"Newtonian physics, Commander," continued Data while Picard played with a yo-yo. "Objects in motion tend to stay in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force."
"What's your point, Data?"
"Your career was in motion. It has been acted upon by an outside force."
"Oh really? And what would that be?"
Deanna walked in. She was naked. Riker noticed in a distant manner that he was as well.
He looked in a panic from Deanna to Data to Picard, and back to Deanna. "What. . . what do I do?"
Picard stabbed a finger toward Deanna with confidence and said, "Engage."
"En . . . engage?" He looked down into his hand and he was holding a shining diamond ring in his hand. It glittered with a fire as bright as a warp engine.
"Engage," Picard said firmly.
Riker turned to face Deanna. Worf, wearing full, bristling Klingon armor, was cradling her in his arms. Riker was frozen in place, incapable of saying anything. His voice, his emotions had all left him. Worf turned on his heel and headed out the door, the nude Deanna tossing off a cheerful wave as they exited.
"Nice going."
Picard and Data were gone. Seated behind Picard's desk was Admiral Riker ... the older version of Riker from the future. Behind him, a grandfather clock was ticking away the years.
"Nice going, buddy boy," said the admiral.
And a rage seemed to seize the admiral. He opened the grandfather clock, drew out a Klingon bat'leth, and swung the sword around in a vicious scythe straight toward Riker's neck.
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"Nice bloody going!" he howled, filled with fury that was ripped deep from within his soul, from his regrets, from every mistake that he had ever made.
Riker fell off the bed.
It was pitch black in the room, and it took Riker a few minutes to recover himself. He was gasping and twisted around in the sheets, his heart pounding against his chest. He felt as if he had gallons of sweat streaming from every pore. Even though the temperature was cool in his apartment, he still felt hot.
Usually, when Riker had dreams, he would awaken and sense the images flittering away to the far reaches of his subconscious. He never remembered them. This time, he did. Some of the exchanges were already blurring to him, but the general thrust was still very vivid and very potent.
And he understood. For perhaps the first time in his life . . . he understood.
It wasn't as if he'd had an overnight epiphany. It was the crystallization of years of thought, of hesitation, of uncertainty. Because the simple fact of the matter was that for years he had known exactly what he wanted and precisely where he wanted to be ... and it had all gone straight out the window the moment that he found himself face-to-face with Deanna Troi on the bridge of the Enterprise when the words Do you remember what I taught you, Imzadi? echoed in his head, sent there by the woman he had spent years being absolutely positive that he had gotten over.
Oh, he had most definitely been Hamlet, standing there for years and wondering, prevaricating, trying to come to a decision and not sure what direction to take. Nothing less than the destruction of the Enterprise had been required to shake him from his mental lethargy. For if an object in motion tends to stay in motion, an object at rest likewise tends to stay at rest.
The object in motion had been his career. And it had stopped. And yes, all the reasons and rationalizations regarding the honor of serving aboard the Enterprise and all of that
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had been accurate as far as it went. But there was an element that he had not been dealing with, an object at rest-that object being his relationship with Deanna. One, he now believed, was intertwined with the other in a way that he had never fully comprehended.
He was in love with Deanna. Not as a friend, not as a former intimate. They were Imzadi. They had gotten into each other's souls, and not only had he never gotten her out of his, he had now come to the realization that he didn't want to.
It wasn't just the Enterprise herself that had a hold on him. It was Deanna herself, all unintentionally. If he'd gotten command of another vessel, he would have had to leave her behind. Either that, or force her to make a decision to come with him to his new post or stay with the Enterprise. He loved her too much to ask her to tear herself away from her extended Enterprise family, and he was still too damned vacillating on his own feelings about her to commit. And because of that vacillation, she was on Betazed at that very moment in the arms of Worf.
He felt ill, his stomach in a knot. He didn't know what to do.
No . . . Riker did know. It was just a matter of doing it. There were not immediate plans for a wedding, so he had a little time. Not infinite amounts, but a little.
He went to his vidcom and began to place a communique to Betazed . .. but then canceled it. Betazed was too far to allow instantaneous communication, which meant that he'd have to send a one-way. A one-way that said what? "Deanna, I love you, ditch Worf, get back here?" Besides, even if something instantaneous were possible, how could he do it? He had to be face-to-face with her, to touch her mind, and to see how she felt. After all, this was hardly just about him. There were her feelings to consider; she was the one who was engaged. She was the one who had moved on, and only Riker was left in neutral. It was entirely possible that she truly didn't love him anymore, that she didn't reciprocate the feelings he had finally realized he had. Plus there was Worf to contend with. Speaking one-to-
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one with Deanna would be going behind his back. He owed it to Worf to be frank with him, to be in his presence. It was, to be blunt, not a concept that Riker was in love with. "Hi, Worf, how you doing, I want your fiancee back, is that okay with you?" Oh, that was going to be just peachy. But he had no choice. No choice whatsoever.
"You're not giving me much of a choice here, Commander," said Admiral Jellico.
It was the next morning. Riker had tried to fall back to sleep and had not been especially successful. When the morning sun played across his face, Riker finally gave up and got on the link with Jellico at Starfleet Headquarters. Jellico was admiral in charge of-among other things-personnel assignment. Riker would rather have gone to just about anyone else, up to and including Satan. Unfortunately for Riker, for what he was requesting, Jellico was the man to talk to.
"I regret that, sir, but it is rather important," Riker said.
"You want me to delay your assignment to the Academy so that you can go off and conduct personal business? Is that right?"
"That is correct, yes," said Riker for what seemed to him the umpteenth time.
"But you won't tell me what it is."
"I would rather not, sir."
"Because it's personal."
Riker fought down a smart-ass response. This was not the time to crack wise to a superior officer. "Yes, sir."
"This is not just any teaching assignment you've been selected for. Heavy emphasis is to be placed on tactics and strategy in dealing with the Borg. You are uniquely qualified. Only Shelby and Picard have more expertise: the former is unavailable, and it would just be too cruel to dredge up the hardships that Picard endured. We anticipate a year, two at most, before the Borg strike at Earth. We must be ready, and you will contribute." Jellico folded his hands on his desk.
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"Commander... as you know, I was strongly against the notion of keeping Picard's command crew in storage until such time that the new ship could be relaunched. Normally, that's my call to make. In this instance, I was overruled by highers up."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"I don't like making exceptions. Starfleet does not run on exceptions. It runs on discipline and uniformity of purpose. Not on certain captains and their crew being given preferential treatment and special dispensation. Are you reading me, Commander?"
Like a bad novel, you blowhard. "Yes, sir."
"That's the first thing. The second thing is, Riker, I don't particularly trust you."
"You don't 'trust' me, sir?" Now Riker was star
ting to get angry. "Sir, with all due respect. . ."
"There's that phrase again," muttered Jellico.
"I don't believe that my asking for a delay in my assignment gives you the right or the authority to question my loyalty to Starfleet."
"My rank gives me the authority, Commander. Your vagueness in your 'personal reasons' gives me the right. For that matter, I am still very disturbed over this business with your 'twin.'"
"What?" Riker stared at him. "Admiral, what are you talking ab-wait. .. you mean Tom? Last I heard, he was being assigned to the Gandhi."
"Ah." The syllable seemed to hang there for a moment, as if Jellico was suddenly uncomfortable. "Well. .. these events were quite recent, and with everything else going on, we hadn't yet informed you . .."
"Informed me of what?'
"Your doppelganger never reported for his assignment. He joined the Maquis, hijacked a starship, and tried to make a strike against the Cardassians. The last I heard, he was stewing in a Cardassian labor camp. I don't know much more than
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that; the Cardassians are never especially eager to share information with us, particularly when it comes to matters of internal security."
Riker was stunned. "Why wasn't I told at once? Why-"
"Believe it or not, Commander, when it comes to traitorous officers, Starfleet is only slightly more forthcoming than the Cardassians. It simply wasn't necessary for you to know."
And then the dime dropped for Riker. "Wait a minute. Admiral... are you saying that because Tom Riker joined the Maquis ... my integrity, after all these years, is now called into question?"
For just a moment, Jellico seemed to backpedal. "No one is questioning it, Commander. However ..."
"However what?"
"Well, it's clear that the potential for duplicity is present in you," Jellico told him, his voice becoming hard again. "It doesn't count against you, you understand. It's not as if Thomas Riker's deceit makes a mark on your record. But when it comes to your mysterious requests about-"
Completely fed up, Riker burst out with, "I need to talk to a woman about marrying me, all right, Admiral?"
Jellico blinked in surprise. "Oh. Any particular woman?"
"No, Admiral, I just figured I would grab the first likely candidate I ran across."
"Save the sarcasm, Commander." He paused and then said, in a slightly conciliatory tone, "I appreciate your candor."
"Thank you, sir," Riker said with a relieved breath.
"Request denied."
The breath caught in Riker's throat. "What?" he managed to get out.
"We all make sacrifices when it comes to our personal lives, Commander. That's one of the simple realities of Starfleet. If you don't believe me, go talk to the families of the crew of the Voyager, left in limbo and wondering if their loved ones are dead or not. You need to talk to a woman? That's what subspace radio is for. But I'm not about to rearrange the
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schedule of everyone else at the Academy just so that you can go off and engage in some frivolous adventure."
"I don't consider it frivolous, Admiral."
"Obviously. But I do. And I don't advise that you endeavor to go over my head on this, Commander, or go whining to your father figure, Picard. The goodwill afforded the crew of the Enterprise has been more than used up at this point. It will not reflect well on you or Picard if you start seeking out more personal favors."
"Very well, Admiral. Now you are leaving me no choice. I have no desire to leave anyone in the lurch, but if I have to seek a leave of absence ..."
"By all means. If you want a leave of absence, that I will happily grant you."
That surprised the hell out of Riker. After being such a pain in the neck, for Jellico suddenly to be compromising ... it was enough to make Riker start wondering if he'd misjudged him. "Oh! Well. . . thank you, sir . .."
"Of course, the moment you begin your leave, your name is naturally moved to the bottom of the duty roster, and will stay there until such time that you return ... at which point you then get to stand in line behind all the Starfleet personnel who didn't decide to take time off to pursue the course of true love."
"Meaning," Riker said tonelessly, "that I then lose out on my assignment to the new Enterprise."
"Let's just say that it would be severely jeopardized. So ... do we understand each other, Commander?"
"Oh, very plainly, Admiral. Very plainly."
"Good. So shall I inform the Academy that there will be a change in the current roster?"
Through gritted teeth, Riker said, "No, sir."
"They'll be so pleased. Jellico out."
Riker stared at the screen for a long while after Jellico's image disappeared. He saw his own reflection staring back ...
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and the gray background of the screen gave him a distinctly older look. "Time for Plan B," he said.
Roger Tang, former Starfleet sergeant and grizzled veteran of more battle campaigns than even he could remember, was busy cleaning glasses at his bar when he noticed a familiar reflection in the mirror on the wall behind him. The broad and beefy Tang squinted at first, racking his brains, and then he remembered. He pivoted on his one flesh-and-blood leg and called out, "Lieutenant! Didn't recognize you out of uniform."
Will Riker grinned and walked across the busy tavern. "Even officers get to be off duty every now and then, Tang."
He extended a hand and Tang shook it firmly. "It must be, what, a dozen years since Betazed?" asked Tang.
"At least." Riker grinned. "And it's Commander now."
"Commander! I'm impressed. Know what that means?"
"No. What?"
"Means I charge you twice as much for drinks. You can afford it."
Riker slid into a seat at the bar. "So how you feeling these days, Sarge?"
"Well as can be expected. Shouldn't complain, really. Over eleven thousand good people lost their lives at Wolf 359. Me, it was just a lost leg and a busted spine. And once upon a time, injuries like that get you a permanent bed and tubes up your nose. Look at me: Slower than I was, maybe, and got enough fake parts in me to supply a Swiss watch factory. But all in all, not a bad life, says I."
"You didn't have to leave Starfleet, you know. I always remember, when I was a lieutenant on Betazed, you told me the galaxy was divided into two types of cultures: Starfleet and everyone else."
"Yeah, I know," sighed Tang. "I loved it. But you know what, Commander? I'm a grunt. A scrapper. That's what makes me happy. The kinda hits I took, they don't let me keep
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doing what I love to do. If I'd been in the uniform and doing something else, behind a desk or something ... I would've felt like I was just wearing a costume, y'know?"
"I understand."
"Hey, it's not like I was unprepared. I was always part owner of this place anyway. Just a silent partner. So ... now I'm a loudmouth partner. Everyone's happy. So ..." His eyes narrowed. "What can I do for you? Am I correct in assuming that you're not here just by happenstance?"
"You are indeed correct." Riker leaned forward, adopting a slightly conspiratorial tone. "It's my understanding that you have some holosuites here, in the back."
"Sure do. Why? You have a private party in mind?" grinned Tang.
"Not exactly. I have a bit of a delicate situation which I hope you can help me with."
"Is it legal?"
"Yes and no. It involves bending an order from Starfleet."
"I see." Tang pondered it a moment, then said, "Let me guess: A woman is involved, right?"
"How did you know?"
"Playing the odds, sir. Is it, by any chance, that curly haired brunette from back on Betazed?"
Riker was dumbfounded. "Tang, you would put Sherlock Holmes to shame."
"Nothing amazing about it, sir. Remember, I saw you two bust up. But I could tell: You were meant for each other. And I figured at the time it would take you about a dozen years or so to realize it. Way I see it, you'
re right on schedule. So ... let's discuss how I can offer a holosuite to guide the course of true love. Oh, by the way . . . have you booked passage to Betazed yet?"
"Uhm ... no. I was handling one thing at a time."
"Ah. Well, if I can safely speculate for a moment that Starfleet isn't sanguine about your leaving planetside, you may want to depart under somewhat subtle conditions. I still have
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contacts that can arrange for that so that you can get there and back with no one being the wiser. Private carriers and such. Discreet and reliable. I can take care of that for you, if you want. No extra charge."
"You're a wonder, Tang."
Tang grinned in that lopsided way he had. "All part of the service, sir."
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CHAPTER
11
did not become leader of the Klingon High Council without learning to watch one's back. Gowron, the present holder of the title, was exploring the possibility of giving new definition to the term.
Gowron stood in the middle of the council chamber, turning his head to the right and then to the left, moving it quickly almost to the point of dizziness, and still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Standing nearby, his arms folded in smug satisfaction, was a rather small and harmless-looking Klingon named Duntis. Duntis, while growing up, had endured many taunts and threats to his life owing to his diminutive stature. He had more than made up for it, however, thanks to his gift for unique weapons and tools of espionage that he had developed for various heads of the High Council. In all the right circles of influence, Duntis was respected, Duntis was feared, and-most important for Duntis-he was rich.
"This is miraculous!" Gowron said in his customary growl, but in this instance it was a growl of grim satisfaction.
What Gowron was seeing was the area of the council chamber directly behind him. On his right eye, there was a
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microthin wafer of clear material that he had layered directly onto his eyeball, much like an Earth twentieth-century contact lens. But the lens was cybernetically linked with a tiny viewing scope which was pinned, like a common ornament, onto the back of Gowron's cloak. When Gowron closed his right eye for three seconds and then opened it, the motion served as the on/off activation for the lens and he was able to see whatever was in back of him. Duntis has been right about the one drawback: The device was going to take some getting used to. Gowron had to literally retrain his brain to perceive the images the lens was feeding him. As it was, it was blurred and distorted, and he was having trouble making anything out. But this was an inconvenience at best, and one that could be dealt with. Already, with practice, things were becoming clearer.
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