The woman's expression indicated that she was not impressed. "Have you got wax in your ears?" she asked. "I told you he's busy, sir. If you wish to make an. appointment, you'll have to go through the university— and let them decide how important it is. Now, don't make me call the constable on you, because I won't hesitate to--"
"Jessel? Who's at the door?"
Geordi would have known that voice anywhere— although there was a range of expressiveness in it that he hadn't heard before. The woman looked irritated.
Obviously, she had no choice now but to announce their presence there.
"Just some friends of yours, sir," she called back into the house. "I told them to come back another time, when you're not so busy."
"Now, Jessel, I told you about frightening people away…"
As the sentence hung unfinished in the air, an inner door swung open--revealing none other than their old colleague, Data. Being an android, he hadn't aged over the years. However, there was a prominent streak of gray on one side of his head—not a natural streak, but one that looked as if a paintbrush had been taken to his head.
Data was wearing a cranberry-colored, synthetic-silk smoking jacket--the perfect complement to his surroundings. As he peered out at Geordi and the captain, his eyes seemed to go blank for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke out on his face.
"Geordi!" he exclaimed. "Captain!" He held out a hand to them.
Being a bit closer, Geordi was the first to take it.
"It's good to see you, Data." Picard shook hands with him, too.
"It's been a long time," he noted.
The android nodded. "Too long, sir." Turning to his housekeeper, he said, "Jessel, these are my old shipmates. The ones I have told you about."
The woman harrumphed. "Oh. The Enterprise bunch. How delightful." And turning on her heel, she vanished into the house.
Unperturbed, Data ushered them in. "What a pleasant surprise this is." And then, glancing back at the departing housekeeper: "Tea and biscuits for everyone, Jessel."
CHAPTER 6
To Picard, Data's library looked like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story... spacious, comfortable, the walls lined with a wide assortment of leather-bound books. He could smell the oils that had been used to preserve them. A fire—not a real one, of course, but a rather authentic-looking hologram—was roaring cheerfully in the hearth.
And there were any number of cats wandering about or sleeping on the furniture. Apparently, the android's mixed experience with Spot hadn't turned him off to felines altogether.
La Forge nodded appreciatively. "This is quite a house you have here, Data. I see they treat professors pretty well at Cambridge."
The android shrugged. "Holding the Lucasian Chair does have its perquisites. This house originally belonged to Sir Isaac Newton when he held the position. It has since become the traditional residence." He paused. "Of course, being a creature of habit, I tend to use only three of the forty-seven rooms in the manor."
Just then, Jessel entered the room with a silver tea service, which gleamed in the firelight. Judging by her expression, she'd been keeping track of their conversation.
"Might as well board up the rest of the house, for all the use it gets..." Her voice trailed off, but she'd made her point.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she leaned in close to La Forge and spoke quietly—though not so quietly Picard couldn't make out what she was saying. "You're his friend, eh?"
He saw the former engineer nod. "That's right. And I have been for quite some time."
"Well then," said the housekeeper, "as his friend, see if you can get him to take that gray streak out of his hair. He looks like a bloomin' skunk, he does. People will soon start walking on the other side of the street when they see him coming."
Data, who had obviously overheard, cast a remonstrative look at Jessel. "Thank you," he told her. "That will be all."
Without another word, she made her exit. The android turned to his guests with a wry look on his face.
"She can be trying at times," he admitted. "But she does make me laugh now and then."
La Forge smiled. "So... what is it with your hair, anyway?"
Picard was glad someone else had mentioned it. Unfortunately, Data looked a bit embarrassed.
"I have found that a touch of gray adds an air of... distinction," he explained. "Unfortunately, I don't seem to have it quite right yet." Indicating a pair of chairs, he glanced at each of his old comrades in turn. "Please," he said. "Make yourselves comfortable."
Crossing to the tea set, the android began to pour. When he was done, he brought them their cups.
Then, sitting down himself, he eyed Picard. "Since neither of you has a predilection for sudden visits, I assume you are not here just for afternoon tea."
Picard nodded, grateful for the opening. "That's true. Data, I need your help..."
It took a while for him to explain what had happened: to him—even longer than it should have, perhaps, thanks to his illness. But in the end, he managed to get it all out.
"I know how it sounds," the older man finished. "But it happened. It was real. I was back on the Enterprise."
He saw Data and La Forge exchange a look—but he was willing to disregard it. After all, he told himself, if their positions and his were reversed, he would have been a bit skeptical as well.
"Temporal displacement would normally leave a residual tachyon signature," the android noted, as a clark brown cat walked over his lap. "I've scanned you, sir, but I can't see anything out of the ordinary."
Turning to La Forge, he asked, "When this happened, did you notice anything unusual?"
The man with the artificial eyes shook his head. "No. We were walking through the vineyard and he just…stumbled."
Data considered that for a moment. He looked back to Picard. "And you say this happened to you twice?"
The older man nodded. "Twice that I know of… though I suppose it could've been more often..." He hated not being able to remember. "I wish I could be more specific," he said, "but this damned condition of mine... I just can't seem to think straight sometimes."
At that point, Jessel entered to reclaim the tea service. By then, whatever they hadn't finished had gone cold--as a number of cats could bear witness, having peeked inside the cups themselves. While the housekeeper gathered up the cups and saucers, the android renewed his questioning.
"Captain," he began, "when was the last time you saw a physician about your Irumodic syndrome?"
Picard felt his spine stiffen. "A week ago. I was prescribed peridaxon. And yes, I'm fully aware that it's not a cure. Nothing can stop the deterioration of my…my synaptic pathways. I know that." Again, Data and La Forge exchanged looks. This time, it rankled the older man, and he couldn't contain it.
"You think I'm senile," he told them. "That this is all some... delusion or something. Admit it."
"No one said anything like that," replied La Forge.
But Data gave him the unvarnished truth. "In all honesty, Captain, it's a thought that has occurred to me. However, there is nothing to disprove what you are saying, either. So I suppose it's possible that something is happening to you." Picard felt hopeful as he watched the android pace across the room, sending a number of sleeping cats scurrying for cover. It seemed Data had become a lot more... human since they saw each other last. Or at least, he'd picked up some human habits.
"The first thing we should do," said their host, "is give you a complete series of neurographic scans. We can use the equipment at the biometrics lab here on campus." Turning to the housekeeper, who was shooing a Siamese cat off the couch, he said, "Jessel, ask Professor Rippert to take over my lecture for tomorrow... and possibly for the rest of the week."
The older man grinned. "That's my Data!" he exclaimed. "I knew I could count on you!" He jumped up from his chair and—
—felt his feet strike the unyielding metal of the shuttledeck.
Looking around, Picard had that feeling agai
n... the one that he had been somewhere else until this very second. He was tempted to reach back, to steady himself against the Galileo. But in the next moment, the feeling passed.
A moment later, he saw that there were a couple of dozen officers lined up for his inspection. They were standing at ease in three distinct ranks.
One was a Klingon—Worf, wasn't it? He recalled the gist of the man's personal history. Nor was it a difficult task, considering how unusual it was for a Klingon to be raised on Earth.
Stepping out from behind Picard, Lieutenant Yar called out in a loud voice, "The commanding officer of the Enterprise/"
The words echoed from bulkhead to bulkhead. It was a proud moment for him. And it wasn't over. Right on cue, an ensign brought an old-fashioned bosun's whistle to his lips and blew on it. At the high, shrill sound, everyone in the bay snapped to crisp attention.
Shrugging off the last shreds of his disorientation, Picard moved to a nearby podium, placed his padd on it, and surveyed the crowd. There were other faces here that he recognized from their Starfleet files—but there would be time to study them at length later on. Right now, everyone was waiting for him to officially announce his assumption of command.
Moving forward with the ceremony, he read from the padd. "To Captain Jean-Luc Picard, stardate four-one-one-four-eight..."
Something made him look up. To his astonishment, there was a trio of humans up on the shuttlebay's catwalk. They were haggard, sunken-cheeked, dressed in rags.
And the captain had the strangest feeling that he had seen them somewhere before—though he couldn't remember where.
As Picard stared at them, and they stared back, One of the figures pointed to him. Then all three began to laugh.
The captain blinked, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
And then they were gone.
Jarred, he just stood there for a moment, trying to decide what had just happened—if anything. He was a perfectly sane, perfectly rational human being. He had no history of hallucinations. And yet, he had thought he'd seen something that was plainly not there.
Someone cleared his or her throat. Remembering the officers who had assembled to greet him, Picard looked at them. They were waiting.
Gathering himself, he returned to the orders written on the padd. "You are hereby requested and required to take command..." he read.
And a second time, something caught his eye.
Glancing up, he saw that the figures on the catwalk were back—but now, there were six of them. And they were pointing at him and jeering even more wildly than before.
Then, as if by magic, they weren't. They had vanished again. He looked all around the room and could find no sign of them.
It was only then that he put two and two together.
Might the sight of the hollow-cheeked hecklers have something to do with his feelings of disorientation?
Might it not be all of a piece?
Unfortunately, he couldn't puzzle it out now, in the presence of all his officers. They would think he'd gone over the edge.
Later, after he'd had time to rest, to mull it over, he'd be able to put these things in some reasonable context.
He'd see that there was a logical explanation for all of it.
But right now, he wanted to get this ceremony over with and retire to his quarters. As before, he applied himself to reading the words on the padd.
"... to take command of the U.S.S. Enterprise as of this date. Signed, Rear Admiral Norah Satie, Starfleet Command." Turning off the padd, he stepped out from behind the podium and looked at his crew. They looked back at him silently, waiting for the first words he would offer them—their first bit of sage advice from the captain of the newly commissioned Enterprise.
But before he could advise them, he saw that the scraggly figures had returned—and this time, in force.
There were ten of them now, up on the catwalk, all shouting at Picard with murderous intent. Out of reflex, he took a step back, prepared to respond if they came leaping over the rail to get at him.
But it never happened—because a fraction of a second later, they were gone. An eerie, echoing silence filled the shuttlebay, as the captain made his decision.
This wasn't his imagination. This wasn't the product of a tired or distracted mind. Something was going on here—and until he knew what, he would take whatever precautions he deemed necessary.
Addressing his officers, he shouted, "Red alert! All hands to battle stations!" For a moment, they just looked at him, dumbfounded.
Surely, their faces said, this had to be a joke. Only one of them took it seriously right from the start.
"You heard the captain!" barked Lieutenant Yar. "Move!"
That broke them out of their initial paralysis. An instant later, they were sounding the alert, rushing out the shuttlebay doors to their respective duty stations.
And as Picard watched them go, he mused that in twenty years on the Stargazer, he had never encountered anything like this. Welcome to the Enterprise, he told himself.
CHAPTER 7
"Red alert," muttered Miles Edward O'Brien, lost in thought as he made his way along the crowded corridor. "I just don't get it."
His friend Sutcliffe, who was accompanying him to the turbolift, didn't get it either. He said so.
"I mean," he continued, "I've heard of captains coming on board and trying to make an impression, but that was ridiculous. Everybody running to their battle stations for no reason at all..." He sighed. "If it was a drill, it was a damned stupid time for one."
O'Brien cast a sideways glance at him. "Don't say that."
Sutcliffe glanced back. "Say what?"
"That it was stupid," O'Brien explained.
"And why not?" asked the other man.
"Because he's the captain," O'Brien told him.
"And that means he can't do anything stupid?"
O'Brien nodded. "That's right."
"You're out of your mind," said Sutcliffe. "Captains are as human as anyone else. Or as Vulcan. Or as Andorian. They make mistakes, just like the rest of us."
"That's not the way I was taught," O'Brien countered. "You don't run down the man in the center seat. Not even when you're talking to a friend. Not even when you're talking to yourself." He paused, remembering his old ship and its commanding officer. "That's the way it was on the Phoenix, under Captain Maxwell. And that's the way it'll be here—at least for me."
Sutcliffe smiled. "Blind obedience? Really?"
O'Brien shrugged off the criticism. "Not blind," he said. "Just obedience. You may disagree with a man's orders, or his judgment. But when you start thinking you can replace it with your own, you run into trouble." He grunted. "Starfleet Command isn't in the habit of putting berserkers or ne'er-do-wells in charge of Galaxy-class vessels. If Captain Picard called a red alert, he had a reason for it."
"Uh-huh," Sutcliffe replied. "Even if you can't for the life of you imagine what it might have been."
O'Brien frowned. "Even then. Of course—"
Abruptly, he felt his shoulder bump hard into something. Or more accurately, someone. In this case, it was an Oriental woman with her arms full of transparent flower cases--which went tumbling to the deck as he and she collided.
"Oh, blast," he said, kneeling beside her to help her pick them up again. But she didn't seem to be in any hurry to do that.
"The b'lednaya..." she groaned, her dark eyes wide with pain.
"Don't worry," O'Brien told her. He smiled, trying to put the situation in perspective for her. "I'll give you a hand."
The woman looked up at him. "Don't bother," she said. "B'lednaya are very fragile. As you can see," she said, picking up a case to use as an example, "their stems have been broken."
Indeed, their stems were broken. And though the delicate, violet-and~yellow flowers hadn't been affected yet, it was only a matter of time before they'd begin to shrivel.
He felt badly about that. But he still had to get to the bridge to help w
ith its outfitting, and he was due there in just a couple of minutes. Nor did he want to be tardy, considering the importance of his assignment.
Starfleet captains might understand a lot of things, but lateness wasn't one of them. He knew that from sad experience.
"Listen," he told the woman—who, he couldn't help but notice, was quite attractive--"I'm sorry, really I am. But I've got to make my shift. Are you sure I can't help you in some way?"
She couldn't have given him an icier stare if she'd been an ammonia-breather. "That's all right," she assured him. "I think you've helped enough... don't you?"
Well, thought O'Brien. If that's the way it was to be.
Straightening, he resumed his progress toward the turbolift. Sutcliffe, who was still beside him, clapped him on the shoulder.
"That's all right," he commented. "She wasn't your type anyway, Miles. Too delicate."
O'Brien glanced back over his shoulder at the woman. As she gathered up the cases full of ruined flowers, he felt a pang he'd never felt before. Guilt, probably. Or was it something else?
"You're probably right," he told Sutcliffe. But he still glanced back at her a couple more times before he reached his destination.
Tasha Yar didn't feel particularly comfortable in the Ten-Forward lounge. However, it had been one of the first areas in the ship to be completely furnished, and that made it perfect for the various meetings she had to conduct with the ship's personnel.
After all, she was one of the ranking otficers on board. When the rest of the senior staff arrived, her responsibilities would be confined to security per se—but for now, it fell to her to coordinate everything from shuttledeck operations to outfitting sickbay.
At this particular moment, as she nursed her too-rich Dagavarian maltmilk, she was waiting to conduct a meeting with the latest shipment of shuttle pilots. She reeled off their names from memory: Collins, Mayhew, and Prieto. All highly rated, though none higher than her.
Tasha couldn't help but notice that everyone else in the lounge was seated in twos and threes. She was the only one sitting alone. But then, she was used to that. Coming from the kind of place she'd come from, it was unlikely that social interaction would ever be her forte.
Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things... Page 4