by David Mack
By sacrificing his Imzadi.
She would never have done that to me, he told himself. Vivid recollections of his month of brutal captivity on Tezwa paraded through the theater of his memory. In those dark hours, when he had been beaten and broken, tortured and terrorized, only two things had kept him anchored in himself. One had been the indelible memories of music, of melodies and virtuoso performances by jazz master Junior Mance; the other had been the unshakable certainty that his Imzadi would never give up her search for him, that she would never abandon hope. Now he had repaid her devotion with a hollow appeal to duty.
He threw off the covers and sat up on the side of the bed. Leaning forward, he planted his face in his palms and imagined himself returned to the fateful moment, hours earlier, when Hernandez had made her proposition. Replaying it in his mind, he tried to conceive of how he could have answered differently, of some case that he could have made for not leaving the away team. There were no answers.
Every time he asked himself the question again, he was forced to admit that no matter how futile it might seem to hurl his ship into a war that was already all but lost, he was being driven by instinct—and drawn toward something.
“Computer, cease white noise,” he said, and the breathy whisper of air through leaves came to an abrupt end. “Unshade the windows.” The sloped, rounded-corner windows above his bed lost their dark tint and became transparent, revealing the backlit blue radiance of the nebula. Several of Titan’s shuttlecraft were on their way back, their tractor beams towing large sections of hull salvaged from demolished starships.
Watching the recovery operations in the nebula, he felt as if abandoning Deanna had blasted him to bits and that he was now struggling to piece himself back together from broken parts. He would do a fair job of presenting himself as functional and whole, but he knew that without Deanna, he would be like a phaser rifle field-stripped by a cadet and then misassembled, with one vital component left out, forgotten on the ground.
In other words, he castigated himself, useless.
A comm signal filtered down from the overhead speaker, followed by the voice of Commander Hachesa. “Bridge to Captain Riker,” said the acting first officer.
“Go ahead.”
“Update from the Enterprise, sir,” replied Hachesa. “They and the Aventine will rendezvous with us in fifteen minutes.”
“Acknowledged,” Riker said. “Tell Lieutenant Commander Pazlar and Commander Ra-Havreii to meet me in transporter room two in ten minutes.”
“Aye, sir. Bridge out.”
He stood and stretched. “Computer, fade up lights to one-half,” he said, and the room slowly brightened. Shambling groggily toward the bathroom, he hoped that a shower would revive him before it was time to meet with his former captain. The chrono on his end table displayed the time as 0617 hours.
Not bad, he thought. I almost got an hour of sleep. Except it wasn’t quite an hour, and I never actually slept. He tapped a padd next to the bathroom sink and turned on the cold water. He cupped his hands, filled them beneath the icy stream, and splashed his face, shocking himself to full alertness.
He blinked at his dripping-wet, frazzled reflection in the mirror. Who needs sleep, anyway?
* * *
“Energizing,” said the transporter officer.
Jean-Luc Picard turned to face the raised platform. The system powered up with a resonant hum. To his left stood Beverly and Worf, and on his right were Captain Dax and Commander Bowers from the Aventine.
In front of them, three columns of sparkling bluish-white particles surged into existence and adopted humanoid shapes. Even before the radiance faded, Picard recognized the welcome sight of his old friend and former first officer, William Riker, standing at the front of the platform.
The transporter effect dissipated. Standing behind Riker were an Efrosian man with long white hair and a flowing mustache to match, and a slim, blond Elaysian woman who wore a motor-assist armature over her uniform, from neck to ankles.
Riker descended from the platform, and Picard stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Picard said, shaking Riker’s hand and flashing a wide, friendly smile.
“Thank you, Captain,” Riker said, his own smile guarded and ephemeral. He let go of Picard’s hand and gestured to the two officers who had beamed in with him. “Allow me to introduce my chief engineer, Commander Ra-Havreii. And I think you know my science officer, Lieutenant Commander Pazlar.”
“Indeed, I do,” Picard said, nodding to the duo. “Commander Ra-Havreii, it’s a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you.”
Ra-Havreii lifted his snowy brows. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, with a weariness that belied his jesting tone.
Dax stepped forward and met Riker with a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Will,” she said. Nodding over her shoulder, she added, “This my first officer, Commander Sam Bowers.”
Riker reached out and shook Bowers’s hand. “A pleasure.”
Pazlar stepped around Riker and offered her hand to Dax. “Nice to see you again, Captain.”
“Likewise, Melora,” Dax said with a friendly smile. “You look wonderful, as always.”
“Says the woman who gets younger every time I see her,” Pazlar said, with a teasing roll of her eyes.
Worf stepped forward and greeted Riker with a firm and enthusiastic handshake. “Welcome back, sir.”
Clasping the Klingon’s hand in both of his, Riker replied, “Thanks, Worf. How’re you liking my old job?”
“Too much paperwork,” Worf said.
“Try being a captain,” Riker quipped. He released Worf’s hand and accepted a quick, friendly embrace from Beverly.
“Welcome back, Will,” she said. As they parted, she added, “I thought Chris and Deanna were coming. Are they all right?”
The stricken look that paled Riker’s face warned Picard that something terrible had happened and that Beverly’s innocent question had salted an open emotional wound. A sidelong glance at Dax’s sympathetic expression made it clear to Picard that she, too, understood what was being left unsaid.
Riker turned his eyes toward the deck. “I had to leave them behind to save the ship.… It’s a long story.”
It was a terrible strain for Picard, in the aftermath of such losses and tragedies as he had recently endured, to mask his own pangs of loss and grief at this revelation. Deanna Troi was almost like a daughter to him—even more so after her long-overdue (in his opinion) wedding to Riker. He’d developed similarly paternal feelings for Christine Vale, with whom he had suffered and been tested in several crucibles that had claimed the lives of many Enterprise personnel—the bloody Dokaalan colony incident, the planetwide riots on Delta Sigma IV, and, worst of all, the protracted carnage of the Tezwa debacle.
If it’s this deep a wound for me, imagine how much worse it must be for him, Picard thought, trying to impose some perspective on the matter. To lose his wife and his first officer, both at the same time. How could anyone bear that?
Bowers broke the uncomfortable silence. “I don’t mean to be callous, but we have a lot to talk about and not much time. Maybe we should adjourn to a more appropriate setting.”
“Wait a second,” Riker said to Bowers, and then he looked to Picard. “The Voyager crew has more experience with the Borg than anyone. Shouldn’t they be part of this?”
“I wish they could be,” Picard said. “Unfortunately, Captain Chakotay is in critical condition, and many of his officers and crew were killed. Voyager won’t be mobile for several days, and Commander Bowers is correct, we can’t wait.” He turned to Worf. “Are the arrangements made, Number One?”
“Yes, sir,” Worf said. He stepped toward the door, which opened with a soft hiss. Turning back, he said to the group, “Everyone, please follow me.”
Dax and Bowers were the first to act on Worf’s invitation, and Picard gestured to Riker and his officers that they should go ahead of him. After the trio had stepped out of
the transporter room, Picard and Beverly followed them and remained at the back of the group.
Beverly didn’t say a word as she took Picard’s hand. She didn’t need to explain why; he understood. In a crisis, Riker had made a decision that would likely haunt him, no matter how the situation ultimately resolved itself. It was a dilemma that could only be fully appreciated by another captain whose wife served with him aboard the same starship. She gave his hand a brief squeeze and then let it slip from her grasp.
Picard wondered if he could possibly have the courage to make the choice that Riker had made—to desert his pregnant wife in the name of duty, in the service of the abstraction known as the greater good. Then he thought of how much time’s merciless fires had already taken from him, and he knew that he couldn’t.
He walked in somber silence with Beverly … and wished that decorum had let him hold her hand just a little bit longer.
* * *
Sequestered in the Enterprise’s crew lounge—a.k.a. the Happy Bottom Riding Club—the three captains and their officers helped themselves to hot and cold beverages that had been set out on the counter by the lounge’s civilian barkeep, Jordan. He had ushered out the other patrons before the officers’ arrival. Now that the VIP guests were inside, Dax saw Jordan exit through the main portal, leaving the officers to confer in privacy.
Dax filled a mug with fresh-brewed raktajino. She took a sip of her piping-hot beverage and admired the lounge’s many decorative touches. Among them were dozens of portraits of Enterprise personnel who had been killed in the line of duty, with small bronze placards denoting their names, ranks, and KIA dates; a map of California, with a star denoting the location of the lounge’s twentieth-century-Earth namesake; a replica of that bar’s liquor license; and memorabilia of past starships that had borne the name Enterprise.
Worf stepped up to the bar on Dax’s left and filled a tall glass with prune juice. Captain Riker sidled up on Dax’s right and poured himself a mug of piping-hot coffee. Noticing her wandering gaze, he confided, “Jordan spruced the place up, but I was the one who named it.”
As soon as he’d said it, Dax was certain she noted a glower from Worf that was aimed in Riker’s direction.
That’s a story I’ll have to ask Worf about later, she decided, while nodding politely at Riker.
Captain Picard raised his voice for the room and said, “Could we all gather, please? We haven’t much time.” The officers convened and sat down on either side of a row of small tables that Jordan and his staff had pushed together at the forward end of the lounge, along a wall of windows with a spectacular view of the nebula.
Dax only half listened as Picard summarized for Riker how the Enterprise’s efforts to halt the Borg’s access to Federation space had led him and his crew to the Azure Nebula.
After Picard finished, Dax quickly apprised Riker of the link between her crew’s investigation of the downed Earth Starship Columbia NX-02 in the Gamma Quadrant and the subspace passage that brought them to the nebula.
Then came Riker’s brief but gripping account of Titan’s detection of energy pulses in a remote sector of the Beta Quadrant and the trap into which he and his crew had been led as a result. Dax saw the anguish in Riker’s eyes as he related in detail the circumstances that had compelled him to abandon his wife and his away team. “I had to make a snap decision, so I chose to bring my ship home,” he said. “But it was a rough trip, and if what Captain Hernandez tells me is true, the Caeliar gestalt put up a hell of a fight to keep us there.”
Two words leaped out at Dax, who interrupted, “Did you say ‘Caeliar gestalt’?”
Riker did a surprised double-take. “Yes. Why?”
“The alien that stole the runabout from my ship,” Dax said. “The one who led us here. He identified himself as Arithon of the Caeliar. He was looking for something called the gestalt.”
“Well, I’d say we found it,” Riker said. “And the Caeliar.”
Pazlar interjected, “Captain Hernandez’s account of the destruction of Erigol and the recorded date of the supernova that made this nebula are a match. If the Caeliar created those subspace passages, it would explain why this was their nexus.”
Bowers, whose body language telegraphed his impatience, replied, “I’ll admit that’s all fascinating, but is any of it relevant to stopping the Borg armada?” Unfazed by the group’s many stares of reproach, he continued, “Seriously, what’s the plan here? What’s our next step?”
Captain Picard frowned but salvaged Bowers’s pride by answering, “The commander has a point. We need to focus on the future, not dwell on the past. I’ll open the floor to ideas.”
“Part of the problem,” Ra-Havreii said, “is that there’s little chance we could reach any of the threatened worlds in time to make a difference. The Borg outpace us by a wide margin. By the time we reach Earth or Vulcan or any of the other core systems, the battles for their fates will be long over.”
“Maybe not,” Dax said. “The Aventine’s carrying a prototype quantum slipstream drive. We weren’t scheduled to start testing it until next month, but I think we can bring it online now, with a few hours’ notice. If it works, we could leapfrog past the Borg, maybe even beat them to Earth by a few hours.”
With casual skepticism, Picard replied, “To what end? With all respect, Captain, that’s not a plan—it’s just a tactic.”
“I was simply refuting Commander Ra-Havreii’s assertion that we’re too slow to make a difference,” Dax said.
“I see,” Picard said. “You’re right. It’s important to know what capabilities we have at our command. But before we deploy them, we owe it to ourselves to be certain of our objectives.”
Dax summoned the calm confidence that her symbiont’s lifetimes of experience granted to her. She quashed her initial defensive reaction and let herself hear the wisdom in what Picard had said. “You’re absolutely right,” she replied. “Before we make any plans, we need to take stock of our strengths and resources.” Looking at Riker, she added, “Starting with Captain Hernandez. After eight centuries among the Caeliar, she might have knowledge of advanced technologies that could help us fight the Borg. Before we do anything or set any plans in stone, we should see if she’s able and willing to help us.”
Picard nodded. “An excellent point, Captain.” He pushed away his mug of Earl Grey and stood up. “I think it’s time you and I met Captain Hernandez.” Then he asked Riker, “Can I impose on you to make the introductions?”
Riker nodded and said, “My pleasure.”
“Very well. Meeting adjourned.”
Everyone stood and moved in a loose group toward the exit. Bowers fell into step close beside Dax and said confidentially, “What if she can’t or won’t help us?”
Dax frowned as she pondered that scenario. “In that case,” she replied, “I wouldn’t make any long-term plans if I were you.”
11
The shortest battle of Martok’s life was rapidly becoming the costliest. In the few minutes since his fleet had uncloaked and engaged the Borg armada with a barrage of transphasic torpedoes, more than seventy percent of both forces had been annihilated.
“Keep firing!” barked Captain G’mtor, over the rumbling of shockfronts and debris buffeting the Sword of Kahless. “Set course, bearing two-six-one! Don’t let that cube get away!”
Already, several Borg ships had broken through the line and were accelerating deeper into Klingon space, their trajectories gradually diverging as they zeroed in on different star systems. Just as they had in the Azure Nebula, they had rammed their way through the Klingon blockade, sacrificing a few cubes for the sake of the overall invasion effort. Once they pass out of range, we’ll never catch them again, Martok knew.
He watched the image of the receding Borg vessel shrink on the main viewscreen. Then the tactical officer called out, “Weapons locked!”
“Fire!” snapped G’mtor. Six transphasic torpedoes slashed in blue streaks up the center of the viewscreen a
nd converged with lethal alacrity on the cube. A sunflash blanched the viewer. When it faded, it showed a cloud of smoldering black wreckage being dispersed by the navigational deflector of the victorious Sword of Kahless. “Hard about!” bellowed the captain. “Tactical, acquire a new target!”
Fire and fury blasted through the bridge’s starboard stations. A slab of metal struck Martok’s chair and knocked it off its pedestal. The impact hurled him from the rushing jaws of spreading flame and slammed him brutally across the deck, where the bulkhead fragment pinned him and shielded him at the same time. Soldiers and parts of soldiers ricocheted off the port consoles and collapsed in smoking heaps on either side of him.
The bright white battle-stations lighting went dark, and the ruddy glow of standard illumination took its place. Gray static flurried on the main viewscreen, and the air was bitter with smoke from overloaded circuits and the stench of burnt hair. Martok spat out a mouthful of his own blood and tried to drag himself out from under the metal slab. Knifing pains alerted him to broken bones in his rib cage and left leg.
General Goluk stumbled over the rubble-strewn deck to Martok and yelled to a pair of nearby warriors, “Help me lift this bulkhead plate off the chancellor!” The tall, broad-shouldered duo did as the general ordered. With three pairs of hands and deep grunts of pained effort, they raised the slab high enough for Martok to free himself. Once he was clear, they let it fall to the deck with a resonant peal of metal on metal.
Martok reached up and took Goluk’s offered hand. The general pulled Martok upright and steadied him until he could balance himself on his unbroken leg. To the two warriors, Martok said, “Get me damage reports and a battle update.” Once they had stepped away, Martok asked Goluk in a confidential tone, “G’mtor?” The general nodded at the smoking heap of rubble and bodies from which Martok had been extricated.
