, when he was being sent to find out just why the Romulans felt the need to rattle sabers with the Dominion in their home turf, he'd been sure of it.

 

Three years later and not much had happened to change that assessment. Yet, when he'd had the chance after Excalibur finally returned to Earth following the Battle of the Wormhole, he'd not retired. Why? The same reason he'd not retired the two previous times he'd given it serious thought, duty wouldn't allow it.

 

He'd never wanted this life. Yet, he couldn't walk away from it either. Glancing once more to the painting, he noticed that amid the swirl of chaos, he'd painted himself as serene. That struck him as odd, given that he'd recently tore his quarters apart. Perhaps there was something else bothering him?

 

Like this life, he'd never wanted to be a Captain of starship, yet he'd not walked away from it when given the chance. He didn't want to have to be responsible for the lives of so many people so directly, yet, he continued to do it, and he knew that when they returned to Camelot, he'd not give up his command. There was still so much work to do, even if this current mission had been an abject failure.

 

Silently he wondered what the winds of fate had in store for him. It seemed as though at every turn they told him to change course, yet he kept his bow pointed in the same direction because he felt he had too, because he was bound by duty to the Federation. It was at that point he realized that all of the pain, sorrow, anger, frustration and anxiety he'd felt in the last week had been for nothing. There was nothing he could to change what had happened. Fate had played it's hand, and so had he. In the end, the baby was secure and his ship still in one piece. Sure, the crownstone remained in the hands of the Raidmistress Wart, but really was it worth risking the lives of his own crew on something that they didn't value only so they could gain possible access to knowledge of the device that could lead them to the Founders? Of course it was, but that wasn't the point.

 

He sighed and looked back to the portrait once more. Perhaps the serenity came in the knowledge that he wouldn't be the savior of the Dominion after all? Perhaps not. Perhaps so.