A Time to Sow Page 8

  Nodding at that, Riker finally felt himself beginning to relax, the full effect of Deanna’s presence asserting itself as it always had. “I’m not worried so much about my feelings over what’s happened, but I am worried about Captain Picard. It might help me to know how he feels. What are you sensing from him?”

  “He’s hurting,” Troi said, meeting his gaze. “It’s as if he’s mourning, in a way, for the way things used to be. I sense some embarrassment, as though he feels he’s let the entire crew down or tarnished our reputations by his actions and decisions.”

  “Captain Picard has nothing to be embarrassed about,” Riker countered. “This whole mess is so wrong for so many reasons.” He realized his voice had risen as he spoke the last words, carrying across the lounge and attracting the attention of officers seated at other tables. Clearing his throat, he affected a weak smile to Troi. “Sorry.”

  “The captain doesn’t seem to harbor any ill will against Starfleet or his superior officers,” Troi said. “He understands this is the way things have to be. The captain would sacrifice his standing and reputation for any of us, Will. It’s not a shock that he would do so for the Ontailians as well. I’ve never seen him place a boundary on his respect for any race or culture.”

  Riker nodded. “Well, no argument there.”

  “I think he just needs time to sort this all out for himself,” Troi said. “Hopefully he’ll eventually feel comfortable discussing the matter with me.”

  Smiling, Riker said, “You do have an uncanny ability to get people to talk.”

  “You, sir,” Troi said, adding a touch of a purr to her voice, “are merely more susceptible to the power of suggestion than most.”

  “Now, hold on,” Riker said, holding up both hands with an air of mock defensiveness, “Consider the source, here. When it comes to you, I…”

  A voice over his combadge interrupted his train of thought. “Commander Riker, you have a priority subspace transmission on an encoded channel.”

  Tapping his communicator, the first officer replied, “Riker here. Who’s the message from?”

  “According to this,” said the voice, which Riker recognized as belonging to the beta-shift tactical officer, Lieutenant Hines, “it’s from the Federation ambassador to Qo’noS. Shall I route it to your quarters?”

  Riker looked at Troi, raising his eyebrows and adopting a low tone of voice. “I guess news travels fast.” He scanned the lounge and saw an unoccupied table with a computer terminal sitting atop it. “Lieutenant, route it down here, please. Riker out.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later then,” Troi said as she rose from her seat.

  “Stick around,” he replied, moving to the other table. “You know I’ll only repeat it all to you over dinner.”

  “Oh, so now it’s dinner we’re having?”

  Riker grinned as he sat down at the computer station and spun the terminal’s flat-panel screen to face them both. He tapped a control and a moment later was rewarded with an image of Worf, dressed in his ambassadorial robes, filling the screen.

  “Hello, Worf,” Riker said to his former shipmate. “This is a surprise. Deanna is with me, too, so watch that language of yours.”

  “So I see, Commander.” Worf’s expression, as usual, showed no signs of amusement in response to Riker’s remark. “You both appear well.”

  “Thanks, Worf,” Troi said. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  Riker asked, “And how goes your assignment?”

  The Klingon’s shoulders rose and fell with a protracted sigh. “It presents its share of…challenges. Dare I pose the same question to you?”

  “Oh, we’re doing just fine,” Riker replied, not bothering to edit any frustration from his voice. “We’re well on our way to where no one has bothered to go before.”

  “I am aware of the nature of your mission,” Worf said. “It would have been more appropriately handled by a ship other than the Enterprise.”

  “Your powers of assessment are as sharp as always,” Riker said. “It’s a step up from all of us being sent to our rooms without supper.”

  The first officer saw his friend’s expression cloud over, making him appear even more dour than usual. “I confess that I am concerned for the captain’s well-being,” he said.

  “We all are,” Troi replied. “I believe that he’s coping as best he can under the circumstances, and that he’s drawing strength from the support of his friends.” Smiling, she added, “He might appreciate hearing from you sometime soon.”

  Shaking his head, Worf said, “When I was forced to accept discommendation from the Empire, the captain stood at my side and helped my family regain its standing. I promise you that I will do all in my power to support him in this time as he did for me.”

  “I never thought otherwise, Worf,” Riker replied, smiling. “It never hurts to have a few friends in high places.”

  “Indeed,” the Klingon said. “The right person in the right position is sometimes all it takes to turn a tide of opinion, after all.”

  As his friend’s eyes bored into him even across the vast distance separating them, Riker felt any reply he might have made die in his throat. There was something powerful behind Worf’s words, something the first officer could not quite identify.

  Apparently sensing the awkward pause, Troi said, “Please keep in touch, Worf. It’s always good to hear from you.”

  “I shall,” the ambassador replied, a smile forming or the first time on his usually intimidating features. “I wish you good luck in the Dokaal sector. Worf out.”

  As the Klingon’s image was replaced with the familiar starred oval symbolizing the United Federation of Planets, Riker played his friend’s remarks over in his mind once again. Was Worf suggesting that he contact another starship commander to help stir some goodwill for Picard among the ranks? Was he of the mind that, to the right person, a leak of the facts regarding the demon-ship incident would work in the captain’s favor?

  Or, was it something else? Something more personal?

  Prior to Worf’s departure from Deep Space 9 for the Federation embassy on Qo’noS, Riker had contacted his friend to wish him well. During that conversation, as he beheld his former shipmate and the new direction his life was about to take, Riker remembered thinking about his own career and the choices he had made.

  At one time on the fast track for command, Riker had been offered a ship of his own on three separate occasions. He had carefully considered each appointment, but in the end had declined them all and chosen instead to remain on the Enterprise. Even though he had garnered a distinguished service record while assigned as executive officer of the U.S.S. Hood, when the first offer for promotion was presented, he had opted to serve under Jean-Luc Picard. A tour of duty as first officer of the Federation flagship was not an opportunity to be dismissed lightly, after all.

  He had spent more than a decade as Picard’s second-in-command, far longer than would be considered normal for an officer of his age and accomplishments. He had seen men and women, younger than himself, continue to climb the career ladder, progressing to captaincies of their own. With that in mind, why had he not taken advantage of the offers presented to him and advanced his career along the accepted lines?

  The answer, odd as it might be, was simple. None of the ships Riker had been offered was the Enterprise. They did not hold lineages and histories as storied as the vessel on which he currently served.

  His decision to remain as Picard’s first officer was the wisest move he could have made, so far as Riker himself was concerned. He truly believed that the value of all he had learned during the ensuing years under Picard’s mentorship far surpassed even the experiences he would have acquired as captain of his own vessel. In Riker’s eyes, there was no finer leader in Starfleet, and no one more deserving of his unflagging respect and support.

  Still, had the time finally come for Riker to move on? Had Worf, with his mysterious words, suggested that the best way he could continue to se
rve Picard, to say nothing of Riker himself, would be to finally accept promotion and appointment to a vessel of his own?

  How did we get to thinking about this, he wondered. These were thoughts that had not occupied his mind in…well, longer than he could remember.

  “Will?” Troi asked, obviously sensing his unease. Blinking rapidly, Riker looked up to see the counselor staring at him from across the dining table. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head to clear away the remaining wisps of his reverie. “No, no. I’m fine. Just lost in thought.” Flashing what he hoped was an encouraging smile, he added, “Don’t worry. I’m just tired, is all.”

  “Are you hungry, too?” Troi asked, the question enough to cause his stomach to grumble in response.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “for food and for company.”

  Troi’s eyes met his and she smiled. “Good. Then we’re in the right place.”

  Chapter Ten

  Translated from the personal journal of Hjatyn:

  I HAVE TRIED on several occasions to craft this entry, failing miserably with each of my previous attempts. Much has happened since I was last able to record my thoughts in anything approaching an ordered manner. Even as I write this, I am still finding it difficult to accept the reality of our situation.

  After watching the crisis build over the course of nearly an entire cycle, those of us living among the asteroids could only stand by as our homeworld entered its death throes. Huddled in our quarters, Beeliq and I sought solace in one another’s embrace, watching in silence as the news feeds overflowed with images of horrific destruction. People begged for help and for the quakes to end. Some even prayed for the end to come just so that the suffering would stop. They cried for release and I wept as well, for it was all I could do for them.

  Having continued to increase in number and force, seemingly with each passing day, the quakes’ destructive power was nearly rivaled by the other effects they unleashed across the planet. Enormous tidal waves slammed into coastal and island communities, wiping away most if not all evidence of civilization. Avalanches of rock and snow caused similar devastation in mountain areas. People stranded in remote regions had no hope of rescue as emergency service providers, already bogged down by the problems facing them in the more heavily populated areas, worked frantically to assist the growing number of victims.

  Law and order had deteriorated in the face of the calamity, replaced by anarchy as people took matters into their own hands. Whether trying to flee the cities for the relative safety of the outlying regions or taking to the streets in search of food or medical assistance, citizens and law-enforcement officers clashed in ever-increasing incidents of civil unrest. This chaos only served to further hamper an already overburdened emergency response force, which in turn caused even more discord among the populace. In short order, both sides had seized one another, forming a deadly embrace from which there was no escape.

  And what of those fortunate enough to flee the planet? Though the final tally has not been made public, it did not require much effort to figure out that a mere four or five thousand people could have been safely transported from Dokaal using every available space vessel. Once the order for evacuation was given, ships traveled back and forth in a constant convoy, each trip taking weeks. Upon their arrival, evacuees were transferred to various outposts throughout the colonies in an attempt to spread the additional burden as equitably and efficiently as possible.

  Then, it happened.

  Our first indication came when the news feeds began to stop, not all at once and not immediately. Some journalists were able to report massive quake activity before their signal was lost. Others simply ceased transmission in mid-report, taken by apparent surprise. Regardless of how it happened, one by one, each of the broadcasts vanished in a storm of static.

  The communications center for the mining colonies informed viewers that they were attempting to regain the lost signals from our home planet, but they knew, just as we did, what had really happened.

  Any lingering doubt was quickly erased by the images transmitted by one of the last ships to flee the planet, escaping with its final group of evacuees mere hours before the final cataclysmic event.

  The initial pictures of our homeworld sent to us by that last ship were reminiscent of those transmitted by the first travelers courageous enough to leave the confines of our planet. Just as it appeared in those low-quality views I remember from my youth, the planet was a beacon of peace and prosperity, of life and potential, as well as an anchor for those brave enough to venture into the vast unknown.

  All of that was soon shattered as our world came apart.

  It is an image forever burned into my memory. Captured with haunting clarity, the transmission from the rescue vessel dispassionately broadcast our world’s final moments and the simultaneous deaths of the uncounted people that could not be saved. At first the planet seemed to collapse in on itself before splintering into billions of fragments, slung outward in all directions along with magma from the molten core. The core itself, now freed from the tremendous pressure at the heart of the planet, vaporized as it succumbed to the sudden vacuum, creating a kaleidoscopic display that only served to punctuate the awesome destructive power that had been unleashed.

  Dokaal was gone.

  In the immediate aftermath of the catastrophe, I considered those left behind to be the fortunate ones. At least for them, the suffering was over and they could rest. For those of us left behind, our battles were just beginning, with our first priority being simple survival.

  Faced with the sudden influx of several thousand new inhabitants, adjustments have to be made to support them, to say nothing of the thousands of colonists already living among the asteroids. For the newcomers, their abrupt arrival means that they will have to undergo an accelerated regimen of inoculations in order to survive the omnipresent radiation surrounding the asteroid field. Without the medications, which in essence alter a person’s body chemistry at the cellular level, no one can survive here. For workers normally assigned to the colonies, the series of injections is carried out during an acclimation period prior to their arrival, but the survivors of Dokaal do not have that luxury.

  The challenges extend to our facilities, as well. Designed for short-duration assignments after which crews were rotated back to Dokaal, our outposts are not capable of sustaining us indefinitely without the massive enhancement of our support systems. Such efforts already were under way practically from the moment the emergency situation on our homeworld was revealed. Knowing we would soon be without the benefit of the regular logistical aid we typically enjoyed from Dokaal, supply shipments were stepped up in addition to the transfer of those selected for evacuation. Despite all that preparation, much work still remains.

  Things once taken for granted, such as the availability of food and drinking water, replacement supplies and components required to maintain the colony’s support systems—even the expectation of privacy—are just some of the first things that have been impacted by the emergency measures enacted following the disaster. Power usage already has been redistributed throughout the colonies in order to conserve resources. Two, sometimes three families are being forced to share quarters originally intended for a single group. The living areas occupied by those without families, already cramped and utilitarian in nature, have been reconfigured to support twice the number for which they were designed.

  One advantage of living in an asteroid field is that there is no shortage of key resources. The mining colonies’ ore-processing plants and other factories are ideally suited to converting raw material into finished products used to construct new outpost facilities and maintain our current structures as required by the community. Indeed, they had already been doing so since long before my birth. In addition to easing the burden of supporting our expanded population, it also offers constructive, meaningful work for a people whose entire existence had been predicated on toiling to provide for others.

  Still
, the work to make the best of our dire situation is being hampered on many fronts. Throughout the colonies, administrators and security forces are facing panic and uncertainty in the midst of the rapidly unfolding situation. Some of the colonists are inciting riots, and there have even been reports of a few deaths. I know the unrest is born of fear rather than anger, but that does not lessen its severity.

  People are too scared to place their trust in the colony leaders, who are now the sole arbiters of organized civilization remaining to us. They are woefully unprepared for the new responsibilities that have been thrust upon them.

  One step in the right direction, however, is a plan put forth by the administrators to better communicate with the rest of our people. Each colony’s habitation section is to select a representative, who will in turn act as a liaison between their group and the administration, communicating information back to their respective group as well as giving voice to concerns and grievances filed by the citizenry. Beeliq has already volunteered to act as the representative for our group. With this and other initiatives being put forth by the administration as well as the people themselves, we might eventually achieve some semblance of routine or perhaps even something approaching normalcy.

  Still, I believe that our survival will be an unending struggle.

  Chapter Eleven

  “BRIDGE TO CAPTAIN PICARD.” The voice of Commander Riker filtered through the intercom into Picard’s ready room. “We’re approaching the Dokaalan system, sir.”

  Looking up from the book he was reading, Picard smiled as he replied to the intercom. “Thank you, Number One. I’m on my way.” After nearly four weeks of uneventful travel, the Enterprise had arrived. Now they could finally get to work.

  Feeling the rush of anticipation at his first officer’s report, Picard smiled as he closed the book in his hands and carefully laid the tome on his desk. Layered with adventure, intrigue, and a cast of characters that engaged him in the same way as the classical literature he preferred, the book had never failed to put him at ease on the rare occasions he could lose himself in its pages. Written nearly a century earlier and though clearly labeled as a work of fiction, it purported to be the “real story” of Earth’s first encounter with the Vulcans.