Imzadi Forever

  “You weren’t laughing per se, sir, but you most definitely were making light of the situation.”

  Riker leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. “If I don’t speed up the processing, Dexter…what are they going to do to me? Transfer me? To someplace worse than this? We both know there is no place worse than this.”

  Dexter shuddered slightly.

  “You know I’m right,” Riker said mirthlessly. “And you know what else?” He leaned back in the chair, putting his hands behind his head. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m right where I want to be, Dexter. Right where I want to be.”

  They stared at each other for a few moments. “Anything else?” Riker said.

  Dexter cleared his throat again and then said, “There was a communiqué for you of a somewhat personal nature.”

  At that, Riker frowned. “What was it?”

  “Well, sir, I never go prying—”

  “Of course you do,” said Riker, his voice cracking with impatience. “Don’t shadow-dance with me, Dexter. I know damned well you have your finger in every pie that comes through this armpit of the galaxy. Now what’s happening?”

  “Well, sir…the communiqué was from Betazed.”

  Riker was silent for a long moment. “Betazed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Riker drummed for a few seconds on the armrest of his chair. When he spoke, he was looking away from Dexter. “It’s from her, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Dexter’s lips thinned even more, which one would have thought was impossible. He took a breath and said, “No, sir. She’s dying, sir.”

  Riker said nothing at first. Then, finally: “And?”

  “She’s calling for you.”

  “Is she? Yes…she would, wouldn’t she.” He considered it a moment. “There’s no way I can get there in time.”

  “Betazed officials have already spoken with Starfleet command. She is quite influential, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Believe me, I know. And what did Starfleet say?”

  “The starship Hood is in this sector. They had not originally planned to put in here, but we are not significantly out of their way. And Betazed is situated only a few parsecs from Hood’s destination.”

  “How very convenient.” Riker frowned for a moment. “Hood is Crusher’s ship, isn’t it?”

  “Captain Crusher, yes, sir.”

  “Um-hmm. Old ghosts, Dexter.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Old ghosts. They’re coming back to haunt me.” Now Riker shifted his drumming to the desktop. “Old ghosts want to see me. Old ghosts are going to transport me.” He paused. “I don’t suppose I have the option of not seeing her.”

  “Of course you have that option, sir,” replied Dexter stiffly. “This is merely a request, not an order.”

  “A request.” Once more Riker ran his fingers through his gray hair. “How much time until Hood gets here?”

  “ETA is fourteen thirty hours, sir.”

  “All right. Radio Betazed that I’ll be there as fast as I can. Tell Hood that I’ll be ready for them when they get here.” Riker rose to his feet and fixed Dexter with a stare. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that…”

  Riker could barely contain his impatience. “What?…What?”

  “I just want to say that I think it’s good of you that you’re going, sir. You’ve, um…” He harrumphed and continued, “You’ve spoken of her in the past. It’s clear that this will be very difficult for you.”

  “I’ve done more difficult things than this, Lieutenant,” said Riker stiffly. Then he hesitated and added softly, “But not much more.”

  He came around his desk and headed for the door. And then Dexter said, “Why do you think she wants to see you, sir?”

  Riker paused in the doorway. The door had already slid open, waiting for him. But when he didn’t pass through, it slid softly shut again. “Why do you think?”

  Dexter, after brief consideration, said, “Perhaps, sir, she wants to make amends with you.”

  “Amends?” Riker said the word with amazement, as if it were the first time he’d ever heard it. “Amends? Lieutenant…you don’t know her very well.”

  “It’s possible, sir,” Dexter persisted. “When people are dying, they tend to see things in a different light.”

  “You have a lot of personal experience with death, Lieutenant?”

  Dexter ignored the verbal jab. “It’s possible that she wants to settle loose ends, as it were. Close accounts. It’s possible, sir…that she wants to forgive you.”

  Slowly Riker shook his head. “Why should she, Lieutenant…when I haven’t forgiven myself?”

  And Riker walked out of his office, leaving Dexter alone with the steady heartbeat ticking of the grandfather clock.

  Three

  The structures in which the scientists of the Forever World lived were, at best, functional. But then, these people did not seem to Data the type to care overmuch about physical needs. If what they had served their basic requirements, then they seemed content.

  Data looked around the table that served as the communal eating place for the scientists. In every locale on the Enterprise that was designed for group consumption of food, Data had always been struck by the steady stream of chatter that had accompanied the act. Indeed, eating a meal seemed as much a social occasion as anything else. Such socializing did not appear to augment the replenishing of the body’s stores of nutrition. It was, however, customary. Or so Data had been led to believe.

  It was not the case here, however. The six scientists who were grouped around the table ate quietly. Talk was at a minimum, and anything said was merely along the lines of some functional request such as “Pass the salt.”

  Seated next to Data was science officer Blair. Blair was tough to miss in any situation—a head taller than Data, and covered from head to toe with thick, brown fur. His jaw jutted out and his eyes were so small that they were almost impossible to spot. His Starfleet uniform was specially tailored to accommodate his height and bulk. The others at the table had to crowd a bit closer to each other in order to provide room for Blair.

  Thus far there had only been one entrée into conversation. Data had glanced around and said, “My records indicated there were seven of you.”

  Mary Mac pursed her lips and then sighed. “There were. Recent defection—Mar Loc. He took off the other day—haven’t seen him since. You’ll have to update your records. To be honest…we lose people all the time.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not easy to take this place, Commodore,” said Harry as he put food out on the table. Around the table, heads bobbed up and down in agreement. “You have the constant wind. You have the solitude. And with the Guardian out there…” He paused, trying to find the words. “You feel…you feel like you’re staring into a mirror from hell. And it’s only so long before you see something staring back out at you. Some reflection that you don’t necessarily like. At which point…it’s time to get out. Or you can lose your mind.”

  “We’ve had that happen from time to time as well,” said Mary Mac darkly. Again there were nods.

  The scientists volunteered no further conversation, and once the food was put out, from then on the only sounds that could be heard were the clinking of eating utensils on plates, soft noises of mastication, and of course, the wind…the ever-present, ever-haunting wind.

  “Is it always this quiet?” Blair finally asked.

  The sound of his hushed question was almost deafening in the relative stillness. The scientists stopped and looked at each other with an air of polite puzzlement.

  Mary Mac, who was seated next to Blair, leaned forward on one arm. “It’s not just quiet. We’re working.”

  Blair looked at Data. “Working on what?” asked the commodore.

  “Our thoughts,” said Harry. “Our observations. Every night we record our conclusions in our logs,
and every morning we group together and discuss them.”

  “As part of the Federation’s annual evaluation of your work,” said Data politely, “I’d be very interested in reading them. If, that is, you wouldn’t consider that an intrusion.”

  The scientists looked at each other and there seemed to be an unspoken, uniform shrug. “No problem with that, Commodore,” said Mary Mac.

  “What sort of observations do you make?” Blair asked.

  Mary Mac glanced around the table. Clearly, both through Federation designation and natural ability, she was the spokesperson for the group. “We make observations on society. On history. Most of us here are social scientists, Commodore…Lieutenant,” she added, with a polite nod to Blair. “We make studies of the histories of different societies and from that draw conclusions about not only that society’s past, but the circumstances that brought them to their present and, most likely, are aiming them toward their future.”

  Harry now spoke up. “Just an example. Two planets, Gamma Delta and Gamma Origii, had been at war off and on for hundreds of years. Even though they, as a society, had evolved in their perceptions and attitudes, there was still a centuries-old tradition of hatred between the two. Our studies here at the Forever World uncovered the real origins, long forgotten, of the anger between the two worlds.”

  “That being?” prompted Blair.

  Harry endeavored to keep a straight face as he said, “A d’clat belonging to the emperor of Gamma Delta consumed a markill that was much beloved by the empress of Gamma Origii.”

  Blair looked in confusion from Harry to Data. Data, with just the faintest hint of a smile, said, “A d’clat is a large, caninelike animal, known to be quite fierce and to reach lengths of three meters. A markill is small, somewhat feline, and usually very docile.”

  Understanding spread across Blair’s face. “You mean the guy’s dog ate her pet cat?”

  “That is essentially correct.”

  “And that led to centuries of hostilities?”

  “The incident led to bad feelings,” corrected Mary Mac, sounding a bit pedantic. “The bad feelings led to the hostilities. By the time the modern era was reached, the reasons for the hostilities had long been forgotten; only the anger remained.”

  “How did the two planets react when they learned of the root cause for their antagonism?” asked Data.

  Mary Mac could not hide her amusement. “The heads of the two worlds met and with great pomp and circumstance signed into law new, strict regulations about leashing d’clats. A newborn markill was then presented to the present leader of Gamma Origii. Frankly, they were all a bit embarrassed about it and were happy for the opportunity to put it all behind them.”

  “Well, that’s excellent,” said Blair. “That’s just excellent.”

  Then he paused, and Mary Mac picked up on the fact that something else was on his mind. “Yes, Lieutenant?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering…are you ever tempted? To go back, I mean?”

  “No,” said Mary Mac with such speed and firmness that it was a bit startling.

  “What, never?”

  “No. Nor are any of us.” She looked at her companions for confirmation, and almost as one, they nodded.

  “Why wouldn’t you want to?”

  “Because that is not a responsibility that we would want. It’s…it’s too much. You’d have to be…I don’t know…bigger than life to take on that challenge. I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “If you shun the responsibility, why does anyone have access to the Guardian at all?” asked Data.

  “We need access when we want to talk to it,” said Mary Mac. “For some reason it won’t address us if we speak from outside the force field. The Guardian doesn’t acknowledge us unless there’re no barriers between us. When we do converse with it directly, we do so with the utmost caution.” She put down her eating utensil. “Your conversation was fairly interesting, Commodore. What did you make of it?”

  “It would seem to confirm, on the face of it, that which we had always known. That time is fluid. Although”—he paused only a moment, considering the possibilities—“there is another interpretation. And that is that all times coexist.”

  “You mean parallel universes,” said Mary Mac. It was clear from the speed with which she picked up on what he was saying that it was something she’d already given thought.

  “It’s something that has been considered,” said Data. “That parallel universes are, in fact, alternative time tracks. There was a fascinating paper done recently, expanding upon a notion expressed in, of all things, a newly recovered twentieth-century piece of fiction.”

  “The Niven Doctrine,” Blair said. “I was in the audience when it was presented. Shook up quite a few people.”

  “Alternative time lines,” said Mary Mac, nodding. “The scene you were watching, Commodore—the experiences of Captain Kirk—certainly is one of the better-known instances.”

  “There have been others documented,” said Data. “There was Captain Kirk’s experience with an alternative time line that resulted in a parallel universe with an aggressive, warlike Federation. There was another situation that I myself was involved with, the full details of which I didn’t learn until some years after the fact.”

  “You, Commodore?” asked Mary Mac. “What was it?”

  “It involved a…memorable young woman. Her name was Natasha Yar, although she was more popularly known as Tasha.” Data’s face, as always, was the picture of composure. But Blair, from his long experience with his commanding officer, could tell that the memory being pulled up was something of great meaning to the android. “It was a…unique situation. One of the few instances where an individual or individuals actually crossed over from one parallel universe to another—one being where Captain Kirk and several crewmen, as mentioned earlier, crossed into a parallel universe/time-line with a militaristic Federation. Tasha’s experience was another. Unfortunately it…did not work out quite as positively as Captain Kirk’s did.”

  Data lapsed into silence and Mary Mac understood immediately that he had said everything he felt needed to be said on the subject. But Data picked up on her expression.

  “If you wish to question me further on the incident,” Data said quietly, “you may feel free to do so. I won’t feel imposed upon.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll feel like I’m imposing anyway. So I guess I won’t.” Then Mary Mac paused. “Actually, Commodore…I have something of interest to show you. Something along the lines of our discussion. A very intriguing turn of events that our monitoring of the Guardian’s playbacks has revealed. And I think”—her green lips drew back into a broad smile—“I think you will find it very interesting.”

  Four

  Riker sat in his guest quarters on the starship Hood, watching the stars hurtling by. It had been so long since he was in any sort of real motion that the view outside the port looked …wrong somehow. As insane as it sounded, he didn’t feel as if stars were supposed to move.

  “Do you miss it, Admiral?”

  He hadn’t even heard the door hiss open. He turned to face Capt. Wesley Crusher.

  Crusher was standing in the doorway, his arms folded. He was half a head taller than Riker, which was disconcerting enough for the admiral. He sported a Vandyke beard, and his hair—graying ever so slightly at the temples—hung just over his ears. He stepped fully into the quarters upon Riker’s silent gesture for him to enter, and Riker noticed with amusement that as he did so, he tugged slightly at the waistline of his black and green uniform jacket. Riker had not seen the gesture for quite a few years—the clothes straightening that had picked up the joking nickname of the Picard Maneuver, wryly named after the famous battle tactic that one Jean-Luc Picard had invented.

  He saw Crusher standing and realized that it was in deference to himself. “Please, take a seat, Captain.”

  And Riker was even more amused when Crusher crossed to a chair and, without even thinking about it, reversed it and s
traddled it. “Pick up any other of my mannerisms, Captain?”

  Crusher looked at him askance. “What do you mean, sir?” He looked down at the chair as if seeing it for the first time. “Did you used to sit like this?”

  “Used to,” said Riker. “Before some sore back muscles decided that they would say otherwise in the matter. In answer to your question of do I miss it, Captain…no.”

  “No?”

  “You sound surprised, Captain Crusher.”

  Once upon a time, Wesley Crusher would have looked down nervously or stammered slightly or cleared his throat as he tried to compose himself. Just yesterday, it seemed to Riker. Now, though, the Starfleet captain merely shrugged slightly. “A little, I admit.”

  “You can take the man out of space, but you can’t take the spacer out of the man, eh?” asked Riker.

  “Something like that.”

  Riker slowly circled the quarters, never taking his gaze off Crusher. “You’ve carved quite a career for yourself, Mr. Crusher. Your father would have been proud.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what about you…Wes.” It sounded odd to speak the name out loud. It was as if he were addressing someone who wasn’t in the room. “Are you proud?”

  “I’ve done my job. I’ve done it to the best of my abilities. And”—he paused only a moment—“I had the best teachers.”

  “The Academy has top people on their faculty.”

  “That’s very true, but I wasn’t talking about the Academy, sir…and I think you know that.”

  “We don’t have to stand on formality, Wes. You can call me Will.”

  Crusher considered it for a moment, then said, “Actually…no. I’m not sure I can, sir. It would seem…presumptuous, somehow.”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with, then,” said Riker easily. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror. Old. So damned old, and he felt older in the presence of the robust captain who sat before him. Robust, even in his fifties.

  “What’s your opinion of me, Wes?”