by Diane Carey
Disheartened, Mark sagged back against the tool chest. “And I’m it?”
“You’re it for now.”
Even in the smoky dimness, Mark’s eyes were still gingham blue, but had lost the youthful glitter Steve had clung to in his memory all this time. Probably would never return.
Mark was looking back at him the same way. The exact same way. God, it hurt.
“What . . .” Mark seemed to be formulating questions, trying to distill all this. He struggled, and the others let him go through it. “They . . . provide food and water? They keep some of you alive?”
“Alive enough,” Steve told him. “They make us fight for it. If we get it, we have to fight to protect it. They want us alive, if we can stay that way, but . . . for one thing, they don’t see to our medical needs. They want us to take care of each other so they can see how we do it.”
“We’re being watched?”
“Most of the time,” Dan said. “We’ve neutralized most of their on-site recorders, but they’ve still got pinpoint satellite visuals and infrareds. We can sit and talk, but if we move five feet or so, they can figure out what we’re doing. Every now and then, they get an audio device in here, but we eventually find those. I’m making m’self a necklace.”
“I don’t understand,” Mark moaned. “What does this get them?”
“They’re trying to get their guys to think like humans,” Steve said. “We’re being used to train their operatives. We’ve got to fight, try to outthink them, so they can see us do it. They set up situations, and we have to try to win.”
“ ‘Win’? What do you get if you win?”
“Few days’ rest. Maybe extra food. Some medical supplies if we can demonstrate a need, if we catch them in a good mood.”
“Chance to tidy up,” Dan said, scratching at the day’s growth of blond beard. “Shave, haircut, bit of a toenail manicure, you know—”
“What if you lose?”
“Then we get treated to the subcue. The ‘zapper,’ you called it.”
“What if it’s a draw?”
Dan shrugged. “Then we fight till it isn’t a draw anymore. We’ve got to keep up some level of success. If we stop being useful to them, we’re dead.”
Anger flared in Mark’s eyes. “I won’t do it! I won’t help train their soldiers. Forget it!”
Dan nodded, weary of that old song. “If you don’t, they’ll walk right out here and kill you. We’ve seen them do it. Remember Lieutenant Garland?”
“Hell, yes, I remember him!”
“Wouldn’t participate. Absolutely refused and stuck to it. Now, peer out through the crack in this flashing. See that thing hanging up on that light post?”
“That burned rag, you mean? Is that his uniform?”
“Not just his uniform, my friend.”
“Oh . . . God . . .”
Mark coiled up with nausea and bowed his head. Dan offered no comfort, nor did Steve. There wasn’t any.
Silence swarmed in on the small garage. Only as an afterthought did they realize the bombardment outside had stopped. That would mean a recon pass by the Cardassians pretty soon. The teams here would have to stay undercover and as still as possible. Underground, if possible. The mall was a shattered mess, the water tower was down, not that the water was much good to anyone.
“First we’ve got to help ourselves,” Steve said, ultimately. He lowered his voice. “Besides, there’s another reason to stay alive. This is backfiring on them. We’re learning to think like Cardassians. We’re getting an idea of what they’d do in this or that situation. We’re staying alive so we can take that information back to Starfleet.”
“Like what?”
“Like they underestimate humans.”
“So what? Everybody does.”
Steve shrugged his good shoulder. “Well, that’s not the only thing.”
“Is the captain here?” Mark asked. The courage to ask that question drove a visible shudder through him. “What about Mr. Court? Who’s in charge?”
Dan looked at Steve as if there were some way to get out of this, but the terrible conversation was a replay of a dozen others, strung out over these months. Just when the sorrow started to blunt, they’d have to say it all over again to somebody new.
Steve parted his lips, but Dan quickly placed a hand on his injured shoulder, rescuing Steve from having to tell his own brother the ugly news.
“Captain’s gone,” Dan said. “The Cardies got him the first week, before we figured out what we were supposed to be doing here. Mr. Court took command for another three months. Then they got him too.”
Swallowing the news with a shiver and a brave smothering of reaction, Mark asked, “Who’s in command now?”
A shuffle of movement and noise broke through the terrible moment—movement on the other side of the pretend runabout in the middle of the garage. Steve came out of his mournful daze and pulled the phaser from his belt, swinging the weapon in the direction of the noise, just as Dan did the same with the phaser that had been tucked in his jacket. Their weapons were leveled exactly the same, aimed at the same spot, and for a silly instant the beauty of coordination made Steve proud of how they’d learned to move together.
“It’s me—Atherton!” a voice called. “Steve, did you hear a transporter?”
“Over here, Brent,” Steve responded. He lowered his phaser. Only then did Dan also lower his.
By now pretty spooked, Mark McClellan froze and watched. A form in a civilian’s jacket with leather belts, the typical calf-high boots preferred by merchant spacefarers, shaggy black hair and a happy amalgam of Asian and European Earth-features vaulted right over the wreckage of the fake runabout and came toward them.
“This is my brother,” Steve said as the new man crouched between him and Dan. “Ensign Mark McClellan . . . Captain Brent Atherton. I guess you’ve seen each other before.”
“Mark,” Atherton said. “I remember. Cell Block Four. Glad you’re still alive.”
Mark accepted Atherton’s hand. “I wondered what happened to you. Is your crew here too?”
“Some.” Atherton’s right cheekbone was bruised, and the shoulder of his dark blue jacket had an oily rip. He surveyed Dan and Steve, noticing Steve’s pain-tightened posture.
“You hurt?” he asked.
Steve nodded. “I had a close encounter with this cabinet. My shoulder’s numb. Can’t move my hand . . .”
Atherton took Steve’s hand and pressed his thumb in the middle of the palm until the fingers curled. “Feel that?”
“Yes, I sure as hell feel that.”
“Then it’s not a total wreck. Put a sling on it. The Cardies blew away our no-go wall between Cafe Bilge and the paint factory. What do you want to do about it?”
Steve winced. “Damn! It’ll take us another week to build that up again.”
“Longer. The metal’s shredded. We have to find new panels. Maybe cannibalize this garage.”
“I don’t want to give up this garage. It’s our mid-way cover.”
“Well, I hope you can think of something portable, then. Might have to start using wood for the barricades.”
“What’s ‘Cafe Bilge’?” Mark asked.
“Our produce warehouse,” Steve said. “We can use some of the plating off that runabout shell.”
“Only about twelve feet,” Atherton said. “We need thirty-five feet or so. Twenty feet on either end are still intact. The middle’s blown out.”
“Gotta protect our food. We’ll have to find something sturdy enough.”
“We’ll wait till dark,” Atherton offered. “Then Saul, Peggy, and I can gut the grain elevator and use the accordion-sheets inside.”
“Not until at least midnight,” Steve ordered, “when the satellites are past us. Take Rankin and Seneca with you. Peggy’s not strong enough to carry those metal sheets.”
Atherton smiled. “No, but she’s a witch with a crowbar.”
Steve shifted against the pain again, rubbed
his throbbing arm, and complained, “I was holding those sheets back for something better than a no-go wall . . .”
“If you got another idea, I’m listening.”
“I don’t have any other ideas right now. Go ahead with yours, Brent.”
“Aye aye, guy.” Atherton gave Steve a squeeze on the good shoulder, tossed to Mark, “Glad to see you—sorry it’s here,” and ducked through a rupture in the garage’s back wall.
They heard his footsteps crunch through the glass and rubble, then gradually fade away toward the gymnasium, where he had his crew holed up.
“Rebuild that stupid wall,” Steve sighed. “We’ve got to find a better way to safeguard the food supplies. Maybe move them.”
He looked up, his thoughts clearing his head somewhat.
Mark was gazing at him in new realization. “You’re in command?”
Well, that tidbit was out now. Steve managed a nod. “Mmm-hmm.”
“But Atherton’s a captain! You’re a lieutenant! You shouldn’t have to do this!”
“Atherton’s a merchant captain,” Dan corrected. “He runs his own crew, but he knows somebody has to be in charge of the combined operation. Since the Cardies are training to fight Starfleet, he agreed to let Starfleet run the show as long as there was still an officer alive ranking at least lieutenant. If something happens to Steve, then Atherton takes over.”
Suddenly angry, Mark demanded, “Do the Cardassians know that?”
Dan shrugged. “Probably.”
Mark looked at his brother. “That makes you a target!”
“Oh, I know it,” Steve said calmly.
“Well, you two argue about it real loud, now, eh?” Dan stood up, picked a shard of broken glass out of his trouser leg, and said, “I’ll go check on the crew and make sure the way’s clear for you, Steve. Don’t hurry on that bruised hip, my man, or you’ll hurt yourself, eh?”
“Thanks, Dan. Keep low. Can’t have that pretty head blown off.”
“I’m not ‘pretty.’ I’m ‘dashing.’ ”
“Yeah, well, dash then.”
A moment later, the brothers were alone in the smoky garage. The only sounds now were the chitter of ceiling materials and roofing as they broke and fell in bits and pieces.
The brothers sat together in that heavy silence, their heads throbbing from the fresh memory of those kettledrum salvos.
“Aw, Steve,” Mark groaned spontaneously, then stopped.
Wisely for both of them, Mark cut off his own groan and didn’t try to express in words the sadness that showed in his eyes. Steve McClellan was the Durant’s fifth ranking officer, and that meant the deaths of four senior officers before command had fallen on him. He hadn’t expected command, hadn’t wanted it, at least not so early in his career. He had presided over the suffering, the loss of all those carrying the burden before him. The captain and three senior lieutenants, all gone.
He’d managed to keep from most of the other crew how he felt about this. Dan had figured it out gradually, but now Mark understood right away. His brother knew him too well. Mark had already distilled the misery Steve had endured in the past few months, saddled with unwanted responsibility. Starfleet officers trained for this, but usually it came with the right number of years. Not so for Steve McClellan.
Bitterly Steve found himself saying, “I wish we hadn’t pushed so hard to get assigned to the same ship. We pulled every damned string we could find, and now this.”
“What ‘now’?” Mark asked. “You mean, that I’m here too?”
“You’re here too. Ever since the five Sullivan brothers were all lost in the demolition of one ship, the service has avoided putting brothers on the same vessel. I always thought it was kind of silly in this day and age. So you and I had to push for the tradition to slip. We just had to serve on the same ship. The two McClellans, together on the same bridge. We were so charming, weren’t we?”
“Steve . . . cut it out.”
“How long do you figure headquarters waited until they wrote to Dad and Mom and Uncle Ray and told them we were both missing in space? How long you figure Starfleet looked for us before they gave up? You think there’s been a memorial yet?”
“Cut it out and that’s an order,” Mark insisted.
“You can’t give me orders. I outrank you.”
“Too bad. We’ve been tight as a carrick bend all our lives. Nobody could see light between us. I don’t think it’s so bad that we’re both here. Maybe it’s a good sign. We’ll get out of here. Starfleet’ll come for us.”
“Starfleet’s not coming, Mark. They think we’re dead. They don’t—” He was cut short by a stab of pain up the right side of his back and struggled to finish. “They don’t know to come.”
“Don’t try to get up. What are you doing? Sit down!”
“No time. I’ve got to deploy an armed detail north of here. We’ve got to block the Cardassians off before they work around behind the produce warehouse, or we’ll starve for a month.”
“Let me help you. And promise you’ll quit talking about Mom and Dad and Uncle Let’s-Go-Fishing.”
“Okay, deal. Oh, hey!”
“What?”
Steve maneuvered his good arm around his brother’s shoulders and leaned on him. “Happy birthday, baby boy.”
Together they crawled toward the crack in the back wall. Elbowing aside a piece of collapsed roof material, Mark McClellan blinked through the settling dust.
“Is it my birthday?” he asked.
Eighty-five years ago, the tragic loss of 1500 people aboard the R.M.S. Titanic forever changed the perceptions and practices of sailors. Caution was no longer a thing in the wind. “Master of the sea” was handed back to the birds and fish. Thousands more lives have been saved because hundreds were lost.
Because of our loss of Danielle, this schooner is forever safer, the crew more watchful of each other. Through the fog of senselessness comes clear appreciation that Danielle’s loss has saved or will save the life of a child, a cadet, or a crewmate.
Certainly tragedy need not be devastation, for here we are back again. Rather than being fearful, we are merely smarter and more humble, for many more sailors lie there than stand here. For our lives, and the lives of the children and young adults who sail this ship, we pause in appreciation for Danielle Faucher and all those with her.
D. Carey, Schooner Californian.
read at memorial wreath service on board,
May 4, 1997, near the appropriate latitude
and longitude.
Chapter 14
“Mr. Riker, I’m Mike Dennis. This is Wizz Dayton.”
“Wizz?”
“Short for Wizard. Communications Specialist. Welcome to the Enterprise-E. We didn’t see you at the ceremony, sir. We were afraid you’d miss our launch time.”
“Oh, I was there.” William Riker nodded and offered the two men no explanation of why he was late.
He was late because it had taken this long to convince himself to actually board this vessel without Captain Picard as his captain. The commitment was a little hard to swallow, but here he was. Somehow the oath he’d made to Starfleet overcame his irritation at admiralty whim.
“Report ship’s status, Mr. Dennis,” he requested.
“Sir, we’re under way at impulse speed. Course is Port Innerspace Standard on Lane Delta India Tango away from Starbase 12, trying to shake all the confetti off the hull from the launch celebrations. We’re cleared for any primary spacelane. All local traffic has been detained, and we’re putting on a nice show for everybody who’s pulled over so we can pass. We’re receiving hails of congratulations and fair weather from dozens of spectator vessels, and even one from a grizzly tanker captain who swears he took a shot at the Enterprise-C once upon a time. Department heads are preparing to report light-speed readiness. The captain is on the bridge.”
“Very well.”
“We’ll show you to your quarters, sir,” Lieutenant Dennis went on. “Then the captain h
as requested that you join him on the bridge. It’s a big ship. I still get lost, and I’ve been working aboard for about—”
“Yes, I know,” Riker cut off. “My gear was brought on board by a couple of yeomen who met me at the starbase.”
“Yes, sir, we sent those two men over. Your gear is in your quarters. If you’ll come this way—”
Riker followed the young officers, knowing these were two of Bateson’s original crew, and that made him uneasy. Knowing they were actually the better part of a century older than he was didn’t help either, but he kept a lid on that. They’d probably heard every quip, pun, and joke about that in the past three years.
“Hey, hi, bud!”
The voice sounded from inside the open door of a tool locker, and then something utterly extraordinary occurred. A drunken man, reeling slightly and clutching what looked like an antique silver whiskey flask, piled out of an open doorway and threw an arm around Wizz Dayton. “Here he is! The Wizard!”
Dayton shrugged unhappily. “Hi, Gabe. Take it easy, okay?”
This was Gabriel Bush? This hollow-eyed shadow of a human being was Bateson’s upright first officer from the Bozeman? Riker stepped back a couple of paces just to get a better look.
“Sure, I’m easy,” the man assured, nodding. Then he saw Riker, apparently for the first serious time, and said, “Oh, I know who you are.”
Drunk. Incredible! Riker backed off a step in disapproval. “I’m First Officer Riker, yes . . .”
“Oh, great to have you around!”
Uneasy, Lieutenant Dennis said, “Mr. Riker, this is Commander Gabriel Bush.”
Riker scarcely recognized him. They’d met briefly three years ago, but this was hardly a shadow of that man. Now he was gaunt and undernourished, barely filling out the gray work suit he wore.
Riker tipped his head. “Mr. Bush . . . are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m good,” the inebriated man said. “Look at you! First mate! Oh—sorry . . . first officer. Big difference, right? That’s a good job, you know. It’s a wicked great job. It used to be my job, did you know that?”
