Star Trek-TNG-Novel-Imzadi 1

by Peter David [lit]

  rarities in the universe. We are each one of a

  kind." He shifted his gaze to the Guardian.

  "For a brief time I had a brother ... but he's

  gone now, although part of him"--he tapped his forehead

  for a moment--?remains with me. For an even

  briefer time--forty-two years ago, to be exact

  --I had a daughter ... but she was barely here

  long enough to establish her presence. I sense in the

  Guardian a kindred spirit." He looked back

  at Mary Mac. "Would you consider that funny,

  Doctor? The notion that something inhuman would try

  to lay claim to something as human as a spirit?"

  "No," she said quietly. "No, I wouldn't

  think that's funny at all. But ... look.

  Getting within range of the Guardian ... it's not

  exactly regulations. In fact, it's against

  regulations."

  "I am very aware of all Starfleet

  regulations, Dr. Mac. My programming

  makes me incapable of violating them. What is

  prohibited is unauthorized use of the

  Guardian, especially for the intention of altering or

  changing time lines. I don't wish to use it. I

  simply want to ..."

  He paused, andfor someone as clearly

  articulate as Data, it seemed very odd for him

  to be pausing, trying to find the right ^ws.

  "To connect with it," he said finally.

  She studied him for a moment, then showed her white

  teeth. "All right, Commodore. Although

  frankly, I'm taking a big chance here of

  getting my ass handed to me."

  Data frowned and looked at her buttocks,

  but she quickly made a dismissive wave. "Not

  literally."

  She stretched out an arm and placed her

  palm flat against the control padd that stood

  outside the Guardian. As she did so, Data

  looked with curiosity at her upper arm. "How

  did you acquire that bruise, Doctor? It's

  very peculiar."

  She glanced at where he was looking. Sure

  enough, there was a small abrasion on her upper right

  arm, perfectly round and about as large as if one

  made a circle from the thumb and forefinger. "I

  don't know," she said in mild surprise. "Must

  have banged it against something."

  She dismissed it mentally and looked back at the

  control platform. A thin beam of red light shot

  out from it and scanned her right eye, feeding the

  retinal pattern into the compound's central data

  banks. It came back with a Priority Alpha

  clearance. A moment later the force field faded,

  the steady hum of the generators disappearing. Now there

  was nothing but the crying of the wind.

  Commodore Data slowly walked forward,

  approaching the Guardian with as close

  to trepidation as he could possibly come. He

  stopped several feet away. "Who are you?" he

  asked.

  The vast, round portal flickered as a voice

  spoke with a booming, all-encompassing vastness that

  seemed to come from everywhere at once. "I am the

  Guardian of Forever."

  "Are you a Guardian in the sense of a

  preserver? Or a Guardian in the sense of a

  protector?"

  "Both ... and neither."

  Data cocked his head slightly. Mary

  Mac, for her part, had quietly activated her

  wrist recorder. Any direct communication with the

  Guardian could result in some unexpected new

  insight. She had conversed with the vast portal on a

  number of different occasions, and every time there was some

  new nuance to its replies.

  "How is such a self-contradictory

  assessment possible?" Data asked.

  "Since I am possible ... then all is

  possible."

  Data considered this a moment. "Are you saying that

  you are the keeper of time and protect it from

  trespass ... but since every man's fate is in

  his own hands, you really cannot protect it from those who

  wish to affect it."

  "All living beings affect the flow of what

  is. I am but one portal through time. There

  is an infinity of others."

  This response brought a startled glance from Mary

  Mac. Data didn't turn his attention from the

  Guardian.

  "Are you saying there are others like yourself?"

  "Of course. In every moment of time that there is

  ... then I am there. As you exist within all the

  moments of your lifetime. But you exist in the

  individual moments. I exist in all."

  "Holy Kolker," whispered Mary Mac.

  "You transcend all boundaries of time and

  space?" asked Data.

  "ationo. I do not transcend them."

  "What, then?"

  "I define them."

  Data looked back at Mary Mac. It was

  a curiously human move. It was almost as if

  Data wanted to reassure himself that she was still there.

  Then he looked again at the Guardian.

  "May I touch you?" asked Data.

  "ally have free will. Do as you wish."

  Data paused, then walked up to the rocklike

  surface of the Guardian. Without hesitation, he

  placed his gold palm against it.

  The lights throbbed beneath his hand. From the chill that

  cut through the air, he had expected that the

  Guardian would feel cool, even cold. Instead

  it pulsed with an odd sort of warmth. Data

  lifted his hand for a moment and could feel no heat being

  radiated from the Guardian's surface. But when

  he placed his hand against it again, there it was,

  entirely self-contained.

  "Very curious," he said.

  He stayed that way for a long moment, then stepped

  back. "I would like to talk again at some other

  point."

  "All will occur," replied the Guardian.

  Data turned and walked back to Mary Mac.

  She watched him with curiosity. Anyone ...

  "normal," for want of a better ^w ... would have

  walked away while glancing repeatedly over his

  shoulder at the Guardian. But Commodore

  Data, having decided to take his leave, was now

  completely focused on the next order of

  business.

  "Thank you for the opportunity," said Data.

  Mary Mac inclined her chin slightly toward the

  Guardian. "Did you understand any of that?"

  "I have an interpretation that I believe to be

  fairly accurate. I'd be most

  interested in comparing my conjectures with those of the other

  members of your research team."

  "Hey, that's what you're here for. To check up

  on us and keep Starfleet apprised of our

  progress. The invitation to dinner is still open."

  "Thank you. I'll just check with my ship first.

  ... Commodore Data to Enterprise."

  Mary Mac stood and watched him as he held

  a conversation with thin air.

  "Good. I will be remaining on the planet

  surface several more hours. Be sure to keep the

  ship sufficiently outside the range of the

  temporal distortions, since we're uncertain

  of the effect long-term exposure could have. ...<
br />
  I'll want Science Officer Blair joining

  me. ... Very well, then, as soon as he's

  completed them. ... Thank you, Lieutenant

  Commander. Commodore out."

  He turned and looked back at Mary Mac,

  who shook her head. "I can't get over that," she

  said. "That comm-chip implant so that you can hear each

  other inside your heads."

  "A two-second procedure to install.

  Inserted with a hypo spray. Impossible to lose,

  so we can remain in touch with each other at all

  times. Plus increased privacy for communications.

  Had I wished to, Doctor, I could simply

  have whispered my replies and you would not have been able

  to hear any of it. However, there was nothing

  particularly confidential about this communiqu@e."

  "What's it like?" Mary Mac looked skyward

  as if she could detect it with the unaided eye. "The

  Enterprise, I mean."

  "The Enterprise?" Data paused. "In

  many ways, the Enterprise 1701-F is

  similar to the 1701-D upon which I first served.

  It is larger, more powerful, more maneuverable.

  Crew complement of two thousand twenty-three people."

  "And you're in command."

  He nodded slightly. "There is that, of

  course. And yet, in some ways ... I find

  myself thinking of the past, more and more often. I

  suppose, as one acquires more memories, that

  is natural."

  "Yes. It is. Certainly--j like yourself--not

  without precedent."

  CHAPTER 2

  There was nothing desirable about Starbase 86.

  It was far removed from the more frequently

  traveled space lanes. Visitors were rare,

  commerce even rarer. The facilities were not

  exactly top of the line.

  Starbases served a variety of functions:

  ship repair, stopping point, rest and relaxation,

  observation of the territory around them. At its most

  basic, a starbase was a signpost of the United

  Federation of Planets that said, "We are here.

  We are thinking about you and are here to help you."

  Starbase 86 filled all of those

  requirements ... adequately. Nothing more than

  that, and nothing less. It was simply good enough.

  Once upon a time, the commanding officer of

  Starbase 86--and since the term 86 meant

  something had been killed, the starbase had been

  nicknamed "Starbase Dead End"--wd never have

  settled for good enough. In fact, he had lived his

  life by the axiom "Good enough never is."

  But that viewpoint had been held a long, long

  time ago, by a man who was somewhat different from

  86's current CO. A lifetime ago, in

  fact. Someone else's lifetime.

  He stared out the viewport of his office,

  watching the lights of stars that, because of the time

  required for light to travel, might have been

  extinguished years ago. How odd, he mused,

  to be looking at something that was no longer there. And

  yet it had reality. Every sense that was available

  to him told him that the stars were still there. But that

  didn't mean anything.

  "Sometimes," he said to no one in particular,

  "seeing isn't believing."

  There was a chime at the door. He made no

  move to answer it at first. What was the point?

  What was the rush? If he didn't respond

  now, sooner or later the buzz would just sound again.

  And again. Things happened whether he wanted them

  to or not. That was a hard lesson that he had also

  learned.

  Sure enough, the chime repeated. This time it was

  accompanied by a worried "Admiral?

  Admiral Riker? Are you okay?"

  Riker permitted a small smile to tug at

  the edges of his bearded mouth. The voice was

  unmistakably that of his

  second-in-command, Lieutenant Dexter.

  Dexter always sounded a bit apprehensive, and

  Riker knew precisely why. Dexter was something

  of a hypochondriac--not to the point where it interfered

  with his ability to function, certainly, but he was

  preoccupied with medical well-bbing. Not just his own,

  either, but that of everyone around him.

  As a result, Dexter was always clucking after

  Riker, inquiring after Riker's health, and generally

  making a polite but determined nuisance of himself.

  In a way, Riker supposed that it was something of a

  blessing. Certainly Riker himself didn't care

  all that much about his well-bbing. He was

  seventy-three years old, and although he wouldn't

  refuse the idea of seventy-four and onward beyond

  that, neither did he particularly welcome it. It

  would simply happen or it wouldn't. The rest was of

  little consequence.

  The longer Riker didn't respond, the more

  apprehensive Dexter would get. Probably the

  lieutenant was already conjuring up images of an

  unconscious or even worse, a dead Riker,

  sprawled out on his desk or under it. He even

  knew precisely what Dexter would do upon finding

  a deceased commanding officer. Dexter would

  undoubtedly drop to his knees and proceed

  to lecture the corpse.

  "I told you you weren't taking good enough care of

  yourself," he'd say, shaking his thin blond head.

  "I told you that you should take more of an interest in

  yourself and the running of the starbase. But would you listen

  to me? No. You wouldn't. And now look at you,

  with the average life span being 114 years, and here

  you are, barely half that, dead as a burned-out

  star."

  "Come in, Lieutenant," said Riker.

  Dexter entered before Riker finished the last

  syllable in lieutenant. He coughed nervously.

  "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  Riker spread his wrinkled hands broadly.

  "I have nothing but time." Then he pointed off to the

  side. "See there? Loads of time."

  What he was pointing at was virtually the only

  thing he took any pride in at all: a large,

  ornate grandfather clock, Swiss construction,

  made in the early twentieth century. It had

  been fully restored and was in perfect working

  order. It stood in one of the corners of Riker's

  fairly austere office, and its pendulum swung

  slowly, back and forth, back and forth.

  Each swing was accompanied by a resonant

  ticktock.

  The sound affected different people in different

  ways. Riker found the noise calming, even

  reassuring. Dexter--Riker could tell--thought it

  was damned distracting. The lieutenant would cast

  repeated, annoyed glances at the clockpiece

  whenever he was in Riker's office.

  "Yes, sir. Loads of time. As you say,

  sir." Dexter fingered his thinning hair nervously.

  "There's some, um, matters to bring to your

  attention."

  Riker sat down behind his desk and

  half-swiveled the chair so he could stare out at the

  stars. Rarely did he look at Dexter

  anymore. He had in the begin
ning, back when

  he'd taken on the command of the starbase three years

  ago. Dexter had been one of the few humans he

  ever spoke with. He'd considered that a blessing. Now

  he was bored.

  Riker's head settled into his hands. His

  beard, mostly gray but with a few strands of brown

  still peppering it, felt brittle against his palms.

  He raised one hand and ran it experimentally through his

  gray hair. Strands came out between his fingers, more

  strands every day, it seemed. He could have treatment

  done to prevent it, of course. But what was the

  point? Whom was he trying to impress? Dexter?

  Surely not. Hmf? Hardly.

  "The surveying ship Chance will be coming in next

  week," Dexter said, consulting a small computer

  padd in the palm of his hand. Mostly it was there for

  security; Dexter's remarkable memory enabled

  him to recall all information almost instantaneously.

  But he was anal retentive enough to want to have the

  printed confirmation in front of him, just in case.

  "They had a synthesizer malfunction and will be

  putting in for new supplies and synthesizer

  repair."

  Riker nodded. "Make sure our food

  stores are adequately stocked to resupply."

  It was purely a cosmetic order. He

  knew damned well that Dexter would already have

  attended to that. But it was something to do other than just

  sit and nod his head as if it were going to fall off.

  "Yes, sir," said Dexter neutrally, as if

  Riker's order were a novel idea. "Also, a

  communiqu@e from Starfleet. They complained that we

  were not processing our forms 1021-JKQ

  rapidly enough."

  Riker raised an eyebrow in mild

  amusement. Amazing how much gravity Dexter could

  attach to something that Riker considered so utterly

  trivial. "Not fast enough?"

  "No, sir."

  "How much faster do they want it?"

  Dexter blinked owlishly. "They are supposed

  to be filed within forty-eight hours of departure of

  any ship that's Constellation class or larger."

  "And we've been taking ...?"

  Nervously clearing his throat, Dexter tapped

  his computer padd and said, "We've been averaging

  three weeks."

  Riker stared at Dexter gravely. "My

  God. This could spell the end of the Federation as we

  know it. And I'll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of

  my life."

  Dexter blew air impatiently out between his

  colorless lips. "It's not a laughing matter,

  Admiral."

  "I don't recall hearing laughter,