Star Trek - Requiem. Part 17

The captain's teeth ground together purposefully. He had to locate his comm badge-that much was clear. He had to find it and relocate it somewhere else. Somewhere it would be safe from both the Gorn and James Kirk's plasma grenades.

And he had to do it quickly, before Commodore Travers and his security people caught up with him. Everything rested on his success in this. If he valued the future-both his own and that of the Federation-he dared not fail.

"Captain?"

Tal Ephis, one of the founding members of the Bon Amar "trade consortium," turned to look at his first officer-who also happened to be his wife. She was the only one on board who called him by that honorific, and even she meant it as a joke.

Still, he liked the sound of it. It made him feel, at least for a moment, that he was something more than the master of a third-rate transport vessel, which had taken its share of lumps to see the Carda.s.sians pried loose from Bajor. It made him feel like a true captain, which is what he had dreamed of becoming at age five or six.

Of course, that was before reality had set in. Before the Carda.s.sians took away his father and mother, and slaughtered them slowly in some prison camp too horrible to think about. Before he saw that he'd be lucky just to survive, much less help others to do so.

Not that his life as a pirate had been so bad. h.e.l.l, at least he'd been in s.p.a.ce. He'd gotten to see the stars. And serve with the finest men and women anywhere. All in all, he'd come a lot closer to realizing his dream than most Bajorans.

The pity was, when the dust cleared, the Bon Amar had remained outlaws. Maybe most of the rebels had accomplished what they'd set out to do, or thought they had-but the "trade consortium"'s work wasn't finished yet. Nor would it be, until the Carda.s.sians had paid at least a part of what they owed the Bajorans.

"Yes, Ilam?" he responded. "Don't tell me you've found what we're looking for."

He was just joking back at her. But her expression told him that she might very well have found the thing after all. Rousing himself from his command chair, Tal crossed the s.h.i.+p's cramped bridge and came to look over his wife's shoulder.

According to her monitor, their sensors had picked up something interesting. Unfortunately, they weren't Starfleet sensors. They were given to the occasional glitch, and one could only pray that it didn't come at a crucial time. So now, as Tal peered at the computer screen, he wasn't as confident as he would have liked.

"What do you think?" asked Ilam, looking up at him.

He shrugged and rubbed his chin. It was getting stubbly. He needed a shave. "I don't know," he replied at last. "That could be it. Of course, it's probably just something similar." Yes, he definitely needed a shave. "Still, I guess it's worth checking out."

His wife nodded. "I'll get a group together. Pakris and Hatil, probably. That is, if they're both awake. And Mison. She hasn't been off the s.h.i.+p since who remembers when."

"Neither have I," muttered Tal, coming to stare again at the monitor. "But that's all right. I have other prerogatives." He glanced at Ilam and smiled. "I get to sleep with the prettiest first officer in the fleet."

"Flatterer," said his wife, but she was smiling, too. "I'll try not to be gone too long."

Then she was making her way toward the lift at the rear of the bridge. Tal didn't watch her go. Instead, he found himself staring again at the tiny red blip on the screen.

What if it really was the thing they were looking for? What then? The Starfleet officer they were helping didn't have the power to sanction their use of the s.h.i.+pping lanes. When this was over, no matter how it ended, they would still be outlaws.

But it would tickle him blue and purple to accomplish something that high-and-mighty Starfleet couldn't. To put them in the debt of a lowly Bon Amar pirate and his hunk-of-junk s.h.i.+p. He chuckled. It would be a hoot, all right.

Not that it was going to happen. But he could dream, couldn't he?

For a world capable of supporting life, Cestus III seemed to have precious little in the way of wind. Picard was grateful for that fact.

In a harsher environment, the landslide where he was found might have been obliterated. The same for the soft, sandy ground around it, which was still marked with the colonists' footprints and the shape of his own body.

As it was, he'd been able to find the place with little trouble. It was just where Julia had said it would be. And with any luck, his communicator would be nearby.

Keeping low so as not to be spotted, the captain used his fingers to sift through the dirt and detritus at the bottom of the slide. It had to be here somewhere, didn't it? If it had been found on his person, Travers would certainly have mentioned it. After all, he'd mentioned everything else that seemed odd about Picard.

Given enough time, the captain told himself, he was certain he would turn up the device. But he didn't have much time. Travers was no doubt leading a search for him by now-a search that wouldn't last long at all, once the colonists picked up his trail with their tricorders.

Odds were the communicator hadn't been buried very deeply; it had probably slipped just under the surface when it fell. With that in mind, he hastened to cover as much area as possible, feeling the sand grind into his knees as he moved from place to place.

Abruptly, the knuckles of his left hand struck something hard. Most likely, a rock-but if so, it was an unusually smooth one. Groping for it, his fingers closed around a wonderfully familiar shape.

Dredging it up, Picard confirmed his most fervent hope. Holding the device up to the sun, he brushed it off. It was his communicator, looking every bit as functional as when he'd last used it on the alien station.

He felt like a treasure-hunter who had just unearthed a chest full of gold dubloons. Better, in fact-for his very life had depended on this discovery. And even more than his life, given the responsibility he'd been charged with on the Gorn homeworld.

Suddenly, the captain heard voices. Ducking instinctively, he took a quick look all around him. So far, there was no one to be seen-which meant that his pursuers probably couldn't see him either. But that would change momentarily, as they used their tricorders to track him down.

He had to move-and quickly. But which way? Picard tried to ignore the sound of his pounding pulse, to listen through it. There were the voices again, about as faint as before. And unless he was imagining it, they were coming from the direction of the armory-more or less the same approach he had followed in seeking out his communicator.

It was hardly a coincidence. The hills were easier to negotiate if one entered them by that route, the slopes longer and gentler and less rocky. It made for a quick pace-one that had worked to the captain's advantage earlier, but was helping Travers's search team now.

Again the voices, noticeably closer-and definitely following his track, whether they knew it or not. Turning the other way, Picard a.s.sessed the terrain: a shallow, meandering valley, ending in a p.r.o.nounced cleft. The footing wouldn't be too bad, as far as he could tell; loose dirt and rocks seemed to be at a minimum.

But there wasn't much in the way of cover. If he sprinted out from behind the debris of the landslide, and the commodore's party was anywhere nearby, he would be difficult to miss. No-make that impossible.

Still, there wasn't much of an alternative. Gritting his teeth, the captain took off for the distant cleft, not daring to look back over his shoulder. For a fraction of a second, he could almost feel a phased energy beam bearing down on him, reaching out to strike him square in the back.

However, the only phaser beam was in his mind. Two-thirds of the way to his destination, his breath rasping sharply in his throat as he pushed himself to the limit, Picard realized that he was home free.

Once he had a hillside for cover, he could circle back around the colony and find a place to hide his communicator-a place where the Gorn wouldn't stumble on it. After that, his job would be over. It would then be just a matter of Will Riker's scanning the right- Pummph!

The captain dove sideways, reacting to the tiny geyser of dirt and pebbles that erupted just ahead of him and to his left. As he scrambled to his feet, he spared a quick glance over his shoulder at the origin of the explosion.

And saw Schmitter, Travers's security chief, flanked by two reds.h.i.+rted officers. Noting how he'd missed Picard with his first attempt, Schmitter leveled his phaser again and fired.

Darting to his left, the captain narrowly avoided that blast as well. It tore a chunk out of the slope up ahead of him, but left Picard himself unscathed. Running for all he was worth, knowing that the comm badge in his hand could damage the timeline as easily as anything else, he again set his sights on the cleft-and hoped that Schmitter's next shot wouldn't be any more accurate than the last two.

His hope was answered. All at once, three ruby-red beams sliced through the hot, dry air-but none of them came closer than a couple of inches. Then he was through the cleft, squinting in the face of full sunlight, looking for the next leg of his getaway.

Unfortunately, he hadn't given Travers enough credit. No sooner had the captain emerged from the valley than he spotted two more reds.h.i.+rts in the distance-and these were flanking the commodore himself.

Worse, Picard had just entered an even deeper valley, between two rather steep and featureless inclines. There was no room to maneuver, no place to hide, and no outlet. The captain's only option was to try to make it up one of the slopes before either Schmitter's team or Travers's took him down with a well-placed phaser beam.

In fact, that wasn't much of an option at all. But given the alternatives, he seized on it, starting up the escarpment on his left. Up ahead, the commodore's security people did the same, in an attempt to head him off. Picard considered the angles and decided they'd catch him before he got anywhere near the top.

He'd failed, he told himself, feeling the sting of that realization. He'd failed completely and utterly. It was too late to hide his communicator from his pursuers, which meant he'd placed the timeline in jeopardy. What's more, there was now a good chance the device would be destroyed in the colonists' defense against the Gorn, making it unlikely that Riker would find it a hundred years later.

The result? No return to the twenty-fourth century. No Picard to talk peace with the Gorn. Nothing to prevent a war that would devastate both sides of the conflict-a.s.suming that those two sides would even exist in the future that would be created.

All this flashed through the captain's mind in the merest part of a moment. It didn't cause him to break stride, however. If Travers wanted to stop him, he would have to knock him out. It wasn't in Picard's nature to surrender while there was even a glimmer of hope.

Then something happened. The captain wasn't sure what it was, but the commodore suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, only partway up the slope. His security officers stopped with him.

A quick peek over his shoulder told Picard that Schmitter had stopped, too. It was as if something else had caught their attention, something more important than a lone fugitive. They looked panicked, almost terrified. What could be scaring them so much? What ...

d.a.m.n. The captain felt the blood drain from his face as he realized what must have distracted his pursuers.

The Gorn were here.

In his mind's eye, Picard could picture what must have happened. The colony's sensor array had picked up the approach of an unfamiliar vessel, but discounted it as just another alien s.h.i.+p making use of its facilities.

At least, at first. Then, as the vessel had gotten closer, it had powered up its weapons banks-something no peaceful alien would do. And the officer in charge of the sensor array had instantly contacted Commodore Travers for instructions.

After all, the sensor reading could have been a mistake; the equipment might have malfunctioned. And even if the reading was accurate, it didn't necessarily mean there would be hostilities.

Once again, Picard could see Harold's face as it had appeared on the Enterprise's mission tape, wan and hollow-eyed. As if he had seen the recording only yesterday, he could hear the man's horrified account.

"They knocked out our phaser batteries with their first salvo. We weren't expecting them; why should we? We didn't have anything anyone would want."

He could still prevent the ma.s.sacre. He could warn Travers about the Gorn, persuade him to fire on the alien vessel. Of course, the commodore probably wouldn't listen to him.

And in any case, the question was moot. The captain had made his decision, which was really no decision at all.

History had to take its course.

"d.a.m.n you, Hill!" Travers yelled. The commodore shot Picard a hot, angry look-one that he could read all the way across the valley. He wanted to catch the mysterious Mister Hill so badly he could taste it. But he had a more pressing matter at hand.

As the captain watched, amazed, almost giddy at his good fortune, the commodore's security team went back the way it came. Looking back over his shoulder, Picard saw that Schmitter was doing the same, returning to the cleft through which he'd come.

Travers could have given his sensor officer instructions from here. He could have returned to the colony himself, and left Schmitter to continue the chase. But, practicing caution, he didn't do either of those things.

It wouldn't help the commodore preserve his colony. However, it had given the captain a second chance to preserve the timeline.

Ensign Ro Laren had thought to find her commanding officer in the center seat on the bridge. However, when she burst out of the aft turbolift, she saw that the captain's chair was empty.

Turning to Worf, she asked: "Where is he? Where's Commander Riker?"

The Klingon's brows came together slightly: no doubt he was a little taken aback by her demeanor. Acting executive officer or not, he wasn't used to Ro addressing him that way.

As a result, his only answer was a tilting of his ma.s.sive, bony-browed head-in the direction of the captain's ready room. But that was all the ensign needed to know.

Rus.h.i.+ng past the circuitry access boards and the food dispenser, she stopped in front of the ready room door. Inside, Riker would be alerted to her presence by a series of chimes. A second or two went by, as she waited for the doors to slide apart.

Finally, they did just that-revealing the first officer, who peered at her from behind the captain's desk with eyes as tired and red-rimmed as her own. Obviously, he hadn't slept much during his rest period either.

"Ensign," said Riker. "I'd planned to speak with you after I-"

"They found him," she blurted out, physically unable to contain herself.

The first officer blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he replied. Obviously, she had thrown him for a loop.

"The captain," she got out, forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly. "The Bon Amar found him-or at least, the terillium he was carrying in his communicator when he vanished." She clenched her fists, flushed with their success. "We know where he is."

Riker stood, his eyes narrowing as the significance of her words sank in. Had it really happened? When Geordi had first suggested how they could track down the captain, Riker had hailed the idea as brilliant. But after day after day of failure, he'd begun to wonder if it all wasn't just a wild-goose chase. Now ...

"You're certain? he asked.

Ro nodded. "I can give you the coordinates."

Slowly, a smile spread over the first officer's features. Not his customary, devil-may-care grin, but an expression of sublime joy that the ensign had never expected to see there.

"Well, then," said Riker, his voice growing stronger with each uttered word, "let's give Commander La Forge the good news. You didn't, by any chance, catch the name of the planet?"

Ro nodded again. "It's called Cestus Three."

Riker's eyes widened. His eyes became large and round. "Cestus Three ..." he muttered.

"You've been there?" asked the ensign.

Riker swallowed. "Only in a manner of speaking," he replied cryptically. Tapping his comm badge, as if he were off-s.h.i.+p, he said: "Mr. Worf, get me Commander La Forge. Ensign Rager, plot a new course. We're going to return to the alien station."

"Aye, Commander," came Rager's response. "Course plotted."

"Engage," commanded the first officer.

There was something about the way he said it that reminded Ro of Captain Picard. If the prophets were with them, maybe she'd hear that order from the lips of the captain himself before long.

"Cestus Three?" repeated Geordi. "The Cestus Three?"

"That's right," confirmed Riker, his voice charged with an excitement that the engineer could feel right through his comm badge. "The world in the Academy simulation. The one where we first ran into the Gorn."

Data was already seated at the monitor, feeding the information into the console below it. As soon as he was finished, the local computer nexus went to work calculating the distance to the world in question.

It only took a moment to obtain a readout on the bottom of the screen. Armed with this figure as well as the power curve recorded during the captain's transport, Data was able to distill out of the equation a temporal element-in other words, how far Picard had traveled into the past.

When the android was done, he just sat there for a second or so, his brow wrinkled ever so slightly. Then he looked up at Geordi.

"What is it?" the engineer asked, disturbed by his friend's expression. "How far back did this thing send him?"

"One hundred and three years, one month, and six days into the past," answered Data. But he didn't elaborate any further.

Geordi frowned at the android. "Is there something significant about that date?" Sometimes, dealing with Data was like pulling teeth.

"There is indeed," came the reply. "It is only a few days before the Gorn invasion of that world, which killed every colonist but one."

"Lord," breathed Riker. La Forge had almost forgotten that the first officer was still listening in. "If the captain was really there when the Gorn arrive ..."

He didn't have to finish the sentence. They all had a pretty good idea of how it would end-with the death of Jean-Luc Picard. Or maybe, worse, his mangling of the timeline, as hard as he would no doubt fight to prevent it.

And talk about your ironies. To be transported back in time to the incident that opened the way for relations between the Gorn and the Federation-while en route to a meeting that would attempt to preserve those relations. If the situation were not so desperate, Geordi would have managed a smile.

Just then, Barclay and O'Connor entered the room. They'd been working on hooking up the rea.s.sembly controls, which required some work out in the corridor. No sooner had they walked in than they realized something was wrong.

"Good news and bad news," Geordi told them, saving them the trouble of asking. "The good news is we've located the captain. The bad news is where we found him."

Barclay nodded, his brow rippling as he considered the information. O'Connor, who was a good deal less intense than her colleague, just nodded.