Star Trek - TNG - Generations Page 3

  Kirk glanced at him sharply. "With that kind of tact, I'm glad you're an engineer and not a psychiatrist." Still all eagerness and intensity, Harriman ap- proached and interrupted with an exaggerated formality that spoke of the camera focused on them. "Excuse me, gentlemen. If you'll take your seats..." "Oh... of course." Kirk straightened and reactivated the public-relations smile; so did Scott, and the two of them settled into two of the three seats set on the bridge for the occasion.

  As Harriman took the conn and the crew members their stations, Chekov joined them and sank into the third one, casting a final proud-uncle glance at Demora and whispering to Kirk, "I was never that young." Kirk cast him a fond glance. "No. You were younger." "Prepare to leave spacedock," Harriman ordered, with something less than ease. Kirk felt a stirring of sympathy for the young captain. It had been difficult enough to take command of the first Enterprise all those years ago--and young Jim Kirk hadn't had to face three "living legends" and a horde of journalists at the time.

  "Aft thrusters ahead one quarter, port and starboard at station keeping," Harriman continued, then swiveled in his chair to face his guests of honor. "Captain Kirk, I'd be honored if you would give the order to get under way." "No," Kirk replied instantly. He did not intend to be rude; Harriman was simply trying to be polite, to show respect, but to Kirk the offer seemed patronizing. He had no desire to serve as figurehead, to give a symbolic order which, to his mind, only served to underscore the fact that the Enterprise was no longer his. He did not

  care to pretend that it was, even for a moment. "No.

  Thank you." Harriman seemed to take his refusal as modesty.

  "Please. I insist." The bridge fell silent; Kirk became uncomfortably aware that the gaze of every person--including the bank of journalists on the other side of the bridge--was fixed upon him. He glanced helplessly at Scotty, Chekov, the smiling, expectant Harriman, and rose to his feet. The anticipation seemed deafening, his pronouncement anti- climactic.

  "Take us out," he said flatly.

  The crew again broke into wild applause. Kirk sat, trying not to squint at the glaring lights, hoping the camera could not record his embarrassment and annoy- ance.

  "Very good, sir," Chekov whispered wryly.

  "Brought a tear to my eye," Scott deadpanned.

  On impulse power, the ship sailed smoothly out of spacedock and into the solar system. Kirk might have actually relaxed and enjoyed the ride, but he, Scotty, and Chekov were trapped in their seats by the camera and journalists like doomed prisoners in front of a firing squad. He smiled into the dazzling light until his jaw ached, until his head hurt, giving ridiculous answers to ridiculous questions such as: Here you are, back on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.... How does it feel?

  The three of them had paused reluctantly at that; he had cast a look at Chekov, then Scott, realizing that none wanted to answer and each was hoping the others would.

  Jim had silently sighed, then summoned the PR smile and said, Just fine.... at the exact moment Chekov and Scott had each surrendered and chorused, Fine.

  And so it went, until Harriman rescued them by saying, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, we've just cleared the asteroid belt. Our course will take us out beyond Pluto and then back to spacedock....Just a quick run around the block." The journalists turned all in a row, as if suddenly realizing that here was a fresh victim. One of them immediately asked, "Captain, will there be time to conduct a test of the warpm" He broke off at the shrill beep emanating from the communications console. The comm officer called, in a voice that reflected the surprise felt by all, "We're picking up a distress call, Captain." Harriman's eyes went wide for an instant, but he recovered himself enough to order, "On speakers." Kirk winced at the loud burst of static that followed. A male voice, desperate, distorted, barely comprehensible, filtered through the speakers: "This is the transport ship Lakul. We're caught in some kind of energy distortion. We can't break free..." Here the words became garbled, but Kirk was able to make out: "... need immediate help... it's tearing US..." Another painful burst of static filled the air; the comm officer played a rapid fugue on his panel, then shook his head at Hardman. Simultaneously, the science officer checked her console and reported, "The Lakul is one of two ships transporting El Aurian refugees to Earth." Harriman blinked once, twice, at this information, then cleared his throat. Seconds were passing--critical seconds, which could save or doom lives, Kirk knew, and he held his breath as he prayed the young captain would overcome his surprise in time to act. Somehow, he

  managed not to move, not even to clench his fists as he waited for Harriman to speak.

  Harriman turned toward the helm. "Can you locate them?" Almost before the question was out of Harriman's mouth, Demora responded calmly, "The ships are bear- ing at three one zero mark two one five. Distance: three light-years." "Signal the nearest starship," Harriman ordered.

  "We're in no condition to mount a rescue. We don't even have a full crew aboard." The navigator checked his console and half turned toward his captain. "We're the only one in range, sir." Harriman let go a small, perplexed sigh just as the camera light was turned on him. Another second passed, leaving Kirk fidgeting on the edge of his seat, drumming his fip. gers on his thighs, ready to rise and commandeer the vessel if the younger captain did not take swift action. At last, Harriman drew in a breath and straightened his tunic.

  "Well, then... I guess it's up to us." He swiveled toward Demora. "Helm, lay in an intercept course and engage at maximum warp." Kirk released a silent sigh, then tensed, startled as Scott leaned in toward him and said softly, with a glint of amusement in his eye, "Something wrong with your chair, Captain?" Kirk shot him a sour look as the Enterprise leapt into warp.

  Within a minute, Demora glanced up from her con- sole. "We're within visual range of the energy distortion, Captain." "On screen," Harriman said.

  All eyes focused on the main viewscreen, which re- vealed a bizarre sight: stars and space dissected by a writhing, crackling lash of pure energy, hot white shot with streaks of violet, blue, gold. To Kirk, it seemed alive, angry.

  "What the hell is that?" Chekov whispered.

  "I've found the transport ships," Demora reported.

  The view shifted slightly to reveal two buffeted transport vessels, trapped like struggling insects in a violent, pulsing spiderweb. "Their hulls are starting to buckle under the stress. They won't survive much longer." She hung on to her console as the Enterprise-B sud- denly lurched, throwing Kirk against Chekov.

  "We're encountering severe gravimetric distortions from the energy ribbon," the navigator said.

  Clutching the arms of his chair, Harriman ordered, "We'll have to keep our distance. We don't want to get pulled in, too." He frowned at the screen, clearly pon- dering his next move.

  To Kirk, the solution seemed obvious; he gave Harri- man another two seconds, then blurted out, "Tractor beam..." Scott immediately directed a well-aimed elbow at his former captain's rib. Kirk fell silent at once; he knew that this was Harriman's ship, not his. Yet the situation was quickly growing desperate.

  Harriman glanced over his shoulder with a glum expression that was free from annoyance. Either he was too gracious to register the insult, or was genuinely grateful for any help. "We don't have a tractor beam." Kirk made no effort to hide his indignant reaction.

  "You left spacedock without a tractor beam?" "It won't be installed until Tuesday," Harriman re- plied matter-of-factly. He turned back toward the helm.

  "Ensign Sulu--try generating a subspace field around the ships. That might break them free." "Aye, sir." Demora bent over her console.

  No, Kirk wanted to say, but before he had a chance for another outburst, Demora shook her head and glanced up. "There's too much quantum interference, Captain." Once again, Harriman squinted at the lashing streaks of energy on the viewscreen and frowned. Kirk had nothing but sympathy for the young captain, whose first day in command was turning into something of a nightmare on a ship that was undermanned
and ill prepared. But if Harriman failed to come up with another plan, sympathy or not-- "What about venting plasma from the warp nacelles?" Harriman asked no one in particular. "That might disrupt the ribbon's hold on the ships." "Aye, sir," the navigator replied. "Releasing drive plasma..." Harriman visibly held his breath for a moment, then glanced back at Kirk, who gave him a pained, encourag- ing smile.

  "It's not having any effect, sir," the navigator said. "I think--" "Sir!" Demora cried. "The starboard vessel's hull is collapsing!" On the screen, one of the ships, now engulfed by one of the fiery tendrils, exploded into a brilliant starburst.

  All on the Enterprise bridge fell silent as the starburst dimmed and dissolved into hurtling shards of debris.

  "How many people were on that ship?" Chekov asked, aghast; it was not his place to speak out, to put such a pointed question, which should have belonged to the ship's captain. But in the horror of the moment, no one seemed to care or notice--certainly not Harriman, who stared, eyes wide and lips parted, at the screen.

  "Two hundred sixty-five," Demora said softly.

  Two pairs of shoulders sagged ever so faintly under the weight of that answer--one pair belonging to Harriman, the other to Kirk.

  The devil with politeness, Kirk told himself. Two hundred sixty-five... I know the hell he g going through, but I can't sit by and watch it happen again. If he doesn't ask, by God, I'll tell him.

  Demora spoke again, her tone more urgent. "The Lakul's hull integrity is down to twelve percent, sir." Harriman swiveled slowly and met Kirk's anxious gaze. Uncertainty flickered over the younger captain's face. Kirk understood; Harriman did not wish to seem incapable in front of his crew--and the now very silent reporters. But here was experienced help, and there were another two hundred-odd lives at stake.

  "Captain Kirk," Harriman said, with admirable dig- nity and humility, "I would appreciate any suggestions you might have." The words triggered an amazing reaction within Kirk.

  It was the same sensation he had had in the dream the night before: free fall, the way he had felt in Yosemite, falling from E1 Capitan, the way he had felt orbital skydiving only the day before. Yet this time he experi- enced the intense exhilaration he had sought in those adventures, and never found--because this time, he was making a difference.

  He shot out of his chair like a cork from a champagne bottle, and was beside Harriman in less than a second, with a look that he hoped conveyed his gratitude and respect.

  "First," he said, in a voice so low only the younger captain could hear, "move us within transporter range and beam those people to the Enterprise." Harriman gazed up at him with unmasked surprise.

  "But what about the gravimetric distortions? They'll tear us apart." Kirk put a hand on his shoulder and said, very softly and without reproach, "Risk is part of the game if you want to sit in that chair." Harriman waveredmonly for an instant--then squared his shoulders and turned grimly toward the image on the screen. "Helm," he ordered, "close to within transporter range." Kirk squinted at the sudden glare, and glanced up to see the cameraman moving in on the command chair for a close-up. "And second," he snapped, making sure his voice carried over the entire bridge, "turn that damned thing off." The cameraman hesitatedmonly for an instant; the scowls on the two captains' faces apparently convinced him. He turned the camera off and joined the other silent reporters.

  The Enterprise eased forward; on the viewscreen, the streak of deadly energy loomed closer, closer... until, unexpectedly, it lashed out at the Enterprise, barely missing it. Kirk let out a mental sigh and directed silent thanks to Sulu for passing on his skill at the helm.

  "We're within range, sir," Demora said.

  Harriman kept his pale eyes focused on the screen.

  "Beam them directly to sickbay."

  Directly? Kirk almost said--intraship beaming was risky business, at best--but before he could utter a sound, Harriman glanced up at him, apparently reading his thoughts; had the situation not been so critical, he might have smiled.

  "It's all right, Captain. As I said, the new ship's got some amazing new capabilities." Brow furrowed with concern, Chekov stepped forward and bent beside Harriman's chair. "Sir. How big is your medical staff?." Harriman's momentary flicker of pride turned to embarrassment. "The medical staff doesn't arrive until Tuesday." Chekov wasted no time in questioning it; he rose and pointed at two reporters watching nearby. "You and you. You've just become nurses. Let's go." The three hurried to the turbolift as Demora said, "Main Engineering reports fluctuations in the warp plasma relays." Scott was on his feet before she finished speaking.

  "Bypass the relays and go to auxiliary systems," he said, moving quickly toward the helm. Kirk gave him a swift, bemused glance that said, Weren't you jabbing me in the ribs not two minutes ago... ?

  Scott wasted no time acknowledging it.

  "Sir." A skinny young lieutenant fresh from the Academy turned from the aft console with an air of panic. "I'm having trouble locking on to them." He gazed back at his board and shook his head with an expression of pure puzzlement. "They appear to be in some sort of... temporal flux." "Scotty?" Kirk called, but before he could turn to face his former engineer, Scott had left the helm and was standing beside the young lieutenant, frowning down at the console.

  He let go a hiss of amazement. "What the hell--?" Kirk strode over to stand beside him; Scott angled his face toward his former captain without taking his gaze off the perplexing readout. "Their life signs are... phasing in and out of our space-time contin- ~~~." "Phasing?" Kirk asked. "To where?" He stared down at the board, but the data made no more sense than Scott's words.

  Scott did not answer, but moved in to work the controls as the lieutenant gratefully moved aside.

  "Sir!" the navigator cried, in a tone as electrifying as the sight on the screen. "Their hull's collapsing!" For the second time, the energy tendril engulfed the doomed ship, like a great dazzling python squeezing its prey. As Kirk watched, the Lakul erupted into a fiery hail of spinning debris. He turned at once to Scott, whose eyes held the haggard, defeated look Kirk had come to dread so long ago.

  "I got forty-seven of them," Scott said softly, though in the sudden silence his words seemed to fill the entire bridge. His gaze dropped. "Out of one hundred fifty." No time to react with sorrow; the floor beneath Kirk's feet heaved, hurling him against Harriman's chair.

  Somehow he managed to hold on, somehow reacted instinctively to the sound of shrieking metal by shielding his face with his forearm against the sudden rain of sparks and bulkhead fragments.

  And then it was over just as quickly, and the ship righted itself with an abrupt hitch that almost made him lose his balance again. He lowered his arm and took in his surroundings; a scorched bulkhead, but no hull breach, as he'd feared. No serious injuries--except the navigator, who lay sprawled across the console with terrible limpness, his eyes open, his head bloodied, his neck at such an impossible angle that Kirk did not need to check to know that he was dead.

  Beside him, dull grief in her eyes, Demora sat stiffly, holding on to her console with white-lipped intensity.

  "Report!" Kirk shouted over the klaxon's howl, as Scott gently moved the dead man aside and took his place.

  Demora drew in a visible, gathering breath. "We're caught in a gravimetric field emanating from the trailing edge of the ribbon." This time, Harriman needed no prompting, no advice.

  "All engines, full reverse!"

  THREE

  Seconds earlier, aboard the Lakul, Tolian Soran sat cross-legged on the deck of the crowded passenger cabin and stared blankly up at the viewscreen, where the blazing ribbon thrashed through the night of space.

  Unlike the others beside him, some silent with shock, others murmuring, weeping at the news that their sister ship had been destroyed, Soran did not fear the ribbon.

  Indeed, he welcomed it.

  Since the first day he had been rescued by the Lakul, he had been gathering the strength to end his own life.

  He had been
trying to do just that--steering the lifepod into the Borg's death beams when he realized that Sadorah City, his home, Leandra's home, was destroyed.

  His wife and children were dead, killed as he had watched, in safety and horror, from an off-planet obser- vatory.

  By pure chance, the fleeing Lakul had detected him, and beamed him aboard--quite against his will. He was dead inside already of grief; he wished merely for his body to join his mind and family. But he had not been permitted.

  Soran gazed up at the fearsome sight on the view- screen and smiled grimly. The ribbon looked like blaz- ing doom, like the Borg death rays that had carved up his homeworld. They had come for him at last, to allow him to die as he was meant to, as Leanalta and Emo and Mara had.