The captain shook his head. "No. That's not good enough."
"It'll have to be," responded the admiral. "I'm sorry, Jean-Luc. That's all I can do. Riker out."
CHAPTER 11
As his monitor went dark, Riker sat back in his chair and sighed. He hated to be so brusque with a man who had done for him what Jean-Luc Picard had done.
Still, what choice did he have? The captain might as well have asked for a pet mugato as request permission to enter Klingon territory. Neither one was likely to ensure him a long life.
Though, judging by the looks of him, Picard wasn't going to enjoy a very long life anyway. And what was left to him was going to be full of misery and humiliation, thanks to his disease.
Was that it? the admiral wondered. Was this the captain's way of going out in a blaze of glory—instead of slowly and painfully deteriorating over time?
Riker thought about it—and ultimately rejected the idea. It would be one thing for Picard to sacrifice his own life. But Data and Geordi had been willing to go with him, and the captain would never have sacrificed their lives as well.
Speaking of Data... what was it with his hair? It looked like he'd used his head to erase one of those blackboards still in use at Cambridge.
The monitor beeped. "Riker here," he responded mechanically.
An instant later, he saw the clean-cut visage of Captain Sam Lavelle. The man smiled, genuinely glad to see the officer who had been so hard on him when he'd joined the Enterprise.
"Admiral Riker. You're looking well, sir. But then, we Canadians are an enduring breed." It was a joke, of course. Lavelle had once made the mistake of thinking Riker was from Canada. Actually, he was born and bred in Alaska.
"So we are," said the admiral, acknowledging the attempt at humor. Unfortunately, he didn't much feel like laughing right now.
Lavelle's demeanor became more serious as he noticed his superior's lack of enthusiasm. "Something wrong, sir?"
Riker shrugged. "Make me a promise, Sam. If I come to you when I'm ninety years old and ask you to ferry me somewhere in the Enterprise... somewhere crazy, where I'm likely to get myself and the rest of the crew killed... let me down easy, all right?" Lavelle looked at him, obviously unable to divine the reason for the request. However, he must have sensed it wasn't really a topic the admiral wanted to discuss.
"First off," he replied, "I don't think you'd ask for something like that... not at any age. And second, it'll be someone else's problem—or have you forgotten what day this is?"
Abruptly, Riker remembered. "That's right. You're retiring today, aren't you?"
"You sound so glum," the younger man observed, deriving pleasure from the fact. "Does that mean you're having second thoughts?"
Another old joke. The admiral reacted as Lavelle would have expected.
"No, Sam. I still think you make lousy officer material. It's just that I've gotten used to you. You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks."
Lavelle smiled. "Then you're not sorry you listened to—" He stopped himself, realizing he'd made a mistake by starting down that path. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bring her up."
Riker nodded, trying to ignore the pain of remembrance. "It's all right," he lied. Then, changing the subject: "So you really think you're going to be happy running a research colony?"
Now it was Sam's turn to shrug. "I promised Korina that we'd try something different for a while—and this is what she chose. After keeping her penned up on the Enterprise for fifteen years, I don't really get much of a say in the matter." He smiled. "And then again, maybe I've had enough of the shipboard life myself. I guess I'm more of a landlubber than I ever cared to admit."
Riker eyed him affectionately. "I'm going to miss you, Lavelle. You're sure I can't talk you out of this?"
The younger man shook his head. "Too late. My bags are already packed." He gazed at the admiral. "And what about you? How long are you going to stay in that dusty old office of yours?"
"Until they kick me out of it," the older man quipped.
"And not before?" Sam pressed, a little mischievously. "Are you saying you don't get the urge anymore to hop on a starship and see faraway places? To go where no one has gone before?" It was a good question, even if it was posed half in jest.
Riker took a breath, let it out.
"Faraway places," he said, surprising himself with the note of bitterness in his voice, "don't mean quite as much as they used to, somehow. Maybe I'm getting old."
For what might have been the first time since their conversation began, Lavelle spoke in earnest. "Maybe you're letting yourself get old," he suggested.
Yet another subject the admiral wasn't eager to delve into. "Tell your people I'll have a replacement in a day or two, Sam. And keep in touch, dammit. From what I hear, Beta Retimnion is as accessible by subspace as anywhere else in the galaxy."
The younger man smiled, though a bit wistfully. "That works both ways, sir. I'll see you around. And thanks again... for everything. Lavelle out."
Again, the screen went dark, and Riker leaned back into his seat. It was a sobering moment when a man ten years his junior had the temerity to retire from the center seat.
Where had the years gone? And how had he gotten so far away from the thing he loved best... the search for adventure that had propelled him into space in the first place?
He wished he could turn back the clock a quarter-century, when things were different... when he had everything he wanted and nothing to feel guilty about. What he wouldn't do to have those days back again…
As the communication with Admiral Riker came to an end, Geordi sighed. This wasn't going to sit well with the captain. But on the other hand, it was clearly for the best.
After all, they had no business trying to make their way through Klingon territory. They weren't the confident young officers they used to be—and even if they had been, they would have been risking a lot to satisfy an old man's fantasy.
As he watched, Picard turned his back on the monitor.
It wasn't difficult to divine his emotions. He was frustrated and he was angry—and worse than that, he felt betrayed by a man he'd once thought of as a son.
But he would get over it. Geordi would take him home and see to that. A couple of days from now, he would forget he had ever attached any importance at all to the Devron system.
"Damn him, anyway," growled Picard. "Ungrateful young pup. He's been sitting behind that desk too long.
Do you know how many times I pulled his chestnuts out of the fire? Do you?"
"Well," said Geordi, trying hard to mask his relief, "I guess all we can do now is wait... and see if the Yorktown finds anything."
Data turned to him and replied, "There is another option."
Geordi sighed. Another option was the last thing he wanted right now.
"And that is?" he inquired.
"We could arrange passage aboard a medical ship," explained the android.
"A medical ship?" echoed Picard, his eyes narrowing.
Data nodded. "There was an outbreak of Terellian plague on Romulus. The Klingon High Council has been allowing Federation medical ships to cross the border."
The captain grinned. "Yes... yes, of course..."
Geordi eyed Data. It looked like this was going to go on, after all.
"So I guess all we need now is a medical ship," he said.
The older man grabbed the android by the arm. "I think I can arrange that, Mr. Data. Find the U.S.S. Pasteur. I have some... some pull with her commanding officer."
For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, his eyes glazed over with memories. Then he came out of it.
"At least," he amended, "I used to...."
The former Beverly Crusher, captain of the medical vessel known as the U.S.S. Pasteur, considered all three of the visitors standing there in her ready room.
However, she focused most of her attention on the man she had once called her husband.
"I never could say
no to you," she told Jean-Luc, leaning back in her chair.
He smiled. "You should have said it when I asked you to marry me." Beverly looked at him with mock annoyance. "Don't bring that up," she said, "or I'll change my mind about all this."
For a moment, a scene flashed before her eyes. She saw herself on her wedding day, before the Howard family house on Caldos. She and Jean-Luc were standing before Governor Maturin, taking their vows as their friends and fellow officers looked on... and the wind brought the scent of heather.
Wesley was there, showing no outward signs of the strange and wonderful being he had become. He was smiling, happy for her.
Jean-Luc's brother, Robert, was happy as well—glad to see that their marriage would start off in a place blessed with tradition. Or so he had told them, in a private moment before the ceremony.
No doubt, he would have liked it better if the ground had been French, and the house that of his own family... and the scent on the wind that of sun-ripened grapes. But then, he'd been expecting something cold and artificial—so an homage to any tradition was a pleasant surprise.
And Beverly herself was happy--truly happy, for the first time in many years. She felt as if, with her marriage to this fine and noble man, some cosmic balance had been restored. And this time, she vowed on that special day, it would last.
So much for her powers of prognostication, she thought sourly, as her thoughts returned to the bridge of the Pasteur. It was a good thing she was a doctor, and not a fortune-teller.
Jean-Luc elbowed Data in his synthetic ribs. "You see?" he said. "I knew I could still count on her... not like Riker." His expression turned bitter as he recalled his discussion with the admiral. "Did I tell you what he said to me, Beverly? To me?"
She nodded. "You told me, Jean-Luc." It hurt her to see him like this—a man whose intellect was once so engaging—reduced now to near-senility.
She took in Geordi and then Data with a glance.
"Well, then. The first order of business is to obtain clearance to cross the Klingon border. And believe me, that won't be easy."
"What about Worf?" asked the former chief engineer. "Isn't he still on the Klingon High Council?"
"I'm not sure," responded Data. "Information on the Klingon political structure is hard to come by these days. However, at last report, Worf was living on H'atoria—a small Klingon colony near the border."
Jean-Luc snapped his fingers. "Worf... yes, that's it... that's the answer." He nodded. "Worf. He'll help us. Let's make it so."
Abruptly, her conn officer's voice cut in over the intercom. "Chilton to Captain Picard."
"Picard here," replied Beverly.
"Go ahead," said the man she'd been married to, responding to the same summons. They exchanged looks.
"Captain," said Chilton, apparently unperturbed by the confused answer from the ready room, "McKinley Station is signaling. They want to know when we'll be docking."
Beverly stood. "Tell McKinley that we've been called away on a priority mission. We won't be docking any time soon."
"Aye, sir," came Chilton's acknowledgment.
As the captain of the Pasteur headed for the door, her former mate smiled at her. "Kept the name?" he asked.
Ignoring the question, which wasn't really a question at all, Beverly led Jean-Luc and his companions out onto the bridge. If she needed any reminders of what the Pasteur's purpose was, she found it in the caduceus motif liberally displayed around her center seat.
For now, she reflected, the ship would have a slightly different purpose. But then, if Jean-Luc's judgment could be trusted, they would still be saving lives.
"Nell," she said, addressing Ensign Chilton, "lay in a course for H'atoria. Best speed."
Chilton glanced back over her shoulder, but didn't display any surprise at the order. "Aye, Captain."
Turning to Jean-Luc, Beverly gestured to the turbolift. "I've prepared quarters for you on deck five if you'd like some rest."
He shot a sour look at her. "There you go again, always telling me to get some rest. I wanted a wife, not a personal physician."
Smiling cordially, she reminded him of where he was—and who was in charge here. "I could have you escorted there," she told him.
For a moment, she thought he would make this harder than it had to be. Then, making a sound of disgust, Jean-Luc turned his back on her. "I can find my way around a starship, Beverly. I'm not that old..."
And, grumbling all the way, he entered the turbolift.
"Everyone treats me like an invalid," he muttered, looking about the lift compartment, as if there were someone there to listen to him. "But I've still got a few years left... don't need to be led around... shown everything..."
A moment later, the doors closed behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, Beverly turned to Geordi and Data. She was hard-pressed to keep the sadness out of her voice.
"How long since he's had a neurological scan?" she inquired.
Geordi shrugged; his artificial eyes glittered back at her. "I'm not sure, but don't waste your time suggesting it. He says he's not taking 'any more damn tests.'"
Beverly grunted. That sounded just like him. "Do you believe he's doing what he says he's doing? That he's moving through time?"
At that, Geordi looked away. It was clear he didn't put much faith in Jean-Luc's story.
"I don't know if I do, either," she confided. "But he's still Jean-Luc Picard. And if he wants to go on one more mission, that's what we're damned well going to do."
Inside the turbolift, Picard grumbled to himself, fixing his objective in his mind. "Got to find that anomaly… show them all I'm not crazy. They'll see..."
They would, too. And then they would be embarrassed at having doubted him.
Not that he cared all that much about being proven right. That would just be the icing on the cake. What he really wanted was to find out why he was shifting through time... and what it had to do with the phenomenon in the Devron system.
Abruptly, the lift stopped and the doors opened. He stepped out…
... onto the bridge. For a moment, Picard had that feeling of dizziness again—of disorientation. Then he realized what had happened. Once again, he'd been transported in time somehow.
Looking around, he saw Tasha at tactical... Worf at an aft station... O'Brien at conn and Data at ops. Troi was sitting in her customary seat beside the captain's chair.
Pulling down on the front of his tunic, Picard intoned, "Report."
"We're on course for Farpoint," Troi replied. "We should arrive in approximately fourteen hours, thirty minutes."
He nodded. Moving to O'Brien's side, he gazed over the man's shoulder at the helm console monitors.
The chief looked up at him uncomfortably. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?"
"There is," the captain confirmed crisply. "How far are we from the Chavez system?"
O'Brien peered at him through narrowed eyes. "The Chavez system? We just passed it, sir."
Picard found himself staring. "Passed it... and nothing happened?"
The chief looked quizzical. "Nothing, sir."
The captain cursed inwardly. "Drop out of warp," he ordered. "Reverse course. Take us back to the Chavez system."
He could see the reactions to his directive out of the corner of his eye. Tasha, Troi, and several others were having a hard time figuring him out. O'Brien, however, simply did as he was told.
It took several minutes for them to come about and return to the coordinates Picard had in mind. Of course, considering the circumstances, it seemed like much longer.
Finally, the chief spoke up again. "We've entered the Chavez system, sir."
The captain turned to Data. "Commander... is there anything unusual in the vicinity?"
The android looked back at him. "How would you define unusual, sir? Every region of space has unique properties that cannot be found anywhere else."
Picard thought about it—trying to piece it together the way it happened t
he first time. Finally, he came up with something.
"There should be a barrier of some sort," he recalled. "A large plasma field... highly disruptive."
Tasha worked at her tactical board. After a while, she shook her head. "Nothing, sir."
Frustrated, the captain looked down again at O'Brien's console. "It's the right time... the right place. He should be here."
O'Brien's brow puckered. "Who, sir?"
Straightening, Picard looked around the bridge--and called out. "Q! We're here, dammit!" There was no answer.
Again, he addressed his nemesis. "This has gone on long enough! What sort of game are you playing?" Still no response—at least, not from Q.
The bridge crew was responding, however. They were exchanging glances from one to the other—no doubt starting to wonder about their captain's sanity.
Frowning, he turned to Troi. "Counselor, do you sense an alien presence of the sort I described earlier? A superior intelligence?"
She looked worried. "No, sir."
In the aft section, though they didn't think Picard noticed, Worf and Tasha were whispering back and forth.
"What is a... Q?" he asked.
She shrugged. "As far as I know, it's a letter of the alphabet."
Blast it, thought the captain, where was he? Where was his alien tormentor?
"This is not the way it's supposed to happen..." he muttered. Then he spoke in a louder, more authoritative voice. "Maintain position here," he told them. "I'll be in my ready room."
En route, he endured his officers' stares without a word. What could he say, after all? That the superintelligent being he'd been expecting hadn't shown up? That he'd diverged from Starfleet orders to lead them on some kind of wild-goose chase?
Disgusted, he entered his ready room…
... and found himself in a different place entirely.
It was a courtroom of sorts, made of glass and steel, without a single surface that wasn't hard and unyielding.
A crowd was packed into the place—a gallery of leering, hollow-eyed scarecrows, men and women who pointed at him and shrieked his name.
Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things... Page 8