I finally understand it all. While I was away, some kind of apocalypse occurred. I walk alone through an empty Earth, abounding with ghosts in denial.

It doesn't look empty, though. The dead live in a world that is a near-duplicate of the one they lost. But if the end came, where are the Klingons, Romulans, or Kzinti? Why wouldn't they occupy us? The odd thing is, I know the face of the Omega, the aspect of the beast. There are a lot of things I can't remember anymore, but I know that it likely wouldn't leave even a lifeless planet in its wake.

Its worst at Christmas. It always meant so much to me. While awaiting the refit of the Enterprise--or so they tell themselves--the crew assembles at Uncle Bill's house in Montana. Jim and Nyta are playing with this little Vulcan girl. Mister Sulu has a wife, but its like she's not there, even as a ghost. Mister Chekov is recreating that great battle in Israel via holoproj, and it seems odd to see a tale of lights that never went out when all light has.

Doctor McCoy and Scotty do their best to coax Spock out of his corner, but he merely sits there, on occasion taking in popcorn. He's looking. Looking at something. On occasion, he mutters something, and I try to listen.

"I am sorry. Please stop haunting me."

At last it sinks in. He can see me. His telepathic mind lets him see me, the last survivor. As he walks outside, I follow him. I'm no longer alone. Through him, I can talk to the other dead people.

"I did not mean to leave you behind. You or the girl. But I cannot tell the others that you yet live. I can never openly acknowledge your continued existence. Now leave."

I don't wish to cause him pain. I should have realized. I am a reminder of all that has been lost to the one person who realizes the truth of the dead world. I walk, and I walk, and eventually--quicker than I can really account for--I'm in San Francisco, the grand capitol of a lost Starfleet. I wonder where the people I see beam out go to? Do their astral ships wander the stars that have blinked out?

I see it, though I would give anything not to. A place that resembles the old Biblical passages about a palace beautiful on the outside, yet with pillars filled with the dust from the bones of the living. It is corrupt. It is corrupting. It is corruption itself, and yet I go in. Down through its passages I go, til I encounter its most guarded spot.

Inside the cryo-pod, I spot the truth. And I rejoice. For my world is alive. My heroes are alive. I will be freed. Christmas, at its center, is about a promise that was kept. This promise will be kept for me one day, for some Christmases are better than others. With the promise, I can get through this one.

The world did not end. As my faith teaches me, on this day, it began anew.

---------------------------------------------------------------

The guards grumbled about drawing this duty.

"I had some sure things lined up. Why does Cartwright want this brat watched?"

 "He just does. Its nuts. Do you suppose he dreams in there?"

"In a medicated cryo-pod with massive psi-inhibitors set to max? Don't be stupid."

Yet the other guard sometimes swore he saw the astral image of the boy in the pod. At those times, he wondered if anything could truly hold Peter Kirk's spirit captive.

DECEMBER 25TH, 2271