Father Rumar knelt before the altar in the church’s chancel, hands pressed together, head bowed, as burning candles cast a flickering orange glow across his ash-grey features, the shadows exaggerating the spoon shape on his forehead. The statue of a man nailed to a cross stared down at the priest, who always seemed to Rumar as more judgment than devotion. The scents of candle wax, vellum, and stone filled the air.

The church was silent, the nave empty and dark. The humans didn’t seem to mind the chill, yet it seeped into his bones, making him shiver, and his joints ached. Had God truly called him to this place? It would be his sacrifice that ensured his place in heaven, far from the corrupting forces of Lucifer and his minions here on Niwe Bryten.

He sighed, lowered his hands, and stared into the lifeless carved eyes of Jesus’ statue. As usual, God was silent. They say divinity acted through man and never spoke; yet just once, he wished God would tell him what to do. To defy his lord and patron, or to allow the affront of a follower of Lucifer. No, there were two followers of Lucifer. As long as they were chained to that barn, their corruption could spread into the village and beyond.

That alone was unthinkable.

He knew he was a man of weak faith. Perhaps that was why God never spoke to him. Sure, he knew the words, followed the rituals, spoke the incantations on the Sabbath. He had read all eighty-seven books of the King Sigeberht Bible more times than he could count. Yet he felt no closer to God than he had the day he left the farm. He didn’t join the clergy because he felt called. He joined it because he hated tilling the land. He hated the blisters on his hands and the filth on his shoes.

Rumar sighed and pushed himself upright, and gave the crucifix one last look. He shuffled with his head down and his hands clasped before him until he reached the pulpit. The Cardassian priest paused, staring down at the closed Bible resting on the stone stand.

Rumar stood for a long beat, his hands resting on the sides of the pulpit, staring down at the engraved leather cover. It was deep brown, almost black, where it had been held most often. At last, he flipped open the Bible, thumbing past the Old Testament and the Middle Testament until he reached the New. The Latin script flowed across the page. He paused at the Book of Folan the Bajoran, Chapter 6, verses 21–22.

He traced the line with his finger, his voice low at first and rising in conviction until it echoed off the stone walls.

“And the Prophets said unto the Lord our God, that the Wraiths, the demons of man, must be purged by flame; for the fire reveals the truth of the soul, and the innocent shall not be consumed. If the faithful turn aside and suffer corruption to dwell among them, the Lord shall reckon their silence as sin, and the guilt shall be upon the people.”

*    *    *

Shadows fell over the barn, dark and oppressive, as if Gre’thor itself had cast them upon these disgraced warriors of Kahless. Hur’agha lay huddled next to Kora’q, the straw and their bodies’ warmth the only ward against the chill. Complaining was not the way of warriors, and there was already enough shame befallen them; admitting weakness would be one last insult she could not bear.

She let out a long sigh as she stared up at the black ceiling, moonlight streaming across her features through the vertical wall slats. Her breathing was even, despite the fact that her mind was running a million kellicams a second, like a Bird-of-Prey at maximum warp. The corner of her lip curled despite her situation. Those old B’rels were so fundamentally Klingon: basic and cantankerous in all the right ways.

A burst of red-orange flooded the night, paired with the rising shouts of angry voices that rattled the slats of the barn’s walls. Hur’agha pushed herself to her knees and pressed her cheek against the rough planks, cool to the touch. She bared a fang and growled.

“What is it?” Kora’q asked, eyes alert.

“A mob.”

The old Klingon nodded. “Then they have decided what to do with us.”

Hur’agha grunted. “Then Fek’lhr it is.”

Kora’q shrugged, knelt, and stared up at the ceiling. After a long moment, her XO spoke. “Sto’vo’kor awaits us both. We may have been denied honorable deaths, but we have lived far more honorable lives than many who were struck down in battle. When we make it to the barge, we will plead our case, our deeds entered into the ledger, and we will proceed.”

She didn’t get a chance to respond as the barn doors were flung open with a clatter of wood and iron hinges that squealed in protest. The doors crashed against the exterior walls, shaking the whole barn and sending streamers of dust falling from the rafters.

Standing in the entrance was Father Rumar, silhouetted by the glow of angry torches, his Bible in one hand, a crucifix in the other. The villagers’ shouts echoed off the walls like waves crashing against the shore. Pitchforks, axes, and other improvised weapons rose and shook, demanding blood.

“Thy Lord said unto thee, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! Allies of Lucifer, like you, Klingons, Vulcans, and Betazoids, will be purged from this land. Fire will cleanse you of your sins and break you of your oaths to evil. I shall hold the cross high so you can see it through the flames.”

Rumar began to pace, and Hur’agha pulled against her chains, her hair a wild mess, straw clinging to her armor. Rumar grinned as the scents of oil and alcohol filled the air, thick and burning in her lungs, causing her eyes to water. She refused to show weakness by coughing.

“Fight me fairly, pata’Q!”

The Cardassian priest produced a ring of keys, and he grinned. It wasn’t the false grin he had flashed Ælfweard, but a genuine one that reached his eyes, exposing a row of crooked white teeth that seemed to glow in the dim light. He approached her, careful to keep his distance, and dropped the keys. They struck the hard-packed earth with a soft clink.

In a low tone, he spoke. “I do not know how you came to possess the tools of the old gods, or how you brutes, with your limited intelligence, can speak Saxon, but I do not care. I do not even know if you are acting on behalf of the Fallen One. What I do know is that you are a threat to our way of life, and I cannot allow that.”

Hur’agha jerked and pulled against her chains, the fetters digging deep into her skin, reopening wounds from earlier. She snarled and hissed like a cornered feline.

Rumar laughed and stepped back, raising his voice. “If you are free of demonic corruption, the God of Kings and Lord upon High will free you, and you will walk away. If not, you will die, and your corruption will be cleansed from this land—the first of many. May God have mercy on your souls. Amen.”

He backed out of the barn, and the doors slammed shut. The rattle of a chain secured them closed, final as a period at the end of a sentence. Then one by one, torches flickered through the air. Some landing on the thatched roof with soft, almost inaudible thumps. Others crashed against the walls and immediately ignited the fuel placed there, flames crawling up to the eaves and filling the interior with toxic black smoke.

Hur’agha stared at the keys just out of reach, then glanced around the barn searching for something to reach them.  There, leaning against the wall, was a pitchfork. It was out of her reach, but perhaps Kora’q could. She didn’t need to say anything. He had already followed her gaze and moved to the edge of his chains, and they clattered and clinked as he moved. He stretched and pulled, but no matter what angle, it was just out of reach.

“Your feet!” Hur’agha hissed.

The aging Klingon nodded and lay down on the ground, and slowly pushed himself across the ground with a dragging, grinding sound.  Absently, she wondered if that would be the sound she would make as they drag her body away in the process of cleaning up after the fire.

Would they bury her body? Or perhaps toss it into the refuse pile with the rest of the village’s garbage. Something told her the latter was more likely than the former.

She coughed, and her eyes were hazy as the smoke burned them. It was getting warm, and a bit of the thatch broke free and fell to the ground with a shower of sparks and flame, with a hiss and rumble of charred bits of wood.  The fire was now inside the barn as dried bits of straw ignited.

“Now! Kora’q!”

He kicked the handle at the base, and the farm implement rattled against the wall, and he caught it deftly. Without moving, he tossed the tool to his captain from flat on his back.  Hur’agha caught it and rushed to the ends of her chains and hooked the keyring with one of the tines and pulled the keys to her and unlocked her fetters, letting them fall to the straw with a muted thump.

Rushing to Kora’q, she unlocked him and helped him to his feet.  And she ushered him towards the one wall the villagers had not bothered to torch.  She sprang at full tilt, lowering her shoulder at the last minute, and crashed through the wooden boards.  She took a lungful of fresh air, and then she and Kora’q fled into the night.

Starfleet Academy, 2428

Cadet Sonya Peters hesitated at the office door and stared at the door chime as if it were some tableau of judgment on ignorance. She took a deep breath and reached out, her fingertip pressing the button, and the chime broke the silence of the corridor. She looked sheepishly around, but the two cadets and one professor acted as if they hadn’t even heard it.

Of course, they didn’t hear it, she chided herself.

“Enter,” came the single word from Professor Ortiz, filtered through the door’s comm.

Sonya stepped into the sensor arc, and the doors parted with that dramatic hiss that always made the cadet smile, as if she were opening them with magic or the sheer force of her mind, like in those old twentieth-century movies with space knights and laser swords. The whole office smelled of ancient books, tea, and a flowery oil diffuser.

It smells like heaven in here.

Professor Ortiz’s office was covered in artifacts from all over the known galaxy. Most were obvious reproductions, like the Kazahit Death Masks and the pre-Surak Vulcan crossed sabres. She had seen the real versions in museums. Still, there were others she was certain were very much real, including a simple fossilized Neanderthal hominid skull perched on a shelf beside a white porcelain pot with green bamboo shoots sprouting from within.

The back wall behind the desk was a bookcase made of heavy-looking wood, deep reddish-brown like mahogany. Each shelf was packed with ancient-looking volumes and newer texts by anthropologists from all over the Federation and beyond, with names like Goodall, T’lig, and Williams.

Professor Ortiz was in her sixties, with a full head of white hair. Four pips hung from the teal chest of her Starfleet uniform. Her face was a map of fine lines and wrinkles, but those chocolate brown eyes. They were bright and alive, as any she had seen among her peers.

Setting a PADD aside, she sat back in her chair, which creaked softly under her weight. She lifted a cup of tea, wisps of steam curling over the rim. She cradled the cup in her hands. “Cadet Peters, no?”

Ortiz didn’t wait for an answer before bringing the cup to her lips. She gave the steaming liquid a tentative sip. Satisfied, she smiled and took a longer one, her eyes closed and obviously savoring the drink. Sonya hesitated. Had she gotten so wrapped up in grades, finals, and the general rat race of the Academy that, unlike her professor, she had forgotten to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasures in life? She couldn’t remember the last time she had stopped long enough to savor a drink.

“Uh… yes, ma’am. I am.”

Ortiz extended a hand, “Have a seat, cadet. What can I do for you?”

Sonya sat in the offered chair and folded her hands before her. “So you interviewed Hur’agha after she escaped from the burning?”

Ortiz shrugged. “Not directly after, no. But at the end of the mission.  You want to know why so many disparate cultures ended up following a Christian-flavored religion?”

The professor laughed at her surprise. “Uh, yeah. And yet they incorporated their own theologies—the Prophets and Pah-wraiths alongside Jesus and Cardassian mask worship.”

“Everyone asks this. Or at least the true anthropologists,” Ortiz replied.

She set the cup aside and rose from her chair with a groan of her cushion. At the back wall she ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she found what she was looking for. The volume she pulled free was leather-bound, thick, and worn in a way no reproduction ever was. The cover was darkened by age and use, the edges softened by countless hands, and constructed to the standards of medieval printing, but impossibly new-looking with a bloody fingerprint on the cover.

The professor set it on the desk between them.

“Is this?”

Ortiz nodded. “Rumar’s Bible. You asked why the Christian faith was the basis of Niwe Bryten? Simple, humans, specifically Christian Saxons, were the dominant population.  The rest just integrated the best they could.”

Understanding flashed across her face. “But, the burning echoed Joan of Arc and the Inquisition, which happened centuries after they were plucked from Earth.”

Professor Ortiz shrugged. “One of those coincidences of history. Though the Bajoran fire and Pah-wraith mythologies probably nudged an already-prone system toward the same conclusion that late-medieval zealots came to. The Ritual of ‘Freeing of the Devil’ runs throughout their New Testament. Burn the body to cleanse the soul. It’s redemptive in a way.”

Sonya nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. I think  I can write my report now.”

Standing Sonya headed for the door, and the professor stopped her. “Why don’t you borrow this. I can’t have my best student do this assignment without all the tools.” Ortiz pushed the Bible toward Sonya.

Sonya shot Ortiz with a nervous smile. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the book and retreating into the corridor.