The Sky's The Limit Part 16

A spray hit DeSeve's arm as Doctor Crusher made the rounds, reinjecting everyone in engineering against the growing levels of radiation.

DeSeve kept his eyes fixed on Picard. Better than anyone else, the captain knew how quickly time was running out. It would take DeSeve five minutes to reach where the grenade was. If he didn't start out now, they might as well abandon s.h.i.+p and hope for the best.

Khazara might not be out there. But Picard would not bet so many lives on it.

"We would offer to return to the empire if it would save you," Proconsul M'ret said. "But it won't. Send someone with him, if you must. But let him try."

"I will a.s.sist him," Worf announced.

If only the Klingon could. Klingon physiology could take more damage than the relatively frail human model. DeSeve fought against an incongruous laugh.

"I'm coming too!" La Forge declared. He straightened from the console and nearly keeled over. He was going nowhere.

"Let the man make good on his crimes," M'ret urged Picard. "He is a tool to your hand. And he will serve."

How had the Vice-Proconsul known that, more than anything in his life, DeSeve wanted to finish the mission with which Spock had entrusted him, the mission that had brought him back home. He wanted to give these decent people and this magnificent s.h.i.+p a chance at life. And he had spent enough time in the empire to know that there truly was only one punishment for treason.

Maybe that was all M'ret knew. Maybe he was simply allowing a man for whom he had-in some strange way-a.s.sumed a debt of grat.i.tude a chance at Final Honor. It was more than any other Romulan had ever granted him.

DeSeve saw when Picard's face changed that M'ret had gained his point, and he, his last wish.

Doctor Crusher injected him again. This time it burned. "It may give you a fighting chance," she said.

Keep morale up. Yes, Doctor.

He made himself smile at her. It probably would not suffice to save him from fatal radiation burns, but it would give him time.

Maybe even enough.

"Salute!" ordered M'ret, and his aides brought their fists to their chests. So did he.

Last of all, Picard faced him. What was he going to say? Good luck? G.o.dspeed?

The captain's face was ashen. "Thank you." He reached out to clasp DeSeve's hand and did not flinch from the sweat and tremors that gripped it.

That was more than DeSeve ever expected or deserved.

DeSeve walked past the mingled frustration and respect on Lieutenant Worf's ridged face.

"You'd better suit up!" ordered La Forge.

Could he spare the time? Engineers swarmed him and thrust him into the protective suit as if they valued him. Making what haste he could in unfamiliar gear, DeSeve lumbered away.

The Jefferies tube that led toward the nacelle, the grenade, and the fail safes was a maelstrom of small explosions, white shading past a livid purple off the spectrum, and the whoops of alarms. In here, the vibrations of the endangered s.h.i.+p seemed to take possession of him and shake him through and through.

Time until the warp core breach was running out, but he knew his personal time would run out even faster unless he made haste. He bent double, a tall man in a small s.p.a.ce, and crawled faster than he had even in the grueling Romulan basic training they had insisted he undergo. He had entertained them mightily, but, in the end, he had pa.s.sed their tests. He would pa.s.s this one too.

The protective gear got in his way, wedging him for precious seconds. He thought he heard something tear. No time to check, to make any repairs. He wrestled free and moved forward again, trying for as much speed as he could, as if this were a Romulan live-fire exercise.

As much as the explosions and shrieks of deranged systems, the radiation was a palpable thing. It was a light-filled mist in the air, a burning sensation on his skin, and it grew harder to bear the closer he got. Enterprise lurched hard, hurling him against the side of the tube and wedging him in firmly against panels that had buckled. As time ticked down to warp core breach, it would become harder and harder to control. He struggled away from the panels and felt his suit tear, slipped on one hand and went down. Frantically tearing free, he righted himself and clambered even faster through the tube. This was his one chance to redeem a life that had been one long dishonor.

A red light blinked on his heads-up display. That last fight to extricate himself had torn his suit, all right. Torn the back and one glove.

He looked down. His injured hand had left a smear of blood on the metal. There would be more. He pushed himself to move faster, before the rising levels of radiation stopped him. By now, the first stigmata of radiation poisoning were forming, spreading and growing darker on his skin. Was that sweat he felt, or blood as capillaries weakened and then broke?

By the time DeSeve reached the nexus where the cloaked Romulan weapon was probably lodged, his hand had begun to ooze blood within the torn glove. He braced himself up on his knees and groped ahead. Now he could feel the small, deadly object. Cloaked, all right, and he could not manipulate its triggers in the heavy gloves that had failed to protect him.

Well, it wasn't as if he had ever expected to make it out of here alive, he told himself and ignored the spike of fear that followed. He was used to fear. He could live with it-just a little longer.

He ripped off both gloves, the torn, useless one and the one that still afforded him protection. The heads-up display pointed to almost exponential radiation hikes, but he needed both hands to manipulate the weapon. First, though, he had to see it.

Blood dripped from both hands. It splashed and spread out over an invisible, roughly spherical object. The thing was burning hot. No time to cry out or find the med-delivery system in his useless gear. He caught up the gloves again and grabbed at the object. They began to smolder. He smelled smoke along with his own blood and sweat. But they would last long enough. Long enough for him to find the tiny, secret switches that were Romulan engineers' protection against intrusive political officers.

His helmet had clouded with sweat or worse. Half crazed from the pain, he ripped it off. Stories he remembered from his brief, unlucky Starfleet career came back to him. Hadn't they whispered that Spock once lost a battle with radiation yet lived to fight another day? Could DeSeve dare do less-not just for Spock, but for this captain, this crew, these Romulans? So now he was comparing himself with one of Starfleet's greatest heroes and the very person who'd used him to help Romulans betray their own empire? He laughed and fought not to cough. Blood was trickling down his chin anyhow. It was almost purple in the weird light. Red blood, not green.

Red.

By now, he could scarcely see. But he could hear the warning as time ticked down toward a warp core breach. Behind him, in engineering, they were trying to talk to him, urge him on, ask him questions. He ignored all of them but did not turn off the signal: no need to make them fear he had turned traitor once again. Let them busy themselves with lesser worries.

It was getting darker fast now. Odd: the shriek of the s.h.i.+p in torment seemed softer. His hearing was failing, along with the rest of him. He realized he had one last chance to use his waning strength to force the power coupling closed.

La Forge had been right. They were all but fused. DeSeve abandoned his charred gloves over the deactivated grenade even though the s.h.i.+p's true engineers would be able to see it now that it was uncloaked and deactivated. Only the couplings remained. He struck them hard with joined, bleeding fists. Pain radiated through him as his bones snapped, but at last he felt the switches give.

The deadly pyrotechnics in the Jefferies tube subsided. Even if he could not see them, or truly hear the screams of the s.h.i.+p's engines, he felt the shaking of the tube around him diminish, then steady until he crouched, panting in the stillness and the dark.

He expected at any second to begin convulsing, to roll about and batter himself unconscious in the Jefferies tube. He guessed he just didn't have that much strength left. He dropped, panting. He was beyond pain now. For a moment, he savored the triumph and the silence.

"DeSeve, Ensign DeSeve! Come in, man. Report!"

"Radiation levels are dropping..."

"...Power drain ceasing..."

"He did it!" a feral hiss in a most aristocratic accent. It was almost funny.

"Stefan!" Picard's voice again, pain filled. "Are you there? Can you answer me?"

He wanted to reply, but his mouth was filled with blood. By the time Picard called his name again, he was beyond hearing, beyond reply, beyond life itself.

The cup of tea on Picard's desk had cooled a long time ago. The lights were dim, compared with the skidding rainbows of stars at warp speed he could see through the viewscreen in his quarters.

"Captain's log. Repairs on Enterprise's engines are proceeding satisfactorily, even after Lieutenant Commander La Forge was apprehended in an unauthorized attempt to leave sickbay in order to get back on the job. Doctor Crusher has declined to bring charges. Similarly, I have declined to arrest Lieutenant Worf for disobeying my direct order to remove Amba.s.sador Spock's...a.s.sociates from danger, although I have accepted his personal apology.

"Mister La Forge, now restored to duty and Doctor Crusher's good graces, informs me that we shall be operational within six hours. All tachyon emissions appear to have vanished." Picard allowed himself a thin smile at the paradox.

"Admiral Ross has spoken to me from Draken IV. He had indeed sent out a s.h.i.+p, the Nolan, as soon as communications broke down. Once it makes rendezvous"-he remembered how Ruanek had stammered over the word-"Vice-Proconsul M'ret and his staff will transfer from Enterprise and be taken to Vulcan as quickly as possible."

Presumably by Starfleet, rather than Vulcan shuttle, Picard a.s.sumed. The transfer would be accomplished quickly, efficiently. Picard would take an honor guard down to transporter room 3. As much as M'ret might protest, Picard gave honor where he saw it.

It was unfortunate, though, that he would have no time to speak with the "Vulcan" legate, let alone take up his offer of hospitality back on Vulcan. It would have been pleasant to see how the exile whom he had saved had prospered, but the legate would have to continue to store the 2360 against the day when Picard might actually have a moment to savor the vintage.

Not that he would sit still for long on Vulcan. The planet was a treasure for archaeologists.

A treasure...highly emotional terminology, but accurate, came that inner voice again. It was logical that that voice had come to the fore of his thoughts: its owner, like Picard, had risked what he valued more than life on his judgment of one man. Both had been right, much to their satisfaction.

"Finally, I come to the matter of Ensign Stefan DeSeve. We took him into custody at Research Station 25 and were bringing him in to stand court-martial for treason. In the battle to extract Vice-Proconsul M'ret and his staff, Mister DeSeve's knowledge and prompt action saved the Enterprise at the cost of his own life. I have already reported-and I will uphold it at any board of inquiry-my recommendation that all charges against Mister DeSeve be dismissed. In token thereof, I have given orders for him to be buried in s.p.a.ce with full military honors"-his voice grew almost harsh to prevent it from shaking-"with the rest of my crew before the Vice-Proconsul leaves Enterprise. I can only add that I consider Stefan DeSeve's sacrifice to be in the highest tradition of the service."

Picard ended his log entry. Granted, he had not actually said which military service he actually meant. He didn't have to. And, if he pushed Fortune even more than Enterprise had been doing lately, no one might ever ask. Besides, did it even matter? DeSeve, N'Vek, even Spock himself-they all served the same cause. Like many others who had died and still more who fought and waited and hoped.

For freedom.

He picked up his cup and raised it to the stars outside. It was just tea, not the Burgundy that would have to keep waiting for him on Vulcan, but it would serve.

"Absent friends," said Picard, and drained his cup.

Ordinary Days

James Swallow

Historian's note:

This tale unfolds concurrently with the episode "Journey's End," during the seventh season of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

JAMES SWALLOW.

James Swallow is proud to be the only British writer to have worked on a Star Trek television series, creating the original story concepts for the Star Trek: Voyager episodes "One" and "Memorial"; his other a.s.sociations with the Star Trek saga include "Closure" for the anthology Distant Sh.o.r.es, scripting the video game Star Trek Invasion, and writing over 400 articles in thirteen different Star Trek magazines around the world.

Beyond the final frontier, as well as a nonfiction book (Dark Eye: The Films of David Fincher), James also wrote the Sundowners series of original steampunk westerns, Jade Dragon, The b.u.t.terfly Effect, and fiction in the worlds of Warhammer 40,000 (The Flight of the Eisenstein, Faith & Fire, Deus Encarmine, and Deus Sanguinius), Stargate (Halcyon and Relativity), and 2000AD (Eclipse, Whiteout, and Blood Relative). His other credits include scripts for video games and audio dramas in the worlds of Battlestar Galactica, Doctor Who, Blake's 7, and s.p.a.ce: 1889.

THE TWIN SUNRISE ON DORVAN V PAINTED THE SKY WITH A cherry-red tint that reminded Mika of her grandmother, of the dresses she used to wear. Unlike the rest of her clan, the old woman had never left the land where she had been born, married, had children, and died, and yet Mika felt like she was still with her, casting an eye over their towns.h.i.+p each time the suns came over the horizon.

Mika wondered what Grandmother would have made of the colony. As long as one didn't look too hard at the fields of kittik wheat, the second orange star on the horizon, or the odd birds that wheeled in the skies, it wouldn't be difficult to fool yourself into thinking you were still on Earth. But the fifth planet in the Dorvan system was so very far from the lands of Mika's ancestors, and the distance was not just a measure of simple light-years. It was a distance of the heart. At night she would see the stars, all the alien constellations, and feel it most strongly. As she walked, she gave a rueful half smile to the emerging day. It was strange for her to think of abstractions like "home" when she had spent so much of her life rootless and wandering.

But that had changed now. Marriage had a way of turning your life about, so Mika's sister Liso had said. Without noticing, Mika had grown connected, the need to wander that characterized her youth fading and a yearning for reconnection rising in its place.

She got a wary nod from Hectu, the Den.o.bulan botanist who lived in the house just past the school; she was one of the few nonhumans in the towns.h.i.+p. The portly woman was, as ever, up to her arms in Dorvan's powdery brown dirt, leafy plants in her big, thick-fingered hands. Mika didn't stop to talk. It wasn't that Hectu was bad company, but she had a tendency to make every issue into a drama, no matter how small-and with the current situation, a circ.u.mstance of real importance, Mika knew that she'd be listening to her fret for hours if she stopped to be polite.

The treaty announcement was all that anyone could talk about now, the s.h.i.+fting of ghostly and unreal borders on some computer-projected map of the galaxy, decisions made by unknown men on worlds...o...b..ting stars so far away as to be invisible in Mika's night sky. The talk was of lines of influence, demarcations between nation-states that were as removed from the towns.h.i.+p on Dorvan V as to be almost inconceivable. The settlement had existed on the fringes of human s.p.a.ce for centuries, but because of the consequences of a slow-burning conflict that had never even touched their lives, the colonists awakened one day to learn their world had been ceded to alien control. Carda.s.sia or Sol, Federation or Union-the name upon the territory where the Dorvan system lay was an abstract concept, not something that had a bearing on their everyday lives. Not until now.

The girl walked on, threading her way through the open paths between the adobe buildings. Here in the towns.h.i.+p proper, the sense of tension hanging over the community was more noticeable. As today had drawn closer, the laughter and freedom of the place had become less obvious, more forced. People were worried, and worried people stayed in their homes. They ruminated and let their thoughts turn to dark places. Last night, while her husband slept soundly beside her, Mika had heard raised voices from the house two doors down, an argument over something petty inflated by fears about other, deeper concerns. She looked up into the morning, saw the faint lights of the last bright stars of dawn. The stars.h.i.+p would be coming soon.

"Hey, Mika." The voice drew her attention and she turned as a friendly figure approached. He gave her an easy smile and she did her best to match it.

"Lakanta." She nodded back. "You're up early."

"It's going to be a long day," he noted, without even the smallest hint of irony. He was quiet for a moment, and Mika knew he was trying to frame the question. She made a little wave with her hand.

"I've asked him," she said. "He hasn't given me an answer."

A frown creased Lakanta's pleasant, open face. "It's...difficult for him," he noted. "I don't think the elders really understand that. They only see his connection, and-"

"His obligation," she finished. Mika looked away. "Marriage makes him family and an extension of the tribe."

"The nature of family often forces us to places we don't want to visit," he said quietly. "I do not envy him."

Mika hesitated and gave Lakanta a long look. "They asked you to come speak with me, didn't they?"

He nodded again. "Don't think ill of the elders. They see your husband as the only line of resistance against the Starfleet people. Their fears are strong."

"He's just one man," Mika retorted, more sharply than she wished. "He's not a soldier or a diplomat."

"He used to be one of them."

She snorted. "He was never one of them. That's why he chose to leave all that behind."

A curious expression pa.s.sed over Lakanta's face, a peculiar look of knowing that seemed oddly alien. "Choices always return to us when we least expect them. The cost of them is never fully apparent at the time." He blinked, and his manner changed again. "I'll come by in a little while. Perhaps he'll listen to a friend."

Lakanta wandered away and Mika walked into her house alone.

The smell of warming oatcakes met her and she was instantly hungry. A pot of tea steamed gently on the kitchen table, and her mug waited for her, a spoon resting beside it. For a moment, the simple gesture wiped away her darker musings.

A hand snaked around her waist and Mika felt the bristles of an unshaven chin tickle her neck as her husband kissed her there. "Hey," he said.

Mika turned in his embrace and took up the thread of their little ritual. "Good morning, Mister Crusher," she told him.

"Good morning, Missus Crusher," he replied and kissed her again. "Breakfast's ready."

She slipped from his grasp, and the casual warmth in his expression faded. The question hung in the air between them.

"Wes," she began, but he turned away and went to the stove.

"I said I would think about it," he replied. "I'm doing it. I'm thinking about it."

She felt a knot of tension in her chest. A moment ago she had been ready to take his side to Lakanta and the others, defend her husband's right to his privacy, and now she found herself on the other face of the argument. Wesley had come to live with Mika's clan on Dorvan V because he had walked away from that life, and now she was asking him-they were all asking him-to return to it again for the good of the colony.

Finally she spoke. "I hate this. I hate that you're being asked this." Mika sighed. "You should refuse."

"I want to." Wes brought her breakfast and poured her tea. "More than anything, I want to."