by Generations
He released a small sigh and fetched the dill weed, then handed it to Kirk. He paused, watching as Kirk pulled two fresh eggs from an old-fashioned refrigera- tion device and cracked them open on the now-sizzling skillet, then lifted a spatula from a nearby drawer and began to stir.
"How long have you been here?" Picard asked conver- sationally. Perhaps if he could integrate himself into Kirk's fantasy, he might meet with more success.
Kirk sprinkled dill weed over the cooking eggs. "I don't know." He frowned faintly, remembering. "I was on the Enterprise-B... in the deflector control room..." He broke off and handed Picard the spatula.
"Keep stirring these, will you?" He moved to a cabinet, opened it, and began setting plates on a breakfast tray. With mild amusement at himself, Picard repressed the surge of indignation that rose at yet again taking orders from another captain, and obediently stirred the eggs.
"The bulkhead in front of me disappeared," Kirk continued casually, as though he were relating an every- day occurrence. "Then I was out here, chopping wood." He smiled. "And I've also been a few other thousand or so places since then. I could hardly believe it at first... but I've gotten used to it." He moved back to the stove and took the pan from Picard. "Thanks." "History records that you died saving the Enterprise-B from an energy ribbon eighty years ago," Picard said. He expected a reaction at that, but the oblivious smile remained fixed on Kirk's lips.
Kirk glanced up, faintly amused, but not in the least bit distracted from his enjoyment of the moment. "So you're telling me this is the twenty-fourth cen- tury... and I'm dead?" As he spoke, he removed the pan from the stove and scooped the eggs onto the plates, then set a small vase of flowers onto the tray.
"Not exactly. As I said, this is some kind of..." "Temporal nexus." Kirk's smile widened as he worked. "Yeah, I heard you." He set the hot pan in the sink, then turned back and frowned down at the tray.
"Something's missing.... " As if on cue, two pieces of toast popped up from an antique toaster on the counter. Kirk grinned at them with delight, set one on each plate and headed out of the kitchen with the tray.
Picard followed, suddenly desperate as he felt his chance slipping away. "Captain," he said, as urgently as he could manage, "I need your help. I want you to leave the nexus with me." Kirk said nothing, merely headed through a spacious, rustic living room toward a wooden staircase. Picard kept up alongside, though it was clear that Kirk would have preferred to shake his uninvited guest.
"We have to go back to a planet called Veridian Three," he continued, "and stop a man from destroying a star. There are millions of lives at stake." The nonchalance in Kirk's expression chilled him.
The captain shrugged and said lightly, "You said history considers me dead. Who am I to argue with history?" Picard let the anger through in his voice. "You're a Starfleet officer, and you have a duty to--" Kirk stopped abruptly at the foot of the staircase and faced the other captain, his voice and expression hard.
"I don't need to be lectured by you. I was out saving the galaxy when your grandfather was still in diapers. And frankly, I think the galaxy owes me one." He paused, struggling to master his indignation, lest it overwhelm the euphoria of the experience. "I was like you once," he said, and for the first time, he seemed to see--really see--Picard. "So worried about duty and obligations that I couldn't see anything past this uniform. And, in the end, what did it get me? An empty house." A shadow flickered over his features; he glanced toward the top of the stairs. "Not this time." He brushed past his companion. "I'm going to walk up these stairs, march into that bedroom, and tell Antonia that I want to marry her. This time, things are going to be different." And he strode up the stairs and disappeared behind a bedroom door, leaving the younger captain to look a~~er him.
Picard took in a determined breath and followed, hesitating only an instant at the closed bedroom door before grasping the knob and yanking it open.
He froze in the doorway. Beyond lay not a bedroom containing the mysterious Antonia, but an old barn, sunlight streaming through its wooden slats, pitchfork and shovel hanging against the opposite wall. Picard stepped forward onto the dirt floor, scattered with straw, and drew in the scent of farm animals.
In front of him stood Kirk, sans breakfast tray, looking every bit as amazed as Picard felt.
"This doesn't look like your bedroom," Picard said dryly.
"No," Kirk replied. A slow smile dawned over his face. "No, it's not. It's better." "Better?" "This is my uncle's barn in Iowa." Kirk moved to the far end, to a group of stalls containing horses. One of them, already saddled, with a coat the color of gleaming coal, snorted in recognition as the human reached up to stroke its neck. "I took this horse out for a ride nine years ago... on a spring day." Inspired, he hurried to the barn door and swung it open, revealing a green, sunny landscape outside. "Just like this. If I'm right, this is the day I met Antonia." He turned toward Picard. "This nexus of yours is very clever. I can start all over again, do things right from day one." Kirk hurried back to the horse, swung up into the saddle, and galloped out of the barn. Picard watched the receding figures of horse and rider for only an instant--
then took a saddle from the wall and found a mount of his own.
This time he followed on an intelligent, cooperative steed, over rolling green countryside, riding hard to keep within sight of Kirk: across a clear-running stream, through a copse of ancient oaks, out onto a grassy plain.
From a distance he watched as Kirk spurred the Ameri- can saddlebreed toward a wide ravine, never once slow- ing pace. At the last possible instant, the horse made a beautiful, arcing leap and landed on the other side, its hind hooves barely clearing the edge.
Kirk slowed at once; then came to a complete stop and paused to gaze at the ravine behind him. He frowned, then wheeled his horse around and galloped back for a second try.
Kirk made the jump a second time; yet this time, the older captain reined his animal to an immediate stop and sat, frowning, as Picard rode up beside him.
Kirk looked once again at the ravine, his expression saddened, confused--for the first time, free of any trace of the euphoria induced by the nexus. Picard felt a stirring of hope, but remained silent as the other man sorted through his feelings.
"I must have made this jump fifty times," Kirk finally said softly. "And every time, it scared the hell out of me.
But not this time. Because..." He paused, clearly pained by the words that followed. "... it's not real." He lifted his hand to shade his eyes, and stared at something moving down a distant hill. Picard followed his gaze and saw a small, slender woman leading a horse.
"Antonia?" Kirk nodded, wistful. "She's not real either, is she?
Nothing here is... nothing here matters.... "He looked around at his surroundings with sorrow. "It's kind of like... orbital skydiving. Exciting for a few minutes, but in the end, you haven't really done any- thing. You haven't made a difference." And then his gaze fell upon Picard--and for the first time, he seemed to really see the man in front of him.
"Captain of the Enterprise, huh?" He shot the other man a look of pure camaraderie and did not quite grin, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.
"That's right." Picard smiled with relief, surprised that Kirk had even registered the information.
"Close to retirement?" "I hadn't planned on it." "Well, let me tell you something," Kirk said, with a sudden passion that told Picard he was at least seeing the real man. "Don't. Don't let them promote you, don't let them transfer you, don't let anything take you off the bridge of that ship. Because while you're there, you can make a difference." "You don't need to be on the bridge of a starship," Picard countered firmly, grateful that at last his words were being heard. "Come with me. Help me stop Soran.
Make a difference again." He paused, his own tone rising with a fervor that matched Kirk's. "You're right; nothing here is real, nothing matters. But the two hundred thirty million who died when the Veridian sun was destroyed --they were real. So was my crew--
" Kirk leaned forward, his expression intense. "The crew of the Enterprise-D?" Picard dropped his gaze, nodded somberly. "All killed when the ship was caught in the resulting shock wave." Kirk turned his face away, toward the woman walking down the distant hill, and was silent a long moment.
And then he looked back at Picard, and a smile spread slowly over his features. "How can I argue with the captain of the Enterprise?" He paused, and an amused glimmer very like the one Picard associated with Will Riker shone in his eyes. "What was the name of that planet? Veridian Three?" "That's right," Picard said, with utter relief at the realization that he had at last succeeded.
"I take it the odds are against us, and the situation is grim?" "You could say that," Picard allowed.
Kirk gave a small, resigned sigh. "Of course, if Spock were here, he'd say I was being an irrational, illogical human for wanting to go on a mission like that...."He grinned suddenly, brilliantly. "Sounds like fun." And he turned and went with Picard without a back- ward glance at the approaching woman.
FIFTEEN
"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain, I have an appoint- ment with eternity and I don't want to be late," Soran said.
Picard cast a swift glance at his surroundings. A millisecond before, he had been astride a horse, beside James Kirk, looking out at a gently rolling plain. Now he was once more atop the dusty plateau, seated on a rock in the shadow of a great tree, his hand full of pebbles; overhead, the Veridian sun shone down, radiating gentle warmth upon his skin.
James Kirk was nowhere to be seen.
Before him, Soran--pale face aglow with maniacal anticipation--turned and began to climb the scaffolding toward the top of the rockface.
There was no time for further appeals, no time for subterfuge--no time to peer anxiously about to see whether Kirk had indeed gone through with his decision to leave the nexus. Picard dropped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and wriggled headfirst beneath the stone arch, praying silently all the while that he would not be doomed to see history repeat itself.
There was little room. He had gotten his head through to the forcefield's other side and slipped his shoulders beneath the arch when the field flashed blindingly in front of his chin. The jolt was agonizingly intense; as the field crackled, he thrashed involuntarily--knowing that Soran would see, that the disruptor blast would be sure to follow--then stilled himself, panting, and directed his clearing gaze upward, toward the scaffolding.
A blur of black and white, Soran paused in his climbing.
Picard pushed hard with his feet and slid forward through the sand, knowing that it would be too late, preparing himself for the inevitable. Atop the scaffold- ing, Soran wheeled, then pulled an object from his hip.
A disruptor, Picard knew. He drew a breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and lay still....
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 million on your head.... What's 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 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 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 that of a stranger.
A stranger, but somehow vaguely familiar, making Soran think he had seen his holo somewhere before. A human, hair chestnut shot with silver, wearing a Starfleet uniform Soran had not seen in almost a century....
"Just who the hell are you?" Soran whispered, but he knew the answer even before a voice replied behind him: "He's James T. Kirk. Don't you read history?" He whirled to find Picard standing behind him--then turned back again to gape at the grinning impossibility in front of him.
Yes, this was Kirk all right: the captain who had died when the Enterprise-B was trapped by the energy ribbon.
Supposedly died--but clearly, Kirk must have been transported into the nexus instead. But what was he doing here, now... ?
Soran knew he had a choice. He could try to pull out the disruptor and kill one of them, permitting the other to tackle him. Or he could flee and kill them one at a time.
He grabbed the metal rungs with both hands and propelled himself upward, onto the rocks. As he scram- bled away, Picard said below him: "I've got to get to the launcher; the ribbon will be here in a minute." "I'll take care of Soran," Kirk's voice said.
The conversation between the two prompted a jolting thought: Picard had somehow been to the nexus, solic- ited help, knowing that he could not both reprogram the launcher and distract Soran. But how could Picard have gone to the nexus, unless.
Unless he, Soran, had been successful. Unless he had already found his way back to Leandra's arms. Grief pierced him as he scrabbled over rocks and sand.
He would feel no pity for either of them. They were trying to steal his very life from him, just as surely as he would now claim theirs.
Pain and madness heightened his agility and his senses; he moved quickly, easily over the rocks, and so silently that soon he detected Kirk's stertorous, gasping breath nearby, on the other side of a giant rock.
He ran around it smoothly, pulling out his disruptor just in time to aim it cleanly at Kirk's head. The human gazed at him with greenish-brown eyes that were intense, wary, but oddly free of fear.
"Actually," Soran said, not bothering to keep the exultation from his tone, "I am familiar with history, Captain. And if I'm not mistaken, you're dead." He had intended to squeeze the trigger at that moment--but at the instant the word dead had slipped from his tongue, his eyes had caught a blur of movement to one side.
Picard, leaping down from atop a rock.
The distraction allowed Kirk to rush Soran, who bellowed at the realization that there was no time to take aim, nothing to be done except to hurl himself backward against Picard--and send him rolling down a nearby slope.
The odds were better, but even so, the supposedly dead captain never allowed Soran the opportunity to recover and fire the disruptor. Instead, Kirk threw himself upon the scientist, coming dangerously close to knocking the weapon from Soran's hand.
Soran struggled with a madman's intensity, a madman's strength, merely to hold on to the disruptor, but this aging dead human who fought with an odd glimmer of humor in his eyes was more than a match.
<
br /> Soran cried out, kicked out, lashed out--and yet Kirk shook off each blow and replied with one of his own.
And at last he struck Soran's chin with such force that the scientist almost fell onto the cliffs below, managing at the last instant to clutch the chain-metal railing as his lungs emptied with a hoarse rush of air. His fingers nearly lost their grip, then through some miraculous intervention, managed to clasp on to the weapon.
Yet when he attempted to raise it and fire, Kirk struck out again--this time causing Soran to stumble, and step out upon empty air.
Mindlessly, he clung to the disruptor as though it could save him and, for a brief, breathless millisecond, clawed one-handed in midair for purchase, seeing before him in the wide sky another dazzling streak: the promise of the future, lost. Then came another instant of grace as he swiped at the chains, the railing, the bridge itself, and his hands came away with a thin lifeline: a rope.