by Diane Carey
“The brig,” Wizz Dayton contributed. “It’s from Trafalgar. A kind of ship Nelson used to stuff his prisoners into. I know that from when I got thrown into one after shoreleave.”
“And you deserved it too,” Bateson reminded Dayton. Then his eyes narrowed and got mischievous. He pointed at Riker’s face, at the neatly trimmed beard. “You know, we have a problem. One of us is going to have to shave this D’Artagnan imitation. Either that, or everybody aboard is going to have to grow one.”
“Don’t look at me,” Deanna Troi warned from Environmental, and leaned her hip against the console’s spongy edge. She obviously didn’t quite buy into what she was hearing.
Riker hoped the captain didn’t pick up on her coolness, but Morgan Bateson didn’t seem to miss much.
Smiling, Bateson tapped his combadge again. “Attention all hands. Propulsion and science stations, confirm ready for warp speed.”
The words rang. He had a resonant broadcast voice with natural stage presence, and he knew how to use it. A shiver of excitement went up Riker’s spine in spite of his trying not to like all this.
He did like it, damn it! The launch of a new starship!
The main turbolift doors parted. Captain Scott rolled out, beaming happily, followed by Geordi La Forge and Data. Riker was instantly stung by the absence of Captain Picard, Beverly Crusher, and Worf. Would they ever be together again?
A few seconds later, hardly any difference at all, the secondary turbolift beside the main screen opened and two engineers piled out, each rushing to take the first step out onto the bridge. They almost tripped each other, and Riker smelled a bet. Behind them, out sloshed Gabe Bush, with Wizz Dayton guiding him along custodially.
Riker suddenly realized what was going on. Bateson had his whole bridge crew from the Bozeman here now, as well as all onboard officers from the Enterprise-D.
“Ah—good!” Bateson looked around. “I wanted you all here for this marvelous moment. Wizz, hold that lift door. George Hill’s coming out.”
Dayton stuck a hand at the lift panel, keeping it open as a big, gaudy, tentacled creature tumbled goofily out. The thing wrapped one tentacle around Wizz Dayton’s ankle and promptly turned color to imitate the carpet. It blinked its two—only two?—soggy black eyes at Riker as if knowing he was new here.
“What is that?” Riker blurted.
“That’s George Hill,” Bateson said. “He’s a member of my original crew and he’s entitled to be here.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a decapus. We don’t know where he’s from.”
“Captain . . . is this some kind of a—”
“No, he’s a member of the crew. He’s our official worrier. Department staff, I’ll take your reports now.”
Grinning like a pumpkin, and in a holiday way resembling one, Captain Montgomery Scott proudly announced, “Main core engineering, matter/antimatter reaction assemblies, dilithium integrity, plasma injection terminals, SIF and IDF conduits, and catastrophic auxiliary operations are ready for warp speed, Captain.”
“Thank you, Scotty. Mr. La Forge?”
Geordi La Forge stepped forward one pace. “All tactical, mission operations, subspace relays, navigational, guidance and sensory stations, emissions receiving, and conning stations show ready for warp speed, Captain.”
“Very well. Commander Data?”
Still overwhelmed by his emotion chip, which forced him to deal with feelings most people had dispatched by kindergarten, Data actually clapped his hands once. In this state, he was essentially a long-lived child. His moonstone eyes glittered as brightly as his onionlike skin.
“All mission-specific sensor systems, shipboard security, defense functions, and communications report go for warp speed, Captain. Isn’t it just wonderful?”
“Yes, it is, Data. Commander Troi?”
Rather drably in comparison, Troi reported, “All medical and environmental stations, graviton control, internal damage control, and internal sensors report ship is tolerable for warp speed, Captain.”
“Very well. Science Officer?”
John Wolfe stood up from his seat at the primary library computer system. “LARCS is on line, sir. All systems operational.”
“Thank you. Chief Hamilton?”
Ham Hamilton, Bateson’s smarmy original engineer from the Bozeman, drawled, “NDT’s are completed, sir. MIE, DCA’s, MCPC, RCS diagnostics, ODN’s, and MJL’s are go for warp, sir.”
Bateson bottled a laugh. “A-OK. Thank you, all of you.” With genuine warmth he said, “And thank you sincerely for having more faith in me than I deserve. Mr. La Forge, how about a little nostalgia? Would you like to take your original post as navigator for the first watch?”
Geordi La Forge seemed startled, then smiled. “Yes, sir! I’d like that very much!”
He quickly came down into the command arena and took the nav chair.
“Mr. Riker, your place is right here—” Bateson gestured to the seat on the right of the command chair, then motioned to the chair on the left and said, “Gabe, I want you right here beside me too.”
Not nearly as jolly as the last time Riker had seen him, Gabe Bush had obviously been sobered up a little by his shipmates. Twitching with self-consciousness, he wallowed in obvious embarrassment as all eyes came to him. His eyes went only one place—to Riker’s. Bush flushed in humiliation, and he couldn’t look up for long.
He glanced at the captain. “Thank you, sir,” he scratched out. “I ‘preciate that.”
Not belaboring the discomfort, Bateson took his place in the captain’s chair.
“Let’s see what she can do. Mr. La Forge, your course is two six zero one point six.”
“Twenty-six-oh-one, aye, sir!” Helmsman Andy Welch’s voice had a quake of thrill running through.
Bateson tapped the control on the command chair’s arm. “Captain’s log. Captain Morgan Bateson recording. Log first engagement of matter/antimatter propulsion system, U. S. S. Enterprise, NCC 1701-E. Mr. Welch . . . give us warp factor one.”
“Warp factor one, sir!”
The engines hummed. Space on the screen blew into gorgeous distortion. The Fries-Posnikoff Sector blurred into some kind of painting, and snap—they were going faster than Einstein thought anybody ever could.
As she pressed her armored shoulders forward into light-speed, the U.S.S. Enterprise-E was indeed a beauty, inside and out. She was a forward-leaning thing, a huge bird leaping off that cliff, but she was leaping for the first time. She was a grand ship. Only time and trial would tell if indeed she was also a great ship.
“Ahead standard.”
“Standard cruising speed, Captain, warp factor four. All systems responding.”
Now that they’d settled down and most people’s eyes had dried up some, Will Riker turned to Captain Bateson. “What’s our destination, sir? Circling the Emerson-Northern Nebula?”
“The Forest Hill Asteroid Belt?” La Forge guessed from the starboard side.
“The Civic Park Cluster at Echo-Five?” Data added hopefully. He still looked like an android, but he wasn’t acting much like one right now.
“Nope, nothing so pedestrian.” The captain pointed at the big main screen and made a sweeping gesture with both hands. “We’re going right out to the far edge of the Typhon Expanse. Our old hunting grounds.”
As Bateson glanced around in satisfaction and met eyes with his original crew members, Riker noticed that everybody else—he himself, and the engineers and techs who hadn’t come through time with Bateson—were all staring in a completely different manner.
Then Riker noticed that most of them were looking at him. They expected him to say something. He expected it too.
“Captain,” he began, stepping into the command arena, “that’s directly adjacent to the Klingon Neutral Zone.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Sir . . . it’s considered hostile space. The Federation recommends that all shipping remain clear of the Expanse. That
area is scrupulously avoided by all but assigned Starfleet border patrol vessels.”
“Yes, I know that too.”
“Vessels, I might add, which are thoroughly shaken down, fully armed, and manned by active-duty battle-trained field officers, sir—”
“Yes, Will, I know, I heard you.” Bateson tilted his head and surveyed the officers of the Enterprise-D. “What’s the matter with all of you? You look like a raft of seals. Stop staring. Are you getting upset for some good reason?”
Riker worked to unclench his fists. “No, sir.”
“Good. I had a feeling you might be a little reluctant. How long was it—seven years under Picard?”
“Yes, sir.” Uneasily, Riker met the glances of Geordi and Troi, who were now standing together with Data on the upper starboard deck.
Bateson shrugged. “Well, all good things . . . no, I’m not trying to be heartless.” He strolled toward Riker, much closer than Riker wanted to be right now, and the captain looked at him with embarrassing sympathy. “I was going to save this for later, but I really want you on my side and I don’t want you to resent me.”
“Sir . . . we don’t resent you.”
Damn, what a lousy liar I am. Even worse, to be watched doing it by a whole pack of other lousy liars—Data’s poker face looks more like a go-fish face.
“Yes, you do,” Bateson parried easily. “Don’t blame you a bit, either. But look. Come over here.” He crossed the bridge to the science console and put his hand on the lower trunk. “See this?”
“You mean the panel?”
“Yes, the panel itself.”
“Yes, sir, I see it.”
“See these little scratches that have been painted over?”
“Yes, sir . . .”
“This panel is from the Enterprise.”
Riker looked at the panel, brushed-satin gray like the others. “I beg your pardon?”
Tapping the panel with one finger, Bateson said, “It’s made from salvaged terminium from the Enterprise-D’s structural trusses.”
Suddenly stepping back, a little spooked, Riker murmured, “Oh, sir . . .”
“That’s right. Now, come over there.”
Bateson “walked” across to the port side, to the most forward support pylon. He ran his hand up the after side of the pylon. “This too. Polyduranide from the secondary framework rods off your Saucer Module. And the corresponding pylon on the starboard side over there is the same. And all through the ship we incorporated little bits and pieces of the wreckage of the Enterprise-D. We know where they all are, too. Some of them have engraved brass plates.”
Now beyond spooked, Riker slid both hands across the part of the strut Bateson had touched. It was identical to the rest of the strut except for two little pocks and a thumbnail gouge that wouldn’t have been tolerated in a brand new piece. Wreckage . . .
“In the officer’s lounge,” Bateson said, “the table was salvaged, and it has a plaque on it dedicated to the Enterprise-D.”
Overwhelmed, Riker looked at the rail again, then looked up at Troi. Her eyes welled with tears, her face gaunt and ashamed.
Data sniffed. Geordi clasped his hands humbly.
Bateson rubbed the bit of salvage on the ship’s rail. “You know why I did this?”
Feeling obliged to fill up the pause, Riker murmured, “No, sir . . .”
Bateson gripped Riker’s elbow again. “Because ships are important. Salvage is important. To people. I’m the one who invited the Titanic and Mary Rose exhibits out to Starbase 12. I wanted everyone out here to see the sacrifice of those who had come before them. It’s special to stand a couple of feet from something that actually went down with the Titanic. It shows us that those people were real people, living and breathing just like we are. They really lived and they really died. These artifacts tie us to them in a concrete, physical way that we’ll never forget. Everybody who’s ever held his great grandfather’s watch or touched his mother’s wedding ring understands what I’m talking about. Things really are important. They take us directly back to that moment. Not to a legend or a story, but to an actual moment on a given day in the past. Because of these bits of your ship, all of us on this ship, for her whole future, will never forget you and your ship and what you did that day. It’s important.”
Could the human chest stand this kind of pressure? Steeped in shame, Riker gripped the pocked strut and couldn’t manage to speak.
Giving him and the others a few seconds to absorb what he had just said, Bateson added, “I never really had any roots. Only my ship and my crew. When we came through time, I found I wanted some roots. So I sort of adopted Starbase 12 as my hometown. I guess that sounds pretty provincial . . .”
Riker raised his lowered eyes. His hard demeanor cracked. He smiled. “No, sir, it doesn’t sound provincial at all.”
Well . . . why did it feel so good to smile?
He stood back a little and offered a hand. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you very sincerely, from all of us.”
Taking the hand, Bateson smiled and clapped Riker on the shoulder with the other hand, damn him. Why did he have to be such a decent guy?
“All right, enough partying,” Bateson said. “Work, work, work, slave, slave, slave. This is Starfleet, not a sideshow. First things first. We have a mission to undertake.”
“A mission, sir?” Riker asked. “On a shakedown cruise?”
“That’s right. War games, Mr. Riker. In preparation for that, I’ve ordered shields reduced to fifty percent and phasers powered down to ten percent.”
“Captain!” Riker crossed to the chair he had been invited to take, but did not sit. “Reducing phaser power while we maneuver just minutes away from the Klingon Empire?”
“That’s right.”
“Captain, we have to talk!”
“I thought we handled this. This isn’t command by committee. We don’t have to talk.”
“Well, we’re going to.”
“Is that so? . . . All right, Will. Go ahead. Talk.”
Chapter 15
“Captain Picard? I’m Chip Reynolds. Welcome aboard the Half Moon. Did you get squared away into a bunk?”
“Yes, thank you, Captain. Your watch leader showed me down to the—what was it? The Orlop Deck?”
“That’s what we call it. Down there you have a chance of sleeping with your legs unbent.”
“I hope the watch leader wasn’t too put out by the sudden change of events. She was muttering about having totally lost control.”
“Oh, no, she’s always like that. I’m a little mystified about this—I mean, I’m willing to go into Cardassian space, but you do understand the difference in speed and armaments between this ship and just about any Starfleet ship . . .”
“Yes, I understand. In fact, it’s preferable. I don’t want a fighting vessel for this mission. My message is entirely different. Rather stronger, I think. As long as you keep to your top speed, we’ll get to Cardassia Prime in adequate time.”
Hoping to dispense with amenities before any got started, Jean-Luc Picard tried to retreat to his excuse for quarters aboard this strange old rattletrap of a private ship, but the ship’s lanky captain stopped him again.
“By the way, for passing the time, I’ve got something for you,” Captain Reynolds said. He reached into a black captain’s case and pulled out several computer cartridges. “They were delivered to me just before we left Starbase 12.”
“What are they?”
“They’re holoprograms.”
“Oh, Riker . . .” Picard shook his head at his first officer’s persistence, then thought of something else and looked up from the cartridges. “This ship has a holodeck?”
“Well, we didn’t before, but Mr. Riker had holoequipment installed in our cargo hold about forty minutes before we left. I never saw a team work so fast. He had a guy he said was an android going like some kind of rocket on the installation. Riker told me not to tell you until we were under way.” Reynolds grinned sheepish
ly and seemed to enjoy the conspiracy, then added, “Hope that’s all right.”
“Mmm, it wouldn’t be the first time he did something behind my back,” Picard said. He turned the top cartridge to read the label. “ ‘Starship Logs, Enhanced, U.S.S. Enterprise NCC 1701, Captain James T. Kirk. Stardate 1709.2: Romulan Incursion at the Neutral Zone’.”
“Sounds like a great show,” Reynolds said. “Are they completely interactive?”
“I believe so . . . these are the ship’s actual logs and recordings, enhanced with the cooperation of Captain Kirk. Or was he an admiral when he made these? Of course, then he regained his captaincy—well, I’ve lost track. Thank you, Captain. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
Reynolds shrugged. “If we can do anything for you, just say so. Not that there’s much more than you can actually see—”
“Are you completely provisioned?” Picard asked. “Your fuel and everything taken care of?”
“Starfleet took care of everything. I think my crew’s in shock. We never had it so good. Starfleet even stocked up our cleaning supplies and recharged our replicators. They even made repairs on our hull. We’ll get spoiled if we don’t end up dead.”
The statement was a casual one, and Captain Reynolds was a good sport—and pretty gutsy to take this ship out in space, never mind Cardassian space, for indeed a real danger existed from Cardassian border patrols. The Cardassians didn’t like surprises. Or demands, for that matter.
“As soon as you encounter one of the Cardassian navigational beacons, notify me,” Picard said. “I’ll leave it up to you which course to take into their area. Do what you need to do for the safety of your ship.” He flipped through the cartridges and read some of the mission titles. “If it takes a few more hours . . . so be it.”
Year 2266 - Bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise
(Holographic Simulation)
“Out—Outpost 4 . . . do you read me, Enterprise. This is Commander Hansen . . .”
