War correspondence:In the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, it was established that, before taking command of the U.S.S. Enterprise-D, Jean-Luc Picard served a distinguished twenty-two-year tour as captain of the U.S.S. Stargazer. The novel Reunion established several members of the Stargazer crew, such as his first officer Gilaad Ben Zoma, his Gnalish chief engineer Phigus Simenon, and the twins Gerda and Idun Asmund. Subsequent novels The Valiant, The First Virtue, and the ongoing Star Trek: Stargazer series have chronicled the early adventures of the Stargazer under Picard's command. However, Picard isn't the only former Stargazer crew member to survive into the 2370s.

"What Dreams May Come" takes place in the early days of the war, in the three-month gap between the final episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine's fifth season, "Call to Arms" and the sixth-season premiere "A Time to Stand."

Michael Jan Friedman has written nearly forty books about the Star Trek universe, including Reunion (the first Star Trek: The Next Generation hardcover), Crossover, the novelization of the episode All Good Things…, Shadows on the Sun, Kahless, the My Brother's Keeper trilogy, The Valiant, Starfleet: Year One, and the ongoing Stargazer series (featuring Jean-Luc Picard's first crew). He also wrote the Star Trek: The Next Generation series published by DC Comics, co-wrote the Voyager television episode "Resistance," and is currently at work on yet another Star Trek novel—this one concerning the fate of his favorite romantic couple in the wake of the movie Star Trek Nemesis. As Mike has noted on other occasions, no matter how many Friedmans you may know, he's probably not related to any of them.

Sejeel sat up in his luxuriously overstuffed bed, stretched out his arms in his soft, silky bedclothes, and reflected—not for the first time, by any means—that it was good to be a Vorta on a backward but strategically located world on the edge of Federation territory.

Most of his fellow Vorta had drawn significantly more demanding assignments—the sort that involved the grim prospect of injury and even death. After all, the tune of armed conflict was being played now in earnest in the Alpha Quadrant, and injury and death were its natural accompaniments.

But not on Illarh, the world of gentle humanoids to which Sejeel and his ship full of Jem'Hadar had been dispatched. There was no struggle here, no fight to repel the invader.

And no possibility of Starfleet interference, either.

For reasons that escaped Sejeel, the Federation had made it a rule not to get involved with pre-spaceflight civilizations—even those like the Illarhi, that were situated in or near Federation space. So when Sejeel's ship slipped into orbit around Illarh, it did so with complete and utter impunity.

Feeling pleased with himself, the Vorta pulled aside his covers, got out of bed, and dressed himself in a set of clothes he had brought with him from the Gamma Quadrant. They had seemed perfectly comfortable before he arrived on Illarh, but now they seemed altogether too stiff and scratchy.

Of course, anything would have seemed stiff and scratchy in comparison to Illarh's native fineries. The people here might not have been particularly aggressive or advanced with regard to technology, but they certainly knew how to make an alien feel comfortable.

Removing his personal communications device from the pocket of his tunic, Sejeel contacted Baraj'aran, the First of his Jem'Hadar task force.

"Anything to report?" the Vorta asked.

"Nothing unusual," Baraj'aran told him.

"Splendid," said Sejeel. "Let me know if anything changes." With that, he terminated the conversation and replaced the device in his pocket.

It hadn't been much of a report. But then, in truth, there was little for either the Vorta or the Jem'Hadar to do at the moment. They had come to Illarh to establish a communications and supply depot, a critical element in an imminent wave of military advances from which the Federation wasn't expected to recover.

However, without any opposition from the Illarhi, Baraj'aran and his soldiers had been able to set up the depot in just a few days. In another few days, they had constructed a powerful, ground-based shield generator capable of thwarting any weapon Starfleet could bring to bear.

And because the Illarhi were so primitive and naïve, they had believed Sejeel when he told them that he and the Jem'Hadar weren't staying long. All they wanted, the Vorta had said, was to use Illarh as a temporary stopover in their migration from a dying world to a new home in a distant star system.

During Sejeel's talks with the Illarhi, the Jem'Hadar had been a little brusque, true, but otherwise they'd been quite inoffensive. When one got to know them, the Vorta had said, they were actually a fine and noble species.

Not invaders, oh no. Merely pilgrims on a journey that would soon compel them to leave Illarh, at which point the lives of its original owners would return to normal.

None of it was true, of course. Even the Illarhi would figure that out eventually. But for the time being, the situation was a stable and serene one, and Sejeel meant to keep it that way as long as he could.

He didn't like wholesale slaughter any more than the next sentient being. And when the Illarhi launched their inevitable revolt, that was exactly what the Jem'Hadar would inflict on them.

No one dealt death and destruction quite like the Jem'Hadar. It was what they had been designed for.

In the meantime, the Vorta meant to enjoy the creature comforts of Illarhi—not the least of which was the cadre of servants he had assembled to attend to his needs. Before Sejeel's arrival, these Illarhi had worked in the employ of prominent citizens.

Now, they worked for him. As always, their day began by preparing Sejeel's morning meal.

It was a wonderful concept, and one the Illarhi had more or less perfected. Savoring what was in store for him, Sejeel exited his bedchamber—which had also belonged to a prominent citizen before the Jem'Hadar evicted him—and emerged into his residence's forward living space. As usual, his servants had laid out an assortment of native delicacies for him, illuminated by cylinders full of luminescent insects.

Sejeel stopped in front of the display and admired it component by component. Dark, fried ogliila eggs. Fresh melon-meats, ranging in color from pale gold to dark red. The succulent, blue roots of the aderrja bush, and a frothy, white juice whose name he could never seem to remember.

The Vorta picked up one of the melon slices and bit into it. It was a shame that he couldn't truly appreciate the differences in tastes and smells. Still, the Founders had had their reasons for giving the Vorta such a limited sensory range.

As he thought that, one of the Illarhi entered the room. Like all his people, the fellow had copper-colored skin, a spattering of mossy, white hair, shiny black eyes, and a series of bubbles on his cheeks that facilitated auditory perception.

"Draz," said Sejeel. "So good to see you."

The Illarhi inclined his head, displaying the patchwork pattern of his hair. "Good morning, Master Sejeel. Did you sleep well?"

"I did," Sejeel assured him. He smiled wistfully. "A deep, dreamless sleep, Draz. As always."

After all, he was a clone, and clones weren't given to dreaming. Those who had created him had considered nocturnal visions a waste of time for someone with such large responsibilities.

He had believed the same thing until he came to Illarh. He had imagined that dreams were but a series of unintelligible images, irritating at best.

Then one day—Sejeel's third on Illarh, as he recalled—Draz had mentioned one of his dreams in passing. It was a simple dream, about Draz's childhood and his brothers and sisters.

To the Vorta's surprise, Draz's dream wasn't at all irritating. It was by turns storylike and realistic, logical and bizarre, and the combination was something that seemed to strike a chord in Sejeel's psyche.

When he woke the next day, he couldn't wait to find out if Draz had had any other dreams. To his delight, the Illarhi said he had, and went on to tell Sejeel of it.

Every morning thereafter, he had asked Draz to describe his dream of the night before—and on no occasion had the Illarhi disappointed him. In fact, of all the delicacies the Illarhi set before the Vorta each morning, Draz's dreams were the ones Sejeel found most appealing.

"So," he said to the Illarhi, "what sort of dream did you have last night?"

Draz's brow creased. "A disturbing one."

He was about to elaborate when Sejeel's communications device began to beep. Holding a finger up to keep the Illarhi from continuing, the Vorta retrieved the device and said, "Yes?"

"We have lost contact with our vessel," said Baraj'aran. "We are attempting to isolate the cause."

Sejeel frowned. Communications lapsed occasionally—it was a fact of life in unfamiliar systems, with unfamiliar magnetic fields.

But there was nothing he could do about it. That was the province of the Jem'Hadar.

And he found himself intrigued by the look on Draz's face. Disturbing, the Illarhi had said. It was the first time he had ever used that word to describe one of his dreams.

"Isolate it soon," Sejeel told Baraj'aran, "or I will put someone in charge who can."

Then he put away his communications device and turned to Draz again. "Disturbing in what way?" he asked.

Draz shrugged. "It's… difficult to explain."

"Try," said the Vorta, plopping himself into an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. He made a "hurry up" gesture with a flip of his hand. "Please, proceed."

Draz nodded. "Very well, then."

But he didn't speak of his dream right away. Instead, he moved to the room's only window, pushed a bit of its covering away, and looked outside.

It wasn't like the Illarhi to hesitate so, Sejeel mused. Clearly, the fellow's dream had affected him even more deeply than he had indicated.

Finally, Draz said, "This will sound strange, I know, but—last night, I dreamed I wasn't the servant you see before you. I dreamed I was a man of power, a man of authority." He looked back over his shoulder at Sejeel. "Your equal, in fact."

How perfectly ridiculous, the Vorta thought, reveling in the absurdity of the idea. He couldn't help laughing.

Draz winced.

"Forgive me," said Sejeel, attempting to control himself. "It's just that you caught me off guard. I mean… you, Draz? A figure of authority? My equal?"

His servant looked embarrassed. "Clearly not, Master. But in my dream, you see, I wasn't Illarhi. I was from another planet, just like you and the Jem'Hadar."

Sejeel smiled. This was getting good. "Then where was your ship, Draz? Hidden somewhere, perhaps? And what did you look like? An Illarhi… or something else?"

The servant's brow puckered deeply as he tried to remember. "I don't think my ship was here anymore, Master. It was called away on urgent business."

Sejeel nodded. A pleasing answer. "And your appearance?"

"No different from what it is now," said Draz. "In my dream, I looked the same."

The Vorta sighed. He had hoped for more. "And how is that possible, I ask you, if you came here from another world? Neither I nor the Jem'Hadar look like the Illarhi. How would you?"

Draz thought for a moment. Then his eyes black eyes seemed to brighten. "I didn't look like the Illarhi originally. I was altered to look like them."

Sejeel had a feeling that this wasn't part of his servant's dream at all. It seemed to him that Draz was making the story up as he went along—no doubt, in an attempt to entertain his master.

Nonetheless, the Vorta played along with it.

"It's true that people on other worlds can arrange to surgically alter their appearances," he allowed. "But why, I wonder, would someone from a world where that was possible wish to become a denizen of this world?"

Again, Draz paused, as if trying to come up with a plausible answer. "I… was a scientist," he said finally. "A scientist who wished to study the Illarhi without their noticing. That's why I was altered to look like them—so I could mingle with them and examine them at close quarters."

"How intriguing," said the Vorta. Indeed, it was a clever answer, especially for a member of such a simple species. "And what happened to you in your dream? Did you carry out your scientific study?"

"I did," Draz seemed to decide. "That is, until you and the Jem'Hadar appeared on Illarh. Then my study was interrupted."

"Of course," said Sejeel. "And was that the end of your dream? The arrival of your master and his Jem'Hadar?"

He hoped it wasn't so, but he sensed that his servant's ingenuity might be reaching its limits. Indeed, he was both surprised and pleased that it had gone this far.

"Not quite," said Draz.

Sejeel leaned forward. "Really? There's more."

"Yes, Master. You see, in my dream, I had retained the technology I needed to send a message to my people—my true people, not the Illarhi."

"Yes, yes, I understand which people you mean," said Sejeel a little impatiently. "And did you send them a message with this technology you had?"

"I did. I contacted them and I told them what the Jem'Hadar were doing to Illarh."

The Vorta felt his smile fading a little. This truly was a strange dream. "And what was it the Jem'Hadar were doing, if I may ask?"

"In my dream," said the Illarhi, "the Jem'Hadar were setting up a depot here to serve a war effort. A rather large war effort, you understand."

Sejeel grunted softly. How strange that his servant should say such a thing. Was it possible that Draz was more perceptive than the Vorta had given him credit for?

"Seeing this," Draz continued, "I obtained operational data on the shield generator the Jem'Hadar set up. Then I sent it to my people. Not the Illarhi—"

"Your real people," Sejeel said, more eager than ever for his servant to finish—if for a different reason now. "As I indicated before, I understand the distinction."

"Yes, my real people," Draz echoed, as if he needed to do so in order to get himself back on track. "It was my hope that with such information, my people could pierce the Jem'Hadar's shield. Then I studied the Jem'Hadar's duty schedules, and recommended the best times for my people to attack."

The Vorta felt a chill climbing the rungs of his spine. "How absurd," he said, "how positively absurd."

Suddenly, he had an urge to get in touch with Baraj'aran. Taking out his communications device, he opened a link.

But there was no response from the Jem'Hadar First. Only a series of loud, guttural sounds that sounded eerily like barked commands.

Sejeel's mouth was remarkably dry. He eyed Draz, wondering what in the name of the Founders was going on.

"Excuse me," he told his servant, and got up out of his chair. Then he advanced to the window where Draz was standing, meaning to fling aside the window covering and see what was going on outside for himself.

But Draz blocked his way. "Your pardon," he said to Sejeel, "but it would please me immensely if you would allow me to finish."

"Finish…" the Vorta echoed numbly.

"Finish my dream," the Illarhi explained.

Sejeel's fists clenched. "What is happening, Draz? What is this about?"

His voice sounded shrill in his ears. It was the voice of someone who was suddenly very afraid.

"Finally," said Draz, "my people did attack. And the first thing they did was disable the vessel the Jem'Hadar had left in orbit."

Sejeel's mouth felt dry. As dry as dust.

"That was why the Jem'Hadar on the surface lost contact with the vessel. It was because it had been attacked. In my dream, however, the Vorta in charge of the depot didn't respond to that news. He was too eager to hear—"

Copyright © 2004 by Paramount Pictures.