by Peter David
have lived their lives as the fates have determined.
People have been born and died for forty years since the
death of Deanna. Things have happened as they were
meant to happen. You cannot now suddenly flip open
the books of history, erase what's been
written, and reinscribe it with a story more to your
liking."
"I could go before Starfleet--"
"That's certainly your prerogative," agreed
Data. "But I do not foresee any instance where
Starfleet will be willing to risk sacrificing all
reality for the sake of one woman."
Riker was hushed. Sensing that perhaps he was getting
through to him, Data pressed on. "Have you considered
something, Admiral? You say that all you wish to do
is save Deanna. But have you considered the
possibility that--even if you accomplish your
task--y might, in the midst of doing it, make
matters worse? With knowledge of forty years' worth of
events, you could easily say something, do something, that
has either an immediate impact or an influence
further down the time stream. If knowledge is power, then
knowledge of the future is the ultimate power. No one,
Admiral ... not you, nor I ... no one has
the wisdom to wield that power. The nontampering
rule of time travel is in place for just as
solid a reason as the Prime Directive.
And as in the case of the Prime Directive, it
may be something that's difficult for us to live with
... but it is, nonetheless, necessary."
Riker stood with his back to Data. And Data
could see, slowly but surely, a lot of the fire
and spark slowly draining from him. His shoulders
slumped, his posture drooped. His hands, which had
been tightly curled around the edges of the table,
slackened.
When he spoke, it was with the air of defeat that
he had carried with him all these years. "She is
just one woman, isn't she."
"Yes, sir. And you, sir ... are a
conscientious and ethical man. You would not put at
risk an entire reality ... for the sake of one
woman."
"All right, Data," Riker said tiredly.
"You've convinced me. Maybe it's ... maybe
it's time I just realized that I have to let go."
"I think, sir, it would be for the best."
Riker turned to face him, and there was the same
despondency that Data had seen when he picked
up Riker on Betazed.
"Take me home, Data," he said
quietly. "And we'll let Deanna rest in
peace."
The second return trip to Starbase 86 was
uneventful. There were no more sudden outbursts from
Admiral Riker, no more abrupt flurries of
activity. He stayed in his cabin the entire time.
Several times Data went to him, tried to engage
him in casual conversation about routine matters of
policy, or sought his advice on various
topics that had come up in the normal course of
activity.
In each instance, Riker's replies were terse
and to the point. He did not try to drive away
companionship, but he did not welcome it. He
simply ... existed. Data noted that Riker
didn't seem interested in meeting the world on any
sort of terms.
For a time, Data was concerned that Riker was making
some sort of plan to head for the Guardian of Forever
the moment he was dropped off at 86. Although
Data hated resorting to subterfuge, he
nevertheless sent his ship's counselor to try to draw
out Riker on what was bothering him. The admiral
was not particularly responsive, but that didn't
matter. He didn't know that the counselor was a
full Betazoid who, upon being told that urgent
matters were at stake, forced himself to probe more
deeply--albeit very gently--than he would
normally have.
He reported back to Data and the account was
precisely what Data had hoped to hear. "He
is rather despondent, Commodore," said the
counselor. "But if I had to select any
single ^w that would most describe him at this
moment, I would have to say ... resigned."
"Resigned to what?"
"Resigned to whatever years he has
left. Resigned to his life. For all intents
and purposes ... he's given up."
To a large measure, this was good news. And
yet, Data could not help but feel a great sense
of loss upon hearing this. As if he had somehow
passed a sentence of living death upon his friend.
When he informed Riker that they had arrived at
Starbase 86, the information received the merest nod of
acknowledgment from him. He packed his bags
quietly, and Data accompanied him to the
transporter room.
"If it's all the same to you, Admiral,"
Data said, "I'd like to beam down with you."
Riker shrugged. "The space station is open
to everyone. Why should the commander of the Enterprise be
excluded?" It was the longest single sentence he
had uttered in twenty-four hours.
Lieutenant Dexter was waiting for them at the
transporter platform of the starbase and gave that
customary, slightly puckered smile that he
specialized in. "It's good to have you back,
Admiral. I trust everything went smoothly on
Betazed?"
"Fine." Riker nodded his head in Data's
direction. "You know Commodore Data?"
"Actually I don't believe we've had the
pleasure," said Dexter, shaking Data's hand.
Riker stepped around them and headed for his office.
Dexter started to follow at his heels, but Data
held him slightly back and spoke in a low
undertone. "The admiral went through something of an
ordeal on Betazed. I would be most
appreciative if you could keep a close eye
on him for the next few days."
"What?" said Dexter nervously, casting a
surreptitious glance at Riker. "He's not
sick or anything, is he?"
"I don't believe so. But he is quite
dispirited. I would strongly suggest that you make every
endeavor to proceed with business as usual. And if
he should do anything out of the ordinary ... please
contact me via subspace radio."
"All right. Consider it done, Commodore."
"Thank you." In a slightly raised voice,
Data now called out, "Admiral--I must
return to the Enterprise. If I can be of
further use ..."
Riker stopped and turned, looking at Data
sadly. "No, Commodore. I believe you've
done more than enough." And he entered his
office, the doors hissing shut behind him.
Dexter shivered slightly. "Now that is someone
who is in a very bad mood."
"Yes," confirmed Data. "Unfortunately,
the mood has persisted for forty years."
"And the Chance will be arriving by this time tomorrow," said
Dexter. "We're prepared for restocking. Oh
... and Starfleet sent another remind
er about
processing paperwork on time."
Riker regarded Dexter with a steady gaze.
"Tell Starfleet," he said thoughtfully, "that
we'll speed up the paperwork as soon as they send
us paper."
Dexter blinked owlishly. "Sir ... no one
really uses paper anymore, to any great
degree. It's ... it's just a phrase, sir.
Relatively speaking."
"Fine. Then tell Starfleet that we'll be
processing our figurative paperwork on time
... relatively speaking. Time, after all, is
relative."
"Yes, sir," said Dexter tiredly.
"Is there anything else?"
"No, sir," said Dexter, tapping his computer
padd.
"I didn't think so," said Riker slowly.
"There wouldn't be, would there. Same old thing.
Day in, day out. And time passes."
"Yes, sir." Now Dexter was starting to sound
nervous. "Admiral, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Riker sighed loudly. "Just
fine."
Dexter nodded and then backed out of the office,
taking as much time as he could to watch Riker.
Riker, for his part, had his chin propped up on his
hand, but spared a moment to toss off a cheery wave
at Dexter before the door closed.
And then he was alone.
He swiveled in his chair and looked out at the
stars. The Enterprise had departed orbit around
the space station, off to whatever their new great
adventure was. For there was still adventure out there,
that much was certain. Still a big galaxy with a lot
going on. Just not a lot that interested him.
He heard it behind him.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The grandfather clock. His pride and joy.
His symbol of the passing hours.
He watched the pendulum slowly,
ponderously, swing back and forth. Back and forth.
Like a large, heavy scythe. Slicing through the
air, cutting through time, minute by minute, cleaving
it neatly. Each second unaffected by the
previous second, and uncaring of the next. Every
second was the same to the pendulum.
Nothing mattered.
It just marked time.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound grew louder in his head, louder throughout
his entire being. The sound that reminded him that this was
it, that time was unyielding and pointless and there was
nothing to be done about it, it was just there, that's all.
The cogs of the clock irrevocably moved
against each other, each tooth engaging smoothly and
flawlessly, unheeding of anything except its
relentless clockworks.
And he saw her.
In his mind's eye, he saw Deanna, lying
there on one of the cogs. The teeth of the cogs
calmly integrated, and without uttering a whimper
she was mashed in between. The cogs moved on and spit
her out, her remains littering the clockworks, and
nothing mattered because she was just another piece of
garbage to be crunched and tossed aside.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
With a barely controlled scream of rage,
Riker grabbed the grandfather clock from behind and, with
all his strength, shoved. The heavy clock
toppled forward and crashed to the ground like a giant
redwood, the crash virtually exploding throughout the
space station. Glass shattered, wood cracked
and splintered, and there was the eminently satisfying
sound of clockworks screeching to a halt, cogs and
wheels skittering out and across the floor and rolling
in small circles before clattering to a halt.
Dexter ran in, alarmed at the racket, and
saw Riker standing over the mess, his
fists clenched and a crooked smile on his face.
Riker looked up at him and all he said was,
"Whoops."
When the surveying ship Chance arrived barely
twelve hours later, Riker was ready.
CHAPTER 36
The Enterprise 1701-F was halfway
to its next port of call when a subspace
communication came in that immediately got Commodore
Data's full attention.
"This is Enterprise," he said when the
computer's automatic hailing program informed
him of the incoming message and the point of origin.
"Go ahead."
"Commodore Data?"
It was precisely the voice Data would have
preferred not to have heard. "Yes, Lieutenant
Dexter. Computer, on vid."
A three-dimensional image appeared
directly in front of Data, projected there
by a free-floating chip. It was Dexter, and he
wiped his brow with considerable discomfort.
"Commodore, we have a problem."
"Specify."
"It's the admiral."
Blair and Data exchanged glances. "Is
he ill?" asked Data.
"No. He's gone."
"Do you have any idea as to where?"
"Not in the slightest," said Dexter, sounding
uncharacteristically put out. "He beamed up to the
Chance, supposedly for some sort of routine
business. The next thing I knew, the Chance had
blown out of here at warp three ... with the
admiral."
"Have you endeavored to contact them via
subspace?"
"Oh, I've endeavored, all right. They
don't answer. They're maintaining total
radio silence."
"Yes," said Data, sounding extremely
practical. "They would. The admiral would make
certain of that."
"But why?" demanded Dexter. "Why? What in
hell is he doing? Commodore, do you have any
idea?"
"I have an excellent idea, Lieutenant.
However, it is only an idea ... one
that I would prefer not to bandy about unless I have
confirmation. Thank you for alerting me to the situation.
I will attend to it. Enterprise out."
Dexter's image blinked out of existence before
he could get out another ^w.
Data swiveled in his chair to face Blair,
who said worriedly, "You know where he's going,
don't you, Commodore. It's connected with what
happened on Betazed, isn't it?"
Data felt the worried eyes of all his
bridge crew upon him. He wished that somehow he
had been able to impress on the admiral that all
these people, these people right here, had something at stake in the
way that things were. But Data had not been able to do
so, and now the best he could do was to perform damage
control.
And he would have to perform it no matter what the
cost.
"The top speed of the Chance is warp six,"
Data said, accessing his thorough memory of all
ships in the registry. "There is little doubt that they
are heading for the Forever World. Helm, set course
for the Forever World, warp eight."
"Course plotted and laid in, sir."
"Engage," said Data calmly.
The Enterprise leaped into warp space, a
nd
Data rose from the command chair. "Mr. Blair,
come with me to the briefing room, please. We need
to discuss worst-case strategy."
Blair followed his commanding officer into the ready
room, and Lamont at conn looked over
to Tucker at Ops. "You know," she said, "I
don't know which is preferable. Not knowing what's
going on ... or finding out."
"Approaching the Forever World, Commodore."
Data had sat rigid and unmoving, staring
intently at the screen, all of his considerable
brainpower focused on the problem that awaited them.
In an even more sedate tone than he usually
used, he said, "Sensors. Is there another ship
in orbit around the planet?"
"Negative," said Margolin at tactical,
but then he paused and said, "No ... wait.
There's--"
The Enterprise was jolted slightly as they
came within range of the time distortion ripples that were
standard for the vicinity of the Forever World.
his--a ship in standard orbit," continued
Margolin. "Markings and registry
indicate that it's the Chance. Sorry about the
confusion, sir. The time distortion ripples are
especially--"
Once again the ship was knocked around, this time to a
sufficient degree that automatic restraints
snapped into place on the chairs of the bridge,
holding the personnel firmly in their seats.
his--fierce," Margolin persevered, as if the
severe buffeting were only a minor inconvenience
designed to slow down the dissemination of information.
"It's interfering with our sensors."
"Compensate, Mr. Margolin. Give me a
hailing frequency to the Chance."
"You're on, Commodore."
"Chance, this is the USS Enterprise,
please acknowledge."
There was no response from the smaller ship.
There was, however, continued pounding from the waves of
time distortion, and Data could practically sense
time slipping away from him--in more than one sense
of the ^w.
A second hail brought continued radio
silence, and now Data gave an order that even
he didn't quite believe. "Mr. Margolin," he
said quietly, "arm phasers."
"Sir?" Margolin was thunderstruck.
They were all looking at Data with shock on
their faces. Nevertheless, the commodore knew he
had no choice. "Carry out my order, Mr.
Margolin," he said quietly.
"Yes, sir," said Margolin hollowly.