"It's this mission," he explained. "The anomaly that's been discovered in the Devron system... all those Warbirds that the Romulans have sent to the Neutral Zone." He tried to swallow back the trepidation he felt rising in his throat. "We had to fill out a combat readiness report in engineering. You know what that means, don't you?"
Troi just returned his gaze. "No, Reg. What does it mean?"
He said it as calmly as he could. "That we're going to war with them. The Romulans, I mean." He looked down at his hands, which were shivering ever so slightly.
"No one's come out and made an announcement, but I can see the handwriting on the wall."
The counselor leaned forward and took her time responding. For once, his anxiety had some solid basis in reality, and they both knew it.
"I think you're jumping to conclusions, Reg. I can't tell you for certain that there won't be a war. However, that's only one possible result."
Barclay frowned. "What about the combat-readiness reports? You don't ask for those unless you expect something to happen."
"Or expect that something might happen," she corrected. "As of right now, we don't know very much about the situation. We haven't figured out where the anomaly came from or why the Romulans have such an interest in it. So we're being cautious... until we do know."
That made him feel a little better—but not much. "But what if the Romulans react to our reaction? What if they see us coming and decide we've... urn, misinterpreted what they've done?"
Troi's expression remained a tolerant one. "There's always that risk," she conceded. "But I wouldn't characterize the Romulans as an impulsive people... would you? It seems to me they'd think twice before initiating any hostile actions."
Barclay looked at her. "They sent thirty Warbirds to the Neutral Zone. If they're not planning a hostile action, then why... ?" His fear rising to choke him, he found he couldn't finish the sentence.
"Reg," replied the counselor, "I don't know how this will turn out. I'm just saying that, until we have more information, there's no point in getting worried about it." She smiled reassuringly. "Besides, you know that Captain Picard will do everything in his power to avoid an armed conflict."
That much was true. But it seemed to the engineer that Picard might not have all that much control over the situation. Hell, he might not have any control at all.
He was about to point that out--but a voice on the intercom system filled the room before he had the chance.
"Riker to Counselor Troi. The captain's asked me to convene the senior staff in the observation lounge... immediately."
The counselor seldom looked perturbed, Barclay told himself. But she looked perturbed now.
"On my way," she assured her fellow officer.
The engineer felt as if somebody had cut the deck out from beneath his feet. "But... what about my session...?" he asked her.
Troi took him in tow as she headed for the door. "We'll continue as soon as we can." she said. "I promise."
Inwardly, he panicked. "But... I never got to tell you about my..."
The counselor stopped at the threshold. The doors to her quarters were already opening to let them out.
"Reg," she said, "I know that this isn't easy for you, but try to relax. Getting yourself all keyed up isn't going to make things better."
"Try to relax," he echoed, focusing on the advice as she guided him out into the corridor. "That's a good idea." But deep down, he had a feeling it wouldn't work. Relaxing wasn't one of his strong points.
And a moment later, it was too late to remind her of the fact—because Troi was on her way into the turbolift opposite her quarters. As the lift doors closed, he was left standing in the middle of the hallway, watching as other crewmen went about their business.
Easy for them to face what was ahead, he thought. They weren't so petrified they could hardly breathe. Or stand up straight. Or see.
And it wasn't just that he was scared of dying. He suffered from another, more insidious fear... the nightmarish idea that he would freeze at a crucial moment and be responsible for others losing their lives. He was afraid that if the pressure got too great, he might make a gibbering, useless spectacle of himself.
In other words, he was frightened of being frightened. Terrified of being terrified. Paralyzed by the prospect of paralysis.
But maybe the counselor was right. Maybe all he had to do was relax. A holodeck program would…
He stopped himself. No, not the holodeck. He'd had his share of problems there.
Then the gym…
Again, he stopped short. He wasn't very physical. Going to the gym would only make him feel inadequate.
There was always that other place. Come to think of it, he was in the mood for one of Guinan's lime rickeys.
And she was always willing to listen to him, no matter how silly his concerns were.
His course set, he turned to the turbolift. After a wait of only a few seconds, the doors opened to admit him.
But as he stepped inside, feeling he was taking the proper steps to solve his problem, he felt a flush crawl up his cheeks.
Wait a minute…
Why had the counselor been called away so abruptly? Could it be that something had happened... something related to the massing of Romulan ships along the Neutral Zone? Something really bad?
Had there been an attack? Were they at war already?
Before he could come to grips with the notion, the calm of the lift compartment was shattered by the urgent sound of a klaxon.
"Red alert," announced the ship's computer in a feminine voice. "This is not a drill. Red alert. This is not a drill..."
CHAPTER 14
Picard sat at the head of the table that dominated the observation lounge and surveyed his officers' faces. Their expressions ranged from concern to disbelief to resentment—all emotions he himself had experienced in Q's twenty-first-century courtroom.
Only Data remained nonplussed. But then, he was always like that—at least in this time frame.
"So?" the captain prodded. "What do you think?"
Geordi shook his head. "I don't believe him. This has to be another one of his games. He's probably listening to us right now, getting a big laugh out of watching us jump through his hoops."
"Nonetheless," commented Picard, "I think this time we have no choice but to take him at his word... which means that in some fashion, I will cause the destruction of humanity."
Beverly leaned forward. "But didn't Q say you already had caused it?"
Deanna nodded. "Yes... and that you were causing it even now?"
Riker sighed. "This is starting to give me a headache."
Data's brow creased ever so slightly. "Given the fact that there is an apparent discontinuity between the three time periods the captain is visiting, Q's statement may be accurate, if confusing. The actions that the captain has taken in the past have already occurred, while his actions here in the present are still transpiring..."
"And in the future," said Picard, completing the thought, "there are actions I have yet to undertake."
The android looked at him. "Exactly, sir."
Worf scowled. "Now I am getting a headache."
"So," asked the captain, "what should I do? Just lock myself in a room in all three time periods? Is that the only way I can avoid causing this cataclysm?"
"It could also be your inaction that causes the destruction of mankind," Riker pointed out. "What if you were needed on the bridge at a key moment, and you weren't there?"
"We can't start second-guessing ourselves," advised Deanna. "There's no way to rationally predict what's going to happen. I think we have to proceed normally... deal with each situation as it occurs. Otherwise, we'll become paralyzed with indecision."
Picard nodded. "Agreed." He paused, pursuing another line of thought. "It would seem that there is some connection between my jumping through time... Q's threat... and the appearance of a spatial anomaly in the Neutral Zone. Speculation?"
"There
are many possibilities," replied Data. "Your time shifts could be causing the spatial anomaly. Or it could be that the anomaly is causing your time shifts."
"But why the captain?" asked Worf. "Why does it seem to be only affecting him?"
That made them all stop and think. It was Picard himself who responded first—and with a conclusion that surprised even himself.
"There is another possibility. What if Q himself were endowing me with this time-shifting ability... in order to give me a chance to save humanity?"
There were astonished looks all around. "What makes you say that?" asked the first officer.
"Q has always shown a certain... fascination with humanity," the captain explained. "And more specifically, with me. I think he has more than a casual interest in what happens to me."
"That is true," agreed Data. "Q's interest in you is very similar to that of a master in a beloved pet. In a way, he may relate to you the way I relate to Spot."
Picard was less than thrilled with that comparison. He communicated that with a look.
The android tilted his head slightly. "It was only an analogy, Captain."
"Yes," remarked Picard. "And unfortunately, it's rather close to the truth. Let's assume for the moment that Q does regard me as a sort of... prized possession. He may not want to see that possession destroyed. And yet, he may be prohibited from acting directly to prevent it."
"You mean by the other Q?" asked Geordi.
"Yes. Or perhaps even by his own code of behavior," the captain suggested. "That is, if he has one we're not aware of."
"Maybe," said Riker, "he gave you this ability to shift through time so you could see a problem developing… at three different points."
The captain pondered that possibility. "A problem that can only be solved by marshaling the resources of three different time periods..."
His cogitation was cut short by a message over the intercom. "Ensign Calan to Captain Picard."
Picard looked up. "Go ahead, Ensign."
"We're approaching the Neutral Zone, sir." The captain saw his officers exchange glances.
"On our way," he replied.
As they filed out onto the bridge, each of them moved to his or her customary place. Sitting down in his seat, Picard considered the starfield he saw on the viewscreen.
"All stop," he commanded. "Long-range scan."
It took a moment for his people to make the adjustment to the sensor array. And another for the results to come in.
"There are four Romulan Warbirds on the other side of the Neutral Zone," Data informed him from his position at ops. "They are holding position, sir. And on our side of the border, the Federation starships Concord and Bozeman are holding position as well."
"A standoff," remarked Riker. "The question is, who's going to move first?"
"We are," responded the captain. "Mr. Worf, hail the Romulan flagship. We have nothing to gain by maintaining an uneasy silence."
"Aye, sir," said the Klingon. And a moment later: "Her commander is responding."
"On screen," Picard told him…
... and the image of an aged Klingon supplanted the star field.
Startled, Picard looked around for an explanation— and realized that he was no longer on the Enterprise. He was on the Pasteur, in what he had come to think of as the "future."
Beverly was seated beside him. He gripped the armrest of her chair as he adjusted to the sudden shift.
It took him another second or two to recognize the Klingon on the viewscreen as Worf. The former security officer was sitting at a desk in what looked like a small, crowded office. The furniture behind him was stacked high with books and documents.
"Captain Picard," said the governor, inclining his head as a peculiarly Klingon sign of respect.
Beverly nodded. "Hello, Worf. It's been a long time."
"That it has," the Klingon agreed. "I have read your request."
He paused, as if steeling himself for his next statement. That alone suggested to Picard that the news would not be good.
"The first thing you should know," he continued, "is that I am no longer a member of the High Council."
It was true. The news was not good. If Worf had fallen from favor, their job would be that much harder.
"After I opposed our withdrawal from the Federation Alliance," the Klingon explained, "the House of Mogh was forced from power. Exiled—albeit unofficially— from the homeworld."
"I see," said Beverly. She was obviously trying to be sympathetic.
But Picard didn't see. He didn't see at all. "Worf," he pleaded, "you must still have some influence. We need your help."
The Klingon scowled in self-derision. "I am only the governor of this colony." He spoke the words as if they constituted a curse. "My powers are... mostly ceremonial." Abruptly, a strain of anger crept into his voice. "If Admiral Riker had given you a starship with a cloak, you would have been safe. I cannot believe he refused to help you."
Picard held his hands out. "I don't care what kind of ship we're in—cloaked or otherwise. The important thing is to get to the Devron system." His hands balled into fists as he pleaded his case. "Surely... even with what's happened to you... it's within your power to grant us permission to cross the border. If nothing else, at least that."
Worf looked down, then shook his shaggy head. "I am sorry, but my first duty is to the Empire. I must adhere to regulations."
The captain eyed him. He had to try a different approach.
"Maybe I'm an old man who just doesn't understand," he said. "But the Worf I knew cared more about things like loyalty and honor than he did about rules and regulations."
As he paused for effect, he saw the Klingon's head come up, so that he gazed at Picard from beneath his protruding brow. It seemed he had gotten Worf's attention.
"But then," he concluded, driving in the final stake, "that was a long time ago. Maybe you're not the Worf I knew."
He had expected to spur an emotional reaction—but he wasn't prepared for the actual violence of the governor's outburst. In a fit of untrammeled rage, Worf swept everything from his desk. Computer disks flew through the air like deadly weapons while official reports erupted in a ston-n of loose papers.
"Dor-sHo GHA!" the Klingon bellowed, trembling with fury. He brought his fist down on the desk like a sledgehammer, making it jump.
Indeed, thought Picard, holding his ground.
His eyes flashing with anger, Worf pointed an accusatory finger at his former captain. "You have always used your knowledge of Klingon honor and tradition to get what you want from me."
"That's right," Picard shot back, measure for measure. "Because it always works. Your problem, my friend, is that you really do have a sense of honor. You really care about things like loyalty and trust." He snorted. "Don't blame me because I know you too well, Worf. Blame yourself for embodying the virtues to which others only pretend."
The Klingon glared at him. His rage was cooling, by degrees.
"Very well," he snarled at last. "You may cross the border. But only if I come with you. No one is more familiar with the Neutral Zone than I am—and you will need a guide." He frowned. "There are those in the Empire who long for battle with the Federation... who believe that we were taken advantage of during the years of the alliance. They will not hesitate to fire on an unauthorized vessel."
Picard smiled in his beard. This was more than he could have hoped for. "Terms accepted," he said.
A moment later, Worf's visage was replaced by a motionless starfield. The transmission was at an end.
And Picard had gotten what he wanted. They were on their way to the Devron system.
Beverly turned to Chilton. "Ensign," she said, "inform transporter room two that the governor is to be beamed aboard."
"Aye, sir," replied the conn officer.
As Worf came around his desk and waited for the transport, he reflected on what this decision would mean to his career. A Klingon didn't abandon his post—even if it was a pur
ely bureaucratic one. No doubt, he'd be taken to task... perhaps even stripped of his title.
He grinned recklessly, for the first time in many years.
Worse things could happen than losing a position he had never wanted in the first place. It was a good day to be dismissed, he mused.
Just then, one of his assistants entered the room with a padd in his hand. "Governor," he said, "I have the supply report for your—"
"K'dho moqak!" bellowed Worf.
His assistant took a couple of steps back, astonished at his superior's outburst. It was a second or two before he could bring himself to speak.
"But, Governor..."
"Cancel all of my appointments for the next few days," Worf instructed—then thought better of it.
"No," he amended with some satisfaction. "Cancel all my appointments... period."
His assistant shook his head. "I do not understand," he groaned. "The delegation from Krios..."
"Can solve its own, small-minded problems," Worf replied.
And before he had to put up with any further protests, he found himself somewhere else entirely. It took him a heartbeat to realize that he had materialized on one of the Pasteur's transporter platforms.
"Welcome aboard," said the transporter operator—a slender Malcorian female with long red hair twisted into a braid.
He nodded. He was here. Whatever happened from this point on, he would acquit himself honorably.
CHAPTER 15
Picard saw Chilton swivel to address Beverly.
"Governor Worf is aboard," the woman reported.
Beverly nodded by way of acknowledgment. No doubt she was as glad to have Worfalong as Picard himself was.
On a jaunt like the one they were contemplating, he reflected, they could use all the help they could get.
Turning to him, Beverly waxed serious. "I just want to make one thing clear, Jean-Luc. If we run into any serious opposition, I'm taking us back to Federation territory. This isn't a Galaxy-class starship and we wouldn't last very long in a fight." She was right, of course. There were reasonable limits to what they could accomplish--and were their situations reversed, he would have established that fact as she had.
Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things... Page 10