Star Trek: Pantheon (6 page)

What are you doing?
Agnarsson demanded.

“That’s simple,” Tarasco told him with an inner calm that surprised him. “I’m blowing up the ship.”

You won’t do that.

“Won’t I?” asked the captain.

He estimated that it had been two minutes since he had given the order to abandon ship. By then, all surviving members of his crew should have cast off, with the possible exception of Offenburger and Siregar. And even they should have reached a pod.

With that in mind, he tapped in a detonation time. Then he took a moment to reassess Agnarsson’s condition.

With an effort, the engineer had propped himself up on his elbow. Slowly, laboriously, he was reaching out in Tarasco’s direction, no doubt intent on blasting him with another energy surge.

The captain didn’t wait to see if Agnarsson had recovered enough to generate a charge. He simply fired at the deck below the man. As before, it took a few seconds to penetrate the plating and open the conduit.

A third time, the engineer was bathed in electrocharged fire. And a third time, he escaped its clutches to collapse on the deck, a crisped and bloody thing that barely resembled a man.

Tarasco almost allowed himself to believe that Agnarsson was dead—that he could deactivate the missiles and save his ship. Then the husk that had been the
Valiant’
s engineer began to stir again—began to roll over so it could see its tormentor.

Its eyes had the same startling silver cast to them. And they pulsated with hatred for the captain.

Damn you,
Agnarsson rasped in Tarasco’s brain,
you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m your future, your destiny…

If the captain had needed a sign, he had gotten one. He didn’t dare think about turning back.

So instead, he stood there and waited, counting down the seconds. He watched the engineer recuperate as he had before, but it didn’t seem that Agnarsson was going to mend quickly enough to be a problem.

Tarasco’s last thought was for his crew. Like Moses, he was going to be denied the Promised Land—but after all his people had been through, he hoped they, at least, would make it back to Earth alive.

In the dream, he was on a crowded shuttlecraft.

They had left the
Stargazer
behind—a hulk, crippled in the encounter with the Ferengi at Maxia Zeta. Somewhere ahead—
weeks
ahead—was Starbase 81.

But there was no trace of the desperation they’d felt during the battle. No trace of the sorrow for lost comrades that had hung over them like a cloud.

Instead, there was an air of optimism. Of camaraderie, as there had been on the ship when it was whole. He looked around at the faces—familiar faces. Gilaad Ben Zoma, his first officer, dark and handsome, confident as ever. Idun Asmund, his helmsman, tall and pristinely beautiful as she bent over the shuttle’s controls. “Pug” Joseph, his security chief, characteristically alert, ready for anything.

And another—a face that he was gladder to see than all the rest.

“Jack,” he said.

Jack Crusher turned his way. He indicated their surroundings with a tilt of his head. “A little snug in here, isn’t it, Jean-Luc?”

“That’s all right. It won’t be forever.”

The other man quirked a smile, brushing aside a lock of dark brown hair. “I guess not. It’ll only
seem
like forever.”

It was so good to see Jack sitting there. So
very
good.

“You’re out of your mind,” someone rasped.

He turned and saw Phigus Simenon, his Gnalish head of engineering. As usual, Simenon was arguing some point of science or philosophy with Carter Greyhorse, the
Stargazer’
s towering chief medical officer.

“If it’s by definition the smallest thing possible,” the Gnalish went on, “how can there be anything smaller?” His ruby eyes were alive with cunning in his gray, serpentine visage.

“Easy,” Greyhorse answered, the impassivity of his broad features belying the annoyance in his deep, cultured voice. “You take it and cut it in half.” Easing his massive body back into his seat, he raised his arms.
“Voilà,
you’ve got something even smaller.”

“Can’t be,” Simenon argued. “By definition, remember, it’s the
smallest—”

The Gnalish was interrupted by Cadwallader, their slender, girlish communications officer. She placed her freckled hands on the combatants’ shoulders. “Could you keep it down a bit, fellas? Some of us are trying to sleep back here, y’know. Thanks
ever
so much.”

Chuckling, the captain returned his attention to Jack. “What will you do when you get back? Take a leave for a while?”

His friend nodded. “I want to see Beverly. And my son. He’s probably grown six inches since I last saw him.” A pause. “Ever think about having a family, Captain?”

“You know me, Jack. I’d rather be boiled in oil than dandle a baby on my knee. Scares the—”

Suddenly, he remembered something. It chilled him, despite the closeness of the quarters. “Jack…you’re not supposed to be here.”

“No? You mean I should’ve taken one of the
other
shuttles?”

“No.” He licked his lips. “I mean you’re dead. You died some time ago—
long
before we lost the
Stargazer.”

Jack shrugged. “I can go if you like—”

“No. Don’t. I mean—”

But it was too late. His friend was moving away from him, losing himself in the crowd aft of the food processor.

“Don’t go, Jack, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to send you away—”

That’s when Jean-Luc Picard woke up.

The air in his cabin was cold on his skin. He wiped his brow and felt the perspiration there.

“Damn,” he breathed. Just a dream.

Nothing like his tortured dreams of Maxia Zeta, inflicted a few years back by the Ferengi DaiMon Bok. No, this had been different, but in its own way just as frightening.

Nor did it take a ship’s counselor to figure out why he’d happened to have the dream
now.

Beverly Crusher was halfway across sickbay when she realized she had no idea where she was going.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doctor Selar, her Vulcan colleague, watching her from her office. Crusher could feel an embarrassed blush climbing up her neck and into her face.

Think, Beverly, think. You were late for—

Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and started walking again. On the way, she glanced at Selar.

The Vulcan was still watching her. Crusher smiled.

Being Vulcan, Selar didn’t smile back. She just returned her attention to her desk monitor.

Breezing into the examination area, Crusher saw that Burke was already waiting for her. She nodded by way of a greeting.

“How’s it going?” he asked her.

“Not bad,” she told him. “Care to lie down for a minute?”

Sitting down on the biobed, the security officer swung his legs up and leaned back until he was directly under the overhead sensor bank. As Crusher consulted the readings that were displayed at eye level, she found herself remembering again…

“Doctor Crusher?”

Snapping out of her reverie, she looked at Burke. “Mm?”

“I don’t want to rush you, but I’m due to start a shift in ten minutes.”

How long had she been staring at the bio-readings? She didn’t dare ask.

The security officer smiled. “Listen, it’s all right. I don’t blame you for being a little distracted. Hell, even
I’m
excited about all those
Stargazer
people coming on board—and I don’t even know any of them.”

Crusher took a breath. “Actually, I don’t know them either. Except one, of course. You can get up now—you’re as fit as they come.”

As Burke swiveled into a sitting position, he looked at her. “You don’t know them? But I thought—”

He stopped himself short, realizing that he might be intruding, but the doctor supplied the rest:
I thought your husband served with them.

“I heard about them,” Crusher explained coolly. “But I never met them face to face.”

Burke nodded. “Right. Well, thanks. See you in a few months.”

“In a few months,” she echoed, as he walked off toward the receiving area.

Leaning against the overhead sensor bank, she buried her face in the crook of her arm.
Damn,
she thought. Why did they have to pick
this
ship?

Will Riker sat down at his personal terminal, took a deep breath, and called up the ship’s “visitor” file.

He had been looking forward to this for days. And not because one of his duties as first officer was to keep track of all personnel boarding and disembarking from the ship. The
Enterprise
was about to play host to Starfleet legends—
living
legends—and Riker wanted to know everything there was to know about them. The thousand and one other matters that had been cropping up and demanding his attention lately would just have to wait awhile.

Now, let’s see,
he told himself, scanning the list of names on the brief menu. The one he wanted to see first was at the bottom—of course. He called up the relevant subfile.

Name: Morgen. Affiliation: Starfleet. Rank: Captain. Homeworld: Daa’V.

The full details of Morgen’s career in Starfleet since his graduation from the Academy twenty-one years before came up on-screen.

The record bore out what Riker had heard over the years about Captain Morgen of the
Excalibur.
That he was an even-handed leader. That he brought out the best in his people. That he was militarily brilliant, diplomatically adept, and personally charming.

Not unlike his mentor, Jean-Luc Picard.

Now Morgen was leaving the service that had benefited so much from his presence to discharge another set of responsibilities—as hereditary leader of the Daa’Vit. He was returning to the planet of his birth to assume the throne in the wake of his father’s death.

And bringing with him an honor guard—seven Starfleet officers with whom he’d served on the deep-space exploration vessel
Stargazer.
It was a Daa’Vit custom for a returning prince to be surrounded by his closest companions. And despite the friendships Morgen had made on the
Excalibur,
he had selected his fellow officers on the
Stargazer
to stand by him at the coronation ceremony.

It was quite a tribute to those individuals. And to the esprit de corps that had characterized Picard’s old ship.

Chief among the honor guardsmen was Picard himself, Morgen’s first captain. The others comprised the remainder of the visitors’ roster.

He returned to the menu. Some of the names were as familiar to Riker as Morgen’s—Ben Zoma, for instance, the captain of the
Lexington,
and First Officer Asmund of the
Charleston.

The others were somewhat less well known to him, but their names still seemed almost magical. Professor Phigus Simenon. Dr. Carter Greyhorse. Peter “Pug” Joseph. All of them had been part of the
Stargazer’
s historical mission—and, just as important, all had lived to tell the tale.

Riker leaned back in his chair and, not for the first time, wondered what it had been like to serve under the captain in those days—on a vessel like the
Stargazer,
whose mission carried her into uncharted space for years at a time. And beyond that, what it had meant to
lose
that ship, in the Federation’s first fateful brush with the Ferengi.

With all of Picard’s surviving officers scheduled to board the
Enterprise
over the next couple of days, the first officer would never have a better chance to find out.

Going to the top of the list this time, he called up another subfile.

Asmund, Idun…

Captain Mansfield of the
U.S.S. Charleston
sat on the edge of the
s’naiah
-wood desk. It was as uncomfortable as it looked, what with all the savage iconography carved into it. He frowned.

“Idun,” he said, “if you’d like to talk about it…”

His first officer, who had been staring out the viewport, turned to face him. She was a handsome woman—he couldn’t help but notice that. Tall and slim and blond, with eyes the elusive color of glacial ice. Deep, dark…

Enough of that,
he told himself.
She’s your exec, for godsakes. And even if she wasn’t, what would she see in an old warhorse like you?

For the four hundredth time, he put his libido aside. After all, there was something troubling her. If Asmund needed anyone, it wasn’t a lover. It was a friend.

“I am all right,” she told him evenly. But her eyes said that she was lying.

He sighed.

For six of the eleven years he’d been captain of this ship, Idun Asmund had been his second-in-command, and a damned good one at that. She’d never given him any reason to regret his having taken her aboard.

But he knew of the doubts people had had about her. After that terrible incident on the
Stargazer
…what was it? Two decades ago now? For a time, it had haunted her. Kept her from advancing through the ranks as quickly as she should have.

And her manner didn’t help any.
Brusque. Icy,
even, some had said. But underneath, Mansfield had sensed a good officer. He’d taken a chance on her—and was glad of it ever since.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re nervous. And I think we both know why.”

“No.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I am surprised.”

“That Morgen would want you to be with him at a time like this?”

“Yes. After what happened…I don’t think he said two words to me. Then came Maxia Zeta and…well, frankly, I thought I’d never see him again.”

“Maybe this is his way of making amends for all that. You and your sister were different people—vastly different, as it turns out. Can it be he’s finally figured that out?”

Idun’s eyes blazed momentarily. “He is Daa’Vit. When it comes to blood feuds…”

“He might not be the same person you knew back then,” suggested Mansfield. He looked at her. “People can change a lot in thirteen years. Especially when they’ve spent half of them in a command chair.” He cleared his throat. “Take me, for instance. I wasn’t always an iron-willed dictator, you know.”

Idun scowled. “He is Daa’Vit. That will not have changed.”

“At least try and go in with an open mind,” he pleaded. “Remember—you’ll be seeing other familiar faces as well. Surely they didn’t all treat you as Morgen did.”

Idun thought about it. “No,” she conceded. “Suppose there are
some
I would like to see again.”

“There you go. That’s the Idun Asmund that I know.” He grunted. “And don’t worry about us. We’ll just go off and risk our lives somewhere while you take your grand paid vacation.”

Her brows knit. “Captain, I can still decline this. Here
is
where my priorities lie.”

“It was a
joke,
Idun. Just a joke.”

She relaxed again. “Of course it was,” she noted.

He chided himself for joking about duty with her. When one had been raised by Klingons, one didn’t take such things lightly.

Pug Joseph was just where Erwin expected to find him—sitting by himself in the corner of the lounge.
He does too much of that lately,
the
Lexington’
s first officer told himself.
No wonder he’s getting into trouble.

As Erwin approached, Joseph turned around. His expression said that he wanted to be left alone. Then he saw who it was, and his features softened.

“Commander. To what do I owe this visit?” he asked, grinning.

The first officer turned his resolve up a notch. There was something about Joseph that made it very difficult to be stern with him. Maybe it was the man’s resemblance to Erwin’s brother’s boy, who had died in a skirmish with the Tholians. After all, Joseph had the same close-cropped sandy hair, the same upturned nose. Or was it that no-nonsense attitude, a throwback to the first rough days of inter-stellar flight, that made him so endearing? The quality that, years earlier in his stint on the
Stargazer,
had earned Joseph the nickname “Pug”?