Ship of the Line Read online

  People who went backward in time had a chance to fit in. They would be living in a time to which they were technologically superior, and that was at least a comfort. Very little would be beyond them.

  But to go forward in time was something else. No way to tell families what happened. The sense of tragic loss would endure and endure. Men from the past, in a ship that was already old ninety years ago, were instantly out of date, their hard-won skills obsolete. They were oddities. The process of fitting in would be the struggle of their lives. They’d be pathetic curiosities, and if they didn’t want to deal with that, their only choice would be self-imposed isolation. They’d have to just about turn shepherd.

  Riker watched sadly as all this ran through Morgan Bateson’s mind. The click of thoughts was almost audible, until finally they started to come out.

  “My first mate’s about to be married,” Bateson faltered. His face was like plaster, his eyes shallow and pained. “Our second engineer just became a father. I still have the cigar . . .”

  Empathy crushed Riker to his chair. A terrible moment, worse than breaking news of a death. Should he go over there? Sit by Bateson and offer support with his presence? Just as he braced his legs to stand up, he changed his mind and decided he wouldn’t like that from a stranger. Not yet, anyway. Captain Picard wasn’t moving yet either, but just watching Bateson in a patriarchal way, not interfering.

  This was a loss entirely catastrophic to poor Bateson and his crew. They wouldn’t be able to tell their families what happened to them. That moment was gone. The mate’s fiancée would never know why he didn’t come home. The engineer’s child would grow up without his father and never know why. That awful note in the file would read, “Missing in deep space, lost in the line of duty. Outcome inconclusive.”

  Ninety years. Even the baby was old now.

  All this sat on Bateson. Riker could see the other man’s mind spinning. Oddly, Riker felt just as bad for his own captain. That sorrow-filled gaze, the struggle to remain clinical for his own sake—Riker saw through it. Picard was sharing what could not possibly be shared, and Riker was too. What if it had turned out to be us and not Bateson? I feel relieved and rotten at the same time.

  Riker flexed his arms, then fought to relax them. He’d never forgive himself if he added to Captain Bateson’s irreversible tragedy by showing how lucky he felt that it wasn’t William Riker going through that. He didn’t dare appear smug, or hurry Bateson through this moment by being casual either. There really wasn’t any posture that said the right thing, was there?

  He beat down a shudder. Just like that, misplaced in time. No family, no friends, homes ground to dust, and ninety years obsolete.

  Just like that.

  How many times had they tampered with time? How often would luck bail them out as flippantly as it had failed Bateson? For this captain and his crew, once was too much. Snap—and everything’s changed. Their lives were fouled on a spur of bad luck, and that was as complicated as it would ever get.

  “What can I possibly tell my crew?” Bateson uttered, almost a whisper.

  The truth.

  Ouch—Riker had almost said it out loud.

  Steeling himself visibly, Bateson swallowed a couple of times, then croaked, “This isn’t me. This is my stunt double. I’m still sleeping in my bunk. Go wake me up.”

  Outside the solar system, just at its edge, a comet streaked by like some kind of harbinger. Riker found himself watching it for a few moments, just to avoid staring at the lump of pathetic matter on the couch.

  In his peripheral vision, Morgan Bateson’s hands were ice white, and the shocked man was undoubtedly gathering up the courage he’d need to tell his crew about this.

  “Well, all right, tell me,” Bateson said harshly. “Did we at least . . . matter?”

  “Did you!” Riker heard himself blurt the silly question and immediately gulped the words back—of course it didn’t work that way.

  Bateson looked up at him. His eyes were red with effort as he waited for an explanation.

  “Go ahead, Number One,” Picard said softly. “Tell him.”

  Riker stood up and tried not to be so damned tall. “On Rhodes Colony,” he began, speaking slowly, “where Starbase 12 is still intact and operating, the main spaceway is called Bateson Boulevard.”

  Bateson’s head dropped into one hand. “Oh, please, gentlemen,” he sighed, “this isn’t necessary.”

  “It’s true. Everyone knows what you did. By standing down Kozara, you saved over fifty thousand people, a full-sized starbase, several colonies, and the security of two sectors.

  “The incident was investigated for months. The search and rescue alone went on for weeks. They looked everywhere for you. Starfleet teams, civil volunteers, starbase residents, and Rhodes colonists. Two sectors turned out for the search.”

  Bateson nodded bitterly. “They couldn’t find a trace, of course.”

  “Of course,” Riker said. “Kozara was chased out of Federation space by Admiral Kirk and Captain Spock on the Enterprise, who responded to your comm buoy. The Klingon plot was exposed and condemned as cowardly espionage rather than noble challenge, which embarrassed the entire Klingon Empire and shook the High Council to its bones. They went through several turnovers of power. Several families fell out of influence, including Kozara’s. He was saved from execution by his one nominal victory . . .”

  “Destruction of me and my ship,” Bateson finished, his voice heavy with irony.

  Riker nodded. “That was his one credit, sir. He never recovered from an incident you stopped from happening. His career went no farther. He’s spent his life clinging to the one shred of respect—destruction of the Cutter Bozeman and the best border captain the Federation ever had.”

  “Best enough to get good and lost,” Bateson derided. “Is there . . . are there any ways we could go back in time?”

  “There are ways,” Picard complied. “None very dependable or accurate. We know we can go back to general periods, with great strain and risk, but to go back to a particular month or even year . . . no. You may overshoot your own time by decades in the other direction.”

  His voice rough, Bateson said, “You don’t mind if I look into it myself?”

  Tolerantly quieter, Picard said, “Of course you should.”

  Sitting in front of the desk, Riker wished he weren’t here, for Bateson’s sake. Surely this was embarrassing enough. Bateson had a notable reputation which had naturally bloomed with time and the fullness of appreciation for his one-ship standoff with a fullly armed Klingon warship. The pertinacity of Morgan Bateson was so entrenched in society at Starbase 12 and Rhodes Colony that the official Federation mascot was a bulldog.

  “Please be assured,” Picard gently went on, “we’ll all do whatever we can to help you, and anyone in your crew.”

  The offer sank in slowly, a gracious but empty gesture Bateson had extended to Picard only minutes ago. Somehow it seemed hollow the second time around.

  After a few moments, Picard urged, “What would you like, Captain?”

  Perhaps that seemed like rushing things, but these were not ordinary men, Riker knew. These were captains. Riker himself had enjoyed the prestige of a captain without having to continually shoulder the responsibilities of one, and he knew that would change a person. Captains had to think faster, grasp concepts faster, everything faster, bigger, more.

  “I’d like—” Bateson began, then paused and gestured weakly at Riker. “I’d like your first officer to brief my crew and show them the records once I inform them of what’s happened.”

  “Done,” Riker said, then pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t have spoken up.

  But Picard didn’t contradict him.

  Bateson was gazing at the carpet now, thinking and obviously trying to be practical at an impractical moment. “I’d appreciate your help with any of my crew who want to contact their relations or . . . find out what happened to their families.”

  “Certa
inly,” Picard agreed.

  “Despite the time difference, and the . . .” Bateson waved both hands limply and glanced around the ready room. “. . . obvious technological gap, I’d very much like my ship to remain commissioned as long as possible. She’s our only anchor now.”

  Picard nodded. “I’ll make that recommendation and throw my influence behind it.”

  “I’d like to remain their captain indefinitely.”

  “I would like that as well. I doubt there’ll be any resistance to it. Also, I’ll make the ship’s counselor available to assist your crew through the emotional transitions. She—”

  Bateson’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry—your ship’s what?”

  Pausing, Captain Picard seemed momentarily disarmed. “Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor. She’s ostensibly under the authority of the—”

  “A babysitter, you mean.” Bateson huffed and his eyes flared. “My crew won’t need any ‘counselor,’ Captain. No offense, but we’ve got each other.”

  Riker frowned and embarked on a tailspin to try remembering when the counseling program had been made regular duty, but Jean-Luc Picard smiled. “None taken. Smaller vessels run on a different dynamic than a full-sized cruiser.”

  Without a beat, Bateson shot back, “Perhaps in this century they do.”

  Bristling at the tone, Riker clamped his lips shut and realized that Bateson wasn’t trying to insult them. He’d just run headlong into a glaring difference between his time and this. His voice was harsh with bitterness at the cruel twist, and he was trying to tread water in a very big sea. Bateson wasn’t alone—the concept of a ship’s counselor had bothered a lot of people when it was first proposed. Even now it had its hardcore detractors, even captains who gave their counselors every conceivable duty to keep them from counseling.

  “Well, there’s one little quirk in your favor,” Picard mentioned, moving forward.

  Trying to conjure up a bright side, Bateson looked up and asked, “Which is?”

  Picard held out one hand. “Your seniority.”

  “That’s right!” Riker put in. “There’s no provision in Starfleet’s active duty articles that takes time travel into consideration!”

  “Actually, there is,” Picard corrected. “Before James Kirk traveled back in time on a mission to examine the 1960’s, a provision was incorporated allowing any Starfleet personnel to retain seniority as accrued from the date of commission despite passage backward in time. However,” he added, “in your case, Mr. Riker is quite right. There’s nothing about moving forward in time. Your commission date still stands, making you in fact the most senior captain currently on duty. You may be able to parlay that into great influence, Captain. And on behalf of all you have sacrificed in the line of duty, I will defend that seniority.”

  “So will I,” Riker chimed in.

  Bateson shook his head and wiped a film of sweat from his cheek. “It gives me seniority of a captain four and a half times my age or experience,” he sadly mused, and there was a glint of possibility in his voice this time. “I’ve . . . no idea how to use that . . .”

  Briefly seeing the future through the murk, Morgan Bateson pushed off the soft simulated leather of the couch, stood up, wavered understandably, then shuffled to the huge viewports that made up one full curving wall of the captain’s ready room. He drew a breath, let it shudder out, drew another, and had a little more control this time. He gazed out at open space.

  “We have no mission . . . our ship is outdated . . . my crew doesn’t need counseling, gentlemen. They need a purpose. They need a reason to focus their minds forward. It’s my new mission in life to provide them with one.”

  Picard looked at Riker—they’d found a thread of hope—and back at Bateson.

  “Something tells me you’ll find your way, Captain. And we will unceasingly defend you.”

  Riker smiled. “Yes, we will. That’s a promise.”

  Chapter 7

  Morgan Bateson dreaded every step back to the starship’s transporter room, every step from his ship’s transporter room to the bridge. A thousand lies raced through his mind. Could he control his expression? A million words available—which would he choose? Were there good ones? Better ones? Neutral ones?

  No, there was no neutral. No good, no better.

  A chill throttled up his spine as he clumped onto his bridge. There it was, the same as it had been ninety years ago. There they all were . . . Gabe, Wizz, Ed, the new guys who certainly would be lost now, for they hadn’t even had the chance to be at home here. Now they would be at home nowhere. How could their captain help them? Did anyone ever expect a captain to be at some time entirely powerless?

  All their eyes were on him. They had questions. They thought he had answers.

  He did.

  “Boys . . .” His voice was scarcely a croak.

  His cold hands motioned them to gather around. For a few rough seconds he said nothing, but coiled an arm around Gabe Bush and lay the other hand on the next man’s shoulder, who happened to be Mike Dennis.

  Then he looked at Bush, and felt his own cheeks grow ruddy and his eyes crimp. His throat tightened—better speak before it closed right up.

  “Gabe,” he began, “gonna miss the wedding.”

  Part Two: The Near Unknown

  Service in a flagship might be a way to quicker promotion, but there were many crumpled petals in the bed of roses.

  Hornblower and the Atropos

  Chapter 8

  Three years later, the year 2371

  Between commands. That queasy insecurity. No ship. No home port, no mission.

  Commander Will Riker found the feeling unbanishable. Shoreleave was good when a docked ship lay waiting to go out again, but where there was no ship . . .

  There is no ship.

  As he hurried along the Promenade at Starbase 12, Riker was anxious to meet Captain Picard. Lately the captain seemed calm and unflappable as always, but for some reason, fearing some impending decision, Riker didn’t like to leave Picard alone for too long at a time, alone to think. A captain with a ship had preoccupations. A captain without one . . .

  The Enterprise-D had been Jean-Luc Picard’s crowning accolade. Now the ship was wrecked beyond all but salvage, destroyed in the line of duty, crashed to a planet’s surface to save the lives of her crew.

  At first, the crew had felt victorious at simply having survived. Then relieved, and now deeply disturbed, living in the uneasy vacuum between assignments and trying to deal with the sad weight of having failed to bring their ship home. Unlike the grieving process of losing a loved one, which generally got better with time, losing the ship seemed to be getting worse with time.

  Many of the crew had slipped away, been offered new assignments on other ships or at outposts. Some had taken chances for research assignments, others for exploratory posts. Some had decided to make those life choices that came at times like these, and left Starfleet, gone off to start families or pursue other interests. Some were still waiting, stalling.

  As he nodded to someone he knew, Riker hoped that officer wouldn’t come over or try to converse. Couldn’t remember the guy’s name anyway, didn’t feel like being social. He wanted to get to the captain. This was going to be one of those days.

  No—this was going to be its own kind of day, and he’d probably never forget this one. Damn, his hands were so cold—

  His boots thudded softly on the deck carpet as he angled into the officer’s corridor and forced himself to keep from breaking into a jog. This corridor didn’t look all that different from the corridors on the ship, and his chest tightened, for in only minutes he hoped to be walking the captain back down this hall. Of course, the captain came and went regularly from here, but somehow doing that alone and doing it with someone who was having the same thoughts—

  The captain had to walk down here from his quarters to get to the command officers’ lounge. Riker told himself that over and over, but somehow it didn’t help.

  Ah—t
he door. He’d almost raced right past it. And almost sprained a muscle doubling back.

  Hope he’s alone in there. Should be, this time of day—

  “Good morning, Captain.” Did he sound cheerful enough? Too cheerful?

  Jean-Luc Picard only nodded, and squinted at some activity outside the wide windows of the viewing portico, out to the movements of ships and workers in the protected work cavity of Starbase 12.

  “How are you today?” Riker asked, vectoring toward the woodpaneled inner wall and the food replicator station. Oh, boy, that sounded like something a nurse says to a sick patient.

  The captain was sitting on one of the half-dozen office couches in the comfortable old room, watching some workers on free-float tethers mount a new sensor disk on a scruffy merchant cargo ship. Pausing at the replicator while he waited to see if Picard would answer the silly question, Riker found himself fixated on the cargo ship’s numbers—586490.

  “Well enough,” the captain said. “Same as yesterday, and the day before.”

  “I’ll get you some tea. Just the way you like it.” Riker snapped out of his relationship with the numbers and turned to the replicator. “Tea, Earl Grey, hot.”

  “Sounds funny with you saying it,” Picard remarked as Riker accepted the steaming cup of tea from the receiver port.

  “Well, I’ve heard you say it often enough,” Riker said.

  “Yes . . . I never order anything else, do I? Every time it’s ‘tea, Earl Grey, hot.’ Perhaps next time I’ll be wild and ask for ‘hot Grey tea Earl.’ The poor computer’ll have a stroke.”

  Feeling as if he were about to step on a mine, Riker dodged. “We’ve all got our favorites, sir.”

  “I suppose. Or I could just be stuck in my ways.”

  Uh-oh. Quickly taking a seat, Riker tried to figure out some way to get off this train, but he couldn’t think fast enough.

  The captain leaned back and blew across the top of his cup. “One of these days I should just walk right up to that replicator and order Kahlua and cream. Or . . . oh, I don’t know . . . perhaps a good stiff . . . iced tea. Wouldn’t that be radical?”