Star Trek - TNG - Generations

by Generations

  The shuddering ship reeled, stricken.

  At last, Soran thought. Amid the screams, the chaotic ballet of tumbling bodies, he sat with arms folded tight about his knees, and let himself be tossed.

  The bulkheads around him began to crumple; a shard of metal debris stung his forehead, sending blood trick- ling over his brow, into his eye. Yet Soran merely smiled.

  And in the midst of the tumult, the light lashed forth, piercing the bulkhead to crackle in their very midst, lifting the hairs on Soran's head, arms, the back of his neck. He filled his lungs, embracing death, waiting for dissolution, his mind focused on a solitary thought: Leandra...

  Darkness. Stillness. Silence.

  So this is it, he thought with amazement.

  Death... Yet he was still aware of his own conscious- ness, and that awareness brought with it disappoint- ment. He had hoped to dissolve into nothingness, thoughtlessness, the void. But here he was, listening to his own breathing, his own heartbeat... aware of the movement of cool, moist air against his skin. And the warm flesh of another against his.

  He opened his eyes to darkness. Not total blackness, for beyond the open window, stars twinkled, sending down their gentle light. He stirred, and felt the soft, yielding velvet of bedclothes beneath his bare back, heard the gentle cascade of breaking ocean waves, smelled the subtle fragrance of brine mixed with the aroma of exotic flora.

  Even in the dimness, he knew: This was Talaal, the resort where he had spent his wedding night.

  He turned on his side and found her lying beside him, her face limned silver by starglow, her dark hair long and soft, scented like the flowers.

  "Leandra," he whispered, and wept, the dam of pent-up emotion finally breaking. He slid his arms around her and held her to his heart, burying his face in her hair. Miracle of miracles, she was solid, warm--no dream, but real, truly here in his arms.

  "Leanalta, oh gods, dear gods, Leandra..." The universe was once again sane, just.

  "Tolian?" she murmured sleepily. "Darling, what is it?" His torment brought her back to consciousness.

  "What's wrong? Were you dreaming?" "Yes, dreaming," he said bitterly, lips brushing her hair. "Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave.... " "Of course I'll never leave you, Tolian. You know that.

  But what--" Her image faded, paled like a vanishing ghost. He cried out, horrified to find that he no longer clasped her soft solid body, but empty air. Yet he could see her faintly before him, a ribbon of moonlight illuminating her lovely face, her troubled eyes. See her, and not touch her.

  "Leandra!" he cried, but he could not hear the words that issued from her moving lips. At the same time, he became aware of another reality enveloping them, sur- rounding them: he was standing with the refugees from the Lakul aboard a different ship--a Federation ship.

  "No!" Soran screamed with fury and grief, clawing at Leandra's outstretched hand; his own passed through empty air. "Noooo... !"

  For a fleeting instant, Pavel Chekov paused in the open doorway and stared in awe--not at the state-of- the-art medical equipment, or the sleeker, more spacious sickbay design, but at the horrific tableau within.

  Some fifty Lakul survivors--all graceful humanoids, the last remnants of the long-lived El Aurian race--lay draped unconscious over diagnostic beds, sat stunned on the carpets, or huddled moaning against bulkheads. It was not their physical injuries that made Chekov and the two reporters who flanked him briefly recoil. Most seemed relatively unscathed--in body, at least; but what horrified Chekov most was the look in the El Aurians' eyes, a look he knew he would never be able to forget.

  He could not shake the notion that he had just walked into an eighteenth-century madhouse.

  Those conscious stared at some distant, alluring sight, one so beautiful that some were stricken into silence.

  Others clawed at the air, grasping vainly at the invisible desired. Yet none shared the same vision; each was lost to his own inner world. Moans, whispers, soft weeping filled the air in an eerie discordant litany.

  The colors are touching me I'm caught in the glass I can see the seconds Help me. Help me.

  Chekov had understood that morning why Captain Kirk had not wanted to come aboard the Enterprise-B.

  Chekov had not wanted to either; he had seen no good reason to sit aboard a starship feeling useless. Yet like the captain, he had not been able to stay away.

  But the moment Kirk had taken command of the ship, Chekov felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration. For the first time in a year, he felt a sense of purpose--a sense of rightness, of belonging--which he had not experienced since retirement, so he did not hesitate to take charge of sickbay. His emergency medical training as head of security aboard the Reliant would serve him now in good stead.

  He hesitated in the doorway to sickbay for only an instant, then came to himself and quickly located diag- nostic scanners. He handed one to each of the journalists mone male, one female, both Terran--with brief in- structions.

  Before he finished, the ship gave a sudden lurch, flinging them against a nearby bulkhead. "Good lord!" the man cried out, his scanner clattering to the floor as Chekov collided against him. "What was that?" Chekov regained his footing quickly, scooped up the scanner, and handed it back to the man, who simply stared back in fear.

  "Take it," he ordered. "We've got to get moving--" The woman's eyes were wide. "But what was that? Do you think the energy ribbon--" The ship shuddered again; she dropped her scanner and clung to the bulkhead.

  "It doesn't matter what it is," Chekov said shortly.

  "We'll leave that to those on the bridge. These people need our help." And at the dull, frightened stares that replied, he thundered, exasperated, "Don't think. Just move," with such force that the two finally retrieved their scanners and followed him into the moaning crowd.

  Don't make me go; please, let me stay.

  I'm caught, let me go Help me. Someone, help me.

  "It's all right," Chekov soothed. He crouched down beside a beautiful, ageless woman with long auburn hair who seemed unharmed. Her sorrowful pale eyes never focused on him, but remained fixed on some far distant point. "It's all right. Miss... ma'am... can you hear me?" She did not reply, did not seem at all aware of his presence as he quickly ran the scanner over her. Nothing serious, just some bruised ribs. The same held true for the next survivor--the same near-catatonia, a few scrapes. By the third patient, Chekov looked over at the male journalist, who was tending a slightly wounded victim beside him.

  "Only minor injuries so far," he said, and the man gave a nod to indicate he had found the same; two El Aurians down, the female reporter rose and nodded in agreement. Chekov continued, "But it looks like they're all suffering from some kind of neural shock." "What would cause it?" the woman asked. "The stress of being attacked?" As she spoke her male cohort made his way to another patient sitting on a biobed, a pale man with an even paler shock of silvery hair and eyes that made Chekov think of a candle blazing too fiercely. A thread of bright blood crossed the center of the man's forehead to the bridge of his nose, then curved beneath one eye and down his cheek.

  "Probably not," Chekov answered. "At least, not a mass reaction like this. Perhaps the energy ribbon--"

  "Why?" the pale man suddenly shrieked. Chekov turned to see the slender E1 Aurian grabbing the much larger journalist by his shoulders and pulling him close.

  "Why?" At the insane desperation in the wounded man's eyes, Chekov quietly hurried over to a supply cabinet.

  The reporter wisely remained calm and did not strug- gle in the El Aurian's grip. "It's all right," he said soothingly. "You're safe. You're on the Enterprise." "No..." The word was a ragged sob, a plea; the bleeding man tightened his grip dangerously on the reporter. "I have to go--I have to get back! You don't understand! Let me go/" Without warning, he released his hold, then lunged at the reporter's neck. Before he could squeeze the man's windpipe, Chekov stepped swiftly behind him and emp- tied a hypospray into his arm.

  The El Au
rian fell unconscious beside the wide-eyed journalist, who put a hand to his throat as he asked, "What was he talking about?" Chekov never got the chance to answer; beside him, a woman stumbled. He caught her arm, stopping her in midfall. "Easy there..." There seemed no physical reason for her weakness; a scan revealed no injury. She was a small woman, not beautiful but handsome, with the agelessness typical of El Aurians, and a cascade of tiny black braids that fell halfway to her waist from beneath a large purple cap. She gazed up at Chekov with dark face, dark eyes so deep and full of such radiant peace and, at the same time, such agonizing pain that he drew in his breath.

  "It's going to be okay," he said, smiling warmly at her in an effort to distract her from that pain. "Here, just lie down.... " And he led her to a biobed.

  In the years to come, when he remembered that day and thought of James Kirk, he would also think of that woman, and wonder what had become of her.

  The Enterprise engines groaned, straining against the pull of the energy tendril, to no avail; the ship shuddered constantly, helpless, as the ribbon lashed against her.

  "Inertial dampers failing," Demora reported on the shaking bridge, just before Scott called out: "Engines not responding!" Harriman gripped the arms of his trembling chair with enough force to turn his knuckles pale yellow; he glanced up at Kirk and said quietly, "I didn't expect to die my first day on the job." With a small, grim smile, Kirk bent closer to the younger captain's ear, holding on to the edge of the chair to keep his balance. "The first thing you learn as captain is how to cheat death." He straightened, then called, "Scotty?" Indignant at what he knew his captain would ask next, Scott shouted, "There's just no way to disrupt a gravi- metric field of this magnitude!" In the midst of her shuddering, the ship reeled hard again; Demora clutched her console and cried, "Hull integrity at eighty-two percent!" Kirk said nothing, simply kept his eyes focused on Scott, who at last grudgingly allowed, "But, I do have a theory.... " Kirk grinned. "I thought you might." Scott nodded at the ominous sight on the screen. "An antimatter discharge directly ahead... it might disrupt the field long enough for us to break away." Kirk nodded slowly as he considered it. "A photon torpedo?" "Aye." The older captain turned toward Demora. "Load torpedo bays, prepare to fire on my command." "Captain." Demora swiveled toward him, unmasked dismay in her eyes. "We don't have any torpedoes." "Don't tell me. Tuesday." Kirk closed his eyes briefly, then opened them at Harriman, who gave a defeated nod.

  "Captain," Scott said, "it may be possible to simulate a torpedo blast using a resonance burst from the main deflector dish." Fighting to keep his balance on the unsteady deck, Kirk turned to him with a fresh surge of hope. "Where are the deflector relays?" "Deck fifteen," Demora replied at once. "Section twenty-one alpha." Harriman rose, his bearing unsteady because of the shaking floor beneath his feet. "I'll go. You have the bridge." And without pausing to hear the response, he headed for the turbolift.

  "No, "Kirk said sharply. As tempting as it was for him to slip into the empty captain's chair, this was Harriman's ship; and the younger man had just proven his worth. Only a true captain would swallow his pride and turn over command for his crew's sake.

  Harriman straightened, and turned to stare at the older captain behind him. "No," Kirk said. "A captain's place is on the bridge of his ship." He paused. "I'll take care of it."

  Harriman smiled with his eyes only; his jaw was set grimly as he gave Kirk a nod that acknowledged far more than the older captain's words.

  Kirk turned to Scott as he headed for the turbolift.

  "Keep her together until I get back." "I always do," Scott said.

  Kirk gave him a smile just before the turbolift doors slid shut.

  And when the lift doors opened onto level fifteen, he was again in exhilarating free fall, a combination of the sheerest terror and bliss. Terror, because he remembered the dreams of the night before and knew Spock would not be there to catch him; bliss, because he was once again doing what he had been born to do--make a difference. There was no time for thought, for reflection, only for pure mindless action.

  Jim ran down the trembling corridor with a speed he had thought himself no longer capable of, following the signs to section twenty-one alpha until at last he made it to the deflector room, with its massive generators tower- ing behind a stand of consoles.

  His heart was pounding, his breath coming in gasps, but none of it mattered; it was the first time in over a year he had truly felt alive. He found the bulkhead panel and pried it off, then began to work at rerouting the deflector circuitry.

  He hadn't been at it more than a minute when the wall intercom whistled and Scott's voice filtered through, barely audible over the ship's groaning. "Bridge to Captain Kirk." "Kirk here," he shouted, not taking his gaze from his work. What needed to be done was simple; and if he

  didn't let Scott interrupt him, he would be done in seconds.

  "Captain," Scott cried, in the plaintive tone Kirk knew so well--well enough to know that this time, things were seriously critical. Even had Scott not con- tacted him, he would have known from the feel of the Enterprise' s shaking--even this new Enterprise' s shaking--that a major hull breach was imminent. "I don't know how much longer I can hold her together!" In the background, he could hear Demora's voice: "Forty-five seconds to structural collapse!" Kirk took the critical seconds needed to make the final adjustment, then slammed the wall panel closed with a sense of triumph. "That's it! Go!" He heard Scott terminate the intercom link, and rose unsteadily to make his way out into the shuddering corridor. There was no sense in hurrying; they would either be safe now, or die. He had done all that he could do.

  Before he had taken more than a dozen steps, the ship's shaking eased dramatically. He grinned gently; so, his strange premonition of death had proven to be false~ He was glad, of course, for himself and all those aboard the ship--and yet he felt a faint, odd disappointment. It wouldn't have been such a terrible way to go. Would he ever again get another chance like this to make a difference?

  He was in midstride when it came: an explosion so deafening, so teeth-chattering, that it seemed to have erupted from within his own head. He was lifted from the floor, slammed against bulkhead or deck--he could not discern which. In a dazzlingly brilliant millisecond, he saw everything around him dissolve into the violet white heat of the energy ribbon, felt his own body dissolving, merging with the pulse.

  He was, as he had always known he would be, alone.

  There was no time for reflection or regret in the primal moment of dissolution, only a glimmer of gladness that McCoy and Spock were safe wherever they were, that they would continue without him.

  And then there was silence, and the beginning of the ultimate, infinite free fall....

  FOUR

  Several seconds earlier, Montgomery Scott terminated the link to the deflector room and stared at the thrashing energy tendril on the main screen--like a great bolt of lightning gone berserk, it looked. The Enterprise was shuddering constantly now, pommeled to the sound of distant thunder like a storm-tossed sailing vessel in the midst of a violent sea. Scott held his breath as young Captain Harriman leaned forward to give an order to Sulu's daughter.

  "Activate main deflector." Along with the silent, prayerful crew, Scott watched as a brilliant beam of energy burst from the main deflector dish and erupted into a tiny nova off the starboard hull.

  He was breathless, yes, but not as frightened as the young lieutenant beside him at the console. Scott had had a full life, and over the past year had found a measure of contentment in consultant work and family.

  At least, he had thought himself content. But at the moment Captain Kirk had smiled at him from the turbolift--

  Keep her together until I get back.

  --Scott had felt a thrill he had almost forgotten, and seen a spark long extinguished blaze once more in his captain's eyes.

  In his younger days, Scott would have been terrified-- but too determined to survive to let his terror show, to let it interfere with
what had to be done. Now all that was gone. Oh, there was still fear of dying, yes, but it was tempered by experience and the perspective of age. He had faced such impossible situations many times before and always walked away whole.

  Even if this time he did not, he had far less to lose than the young ones surrounding him. He could sense their fear, and for some odd reason it calmed him, made him determined to be of help.

  He set a hand on the shoulder of the young lieutenant beside him, who had been so distracted by the unfolding drama on the screen that he jumped nervously at the touch. Scott gave him a reassuring half smile; the young officer grimaced sheepishly, then returned his gaze to the screen.

  Scott too turned toward their fate, and watched as the energy tendril reacted to the deflector blast by leaping backward, then roiling like angry storm clouds.

  The shuddering lessened; Scott drew in a deep breath and let it go. "We're breaking free." The young lieutenant's grimace turned to a smile; Harriman's shoulders and bottom lip dropped in con- cert. Scott began to straighten, with the intent of going over to congratulate the young captain-- The screen went blinding white as the ship lurched hard to port. Scott clawed at the console, lost purchase, and came down on his backside on the deck. The lieutenant was thrown sideways into Scott's chair and nearly fell on top of him, but regained his balance in time.