PRECHANCE TO DREAM

by Howard Weinstein

  Wesley felt his concern for whatever was bugging Kenny getting crowded out by his own emotions, which skidded distinctly toward anger. But he made a deliberate effort to keep it out of his voice. “Is that what you think?”

  The shorter teen frowned as he formulated a careful answer, delivered with a shrug. “No, I guess not. You’re too nice a guy, and I know you earned what you got. But that doesn’t mean I’m not jealous.”

  “Jealous? Of what?” Wesley shook his head, trying to understand.

  “Ask Gina.”

  “Gina? What does this have to do with her? Are you saying she’s jealous of me?”

  Ken snickered. “You really don’t get it, do you? You know, Crusher, for a smart guy, you can be awfully dense sometimes.”

  “I never said I couldn’t be. How about giving me a hint.”

  “Everybody sees how Gina looks at you.”

  “How she looks at me? Is that what this is about? Gina and I are just friends.”

  “Oh, sure you are.”

  “We are,” Wes insisted.

  “But she notices you . . . constantly. The only way she’d ever notice me is if I singlehandedly got us out of here.”

  “Maybe that’s the way out, Commander,” Gina called back over her shoulder. She marched several strides ahead of Data, deeper down a narrow passage splitting off the main tunnel. “Can’t we at least try?”

  Her android escort scanned ahead into the darkness with both his flashlight and tricorder. “I am afraid this branch ends just like the others did, Gina. Besides, we have been searching for almost two hours. It is time we turned back. You will need to rest.”

  “But I’m not tired, Commander. Pleeeease?” she begged as she turned back to him, her stance a mixture of adolescent petulance and adult urgency.

  “It is possible that we will find an exit to the surface—and we shall continue our search. But not here, and not now. It is time to return to the shuttle,” he said, more firmly this time.

  Gina’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”

  Wesley Crusher sat by himself, hunched in the shuttle cockpit, staring at the pilot’s console but not really seeing it. He’d left Kenny outside in the cave and come back to the ship to try to make some sense of their conversation. Is that how everybody sees me, or just Kenny?

  “Wesley?”

  The sound of Deanna Troi’s voice behind him caught him by surprise and he sat up abruptly, managing to ram his kneecap into the console—“Owww!”—as he turned to see her standing in the mid-ship hatchway.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But you looked like a young man with something serious on his mind. Is it anything you want to talk about?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m okay,” he said with a halfhearted shrug. Then he winced and rubbed his throbbing knee. “At least I was,” he added, an ironic trace of a smile curling one corner of his mouth.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk? It appears that all my previously scheduled appointments have been canceled for today.”

  He laughed in spite of his reflective mood, but the laugh faded quickly, replaced by a sigh. Counselor Troi leaned against the other cockpit couch. Then he told her what Ken had said to him.

  “Which bothers you more,” she asked, “the part about Ken being jealous of your being an ensign, or the part about Gina?”

  “The field commission part I understand, and I can deal with that. When the captain made me an ensign, I figured if I didn’t flaunt the uniform, and if I worked hard, none of the other kids would mind. I really don’t think anybody does, and I don’t think Ken does either. I think that was just his way of getting into the other thing.”

  “Gina.”

  He nodded. “I just don’t get it, Deanna. I never thought girls thought I was anything special.”

  “What did you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did you see yourself?”

  Wesley’s long eyelashes fluttered in embarrassment. “I don’t know. Kind of a bookworm, I guess. I always felt kind of uncomfortable around girls—I never knew what to say. I always wished I could be more like Commander Riker.”

  Troi smiled slightly. “He does have a way with women. But how do you know you don’t have your own natural way?”

  “Me? I don’t think so. I always thought I was too thin . . . and . . . I was never the best at sports. And I’m not exactly the life of the party. It’s not that I’m down on myself—I know I’ve got my share of good qualities, and I’m not surprised when a girl likes me. But I can’t understand why anyone would think that girls’re falling all over me.”

  Counselor Troi slipped into the other cockpit seat, then swiveled to face Wesley. “Everything is relative. Has it occurred to you that perhaps Ken looks up to you the way you look up to Commander Riker?”

  His eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She chuckled. “No, I’m not. You and Ken seem to share a problem that is quite common and perfectly natural for people your age.”

  “Insecurity, right?”

  “I thought I was the counselor here,” she quipped. “Look, Wesley, feelings of insecurity are nothing to be ashamed of, as long as they are kept in perspective. It is entirely natural for young people to worry about what others think of them.”

  “Even Betazoids?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Because you’re empathic. You’d know what other people thought of you.”

  She nodded. “Exactly—and there were lots of times when I would have preferred not knowing. There still are.” Troi leaned closer to him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “I guess,” he said uncertainly.

  “When I was a child, I was acutely aware that I was only half Betazoid. I knew my empathic abilities would never be the same as other Betazoid children. And that’s what made me insecure.”

  “Did the other kids tease you about being half human?”

  “A few did. But it wasn’t what they thought that bothered me. It was what I thought they thought, even when they didn’t.” Troi pursed her lips with bemused recollection. “As a result, I became rather shy, and people mistook shyness for remoteness—and that reinforced a cycle of isolation. All I really wanted was for other children to accept me for me. Yet my own fears created a barrier that kept them from doing that.”

  “Is that why you became a counselor?”

  “Part of the reason, yes. I wanted to do something that would help people understand one another—and themselves—a little better.”

  “So . . . what should I do?”

  “There aren’t any magic solutions, Wesley. I think you are well aware of your gifts and talents—as well as your weaknesses. That sort of special self-awareness will more than likely carry you over any peergroup bumps in the road to adulthood. Besides, you’re almost there. Just be what you are, and the chances are rather good that others will see you that way.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much,” she said with a soft smile.

  “Hey!” It was Kenny from outside the shuttlecraft. “They’re back.”

  Wesley and Deanna went to the hatch and hopped down to the cavern floor. One look at Gina made it obvious she and Data had not found a way out.

  “No luck?” said Wesley.

  “If by that you mean, did we discover an exit,” Data said, “no, we did not.”

  “But it is out there,” Gina said, glancing at the faces around her. “I know it is. It has to be. And I am going to find it.”

  “What did you find that’s so urgent?” asked William Riker as he strode from the turbolift onto the bridge, joining Geordi and Worf at the security chief’s tactical station. Only when Worf stepped aside did Riker notice the young woman standing behind the burly Klingon. She wore science-officer blue and had chestnut bangs falling just above her doe eyes. Riker’s own eyes twinkled. “Lieutenant Casby—geologist, right?” />
  “Yes, sir,” she answered, a slight tinge of red shading her cheeks. “You have a good memory.”

  “For memorable people.”

  Geordi cleared his throat. “I hope you weren’t sleeping when we called, were you, Commander?”

  “Not much,” Riker said, a humorless smile on his lips.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “So what’ve you got?”

  Geordi led the way to one of the science consoles at the back of the bridge and keyed a computer display. “What we’ve got is . . . this.”

  A three-dimensional graphic grid appeared on the screen above the console. The visual and the labeling made it clear to Riker that he was looking at a topographical depiction of a section of one Domaran continent.

  Geordi confirmed that—northern hemisphere, temperate zone, including the base-camp site of the missing shuttlecraft, which was indicated on the grid by a blinking green dot.

  “Looks like a flat plain,” Riker said.

  “Grasslands, actually,” said Casby, stepping forward. “At least, that’s what it looked like yesterday, sir.”

  Riker’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, that’s what it looked like yesterday? What does it look like today?”

  “Computer,” Casby said crisply, “display update.”

  The image of the flat prairie was replaced by what looked like a small mountain range, five peaks of varying sizes, all sharing a similar profile with moderately steep sides and rounded tops. All seemed to be free of the craggy irregularities associated with natural weathering and the geologic forces which commonly shaped planet surfaces.

  Riker noticed other minor changes in the landscape—a valley where rolling hills had been, and a previously straight river now coiling itself like a snake around the base of the mountains. But the mountains themselves were the most blatant difference. “Casby, are you telling me these weren’t there yesterday but they are today?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “But that’s impossible,” the first officer said. “Mountain ranges don’t form overnight.”

  Geordi La Forge shrugged. “Normally, no. But this one apparently did. Computer, display both scans, full view.”

  Following La Forge’s command, the computer first ran a simulated topographical fly-over of the plain, then of the new mountains. After a repeat comparison, Riker leaned against the console and folded his arms over his chest. “There’s got to be some rational explanation for this. Maybe a sensor malfunction?”

  Geordi shook his head. “That was the first thing we thought of, Commander. Everything checks out as nominal.”

  “But I thought the interference from those energy patterns prevented accurate readings.”

  “They do, to some extent,” Geordi said. “It all depends on the overall energy output of whatever we’re scanning. For instance, picking up something like Captain Picard’s life-form telemetry—well, that we can’t seem to do. But even with the static, we didn’t have any trouble registering a major seismic upheaval.”

  Riker glanced at Casby. “Seismic upheaval?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “And with no apparent cause.”

  “Do you have an explanation?”

  “Not an explanation, exactly, sir. We haven’t picked up any tectonic instability—or any volcanic activity. Nothing that would lead us to believe something like this”—she tapped the computer screen—“could form so quickly. These mountains resemble ranges that take a good hundred-thousand years to form through natural geological processes.”

  Gazing at the graphic, Riker nodded slowly. “So, in your opinion, these were not formed by natural processes.”

  “In my opinion, that’s right, sir.”

  “Commander,” said Worf, who had been silent throughout the briefing, “if Captain Picard is down there in the midst of geological chaos, he is clearly in grave danger.”

  “No argument there, Worf,” Riker agreed. “And if Mother Nature’s not responsible for all this, then who the hell is?”

  His uniform dirty and tattered, Captain Picard stood on a knoll above the fissure that had nearly swallowed him up the night before. The morning air had a refreshing snap to it, chilly enough to make his breath condense. He had managed to get perhaps five hours of sleep, and he felt not at all rested. Nearly every muscle in his body ached from his life-and-death struggle. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, long massage right now . . .

  Despite the twinge in his shoulder as he raised his arm, he shaded his eyes with one hand and gazed into the soft yellow light of sunrise. He expected that the day would warm up rather nicely before long. But he wasn’t looking at the sun. His attention was focused on something silhouetted against the sky—the rounded peaks of a mountain range out on the horizon.

  A mountain range that had not been there the day before.

  “Interesting,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned to find Captain Arit coming up the slope just behind him, her golden face and dark mane streaked with dirt. “I could swear there was an open plain out there yesterday,” he said. “No mountains.”

  “Maybe they were hidden behind fog or clouds,” she offered.

  “That does not seem likely. There was hardly a cloud in the sky yesterday. Besides, I’d guess they’re only a few kilometers from here.”

  She came up beside him, blowing out a scornful snort as she protected her eyes from the brightening sunlight with her arms folded across her brow. “So what are you suggesting, Picard—that those mountains just rose up in a matter of hours?”

  “Scientifically, I would say that is preposterous.” He rubbed some caked mud off his cheek. “But Domarus Four seems to be full of surprises. No geological theory I know of would explain it, but the quake we experienced last night could be related to the formation of those mountains.”

  Arit’s eyes twitched in a skeptical glance. “I’d like to see the proof of that.”

  “Then perhaps we should see if there is any such proof to be found.”

  “You mean go out there?”

  “We seem to have no other pressing business,” Picard noted. “And if last night is any example, it might be to our mutual benefit to stick together.”

  “Together.” Arit’s jaws quirked thoughtfully, letting one fang slip over her lower lip. “If we’d been together at your campsite last night, we would have both been buried alive. I’m not sure I shouldn’t go my own way.”

  Picard shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. But I am going to take a closer look at those mountains.”

  Nothing worth taking along had escaped the previous night’s brush with death, so he simply headed down the slope before them, taking advantage of the bracing chill of morning and hiking briskly toward the newborn mountains. He hadn’t gone far when he noticed Arit following, perhaps fifty meters back over his left shoulder. He purposely slowed a bit, to see if she would match his speed and keep her distance.

  Instead, she maintained the initial pace, and it didn’t take long for her to catch up and converge with him. They walked on in silence—

  —until they noticed a hesitant chiming riding on the breeze, distant and dissonant. The sounds seemed to be following, and catching up, just as Arit had done.

  Then a swash of colors materialized before them, flitting about the two starship captains as if the colors, too, were coasting on the currents of the wind. Arit began to bolt, but Picard grabbed her arm.

  “Wait a moment, Arit.”

  “Picard! Let’s get away from here.” She wrenched out of his grip—but she did not flee.

  He stood his ground, twisting and glancing about as the sheer streamers danced around them. The strange chiming enveloped them now, ringing with rising insistence. Picard could feel the sounds, and something compelled him to respond. But how?

  Now the colors wrapped him and Arit inside their touchless embrace, and he felt lightheaded. He did not know if the sparkles of pure light he saw hovering over them were real, or optical illusions. But his
skin began to tingle. Reality began to dissolve—and a moment later, Picard and Arit were gone from the surface of Domarus Four, leaving only the sparkles shivering in the cool morning air.

  Chapter Nine

  REALITY REINSTATED ITSELF as the iridescent swirl of colors deposited Captains Picard and Arit in a gloomy and dank corridor. A ship’s corridor, Picard guessed, but certainly not his ship. He saw an easing of the taut muscles around Arit’s mouth, and there seemed little doubt that they must be aboard her vessel, the Glin-Kale.

  The colors lingered about them for a few heartbeats, like fading party ribbons, accompanied by the now-familiar jangling, sounding somehow like a distant musical question mark. Then, as before, sounds and colors simply winked out of existence.

  “Home,” Arit sighed softly.

  Not much of a home, Picard thought as he looked around. The short stretch of corridor was filled with Tenirans worn and weary, huddled together against the curving walls, their meager belongings gathered around them. To Picard, they looked very much like refugees—but refugees from what? he wondered.

  “Captain Arit,” Picard began, “we—”

  The sudden hoot of an alert horn cut him off. Overhead, illumination bars recessed into the ceiling began flashing sequentially in red. Arit whirled and broke into a run.

  “Picard—this way!”

  As he trailed her past the tattered people crowded into the passageway, Picard thought it strange that no one else seemed to react to the alert. He saw nothing but a numb resignation on their faces, as if such crises were nothing new, and nothing they could do anything about.

  Arit and Picard rounded a corner and raced up a ramp, finally reaching a hatch jammed half-open. The Teniran captain cursed and squeezed through. Picard followed and found himself on what he guessed to be the bridge of the Glin-Kale. If he had been a man prone to claustrophobia, this cramped chamber would certainly have provoked a cold sweat. Compared to the bright, spacious command center of the Enterprise, Arit’s bridge was a dim and Spartan place. A half-dozen shabbily clothed officers hunched over various consoles, all of which looked like they had been battered and patched dozens of times over, with repair-access covers missing, wiring hanging out, gerry-rigged circuit boards jammed where they clearly did not belong.