* * *
Riker stepped from the forward turbolift onto the Enterprise’s main bridge, and let out a long, slow breath of appreciation. It was spacious, even compared to the Hood’s main bridge; and the clean lines of its architecture could not conceal the fact that it bristled with the most advanced technology Starfleet had to offer. On his left, the main viewscreen offered a huge ceiling-to-deck picture of the arc of the planet below and the glittering sweep of the starfield beyond. The control and operations consoles with their lowslung couches were immediately in front of the viewscreen. Further back, tucked into the horseshoe-shaped curve of the section that divided the rear of the bridge from the command well was the captain’s chair, flanked by chairs for the first officer and the ship’s counselor, plus comfortable seats for any visiting guests or ship’s officers called to the bridge. Ramps led up either side of the horseshoe to the aft bridge section where instrument and computer stations were ranked for science officers, propulsion systems engineers, emergency manual override, and environmental systems. The aft turbo fitted into the bridge next to the emergency equipment lockers; and, immediately to Riker’s right, was the captain’s main bridge ready room. Overhead, a dome offered another view of the stars. Riker found it breathtaking, but the minimal station keeping crew on the bridge tended their business as though it were completely routine. Riker supposed he would get used to it, too; but he hoped he would never lose the proud lift of his heart that he had felt when he stepped onto the bridge the first time.
The young Klingon lieutenant (j.g.) who sat in the command chair respectfully came to his feet as he recognized the commander’s insignia. The only stranger wearing that rank had to be the new first officer. “Commander Riker?”
“Yes,” Riker said, stepping forward. “You are . . . ?”
“Lieutenant Worf, sir. May I help you?”
“Where will I find Lieutenant Commander Data?”
“He is on a special assignment, sir. He’s using one of our shuttlecraft to transfer a senior officer back to the Hood.”
“Senior officer?”
Worf corrected himself. “Beg pardon, sir. A retired senior officer. He’s been aboard since we made reconnect, inspecting the medical layout of the ship.”
Riker began to smile. “Ah. The admiral.”
“Yes, sir,” Worf agreed. “A remarkable man.”
Data led the old man along the Enterprise corridor with a gentle care for his fragility. The admiral was stooped, wrinkled, his skin almost transparent with his great age. What remained of his hair was a yellowy white. “When we gonna get there?” he asked in a cracked and cranky-sounding voice.
“It’s not too far, sir,” Data said. “Just along here. The transporter will have you on the Hood in a matter of seconds.”
The admiral stubbornly planted his feet and straightened up as far as he could, glaring with brilliant blue eyes at Data. “Hold it right there, boy. You can just cancel that transporter talk right now. Only reason I let ’em promote me to admiral was so’s I could commandeer a shuttle when I wanted one.”
“But, sir—”
“And I want one now.”
“Sir, the transporter—”
The admiral shoved his face into Data’s and scowled fiercely at him. “Have you got some reason to want my atoms scattered all over space?” he asked belligerently.
“No, sir.” If he could get a word in edgewise, Data could reason with a rhino with a toothache and a hangover. “But at your age, sir,” he said diplomatically, “I thought you should not have to put up with the time and trouble of a shuttlecraft—”
The admiral’s growl told him that was the wrong tack to take. “What about my age?”
“Sorry, sir. If that subject troubles you—”
“Troubles me? What’s so damned troubling about not having died? How old do you think I am?”
Finally, a statement Data could make with no fear of misinterpretation. “One hundred thirty-seven years, Admiral. According to Starfleet records.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed as he studied Data’s calm face. “Explain how you remember that so exactly.”
“I remember every fact I am exposed to, sir.”
The admiral leaned closer, scowling, squinting one eye to examine Data’s ears. “I don’t see any points on your ears, boy, but you sound like a Vulcan.”
“No, sir. I am an android.”
The admiral snorted in disdain. “Almost as bad. Built by Vulcans?”
Data blinked his yellow eyes. He felt at a loss but was determined to remain respectful to the feisty old man. “No, sir.” He paused and ventured, “I thought it was generally accepted, sir, that Vulcans are an advanced and most honorable race.”
The admiral stared at him a moment, and Data noted the transition as the severe blue eyes gentled and the scowl faded. Something else—a memory perhaps—seemed to flash across the old man’s mind; and he patted Data’s sleeve, nodding briefly. “They are, boy. They are.” His voice went gruff again. “And also damned annoying at times.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The admiral drew himself together, and the testy frown settled back on his face. “Well, let’s get on with it. The shuttle bay now—not that damned transporter room. You got that?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Data put a hand under his elbow and guided him toward a turbolift. “This way, please.”
Admiral Leonard McCoy (Starfleet Medical Corps, Retired) curled one side of his mouth in a half smile. He had won again. This victory had been far easier than the one he had managed in order to get on the Hood for the journey here to see the brand new U.S.S. Enterprise. He had been stuck in Bethesda Starfleet Hospital when she had been commissioned out of the Mars spacedock. Damn that foolish accident anyhow! He had broken his hip and torn knee ligaments all to hell tripping over one of his great great grandchildren’s toys. And why? He had been hurrying to catch a tri-holo documentary on the building of the new ship and the history she would be carrying into space—history in which he had played a part. His daughter, Joanna, had chided him that his accident was largely due to conceit. She said he had wanted to make sure his name was mentioned!
He had raged and fumed, but no amount of carrying on had been able to get him out of the hospital any sooner. Today’s medicine even made some of his old techniques seem like primitive witch doctoring—just as Spock frequently used to remark to get his dander up—but there was still very little that could be done to make old bones mend faster than in two days. There’s a pun in there, he thought grimly. He had been forced to watch the commissioning ceremony on the biggest and best tri-holo set available, but it wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted to be there with the others. He had seen the other starships that had borne the name Enterprise, had served on three of them, until Starfleet had promoted him to admiral and command of Starfleet Medical Corps.
He had retired ten years ago and more or less settled into a comfortable life on a small but meticulously maintained farm in a still rural area of Georgia. The news of the construction of a new Enterprise—NCC-1701-D—unexpectedly had given him a jolting thrill, and he knew he had to see her.
That was when “Bones” McCoy began to do something he had never before done in his life. He politicked. He was a retired admiral . . . an old Enterprise senior officer . . . and he called in ancient favors and long overdue debts with charm and perseverance, until he got himself outbound on the Hood with the roster of new personnel meeting the Enterprise at Farpoint Station. After that, it had been easy to finagle a courtesy tour of the ship, particularly the medical facilities.
McCoy liked her. This Enterprise was bigger than any other starship in the fleet, but size alone wouldn’t have endeared her to him. He could see traces of the original ship he had first known in the trim racehorse outlines of this one. She was fast; she was efficient; she was the best of her breed; and McCoy had always loved style. Her crew was, again, the best and the brightest. He had been impressed with Jean-Luc Pica
rd, a different style of captain, but clearly a brilliant one. McCoy felt comfortable with this new Enterprise in his hands.
They had finally reached the shuttle bay. McCoy grunted softly, tired with the effort of walking on his still-game leg. The android turned to him, concerned.
“Are you quite all right, sir?”
McCoy nodded briefly. “Yep. Want you to remember something.”
“Of course, sir.”
“This is a new ship, boy, but she’s got the right name. Remember that.”
“I will, sir.”
“You treat her like a lady. She’ll always bring you home.”
Chapter Six
BEVERLY CRUSHER HAD served in some of the best starbase hospitals and on several starships, but the technology at her disposal in the Enterprise’s sickbay was impressive beyond her wildest imaginings. Ismail Asenzi, the young doctor who would be her assistant, had covered most of the equipment and was proudly showing her the hospital beds with which the treatment room was equipped. He seemed to know his business; but Beverly noticed that he regarded the equipment, especially the computer-controlled operations, as machinery that functioned on its own without need of human attention.
“Every bed has a full set of instruments here,” he said as he directed her attention to the side of the bed.
Beverly nodded and reached out to touch a contact point at the left hand side of the bed. A tray of instruments slid out, and she looked them over as she spoke. “Yes. Sterilized and examined by the ship’s computer. Do you ever examine them, Doctor?”
“But it isn’t necessary, Doctor. The ship’s computer signals on the med-alert screen if they show any sign of damage or deterioration.”
Beverly tapped the contact point again, and the tray of instruments obediently slid back into the bed. She raised her glance to Asenzi, and her voice grew measurably colder. “I didn’t ask you that, Dr. Asenzi. I asked if you personally examined them.”
The younger man was embarrassed. He knew it was required that physicians and surgeons check their instruments despite the computer surveillance, but he had become used to letting the machine do it because he had never found an error. “The computers have always done it,” he admitted.
“You weren’t taught that dependence in medical school any more than I was.” Beverly’s voice softened. “It’s every physician-surgeon’s responsibility to be sure the instruments are in perfect order. In my sickbay, that means the doctor personally examines them.”
Asenzi nodded. “You are correct. I have been remiss.”
“I’m sure it won’t happen again.” Beverly moved away toward a glossy vertical area on a nearby wall. “The L-CARS for sickbay are up to date, of course.”
On this, Asenzi could be proud of himself. The Library-Computer Access and Retrieval System for sickbay was his particular concern. A patient’s life could depend on the accuracy and thoroughness of the records in the L-CARS, and Asenzi spent considerable time keeping them up to date. “Everything is in order. If you wish to check them yourself. . . .”
“Thank you.” Beverly turned to the panel and spoke clearly. “Computer, show me the complete results of Captain Picard’s most recent physical examination.” The screen promptly glowed and began to flash up written information, followed by X-rays, dental records, full record of any medications prescribed. “Very comprehensive, Dr. Asenzi. And exceptionally complete. I am going to charge you with the continuing maintenance of these records, but if you have any questions or problems, please feel free to come to me on them. Computer, cancel.” The screen went dark, and Beverly swung around to face Asenzi. “I’m very pleased with the condition of the sickbay and all its equipment, Doctor. You’re doing an excellent job, and I’m sure it will continue. I’d like to arrange a staff meeting as soon as possible.”
“Would this evening be suitable? After dinner perhaps?”
“Very suitable. Thank you—” She broke off in mid-sentence, staring past Asenzi as the door to sickbay hissed open.
Jean-Luc Picard stepped through and stopped, looking at the two doctors. He hesitated almost uncertainly. “Excuse me. Am I interrupting?”
Beverly collected herself and found a smile. “Not at all. We were just finishing the grand tour of sickbay.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I’ll arrange the meeting for you. Would 2030 do?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Asenzi jerked a little bow toward Beverly and then Picard, slid past them, and glided out the door. It hissed closed behind him. Beverly and Picard stood a little apart, an uncomfortable silence resting between them.
She looks marvelous, Picard thought—almost as if fifteen years haven’t gone by. He had never been able to forget the way she looked the first time he had seen her—nor the last, when he had had the unhappy duty of bringing her husband’s body home to her. Picard shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “I thought I should come down to see you personally, Dr. Crusher.”
“Am I late in reporting, sir? I had intended to see you formally when I completed my examination of the medical facilities.”
Picard did not immediately answer, and Beverly let the silence lie between them. Finally, he sighed and looked at her fully. “I want you to be aware that I protested your posting to the Enterprise. However, I felt I should explain my reasons to you.”
“Do you feel I’m unqualified?”
“Not at all. Your service record is enviable—in fact, it’s the best in the entire Fleet. I have no quarrel with your professional qualifications as chief medical officer.”
Beverly’s chin came up defiantly. She knew someone had tried to prevent her from taking this assignment. Until this moment, she never would have thought it was Jean-Luc Picard. “Then you must object to me personally,” she said acidly. “And you’re going to have to work very hard, sir, to make a personal objection valid enough to Starfleet to block my permanent assignment to this ship.”
“I’m only trying to be considerate of your feelings,” he said slowly. “Serving with a commanding officer who would continually remind you of such a personal tragedy as your husband’s death wouldn’t be easy for you—” He was being compassionate. He hoped she would understand that . . .
Beverly exploded in anger, slamming her hand down on the bed beside her. “You underestimate me, Jean-Luc Picard. If I had any objections to serving with you, I wouldn’t have requested assignment to this ship in the first place.”
Picard was stunned. “You requested the posting?” He had made the completely opposite assumption—before he had the facts. He rarely ever did that. And he had been wrong.
“I’ve apparently misjudged your feelings in the matter,” he began.
“You certainly have,” Beverly snapped.
“I’ll withdraw my objection to your assignment immediately.” Picard turned toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me. . . .”
He was almost to the door before she stirred and called after him. “Captain.” He stopped and looked around at her, and for a brief instant she wasn’t sure what she would say. Then she realized what she had to tell him, for his sake. “I assure you my feelings about Jack’s death have nothing to do with you or my position on this ship. I intend to do everything in my power to serve the Enterprise as a doctor.”
Picard considered and finally nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.” Their shared look was not comfortable; but the hostility had gone, evaporated in an attempt at understanding.
Beverly went to the desk in her office and slumped in the chair. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper; she hadn’t thought she would have to defend her choice of assignment to the Enterprise. Fortunately, Jean-Luc Picard was the same level-tempered, thoughtful man he had been fifteen years ago when she had met him before the Stargazer’s second voyage. She already had her medical degree and had been in private practice for eight years when Jack came home and announced to her that he had won the assignment as the Stargazer’s first officer. He respected Captain Picard for the accompl
ishments achieved on the Stargazer’s first ten-year journey of exploration and research. It was a small ship, but it was a prestige assignment to be in her crew.
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