by Diane Duane
“Well, Mr. La Forge, about that report…”
La Forge stood his ground as Picard drew near and lifted one hand near La Forge’s badge. La Forge actually set his teeth. Picard wagged a finger of the raised hand at him and said, “Be more careful next time. I should dislike losing my chief engineer just as I’ve gotten him broken in.”
La Forge sagged a little. Picard said, “Now. You seem to be studying something here with some interest?”
La Forge looked concerned for a moment, turning his attention back to the panel. “Yes, Captain. I was noticing some odd energy readings over the last couple of hours—fluctuations I’m not sure how to explain.” He added hurriedly, “We’ll find out what they are, no problem.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Mr. La Forge,” Picard said as mildly as he could, and wandered around the status board, thinking, They’ve noticed our transports, small as they are. I’ll have to tell Troi and Geordi not to risk any further ones. He brushed a hand idly over the board as he passed, changing some of the displays until he found one that showed, as the bridge display had, the main power couplings to the nacelles, to ship’s systems and shielding, and to that third source. Here it had a label: Inclusion Apparatus.
Greatly daring, he tapped that spot on the schematic and said, “How’s this behaving itself?”
“Come and see.” La Forge led him off down the great right-hand corridor leading away from the exchange column, down one of the “transepts.” Picard followed him, not too quickly, with Barclay in tow.
They turned left into a huge bay some twenty meters wide and thirty deep. In the midst of this, connected by optical, computer, and power conduits that vanished under the floor, was an apparatus that seemed to be housed in several great cabinets. It made no sound. Several status boards were erected around it, one at each corner of the installation. The whole thing had a balanced and symmetrical look, and Picard found himself wondering whether that symmetry had something to do with the basic theory of it.
He paused by one of the boards, tapped it a few times to cycle through its available display configurations, and tried desperately to memorize what he was seeing—for Geordi would need this information. He wished Geordi himself were here to make some kind of sense of it. Just have to do the best I can by myself. There were references to “chord ingress” and “egress,” “oscillation.” He remembered abruptly that Hwiii had been discussing oscillation in relation to hyperstrings. “Negative sines,” “positive sines.” He shook his head. “It’s a masterwork,” he said, “that much I understand.”
He started to walk around the installation slowly with Geordi beside him and Barclay bringing up the rear.
“Everything continues to test out normal,” Geordi said. “The local structure of space is continuing to show some slight irregularities, but that’s understandable under the circumstances.”
“You’re sure it won’t produce a problem?” Picard said sharply.
“Oh, no, Captain, not for the time that ship will be here. If it were here too long, there would be growing field disturbances. After all, this universe would have just gotten heavier by one point five million metric tons. On the macro scale, the universe can absorb that kind of change of mass. On the local scale, though, in median time, say within a few hundred thousand parsecs, things could get pretty shaken up—the space of our universe being closed, after all, and balanced for a certain amount of matter, the amount present at its inception. It’s a good thing there aren’t any stars or planets in this area: they would have reacted adversely by now.”
Picard nodded at all this. His brain was resounding now with the phrase for the time that ship will be here. “And when it’s gone?” he said, trailing off.
“Then everything snaps back to normal.”
“Even after—energy discharges, photon torpedoes, and so forth?” He purposely kept his phrasing vague.
“Oh, yes, Captain,” La Forge said. “As long as no matter more than ten to the sixteenth grams is left here, there won’t be any ill effects to our universe.”
That clinched it, then. Picard suddenly knew what was going to happen. As long as that threshold amount of mass is left here. They’re not, then, merely planning to capture the ship and destroy it. “When it’s gone…” They’re going to send it back. Not with one of our crews. With theirs… ! That at least seemed perfectly clear. “Mass less than ten to the sixteenth grams….” He thought briefly. If you took all the weight of all the bodies on the Enterprise… let’s see now… average weight per person, say a hundred kilos… He did the sum in his head. All the human beings and other creatures aboard the Enterprise lumped together would be much less than ten to the sixteenth grams. And in his mind, Picard saw the sudden image of many, many bodies, floating frozen in space or phasered out of existence…. Matter could neither be created nor destroyed, of course: their component mass would still exist, in other forms. But this universe wouldn’t be harmed. And it wouldn’t matter to these people how his crew died, so long as they did and left room on the Enterprise for their own people, their counterparts.
He nodded and walked on around the great apparatus in its cabinets. At a stroke, he had been deprived of one option he had been considering, in which he had instructed Riker: the option of destroying the Enterprise while still in this universe, if they couldn’t get back. They would have reacted adversely, La Forge had said. Was he understating? How much? Could hundreds of thousands of parsecs of space really be affected by the permanent presence of this extra mass? And if it could—could the destruction of his Enterprise here destroy life in this universe? He couldn’t imagine the exact mode of the destruction, but somehow he was sure it would happen. So far he had not found a single bright spot about any of this situation: this unpalatable prospect wasn’t very likely to be the exception.
Even in this universe—skewed and warped as it seemed—on some of these planets, around some of these stars, there had to be innocent lives, millions of them, people not responsible for this situation, not contributing to it. He would not be their murderer. Yet, at the same time, a cold voice far back in his brain said, Are you sure this universe wouldn’t profit from being killed? Are you very sure? Look at it! Is this life?
He thrust that thought resolutely away. Transporter or no transporter, I must find a way to warn the Enterprise about this. At least, I have to get this information to Geordi and Troi. They might be able to devise something. And he himself would have to devise quickly a way to get Geordi into the core, and some way to incapacitate this ship as thoroughly as possible. Two birds with one stone would be best, if it could be managed.
There was a sound of footsteps, and he and Geordi and Barclay all turned to see Lieutenant Worf approaching them. “Commander Riker sent me to ask whether eighteen hundred hours will be all right for that briefing you wanted.”
What briefing? Picard almost said, and caught himself in a hurry. He wondered whether this was some sort of trick, or simply something his counterpart had asked for before going to his quarters. “Briefing,” he said, trying to sound neither too vague nor too certain. “Eighteen hundred will be fine. Though—” He paused for a moment. “Never mind. Was there anything else?”
“No, Captain,” said Worf.
“Good,” La Forge said. “Then get out of here, slave.”
Picard, looking at La Forge, was not entirely surprised to see the flare of jealousy and protectiveness. But this was not just an exaggerated case of what command-level personnel sometimes called “engineer’s disease,” the tendency for engineering personnel to consider their department, and by extension the whole ship, as their personal property, and to treat any intrusion into engineering by anyone, even the captain, as just that—an intrusion. In this La Forge it had a nasty edge to it, and he used it, apparently, as an excuse to express his personal contempt for Worf.
It abruptly became too much for Picard. “Mr. La Forge,” he said, being careful to keep his phrasing neutral, keeping the anger out
of his voice, “I will have my senior officers treat my junior officers with due respect.”
La Forge laughed, a single harsh, disbelieving bark. “Him? His people have lost any respect they might have ever had.”
Picard glanced sideways toward Worf. He merely looked at La Forge, his eyes surprisingly calm, and said nothing.
“Whatever the case may be regarding that,” Picard said, “he is an officer aboard my ship.” And he looked La Forge thoughtfully in the visor, then down at his badge, and up at his visor again.
“Yes, Captain,” La Forge said, actually through gritted teeth. “Well, if there’s anything else you need, please call me. I have work to do.” And, undismissed, he stalked away.
He is very certain of his position, Picard thought, and of his necessity to what’s going on here. He bears watching.
“I’m sorry about that,” Picard said to Worf. “It seems uncalled for.”
“On the contrary, he’s quite right.” The calm way that Worf put it had some unspoken tragedy at the bottom of it.
“Walk with me, Lieutenant,” Picard said. Together they began to make their way out of engineering, with Barclay behind at a respectful distance. They said little until they were well past the matter/antimatter exchange column and heading down the great main hall toward the exit.
“I do not condone his rudeness,” Picard said. “If discipline and effectiveness are to be maintained…”
Worf shook his head. “Captain, you have not often spoken to me in this mode.”
Picard glanced from left to right and back to Worf again. “Possibly, because the walls seem to have ears around here. I doubt many people on this ship speak what they’re thinking.”
“Indeed not,” Worf said. “To reveal your thoughts to a superior could be suicidal; to reveal them to an equal might alert them too soon to some trap you were laying for them. And as for inferiors, like myself…” He shrugged, and there was no tone of bitterness about the way he said it. “That would betray weakness. No one here betrays weakness and lives long to tell about it.”
Picard recalled an early writer’s description of hell as a bureaucracy run along much the same lines and repressed a shudder. “I should dislike to think that any of my crewmen actually considered themselves to be inferior, Mr. Worf.”
Beside him Worf shook his head slightly as they went out into the corridor. “Captain, when one comes from a race that has submitted, there is no other way to be perceived by most of the population of Starfleet, or any Starfleet ship. If you are not Earth human, or from one of the Earth-colonized worlds; or if you are not Vulcan, or from one of the Vulcan provincial planets—then you are a second-class citizen. A species that cannot at least fight the Empire to a standstill cannot be considered fit to stand with it in command, in rule. A species that submits or is warred down is good only to ‘hew wood and draw water.’ Slaves at worst—a sort of tame curiosity at best.”
Worf was silent for a moment as they came around a curve in the hallway, and both he and Barclay looked ahead to see who was there. Then Worf said, “After their long war with the Empire, outweaponed and outnumbered as they were, the survivors of my people decided that life was sweeter than honor. By surrender, they thought, they could at least purchase the lives of the noncombatants on the Klingon homeworld. Perhaps they deluded themselves by thinking that at some later date, resistance could begin again and honor could be regained: their descendants would live to fight another day. But a delusion it was. Their descendants have known nothing but the Empire for three generations now. At this point in time, I doubt whether the fighting will happen on any ‘other day’ at all.” He looked at Picard. “They have grown used to their position… perhaps wisely. For who can resist the Empire? Not that there is much of anyone left to try. Otherwise, why would we be here?”
Picard’s mind had begun to run in small circles. The Klingons here… not allies, but a conquered race? He could barely imagine such a thing. What kind of power did the Empire have to reduce them to this? And then, more dreadful still, the words No one left to try. Why else would we be here?
There were a hundred questions Picard wanted to ask about that phrase, and none that he dared utter just now. “Mr. Worf, all this is very old history. How does it affect your honor here and now?”
“Captain, it hardly matters. My whole planet was ‘discommended’ nearly a century ago now, when the Earth fleets first beat our own spaceforce back into our own space, cutting us off from our ally worlds and then destroying them. It was the last time our fate was in our hands, and we threw it away.” Worf looked dreadfully resigned: it was the face of a man discussing a cause lost before he was born, and unlikely ever to be found. “It hardly matters now.”
“It matters very much,” Picard said. “Especially insofar as it affects your… efficiency.”
Worf looked at him rather oddly. “I serve and am content to do that. And mostly I am left alone, and that contents me as well.” The resignation and the pain again… it was almost more than Picard could bear. “But I thank you for your show of concern, Captain. It is very—” He actually stumbled over the word, as if it was one he had never considered saying to the man he spoke with. “Very kind of you.”
“A matter of efficiency only, Mr. Worf,” Picard said as briskly as he could. But he was lying, and he knew from the look on Worf’s face that Worf knew he was—and that something was going on in the captain’s mind that had never been suspected there before. “You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Worf said, and plainly meant it.
He strode ahead, making for the turbolift.
Picard watched him go and swallowed hard. The determination in him was growing to do something, something about all this… something to put it right.
But what?
CHAPTER 9
“Mr. Barclay,” Picard said as they came to the turbolift, “I don’t know about you, but assassination attempts make me sweat. I wouldn’t mind a shower and a change.”
“Yes, sir,” Barclay said as they stepped into the ’lift. “Deck eleven.”
The ’lift took off. Barclay eyed the scratch on Picard’s chin. “You were lucky to get away with so little, sir. Please be more careful.”
Picard’s mood was not entirely sanguine. “Is that strictly professional concern? Is there anybody on this ship who would really care dreadfully if I died?”
“We wouldn’t like to lose you, Captain.”
“Ah, but you get perks for taking care of me. Isn’t that so?”
“Captain, you’ve never been less than generous. Some people say you’ve been more generous than you had to be.”
A virtue at last? Picard thought sourly. Or just my counterpart making sure he gets value for his money?
“And then there’s Dr. Crusher, of course,” said Barclay as they stepped out of the ’lift.
Picard nodded. Here as in his own Enterprise, old family connections, old tragedies, got talked about just as everything else. If there was anything he was certain these two ships would have in common, gossip was it. “Yes, of course. Well, never mind. At the moment, I guess we should be grateful there aren’t more attempts—eh, Mr. Barclay?”
“Yes, sir,” Barclay said ruefully. “But that’s what we’re here for… we’re as much of a deterrent as anything else.”
“Point taken,” Picard said as they came to his quarters. “Keep guard, will you, Mr. Barclay? I don’t care to be disturbed just now.”
“Yes, sir.” Barclay stationed himself by the doorway. Picard walked in, paused, touched the control to lock the door as it shut. Interesting, he thought, that he didn’t check this space out before he let me in. Apparently the captain’s quarters are expected to be secure. Or else someone has them under scan. The thought made his hair rise again. Could everything that had happened so far be an act, masking the fact that someone had seen the snatch of this ship’s Picard happen and was just biding time, waiting for the right moment to take him out of circulation?
Could it mean—But no. He shook his head. There was such a thing as being too paranoid, even here.
He headed into the shower, turned it on, then bent briefly over his communicator. “Mr. La Forge,” he whispered, “this is urgent. The ‘inclusion’ apparatus responsible for our being here is in the engine room. Enterprise”—he assumed Geordi would know which one he meant—“must not remain in this locality. Equally urgent: intent is that Enterprise will be restaffed with others, then returned. Also, transport has been noticed. End message. One acknowledgment if you two are all right, two if there’s a problem.”
The badge buzzed once under his fingertips and did nothing else.
There’s a relief, Picard thought, and started stripping out of the uniform, carefully removing the badge and medals. Geordi had been confident enough that this area couldn’t be scanned, but Picard still preferred paranoia: if the sound hadn’t blocked out his words, they themselves might still be fairly confusing to any local listener. He could only hope for the best.
In the shower, he thought hard. He needed a quick way to incapacitate at least one of the ship’s major systems. There was no way to get away with it quietly in engineering: there were simply too many people down there, and he wouldn’t know where to begin. The smartest way would be the back way, the way Geordi had tried. Some different back way, though—not so carefully watched. The trouble was telling which ones were watched, here. Almost everything seemed to be. How any undertaking as colossal as a starship, or a Starfleet, could be sustained in such an atmosphere of profound mistrust… Picard found it difficult to understand.
A couple of hours, Troi had said, until the next phase begins. Not very long. And what next phase? One possibility presented itself: that they were ready to move against the Enterprise, that they intended to batter her into submission, take her, and put their own crew aboard. For the time that ship will be here… until she’s gone, Geordi had said. Picard could find no other way to interpret that. They would take her back to her home universe, with their own crew… and do what? There’s no way they could take on all of Starfleet…