A Time to Die

by John Vornholt

  Troi followed and noticed that the object of her attention was a photograph of Wesley Crusher. It was an image that Beverly hadn’t displayed for some time, but the doctor was making more of an effort to acknowledge her son these days. Beverly and Deanna stared curiously at the younger woman as she almost reverently touched Wesley’s photo.

  “This was taken…when?” asked Cabot.

  “About nine years ago. You know my son, Wesley?” asked Crusher with surprise.

  A broad grin spread over Colleen’s face. “Yes, I know him. He’s your son?”

  “Yes, but he’s been away for several years,” said Troi, trying to spare Beverly any more pain.

  “He’s alive and well,” Colleen blurted out. “But you must know that already.”

  Now Beverly dropped her padd and jumped to her feet. Troi felt like strangling Colleen. “I think we should be going,” insisted the counselor. “We’ve bothered the doctor enough.”

  “No…no, that’s all right,” breathed Crusher, waving off her friend’s concerns. “I don’t mind if our guest talks about Wesley. When did you meet him?”

  “I have said too much,” replied the young woman. “Your son is very handsome.”

  “Thank you.” Crusher looked confused but oddly exhilarated too.

  “It was a pleasure talking to you.” Cabot moved toward the door. “However, the spa and lunch and all that wiped me out, Deanna, and I think I’ll get a little nap before our staff meeting. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to come for me and show me the way to the observation lounge?”

  “Certainly,” answered Troi. “Can you find your way back to your quarters?”

  “Yes. Thanks again, and good-bye.” With that, Cabot sauntered out of sickbay.

  Troi turned to her friend and shrugged her shoulders apologetically. “I’m sorry, Beverly, I don’t know what that was all about.”

  The doctor frowned deeply in thought, but she didn’t look angry. “It’s okay. She looks about Wesley’s age—she could’ve gone to the Academy with him.”

  “But she seemed so certain that he was…alive and well. Like she had just seen him.”

  “I see him too…sometimes,” said Crusher with an enigmatic smile. “That’s a most unusual young woman. I think we were wrong about her.”

  “Well, something changed her attitude a hundred and eighty degrees,” muttered Troi.

  “Yes, someone got to her and showed her the truth.”

  In the Enterprise shuttlebay, Geordi La Forge and Data studied an awkward vessel that looked better suited for a carnival ride than collecting junk left among the asteroids. The lumpen craft was covered with so many harpoon guns, winches, antennas, saws, and valves that it looked like a puffer fish left out in the sun for a few days. La Forge inspected the gears on a winch and got black grease all over his hands.

  “This isn’t the only one,” he said, as Data handed him a towel. “The admiral is sending us another tug, which should be here in half an hour. I don’t know about this…I think we’ll be sitting ducks in a ship like this.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied Data. “Speed and firepower are not prerequisites for success at Rashanar. A maneuverable craft that can extricate itself from difficulty is more desirable. This vessel reminds me of the one that extracted me from the wreckage just before I entered the vortex. Those salvagers saved my life.”

  “I guess this ship will be authentic,” said Geordi. “We had to off-load four shuttlecraft to make room for these two clunkers.”

  “The sacrifice may be worth it,” predicted Data, “in order to fool the Ontailians.”

  “I’m not worried about Ontailians,” muttered La Forge. “What if we see two duplicate ships again? What are we going to do? So far, nobody has a plan for handling that thing.”

  “Perhaps we destroyed it when it appeared to be the Vuxhal,” remarked Data.

  “Nobody buys that,” said the engineer, turning back to the newest addition to their shuttlecraft fleet. “So are you going to help me modify this bucket of bolts?”

  “I have other matters to attend to,” said the android. “Admiral Nechayev sent us several volumes of information about the Ontailians, which I must study before the briefing.”

  La Forge nodded thoughtfully as he circled the salvage ship, and his footsteps echoed in the cavernous shuttlebay. “We’ll make room for the other scow and whatever else we can steal. You know, Data, if we’re going to be looters, maybe we should really grab a Jem’Hadar polytransporter. We could use one of those. This could open up a whole new career for us.”

  “You are no longer planning to leave Starfleet, are you?” asked the android.

  His friend laughed and said, “It was just a joke, Data. I have low expectations for us as looters. And, no, I’m not leaving Starfleet as long as Captain Picard is still here.”

  “Nor am I,” replied the android sincerely.

  The Traveler stood in mud so thick that it oozed over his ankles, which was an odd feeling considering how light his body felt in the low gravity of the Ontailians’ homeworld, Ona. The icy wind and sleeting snow had no effect upon him, but the sight of the mammoth purple fir trees was awe-inspiring. The Ontailian conifers grew at least twice as high as the greatest sequoias on Earth, and they were dotted with spherical nests about a meter in diameter hanging from almost every branch, like Christmas ornaments. Each immense tree was a village, although those under a hundred meters tall were devoid of Ontailian nests. The firs were too young and fragile, he recalled.

  A slight hum greeted Wesley’s ears, and he realized that the trunks and branches of the trees were alive with the flow of energy. Although the Ontailians appeared to be primitive beings, their communal ways had evolved over millions of years into an advanced civilization with nonpolluting thermal power, fanciful art, and space travel. They lived peacefully with a wide variety of native flora and fauna, although all of them had to be hardy to survive the cold temperatures on all the landmasses except the islands near the equator. A specialized breed of hunter Ontailians lived on those remote islands. He knew this from the wealth of experiences of his fellow Travelers, who had taken an interest in Ona some millennia ago.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that the Ontailians knew what was out there in Rashanar, or at least they were hiding vital information. Or could it all be a hoax? Could they be trying to scare the Federation away, so as to keep the salvage rights to themselves? Considering how poorly they were policing the graveyard from various and sundry looters, Wes didn’t think greed was their motive. It definitely seemed more like fear—something inside Rashanar was more terrifying than Starfleet.

  Perhaps he wasn’t skilled enough as a Traveler, but observing a nonhumanoid species was difficult for him. Without the familiar organization of a humanoid society, he didn’t know where to spy or where to watch. As he mulled over his next move, the majestic forest was shaken by a small explosion that felt deep underground, and a meteor streaked outward over the treetops and vanished among the glittering stars.

  The Ontailians’ spaceports were underground affairs where small, spherical craft were blasted into orbit like escape pods. Orbital space stations and starships gathered the pods, and all repairs and ship building took place in orbit. Because of their aptitude for low gravity, the Ontailians didn’t need the elaborate synthetic gravity of Starfleet vessels. They were as comfortable in space as on the ground, as long as they had their trellises.

  So the Traveler had come down to study the Ontailians in their native habitat, seeking clues to their behavior. At night in the twinkling, snowy grove, it was hard to even remember the Rashanar Battle Site, which seemed light-years away rather than at the edge of this solar system. On such a cold, peaceful evening, it was difficult to ponder angry tempers, vengeful urges, war, and killing.

  That is, until he heard an anguished roar from somewhere deep in the towering forest. Wes covered the distance in half a second and stood in a glade that was more primitive and overgrown than the civiliz
ed woods he had left. Tree branches rustled loudly over his head, even though the wind was barely a whisper. The snowflakes were so large that they looked like albino spiders dropping through the night.

  Wes, hearing crashing in the woods, managed to move out of the way a moment before a beast on six legs plowed through the underbrush. The creature was the size of a buffalo and as fearsome as a wild boar, with curved tusks, a bloody snout, and bony plates and spines along its back. Tall at the withers, the animal had a narrow torso and spindly legs, but it had the weapons to inflict considerable damage. Plus it looked and sounded angry, as if it had been rousted from some sleepy lair. In the trees above him, the Ontailians whooped and chittered, causing the brute to slash through the underbrush like an enraged bull.

  Wes looked for intelligence similar to the Ontailians’, but the spiny boar didn’t register as anything other than a common animal. From the excited noises in the trees, he assumed the Ontailians were hunting the beast; they were certainly taunting it. The rustling was from braver individuals descending along the trunks and tree limbs, and he wondered if they would leap upon their prey. He marveled that the Ontailians could see so well without artificial light.

  Without warning, the giant plated creature roared again, shaking the trees, and this time its cry sounded plaintive, desperate…hungry. As if in answer, a few shrieking Ontailians dove from the trees to land near the wild animal, and the battle commenced. It was a short melee, as the handful of Ontailians were torn apart, trampled, and eaten by the enraged monster. The pristine snow turned red from the carnage. High above, the Ontailians screeched loudly, and it sounded like full-throated approval—cheering!

  If it was an execution, it was a voluntary one, thought the Traveler. Despite the loud acclamation, a rain of seedpods, rocks, and twigs greeted the beast, and it dashed off on its six legs, roaring with satisfaction. This brought more chittering from the Ontailians in the trees, followed by high-pitched wails that blended together in eerie harmonies. Wes had heard this singing aboard their ships, and he wondered if there was a connection. Unfortunately, he could discern only a general feeling of relief and duty, as if this strange event had been essential to the community, not some mere blood sport.

  After that, most of the Ontailians crawled silently into the boughs, dispersing in all directions. Some gathered in hollowed-out trunks and cavities to sleep in a communal knot of furry appendages. Silence seemed to have been restored to the forest of Ona, just when Wesley heard the animal, or another like it, roar in a different part of the wilderness.

  He had a feeling that the same strange ritual would be repeated in that new location, and didn’t feel the need to observe it again. However, the Traveler resolved to watch the Ontailians for a few minutes each day, until he felt he knew them better.

  When he finally returned to the Enterprise, it was time for the briefing in the observation lounge. He knew his way there, but joined his mother in sickbay in order to arrive with her as his apparent guide. In his Ensign Brewster persona, he preferred to avoid Colleen Cabot, even though she knew who he really was, as he didn’t quite trust her to keep his secret.

  Colleen gave him barely a glance when she entered the observation lounge with Deanna Troi. Ensign Brewster claimed a chair against the bulkhead, allowing Colleen and the senior staff to have the seats at the conference table. One by one they all arrived. The last one was Captain Picard, who also grabbed a seat along the bulkhead, away from the table. He acknowledged the person he knew as Brewster and crossed his arms, waiting to be briefed. Even though Wesley hadn’t been on the Enterprise in years, he could tell that the crew was distracted by the notion of Captain Picard as passenger.

  Riker finally stood up. Data sat attentively, obviously waiting to speak, and Riker let the low drone of conversation die down by itself.

  “Before we start this meeting,” said the acting captain, “I want to make one thing clear. Our trip to the Rashanar Battle Site is voluntary. I want to make sure you have all agreed to go. Counselor Cabot, Ensign Brewster, Captain Picard, if any of you want off, say so now—we have a shuttlecraft waiting.”

  “I’m staying,” said Cabot. She looked at Picard and added, “My patient will remain with me.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” said Brewster, melting into the background.

  Data cocked his head and remarked, “That gives us a crew and passenger count of one hundred fifty-three volunteers. No one has requested to leave. The crew size is acceptable with longer shifts.”

  “Thank you, Data. Riker to bridge.”

  “Vale here.”

  “Tell our shuttlecraft to stand down. Nobody is leaving the ship. Have the conn set course for Rashanar and depart when ready, maximum warp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The acting captain turned to his chief engineer. “La Forge, good job on the matter reactant injector. Did we get both those salvage vessels on board?”

  “Yes, sir, we have two well-used salvage ships, Ekosian design. They need a lot of work just to be spaceworthy at Rashanar. One has no shields, the other has a bad tractor beam; neither one has any weapons. Both are very slow, meant for asteroid work.”

  “Will they be ready by the time we reach Rashanar?” asked Riker.

  “We’ll try,” promised La Forge, “although we’re shorthanded, too. I think we can get one of them ready in time, which brings up the question: How are we getting into the boneyard?”

  Riker tapped the table with his fingertips and said, “We’ll talk about that right now. The Ontailians are going to dictate a lot of our actions. Essentially, we have to observe them and get past them into the boneyard, without being caught. It’s okay if they think we’re scavengers, since they’ve given up trying to control the looters.”

  Dr. Crusher turned and looked at Ensign Brewster, as if to say, Now would be a good time to tell the truth.

  Wes wanted to yell Mom! If he let go of his guise and became Wesley Crusher full-time, that would bring him one step closer to ending his existence as a Traveler.

  If only I hadn’t looked into the Pool of Prophecy and seen the Enterprise autodestruct, he thought, I wouldn’t be here at all. He fervently hoped that the crew would be able to exorcise the ghosts of Rashanar without his help being crucial, allowing him to keep his choices open.

  “Data,” said Riker, “what about the Ontailians’ mind-set?”

  “Admiral Nechayev was very thorough,” Data began. “I have studied all available literature on the subject, including some of the Ontailians’ own popular theater. They are nonhumanoid but very dramatic, in the way that they love overt demonstrations and meaningful gestures. The Ontailians seem to enjoy a certain amount of chaos. They communicate vocally and through body language, which requires animated discourse. In their politics, they are isolationist, therefore have not formed close ties with other Federation members, even nonhumanoid species. Since they joined the Federation during the Dominion War, they did not undergo the usual scrutiny. The Battle of Rashanar saved their homeworld, Ona, from destruction, but they have served notice on the Federation that our presence in their space is no longer welcome. Although not officially, for all practical purposes, they have withdrawn from the Federation.

  “As for specifics which might help us in the current situation, I uncovered very little. Since their dealings with other cultures have been limited, there is no history of war or diplomacy to study, and their own society has changed very little in the last nine hundred years, except for technical advances. But the Ontailians do have a few traditions which may influence their thinking.

  “Monsters figure prominently in their mythology,” Data continued, “and they allow predatory animals to run free on their planet, despite the danger. From their earliest days of space travel, five hundred years ago, the Ontailians have been on guard against something which roughly translates as the ‘demon flyer.’ This may be similar to the Flying Dutchman and other ghost ships in Terran seagoing mythology. The legends state that the demon f
lyer has no soul, which might indicate an automated or robotic spacecraft, although I am uncertain of that interpretation. Since this is a figment from their own mythology, they might have decided to deal with it alone, without our interference. They denied that the mimic ship we encountered is real, but their recent actions indicate that they view something in Rashanar as a genuine threat.”

  “Any clue how this demon ship works?” asked Riker.

  “That is uncertain. How does the legend of the Flying Dutchman work? It is something frightening, beyond the norm, which may cause destruction to the unwary. Even if the demon ship does not exist, it explains some of their behavior.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Data,” said Colleen Cabot, “does this have anything to do with Ontailians expelling antimatter inside the graveyard?”

  Riker looked at the counselor with new respect. “You must have read our reports.”

  “Yes,” she lied, stealing a glance at Ensign Brewster as she surveyed the room. “That’s strange behavior, isn’t it?”

  “Very strange,” answered Data, “especially inside Rashanar. We have no idea how that may be connected. We wish to observe them doing it again. There is also the mystery of the Ontailian distress signal, which they denied even though we saw the ship in distress. They have withheld information from us and have been less than truthful. I have nothing else to report, except that the Ontailians have improved their weaponry since the war, and the ships at Rashanar are the best in their fleet, experienced in battle. The Yoxced has replaced the Vuxhal.”

  “They’re in charge of the boneyard, but they’re afraid,” said Riker. “From the latest reports, their forces are spread thinly around the entire battle zone. They have the gateways and major gaps covered. They’re not going in and out, but the looters sure are—however, the Ontailians aren’t pursuing. They seem to be in defensive mode. The question is, how do we get the Enterprise past them?”

  Nobody replied, until Captain Picard shifted impatiently in his chair. “With a diversion,” he answered. “If the Ontailians are poised to keep something from getting out, then give them what they fear most. They’ll congregate to stop it.”