Star Trek: The Next Generation - 119 - Armageddon's Arrow (13 page)

Chen, her elbows resting on the conference table, replied, “Maybe not. We know that both sides continuously pursued diplomatic solutions throughout the war’s duration. They were doing it when the ship was launched, and if I read the dates right on the records I reviewed, they’re in the midst of such negotiations right now. I’ve been able to determine that in this time frame, there haven’t been any significant engagements for nearly eighteen years.”

Picard shook his head. “And then one side felt compelled to build something like this.” In short order, and despite whatever steps he did to prevent or even mitigate their involvement, he and the
Enterprise
would find themselves in the midst of this decades-old struggle between two worlds. How best to deal with the situation, particularly in light of the information he possessed about the future of both these civilizations?

“Lieutenant Elfiki,” he said after a moment, “the moon that was destroyed in the future. Were you able to ascertain its location in this time period?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the science officer. “It’s there, all right, but our long-range scans show no definite signs of habitation.” She shrugged. “Interference from an asteroid field between the system’s fifth and sixth planets is playing hell with our sensors. The only way to get good readings would be to move into the system.” Gesturing toward the screen, she added, “I can do some further digging in their computer records to see about determining when the Golvonek established a presence there.”

Waving away the suggestion, Picard said, “Perhaps Lieutenant Chen can research that later. The information may come in handy if and when we have to deal with officials from either planet.” He was not sure just yet how useful such knowledge might be, but he believed that in this case, with so many unknowns still facing them, it was prudent to put forth every effort to be prepared, if indeed that was even possible in this instance.

“Captain,” Chen said, swiveling her chair to face him, “what do we do about the Golvonek? Fleet Legate Mynlara is coming to take possession of the
Arrow
and custody of its crew. Since she said they’re considered prisoners of war, she’s almost certainly going to interrogate them. What do we do if they find out about the ship’s mission and that it came from the future?”

Clasping his hands and resting them in his lap, Picard replied, “I honestly don’t know at this point, Lieutenant. To say this is a fluid situation would be an understatement of enormous proportions.” Though he already had agreed to Mynlara’s request to remove his people from the ship, Doctor Crusher’s efforts to revive the crew from their cryogenic stasis had reached a point that required her constant supervision. His attempts to update the Golvonek fleet legate had been received, but no response had been offered, and now Picard was worried that tensions between him and Mynlara would be prematurely heightened before they engaged in their first meaningful dialogue. Even that, he knew, would present something of a challenge, as the
Enterprise
most definitely was in uncharted territory here. Starfleet regulations did cover various scenarios relating to time travel and other situations involving temporal manipulation, but he recalled no specific language pertaining to which might help him with the situation he and his crew now faced. Even with the wide latitude afforded to starship captains to interpret existing orders and rules so that they might make correct if unorthodox decisions when dealing with unprecedented events and circumstances, Picard knew he would still have to answer for any choices he made here today. Being judged for his actions did not concern him as much as ensuring he did not—despite the most noble of intentions—do irrevocable harm to the Golvonek or the Raqilan.

“The Prime Directive is our point of departure here,” Picard said, “and we will simply have to use our best judgment as we react to the unfolding situation. Lieutenant Chen, I’ll want you to observe our first formal meeting with Fleet Legate Mynlara as well as whoever ends up being the first Raqilan representative.”

“What if that turns out to be the hibernating crew?” Šmrhová asked.

The captain nodded. “Then we shall tread carefully.” That would be the rule of the day, with the Raqilan crew members as well as the Golvonek vessels, which were drawing ever closer with each passing moment. Picard did not need to check the chronometer displayed upon one of the screens set into the observation lounge’s forward bulkhead to know just how many minutes remained until the Golvonek ships arrived. Eighty-six minutes and an odd number of seconds separated him from his first face-to-face meeting with Fleet Legate Mynlara. Would this introduction bring with it the promise of friendship, or something else?

They all would know in eighty-six minutes.

The chime of the ship’s intercom system beeped for attention and was followed by the voice of Commander Aiden Lynley.
“Bridge to Captain Picard
.
”

“Picard here. What is it, Mister Lynley?”

“Commander Worf wanted you to be advised of Doctor Crusher’s
progress, sir. They think they’re just about ready to bring the Raqilan crew out of hibernation
.
”

13

As a doctor, the notion of holding another person’s life in one’s hands was far from a figurative concept, and something Beverly Crusher kept foremost in her mind whenever duty, circumstances, or even fate put her in the position of caring for a patient. It did not matter whether that patient was a member of her crew, a total stranger, a friend, or an enemy. All that was important was the life before her and her responsibility to safeguard it and to do no harm.

Such thoughts, in rather scattershot fashion, raced along with dozens of others through Crusher’s mind as she sat at the expansive workstation inside the chamber housing the hibernation cylinders, scrutinizing the display monitors arrayed before her along with the portable computer interface provided to her by Lieutenant Dina Elfiki. Thanks to the science officer’s efforts as well as those of the
Enterprise
’s main computer, Crusher now was able to use the new protocol to understand and interact with the litany of information being provided by the Raqilan vessel’s own systems.

“So far, so good,” she said, turning from the console to face the row of hibernation chambers. “The revival protocols look to be operating as intended.”

Standing near the closest of the transparent cylinders, holding her tricorder and studying its readout, Doctor Tamala Harstad reached up with her free hand and wiped perspiration from her forehead. “Here’s hoping it doesn’t take too much longer. It’s starting to feel like a dry sauna in here.”

“I know,” Crusher replied. Like Harstad, she already had undone her collar and shrugged out of her jumpsuit uniform’s upper half, tying it around her waist before rolling up the sleeves of her blue undershirt. The heightened activity from the equipment in this compartment over the past hour had resulted in an increase in the room’s temperature, which already was warmer than the neighboring sections. Crusher suspected that was a deliberate attempt to make the room as comfortable as possible for the crew when they emerged from hibernation.

Not so great for those of us waiting around for something to happen.
Would it have been easier to transport the slumbering Raqilan to the
Enterprise
so that she could oversee their revival with her own equipment and within the familiar environs of her sickbay? That had been Crusher’s initial plan, but she encountered her first obstacle upon inspecting the hibernation cylinders and being unable to find a means by which the mechanisms sustaining the crew’s cryogenic state could be removed for transport. Unwilling to chance endangering the sleeping aliens, that left her no alternative but to monitor the process aboard the Raqilan vessel. She had later come to the realization that carrying out the revival here also would be of benefit to the crew from a psychological perspective, as they would awaken in recognizable surroundings.

To that end, Crusher had elected to remain here in spite of the captain’s order for the away team to return to the
Enterprise
. After explaining the situation to her husband, she had kept Harstad in addition to one of her medical technicians, Ellwood Neil, and two nurses, Lieutenants Amavia and Mimouni, on hand to assist her after sending the rest of her team back to the starship. Standing just outside the door leading from the compartment were Lieutenant Rennan Konya and Ensign Bryan Regnis, whom Commander Worf had assigned to the medical team for the duration of their stay aboard the alien vessel. Once the Raqilan were out of their cylinders, Crusher and her team would escort them to the medical facility, which they had prepared as best they could to receive the revived crew members.

“The tubes’ internal atmosphere and temperatures are stabilizing,” said Harstad, her attention once more on her tricorder and the status gauges on the side of the hibernation unit. “Respiration and heart rates are all rising. They should be breathing on their own in a few minutes.”

Crusher nodded. “I guess all we can do now is wait.” Thorough examinations of the cylinders had yielded no obvious external means of opening them. Even with the computer overseeing all aspects of the hibernation process, it seemed to her an odd and even dangerous design choice not to have some evident form of manual intervention. At this point, for better or worse, the revival procedure was in the hands of the alien computer.

“I’ve never been good at waiting,” Harstad said, stepping away from the cylinder and moving toward its adjacent companion. “I always feel so useless, standing around while a machine does all the work.”

Nodding in agreement, Crusher replied, “I know exactly what you mean.” Even in the most routine treatment of her patients, she disliked having to rely solely on the ministrations of equipment and other automated processes. She had come by this attitude as a child, learning it from her grandmother, who, while not a physician herself, had become something of a healer late in life. Forced by tragic circumstance to learn a variety of rudimentary medical techniques while struggling with young Beverly to survive a disastrous epidemic that had befallen the Federation colony on Arvada III, Felicia Howard—dear sweet Nana—had passed that knowledge on to her granddaughter, along with an uncompromising stance on how best to treat the patients under her care. The lessons took firm hold as they endured that crisis, and they did not diminish with the passage of time.

She had never forgotten one of the first guest symposiums she had attended at the beginning of her medical training, when similar views were espoused. The doctor who had hosted the seminar, himself a veteran of both civilian practice and service as a Starfleet medical officer with nearly a century of experience to his name, had paced back and forth before the rows of young, wide-eyed, and even naïve students for nearly three hours. He did not discuss the latest medical advances or technology, or the most efficient ways of carrying out a particular surgical procedure or treating peculiar injuries of the sort the cadets might encounter over the course of their careers. Instead, he had spent his time offering a range of opinions regarding the ethics of those who chose to study and practice medicine, and though somewhat aged and appearing to carry the weight of the galaxy on his stooping shoulders, there was no denying the passion that still burned in the elder physician’s eyes and perhaps his very soul.

“We as doctors are always told that we hold life in our hands,” he told the cadets. “Sure, it’s true enough. I mean, we’re supposed to save lives, right? It’s dramatic and makes you sound like a damned hero. If that’s what you’re after, then you’re in the wrong line of work, and you should get up and go tell someone in the front office that you want to be something else when you grow up. If you’re here to be a doctor, then be a damned doctor. That doesn’t mean waiting for the blasted machines to tell you what to do. No computer or gadget will ever be a substitute for a well-trained doctor who gives a damn about their patient. How many damns is that, anyway? I’m only allowed so many during these damned lectures.”

Crusher smiled at the memory of the raucous laughter his comments elicited. Though she would attend many more classes, symposiums, and lectures during her training, few of those sessions stuck with her with the same intensity, all the more because the cantankerous yet endearing old physician’s views so closely mirrored the values Nana had instilled within her.

“Doctor Crusher.”

Startled from what she realized had been a momentary mental drift, Crusher looked up to see Harstad moving closer to the first hibernation cylinder. “What is it?” she asked, just as alert indicators began beeping on the workstation behind her. Turning to study the portable computer interface, she saw several status markers shifting from yellow to green, programmed to do so when the monitoring devices detected that the slumbering Raqilan’s respiration and pulse had increased to normal levels.

“This is it,” she said, pushing away from the workstation. She along with Harstad and the rest of her team positioned themselves so that they could reach any of the cylinders and assist its occupant. Crusher had just moved next to the closest of the tubes when she heard a series of clicks, as though internal locking mechanisms were being disengaged. Inside the tube, the gases and ice crystals that had obscured the Raqilan it hosted had all but disappeared, and Crusher now could see the alien’s eyes moving beneath closed lids, and his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. She flinched when a metallic snap echoed in the room, accompanied by a hiss of escaping air as the cylinder’s transparent shield opened. It slid in its mounting from left to right, retracting into the base supporting the tube and leaving the Raqilan nude and exposed in his cradle.

Tricorder in hand, Crusher moved closer and waved the device over the alien, watching the unit’s readings for any signs of concern. “From what I can tell, all readings are normal.” She glanced up at the other cylinders, none of which had opened.

“If he’s the leader,” Harstad said, “his tube may be programmed to open first.” The doctor shrugged. “Just a guess.”

Crusher nodded. “As good as anything I’ve got.” Satisfied that the Raqilan appeared to be in no danger as a consequence of his revival, she stepped closer, studying his face. His eyes had not yet opened, and he removed still.

“Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice soft, but the Raqilan did not respond or offer any other indication he had heard or understood her. “You’ve been asleep for a very long time, but I promise you that you’re safe.”

His eyes opened, wide and alert, with an abruptness that made Crusher start to pull away from the tube, but she was still close enough to be in reach of the Raqilan’s right hand, which shot upward from its resting position on the bed and clamped around her left wrist.

“Doctor Crusher!” Harstad snapped, lunging around the head of the adjacent cylinder and reaching for the Raqilan’s arm.

“Don’t hurt him!” Crusher warned, pulling against the alien’s grip. The Raqilan was using his other hand to push himself to a sitting position. His expression was unreadable as she felt him pulling her toward him.

The high-pitched report of a phaser whined in the room as a bright orange beam struck the Raqilan in the chest. As the pulse of energy washed over him, he uttered his first sounds—surprise—before his body went limp. Crusher was able to catch him before he slumped backward, cradling him as she laid him down on the bed.

“I only stunned him,” said Ensign Regnis, aiming the phaser in his right hand at the prone alien. Eyeing Crusher, the security officer asked, “Are you all right, Doctor?”

She replied, “I’m fine, thanks.” A moment’s scan with her tricorder was enough to alleviate her concerns that the phaser beam might have caused any adverse effects. To Harstad she said, “He’s fine, but prepare sedatives for his friend. We’ll administer those as soon as her tube opens, then transport them both to the medical facility.”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Harstad, even as Nurses Mimouni and Amavia were moving toward the field medical kit they had brought with them from the
Enterprise
.

Shaking her head in dismay, Crusher said, “I guess I can understand the reaction, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on him, Doctor,” Konya said. “If they’re military, then he probably acted as much on instinct as anything else. Once he wakes up and has a chance to collect himself, he’ll hopefully realize we’re not here to hurt him.”

Ensign Regnis asked, “Maybe not us, but what about the Golvonek?”

“Well, there’s that,” replied Konya with a small shrug.

None of that concerned Crusher. Her first priority for now was treating her patients. Despite suspecting that seeing to their physical issues would be only a part of their overall treatment, she had hoped to engender an atmosphere of trust to assist in their revival. Their lives would become complicated enough once the Golvonek arrived, but she was confident in Jean-Luc’s ability to manage what promised to be a fluid situation.

Crusher could only hope that the Golvonek, and indeed the newly awakened Raqilan, felt the same way.