Star Trek - TNG - Generations

by Generations

  Thank God, Geordi almost said, thinking it was over--that they had made it through the worst of it.

  But before he could get the words out of his mouth, the ship lurched again~~in a strange, accelerating move- ment that did not ease, only shuddered, harder and harder.

  "What the hell... ?" In the dimness, Farrell's profile turned toward him.

  He knew at once, with sickening, heart-stopping cer- tainty, what had happened: The blast had slammed the ship into the nearby planet's orbit. There was a chance, if the Klingons' attack hadn't damaged the lateral thrust- ers, that parts of the saucer might survive the impact.

  Even so, many would diemand there was no way to predict who those might be.

  Time is running out, Mr. La Forge.

  Wails and panicked murmurs rippled through the tube as those inside froze in horror; a child began to shriek.

  Geordi summoned the mental image of Picard at his most authoritarian, then thundered, "Keep going!" Slowly, the dark figures in front of him began moving again. Within seconds, he was grasping Farrell's hand and emerging from the tube into the brightly lit corridor.

  The ship was rocking, vibrating so hard by this time that he had trouble keeping his balance; it felt like standing on the holodeck version of the nineteenth-century sail- ing ship--in the middle of a typhoon.

  Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet, to direct the tide of moving bodies down the corridor. Before him, the two teachers hurried, crouching over their young charges, arms spread like sheltering wings, pushing them along. Geordi found the hand of the dark-haired girl who had lost the bear and ran to the front of the group, shouting directions.

  "Over here!" He waved toward the nearest officer's quarters. "This way!" He reached the entrance first and paused to let go of the little girl's hand; a teacher clasped it and hurried past, to the safety of the living room, where she braced herself and the children with her against the carpet and bolted furniture. Geordi remained in the doorway, push- ing bodies through, gesturing for those still in the corridor to hurry inside. Farrell joined him and began to help directing traffic.

  "Sarah!" A desperate-eyed father swooped upon a weeping golden-haired child just before she was shoved inside the quarters, and carried her away.

  Geordi and Farrell kept working until all the corridor was clear, then ran inside themselves to huddle with the crowd of adults and children. Geordi fell onto the nearest spot of bare carpet, and found himself staring over at the glistening, tear-filled eyes of the teddy-bear girl, who lay beside him. Her face was flushed, damp, her dark, straight hair tousled; but it was the misery in her dark eyes that filled Geordi with a compassion that made him forget his own fear and see only hers. He reached for her small, dimpled hand, leaned close to her ear so that she could hear him above the klaxons and the shuddering ship. "It's all right. It's going to be all right.

  Just hang on and don't let go.... " "My mommy," she whimpered. "I don't know where she is.... " "Where does she work?" Geordi asked.

  "Engineering." "Then she's okay." He patted her silken hair. "Every- one made it out of engineering. I made sure of it." "But where is she?" Tears spilled onto her full cheeks.

  "I couldn't find her.... " "I bet I know where she is," he said, and almost smiled at the sudden hope on her face. He stroked her hair once more. "Somewhere nearby, worrying about you." "Are we going to die?" she asked suddenly, with such matter-of-factness that he was taken aback.

  "No," he said, feigning confidence. "This is the safest part of the ship. It's going to be all right."

  It was a lie, of course; whatever happened would not be all right. But there was nothing more he could do to help the children or himself; they were all entirely at the mercy of forces greater than themselves. His fear gave way to acceptance. He settled down onto the soft, shuddering carpet with a deeply weary sigh, and waited.

  TWELVE

  On the bridge, Deanna Troi pressed her upper body against the shaking helm console and gripped the edges with all her strength to keep from being thrown forward.

  The ship's rocking had become so intense that she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Yet she felt oddly calm, detached; the dizzying sight of Veridian III rushing toward them evoked a terror so primal that it was entirely physical. Her skin was cold, damp, her pulse racing like the ship--but her mind was too numbed to register fear.

  Save for the screaming red-alert klaxon and the rum- bling of the ship, there was silence; all on the bridge waited as Data worked his console in an attempt to slow the Enterprise's momentum. It was, Troi knew, the difference between annihilation and survival, and the tension in the android's face reflected that. She pushed herself up far enough to study his shifting expression. It was like focusing in on everyone's emotions: fear, re- pressed panic, determination, faint hope.

  She glanced behind her at Worf, who did not allow himself to meet her gaze. Troi understood; she sensed no fear emanating from the Klingon, only resolve to meet death bravely, and a stirring of pride. If death came, it would be an end fitting for a warrior. He would waste no time in remorserebut Troi could not help feeling disap- pointment that there might be no more time for them.

  She turned her head then, and shared a look with Will.

  At the sight of her face, he allowed his command demeanor to soften for a fleeting instant. She did not quite smile; she could read his expression so well that it was hardly necessary to read his emotions. There was regret in his eyes, and a light that said he would have liked to have had the time to prove Picard's vision of the future wrong.

  That future certainly seemed wrong now, in the face of one that said they might all die together. Impact would pulverize the ship unless something could be done to ease it. Yet that future, too, seemed wrong.

  Data looked up from his console at last, and the faint trace of relief on his fear-stricken face gave her an inkling of hope.

  "I have rerouted auxiliary power to the lateral thrust- ers," he called to Riker. "Attempting to level our descent..." "Will it be enough?" Riker shouted.

  "Uncertain, sir. The thrusters have sustained minor damage. There is no time to assess it and attempt repairs. I estimate a forty-percent chance that they will fail.... " "And sixty percent that they'll hold. I'll take those odds." Riker leaned to one side, struggling to hold on with one hand while the other pressed the comm control.

  "All hands brace for impact!" Troi glanced up for one final look at the viewscreen, and recoiled in surprise. Veridian III's green and blue surface could no longer be seen--only lavender sky.

  She leaned forward onto her console. The ship's shuddering increased until she could no longer think, could scarcely even draw a breath~could only hold on blankly, mindlessly, as around her, consoles erupted into flame.

  At a sudden, high-pitched screaming, she tried to raise her head; gravity pressed it back down. She pressed one cheek against the console and turned her face in the direction of the shriek--an almost humanoid cry.

  Amid the vibrating, smoking blur that was the bridge, she saw the scream's source: a far bulkhead crumpling, like paper being slowly crushed. It was the sound of metal buckling, of the ship screaming. She looked at the viewscreen and saw a jumble of green and brown.

  The jolt began at her feet, as intense, as icy-hot as lightning, and spread upward to her skull. Impact, she realized, and at the second the thought occurred to her, it was almost instantly blotted out, shaken loose from her stunned brain and replaced by darkness as she hurtled up and forward, toward the screen....

  Soran raised his disruptor and squinted at the cloud of dust and smoke rising from the collapsed rock archway where Picard had wriggled beneath the forcefield. The scientist jumped down a level, weapon ready, his mind full of fury; there was no time to deal with distractions!

  He should have killed the human outright, when he first came, to save himself the annoyance now.

  But no, you had to be softhearted. And why? You'll soon have the blood of two hundred thirty milli
on on your head.... What~ one more?

  A breeze stirred, dispersing the haze to reveal a scorched hole gouged in the earth where the captain had lain.

  But no Picard.

  Frustrated, Soran peered around him at the shifting wisps of smoke. No sign of the captain.

  But the sky above his head glimmered, with a sudden, distantly familiar splendor that made Soran catch his breath and look up.

  A snake of brilliant rainbow light thrashed across the sky, so bedazzling him with its promise, its beauty, that his wide eyes filled at once with tears.

  No time. There was no time to search for Picard, no time to do anything save scramble up the scaffolding and prepare himself for escape from this temporal hell.

  Soran climbed, eyes blinded by the ribbon's blazing glory, by tears. His heart, once heavy at the thought of the deaths of Veridian IV's inhabitants, of Picard, of those aboard the Enterprise, now seemed light, absolved of any wrong by the coming wonder of what he was about to embrace. Leandra.

  What was the Terran parable? A jewel, a pearl of great price. Worth anything, everything, to possess. Surely he, above all others, understood the tale. The nexus was worth any number of lives; who could put a price on eternal paradise? He smiled thinly as he pulled himself up onto the next highest peak, and stepped quickly onto the narrow metal scaffolding that bridged two plateaus.

  Soon; soon he would be with Leandra, and as he pulled out his pocket watch--the only tangible remnant he had of her in this hellish universe--he stared into its blank, crystalline face and instead saw hers.

  Halfway across the scaffolding, he glanced up, startled --not into his dead wife's face, but Picard's.

  With pure, mindless instinct, Soran raised the disrup- tor to fire, but Picard moved faster, with a desperation that came close to matching Soran's own vicious need.

  The captain seized the wrist of the hand that held the disruptor and smashed it fiercely once, twice, three times against the cool metal railing, until Soran's own hand betrayed him and surrendered its grip. The disruptor hurtled downward, coming to rest several meters below.

  Soran never noticed what became of the watch; rage and hatred and desire galvanized him. He had never been a man given to personal violence, but now he struck out at Picard with brutal, killing force, slamming his fist into the captain's jaw hard enough to break them both.

  Again. Again. Again he struck, each time astounded to find his target still standing, and striking back.

  But Picard's blows were tempered with reason, com- passion; they were, Soran realized with irony, the blows of a man who was determined not to kill.

  And that would be his undoing. Pity, compassion.

  What use did they serve in a universe intent on devour- ing its own children?

  Soran struck out again with unrestrained fury, shriek- ing at the unfairness of the situation, at the implacable passage of time. His fist once again connected with the captain's jaw. This time the air rushed from the human's lungs with an audible hiss as Picard was hurled back- ward against the metal scaffolding.

  Victory, Soran thought, and moved in for the final blow--only to stagger backward and drop to his knees when Picard lashed out with legs and feet.

  And with a swift, rolling movement, the captain was standing before him again.

  Soran looked at him with infinite hatred. Eighty years he had waited to get to this moment. Eighty years.

  As Picard lunged at him again, Soran embraced him; together they moved in a brief, deadly dance upon the slender, shuddering scaffold. And then Soran embraced him more tightly, drawing him forward, and slammed his own forehead against the captain's.

  Picard lost his balance and fell. Soran drew back, breathless at the sudden triumph, and clung to the railing as the human dropped several meters down into a sandy crevice.

  Alive, Soran judged, but stunned. All fury in him evaporated at once, replaced by a dawning euphoria.

  He gazed up at the ribbon of light crackling through the sky--a great serpent, but one that would lead to paradise mand listened to the distant hum of the launch- er as it prepared to send the probe to its final destination.

  Seconds now. Only seconds.

  Leandra, my darling.

  Soran moved swiftly across the bridge toward the higher platform he had placed with infinite care, at the precise spot the ribbon would intersect Veridian's mountains.

  Movement beneath him: He glanced down to see Picard lift his head and gaze up at the coming splendor.

  The captain stirred feebly, then sagged once more, while beneath them both the launcher whirred as the probe slid into position.

  There came a sudden roar as the probe thundered, like a great sleek black bird, into the sky.

  Out of time, Picard. You, me, the universe... we've all run out of time.

  Soran stared after it, speechless with joy.

  Picard stared after it, too, kneeling in the sand beside the launcher. The probe arced in a perfect trajectory upward, toward the shining sun; Picard shaded his eyes and watched until it disappeared from view, then pushed himself slowly to his feet.

  He did not intend to die on his knees.

  Bitter enough to face his own death, so close to the loss of Robert and Ren~; but to know that he had failed his crew, who might be caught by the coming shock wave, and two hundred thirty million unknowing souls on the next planet.

  Overhead, the sky faded to the odd, faux-twilight gray of a solar eclipse. The trees surrounding them, which had rustled with animal life, went abruptly silent; a solitary bird released a tremulous cry that echoed off the nearby mountains, then fell quiet. As Picard stood gazing upward, Soran reclimbed the scaffolding against the backdrop of darkening sky, streaked with jagged, writhing energy. Once atop the pinnacle, the scientist raised his face toward the heavens; the glow from the ribbon lit his features, revealing the ecstatic, beatific expression of a saint.

  In the gathering gloom, the wind picked up quickly and began to whip up dust. The ribbon neared, illumi- nating the plateau with unearthly light, filling the air with a strangely electrical charge, one that smelled of a recent lightning strike, one that made the hair on the back of Picard's neck rise. He instinctively backed away until his back pressed against the scaffolding.

  There was nowhere to run, nowhere to flee. He shut his eyes, grimacing at the airborne sand that stung his face, at the piercing crackle of the ribbon, at the light so dazzling, so colorful, it pained him despite his closed eyelids.

  And then the ribbon intensified beyond all human capacity to bear; he cried out in agony at its deafening roar, its sheer brilliance, its blinding beauty.

  And just as suddenly, there was no Picard, no Soran, no Veridian, no self or other. Only darkness...

  Deanna Troi inhaled a lungful of smoke and coughed, then winced at the sudden spasm in her ribs. The sharp- ness of it helped clear her head; she stirred, and realized that she had been thrown from her chair and now lay atop the console, with her arms and shoulders dangling over. Data sat slumped forward over the navigation con- sole beside her, his hands still gripping her legs; obvi- ously, he had kept her from flying into the viewscreen.

  Her movement seemed to revive him; he straightened, released his hold, and helped her from the console.

  "Counselor? Are you all right?" Data seemed un- harmed, but his hair was tousled, his eyes wide with shock.

  She nodded, even though her legs trembled beneath her, and grimaced at another stab of pain in her rib and the complaints issuing from torn muscles in her shoul- ders. Blessedly, the ship was silent and still, the ground beneath her feet solid.

  The bridge was veiled in smoke from smoldering consoles but, strangely, no longer as dark. She squinted at the glare, and realized that rays of light filtered through the haze. At first she thought that auxiliary lighting had miraculously been restored; and then she gazed upward, beyond the layer of smoke, at the sunlight shining through the shattered dome above the bridge. As she watched, two birds perched on the ed
ge and stared down at those below.

  "I think we've landed," Troi whispered--to no one.

  Data had already moved off and was helping others to their feet. She turned and saw Worf behind her, pushing himself to a sitting position on the deck; clearly, he had been thrown over the tactical console.

  And then she saw Riker, lying faceup and motionless on the deck near the overturned command chair. His head was cocked at an odd angle, his eyes open and staring blankly up at the shattered dome.

  "My God--Will!" She ran to him, seized by the dread- ful certainty that he was dead, and fell to her knees.

  "I'm all right," he croaked. "Just enjoying the view..." He sat up slowly, gingerly. "Report..." Data emerged from the haze, with Worf beside him.