by Diane Carey
Picard gripped the arms of the command chair. “Scotty, I need that power!”
“One more minute, sir.”
“Not good enough. Captain Bateson, give me communications to McClellan, Atherton, Reynolds, and Mr. Schoen on the ship I was commanding. I want them to move into formation.”
Riker was looking at the forward screen, maneuvering the starship so that her weakened shields faced the approaching Klingon fighter as much as possible. If they had to take more hits, he wanted the hits to come on the starship’s most narrow profile. She was sluggish—the result of espionage, sabotage, and being in the hands of too many crews with too many conflicting goals—himself, Scott, and Bateson included. They hadn’t done the ship any favors down there.
“Hail the Klingon ship,” Picard snapped.
There was a force in his voice that Riker hadn’t heard in years, and damned infrequently at that. Riker actually turned to look.
“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise. Identify yourselves and stand down immediately. You are stood off by the combined fleet before you. Respond immediately or face the consequences.”
The comm link crackled between the two systems. For a moment there seemed to be no answer coming. Then a voice sprinkled across the tract of open space.
“This is First Officer Gabriel Bush flying the imperial warship Klacha macha pucka yucka-yourmother’samoose or something. Anybody know how to make this lobster pot go out of battle mode?”
Bateson perked up instantly and called, “Gabe? Is that you? Are you all right?”
“I’m wicked, sir, and so’s Wizz and Mike and everybody.”
“Is that monster Kozara’s ship?”
“Sure is. Sorry to be late. Took us a bit to get’er moving again. Listen—we found the crew of the Nora Nicholas. They’re alive and well, stranded on a planet in the Typhon Expanse.”
“Understood—glad to hear it. Gabe, there could be a saboteur on board working for the Klingons. We can’t find him here.”
“We found him already, Morgan. It was John Wolfe. Only he’s not the real John Wolfe. He must’ve killed the real Wolfe and taken his posting just before he transferred on board the Bozeman.”
“How in hell did you find that out?”
“Mike Dennis actually found him. When we figured out there’d been sabotage, he remembered that Wolfe was the one who told us nothing was wrong just before everything started going wrong. Anyway, under some creative encouragement, he fessed up.”
“Are you in command, Gabe?”
“Amazing, isn’t it? You know what? I kind of like it, sir. Better watch out. I’ll be after your job.”
“Gabe . . . I don’t know what to say. You sound just wonderful.”
“Feel all right too, sir. I guess there are more important things than my personal pain.”
“Glad to hear it. Stand by.” Smiling sentimentally, Bateson quietly said, “Captain Picard, my crew is standing by for your orders.”
Picard nodded, looking a little like he had been hoping there’d be a fight. “Thank you. Actually, Captain Bateson, I’ll leave it to you. What do you want done with Commander Kozara, his crew, and their ship? If you like, you can take command of that ship and pilot it back to Starbase 12. Another trophy for your exhibit, perhaps?”
Bateson considered the idea for a moment, seemed to enjoy at least the picture of it in his mind, then looked for a long few seconds, oddly, at Zaidan.
“Mmm,” he uttered then. “I don’t really need another trophy. After all, how much glory can a man take?”
He pushed off the tactical board and went to stand before his old rival as Kozara stood in silence on the lower deck beside the helm.
“I, Captain Morgan Bateson,” he began, “stand humbled before the Klingon Kozara. I was your dishonor, and you chased me down. When the power to destroy our civilizations was in your hands, you found the strength in yourself to pause and think. You raised yourself above common revenge. You are a true commander. You deserve to be in your ship.”
Purely astounded, Kozara stared blankly, disbelieving what he heard.
Riker pivoted around in his chair and stood up, as Captain Picard came to Bateson’s side.
“I agree,” Picard said. “On the brink of interstellar conflict, we found a way to work together to stop it for the sake of old times. We all faced our pasts, Kozara, and we put them to rest. There is good to be had today, to see that we’re not all at one another’s throats all the time. I will forward a record log of this to the Klingon High Council on your behalf, with my personal seal. Despite open hostilities and extenuating circumstances, you comported yourself in an honorable manner and did not kill arbitrarily. We in the Federation do not forget such things. You are honored among your enemies.”
In nothing short of shock, Kozara looked as if his head were about to fall off.
Gradually, he gathered himself and came to attention before the two Starfleet captains. “I accept,” he said.
It was about as close as a Klingon could get to a thank you, but that was in his tone.
“Shipwide sweep transporter beam, Mr. Riker, Klingon physiology,” Picard ordered. “Send these gentlemen back to their vessel.”
Despite having his orders, Riker was staring at Bateson. “Sir, I didn’t think you had that in you.”
Shrugging, Bateson sighed. “Acting like adults is no fun,” he muttered. “You know what? You boys live in a bizarre century, that’s what.”
Chapter 25
“Captain, I was very proud of being in Starfleet when you did what you did. A few slight differences, and I’d have done the same thing.”
“That’s too bad,” Morgan Bateson responded as he walked beside Picard toward the crew lounge. “What’s command without a little variety?”
“I don’t think anyone can accuse you and me of being clones, Morgan.”
“No, they can’t, Jean-Luc, they can’t. I hope this isn’t inconveniencing you, the crew insisting on a formal welcome for you as their official commander.”
“Oh, well, I have to confess,” Picard said as they rounded a corner toward the lounge, “the ulterior motive is to give you and your own crew a rousing send-off.”
“I think we’ve both been cornered.”
“I think we have.”
“Jean-Luc, before we go in . . .” Bateson paused before their proximity triggered the lounge door. “Let me say that I admire you. You’re an excellent synthesis of old and new. I hope you’ll take my apology for my contributions to what happened. I had all the fire and fight of the old century, but none of the restraint of the new.”
“You were right about the Klingons,” Picard told him quietly. “They were massing to attack. The Cardassians were in their sights, but certainly the Federation wouldn’t be far after. You circumvented that by attracting Kozara. If you hadn’t, their attack would’ve been better planned, less spontaneous, and probably far more deadly.”
“Thank you. But . . .”
“We all have our inner questions,” Picard interrupted him. “The past few days have helped me put into words many things I never thought about being a captain. It’s helped me a great deal, especially now that . . .”
“Now that you’ve been made official commander of the E-E. She suits you better than she does me,” Bateson said. “And I don’t think you’d fit on a destroyer. I want to thank you privately for sticking up for me with the admiralty and recommending reassignment. I thought they’d hang me.”
“You’re too valuable for that. Command of the Roderick is no desk assignment. You’ll be the last line of defense for whatever comes. And I know you believe trouble will come.”
“It’s brewing on too many fronts to ignore. I still believe that. When the Klingons and Cardassians and Romulans become free societies, then I’ll look again. Until then, no. But thank you again, really.”
“You’re quite welcome. Let’s go in before we have to get a charter for this club, shall we?”
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“Yes, let’s.”
Picard felt a spring in his step as he led the way through the double door panels into the crew lounge.
When he and Bateson entered, they were walking side by side, and that is how they stopped short, both staring at the crowd of mixed crew before them.
From wall to wall, the lounge was lined with Picard’s crew and Bateson’s.
At the apprearance of their captains, the happy crowd broke into applause and whistles.
Picard was speechless, but Bateson leaned to him and muttered, “They like us. They really like us.”
“I think you’re right,” Picard noted.
The crews laughed and descended on them.
They were pulled to the buffet table, where Riker and Bush were waiting, indulging in evil grins. Even George Hill, Bateson’s squishy mascot, had one coil around a wine goblet and another around Bush’s ankle.
“Number One,” Picard drawled. “I’ll get you for this.”
“Well, you’re welcome, sir. We just wanted to make you feel at home.”
“Oh, well, this’ll do it. Mr. Bush, how are you?”
Bush smiled. “High and dry, sir. Looking forward to duty on board the Roderick. I think that ship fits us better.”
Bateson smiled, glanced at Picard, and shrugged. “Guess we think alike,” he said, hanging an arm around Bush, who indeed looked far better than he had the last time Picard had seen him.
Picard accepted a goblet of a pleasantly scented burgundy and raised it immediately. “To our ships!”
The intermingled crews cheered again, and raised the toast.
When the glasses came down again, Picard said, “It’s my pleasure to offer Captain Bateson and his crew a proper sendoff to their new assignment aboard Starfleet’s newest destroyer. However, Captain Bateson, I do have a bit of news for you and your men. In appreciation for all you have done, for your sacrifice and your resilience, Starfleet has accepted Mr. Riker’s recommendation that, at its launch next week, the U.S.S. Roderick will be redesignated the U.S.S. Bozeman II, registration number NCC-1941-A.”
The crews were stunned silent for a moment, then erupted into a whoop of approval. The crew of the new Bozeman fielded hugs and shoves from the crew of the new starship. For about six seconds Bateson stared at Picard, turned a couple shades of pink, then accepted a handshake from Riker and returned it with speechless gratitude in his eyes.
And Picard was happy to glow from the sidelines at this excellent turn of not-very-pleasant events. Everyone had what he wanted.
Including the newly assigned master of the sixth Starship Enterprise.
Chapter 26
U.S.S. Enterprise-E
One year later
“What do you have?”
“We finished our sensor sweep of the Neutral Zone.”
“Oh, fascinating . . . twenty particles of space dust per cubic meter . . . fifty-two ultraviolet radiation spikes . . . and a class-2 comet. Well, this is certainly worthy of our attention.”
Jean-Luc Picard dumped the report on his desk and shared a glance with his disgruntled first officer. Will Riker was not happy either.
Riker was looking at him as if he wanted to walk up to Picard’s inner sanctum and knock. Or maybe kick.
“Captain,” Riker began, “why are we out chasing comets?”
That wasn’t the whole question, of course. The other end of it was something like, “when the Borg are on the warpath again and making a straight line for Earth?”
They both heard it, even though Riker had been too polite to actually say the words:
“Let’s just say,” Picard tried to answer, carrying his cup of hot tea on a little voyage to nowhere, “that Starfleet has every confidence in the Enterprise and her crew. They’re just not sure about her captain. They believe a man who was once captured and assimilated by the Borg should not be put in a situation where he would face them again. To do so would introduce an ‘unstable element’ into a critical situation.”
“That’s ridiculous! Your experience with the Borg makes you the perfect man to lead this fight.”
“Admiral Hayes disagrees with you.”
The comm whistled, a blessed interruption—Deanna Troi’s voice. “Bridge to Captain Picard.”
Picard steeled himself for another wonderful report on quasars or dark matter. “Go ahead.”
“We’ve just received word from Starfleet.” Troi was being unusually contained, as if she were working to sound impassive. “They’ve engaged the Borg.”
Without bothering to thank her or engage in amenities, Picard locked eyes with Riker and instantly said, “I’ll be right there. Number One, let’s go.”
Riker was already on his feet. “They’re on a direct line for Earth.”
“I know that.”
They went through the ready-room doors almost side by side, even though they didn’t really both fit. The bridge of the Enterprise-E was their second—no, their first home after a year in space. All posts were manned by familiar faces now, especially Mr. Data just now taking the seat at ops.
Before he made two steps inboard, Picard ordered, “Mr. Data, put Starfleet frequency one four eight six on audio.”
“Aye, sir.”
Riker found the self-restraint to sit down at his post, but Picard couldn’t manage to sit.
Instantly the comm system, the whole bridge, was flooded with panicked voices, undergirded by other voices working to stay calm and dispense orders. A chill struck Picard, and he could tell Riker felt it also—they knew the sounds of desperation.
“Flagship to Endeavor—stand by to engage at grid A-15!”
“Defiant and Bozeman, fall back to mobile position one!”
“Aknowledged!”
“We have it in visual range . . . a Borg cubeship on course zero mark two one five!”
“Speed, warp nine point—”
“WE ARE THE BORG. LOWER YOUR SHIELDS AND SURRENDER YOUR SHIPS . . .”
“All units open fire! Remodulate shield protection!”
“They’ve broken through defense perimeter—”
“Cube is changing course—zero two one mark four—”
“—sixteen others have been—”
“WE WILL ADD YOUR BIOLOGICAL AND TECHNICAL DISTINCTIVENESS TO OUR OWN . . .”
“Repeat! We need more ships!”
“Captain, report immediately—”
“YOUR CULTURE WILL ADAPT TO SERVE US . . .”
“—ninety-six dead—”
“—auxiliary warp drive—”
“Flagship to Starfleet Command! We need reinforcements!”
“Twenty-two wounded on the flagship—”
“. . . warp core . . . breach!”
“RESISTENCE IS FUTILE.”
The terrible mechanical voice crackled across Picard’s skin. He knew that tinny voice, from deep inside. He knew that kind of intrusion, violation.
He knew it.
And he knew other things. He knew he was no longer that man. The Borg had changed him. And other things had changed him. New things.
And he knew the battle, saw it in his mind’s eye, knew all the maneuvers the Federation ships, both Starfleet and private, would try to use against the garish Borg cubeship as it vectored in to threaten Earth, the hub of the Federation. And he knew they would all fail.
Rather than sinking into hopelessness, as he saw his crew doing around him, he was suddenly charged up.
“Mr. Hawk,” he said to his young conn officer, “set a course for Earth.”
They all looked at him. Reactions ranged from fear to shock. He didn’t care. Let them be shocked. Let them be afraid. It was good for them.
“Aye, sir . . .” Hawk glanced at Riker, then put his attention to his conn and changed course.
“Maximum warp,” Picard ordered.
He waited until the order had been executed. Then he turned to face all those who were gazing at him, astonished, confused, wondering if he had snapped at the sound o
f that Borg challenge.
Yes, he had.
“I’m about to commit a direct violation of our orders,” he told them. “Any of you who wish to object should do so now. It will be noted in my log.”
Of course, he didn’t say he would change his mind. They knew that.
They all stood silent, waiting to see if anyone else would speak up.
The surprising response came from Data. “Captain . . . I believe I speak for everyone here, sir, when I say ‘to hell with our orders.’ ”
Picard felt a smile rise on his cheeks, and it took all his personal fortitude from breaking into a grin. This wasn’t the time for that. But he was working up to it.
“Red alert,” he said. “All hands to battlestations. Engage!”
The starship hummed with power around him. He stood in his ready room, knowing the bridge was beyond that door and that he had less than thirty minutes before they would engage the Borg. Perhaps that’s what he really had meant when he said engage . . .
No one wants ships of the line commanded by a set of clones.
“Captain?”
“Number One . . . who invited you in?”
“Just a voice in the mist.”
“Are you here to talk me out of this?”
“No, sir, I’m here to make sure you don’t talk yourself out of it.”
At this, Captain Picard turned. “No chance of that.”
Riker came to his side, and together they looked out the wide viewport at open space, the peaceful deceiver. In the curve of the viewport, they caught a reflection of the ship’s seagull-silver hull and the lights of windows on the deck below.
“Bateson was right,” Riker murmured after a moment.
“Pardon?”
“Morgan Bateson. He wanted preparedness. He thought there’d be trouble with the Klingons. Or Romulans, or Cardassians. Later he thought it would be the Dominion. After all that, it turns out to be the Borg. Worse than all the others put together.”
“Yes, they are,” Picard quietly agreed. “Ironic you should mention Bateson after all these months. The Bozeman II is in the defense perimeter.”
“I heard. . . . Bateson’s going to face down the Borg.”
