Star Trek - TNG - A Time To Love

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“There’s Been Another Murder!”

Everyone stopped talking and froze at the words. All eyes went from the aide to Chkarad, who bowed

his head, lost in thought.

A moment later, he looked up and said, “What happened?”

“One of the members of the media, the ones who covered the quarantine, killed a farmer on Fith.”

“How?”

“He used some implement, not a weapon from the reports.”

“And where is he?”

“Being held by the local officers. But, sir…”

Chkarad looked at the aide warily, worried about what was to be added.

“Riker was seen at the farm as well.”

Picard, already trying to process the information quickly, was alarmed to hear that Will’s father was now

present at the only murders to occur on the planet in a century….

Current books in this series:

A Time to Be Bornby John Vornholt

A Time to Dieby John Vornholt

A Time to Sowby Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

A Time to Harvestby Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

A Time to Loveby Robert Greenberger

Forthcoming books in this series:

A Time to Hateby Robert Greenberger

A Time to Killby David Mack

A Time to Healby David Mack

A Time for War, A Time for Peaceby Keith R.A. DeCandido

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

AnOriginalPublication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon &

Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY

10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of

Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license

from Paramount Pictures.

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POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Once more, for my wife, Deb, who has always found the time to love me, regardless of whether or not

I’ve deserved it or her.

Chapter One

“THREE MORE?”

William Riker, first officer of theStarship Enterprise,bolted out of his seat, his eyes wide. Across the

table sat Deanna Troi, the ship’s counselor. Her deep brown eyes normally showed great empathy for

the plight of others, but now they just looked tired.

Riker’s hand rubbed his chin, stroking the freshly grown beard that had been the subject of much debate

between them. A few short years ago, he agreed to shave it as he and Troi renewed their romance.

However, after the last few months, he felt the need to change something, and growing the beard back

was the easiest solution. She had playfully refused to kiss him since then, and had held out a surprisingly

long time. But at the moment neither one of them felt particularly playful about anything.

With a shake of his head, he looked at the padd she had pushed his way. He already knew what it said,

but still, to see three more requests for transfer rankled. Crain from engineering, Nybakken from

environmental sciences, and Kawasaki from the technology group—all solid career officers, and certainly

not the type Riker ever expected to see request a transfer off theEnterprise.

“They want to be on the best starship in the fleet…” Troi began, her voice soft and understanding.

“Which we are,” he said emphatically.

“Which we are, yes,” she echoed. “But theEnterprise’s prestige has been damaged, its crew’s reputation

tarnished. These three want to avoid having their own careers derailed.”

“Kawasaki was up for promotion, too,” Riker said, sounding deflated. He was past being angry, but the

hurt was still there, and he allowed it to creep into his voice. Around Troi he could be himself, slipping off

the professional mask he wore among the crew.

“How many is that now?”

Troi shook her head sadly. “Seventeen in the last three months.” The transfer requests had begun

trickling in right after the encounter with the “demon ship.”

The entire crew of theEnterprisewas aware that the ship Picard had ordered to be destroyed was not a

Federation vessel, but a “demon ship” masquerading as one.

What galled Riker the most was the notion that despite everything Picard had done for Starfleet,

Command tallied up only the black marks, never bothering to weigh them against the successful missions.

To the admirals, Picard was increasingly a liability—an inconvenient reminder of the ideals they too had

sworn to uphold. When the Borg invaded Sector 001, the admirals sent theEnterpriseto the Romulan

Neutral Zone rather than let the flagship defend the Federation’s birthplace. But Riker saw the expression

on Picard’s face when the audio reports came through, of how a single Borg cube was decimating the

fleet. TheEnterprise,in violation of orders, arrived on the scene, took command of the remaining ships,

and destroyed the Borg cube.

Picard continued to embarrass the admirals by cherishing their principles while another one of their

own—Admiral Dougherty—seemed to lose sight of them, almost causing the annihilation of the Bak’u.

And now this. Banishment to the hinterlands was Picard’s only reward for steadfast courage and

integrity. No wonder people wanted off the ship. Riker had privately hoped that the crew would remain

intact, thumbing their collective noses at the faulty reasoning of their superiors, but with hundreds of

people aboard the starship, unanimity was virtually impossible. He had to take comfort in the knowledge

that those closest to Picard remained unfailing in their loyalty.

“How quickly do they want off? Is it worth my time talking to them?” Riker asked.

“You might have a chance with Kawasaki, since this will delay her chances at promotion. You just need

to assess which is more important to her: advancement on a tainted ship or a fresh start.”

“We’re not tainted,” he said with some heat.

“To us that’s true,” she agreed. “But not to everyone.”

Riker held the padd, his thumb rubbing against the smooth metallic side. He pondered the choice, trying

to imagine the thoughts in the younger woman’s head. It occurred to him he didn’t know Kawasaki all

that well, just that she was petite and had an outsized laugh. Of course, he couldn’t possibly know each

crewman equally well, but he was having trouble coming up with details on this crewman, only that she

was due for promotion within the year.

He quickly accessed her service record. Scanning her accomplishments, he was reminded why she had

been placed on the recommendation list. She had helped write new programming for enhanced

long-range sensors in addition to coming up with new safety systems to protect the core during red alert

situations. Her initiative and wide-ranging talents had caught everyone’s eye. The reviews were quite

good, which Riker had come to expect from the entire crew under his watch.

“She’s worth a shot,” he mused.

“Oh?” Riker immediately detected the playful tone in Troi’s voice. He grinned at her, stroking his beard

once more.

“Well, she is single and kind of cute,” he continued, rising to her challenge.

“And that’s enough for you?” Troi teased. “That laugh of hers is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Well, it might get annoying in a closed space,” Riker admitted, leaning closer to her. She leaned back

against him, and her touch warmed him a bit.

“Annoying? Deafening is more like it,” she said.

“You could sway me away from her,” he offered, his hand reaching out for hers. She took it, and their

fingers intertwined.

“I thought we were past the beginning,” she said, the flirtatious tone suddenly gone. Her eyes glittered

bright.

“Oh we are,Imzadi,”he said softly. “We haven’t been at the beginning since I first met you on Betazed.”

“And where are we now?”

“Day twelve,” he said, the twinkle back in his eye. “I think you’re holding out just to vex me. You’re

determined and ready to make a point.” Riker sat down and added, “Iwillspeak with Kawasaki and try

to convince her to stay. But for the sake of my ears, I’ll talk to her in Ten-Forward.”

Troi gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. Riker returned his attention to the padd and frowned as he

scrolled down to the next set of names. He studied them intently, his eyes narrowing.

Finally, Troi asked what else was wrong.

“We’ve been assigned more crew,” he said in a flat, disapproving tone.

“They do that, you know,” she said.

“When has Starfleet ever had to assign us crew? In all these years, people used to compete for

assignments. And now we’re getting castoffs. Look at the first officer’s note on Nafir’s file.”

He pushed the padd toward her, and she quickly thumbed to the transporter technician’s file. She read a

few lines, and her frown began to match Riker’s. The padd fell to the tabletop with a loud clatter, and she

looked across to her friend. “Two disciplinary reports in a year, and all they can say is he has a difficult

time following protocol. There’s more to it than that.”

“And we get him.”

“I’d like to say they sent him here because they knew we could turn him around, and maybe a year ago

that would have been true.”

“But today,” Riker continued, annoyed, “we get him because Captain Chen’farth doesn’t want the

headache.”

“We can still work to make him better than he is. We can still do good work,” Troi said emphatically.

“Sure, we can work with him. Geordi and Chief T’Bonz won’t put up with Nafir’s attitude, so he’ll

either do it our way or he won’t be on any starship in the future. The point is, we can’t afford to become

the prime dumping ground for Starfleet’s entire population of malcontents.”

“And we haven’t,” Troi insisted. “Most of them will still go to theExcalibur.”She rose and moved to the

replicator for a fresh cup of tea. After all her years on theEnterprise,she had finally developed a taste for

certain blends. “Anyway, not everyone coming to us is a troublemaker. Some have genuine problems.

The Dominion War’s effects have been deeper than first suspected, Will. People no longer seem as

interested in facing the unknown or being out near the borders. Some planets have turned positively

xenophobic.”

“Fighting a vicious army led by shape changers will do that to some people,” Riker noted, concerned but

unsurprised by the summation.

She returned to her seat, blowing across the top of the steaming mug.

“We’re all stretched so thin in terms of personnel, materiel…well, everything.”

“Someone in particular you’re concerned about?” he asked, hearing genuine curiosity in his own voice.

“There is one new member of Geordi’s team that seems to have some issues. I don’t think you’ve met

her yet. Anh Hoang, a plasma specialist. She transferred here about two months ago, right before we

went to Dokaal. She lost her husband and daughter when the Breen attacked San Francisco.”

He thought about the attack almost four years earlier and how many lives it altered. Earth had been

struck by enemy forces in the past, the first being the Borg in the early twenty-first century, although the

Enterprisethwarted that effort. Hoang’s story was just one of millions, he knew, and immediately he felt

sympathy for the woman.

“What’s the issue?” he asked softly.

“We met only once,” Troi admitted. “But my impression is that she took this posting to run away from

the memories. She does her job well, from all indications, but she isn’t making connections with the rest

of the crew.”

“And you’re worried.”

“And I’m worried. I intend to spend some time with her while we’re not going anywhere.” Immediately

she regretted the words, he could see from the expression that flitted across her face. He hadn’t become

a successful cardplayer without learning how to read others. Still, he winced at the notion that he was

serving aboard a technological marvel that was merely updating stellar cartography charts.

“We’ll finish this tomorrow,” he said shortly.

He strode out of Troi’s office and immediately quickened his pace to keep up with the hustle caused by

the approaching shift change. The first officer never ceased to marvel at how busy theEnterprisecould be

even when there was no meaningful mission to perform. The starship was truly a small town filled with

every type of inhabitant. Its people might be caught up in their own lives and careers, but they still served

their captain. They were never less than professional, and even though there were grumblings about the

galactic politics in play, they were in this together.

Well, mostly,he considered, remembering he had just approved the departure of two crew members

from this town. And he was still uncertain if he could convince the third to remain.

Geordi La Forge finished scanning codes for a supply requisition, looked over the figures on the screen,

and hit the submit button. Despite the size of the universe, he noted, there was some comfort in knowing

the starbases and supply depots all worked from a common framework of parts and corresponding

numbers. Normally, the starship could count on receiving the supplies from a nearby runabout along its

patrol route since they were not critically required. At least, not yet.

He surveyed the staff arriving and handing off assignments. Like the engines that thrummed beneath his

feet, La Forge took pride in how well his staff operated as a team. When he took over engineering well

over a decade earlier, he had seen to it that his people learned how to perform several functions and

could work together both when things were calm and during a crisis. Being the son of a captain will teach

you a few tricks. As a result, whenever theEnterprise,either the current ship or its predecessor, had

trouble, his crew knew what to do without panic. In fact, after theEnterprise-D crashed on Veridian III,

he was asked to lecture at a symposium on crisis management. While he expected the room to be filled

with fellow engineers, there were as many captains and first officers in attendance.

TheEnterprise-E had been in operation for seven years, and it had been through some tough battles, so it

didn’t surprise La Forge that certain critical systems had worn out ahead of specs and needed early

replacement. As the flagship of the fleet, theEnterprisecovered more space and suffered more wear and

tear than the average ship. Its missions were more important, more dangerous…until recently.

These last few months had weighed on the veteran officers, the ones used to running from assignment to

assignment, coming to live as much on coffee and adrenaline as on well-balanced meals. The stultifying

routine was harder still on the newer crew. They had graduated from the Academy with their heads filled

with stories of glory and action, and then they arrive and…patrol. La Forge had been in space long

enough to understand why things were the way they were, but no one expected him—or the others—to

like it.

“Here are the inventory reports you requested.” Taurik answered. Now a lieutenant, the Vulcan had

served in Starfleet for nearly a decade, including an earlier stint aboardEnterprise,and Geordi was glad to

have him back. He was gifted in propulsion theory and seemed always to find ways to coax more power

from the impulse engines.

La Forge took the padd and frowned at seeing how low replacement inventory had fallen. He had a

feeling there was a growing problem, and these figures confirmed it. Nodding thanks to his assistant chief,

La Forge returned to his station, ready to call the regional quartermaster rather than send another

request.

On the bridge, watching his officers leave and arrive, Jean-Luc Picard sat in the command chair and

fought the impulse to fidget. Normally he walked freely about on the bridge, but recently he had started

forcing himself to spend longer periods of time in the chair as a visible symbol that he was not cowed by

the indignities heaped on his crew—and himself—by Command. Instead, he would be seen by all who

had business on the bridge and wouldn’t let his frustration show.

But he was frustrated, and he disliked the gnawing feeling. Starfleet Command had as much as admitted

that theEnterprisewould not take on high-profile assignments until tensions throughout the Federation

cooled and the incident with the Ontailians faded from memory. Never before had his career been so

affected by public opinion, but during the strenuous rebuilding efforts in the wake of the Dominion War,

Command needed to make sure support remained strong while the Federation struggled to stay united.

And right now, support was lacking for both him and theEnterprise.A student of history, Picard knew full

well how quickly a cheering crowd could turn into riotous rabble. Before that could happen, Starfleet

Command had effectively banished theEnterprise,sending it off on errands that smaller and less

prestigious vessels usually handled. He was afraid their next assignment would be to provide escort for an

S.C.E. ship on a routine repair mission.

Gripping the armrests of his chair a bit more tightly, Picard mentally replayed the incidents with the

demon ship once more. He went through each command decision and projected what would have

happened had he done things differently. As always, the imagined results were disastrous, even more

disastrous than they turned out to be in reality. At least he had saved his crew and prevented a situation

from turning into a new war. But there were still prices to pay, more tangible ones beyond the bruises on

Picard’s ego.

Data had to surrender his emotion chip to Command.

Ever since his android friend first inserted the chip some years before, Picard had watched him struggle

and then finally master the myriad emotions that had flooded his positronic brain. Data was no longer an

outsider to the close relationships that had formed among the ship’s senior staff. At last he could return in

full measure the caring of friends who had become family.

Then the chip had been removed, and Data was once again orienting himself to an emotionless existence.

Picard wondered how well the adjustment was going. He made a note to invite the android to his

quarters for a frank talk in the next day or so. If nothing else, Data would see that his captain was

concerned for his well-being and know he could count on his help. Even if receiving emotional support no

longer mattered to Data, offering that support mattered to Picard.

He had watched Data’s early adjustments as the weeks passed on theEnterprise’s trip to the Dokaalan

colony. If anyone could still touch Data’s heart, it was the Dokaalan. Picard himself was impressed by

how a society managed to flourish living only on asteroids, after their planet no longer could harbor life.

What started out as a minor errand turned into an opportunity to do some significant good, and briefly

Picard’s hopes rose. Perhaps their success with the Dokaalan would endEnterprise’s exile….

Those hopes were dashed by the missions that followed, which proved to be short and unmemorable.

He realized his log entries were brief, bordering on terse, and they clearly reflected his mood. While he

would rather not have to be called to defend the Federation against some galactic threat, Picard still

wanted a challenge worthy of the ship and its crew. The captain longed to be released once more to

explore, but such missions had to wait until the fleet was rebuilt. He also recognized that on a personal

level, he needed something to make himself feel he was still making a difference. He had seen to it that

the majority of their assignments were important ones. It was why he defied Admiral Dougherty’s orders

and went into the Briar Patch, the region of space where Data had been assigned and subsequently

damaged. That decision worked out for the best since it prevented the Son’a from subjugating their

homeworld out of a twisted desire for vengeance.

But now…

Picard’s dark thoughts were abruptly banished by a chime coming from the right arm of his chair. A

flashing light indicated a communication from Starfleet Command, so by the time Christine Vale

announced a message was coming in, Picard was already out of his chair. He crossed the bridge and

headed for his ready room, his pace increasing with every step.

Once at his desk, he adjusted the angle of the desktop viewer and activated the screen. The blue field

with the UFP symbol was quickly replaced by the visage of Admiral Upton, a balding, gruff officer

Picard could barely remember. Quickly, he mentally sifted through the organizational chart and

remembered that Upton was with cultural affairs.

“Picard,”Upton said by way of greeting.

“Admiral Upton, good to see you,” Picard said, a professional smile playing on his face.

“Are you familiar with Delta Sigma IV?”

“Yes, sir,” Picard responded, unfazed by the lack of pleasantries. “It’s a few parsecs from our position.

I believe they’re celebrating their centennial as a successful colony world.” That was all he recalled, and

that only because it was mentioned on one of the newsfeeds he had read during recent downtime

between missions.

“Well, they’ve just experienced their first murder in a century, and it’s our fault,”Upton said, his

expression grim. His bushy, gray-streaked eyebrows looked like storm clouds over his blue eyes.

Picard frowned as the admiral elaborated on the nature of the mission. It was important, to be sure, but

it would be personally trying as well, for one member of his crew in particular.

“You do realize the position this puts Commander Riker in,” Picard said, when he finally could get a

word in.

“I’m not worried about Riker. His issues have been considered,”was all Upton would say.

Knowing it would be unwise to press the point, Picard changed the subject. “This is a higher profile

mission than the last few,” he noted. “Are we being unleashed?”

Upton paused before replying.“Actually, this is a lousy mission. We’re going to look bad regardless of

how it turns out. Just how bad we look is in your hands.”

“Very well, Admiral,” Picard replied neutrally. “We’ll lay in a course immediately.”

“Starfleet out,”was the only reply, and the screen shifted back to its standby image. Picard sat back for a

moment and let everything sink in. He reached for his viewer, entered a few quick commands, and then

rose.

Moving to the replicator for a cup of Earl Grey tea, Picard tapped his combadge. “Picard to Data.”

Instantly, the android responded.

“Mr. Data, I’ve just routed our latest mission packet to you. Please prepare to give senior staff a

presentation in thirty minutes.”

“Acknowledged.”

That accomplished, the captain once again tapped his badge and summoned Riker to the ready room.

This was not a conversation he was looking forward to, but one that he wanted to handle in private,

before the rest of the crew learned of the new mission. Seating himself on the couch near a tome of his

beloved Shakespeare, Picard sipped the hot liquid and tried to figure how much time had elapsed since

he last longed for a new mission. Certainly less than thirty minutes, and he was reminded once more that

one needed to be careful about what one wished for.

Upton left his office and took the turbolift to the floor housing a private room. Only admirals were given

access to the space, filled with antique furniture salvaged from around the globe. The gleaming wood and

brass always had a faint smell of polish, and voices were muted by the plush carpet found nowhere else

in the headquarters building. It was a refuge away from staff, from cadets, even from captains light-years

away.

The room was capable of holding only two dozen people at most, and usually had less than half that at

any one time. However, it was a much desired refuge, and during the worst of times, it was where

admirals could be found collecting their thoughts or just grabbing a quick nap when time permitted. The

tradition began over a hundred years earlier when the building was repaired after an alien probe nearly

destroyed the planet.

He entered the sanctuary and moved with practiced ease past three other admirals seated in a

semicircle. He went straight to a sideboard, where he poured a generous amount of amber liquid into a

cut crystal glass and then swirled it around three times. Traditional Scotch, there was nothing like it, as his

father always used to say.

He took one small sip, let it rest in his mouth for a full ten seconds, and then swallowed. The ritual

complete, he turned to face the others, who were debating some point of legislation that had just been

passed by the Federation Council. Upton lowered himself into a comfortable wing chair and sipped in

silence. The others—Admirals Janeway, Nechayev, and Stek—continued their discussion, with mere

nods of their heads in acknowledgment of Upton’s presence.

Finally, Stek, a senior Vulcan responsible for technological development, asked Upton, “How was the

mission received?”

“Picard’s a career man. He knows better than to complain.”

“It’s a pretty bad assignment. I wouldn’t want it,” Janeway admitted.

Upton smiled coldly at her. “That’s about what he deserves right now.”

“So, if he didn’t complain, what did he say?” asked Nechayev, the smallest of the four, but the one with

perhaps the most forceful personality.

“What do you think? He brought up Riker’s issues.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” said Janeway, recently promoted after successfully returning theU.S.S.

Voyager,which had been lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years. She was by far the youngest admiral

in attendance.

“With Kyle Riker missing, there are questions we need answered, and Will Riker is his son.”

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“There’sBeenAnotherMurder!”Everyonestoppedtalkingandfrozeatthewords.AlleyeswentfromtheaidetoChkarad,whobowedhishead,lostinthought.Amomentlater,helookedupandsaid,“Whathappened?”“Oneofthemembersofthemedia,theoneswhocoveredthequarantine,killedafarmeronFith.”“How?”“Heusedsomeimplement,notaweaponfromther...

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