by Peter David
The captain shifted in his chair and looked at Riker with mild apology in his eyes. “Seems we’re going to be late getting you to your appointment with fame, Commander. Regulations clearly state…”
“That any Starfleet vessel capable of responding to a distress call must lend assistance whenever possible,” Riker recited with a smile. “Captain, there’s a number of regs that I would be the first to dispute…but that is most definitely not one of them. The only question is, is there going to be anyone or anything left by the time we get there.”
“I don’t know,” Garfield admitted. “We can only do the best that we can do, Commander. The thing is, a science station such as Daystrom’s outpost isn’t like a planetary treasury or some such, where you just go in, raid the riches and depart. Whatever these possible raiders want—whether it’s technology, files, information, what-have-you—it’s probably going to have to be handled with delicacy. That means they’ll have to take their time extracting it for fear of damaging it, and if they take enough time,” and he nodded grimly, “then we’ve got them.”
There was little talking for the remainder of the trip. Riker watched the crew of the Independence going about their business. It was an odd sensation for him. He was, after all, part of his surroundings and environment. And they were all Starfleet, after all. They might be spread out among various ships, but they were a unit nevertheless, each capable of helping one another and functioning as a team.
But just as he was a part, he was also apart. He had his rank, certainly, but he had no place on this vessel. He was simply a passenger, with no more intrinsic importance to the ship than cargo being carted down in the hold. It was a very, very strange feeling. Every so often Garfield or Morris would engage him in polite conversation, but it seemed to Riker that it was more a matter of form than any real interest in him. Then again, he might simply have been imagining it.
“Approaching Daystrom Station,” Mankowski announced finally. “Sensors indicate that the company hasn’t left the party yet.”
“Magnify,” ordered Garfield.
The screen rippled briefly, and then the conical shape of Daystrom station appeared in front of them. Sure enough, in orbit around the station was a vessel the likes of which Riker had never seen before. It was low slung, built for speed but, at the same time, clearly heavily armed…an assessment that Monastero confirmed a moment later from tactical.
“Disruptors, phasers…and some sort of plasma weapon as well. They’re well armed, all right. Nothing our own weaponry and shield can’t handle, but I don’t think I’d care to face them in anything less than a starship.”
“Thank you, Mr. Monastero. Open a hailing frequency, please.”
“Open, sir.”
Garfield leaned back in his command chair, crossing his legs in a rather casual manner as if he were having a comfortable chat in his living room. “This is Captain George Garfield of the Starship Independence. Please identify yourselves immediately and prepare to be boarded. Thank you.”
“Captain,” warned Mankowski, “they’re powering up their weapons.”
“Didn’t their mothers teach them that ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are the magic words?” said Morris.
“I know mine did,” said Garfield. “Shields up. Maintain hailing frequency. Unidentified ship, please stand down your weapons immediately, or we will be forced to defend ourselves.”
“They’ve opened fire!” Mankowski said. Sure enough, plasma torpedoes were hurtling across the void and spiralling straight toward the Independence.
And both Garfield and Riker called, “Evasive action!”, the latter doing so by reflex. Immediately realizing his error, he looked with chagrin at Garfield. Fortunately, Garfield seemed more amused than usurped.
Mankowski spurred the mighty ship forward, and the Independence gracefully angled down and away from the brace of torpedoes. “Return fire,” ordered Garfield.
“We’re not yet at optimum distance for full effectiveness.”
Garfield glanced over his shoulder. “Indulge me.”
Monastero nodded as his hands flew over the tactical array, and the phaser banks flared to life. But the distance was indeed too great, and although the phasers scored a direct hit upon the opposing vessel, the damage done to their shields was virtually nonexistent.
“They’re moving off!” Mankowski said.
Riker realized that Garfield was faced with a dilemma. If he attended to the space station, took the time to send down an away team, then the delay might give the other vessel time to get away. But if there were wounded or dying people at the station, then a chase after the attacker might delay the Independence for so long that no aid to the station personnel—should there be any surviving—would be possible.
An obvious solution immediately presented itself to Riker, and out of reflex he was about to suggest it. But as Riker opened his mouth to speak, Morris said, “Captain, I’ve readied the shuttle bay in case…”
“You read my mind, Number One. Bridge to security.”
“Security. Petronella here.”
“Mister Petronella, scramble a security team and med unit and get yourselves down to the shuttle bay. Attend to whomever needs help aboard the station and remain here until we return.”
“Aye, sir.”
Garfield noticed Riker’s still-open mouth out of the corner of his eye and asked, “Is there a problem, Commander?”
“No, sir. Obviously no problem at all.”
“Good.”
“Enemy vessel preparing to go to warp, sir,” Mankowski announced.
“Stay on her, Lieutenant,” Garfield said calmly. “Mr. Monastero, fire a warning shot. See if we can persuade them to stay and chat.”
As the Independence hurtled toward the station, closing the gap, Monastero fired the phasers. One blast coruscated against the enemy ship’s shielding, while the other went across her bow, intercepting the vessel’s momentary trajectory. But the unknown vessel spun out of the way and moved away from the station, picking up speed with every passing moment.
“Shuttle away!” called Palumbo.
“Chase them down, Mr. Mankowski,” said Garfield.
“Aye, sir.” Mankowski grinned in a slightly devilish manner. If there was one thing he liked, it was a pursuit.
The Independence darted straight toward the alien vessel, but the other ship immediately kicked into high gear. It was a burst of speed that was a bit surprising to those on the bridge of the starship, for it hadn’t seemed as if the other ship had that much power to her. But they were only momentarily daunted. “Looks like we’re in a race,” observed Riker, and no one disputed that.
The “race” continued for some minutes, and then for an hour. Every so often, the opposing vessel would scatter something behind them: A plasma torpedo, or a bomb. But the Independence adroitly kept out of the way. Unfortunately, the starship wasn’t drawing close enough to do any serious damage with her own array of weaponry.
“Sir…we’re approaching Thallonian space,” said Mankowski. “I know that she’s been opened up ever since the collapse of the Thallonian Empire…”
“But there’s still an ‘approach with approval only’ mandate on it. I know, Mr. Mankowski. But this is likely where they were heading in hopes that we were going to break off pursuit. Are you interested in quitting the chase, Mr. Mankowski?”
“No, sir,” Mankowski said with a grim smile.
“Maintain course and speed, then.”
Riker found the give and take between the captain and his crew to be a bit amusing. Garfield was older than Picard, and yet he seemed to take a somewhat paternal air with his crewmen. It was a very different command style, and certainly not Riker’s own during the times when he’d been in command, but it was certainly a viable one nonetheless.
“Engineering to bridge.” A formal British accent came over the comm unit.
“Bridge. Garfield here,” replied the captain. “Go ahead, Mr. McKean.”
“Capta
in…may I inquire as to whether we will be reducing velocity in the near future? I am uncertain whether I will be able to maintain maximum thrust for all that much longer.”
“No promises, Mr. McKean.”
“Sir, I’m not asking for a commitment. But I do wish to be able to provide the velocity you require if and when you require it. As things stand, I am unable to guarantee said velocity will be yours for the asking. The warp core is, if you’ll pardon my poetic language, complaining bitterly. All the velocity in the galaxy will be irrelevant if the ship has exploded.”
“Understood, Mr. McKean.”
“Captain!” Mankowski suddenly called. “The other ship is slowing down.”
“Is she turning to fight?”
“Doesn’t appear to be turning, no, sir. Perhaps their engines are over-taxed.”
And from down in engineering, McKean could be heard muttering, “Perhaps their bloody captain listens to his engineering officer and reduces speed when reasonable.”
It was all Riker could to do repress a grin. It was comforting to know that there were some universal constants, and chief engineers appeared to be one of them. For his part, Garfield kept a poker face as he said, “Mr. McKean, we still have an open channel.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, and then another, “Oh. Uhm…McKean out,” and the connection was broken.
Turning back to business, Garfield said, “Bring us ahead slow, Mr. Mankowski. Let’s see what we’ve got. Monastero, open a channel.”
“You’re on, sir.”
“Unidentified ship, this is the Independence. Please respond.”
On the screen, the vessel they’d pursued all that way had come to a complete halt. She wasn’t dead in space, but she wasn’t taking any action at all. She just sat there.
And Riker couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Sir, I don’t like this. With all respect…”
“No apologies necessary, Commander,” Garfield said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I like it either. Smells like some sort of set-up.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir.”
“We can’t exactly go running away from a ship we chased down this far, and which isn’t even firing at us. But still…” He thought a moment and then said, “Sensors on maximum. Sweep the area.”
“Sweeping, sir,” said Mankowski. “Not picking up anything.”
“Nothing on tactical sensor scans either,” Monastero affirmed.
“Checking the…” Suddenly Mankowski’s voice caught. “Picking up an energy discharge, sir. Consistent with the patterns detected…” He turned and looked straight at the captain. “…detected when a Romulan shp is decloaking, sir.”
“Where?” demanded Garfield.
“To starboard, sir. At 813 Mark 2.”
A moment later, everyone on the bridge saw that Mankowski was correct as a Romulan vessel shimmered into existence to the ship’s starboard…
…and then, a moment later, to her port. In the meantime, the ship they’d been pursuing had come around. “Enemy ship approaching. They’re weapons hot, sir,” said Mankowski.
“Captain…” Riker said in a tone of warning.
Garfield surveyed the situation arrayed against them and nodded his head. “I believe it’s time to make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here. Reverse course, Lieuten—”
And then two more ships materialized, one forward and one after. They were now completely surrounded by Romulan warbirds, all of them combat-ready with their weapons prepared to discharge.
Despite the fact that they were overwhelmingly outnumbered, Garfield did not appear the least bit perturbed. Instead, acting as if he still maintained the strategic advantage, he called out, “Attention all ships. This is the starship Independence. The vessel we have been pursuing has illegally entered, and attacked, an outpost in Federation space. This is not your concern, and I strongly advise you to veer off before it’s too late.”
And then, to their surprise, a voice crackled back across the channel. It was a female voice, and the moment Riker heard it, a chill went down his spine. The voice said, in a mocking tone, “Too late? Too late for whom? For us? Or for you?”
“This is Captain George Garfield. Identify yourself, please.”
The image of the ships around them momentarily vanished from the screen, to be replaced by the face of a female Romulan. She had tightly cut blonde hair and an expression that seemed to radiate contempt. “Very well,” she said. “We are the ones who are going to kill you. Is that sufficient identification…”
Then her gaze flickered toward the officer seated in the counselor’s chair, and her eyes went wide with sadistic delight. “Well, well. It’s been ages, Will Riker.”
“Sela,” Riker said tersely.
Garfield didn’t even pretend to understand what was going on. “Commander, do you know this…individual?”
“Her name is Sela. She’s the half-Romulan daughter of a deceased woman from an alternate time line.”
“Oh, well, that clears things up,” Palumbo could be heard to mutter.
“If you know this individual, then I suggest you advise her against any rash actions.”
“You heard the man, Sela. Don’t look for a fight where there need not be one. It’s not as if you’re in the best of relations with the Romulan government at the moment. You can’t afford any more military disasters.”
“How kind of you to care about my well-being, Riker,” Sela replied, “considering that all of my past ‘disasters’ can be placed squarely at your door. But,” she added thoughtfully, “you’re right. I don’t need more blemishes on my record.”
“As I said…”
“Instead, I need to blow you all to hell. All vessels,” she called out, “you’re tapping into this communication. Directly in the middle of us is one Will Riker. Let me tell you, I’ve been waiting to say this for ages.” Her lips drew back in a feral smile of triumph. “Fire at Will.”
And as the Romulan ships, as one, opened fire, Riker felt the world explode around him.
III.
I T WAS THE WEEKLY poker game, and all the usual suspects were grouped around: Deanna, Data, Worf, and Geordi. As Riker studied his hand, Geordi leaned forward and said without preamble, “So there’s this mighty sailing ship, a British frigate, cruising the Seven Seas, and one day the lookout shouts down from the crow’s nest, ‘Captain! Captain! There’s two pirate ships heading our way! They mean to attack! What should we do?’ And the captain, he says, ‘Bring me my red shirt.’So they bring him his red shirt, he puts it on, and leads his men into battle. It’s difficult, and there are a number of casualties, but they manage to beat back the pirates. That evening, after the survivors have gotten themselves bandaged up, they ask the captain why he called for his red shirt. And he says, ‘Because if I’m wounded and bleeding, I wouldn’t want the sight of my blood to destroy the morale of my men. But if I’m wearing my red shirt, no one will see it.’Well, the crew thought, ‘Wow. What a captain.’”
By this point, every eye at the card table was on Geordi. He continued, “So the next day, another shout, even more worried, comes down from the crow’s nest. And the lookout says, ‘Captain, my captain! There’s ten pirate ships heading our way, and they mean to board us! What should we do?’ The frightened crew turns to their captain, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hesitate. And he calls out, ‘Bring me…my brown pants!’”
Laughter echoed around the room, although Worf was naturally somewhat restrained. Even Data, thanks to his newly installed emotion chip, was able to laugh in appreciation. Suddenly Geordi immediately stopped laughing as he looked at something over Riker’s shoulder. Riker turned and promptly fell silent, as did the others.
Jean-Luc Picard was standing there. It was impossible to tell how long he’d been there, for he’d entered fairly quietly and everyone had been engrossed in the joke. It was also impossible to tell what was going through his mind. He had a small, enigmatic smile, but that was no indicator. Picard ha
d a standing invitation to join them for poker, but he almost never took them up on it. And of all times, that was the moment he had chosen to make an appearance at the game.
They all waited.
And at last, without the slightest change in expression, he said, “I don’t think jokes about cowardly captains are very funny.” With that observation hanging in the air, he turned and walked out.
Then the room jolted under Riker, tossing Troi, Worf, Data, and Geordi to the floor, and the recollection dissolved into reality.
It took Riker a few more moments to sort the confusing real world from his recollection of times past. The jolt had been rather sudden and, when Riker had been thrown from his chair, he had hit his head rather severely. It had dazed him and sent his mind spiralling back to a time with his shipmates where, somehow, things had seemed simpler. But then, didn’t times past always seem that way, no matter how complicated they were?
His lungs began to ache. He wondered why, and then the full realization of his situation imposed itself upon him. The bridge was thick with smoke.
The flame-retardant chemicals were already being released and were controlling the fire adequately enough, but that still didn’t help the wreck that the bridge had become. It had all happened so fast, so decisively, that it was difficult for Riker to fully grasp.
Then he saw Palumbo’s unmoving body slumped backward in the chair, with half his scalp torn away and a huge metal shard buried in his skull, and the full reality of it sank in quite quickly.
His immediate impulse was to stop, to mourn, to dwell on how just hours before he had been chatting in relaxed and casual fashion with this young man who had considered Riker someone to emulate. And now he was gone, just like that. No more aspirations, no more dreams. Nothing.
And the others, my God, the others. First Officer Morris was also gone, buried under a pile of debris that had broken loose from overhead.
Then Riker, from long practice, pushed such sentiments and concerns aside. There would be time enough later to mourn…presuming there was, in fact, a later.
