"I am certain that you will do whatever necessary to complete your task."

"And how do you know that?"

"You are Dax. It is your way."

-Worf and Ezri Dax, "Field of Fire"

Rizon is a doctor who is working on a cure without Federation aid. As he and his co-workers discover a vaccine, Rizon discovers that the changeling plot Zetil Dax and Odo diverted has been revived and is responsible for the virus when Odo pays him a visit…

It was a dark gray cloudy day. A chilling breeze, a forerunner to the coming storm, wiped over the ground and Trill’s people oceans. Several sailing ships and other water vessels lay at anchor in Daxon Harbor, a small harbor along the southeast end of the main continent. The harbor was famous to the planet’s inhabitants for its fishing and for its tourist trade. Many Trills, along with the occasional visitors from other worlds, journeyed to this spot every year. The tropical paradise was considered the second of the most desirable destinations on Trill. It was second only to the ___ springs (season four episode – where Kira and Dax wearing bathing suits).

That day, however, with the rain on its way, very few people lingered outdoors. Entertainers that usually lined the docks and the streets in Daxon were packing up their booths and props and hurrying to their homes. Out in the water, only a couple of ships remained in the distance; the rest had already entered the harbor.

A portion of the cloud cover suddenly darkened overhead. A second later, a shuttlecraft had passed through. In a twenty-sixth century world, according to Earth’s Christian calendar, the twenty-fifth century craft would seem out of place elsewhere, but not in the skies above Daxon; the harbor city attracted all types. Hardly anyone glanced up as the shuttle descended in the direction of the landing pods on the northern end of town.

In minutes, the craft had touched down on its owner’s private pad. It emitted a number of loud, spluttering noises before the engine shut down. Once, the shuttle had been a Starfleet vessel, and the finest shuttlecraft in the fleet. Ninety years later, however, any sensible pilot and engineer would consider it an outdated piece of junk.

Its Federation registration numbers had been painted over. The rest of the hull had also been re-painted. The ship, instead of the Starfleet regulation light gray, was now white in some places and dark purple in others. All Trills knew that the inspiration for those two colors came from the colors of the banners of Trill’s old government, back before it became a Federation member. The craft wasn't a military vessel, however, but it was a private craft. The only writing on the craft's hull, in both Federation Standard and Trill Standard, bore the shuttlecraft's name, the Rio Grande.

The door in the side of the craft slid open. A Trill male in his late thirties stepped out and onto the pad. His spots seemed to disappear into his black hair, which contrasted sharply with his shuttle’s white hull. He had hard yet compassionate icy-blue eyes, and he carried a satchel over his shoulder. His name was Rizon Dax, twelfth host to the Dax symbiont, and he wasn’t feeling very compassionate. On the contrary, he was furious.

He stalked over to the steps leading off the pad and onto the ground. Sand, carried onto every concrete, brick, and dirt surface by the wind, swept into his shoes. While this might be irritating to some, Rizon hardly felt the difference at all. Dax’s latest host grew up in Daxon. He was used to the sand, and feeling it between his toes actually calmed him, but only a little.

The public transporters were closed due to the storm. Rizon scowled at the locked doors before setting off down the street, passed the last of the landing pads, most of them occupied, and between the first buildings on the edge of town. His house was located a block or two from the harbor, all the way on the other side of town. On another day, when he wasn’t feeling so impatient, he would have enjoyed the walk, but Rizon was in a hurry. He reached his house as the first rumble of thunder began overhead. He quickly entered his access code. The door slid open and Rizon stepped into his small foyer. He dropped the satchel on the floor next to the doorway leading into the kitchen before turning left and entering his living area. Two couches and a rocking chair were positioned in the room; a hall began in the left corner of the room, leading to the master bedroom, a guest bedroom, a study, and a bathroom.

Rizon plopped down in the couch on wall that was the farthest from the door. The gray light from outside filtered in through the shuttered window above the couch; shadows cast designs on his hair and the floor. Rizon reached over to the end table and grabbed the portable communication view screen and keypad. He opened the lid and turned the device on before typing in a number.

Several seconds passed before the Old Guard Trill design on the screen blacked out. A microsecond later, another Trill’s face had replaced it. The Trill, a man about Rizon’s age, looked surprised. "Rizon! What are you doing, calling me here?"

Rizon ignored the question. "Is this line secure?"

"Of course it’s secure. However, my office is not. Anyone could walk in here at any time."

"So lock the door!" Rizon exclaimed. His patience had run out.

Ordez, tenth host of Kov, sighed in frustration before standing up. He disappeared from the screen for a moment. He returned a few seconds later. "It’s locked. Now what is it that you wanted to talk about?"

Rizon glared at the other man. As if Kov didn’t know. "I want to talk about what happened yesterday."

Kov raised a stubborn eyebrow. "We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in three days, while you went on your little trip, wherever it is you went. I don’t know what you mean about ‘what happened yesterday.’"

Rizon let out a growl. "By the Creator, Kov, don’t you play those games with me! I want to know what possessed you to agree to lend those replicators to the Federation!"

Kov gave him a distrustful look. "How’d you know about that? We won’t release that information to the public until this afternoon."

Once again, Rizon chose to ignore his question. "I’m waiting."

Kov sighed again. "It seems that you’ve forgotten that Trill is still a member of the Federation, Rizon." Kov looked as if he wished he’d been able to forget it as well; just saying the word ‘member’ brought a suppressed look of disgust to his features. "The Federation may be weaker than it once was, but it’s still powerful enough to do Trill some serious damage. You know that. We need to stay on the Federation’s good side."

"The Federation should be either abolished or restored to what it once was," Rizon said, and not for the first time. "You shouldn’t play into their hands like that. By giving them the replicators, do you honestly think the Federation would be indebted to us? Believe me, they won’t."

"I know, Dax!" Kov said, getting impatient himself. He’d heard the arguments before; both of them had. "It’s not my fault. I am a Council member, and I have to be careful. You know that. Kov out."

The screen went blank. Rizon angrily snapped the lid closed before he stood up and began to pace.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, the Starfleet vessel USS Defiant had traveled forward to this time, two hundred years in their future. Rizon, using some tools he knew how to use via Yorin’s memories, had sent them back home, back through the temporal anomaly that had sent them forward in the first place. All so they could meet him. All so that Dax could see all them again. All so Rizon could pass on a message to Ezri, one that would prepare her for when she became Rizon and was responsible for sending the Defiant back in time.

Seeing his old crew – no, his old family – again had been difficult, not to mention painful. Dax could remember knowing them all for decades until they died of old age. It hadn’t been easy seeing them all again when they were so young and alive…and members of a Federation that had died along with them.

The United Federation of Planets had suffered greatly since the Dominion War. They’d barely recovered from that war before a second, smaller war with the dominion broke out. It was over in weeks, but soon the Romulans were attacking, not to mention the Borg. Most of the Federation’s attention was concentrated on defending their borders. Their resources were more limited than ever; several planets had left the Federation before it could no longer fulfill its end of their treaties. The UFP had very little time to spare on medical supplies and the like. That had caused a large disagreement between the UFP and Trill almost two decades ago, when half of Trill’s joined population suddenly became ill. The Trill scientists had found a cure eventually, but if the Federation had cooperated, the cure would have been found much sooner. Now, Trill’s symbiont population was down ten percent.

Many Trill would never forgive the Federation for allowing so many symbionts and their hosts to die. Some Trill still supported the Federation, and many of these Trill were in powerful positions. Someday, Trill would no longer be a Federation member; Rizon was sure of it. The question, of course, was when. The way things were going, the Federation would bleed them dry without giving them anything in return before the higher ups would see reason and drop out of the Federation. Rizon Dax was not a patient man. He couldn’t wait that long.

He was a medical doctor. For the last two weeks, with the exception of his little trip to the Bajoran border, he had been on vacation at his home in Daxon. That was only officially. Unofficially, his situation was slightly different. Rizon Dax was a resistance fighter, in a sense. After Yorin Dax had died on Rizon ____’s table and Rizon and Dax were joined, Rizon had wanted either of two things: a better, more caring Federation or Trill’s independence. Trill had been an isolated planet before. Rizon knew it could never be like that again, but he knew Trill didn’t depend on the UFP and could easily survive without it. However, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that; Trill had gone chances of surviving on its own, but its chances were still less than they once had been.

If the Federation and Starfleet could be restored to their original purposes, Rizon was all for staying in the Federation. But if the Federation continued down the road to ruin it was traveling on, and Trill didn’t leave while it still could, Trill would be brought down with them.

Rizon was more open about his opinions than some, including his council member friend, Ordez Kov. It was why he’d painted his spacecraft in the Old Guard colors, but it was also why his craft was a retired Starfleet vessel.

So far, he and his associates hadn’t done much to achieve their goals. Rizon could only hope that would change soon. His patience was nearly gone. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done. Except, of course, enjoy his vacation.

Rain splattered against the window, making him jump. He could hear raindrops pounding against his roof and sighed. Even his vacation would have to wait. He couldn’t go anywhere during the storm.

Late that night, there was a knock on his door. For a while after he’d woken up, he didn’t comprehend what he was hearing. After all, anyone sensible would have used the door chime. Then he heard the rain still beating against his home and realized he wouldn’t have heard the chime over its racket. Whoever was beating his door was probably close to punching a hole through it in order to be heard.

He opened the door a few moments later. Three people stood on his covered porch, and the sight of them made him become instantly awake. He recognized Starfleet uniforms when he saw them. The Zetil in him noted the changes in fashion since her own time, while the Curzon, Jadzia, and Ezri in him took in more relevant details. Two armed security guards, a Vulcan female and an Andorian male, stood behind a human male with commander’s stripes over his left shoulder.

"Are you Rizon Dax?" the commander asked.

"Who are you?" Rizon asked him.

"I’m Commander Horace Brunton with Temporal Investigations. These are my associates, Ensigns zh’Thista and N’Tra. We’d like to ask you some questions concerning your involvement in the USS Defiant’s trip into their future thirty-two hours ago."

Rizon had wondered when Starfleet would come to see him about that. "It was a Pre-Destination Paradox," he told them. "I was supposed to meet them and board their vessel immediately after they exited the anomaly. Everything else you need to know is in the reports written by the crew of the Defiant."

"We'd gathered as much," said Brunton, "but we'd like to ask you a few questions, just to make sure the record is sound."

Rizon could see, barely within sight on either side of the commander's arms, the two security guards wrap their hands around their phasers. Rizon bit his lip, trying with difficulty to suppress his anger. The Federation had become so corrupt that it saw enemies over every shoulder and behind every door; they couldn't even ask for a report on a time traveling incident without brandishing their weapons.

For a minute, Rizon contemplated coming out onto the porch to talk, which would force the two security officers to back up onto the path and into the rainstorm.

However, that would only give the trigger-happy ensigns incentive to do something really stupid. So Rizon moved aside, allowing them to enter his house.

"Go ahead, sit down. Make yourselves at home," Rizon said, keeping his tone light and fake.

"Thank you."

The two guards stayed standing just inside the doors. Brunton took a seat in one of the chairs in Rizon's living area. Rizon sat in the corner opposite him, on the same side as the two guards. If the ensigns were ordered to shoot him, they'd have to twist a little to do it properly.

"You mentioned that your meeting with the crew of the Defiant was a Time-Paradox. Could you explain how you know this?"

"When I was Ezri, Rizon left me a note telling me what I'd have to do to send the Defiant back in time, and as Rizon I left the same note for Ezri while I was on the ship."