by Generations
interior of the observatory operations room; as much as he had enjoyed his time with Data in Ten-Forward, he wouldn't want to beam down into a place like Amargosa with anything but a totally clear head.
Only the auxiliary lights were functional--just bright enough to allow humans to see, dim enough to give a gloomy, twilight effect. That, combined with the scorched ruins and utter silence, made for a decidedly eerie atmosphere, Geordi decided; or maybe it was just the fact that he knew people had died here. It was sad to see their years of work carelessly scattered, to see consoles bashed in, monitors blasted. He worked with the same hushed reverence he felt visiting graveyards.
Data, on the other hand, seemed unsettlingly cheerful, still glowing with enthusiasm for his new internal world; he smiled faintly to himself as he scanned the other side of ops with his tricorder.
Geordi peered at the tricorder readout and shook his head. "There's no sign of any trilithium in here....I can't imagine why the Romulans were looking for it." He scanned quietly for a moment longer, until Data released a soft giggle. He turned to look at his friend in perplexed amazement.
Data continued to laugh softly to himself. "I get it. I get it." Geordi frowned; it didn't seem right to be laughing where people had so recently been murdered--but he tried not to let his irritation show. After all, Data had never before experienced fear of death, and could accept it more matter-of-factly than a human. And maybe since he wasn't used to having emotions, he wasn't that good at suppressing them, either.
"You get what?" he asked the android.
Data erupted in laughter again, then finally controlled himself enough to gasp out, "When you said to Com- mander Riker"--and he perfectly mimicked Geordi's voice--" 'The clown can stay, but the Ferengi in the gorilla suit has to go.'" Geordi stared blankly at him. "What?" "During the Farpoint mission. We were on the bridge and you told a joke. That was the punch line." "The Farpoint mission? Data, that was seven years ago." "I know. I just got it." The android began giggling again. "It was very funny." Geordi shot him a dubious glance before turning away. "Thanks..." He headed down a short corridor that connected the main operations room with several compartments; Data followed, still chuckling softly.
Geordi stopped abruptly in front of what appeared to be a standard bulkhead. He turned excitedly to Data.
"Wait a minute. There's a hidden doorway here. I can see the joint of the metal with my VISOR." He ran his finger in a vertical line over the deceptively smooth metal.
Data stepped beside him and scanned the section with his tricorder, then frowned at the readout. "There appears to be a dampening field in operation. I cannot scan beyond the bulkhead." Geordi slung his tricorder over his shoulder and pressed his hands against the metal, trying to coax it open. "I don't see a control panel... or an access port." "It appears to be magnetically sealed." Data put his
own tricorder away, then peeled back the pale golden flesh on his wrist to reveal flashing circuitry. As he spoke, he made a deft adjustment. "I believe I can reverse the polarity by attenuating my axial servo." He finished his task, then waved his exposed circuitry over the bulkhead panel. "Open sesame." From within the panel came a hum, followed by a loud click. The door slid open; Data turned toward his friend with a smug grin. "You could say I have a... magnetic personality." I've created a monster, Geordi thought, but restricted himself to a grimace. Maybe if he ignored the android's annoying attempts at humor, they would pass. He moved quickly into the small room, which housed several probes stacked in holding racks, and began again to scan.
Almost immediately, he realized that they were very close to discovering the reason for the attack and turned to Data. "I'm still not picking up anything. Someone went to a lot of trouble to shield this room." He put his tricorder away and moved over to the probes, ignoring Data, who was still snickering at the accumulated punch lines of a lifetime. One probe in particular--smooth and dark as polished onyx, the size of a burial tube--caught Geordi's attention.
"Data, take a look at this." He glanced over his shoulder at the android, who hurried over. "You ever seen a solar probe with this kind of configuration?" Grinning maniacally, Data held his tricorder toward Geordi like a puppet, then opened and closed it rapidly, like a ventriloquist making a mannequin speak. "'No, Geordi, I have not.'" He then turned the tricorder toward himself, as though it were addressing him: "'Have you?'" He shook his head solemnly, answering his makeshift puppet. "No, I have not. It is most unusual." He burst into high-pitched laughter; Geordi felt his own expression harden. That~ it, Data; the minute I get you back on the Enterprise, that chip ~ coming out.
"Just help me get this panel open," he said shortly.
Data controlled himself long enough to comply. Soon the panel swung open.
"Whoa!" Geordi recoiled. "My VISOR's picking up something in the theta band. It could be a trilithium signature.... " Data erupted into giggles.
This time, Geordi made no attempt to hide his irritation. "Data, this isn't the time--" "I am sorry," Data gasped between peals of laughter; his eyes were wide with alarm. "But I cannot stop myself. I think something is wrong.... " His laughter soon escalated to full-blown hysteria. As Geordi watched, helpless, the android's limbs began to tremble and jerk, as if he were having a seizure. A rapid cascade of emotions convulsed his features: anger, joy, passion, terror, hate, longing, in such rapid succession that to Geordi they were a blur.
He ran to his friend's side just as Data collapsed.
"Data!" He knelt beside the android and put a hand on his shoulder. "Data, are you all right?" Data's eyes flew open, then focused on Geordi, who helped the blinking android sit up.
"I believe the emotional chip has overloaded my positronic relays," he said with mild but distinct sur- prise.
"We'd better get you back to the ship." Geordi hit his comm badge. "La Forge to Enterprise." No response. Geordi frowned for a split second, then realized--the dampening field, of course. But before he could react, a voice spoke softly: "Is there a problem, gentlemen?" He turned to see one of the observatory scientists--a thin, pale-haired civilian dressed in black--standing in the doorway. The sight startled him for a fleeting instant; the observatory had been so silent, he'd assumed no one had yet returned. Recovering, he said, "Oh... Doctor.
Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is. There's a dampening field in here blocking our comm signal." He nodded at Data, still sitting on the floor. "Will you give me a hand?" The scientist stepped toward them. "I'd be happy to." He said it kindly enough that Geordi took no alarm-- not until the last second, when he saw the scientist glance swiftly at the partially dismantled probe, saw the distress cross the pale man's features, saw the phaser held by the man's side.
By then it was too late. Geordi tensed, thought to make a move for the phaser; it did not occur to him to shield himself from the man's other hand. The fist caught his cheek and jaw with a resounding dull thud and sent the VISOR hurtling. There was a millisecond burst of unbearably brilliant color, then darkness--a darkness that deepened the instant his head struck the floor.
EIGHT
Picard sat at the desk in his quarters and stared down at the holo in the open album before him. In the back- ground, classical music played softly; at his elbow, a cup of tea sat cooling. But the music remained unheard, the tea undrunk; he could focus on nothing save the picture before his eyes, a scene from happier times: the Picards mRen6, Robert, Marie--at their family estate. Robert had presented it to him a few years ago, when he was visiting the vineyard.
Picard gently laid fingertips against a corner of the holo, as if to capture the moment pictured there. There was his shyly grinning nephew, Ren6, flanked by his mother and father. Ren6 would be some four years older now--taller, with a deeper voice, but the same cap of golden brown hair falling in a straight fringe above the same bright, intelligent eyes full of promise. Picard remembered the moment of their first meeting, on the family estate. He had teased the boy, but only to hide his own amazement, for he had looked on R
en6 and seen himself. He'd seen, too, the gleam of admiration in the
boy's eyes, and realized self-consciously that Ren6 looked up to his uncle Jean-Luc as a hero.
Marie had later confessed that Ren6 wanted nothing better than to follow in his uncle's footsteps, to become a starship captain. There she stood beside her son, golden- haired, graceful, and warm, the perfect counterpoint to her husband.
Robert stood, glowering and stiff as ever, chin tucked in, eyes narrowed and gleaming with faint disapproval at the world... and secret pride for his son. Dressed like a modern French peasant; always the traditionalist, Rob- ert. A faint, fond smile played at the corners of Picard's lips. Always the conservative, who predictably raised a great hue and cry when he discovered his son's interest in Starfleet. Always grudging, always stodgy. Always.
Always.
Time is the fire in which we burn It was as if Soran had known.
Picard squeezed his eyes shut at the words, trying to blot out the mental image they evoked: Ren6, Robert, screaming in final agony as flames consumed them.
What had it been like in those terrible, final seconds before death? What had it been like for Robert, to see his only son burned alive, to know that they would never escape? Or had he perished first, leaving Ren6 to suffer the final torment... ?
Stop.
Stop.
He could not be sure it had happened that way; perhaps they were unconscious, overwhelmed by smoke.
Perhaps there had been no pain. He knew nothing of the details and most likely never would. He knew nothing, only what was contained in the blunt message from Marie: Robert and Rend killed in fire. Memorial service Wednesday. Will understand if you can't attend.
What personal hell was she dwelling in now? She had clearly not trusted herself to send a visual or even a voice message. Picard felt a surge of guilt. He should be there now to comfort her--but duty did not permit it.
Amargosa had intervened.
Yet in the hours since he had first received the news, he had found himself unable to fulfill that duty, turning everything over to Riker.
Correction: He had found himself unable to do any- thing save look upon the faces of the dead, who gazed back from the safety of the past. He had been too stunned even to weep.
He glanced up at the soft sound of the door chime, and realized suddenly that he was hearing it for the second time. He drew in a breath and composed his features.
"Come." The door opened; Deanna Troi stepped inside. Her movements were tentative, restrained; her black eyes somber, though she smiled faintly in greeting. She knew, of course; Picard had no doubt. Not details, but she knew. Nevertheless, he played the game.
"Counselor." He tried, but was not quite able to return Troi's smile. "What can I do for you?" "Actually..." She tilted her head to one side, dark hair sweeping over one shoulder. "I'm here to see if there's anything I can do for you. You've seemed a little..." She paused, searching for the most tactful word. "... distracted lately."
"Oh," Picard said, feigning casualness. He could not bring himself to simply blurt it out; it would have seemed somehow disrespectful to Robert and Ren~.
"Just... family matters." For a moment, he struggled with the impulse to ask her to leave, to insist on privacy.
But she was right; he could not keep his grief to himself forever. At some point, he would have to admit to others what had happened. He glanced down at the holo album.
"You've never met my brother and his wife, have you?" "No." Troi moved over beside him to peer over his shoulder at the album. She kept a respectful distance, still careful not to push, not to intrude before Picard was ready.
He continued, unable to keep the irony and affection from his voice as he stared down at the image of his brother. "Robert can be quite impossible.... Pompous, arrogant, always has to have the last word. But he's mellowed somewhat in his later years." He hesitated, realizing that he was speaking as though Robert were still alive; yet he could not bring himself to stop. "I was planning to spend some time on Earth next month. I thought we could all go to San Francisco. Ren6's always wanted to see Starfleet Academy." Troi leaned forward to get a closer look. "Ren6? Your nephew?" Picard nodded, knowing she could sense the bright glimmer of pain the image of the boy provoked; yet despite his grief, he could not help smiling fondly at the sight of the boy's face. "Yes. He's so... unlike his father. Imaginative, a dreamer. He almost reminds me of myself at that age." He laughed softly, but there was no joy in the sound.
Troi faced him and asked softly, "Captain... what's happened?" He tried to look away, tried to gather himself, but the empathy in her dark eyes compelled him to hold her gaze and answer. "Robert," he whispered. "And Ren6.
They're dead. They were burned to death in a fire." She drew back, lips parted in shock and sorrow.
Picard rose and moved toward the observation window to look out at the stars.
"I'm so sorry," she said at last.
"It's all right," he said tightly, clasping his hands behind him. "These things happen. We all have our... time. And theirs had come." It sounded like nonsense to his own ears; pointless, hollow. Meaning- less. Troi would have none of it.
"No it's not all right." She moved slowly toward him.
"And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can begin to come to terms with what's happened.... " "I know that," Picard said shortly, then caught him- self and softened his tone. "But... right now, it's not me I'm concerned with. It's my nephew." He half turned toward her, his voice full of sudden intensity. "I just can't stop thinking about him--about all the experi- ences he'll never have. Going to the Academy. Falling in love. Children of his own. It's all... gone." "I had no idea he meant so much to you." Picard gave a grim nod. "In a way, he was as close as I ever came to having a child of my own." She moved away from him then, toward the open album on the desk, and began to flip through the pages of pictures. After a time, she glanced up. "Your family history is very important to you, isn't it?"
Picard stepped beside her to stare down at the pic- tures. "Ever since I was a little boy, I remember hearing about the family line. The Picards that fought at Trafalgar... the Picards that settled the first Martian colony. When my brother married and had a son--" He broke off, overwhelmed by guilt and sorrow.
Troi finished gently for him. "... You felt it was no longer your responsibility to carry on the family line." He released a great, silent sigh, and, in lieu of a nod, let his chin sink to his chest and remain there. "My brother had shouldered that burden, allowing me to pursue my own selfish needs." Her tone became firm. "There's nothing selfish about pursuing your own life, your own career." He did not answer, but turned again toward the observation window to gaze at the stars beyond. He agreed with her; yet he could not help feeling that he had been wrong, to think that career was everything there was to life. His career was bound to end--but loving and caring for those close to him would endure. He had always known he would retire to the family estate, and he had hoped that Robert and Ren~--and Ren6's children--would be there.
At last he said, "You know, Counselor... for some time now, I've been aware that there are fewer clays ahead than there are behind. But I always took comfort in the fact that, when I was gone, my family would continue. But now..." He moved over to the album, and opened it to the final pages: blank, all blank.
Mindless, bitter rage swept over him. He picked up the cup of undrunk tea and hurled it across the room; cold Earl Grey spattered across the desk, across the album, releasing the faint fragrance of bergamot. The cup thudded, unbroken, against soft carpet. He stared back at Deanna Troi. "But now... the idea of death has a terrible sense of finality to it. There'll be no more Picards." His outburst had startled him; but not, apparently, the counselor. Her gaze was steady, sympathetic. "Captain, perhaps we--" She never finished, but threw up an arm to shield her eyes from the brilliant flare of light that flooded the room. Picard raised his own arm as he rushed toward the window, trying to see what had happened, but the glar
e was too intense, too blinding. He closed his eyes, still dazzled, as Riker's voice came on the intercom: "Senior officers report to the bridge! All hands to duty stations!"
The disaster left Picard no choice: by the time he and Troi stepped from the lift onto the bridge, he had emerged from his grief. He stepped beside Riker and followed his second-in-command's gaze to the main screen, where the star called Amargosa was dying. To Picard's eyes, it looked as though the sun were being consumed by fire. The core was rapidly dimming, grow- ing black as charred remains; the corona flared as it ejected flaming debris into space. "Report," Picard said.
Riker turned his face toward the captain while keeping an eye on the screen; Picard caught the look of concern in his eye and ignored it. "A quantum implosion has occurred within the Amargosa star," Riker responded.
"All nuclear fusion is breaking down."
Picard stared at the screen in wonder. He knew what stars were capable of; had watched one go supernova with his own eyes--from a safe distance, of course. But he had never seen this. "How is that possible?" From his station, Worf answered. "Sensor records show the observatory launched a solar probe into the sun a few moments ago." Picard frowned. The observatory... But there was no one there except for the away team... and Dr.