PRECHANCE TO DREAM

by Howard Weinstein

  “Consulted about what, Egin?” With a grudging swivel of her chair, she faced the aging official. Egin’s clenched fists rested on his hips in what Arit had long since accepted as a more or less permanent stance of aggressive impatience. His ill-fitting doublet stretched across his ample girth, and she found herself wondering whether the faded garment might just surrender to structural stresses and spontaneously pop apart.

  “You know damn well what, Captain. You may command this ship, but I’m the First Valend of our government and I should have been consulted on your dealings with the Enterprise.”

  “Egin, you’re First Valend by default. You’re the only Valend left—and I don’t have to consult you on matters pertaining to the running of the Glin-Kale.”

  Egin’s head shook vigorously, setting a wispy mane of silver hair fluttering as his jowls quivered. “You can’t just dismiss my authority like—”

  She cut him off. “I’m tired of this argument, Egin. I was tired of it the first time we had it, and the hundredth time and the thousandth time.”

  His pursed mouth clamped shut for a longer than expected interval, but he wasn’t ready to retreat. “Fine. Then I’ll just state my case. We should have told this Picard that we had his shuttle and crewmen—it would have been the perfect bargaining trade-off.”

  Arit couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Forget the fact that this starship Enterprise looked like a gleaming example of the Federation’s finest—dismiss the likelihood that its sensors could probably have probed to the core of her own vessel. Could Egin really have failed to grasp the meaning of his own words? Trade-off implied that you actually had something to trade—or the strength to back up a bluff. She stared at him. “And what would’ve happened when they discovered we were lying?”

  That shut him up. And to her astonishment, he turned smartly on one worn boot heel and marched off the bridge as if he’d been the victor. She muttered a disbelieving oath to herself, marveling at Egin’s unflagging ability to fail to think any strategy through to its most obvious conclusion. No wonder he’s spent his entire thirty-year career on the Council of Valends mired in the nether depths of government hierarchy. His colleagues must have perceived him for what he was—a drudge, stunningly limited in scope, though with a few political uses.

  And now, in what Arit saw as one of the great cosmic jokes of all time, fate had spared Egin and taken him to heights even he had never imagined himself occupying. If only I could see the humor in this particular joke . . .

  “Was the shuttlecraft destroyed, or was it not?” Jean-Luc Picard tried to keep the testiness out of his voice, but failed.

  As Picard’s words hung in the air, he glanced around the conference-room table at Riker, Worf and Geordi. No one seemed anxious to break the uncomfortable silence, but the burly Klingon spoke up first.

  “If so, then it was disintegrated more completely than is possible with any weapon—or weapon theory—known to us.”

  Picard rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair, certain that Worf’s stark observation would stimulate the discussion. “Hmm . . . Please elaborate, Lieutenant.”

  “There was no explosion, no debris—not even the residual particles left after an object is destroyed by our phasers.”

  “If the Tenirans do have some unknown weapon,” Riker said, “then they’re a clear danger not only to this ship but to the entire Federation. And if they’ve got more ships like this one . . .”

  Geordi shook his head. “I don’t think it was a weapon. And I don’t think the shuttle was destroyed.”

  Everyone stared at the chief engineer. They obviously wanted to agree with his statement, but their experience tempered that desire with skepticism. “Then what happened to it?” Riker asked.

  “I think it was transported, for lack of a better term—and, pleasant as they are, I don’t think the Tenirans had anything to do with it.”

  “Transported?” Riker repeated, his face pinched into a doubtful squint. “How and where?”

  “I’m not sure how . . . and I don’t know where.”

  “Mr. La Forge,” Picard said, “I’ve never known you to make wild guesses.”

  “And I’m not making ’em now, Captain. Not entirely, anyway.”

  “Geordi, if you’re not guessing,” Riker said, “then what are you basing this on?”

  The chief engineer clasped his hands and his gaze drifted across the table toward the observation windows. “Something weird that showed up in sensor analyses. Those swirling colors around the shuttle—?They were the visible result of strange energy patterns converging right around the shuttle.”

  Picard leaned forward, the intensity of his interest glittering in his eyes. “Energy patterns?”

  “Yes, sir, and they were incredibly diffused. Once these energy patterns reached their target—the shuttlecraft—they coalesced into those swirling colors we saw.”

  “And you are saying that this diffused energy didn’t come from the Teniran ship?” Picard asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m about ninety-five percent certain it came from the planet.”

  Riker thumped his fist on the table. “Then we should be able to pinpoint a source.”

  “I wish,” Geordi sighed. “I already looked for residual energy readings down there—anything tell-tale. The energy patterns did not originate from one spot.”

  “Yet,” Picard said, “you are still certain they did in fact come from the Domaran surface?”

  “Positive, sir. I’ve ordered up continuous intensive scanning of the planet. If there’s anything at all to be found down there—either some weird power source or the shuttle—we’ll find it.”

  The captain frowned. “I wonder what else we might find . . .”

  Arit sat in her dimly lit cabin, her jacket open to reveal a threadbare undervest beneath. She stared at the wide-bottomed bottle in her hand, her fingers wrapped firmly around its tapered neck. Did it hold answers, or merely escape? And what did that matter anyway? She liked the way the purple wine tasted, savored its fire as it went down. She felt so little these days—at least the burning in her belly reminded her she was still alive.

  But the sensation was fleeting. Arit knew the truth. She was dying a lingering death. They all were. And she didn’t really believe this place, this Domarus, would be their salvation.

  “The peroheen again?” a gravelly voice scolded from behind her.

  Arit turned slightly to see a familiar portly silhouette in the doorway where the hatch was stuck half-open. “You’re not my mother, Jevlin.”

  “No, I’m your first officer, and I never should’ve let you take that case of peroheen when we—”

  “A last reminder of home. Come in and join me, or go away and leave me alone. But please—don’t stand there lecturing me.”

  “I’m not lecturing, Cap’n.” He limped into the cramped cabin, leaning on a stout walking stick and dragging his gimpy right leg. “I’ve been more intimate with more bottles than you’ll ever see. You can bet your life on that.”

  She poured the purple liquid into an extra glass and pushed it across the desk as Jevlin lowered his bulk into a chair. He shoved the glass back at her.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, adding the rejected drink to her own nearly empty glass. “There’s nothing more dull than a reformed drunk.” Then she downed half the combination in several continuous gulps.

  “I could try to fix that,” Jevlin said, wagging his thumb back toward the inoperative hatch.

  “Fix what—being dull or being a reformed drunk?” Arit peered over the rim of her glass, wondering if she’d ever live to be as old and fat and gray as Jevlin.

  “The door,” he said sourly.

  “Oh.” She shrugged, honestly not caring. Somehow, it seemed harder and harder to care about much of anything these days, much less a broken door mechanism. “Why bother? It’s been like that for months.”

  “A ship’s cap’n needs privacy sometimes.”

  “On this ship?”
She gave a skeptical snort. “Besides, I think of my hatch as the perfect symbol of everything else that doesn’t work on the glorious old Glin-Kale.”

  Jevlin seemed offended. “That’s not fair, Cap’n. She’s got us this far. She’s got some heart left.”

  “The Enterprise may take care of that.”

  “We’ll work things out,” he said with a grin that showed his chipped fangs. “But nobody’s going to help us, Cap’n, nobody at all. It’s up to us.”

  “You should’ve been on the bridge to see Egin in action this time.”

  “I heard.”

  Arit rubbed her eyes. She seemed to be tired most of the time these days. She still managed to sleep at night, but she couldn’t recall the last time she’d awakened feeling rested. “I don’t know why, but Egin’s stupidity still astonishes me. Has it occurred to you that if we get through this, he’ll have the same authority as Gansheya had? She was brilliant, and he’s a turd.”

  Jevlin nodded. “Not quite fair that he’s the only one who survived to make it this far. Who knows, Cap’n . . . anything could still happen.”

  “Ever the optimist. Have you got your little shleeyah with you?”

  He patted the breast pocket of his shabby coat. “You know I’m never without it since it replaced the wine.”

  “Then play me a song, Jev.” Arit closed her eyes and took a pensive sip of her wine.

  “Any special song?” Jevlin asked as he slid the small instrument out of his pocket. The shleeyah was a black, flute-like tube about the size of his thumb, and he buffed it against his sleeve until it glinted in the glow of the desk lamp.

  “First officer’s discretion,” she said with a hazy smile softened by the wine.

  His hands were stubby and roughened by a life of hard labor, but his fingers cradled the instrument with a tenderness reserved for the touch of a lover’s hand. He raised it to his lips and breathed into the slender mouthpiece; inside the cylinder, his warm breath blended into music and came out as a lilting tune that broadened the smile on Captain Arit’s face.

  As she listened to Jevlin’s space chantey, she gazed out through the large square viewport over her bed. And she wondered what happened to that little shuttlecraft. She’d never intended to do any damage to the tiny defenseless ship, or harm those aboard it. But she’d learned the hard way that a little bluster up front could save a lot of scrambling for cover later on. And her strategy had indeed been working—until the Enterprise arrived. One look at that gleaming starship, and she knew there’d be no way for the old Glin-Kale to outgun her. But she’d still been willing to play out her hand. She’d have retained control over that shuttle only as long as it kept the Enterprise at bay. Then she’d have released it. A simple enough plan, ruined by . . . by what? Arit fervently wished she had the answer to that question.

  Arit hated the unknown. She hated losing control. And she found herself driven by the simplest of yearnings—to feel a planet surface beneath her feet instead of metal decking, to breathe the fresh scent of a free-blowing breeze instead of the stale air recirculated through filters long since shot to hell. This planet, this Domarus Four, had appeared to be the answer to prayers—

  But no longer. The way things were going, it might yet turn out to be the graveyard of what remained of the Teniran people.

  The hour she’d given Picard would soon be up. Whatever happened, she knew she could not back down now.

  “Your shuttle is gone, Picard,” Arit said from the small viewscreen atop Picard’s ready room desk. “Permission to intrude on Teniran space is now rescinded. The Enterprise must depart immediately.”

  Picard sat at the desk with his hands folded, his face tranquil. “We have reason to believe our missing shuttlecraft has been transported down to Domarus Four and we—”

  “Transported—? By what? You admitted yourself that Federation surveys classify this world as uninhabited by sentient life.”

  “Surveys can be incomplete, or wrong. We will not leave this system until we can be certain that our missing crew members are not somewhere down there on Domarus Four.”

  “Down there laying claim to our planet!” Arit said explosively.

  “If Domarus does have native sentient life-forms,” Picard countered, “then it is not your planet—”

  “That is between us and these theoretical life-forms of yours. It is none of the Federation’s business. I’m warning you, Picard—we will defend our territory.”

  “Why is the Teniran Echelon so interested in this particular planet?”

  “That is none of your business either. Arit out.”

  The screen went abruptly blank, leaving Picard to swallow his next sentence. “Blast,” he muttered, then turned toward Dr. Crusher, who’d been sitting across from him during the whole exchange. “Not my best diplomatic work.”

  Beverly managed a sympathetic smile. “She wasn’t exactly receptive.”

  “I’m baffled by this intense desire to possess a world of no great value. What do you make of it, Doctor?”

  “I’m not Deanna, Captain.”

  “I don’t expect Betazoid empathic powers,” he said kindly. “But I value your observations all the same.”

  Beverly frowned as she tried to make sense of what they’d heard from the Teniran commander. “Well . . . it was pretty obvious that Captain Arit is hiding the reasons why the Tenirans are so interested in Domarus. She seemed afraid of something.”

  Picard nodded. “I agree. But afraid of what? Of us?”

  Crusher’s brow creased thoughtfully. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I think it’s more than just us.”

  “Some unseen adversary, perhaps.”

  She shrugged. “I wish I knew . . .”

  As her voice trailed off, Picard saw the worry in her eyes, and knew the rest of her unspoken thought—I wish I knew what’s happened to my son.

  “Thanks for your help, Beverly,” he said as she got up.

  “I’d better be getting back to the lab. We’re starting to make some real progress on this ridmium poisoning case.”

  “Oh? That will be good news for the Chezrani accident survivors. Keep me posted.” As he watched her leave, Picard wondered if this medical challenge would provide a much needed distraction for his chief surgeon, forcing her to think about something other than Wesley and the missing away team. Perhaps, but he knew such distractions were only momentary at best.

  Left alone, Picard combed through the computer for all available scraps of information on the Tenirans. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to find. The Teniran homeworld was located far from any Federation systems, and contacts had been limited to sporadic trade. Beyond that, there were few specifics. No record of how many planets or outposts were counted as part of the Teniran Echelon. No historical background. Nothing to give Picard even the slightest hint of what might have brought this one Teniran vessel to an unprepossessing planet so far from home, and what could have compelled its captain to bully a defenseless shuttlecraft.

  The door chime interrupted Picard’s musing and Commander Riker entered from the bridge. “Captain, I think it would be useful to beam down for a close look at the Onizuka’s base camp.”

  Picard stood, his jaw tightening at Riker’s suggestion. “Under the circumstances, I’d prefer not to lose any other crew members in Domaran limbo.”

  “And I’d prefer not getting lost,” Riker said with a gallows grin. “But there may be some hints we just aren’t picking up on long-range scans. I’d like Geordi with me—maybe he can see some other pieces to this puzzle.”

  Picard’s expression made it clear he’d rather not authorize this away-team mission, if only he could think of an alternative entailing less risk. He couldn’t. “All right, Number One. But make this visit as brief as possible.”

  If Will Riker had ever wanted to be anything but an explorer, he had long since forgotten those other dreams. Nothing had ever caught his fancy so much as the idea of going places no one had ever been, seeing wonders
no one had ever witnessed before. Not that he’d been a thrillseeker or a daredevil. Quite the opposite, in fact. Even as a kid, when his friends had wanted to march boldly onto glaciers or dive headlong into unknown seas or descend into the damp darkness of caves, Will had usually been the one to make sure they were prepared and equipped for all eventualities.

  The responsible one . . . the one who planned, and packed their gear . . . the confident front man whom the others relied upon to assuage the trepidations of dubious parents eager to keep their sons and daughters home and unscathed, knowing all the while that these children needed to explore before they could grow up. The responsible one.

  Of course, none of those childhood exploits had ever taken Will and his friends into the real unknown. The glaciers and caves and oceans of their adventures were, after all, usually in parks. But each autumn, fresh snows magically transformed the familiar Alaskan landscape that made up their backyard into wilderness as pristine as before the first human visitors had left their footprints in ancient snows, and that might have been enough to fire the imaginations of young boys and girls as they set out on their expeditions of discovery.

  In time, though, they had all realized the truth. They had only been going where they had not gone before, as they followed the daring footsteps of generations of children before them. By the twenty-fourth century, there may have been a few dangerous places still left on Earth, but no unknown places. The real unknown, the infinite unknown, lay out in space.

  For Riker, that path had been the only choice possible. And by now, years of experience had forced him to learn harsh lessons about the dark side of exploration. By definition, the unknown was also unpredictable. No matter how careful, how skilled, how prepared, no explorer could anticipate all eventualities. No mission was totally without dangers, and those dangers impossible to foresee were often the nastiest of all.

  The field excursion to Domarus Four had seemed about as close to risk-free as anything could be in this business. Riker hadn’t had any special misgivings about sending the shuttle off on its own. But maybe he should have.