Oxxreg exploded at this. “Petty? I have lost my father in this war, and three sisters. Others of us have lost their whole families. We willingly give our lives because our cause is just.”
“Your cause is nonsense,” Pressman told him, pushing, Will knew, as hard as he dared. “You don’t like the Ven. They don’t like you. So instead of agreeing to be neighbors who just don’t get along, you pick this sector of empty space and decide that one of you must control it. If neither of you did, what would happen? Ships would still use it as a trading lane. Your war, sir, is idiotic.”
“I take it, then,” Oxxreg said, his voice newly dripping with hatred, “that you’re turning down our offer?”
“I’ll take it to Starfleet,” the captain said. “As you suggested. Just don’t expect to get the answer you want. Pressman out.”
Dusefrene broke the connection and the viewscreen went blank.
“At this point,” Marc Boylen put in, “I think the answer he wants is that Starfleet won’t cooperate, simply so he can shoot you.”
“You’re not seriously considering their offer,” Lieutenant Commander Rungius said. “Starfleet would never—”
“Of course they wouldn’t,” Pressman assured her. “I’m just buying time, that’s all. Besides, Starfleet heard the whole thing. If they want to weigh in, they will.”
“They must be insane if they think we’ll go along with that!” Vice Admiral Bonner exclaimed. His face was red with anger, white blotches showing up on his cheeks and forehead. Kyle thought his reaction was a bit extreme, and he, not Bonner, was the one with a family member on the vessel in danger.
“It would be a serious violation of the Prime Directive,” Owen Paris agreed. “I hate to see a war allowed to go on unchecked, particularly one with the potential to utterly devastate two different worlds. But if that’s their choice, we can’t interfere with them. We certainly can’t take sides in their fight.”
“It’s just a first offer,” Kyle pointed out. “They’ll likely agree to something more reasonable later.”
“Any agreement we should come to would be a bad idea,” a captain named Jensen observed. “It would be a signal that we’re willing to deal with those who threaten us.”
“We’ve done it before,” Kyle noted. “I’m not saying it’s a good idea. But I wouldn’t rule it out without some consideration.”
“I agree with Captain Jensen,” Bonner said. “We can’t cave on this one. We’ll have ships all over the galaxy held for outrageous ransoms. If the price we pay is the Pegasus, well, that’s just the way it has to be. Captain Pressman and his crew knew the risks when they took the job. I’m sorry, Mr. Riker, I know it’s hard to hear that.”
The room fell silent as everyone digested this. Kyle knew that it was true. He couldn’t say that he was close to Will anymore, or knew what was in his son’s heart, but he was still a Riker and he had put on the uniform of Starfleet, so there was every indication that he was aware of, and willing to accept, the dangers that went with it.
Kyle looked at the others, lost in their own contemplation, their faces different mixtures of rage and sorrow. Being a Starfleet officer, it seemed, didn’t require leaving one’s emotions behind, but rather learning to work through one’s feelings, to ignore them when appropriate, but not to deny them. Everyone in the room felt the pressure, understanding that the lives of everyone on the Pegasus were dependent on the decision they reached.
“How much time do you think we have?” someone asked.
“Not much,” Bonner replied. “The way the Ven fleet is closing in, the Omistol is going to want a quick decision.” He cast a sudden glance at Kyle. “I doubt there’ll be time for a lot of back and forth. Like when the Tholians attacked Starbase 311, I expect we’re looking at minutes, not hours.”
The statement struck Kyle as odd. What did Bonner know about 311, outside of the stories he’d heard and the official record? And why bring it up now, as if it had been on his mind? Didn’t they all have plenty to think about with the current crisis? He nearly replied, but then decided not to. His attention had to be on the Pegasus, on coming up with a solution to the problem that didn’t involve giving any arms to the Omistol but still could help save the ship.
Owen Paris approached and sat next to him, heaving his bulk into the chair with a tired sigh. “Kyle,” he said softly. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.”
“What is it, Owen?”
Owen looked at him with a weary expression. “I’ve had it with the sedentary life,” he said. “Teaching is great—I love the young people, the open, eager minds. But the rest of it, sitting behind a desk ...” He nodded toward the display screen, where the steadily blinking red dot reminded Kyle of the urgency of their task. “I can serve better out there.”
“Out there?” Kyle echoed. “You want to leave the admiralty?”
“I’ve already got a ship,” Owen told him, smiling a little. “The Al-Batani. It’s being overhauled now, and I’m gathering a crew. Maybe it’ll only be for one five-year stint, but I feel like it’s important. Things aren’t so complicated out there. I feel more alive. Here I’m just getting old. Used up.”
“This is a strange time to tell me about it,” Kyle observed.
“This is the best time I could think of,” Owen said. He rubbed his face briskly with both hands, as if to restore circulation. “That’s what I’m talking about. They’re taking all the risks. I can’t stand sitting down here and sending them out to face danger, without putting myself in the same position. It’s just not right. Why should the young ones die so we old-timers don’t have to?”
“I see what you’re getting at, Owen.” Kyle said. “It’s a very courageous stand.”
“It’s got nothing to do with courage,” Owen insisted. “It’s got to do with being able to look at myself in the mirror. It’s got to do with sleeping well at night. It’s fairness, not courage, I’m talking about.”
“Well, congratulations, then,” Kyle said. “Sounds like you know what you want, and I’m glad you were able to make it happen.”
“The one good thing about seniority,” Owen Paris declared. “When you want something bad enough, it’s hard for Starfleet to find an excuse not to give it to you.”
“Not to change the subject,” Kyle said, intending full well to change the subject anyway. “But we’ve got to make a decision about the Pegasus.”
“I thought it had been made,” Owen said. “Bonner’s right, we can’t bargain with them.”
“I’m not suggesting that we do,” Kyle said. “But I think I might have another option to suggest. Before I do, though—and believe me, I understand that Will is on that ship and time is of the essence—do you have someone on your staff that you trust absolutely? Preferably someone who’s already in the room but who might not be missed if they leave for a little while?”
Owen pursed his lips together. “That’s a tall order, but I think I know just the person. Wait here.”
Owen rose and crossed the situation room to where a small knot of his staffers were working through some computations. He leaned in close to one of them, a young woman with auburn hair swept up on top of her head, a few locks fallen to her cheeks as she worked. She glanced over at Kyle, who nodded subtly to her. Then, as Owen went to consult with another group, the young woman approached Kyle.
“Admiral Paris said you wanted to see me, sir?” Her voice was unexpectedly husky, and her green eyes flashed with barely contained mischief. She held out a hand. “My name is Ensign Kathryn Janeway.”
Chapter 37
“Yes, sir. I think we understand.”
Captain Pressman had been discussing their situation with Admiral Paris. Will was glad that Admiral Paris was involved—he had a lot of respect for Owen Paris, and he trusted the man’s survival skills. If they needed anything right now, it was a plan that would help them survive. He knew, though, that the Pegasus was not the most important thing on the table—it was Starfleet’s resolve that
mattered most. Like everyone else on the bridge, Will understood that if they backed down and dealt for their lives, others would take advantage of the example they set.
But Admiral Paris, living up to Will’s trust, had offered them a plan that might just get them out of this. The other alternative, of course, was that it might get them killed. Doing nothing would accomplish that same goal; this would just speed things up a bit. Will didn’t see a reason not to try, and he hoped the captain would agree.
“Thoughts, people?” Pressman asked.
“I don’t like it,” Barry Chamish said. “Suicide never seems like a good idea to me, not when there might be another solution.”
“Is there another solution?” Shinnareth Bestor asked.
“Not that I can think of,” Chamish admitted. “But I also don’t want to admit defeat, and that’s what the admiral’s plan sounds like to me.”
“It just might work,” Will countered. “I think it has a better chance of working than anything else we’ve come up with.”
“You’ll be the one doing the heavy lifting, Will,” Captain Pressman said. “Most of it, at any rate. So if you’re comfortable with that ...” He left the sentence unfinished. As the freshest face on the bridge, Will knew that a decision of this magnitude wasn’t really up to him. He appreciated being made to feel like he was part of the process, though.
“I can handle my end,” Will assured the captain. This earned him one of Pressman’s rare smiles. For such a rotten day, this one had its fringe benefits. He only hoped he might live long enough to look back on them fondly one day.
“I’m for it,” Rungius said.
“Same here,” Boylen put in.
Chamish looked horrified. “You’re asking us to kill ourselves!” he insisted. “How is that a good idea?”
“It’s a chance, at least,” Rungius argued. “One chance is better than none.”
“Agreed,” Bestor said simply.
“Very well, then,” Captain Pressman said. “This is a starship, not a democracy, and the majority of us are in agreement anyway. Mr. Dusefrene, hail Oxxreg, if you please.”
Will noticed that Dul Dusefrene’s hands quaked as she moved them across her control board. Since each of her hands had seven fingers, Will was reminded of a spastic spider when they shook. He wondered how many of the bridge crew had gone along with the plan because they didn’t want to appear cowardly, and how many genuinely were scared. Or if there was a difference.
And if there was, which camp he fell into.
When Oxxreg’s amphibianlike face appeared on the main viewscreen, Captain Pressman faced him, shoulders square, hands again clasped behind his back. “We have considered your offer,” the captain said. “And I’m here to tell you that there will be no deal.”
Oxxreg arched what would have been an eyebrow, had he possessed them, wrinkling his forehead. “Your superiors don’t care what happens to you?”
“They care,” Pressman argued. “But they care more about upholding Starfleet regulations. We are a neutral party, as far as your war is concerned, and we will remain so. I hereby demand, once again, that you release us and let us be on our way. Starfleet is no threat to you.”
“I’m sorry you have to so humiliate yourself, Captain.” Oxxreg sounded almost disappointed. Will supposed he probably was—he had probably been congratulating himself on the brilliance of his plan, and now faced having to explain to his own superiors why it wasn’t going to work. “But very well,” he went on. “You’ll have a few more minutes to live, then. We’ll see how willing the Ven are to fire on a Starfleet ship when they get within range.”
This time, Oxxreg broke the connection. Pressman turned toward the bridge crew. “So we’re to be a shield, apparently.”
“Maybe the Ven are more reasonable,” Dusefrene suggested.
“We’re one ship—a small one, compared to the Omistol ships,” Will noted. “We won’t make a very good shield. And when the shooting starts, I doubt anyone will make a special effort to miss us.”
“Mr. Riker’s right,” Captain Pressman said. “So let’s put the admiral’s plan into motion, see what happens. Are you still with us, Admiral?”
“I’m here,” Admiral Paris’s voice replied after a few seconds. Communication by susbspace radio was far from immediate, but it was pretty fast. “I wish you the best of luck, Captain.”
“We’ll need more than luck,” Pressman said. “Let’s see if we’ve got it. Mr. Riker, commence.”
“Yes, sir,” Will said, trying to sound as sharp and military as he could. He knew what they were proposing was risky, so he wanted to try to keep everyone’s morale up as best he could. The only morale he could directly influence was his own, though, so he focused on that.
He tapped at the conn controls, reversing the thrust of the Pegasus’s engines. Where before they had been burning fuel trying to escape the tractor beam, now he began to gently nudge the ship closer to the Omistol vessel that held them.
“They’re on the move,” Captain Jensen pointed out.
There was increased tension in the situation room, but also a growing sense of elation. At least something was being done. No one knew if it would work, but it was movement.
To Kyle, the success or failure of the plan had even greater significance than it did to the Starfleet officers in the room. Sure, it was their ship, their personnel. But his son was on that ship. He’d been a lousy father, and he wasn’t likely to change now. The last couple of years had taught him some hard lessons, though, and one of those was that his standard approach to life—duty first, all other considerations a distant second—was perhaps not the healthiest way to live. It had cost him too much. He knew he couldn’t simply waltz back into Will’s life, even if the boy survived the next few minutes. But at least Will would still be out there, and maybe somewhere down the line he’d be able to find it in his heart to forgive his old man for the stupid mistakes he’d made.
“I hope this works,” Admiral Paris muttered.
“It has to,” one of the other officers fired back.
“It may not,” Kyle said, always willing to play devil’s advocate to his own tactics.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Bonner observed. “There’s nothing we can do now except wait.”
“They’re getting closer,” Jensen said, as if he were the only one who could see the screen.
Over the subspace radio relay, Kyle heard the words he’d been waiting for—the words that would make this plan work.
Or fail miserably.
“This is Captain Erik Pressman,” the captain’s voice said. “Initiate auto-destruct sequence.”
There was a pause, and Kyle knew the next voice he heard should be the first officer’s. When it finally came, it quavered with fear and uncertainty.
“This is Commander Barry Chamish ... Captain, I can’t. I won’t.”
“Number One, I must insist,” Captain Pressman said.
“You can’t make me,” Chamish replied. To Kyle, he sounded more like a petulant child than a Starfleet officer.
“It’s your duty,” the captain urged. “To this ship and this crew.”
“That’s exactly why I won’t do it,” Chamish said. “I think it’s the wrong decision for the crew. I refuse to give my authorization.”
“You’re relieved, Mr. Chamish.” Kyle could hear the fury in Pressman’s voice as he did so.
“Sir, I’ll do it,” another voice broke in. “If I can.”
Kyle thought the voice sounded familiar. It was not a voice he’d heard often, certainly not recently. It was deeper, more mature than he remembered it. But the sound of it, the valor he heard in those few words, filled him with immense pride.
Will felt every eye on the bridge burning into him. Captain Pressman regarded him levelly, as if trying to fit a new perception around the old ones he had already established.
“You can’t, Ensign,” Pressman said. “It would have to be the third-in-command of the ship.”
“Well, it’s got to be soon, sir. We’re already within range.”
Before Will finished his sentence, the officer to his immediate left said, “This is Lieutenant Commander Shinnareth Bestor.” The operations officer’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion at all. “Initiate auto-destruct sequence.”
“Verbal confirmation requested,” the computer replied. “Captain Pressman?”
“Confirmed,” Pressman stated.
“Lieutenant Commander Bestor?”
“Confirmed,” the operations officer said.
“What is the desired interval until destruction, Captain Pressman?”
Pressman glanced at Will, who checked his instruments quickly and then held up three fingers. “Three minutes,” the captain said.
“Auto-destruct sequence initiated,” the computer intoned. “Destruction in two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”
Will wiped at his forehead. His heart pounded in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears almost drowned out the other noises on the bridge. Everything except the computer’s soulless voice, counting down the last few seconds until the ship blew itself up. The force of the explosion, he remembered from the Academy, would be roughly the equivalent of a thousand photon torpedoes.
At least it’ll be quick, he thought. Probably fairly painless. Probably even a relief after sitting around waiting for it for three minutes.
“What’s going on up there?” someone asked plaintively.
“You can hear as well as the rest of us,” Bonner responded. “They’re waiting.”
Kyle knew it wasn’t that simple. The delay inherent even in subspace radio meant that the Pegasus might already be destroyed. He wondered what they’d hear on this end—static? An electronic hum? Or would they first, momentarily, hear the thunder as the explosions ripped through his son’s vessel?
“The Ven are getting awfully close,” Admiral Paris observed. “They’re right there—definitely within firing range.”
STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2355-2357 - Deny Thy Father Page 33
