CHAPTER ONE
“Captain?”
Jean-Luc
Picard started, roused from his thoughts by the concerned voice of his ship’s
counselor.
He
looked at her with that strange admixture of irritation and chagrin one has when
caught drifting; as always, he wondered just how fully her Betazoid senses had
informed her of his current mental state. He searched his memory and found the
string of conversation he’d let slip away.
“Sorry,
Counselor.” He shifted in his command chair, turned to face her, and hoped that
undivided attention now could make up for a complete lack of it moments before.
“You were telling me about the conference on Beta Rikkel.” There was just
enough of a question in his voice to doom the gambit to failure, but it was at
least politic to try.
Fortunately,
if there was one thing Deanna Troi possessed in abundance, it was empathy—both
the literal power of her kin, and the more common type anyone with compassion
could develop if so inclined.
She
leaned conspiratorially towards him, and replied gently, “Actually, Beta Rikkel
was five minutes ago, Captain.”
Picard
raised both hands in a placating gesture. “Mea
maxima culpa,” he conceded.
Deanna
smiled. Leave it to the Captain to find a
phrase both utterly charming and
apropos, she thought. A touch of the clinical psychologist entered her
expression, as she inquired, “Is there something you’d like to talk about,
sir?”
Troi
was using the “Deanna knows best” tone that usually meant she was going to get
to the bottom of your problem, whether or not you were particularly inclined to do so. Fortunately, Picard smiled inwardly, I’m the one person on the ship who can avoid that if I wish.
He stood.
“Actually,
Counselor, it’s something about which I prefer to brood.” Without sparing a
backward glance, he clipped, “You have the Bridge, Number One. I’ll be in my
Ready Room.”
Will
Riker barely got an “Aye, sir” out before Picard was gone into his private
refuge, and shifted his frame over one chair, first officer’s to captain’s,
resettling himself. He knew that an attempt to restrain his lopsided grin was
doomed, and so gave it free rein.
“Did
anyone ever tell you that you look petulant when you’re thwarted?” Riker asked.
From the glare she gave him, he didn’t need empathy to know he’d gone a bit too
far.
“Sorry,”
he offered, hands held up not unlike Picard’s had been a moment before.
She nodded,
once, accepting the gesture; and he continued, “That’s the first time I can
remember not seeing the captain adjust his jacket when he stood up.”
“Really?”
Troi’s concern was plain; omitting the maneuver that had been named for him
meant that Jean-Luc Picard was far more off his game than she had been aware.
“Maybe I should go talk to him...”
“You
should not.” This came unexpectedly from above. Worf glared down
disapprovingly at them both from the tactical console, his uniquely Klingon
glower on full display. “If a warrior cannot be alone with his difficulties,
then he is robbed of the chance to overcome them himself.”
Deanna
smiled sweetly at him, and replied, “Congratulations, Lieutenant. I wasn’t
aware that your Doctorate in Psychology had come through while I was away at
the conference.”
This
time, Riker was able to smother his grin. Worf snorted in exasperation, and
fell silent; finding great satisfaction, for some reason, in examining the
display for the phaser targeting systems at that precise moment.
“All
joking aside, Deanna,” Riker continued, leaning over to whisper in her ear,
“maybe you should let it ride for now. He hasn’t been too responsive when
you’ve tried to draw him out. When he gets to the point where there’s something
to say, you know he’ll come to you… or at least give you the opening you need
to help him.”
“With
all these capable psychoanalysts on board, I’ll soon be out of a job,” Troi
whispered back, but her smile told him it was merely in jest. She, too, stood
up, and announced as she headed for the turbolift, “I’ve decided to take your
advice, Dr. Worf. Solitude for the captain, and chocolate for me.”
The
doors closed on her laughter, and she was gone.
“I
never said anything about chocolate,” Worf grumbled to no one in
particular.
Riker
grinned again.
Jean-Luc
Picard stood in silence, and did something he couldn’t recall having done in
seven years.
He
looked at his fish.
It
didn’t seem particularly impressed by the attention, the captain noted. It
swam, it nibbled, it stirred up the sand on the bottom with its fins. Then it
started the process again.
Picard
found this simple repetition oddly relaxing.
At least you’re reliable, I’ll grant you, he thought, if not particularly inspiring. Not much will change if you turn left instead of right.
“Computer,
audio only,” he instructed, resisting for a moment an unusual urge to tap on
the aquarium glass and gauge the response. “Recitation of Starfleet biography
and service record for Lieutenant Ro, Laren. Begin.”
He
didn’t learn anything he hadn’t already known, but he stood there for long
moments anyway, as the computer droned on.
A Dixon Hill, this isn’t, something
within him thought. Another part added bitterly, but just like a Dixon Hill, Jean-Luc, you know how this one turns out.
He
snorted aloud, and snapped, “Computer, discontinue playback.”
I was better off just looking at the damned fish.
He
briefly considered turning to Troi, but then set the thought firmly aside. She
couldn’t truly counsel with any impartiality in this situation; she, too, had
been a friend to Ro Laren. Besides, it was inappropriate, he felt, to let any
of the crew know how greatly this was weighing on his mind.
His
communicator beeped.
“Captain,”
Worf’s voice rumbled through the speaker, “we are receiving a communiqué from
Starfleet Command; Admiral Nechayev wishes to speak directly to you, on an
encrypted channel.”
“Very
well, Mr. Worf. Put her through.” Jean-Luc Picard took a deep breath, and let
it out again; in that moment he did as he had always done; he put aside his
personal troubles, and prepared to shoulder those of the Federation.
He
sat down at his desk, and addressed himself to the comm panel. “Computer, level
three encryption sequence, authorization Picard four seven alpha tango.” After
a brief delay, the screen flashed ready, and he activated the channel.
Alynna
Nechayev didn’t have the look of one who’d been waiting patiently while he
secured the channel. She was drumming her fingernails on a desk 40 light years
away, and even from that distance it managed to sound portentous.
“Admiral,
it's good to see you again.”
She
barely acknowledged his greeting with a nod, and began without preamble, as was
her custom. “Captain, I’ve just placed us
on a fleet-wide Yellow Alert. I’ve extended a caution to the Imperial Klingon
Navy as well.
“Nine hours ago, the Federation Council was
contacted by the highest echelons of the Romulan government. They tendered a
shocking accusation, and promised full military reprisals unless an explanation
was forthcoming. I’ve been informed that, technically, since that time…
“…a state of war has existed between the United Federation of
Planets and the Romulan Star Empire.”
Picard
exhaled, and slowly sat back in his chair. The Borg were perhaps the most
powerful race in the galaxy; the Dominion was intimidating in part because of
the mystery surrounding their overlords, the Founders; but the Romulans were
the ubiquitous, implacable, insidious foe, the oldest of the Federation’s
enemies; they had grown in power along with her, and still stood proudly across
the Neutral Zone, a constant reminder that there was one direction in
which the Federation had never expanded.
And
now they were at war.
“Thus far, no Romulan vessels have even
crossed into the Neutral Zone, let alone Federation space. Earth Outpost Four,
however, reports a enormous build-up of warbirds—over fifty—along the Romulan
side of the border, near the Draken system.” Nechayev paused for a moment,
then added, “Of course, those are only
the ships they want us to see.”
He
understood the implications all too well. Full-scale war with a species
possessing cloaking technology promised to be a conflict fraught with
ever-increasing paranoia. One could be under an enemy’s guns and not even know
until the first shots were fired.
He
finally spoke. “What was the nature of this accusation, Admiral?”
She
looked abashed for a moment, almost as if she couldn’t herself believe what she
was saying. “That information hasn’t been
revealed to me. At the moment, only the President and the Federation Council
are privy to it.
“I have your orders, Captain. You are to
proceed immediately on course 179 mark 34, towards the Neutral Zone. The USS Ambassador will rendezvous with you in 17 hours to
deliver a team of mission specialists and, coincidentally, a replacement for
Lieutenant Ro.” Nechayev barely missed a beat, but to Picard, the
hesitation before the young Bajoran’s name was glaring.
“From there, you will proceed into the
Neutral Zone, to meet with a Romulan official who will present you with this evidence
firsthand. What happens from that moment is entirely up to you and the mission
specialist. If an investigation is warranted, perform it. If it becomes
necessary to defend yourself, by all means, do so. However, do not fire first.”
She
gave him no chance to interrupt. “Jean-Luc,
I can see you’re full of questions. I’m sorry; I don’t have any of the answers.
I can only hope that the... indefinable
quality possessed by all the starships
“Best of luck.
Nechayev out.”
Picard
sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts, after the admiral’s stern image had
faded. Abruptly, he rose, and strode back out onto his bridge.
If
the fish had understood or cared, it would have noted that this time, when he
stood, Jean-Luc Picard had straightened his jacket.