A Time to Die

by John Vornholt

  “Yes, please,” said Riker. “I’ll be in the ready room.”

  Fifteen minutes passed quickly as the acting captain went over duty rosters for the shorthanded crew, assigning them to longer and split shifts. His door chimed. “Come in.”

  Counselor Cabot entered the ready room with her blond hair still wet and dripping on her snug blue dress. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”

  “Yes.” Riker rose from his desk and offered her the guest chair. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “Well, I was trying to have fun before things got serious. When we get to Rashanar, it will get serious, won’t it?”

  “Definitely,” he answered, trying a bit of charm on the counselor. “Everyone says that you came up with the idea to break into the graveyard in small craft, disguised as looters.”

  Colleen laughed. “I was desperate—trying to win an argument with Admiral Ross. I’m not usually big on military strategy. Is that what this is about?”

  “Yes, we’d like Captain Picard to command our scavenger ship.”

  “Hmmm,” she mused with a slight frown. “He’s not supposed to be in command.”

  “We would send you, too,” Riker assured her, “along with one of our best officers, Lieutenant Vale. To round out the crew, Ensign Brewster has volunteered.”

  “Oh. But how is it going to look if Picard screws up?”

  “You know what Admiral Nechayev said,” stated Riker, his jaw tightening. “It’s going to look the same whether we succeed or fail, live or die. This mission never happened.”

  She crossed her arms and looked sternly at the acting captain. He suddenly realized this was not going to be so easy. “He may be captain of your looter ship, but I’m still his captain,” she explained. “If I judge that his behavior is out of line, I can relieve him of command. I want you both to agree to that, or he can sit in his stateroom and rot. Those are my conditions.”

  Riker didn’t say anything as he paced behind his desk, considering his options. If he had anybody else to spare, he would tell this pretty counselor to go stuff herself, but Picard was his best and only choice to head this crucial stage of their mission.

  Finally he answered, “In that case, Lieutenant Vale would take over the Skegge.”

  “That’s fine,” she answered magnanimously. “Or Ensign Brewster. Just remember, Picard is my responsibility…whether he’s saving the galaxy or brushing his teeth.”

  “All right, I’ll talk privately to him.”

  Rising to her feet, she asked. “Now, how should I prepare for this assignment?”

  “Dress like a scavenger, think like a scavenger. We’re counting on you to set the tone here, because the rest of your crew aren’t exactly undercover agents.”

  She smiled enigmatically and said, “I think one of them can pull off a disguise.”

  “The controls are much like a Starfleet shuttlecraft,” said Data, who was seated at the pilot’s chair in the nose of the Skegge. The android was surrounded by the vessel’s new crew, Picard, Cabot, Vale, and Brewster—and had no way to keep his distance from the others in the small cabin. Wesley wondered if he could maintain his alternative persona in such close quarters. He didn’t have much choice. Unfortunately, having any more privacy with Colleen was out the door. Thanks to the spherical hull, there was a large viewport, which cut down on the feeling of claustrophobia somewhat.

  “The ship can also be piloted from both of the auxiliary stations,” continued Data, “but not the rear console, which is only for the machinery control. There is no transporter.”

  It was cramped inside the old ship, which had a distinct odor of sweat, solvents, and grease. So many chipped coats of blue paint were laid on so thick that it looked like the interior was covered in icing. The sleeping quarters were sparse, just a bunkbed for two behind a curtain, plus a rudimentary head. The only source of nourishment was a food slot that looked as if it had been salvaged from another ship. The Skegge was an old, working tug, not a vessel meant to race, go great distances, or fight anyone. The shields were fine to ward off debris, but one good blast of an energy spike would fry them. The Traveler was beginning to think that Colleen was right—they were all crazy.

  He listened as Data explained the propulsion system, while Picard asked pertinent questions, making sure they understood the trimpots and sliding levers on the controls. It actually took longer to explain how the winches, saws, and hoists worked, and they couldn’t really test anything until they got into space. Wes could see Colleen bouncing on her toes excitedly, and felt a pang of guilt for bringing her on this dangerous mission. That added to the self-reproach he already felt for ignoring the disciplines of a Traveler.

  “Has this craft got subspace communications?” asked Lieutenant Vale. “Regular frequencies don’t work very well in the boneyard. Subspace has a delay, but it gets through.”

  “That is a valid point,” answered Data. “The Skegge does have subspace communications, but none of Starfleet’s encryption devices. The warning buoys in Rashanar were functioning as subspace relays; however, we have no way of knowing if the Ontailians have left them with that capability. Communications between our two ships may be a problem.”

  “Plus the Enterprise will have to stay in warp until it’s time to sneak her in,” said Picard. “We know from our last visit here that anything that can go wrong will go wrong. So we need some kind of signal, or a meeting place.”

  Wes took a deep breath, and Colleen gave him a glance. Only she knew that the Traveler could ferry messages instantly between the two ships, if he was willing to reveal his identity to everyone. The man they knew as Brewster cleared his throat to get their attention.

  “If we don’t check in on schedule,” he began, “the Enterprise will know we’re either having com problems…or something more serious. At that point, they’ll start looking for a signal. We have our two photon torpedoes, which we could shoot out the main gateway.”

  “Gateway three,” offered Data, pointing at the chart on the navigation console, “where we entered the first time.”

  “Fine,” said Brewster. “If we shoot one torpedo, that means we’re okay, just suffering poor communications and on standby. If we shoot both torpedoes, that means either we’re in serious trouble, or it’s time for the diversion that is going to distract the Ontailians and get the Enterprise inside. Either way, the Enterprise has to come running.”

  Data lifted an eyebrow as he considered the suggestion. “It is not a perfect solution, but it is workable.”

  “However,” said Picard, “we might have to use those torpedoes in defense.”

  “You could take an extra two torpedoes,” said Data. “It would require a spacewalk to load them into the launchers, but you will have EVA suits and enough equipment. I can arrange for them, although that will cut down on the storage space in the hold.”

  “That’s okay. We’d rather have photon torpedoes than lots of luggage,” said Colleen with a smile.

  The android turned back to his control panel and said, “Allow me to go over the targeting and launching procedures. Lieutenant Vale, you might want to pay particular attention.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they all had a good idea how to fire the weapons, although no one was thrilled about going into battle in this little tug. They would mainly be hiding among the wrecks and rubble. Wes realized that it would be difficult for him to sneak off while a member of this cramped crew. He might have been better off staying on the Enterprise, but it was too late now to make that decision.

  “Do we have suitable clothing?” asked Picard. “All of us need to be in plain but worn clothes with no Starfleet markings. Use the replicator if you have to. Don’t bring anything on this ship that might identify you as Starfleet. Grab whatever you need, and return here quickly. I believe our launch is less than an hour away.”

  “Forty-eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” replied Data. “The launch must be precise—we cannot remain out of warp for more than a few secon
ds, even with the sun’s radiation masking our presence.”

  “So get your gear, then meet back here,” said Picard, clearly relishing being in command again, even if it was an old salvage tug with a crew of four.

  The Traveler ducked out first, followed by Colleen Cabot. She poked him in the ribs and grinned slyly. “We have a little time.”

  He gave her a wan smile and shook his head as they walked across the shuttlebay. “I don’t think so. I’ve got to say good-bye to my mom. You have a lot to do, too.”

  “I do?” she asked, puzzled. “Maybe make out my last will and testament.”

  He frowned sourly. “This isn’t fun and games.”

  “I beg to differ,” answered Colleen. “Trying to dig into Captain Picard’s psyche wasn’t fun and games. This is fun to me. I’m looking forward to being part of a bunch of space pirates.”

  “Being Brewster in that little box is going to make it impossible for me to go anywhere else.”

  “Then level with them,” said Cabot, “like you have with me and your mother.”

  “I can’t. Not yet. When I become Wesley Crusher full-time, I cease to be the Traveler. I’m not ready to give that up.” He looked pointedly at her. “Are you?”

  “Good question,” she answered. “Whenever a patient tells me they’ve fallen in love with somebody on a vacation or an exciting mission, I say, ‘Whoa!’ Get to know this person in cold reality, the mundane world, then tell me you’re madly in love.”

  He stopped to gaze at the stunning beauty. He had to focus hard to keep the guise of Ensign Brewster as he talked to her. “Then what are we doing? This isn’t even me you’re looking at!”

  “Which proves my point…that I’m on vacation,” answered Colleen, giving him a wink as she sauntered away. Wesley had to laugh and shake his head.

  From his seat at the controls of the Skegge, Captain Picard glanced back at his motley crew, thinking that he had no idea how Brewster and Cabot would react under fire. True, they had the trust of admirals, but this wasn’t an office building on San Francisco Bay. He wore dirty pants and a tunic, while Vale and Brewster were dressed in well-worn jumpsuits without any external markings.

  Of more concern to Picard was Cabot’s insistence that she still had control over him and could relieve him of duty at her pleasure. She had made that clear to Riker, who coveyed the message to him. He trusted the young lady. This was no different from going on a mission with an admiral in tow—but it was still disconcerting to think that he wasn’t his own master.

  Once again, he took a look around the small cabin. Vale manned the copilot’s seat behind him to the left, Brewster was on navigation at the other console, and Cabot sat in the rear at the machinery controls. There were two photon torpedoes strapped to their underbelly, two extra torpedoes in the hold, and enough fuel and supplies for their mission, even if it ran a little long. However, Picard didn’t think this would be a leisurely cruise through the Rashanar graveyard; it would mostly be dodging and hiding. He hoped they were all prepared to be knocked around a bit.

  “Remember,” he said, “we’re breaking through the Ontailian fleet, then heading straight into the boneyard. No hesitation. Ignore any hails or potshots they take at us, and let’s hope our shields hold long enough to get past them.”

  “The gap we’re entering is free of Ontailian ships,” remarked Vale, studying the Enterprise’s scans.

  “For now,” replied the captain. “They’ll have time to catch us on their sensors. It just depends how badly they want to keep us out.”

  His combadge chirped, and a voice said, “Bridge to Picard.”

  “Picard here.”

  “We’re coming out of warp in thirty seconds,” said Riker. “We’ll drift into position at low power. Is there any reason why we should abort this mission or try later?”

  “We’re ready,” answered Picard. He noticed that his hands were clenched on the old-fashioned controls. He let go and stretched his fingers.

  “Nervous?” asked Lieutenant Vale. “I could pilot.”

  “I’m sure you could, but I haven’t had much fun lately. Due to my age, I’ve had more experience on these type of controls than you.”

  Riker’s voice broke in, “Good luck, Captain. We won’t talk again until check-in. Riker out.”

  Picard could see shuttlebay personnel evacuating the area. None of them were exactly sure how the ungainly craft was going to fly. Picard double-checked all of his instruments in the waning seconds.

  “We’re stopping,” said Brewster. “Any second.” Picard had no idea how he could tell.

  The outer shuttlebay doors drew open, revealing a sprinkling of stars with an ominous swirl of wreckage in the distance. Seeing the graveyard again sent a chill down Picard’s spine. He realized he wasn’t going to stop until he destroyed whatever was haunting Rashanar.

  “Hold on,” he said, plying his controls. With a jerk and a thump, the little tug shot through the opening into space with her afterburners sparking. Picard marveled that the craft was so responsive—like an old Type-6 orbital shuttle. He felt growing confidence in his piloting, and didn’t need to look at the readouts on his console. Their destination shimmered in the darkness about a thousand kilometers away—an ominous cloud of scorched starships and glittering rubble. He pushed the lever forward, sending the propulsion system into maximum, shooting the craft through the darkness. So far, he couldn’t see any Ontailian vessel with the naked eye. He knew they were out there.

  “The Enterprise is gone,” reported Vale. “We’re on our own.”

  They were already halfway to their goal. Behind him, Brewster said, “Ontailian light cruiser off starboard, six hundred kilometers and closing fast.”

  “Only one?” asked Picard.

  Vale worked her board and reported. “They’re hailing us. They demand that we stop immediately, or they’ll open fire.”

  “I know I said not to respond,” answered Picard, “but let’s buy ourselves a few seconds. Tell them…one of our ships put out a distress signal from Rashanar. We’re responding.”

  Vale relayed the message without hesitation as the giant globe of junk loomed ever closer. Now they could see raw spikes of energy deep within the wasteland of scuttled ships. The dark hulls were illuminated like windmills in a lightning storm.

  “Prepare for impact!” announced Vale. They barely had time to catch their breaths before a brilliant beam struck the ship, shaking it violently. Sparks spewed from Brewster’s overloaded console. The Skegge was knocked off course, but Picard kept his hands on the controls and his eyes on the objective. Cabot responded quickly to the console fire, grabbing an extinguisher and spraying the affected area with a stream of retardant. Then she jumped back into her seat and buckled in.

  “One more!” shouted Vale over the rattling and shaking.

  Picard dipped the tug. The next beam just grazed her. He felt a weightless sensation, but he was strapped in his seat and was able to keep on course. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the Ontailian ship through the viewport; it looked like a shark’s fin slicing through the waves in the dead of night. Although they had lost artificial gravity and were under fire, his biggest concern was not the Ontailians but the twisted derelicts that drifted in front of him. Most of them whirled slowly in stately orbits; however, some went crashing about the junkyard like maddened bulls, sending other hulks reeling into new chaotic orbits.

  “Losing gravity is normal!” shouted Vale. “The power goes to the shields when they start to fail.”

  The Ontailians gave a parting shot, which clipped a charred hulk, sending it spinning. The tiny tug just slipped past it, missing the spinning hull by centimeters. Abruptly, the Ontailian cruiser veered away, allowing them to enter the graveyard through a cloud of shimmering debris that flashed against their shields. Picard at last let out his breath and loosened his grip on the controls. Although more at ease, he was still flying like a madman, weaving his way between ghost ships and ominous
wreckage. Picard felt the strange confluence of beauty, horror, and grief that was Rashanar, and he began to look for their real foe in the scattered ruins.

  The gravity came back as Brewster crawled into his scorched seat. “I think we lost them, but we’re out one console.”

  “That was about the maximum these shields can take,” said Vale, studying her board. “Another direct hit, and we would have been part of the decorations.”

  Picard was listening, but he had to keep his attention on the chunks of wreckage that rolled through the void. He could see pastel plasma clouds glowing in the distance and wild energy spikes rippling between the dead vessels. Both of those anomalies were lethal. The gravity sink, antimatter asteroid, and mimic ship were equally deadly. Inside the boneyard, there was no respite from danger, especially in a small craft like this. He wasn’t sure where to seek shelter.

  “Any idea where we should hole up?” asked the captain. He slowed the craft down, but continued to maneuver carefully.

  “Yes,” answered Brewster hesitantly. “There’s a fairly intact Ambassador- class ship, the Hickock, near buoy seven. I think we’re close to it. If we could dock, we could take refuge inside.”

  Picard could only glance at the guileless ensign, but he asked, “How do you know so much about Rashanar, Mr. Brewster?”

  “Study,” he answered. “I learned a great deal going over all your reports and logs. In fact, one of the Enterprise shuttlecraft logged the new position of the Hickock.”

  “He’s right, sir,” Vale added. “I recall that.”

  Brewster rose and looked over his shoulder. Picard could feel his presence a bit stronger now that he was close. Otherwise, the man was such a blank that it was hard to figure him out, although he supposed that such an unprepossessing person might be useful in Nechayev’s favorite line of work.

  “Bearing one hundred twenty, mark sixty-five,” suggested Brewster.

  Picard made the course correction. He was glad to have a destination in this vast maelstrom of destruction. In short order, they saw the Hickock drifting along, looking more stable and more intact than most of its neighbors.