by Diane Duane
He got up, tried to pull his tunic down again, failed, said “Merde!” and checked himself briefly in the mirror and made for the door.
“Mr. Barclay,” he said, looking out. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They went, and Picard tried to make it all look as innocent as possible. A captain, he reasoned, even here, should be seen about his ship. He found himself wondering whether the other Picard ever did this, and whether he was about to do something else that the people around him would find strange. It couldn’t be helped if the other Picard never did this. At the very least, this action would serve to confuse people—and a little confusion, it seemed, could go a long way around here. But whatever result it had, it couldn’t be helped: he had to get out there and sow his own little whirlwind.
Over and over, as they walked, looking into labs and research departments and armories and security post after security post, the question of what could possibly be done for this place came back to haunt him. He was not a man to believe that people were sent anywhere by any power to do anything whatever, but at the same time, the opportunity to make a difference for the good in whatever situation you found yourself was not one he had ever felt inclined to ignore. Though that urge had to be tamed and carefully watched, of course; it was one of the things the Prime Directive was for, a subset of the old medical-ethical rule First do no harm.
Now there’s a thought, he wondered. How would the Prime Directive be construed in this situation? Is there a tacit understanding that it’s meant only for our relations with other species, not for our own? Or could one make a case that it’s intended for enforcement only in our own universe?… This wasn’t just a can of worms: it was a barrelful. Picard smiled to himself wryly at the thought that they might come out of this danger with their skins intact, somehow, and get home, then have to go to court to prove why they should not be drummed out of the Service for interfering in the affairs of another Starfleet.
No, he was not going to spend any more time worrying about that prospect than he had to. He and Barclay took the ’lift down another deck and walked that one, then another and another. It was in the third lift they took, between decks thirty-eight and thirty-nine, that Picard took advantage of poor bored Barclay’s turning away from him for a moment and turned away himself, “studying” the paneling inside the ’lift, and with his hands concealed, reached into his waistband, pulled free the little flat canister, opened it, shook its contents (except for the wafer) out on the floor, and then swiftly put everything back in place again.
They got out at deck thirty-eight, and Picard smiled and examined everything he saw with great interest, until even Barclay, so assiduous for his safety, was beginning to twitch with boredom. Behind him, Picard knew that the nanites would be escaping from the ’lift via the sheathing of its optical and power conduits and heading out onto deck thirty-eight at surprising speed. The rest of them would go down other conduits from there and get into the other computer core on the other side of the main hull, and not long after that, down into the core in the engineering hull. Tiny they might be, but they could move fast and would be unseen; and no one would associate them with him—which was much to be desired. And once they got into the cores… I wonder how they’ll like the FTL field, he thought, and smiled. It should help matters along nicely.
Picard did a few more decks, here and there, finally making a point to go up to ten and see what Ten-Forward looked like. It didn’t look like anything: it was an arms storage area. How appropriate, he thought, and made for the ’lift again. “The bridge, I suppose, Mr. Barclay,” he said. “Everything down here looks as prepared for the next phase as it’s going to get.”
Barclay heaved a sigh that he didn’t try to conceal, and they got into the ’lift and rode up there. When the doors opened and all the crewmen rose and saluted, Picard stalked in and tried to look as if he were in a bad humor—not difficult when his eye fell on Wesley Crusher’s post, now filled by another crewman, and the thought of those screams came back to him again. He returned the salute, after a moment, but not before he saw this Enterprise’s Riker get up out of that center seat and offer it to him. The man is trouble, he thought. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to deal with it. Troi is bad enough. She at least wasn’t here: off in her quarters, perhaps, considering what she had found in his mind, or else off having that “talk” with Beverly. He felt like shuddering at either prospect.
“Status, Number One?” Picard said.
Riker grinned. “All normal, Captain. Preparing for phase two in about two hours.”
“Very well. I’ll be in my ready room for a while,” he said, and went through its doors. “Mr. Barclay, a moment with you if you would.”
Barclay followed him in. Picard sat down behind his desk, looking around at the place; it, too, was indistinguishable from his own ready room. “Tell me something,” he said. “Are you happy with the audio security in here?”
“My people sweep it twice a day,” Barclay said. “It’s been adequate so far.”
“Is it adequate now?”
Barclay’s eyes flicked back toward the doors, and Riker. “I’ll have it checked quietly, if you like, sir. But I think so.”
“Very well, that will be all. Please post yourself outside and make sure that anyone who comes in here gives me ample warning.”
“As usual, sir,” Barclay said, and went out. Picard waited for a few moments when the door had shut, thinking, then bent over his badge again and said to it softly, “Mr. La Forge. Nanites loose. They’ll ignore your department. One hour to an hour and a half—then we need to do that substitution. Two acknowledgments if you’re all right, and if you have a way. One if not, on either count. Out.”
Buzz, the badge said under his fingertips, buzz. Then nothing.
He breathed out then in relief, smiled slightly, and turned back to his desk terminal. “Display mission parameters,” he said to it.
“Retinal scan required.” He leaned in over the computer again, making sure to give it the same eye as last time—he wasn’t sure that the Borg might not have done something to the other. “Scan successful,” said the computer, and it began the display.
He read quickly. It was much as he had thought. The inclusion device had been installed in this Enterprise, and then she had been ordered to this area of space, where the device was coupled with her sensors so that she would be able to detect her counterpart. Once detected, the “target” was to be drawn into this space and a spy sent aboard to confirm information about her weapons array. Confirm, Picard thought, going cold; yes, the report made it clear that surveillance of Federation space, using a variation of the inclusion device keyed to subspace communications, had been going on for a long time—unencrypted communications intercepted and evaluated to determine what information could be found about fleet sizes and dispositions, the locations and armaments of starbases and Federation worlds, et cetera.
How long has this been going on? Picard wondered. What do they know already?… for the mission parameters made it plain what they intended to find out. If the Enterprise’s shields remained down long enough, she was to be infiltrated and her command crew captured and beamed over to the attacking ship. They would be tortured until they gave up the secrets of whatever command codes were necessary for the removal of all pertinent classified information regarding Fleet ship strengths and dispositions—anything in the computer that would possibly be of use. Then those officers would be killed and replaced by their counterparts, who would sabotage the ship, supervise the “disposition” of the rest of the crew, and supervise the restaffing of the ship with their own people. A skeleton crew would take this universe’s Enter-prise back home, after the other one, Picard’s Enterprise, had been returned to her home space… with his counterpart in command.
Picard’s fist clenched on the desk. If fortune did not favor them, and his ship’s shields were not down when the other Enterprise was ready, they would attack her and batter her until no shields were left, trying to do m
inimum damage. Then—board, storm, kill the inhabitants. Either way, she would be sent back to her home universe to follow her preassigned patrol schedule for a while. They knew what it was, knew that her patrol would be keeping her out of the more populated spaces, where discovery would be more likely. They would spend perhaps a month or so routinely receiving the communications and data uploads from Starfleet that could be expected, routinely requesting information on this and that.
And then, after a month or two… the invasion. A massive breakthrough on many fronts, hundreds of vessels bursting out to take the Federation on four sides, the Klingons and Romulans each on three. The latter species were to be wiped out, special attention being paid to their homeworlds—Picard thought of those great silent bulks down in the storage areas and went grim. The Federation fleets were to be swiftly divided and destroyed. The entire operation might be expected to take as long as a year, but might take as little as four months if early gains were promptly consolidated.
And afterward, when the Federation worlds were left defenseless… The mission specs said nothing specific, but Picard could guess very well what would happen. “Neutralizations,” “prejudicial terraforming,” other horrors. The explored tenth of the Galaxy would swiftly become a desert… to be repopulated and ruled by the Empire.
Picard stared at the screen, then cleared it. What troubled him most was the matter-of-fact nature of the whole business. It had been carefully thought out and was no madman’s plan: the Starfleet here plainly had a good idea of the disposition of forces already and was simply making sure it had its numbers correct before moving. Their own forces were presently being redistributed to congruent areas in their own Galaxy so as to be ready, in a month’s time, for the breakthrough. Everything was in order, and quietly the wolves were gathering around the fold, waiting for the dark.
The door chimed. Picard cleared the screen again, then reached out to one side and picked up the book there: the Anabasis. It gave him a brief shock when he saw the spine, but he opened it and leaned back in the seat. “Come,” he said.
The door opened; Riker came in, with Barclay behind him. Riker turned to look at Barclay, frowning, but Barclay stood his ground.
“No, Mr. Barclay, it’s all right,” Picard said. “Wait outside.”
Barclay looked a warning at him, but saluted and went out; the door shut.
“Well, Number One?” Picard said. “Anything on Kowalski yet?”
“No, sir.”
“I think someone must have taken a phaser to him,” Picard said, trying to sound casual. “Probably a waste of time. Still, the counselor will handle it.”
“Yes, sir. Captain, you wanted a briefing.”
“Let’s have it then,” he said, putting the book aside and assuming a look of attention, which at the moment was entirely genuine. “Sit down.”
Riker did, looking at Picard with that odd smile again. “The ship is in good order, and the next phase will be ready in about two hours, as the counselor told you. Data analysis is just about complete, and the last threat work is being done in the computer. But I have other concerns.”
“Speak up, Number One.”
“Wesley Crusher.”
“He’s hardly of much importance.”
“On the contrary, Captain. This matter is already being talked about all over the ship. The crew are seeing what they think is a split in policy among the upper echelons of command—one so severe that you actually countermanded the counselor in a public place on a matter of security.” Riker tried to look grave, though Picard noticed that he didn’t seem entirely able to make that smile go away. “This is a very destabilizing kind of situation. Discipline aboard a starship is a delicate thing at best.”
When it’s enforced by the equivalent of the rack and the thumbscrew, I should think so, Picard thought.
“The counselor brought it on herself,” Picard said, doing his best to sound stern. “If she is going to go behind my back to violate my orders, she may expect to be called on it.”
Riker was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s a delicate kind of situation, at any rate.” Aha, Picard thought, you’re unwilling to come right out and say you think she was right. You still want my support—for the moment anyway.
“There is a solution,” Riker said, “which would put the crew’s mind to rest about… matters among their officers—and resolve the difficulty between yourself and the counselor very neatly.”
“And that is?”
“Call a court-martial. Empanel a neutral board. They’ll bring down the expected verdict—then Crusher can be executed according to the usual formula, and the counselor’s concerns will be addressed, and at the same time your hands will be seen to be clean of the… situation.” Riker smiled slightly. “It has advantages for you in that—”
“I’m sure that the reason you’re pointing out the advantages,” Picard said softly, “is that they’re actually more advantageous for you than for me. The counselor has been riding your case about it, has she?”
Riker flushed.
“Well. You are just going to have to cope, Number One. I have my reasons for sparing Crusher’s life at the moment.”
Riker smiled, that smarmy smile again, the one of which Picard was getting so very tired. “I’m sure you have, sir,” Riker said in the most insinuating tone of voice imaginable.
Picard was heading toward a slow boil and wondering whether showing it would be a good idea. “My business is to manage this mission as ordered. Have I not been doing so?”
“With the exception of Crusher’s case, yes. But that’s just the problem. Encouraging the crew to believe that there’s a breakdown in discipline in the middle of a mission of such import…”
Picard set his mouth in a tight, thin smile for a moment: he had had a sudden idea. “Why such vehemence over an ensign? But he is fairly bright, isn’t he? Energetic. Doesn’t miss his chances. He’ll make a fine officer, once he works in a little. Worried about your job, Number One?”
Riker got redder than he had been. Not because Picard had hit any kind of target, but because he suspected Picard was playing with him. In Picard’s own Riker, that pride was tempered with humor; but in this man, humor seemed to exist only for the sake of innuendo, and teasing only provoked rage.
“Never mind that. Number One, I have my reasons. They are personal, but I guarantee they are not the ones you have in mind. If the ship’s efficiency is in question, that is your problem, by definition. On the other hand”—Picard raised a warning finger—“should anything whatsoever happen to Mr. Crusher, even if it’s just a hangnail, I personally will take it out of your hide. Consider yourself warned.”
Riker started to get up. “I haven’t dismissed you,” Picard said sharply. “Sit down.”
Riker sat.
“I understand perfectly well that you would like to be in charge of this operation. Your—allies—among the crew are not as tight-lipped as you might think they should be.” There, he thought, why should I be the only one around here feeling paranoid? And besides, it’s true. “If anything does start to go wrong, the responsibility is going to devolve on you, for not delivering to your captain, as your job description requires, a ship and crew in good working order. So you had better keep your own nose clean, Number One, before you start trying to wipe mine for me. And another thing. Don’t be confused by the events of the day. The conditions keeping Mr. Crusher alive don’t in the least apply to you. It doesn’t take the counselor to see you thinking, not by a long shot.”
And that was true enough: there was a thuggish, brutal look about this Riker’s face that Picard couldn’t believe he wasn’t aware of, and all the while he had been talking about discipline among the crew, and the “upper echelons,” his expression had been one of naked acquisitiveness, a greedy pleasure in the prospect that something might go wrong… and come out in the end to his advantage, and Picard’s discomfiture. What must it be like, he thought, studying that sullen face, to not be able to trus
t your second-in-command, to know that he wants your job and is plotting against your life—along with just about everybody else on the ship, it seems. “Dismissed,” Picard said. Riker got up——and the red-alert sirens began whooping. “They’ve sighted it!” Riker said, and dashed out.
Picard broke out in an instantaneous sweat and followed him.
The bridge was silent at the sight of the image caught frozen in the middle of the viewscreen. Picard stood there in front of his seat, watching the graceful white shape, torn. He had rarely been gladder to see anything in his life—and at the same time he wanted to shout, Get away, for heaven’s sake get out of here!
“Lock on,” Riker said to O’Brien. “Don’t lose it this time.” He looked over his shoulder at Worf.
“Her shields are down,” Worf said.
“Riker to security. Counselor Troi to the bridge. Security teams to the transporter rooms, on the double! Phase two is ready to begin.”
They waited. Picard sat down because he was afraid if he stood up much longer, the trembling that he was fighting to control might start to show. Off to one side, Barclay was looking from him to Riker, his eyes thoughtful, but for the moment Picard ignored this. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the tiny white shape. What’s the matter with the evasive program—get lost get out of here!
The screen flickered, then went back to normal again.
“What was that?” Riker snapped at Worf.
“Uncertain,” Worf said, sounding concerned. “Possibly tachyar artifact.”
“From what? There aren’t any pulsars around here, much less quasars.”
“Sensor diagnostics show normal,” Worf said. Behind him, the doors opened and Counselor Troi strolled in: apparently she did not consider that any order ending in “on the double” was addressed to her.
“Shield status,” Riker said.
