by Diane Duane
He sighed and turned his attention back to the history of the alternate Starfleet. It was already compulsive reading—and horrific. Its roots appeared to be founded in the chaos surrounding the Eugenics Wars. Khan Noonian Singh and his genetically engineered companions had not been overthrown and driven out in this universe, but rose to command several empires spread over several continents before finally turning on one another in territorial and dynastic warfare, and wiping one another out—not to mention large numbers of other people—with nuclear weapons. The delivery systems for the weapons were not missiles, against which all sides had adequate protection, but large, slow ion-drive craft adapted from the DY-100 “sleepers,” which were maneuverable enough to dodge any antimissile or particle beam fired at them on their way to target. Numerous improvements were made in the ion propulsion systems by the admittedly brilliant science teams of the various warring factions. When the dust settled over the graves of the victors and the vanquished, the technology remained—a propulsion system good enough to push spacecraft into local space travel—even into relativistic travel, dead end though it might be.
Picard reflexively reached for his tea, found it colder than ever, drank some anyway as he read. The cultures that had pulled themselves together out of the radioactive ashes of the downfall of the Engineered never quite lost the memory of their little empires, of a time when people were ruled for their own good by men and women of power. Their later, slowly assembled governments became empires, too, finally just one Empire, nostalgically harking back to those “good old days,” seen as better by far than their present post-Holocaust world, a blasted place where everything must be tightly controlled so that everyone who lived would have enough to eat, a place to live and work. Slowly the earth greened again, starting to heal itself, nature proving, one more time, to be more powerful than those whose thoughtlessness threatened her—at least insofar as she had much more time to work with than they did. But though the world greened again, the hearts of the people who lived in her stayed sere and cold, not trusting the new spring. And the rulers of that world looked out at space, considering that they had had a very close call. They looked into the darkness and saw, not a silent wonder to explore, but a replacement home, a way to make sure that they would never almost be wiped out again.
Serious intrasystem space travel began. Mars was terraformed over the space of forty years—Picard rubbed his forehead at the casual reports of the Martian artifacts, the great ancient buried sculptures in the caves and the writing laid down deep for preservation in the sandstone strata, all gone—blasted away in the casual leveling of mountain ranges, the excavations of new seabeds. Millions of people relocated to the new world when it was ready—many of them being relocated by force. After all, reasoned the government of the Empire of Earth, didn’t a planet need enough colonists to make it self-sufficient—then productive enough to send minerals and so forth home to the mother planet? And when Mars was well settled, the government looked out farther yet. After all, one extra planet wasn’t enough, was it? What if something happened to the sun? Humanity’s survival must be assured—and indeed that had become their watchword, the motto of the new Empire, appearing in its arms, while they still bothered with such things: We Survive.
Research in long-distance ships that would push toward the edges of the relativistic envelope began in earnest. The late twenty-first century and the beginning of the twenty-second saw the first large sleeper and colony ships built and launched, but they were overtaken—literally—by the development, by Zephram Cochrane and his team, of the first warpfields and warp engines, enabling the colonization of Alphacent and various planets of the other nearer stars.
Picard got up and went over to the replicator, trying to stretch the cramps out of his back, as much a matter of nervous tension as anything else. No Third World War, he thought. Ironic that these people should have become what they seem to have become by avoiding all that bloodshed, the 40 million lives lost…. But then—if they had suffered that terrible interregnum—who knows? They might have renounced the terror, the death.
He took the fresh tea back to his desk, sat down, sipped it carefully, and went back to his reading. They had found alien life on Alphacent, hominid life, colonists from one of the other Centauri worlds. They had wiped them out, apparently uncertain that there were any other habitable planets in this part of space, unwilling to take the chance. When they later deciphered the Centauri language and discovered that gamma Centauri was the homeworld of the aliens they had found, they took their time, reconnoitered it—and then used “clean” atomics on the planet to wipe out its inhabitants and colonize it themselves.
Picard made an unhappy face. Then they had met the Romulans. At first the encounters had been as tragic and fatal for the Imperials as for the Earth-based space forces in Picard’s own universe. Finally, as had happened in his own universe, the Battle of Cheron befell, a dreadful defeat for the Romulans. But there was no negotiation afterward, no Treaty of Algeron, no Neutral Zone. The Imperials had gotten their hands on the Romulans’ weapons, especially the terrible molecular disassociator, and had improved them a hundredfold. About two weeks after Cheron, the Imperial ships battered their way through the last of their enemies’ defenses and appeared above the two Romulan homeworlds. Shortly thereafter, one of them, the smaller of the two, was nothing but dust drifting in its orbit. To the inhabitants of the other, after the predictable tectonic events had died down, the Imperials offered a choice: to suffer the same fate or to become a “subject world” of the Earth Empire, supplying natural resources, workers, and taxes to their conquerors. In return they would be allowed to continue living on their homeworld, with only moderate changes in their laws to enforce their new status.
The Imperials were most surprised when the inhabitants of the remaining world, on the eve of the deadline for their answer, committed suicide en masse. Back on Earth, the government shrugged and started loading up another colony ship. An empty planet would probably be less trouble….
Picard sat back in his chair, feeling shaky with the calm and rational way in which the historical material from the other ship laid all this out, as inevitable, the fault of the conquered, of those who tried to stand in the way of progress, of mankind’s simple need to have a home that it could count on surviving in. There are some kinds of security that are below contempt, he thought. But as they had started, so no doubt they had gone on. There had never been a Federation: he didn’t need to read the history to know that, now. No grouping so tolerant would ever have occurred to these people. They became the United Empire of Planets—united by a rule of fear and inevitable destruction of those who opposed them. Picard found himself wondering how the Vulcans had survived meeting them—but as he read on, he got a sense that in this universe, the Vulcans’ history, too, was different. While still a logical people, they were also as piratical and ruthless in their way as the Imperials. No Surak, Picard thought sorrowfully, paging down the readout. Yet the Imperials found them before they had quite warred one another into oblivion—and recognized them as kindred spirits. They had made common cause and gone out to plunder the Galaxy together.
“O’Brien to Captain Picard.”
“Yes, Chief?”
“We’ve got another chip in from the away team.” In the background Picard could hear O’Brien slipping it into the reader slot in his console. “Voice message, it looks like.”
“Computer,” Picard said, “copy incoming voice message to Commander Riker.”
The computer chirped. Then Troi’s voice said, “Captain, we have a problem…”
He listened, his mouth going dry as he began to understand the import of it. About halfway through the message, his door signal went off. He smiled slightly through his fear, knowing who it was. “Come,” he said while the message continued, and Riker hurried in, standing there with an expression of distress, while Geordi’s voice said, “So you’ve got about five minutes to make the call or pull us out of here.”
/> Silence fell. “It has the advantage of boldness,” Picard said, almost musing. “Strike at the top.”
“You lost me, sir,” said Riker in a voice that suggested Picard hadn’t lost him at all and desperately wanted to hear an explanation of his captain’s thoughts that didn’t include what he seemed to be implying.
“Mr. La Forge’s suggestion seems fairly plain. He and Counselor Troi are suggesting that they take the other captain out of commission and substitute me for him. I will then be in a position to order the other Troi to release the computer core to Mr. La Forge for”—he smiled gently—“maintenance. Doubtless we can throw a few spanners into the works at the same time.”
“Sir!” It was almost a shout.
Picard looked at Riker, he subsided. “Will, please don’t say anything further for at least thirty seconds. No, make it sixty.”
Riker sat down slowly, watching him. Picard thought.
Troi sat there, feeling Geordi’s tension beginning to rise, and looked over at him thoughtfully. He caught her glance, cocked his head at her, smiled. “It’s bad, huh,” he said.
“I try to manage it,” she said, “but I think you do better than I do. Or than most.”
He smiled at her. “Nice to know. It’s just that this method of communications… raises the old blood pressure a little.”
“Like passing notes at school,” Troi said wryly. Geordi laughed out loud, though without taking his eyes off the spot on the floor from which the iso chip had vanished. He picked up the small tricorder that he had brought with him and hefted it, then flipped it open and touched a couple of the controls.
“I thought you said you couldn’t get a decent scan so close to the FTL field.”
“Not what I’m used to, no,” Geordi said absently, adjusting another control. “But a passive scan, very low-power, ‘blunt’ and unfocused, will still work—and the core’s proximity will act to confuse any system that might be listening.”
Geordi gazed at the display, reading its mysteries. Troi shook her head and waited, trying to stay calm. “A few possibilities,” he said. “Down by the field generators for the structural integrity field: there are blind spots there. Back of the deck just above the shuttle bay, the field generators for the irising atmosphere-integrity field would interfere.” He paused then, looking slightly astonished.
“What is it?” Troi said, leaning over his shoulder to look.
He pointed at the display. A large fuzzy blot showed off to one side of the schematic of the primary hull, which Geordi was studying. Another, smaller blot counterbalanced it to forward. “Deck eleven, right,” he said softly.
“The captain’s quarters,” said Deanna. “It would make sense, here—one of the few spots in the ship that can’t be scanned.”
“And unoccupied,” Geordi said. “That one isn’t.” Deanna looked at the second spot on the schematic to which he was pointing and swallowed. She knew very well the location of her own quarters. “Now,” Geordi said, “scan for electromagnetics and life-signs won’t work, but see…” He made an adjustment: the larger blurs vanished, and in the area to port, a slight small glowing smudge appeared, with a faint trail behind it. “Plain old heat shows just fine. Thirty-seven point six centigrade.” And on the starboard side, there were several small blurs outside the captain’s quarters, but none inside.
“That’s the spot,” Geordi said, grinning—the grin had gone wolflike. “Let’s make a note and send them one more chip.”
Picard looked up finally and said, “I’ll go.”
“Captain!”
“I’m willing to hear what else you have to suggest,” he said to Riker as calmly as he could—and it was hard: it felt to him as if his blood were jangling. “But you have about one minute to convince me. Otherwise that other ship’s security is going to come down around our people’s ears.”
“I’m not sure that the risk to them is as great as the risk would be to you,” Riker said. Picard looked at him with veiled admiration. What must it take for the man to say that when one of the away team is Deanna? he thought. “If they were caught, even killed, the damage to the Enterprise would not be as great as it would be should you be lost. And besides—we’re reasoning from very old data. There may have been changes.”
“Number One,” Picard said a touch sharply. “You’ve read Kirk’s report by now. Though our… management styles… might differ somewhat, he was an excellent commander and never prone to exaggeration. You’ve read his description of the people among whom he found himself. Are you willing to bet that the crew of that ship, descendants of that earlier culture, have changed that much in eighty years? Are you willing to bet the away team’s lives on the premise that a miracle might have happened?—because their lives are the counters on the table at the moment.”
Riker frowned harder than before, if possible. “It’s just that—”
“You don’t want to let the captain risk himself, yes, yes, we’ve had this argument how many times?—and will have it again many times more.”
“That’s what I’m trying to ensure,” Riker said angrily. “You know as well as I that in high-threat situations, when the ship itself is threatened, the away teams’ lives are considered expendable.”
“When the ship itself is threatened, so is mine.”
Riker said nothing, only looked at him hard. “That’s exactly where we stand,” Picard said. “They have uncovered the problem to which there is only one possible answer, and unfortunately for me, it’s spelled ‘Picard.’” Riker opened his mouth, and Picard said, “No. The ship itself, as you say, is threatened. If we do not obtain the information we need from that other Enterprise’s computer core, we stand little chance of ever getting home again: we will be stranded here, all of us. Not only the crew, who understand the risks one takes on active mission, but their dependents as well, who do indeed depend on us for their safety and well-being. I am not a great one for children, but I for one do not choose to have any of our children grow up in this world. If they survive so long, which I begin to have my doubts that they would do.” Picard frowned as grimly as Riker had been doing. “And besides—I will not take the chance of my ship falling into these people’s hands—which sooner or later she would, for even should we destroy this other Enterprise, I will lay you long odds that this universe’s Starfleet knows perfectly well by now that we’re here. They will come to take us by force. When that happens, I will destroy this ship rather than let her and her crew fall into their hands. So—let us be clear about our options. We have none.”
“If we just had more time…” Riker said softly.
“We don’t. Picard to Crusher.”
“Crusher here.”
“Doctor, I need two hyposprays and multiple refills for them—the same incapacitant you gave the away team. Have them beamed directly to my ready room.”
“Yes, Captain. Out.”
He turned to Riker. “You got an image of my counterpart, I take it.”
Now Riker shook his head, looking very concerned indeed. “We didn’t, Captain. No scan picked him up at all—and believe me, we tried.”
“Never mind. The uniform will be provided. Picard to Chief O’Brien.”
“Here, Captain.”
“We’re in a bit of a rush, Chief. You will beam me directly from my ready room to the shuttlecraft, and from there to the—” He paused. “Where is the away team at the moment?”
“Still at last reported location, Captain. They’re indicating they’re ready to move, though, on your orders.”
“Where to?” “Deck eleven, right.”
Picard smiled, a quick angry grin. “There’s the uniform problem solved. Very well. They’ll have to precede me.
Acknowledge their request and beam them there immediately. I’ll be following them shortly.” From off to one side came a subdued shimmer of sound, the hyposprays and refills, on a small pouch with a strap. Picard picked it up, slung it over his shoulder. “Mr. Worf.”
A second
later, the door to the ready room opened. In it Worf stood, holding one of the phasers that had been cosmetically modified to resemble the standard-issue, wicked-looking phasers of the other ship. Worf stepped forward and offered it to Picard.
“I took the measurements from your grip template in the armory files,” Worf said. Picard took the phaser and, having nowhere to holster it, simply held it. “You anticipated this,” he said to Worf with some surprise.
“It seemed an eventuality for which one should be prepared. Captain—be careful.”
“I assure you, Lieutenant, I will be as careful as the three-legged mouse at the cat show, because that’s what I feel like.” Picard looked over at Riker. “Now here are your orders, Number One. Your priorities are to get this ship home by whatever means you find possible. If she cannot be gotten home, you must destroy her cleanly—don’t let her fall into those people’s hands. Take no chances. Understood?”
“Understood,” Riker said, though obviously not at all happy about it. “Captain, you can’t go without having an intradermal put in! If something goes wrong, we won’t be able to find you or pick you up.”
“I have one in at the moment,” Picard said calmly. “Dr. Crusher installed it this morning.” He flicked an amused glance at Worf. “Anticipation is sometimes an art form.”
“On that our cultures would agree,” Worf said. “Success to you, Captain.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant…. Mr. O’Brien, have the away team made their transfer?”
