STAR TREK - TNG - 43 - Fury Scorned

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This shore leave is dedicated to James Gunn, who introduced us to John Ordover, Master of All Print
Trek; to Gregory Benford, who suggested we take a slice out of Epictetus III; and to Charles Pellegrino,
who has a genius for the wonder of details.
Chapter One
AS HE WAITEDin his ready room, Captain Jean-Luc Picard wondered exactly what Starfleet wanted
from him. The Federation Council had given no orders to Starfleet Command and seemed uncertain of
what to do; he suspected that the Council was waiting for its advisors to come up with a plan of action.
In the meantime, he was faced with a dilemma that was probably unsolvable and very likely to end in
tragedy.
No, he told himself. Tragedy was not an outcome to dwell on; he would do whatever it took to prevent
it. But what could mere mortals, even a highly trained starship crew, do about a nova that threatened a
world of twenty million people? How could theEnterprise help when only days remained before
Epictetus III was swallowed by its sun?
The Federation Council clearly wanted to do something helpful and compassionate, if possible, during
the short time remaining to the people of Epictetus III. If indeed nothing could be done, the Federation
could not leave the planet below to its doom without at least a show of concern and an effort to help.
There had to be a presence, so that these Federation citizens would know that they were not to be
simply abandoned and forgotten. He wondered how much comfort that would be to this proud and
thriving colony world, and concluded that he was not seeing the entire problem. There had to be much
more to it, and it would take all the skill and ingenuity present in his crew to find a solution—or, at least,
to make certain that there was none.
Picard touched the panel in front of him. “Captain’s Log, Stardate 46300.6.” He leaned forward, resting
his arms on the table. “We have reached Epictetus Three and are awaiting Starfleet’s further instructions.
Our on-arrival conference with Admiral Barbieri will begin in five minutes.” He had an impulse to add a
few words about his hoped-for meeting with Samas Rychi, whose work he had long admired, but such a
personal comment seemed inappropriate now.
Samas Rychi, one of Epictetus III’s most eminent archaeologists, had been the first to uncover a site
revealing the existence of a highly advanced ancient humanoid civilization on his world. His subsequent
excavations, which had revealed a large number of sites containing hundreds of monumental and majestic
structures, had shown that this early culture had abruptly disappeared. Had it collapsed suddenly, as had
the Mayan civilization of Earth? Or had those people made contact with a far more advanced civilization
and abandoned their home planet in the wake of a geological disaster, as some recently discovered
etched metallic plates seemed to suggest? Rychi would never know, Picard thought. The sun that
illuminated his world would destroy any evidence that these ancient people had ever existed.
Rychi, ironically, was also the archaeologist who had so recently found evidence of exactly how
powerful the previous inhabitants of his world had been before their culture had vanished so abruptly.
Their humanoid civilization might well have found a way out of this dilemma. Now Samas Rychi would be
facing the death of his work, the death of his world, and very likely his own death as well.
There was one course of action for Picard to take, although it presented painful and perhaps even
unethical choices. TheEnterprise could save perhaps a few thousand people and a few of Epictetus III’s
most precious cultural artifacts. Had Starfleet Command and the Federation Council already concluded
as much, that the situation was hopeless, and ordered him into a predicament in which he would be
forced to do the absolute minimum because it was the only choice?
No, Picard told himself. It was not like the Council or Starfleet to be so vague, so—uncertain. They
expected more from theEnterprise than a token act. Somewhere, in all the information that was now
being examined by the Council, his own science officers, and his crew, there might be the pieces of a
solution, just waiting to be assembled. Solutions were often like that, needing no new discoveries, only
existing knowledge put together in a new way, under the stimulus of an overwhelming danger.
But as he rose to go out on the bridge, determined to do everything he could, a feeling deep within him
told him that he might have to face the conclusion that there was no good solution to the problem of
saving the people of Epictetus III because there was not enough time left to help them. TheEnterprise
had used up much of that time in getting here, and now the planet’s expected lifetime could be measured
in days. He hoped that the scheduled conference with Admiral Barbieri would not be an exercise in
futility, and that the presence of theEnterprise in this system would not raise false hopes that might only
be dashed in the end.
As the crew on the bridge listened again to Admiral Barbieri’s recitation of the grim facts about the
coming nova, Lieutenant Commander Data considered the problem presented by the unstable star. This
was not a star of the classic eruptive novas. It was certainly not a candidate for a supernova. It was
simply not massive enough for either of these states. This was a sun like that of Earth, except that it had
been affected in some way to bring on this sudden instability. The star presented an extremely perplexing
problem, but his mind was already searching for explanations, and a solution.
The Federation Council was tacitly treating the rescue of Epictetus III’s population as an impossible
task. Data admitted to himself that there might be no way to solve this particular problem, that twenty
million people might suffer a scorching death. It was only a matter of days, perhaps a week, before the
great death took place. And, as he considered the facts that Admiral Barbieri was repeating, it became
even more clear that no earlier warning had been possible.
He reminded himself that theEnterprise was also at risk. The unstable sun might bloom into a nova with
almost no warning, and any malfunction delaying theEnterprise ’s departure could conceivably doom the
starship. It was not likely to happen, but the risk could not be ignored.
“ . . . and it now appears,” Admiral Barbieri was saying, “that the attractions of this system were too
good to be true. Thanks to Samas Rychi, we now know that the star of Epictetus was stable because of
a previously undetected device left within its subspace core by the ancient humanoid civilization that once
lived on the planet. Professor Rychi recently discovered a site that is apparently a station linked to the
sun’s stabilizing device, along with some visual depictions that seem to give a picture of the device and
how it was placed. Now we’re convinced that this highly advanced technology must be failing, because
the sun’s emissions suggest all the classic signs of instability.”
The admiral paused, reached toward a panel in front of him, then turned his great weight in the zero-g
environment that had been his home for the last thirty years, and from which he routinely communicated
with the Federation Council. It was unusual for a human being to be so massive in size, but the admiral
reportedly had both a rare chaotic metabolic disorder and a great love of food. He was a remarkable
man, Data thought, recalling what he had read about Pietro Barbieri in the records: the admiral had
earned a degree in astrophysics at fifteen, had been one of Starfleet Academy’s most brilliant students
after that, and had spent twenty years as a starship captain, when his incurable metabolic ailment and
increasing corpulence had made a life aboard ship as an active officer impossible. From what Data knew
about Admiral Barbieri, he spent almost all of his time thinking, but clearly the admiral had not had much
time to think about this nova.
“TheEnterprise,” Barbieri continued, “was the only vessel close enough to get to Epic Three within a
week. There’s no chance of routing additional Starfleet vessels to you in time to help out.” An uneasy
look passed across his round face, as if he were feeling the emotion called shame. Perhaps he was
ashamed, given that he had so little advice to offer. Starfleet and the Council depended upon the admiral
as they would a natural resource. If a problem seemed intractable, it was said, ask Pietro Barbieri. He
was capable of vast intuitive leaps—many of them illogical, of course, but always interesting as
hypothetical proposals that were often justified much later. It was said that Barbieri prided himself on
being able to help guide Federation Council decisions with his intuition and intellect alone, although Data
suspected that this widespread assumption was inaccurate. The admiral was, after all, only one individual.
Many others also advised the Council, and perhaps the admiral had simply accumulated credit for the
results of larger brain-storming efforts.
“But now that we’re here,” Picard asked from behind Data, “exactly what can we do?” Data glanced
back for a moment to see the captain lean forward slightly in his station chair. “It’s impossible to move
twenty million people in so short a period. We couldn’t even begin to set up our transporters to beam up
and temporarily store that many people in a week’s time. Even if we had the time, no one has ever tried
such a procedure on that large a scale. The error rate would be enormous.”
Data knew that this was so, and that only lip service would be devoted to this illusory possibility.
Glancing aft, he could see Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge, who was sitting at his engineering
station, nodding in agreement with Miles O’Brien, the transporter chief, who was at mission operations.
Interesting as it was to speculate about such a transporter feat, it was far beyond what could be done
reliably within a week. To place that many people safely in the transporter’s pattern buffer, assuming that
the extensive modifications to make that possible could be made quickly, would require that a beam
operate day and night for months. Quantum errors would make a substantial loss of the human data
inevitable. Even if those losses were accepted, the power and a sufficiently detailed program were just
not there, leaving aside the problem of exactly where such a vast block of human information could be
rematerialized in time to prevent deterioration.
“You’re quite right, Captain.” Barbieri’s jowls trembled as he shook his head. “There’s no way out of it.
When the time comes, you may have to settle for taking the few people you can, along with one or two
cultural treasures. You’ll just have to assess the situation personally and decide what is to be done.
That’s all I can tell you. We cannot leave this world to its fate without some demonstration of concern
and an effort to help, however futile.” The admiral grimaced. “There has to be a presence, so that other
Federation worlds will know that we tried, that the people of Epictetus Three were not completely
abandoned.”
Admiral Barbieri was correct, Data concluded, given what they knew so far; the situation seemed
intractable, perhaps even truly hopeless. But Data also concluded that no one yet had all the facts about
the threat to Epictetus III. And where there seemed to be a poverty of both facts and assumptions, there
might also be alternatives.
Lieutenant Commander Deanna Troi glanced to her right at Captain Picard, then turned back toward the
viewscreen. The captain’s concern was obvious. Jean-Luc Picard would do whatever he could even
while knowing that his efforts were useless, but she sensed the strain inside him and the anger he felt at his
helplessness. Admiral Barbieri’s heavy-lidded brown eyes hinted at his own suppressed rage. He would
have to suppress it, having nowhere to direct it.
It was theKobayashi Maru —the no-win scenario. To save some two or three thousand lives out of all
the millions was to do almost nothing, however precious those individual lives were. Save a few, abandon
the many, and call that success.
This mission was impossible, its criterion of success too narrowly defined; it would certainly lead to
severe strains on the personalities of the officers and all the members of the crew. Too many lives were at
stake, too many would vanish as though they and their world had never existed. Troi had never faced
such an overwhelming eventuality, even in her worst nightmares. She could almost feel the insides of the
doomed millions beginning to press in on her, as if somehow she might be a refuge into which they could
escape.
Everything in her suddenly rebelled against her training, her duty, this mission. No one, not even the
organized intelligence of a starship crew, should have been put into such a position of responsibility,
forced to make such horrifying and impossible choices. Yet she did not know what else could have been
done. For the Federation to have made no effort at all would have been even worse. Even among the
wild animals on her world of Betazed, and among some species on Earth, mates or siblings would stay
close to a dying member of their species, to keep company with the life that was slipping away. Rational
beings could do no less.
Captain Picard seemed steadier now, and she felt more confident that he would hold himself together.
But another crew member on the bridge was containing emotions tied into knots of agony. Troi turned
her attention to Ensign Ganesa Mehta, the officer sitting at the controller station next to Data. The young
woman’s back was stiff, betraying the ensign’s tension. Ganesa Mehta had remained at her station,
asking not to be relieved, and Commander Riker had honored that request. Now Troi was beginning to
think that he should have insisted on replacing her with another officer.
Ganesa Mehta, Troi thought sadly, had come home to Epictetus III only to see her homeworld die.
Ensign Mehta seemed to be holding up—so far. Commander William Riker had worried about leaving
her at her post, but she was an extremely promising young officer, and he had trusted her when she had
told him that she was able to stay on duty. “I must do what I can,” she had told him. “To sit around
waiting—that would be worse.”
Admiral Barbieri was now speaking of the slight risk the mission posed to theEnterprise . Riker did not
like the idea of putting the starship so close to a nova, despite the fact that there would be plenty of
warning to allow the ship to get clear. Plenty of time, he reminded himself, as long as nothing went wrong,
as long as no unforeseen malfunction developed. He had played poker enough times to know that a
player could lose even when holding a good hand, and the stakes this time would be the lives of the entire
Enterprise crew. Unfortunately, this was a hand he could not fold or refuse to play; but his poker
player’s heart was warning him that it was not wise to play poker with a sun about to go nova, that some
unanticipated circumstance might somehow fatally delay theEnterprise .
As he listened to Admiral Barbieri, Riker tried to banish his irrational fear. If it persisted, he would have
to talk to Deanna Troi about it. He shifted in his seat, then glanced past Captain Picard at Counselor
Troi. She was sitting perfectly still, and he could almost see the doubt within her that she would never
allow to be seen in her lovely face. And he also knew that he would do his duty, even if it cost him his
life.
As Admiral Barbieri signed off, the crew members on the bridge were silent. Then the viewscreen
showed the sun that promised to release an impersonal violence vastly greater than a star’s usual seething
cauldron. Outwardly, the sun did not betray the presence of the fury, so long imprisoned, that was
readying to wipe all life from this system’s third planet. Riker knew that theEnterprise ’s instruments had
already recorded enough information to predict with certainty the coming hellfire.
Then he noticed something else, and leaned forward to study the panel in front of his station. The
Enterprise ’s sensors had detected twenty sublight spacecraft accelerating toward the edges of this solar
system. They had to have been boosting for some time to have gone so far, and they could only have
come from Epictetus III.
“Twenty sublight ships are leaving this system,” the deep voice of Lieutenant Worf said from his station
behind Troi.
“Computer,” Picard said, “view aft.” The viewscreen revealed the tiny dots of the sublight craft. He
turned toward Riker. “Where can they be going?”
The question was rhetorical. Picard was obviously well aware that with a standard sublight boost, the
best those ships could achieve would be to reach interstellar space. Out there, they had a chance to
survive the shock of the nova, but there would be nowhere for them to go, no port for them to reach in
any reasonable time.
“Clearly, Captain,” Riker replied, “they expect to be picked up.”
Chapter Two
AS THE BLUE-GREEN GLOBEof Epictetus III appeared on the bridge’s main viewscreen, a wave of
anxiety washed over Deanna Troi. She sat back at her station, shaken by the sensation, then regained her
self-control.
Epictetus III, she knew, had a reputation for beauty, and its inhabitants were noted for their artistic
accomplishments and their appreciation of all the arts. Images of the planet’s cities had shown her
graceful buildings set among flowering gardens. Most of the Epictetans lived along the east, south, and
west coasts of Themis, a continent about the size of Earth’s Australia that lay on Epictetus III’s equator,
but some two hundred thousand people lived in the city of Boreas on the much smaller northern continent
of Metis.
The two continents were the only landmasses on a planet whose surface was over ninety percent ocean.
These continents had presented some obstacles to settlement. The coastline of Metis was barren and
covered with rocks, while the middle of that continent was thickly forested land. The interior of Themis
was a sand-covered expanse known as the Korybantes Desert, bordered by the high peaks of the
Kuretes Mountains in the east and the Kabeiroi Mountains in the west.
Federation colonists had come to this watery world of so little land, and had fallen in love with its beauty.
To an Epictetan, Troi had heard, no other planet could be as beautiful. The stark contrasts among the
flowering hills overlooking the ocean, the magnificent mountains, the wide grassy plains, the orange sands
of the desert, the rock-strewn shoreline in the north, and a forest of trees that were many times larger
than Earth’s sequoias had only heightened the colonists’ appreciation of their world’s beauty.
Now that world would be forever lost.
The torment of twenty million people again threatened to fill her; she felt their growing terror and despair
pressing in around her. And then, below the inner storm of fear and anxiety, she heard a deeper song: the
love of this world’s people for their planet. The roots of the song reached back to a time before this
world was settled, and seemed linked to the long-dead alien civilization that had once flourished here,
and whose absence had never been adequately explained. This songful bond with the long-gone
inhabitants had been forged by a century and a half of growing familiarity with the landscape and through
various archaeological clues, much as the owner of an old house develops a sense about the previous
dwellers and comes to feel that he knows so much more than he can say, much less prove.
The story of that long-ago culture had also been one of love for a beautiful world surviving in the hostile
glare of an unstable sun. Recently uncovered evidence suggested that the earlier people of Epictetus III
had sought to protect their world from danger by stabilizing its sun, because they could not bear to see
their world perish. And it had not perished, even though those past inhabitants were gone; now their song
continued in the minds and hearts of new settlers, opposing the sun’s renewed enmity.
So much of life’s meaning, Troi thought, lay only at the edge of extinction. . . .
Picard straightened at his station and said, “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of theU.S.S. Enterprise. . .
.”
The face of a handsome gray-haired woman appeared on the viewscreen, stopping Picard in
mid-sentence. Troi sensed that the captain had not been sure of exactly what to say after the routine
hailing phrases, and was now content to remain mostly silent.
“Captain Picard,” the woman said, “I am Minister Mariamna Fabre of our world’s governing council,
and I have been chosen to speak for the council.” She paused as the view pulled back to show eight
other figures sitting with her at a long table covered with a lacy white cloth and set with flowers in
enameled vases, delicate glass pitchers, and elegant silver goblets. The faces of the nine ministers were
grim, and one man with a thick mane of white hair was whispering to a younger woman. Another man,
with black hair, fine features, and intense dark eyes, scowled at Mariamna Fabre. Their expressions told
Troi that, even though the council was deferring to Minister Fabre for the time being, some of its
members were wishing that her authority were not so great, especially during this deadly crisis.
The young woman sitting with the white-haired man suddenly struck the table with her fist, knocking
over a goblet. “This is no time for the niceties of diplomacy!” she cried out. The white-haired man
nodded in agreement. “We have nothing to lose now by speaking honestly, even harshly.”
“Captain Picard, that was Minister Dorcas Dydion,” Minister Fabre said. “She’s quite understandably
distraught—please pardon her for failing to introduce herself.” Fabre sat back in her seat. “Go on,
Dorcas,” she murmured. “Say what you have to say.” Troi sensed the iron will underlying Fabre’s
conciliatory tone; the minister was tougher than she seemed, but always willing to bend rather than break.
The young woman looked away for a moment. “I’ll yield to Samas,” she murmured, and Troi saw that
Fabre had intimidated her more than a little.
“Very well.” Minister Fabre gestured at the black-haired man. “Samas, you may speak. Captain Picard
should know how it is with us.”
The man lifted his head; his dark eyes gazed out from the viewscreen. “I am Minister Samas Rychi.”
Troi saw Picard tense with recognition. “Professor Rychi,” Picard said, leaning forward, “I’m an admirer
of your work. Archaeology is a keen interest of mine—I’ve read all your books, including your recent
account of your excavations on Epictetus Three. You make the past live in your words. I hadn’t realized
that you were a member of your world’s council.”
“An election was held only a few months ago. I haven’t been on the council of ministers long. It seems I
was destined to help govern our world only at the hour of its demise.” Samas Rychi rested his arms
against the table, and Troi realized that the captain’s sincerely meant compliments had not moved the
archaeologist at all. “Captain Picard, exactly what can you do for us in a week’s time?”
“All that is possible,” Picard replied in a flat, unemotional voice, but his eyes betrayed his concern and
dismay.
Rychi’s mouth twisted. “And exactly what is possible?”
“They should go after the ships,” the white-haired man shouted. “That much should be possible.”
“I assume,” Picard said, “that you mean the sublight craft fleeing from your system.”
“Yes.”
“Well, of course!” Rychi burst out. “We all know why that’s your first priority, Czeslaw.”
Minister Fabre’s face sagged with fatigue, and Troi glimpsed despair in her eyes for an instant; but then
the minister straightened and gazed directly at the white-haired man. “Samas has the floor,” she said in a
quiet but hard voice, reasserting her control of the meeting.
“Naturally Czeslaw wants theEnterprise to go after those ships,” Samas Rychi said. “His son’s on one
of them.”
“I see no reason—” the white-haired man began.
“Silence.” Minister Fabre had pitched her voice low, but both men immediately turned toward her. “I
was chosen to speak for the council, so you will allow me to speak.” She paused. “Some of us are
ashamed of what those craft represent, Captain Picard. Three ministers in this chamber have family and
friends aboard those ships.” Her face revealed her shame at having to make such an admission, and Troi
felt sympathy for the woman’s pain and courage. “Minister Czeslaw Peladon’s son is among the
passengers.”
“I make no apology for that,” Czeslaw Peladon said, drawing his bushy white eyebrows together. “I
took the chance to save my only child and his wife. Ministers Lise Turano and Lev Robert were my
partners in this enterprise, and used their influence to save those close to them—I can only commend
them for agreeing to act quickly when it was necessary to act without hesitation.”
He waved his arm at a fine-featured blond woman and a mustached gray-haired man; the two shrank
back in their seats, looking embarrassed. “But we did not try to save ourselves,” Peladon continued.
“Keep that in mind before you rush to condemn us.”
“You want theEnterprise to save the people aboard those ships,” Minister Fabre said. “I must disagree.
Who would we put in a lifeboat if only a few could be saved? The children, of course. A starship is
limited in the number of people it can rescue, so as many of this world’s children as possible should be
saved.”
“How many people are aboard the sublight ships?” Picard asked.
Fabre glanced at Czeslaw Peladon. “Three thousand and sixty, Captain,” the white-haired man replied.
“We could accommodate that number,” Captain Picard said, “but to chase down each of those ships
would take time away from whatever we might be able to do here.”
“Wait!” Minister Dorcas Dydion, the young woman who had spoken before, was leaning over the table;
a lock of her long reddish hair fell across her face. “Do you mean you’re the only ship? Didn’t Starfleet
send any others?”
Picard shook his head. “We were the closest. There was no time for anyone else to get here before the
nova. Several ships are on the way, but they won’t be here in time unless by some chance the nova’s
delayed. And even then, for them to orbit your world and transport people aboard would put those
starships in jeopardy if anything went wrong.”
Troi imagined a horrifying picture. Starships standing off in low planetary orbit, beaming people
aboard—a very small number—and then being forced to shut down the transporters at the last moment
and race to outrun the nova. It might be done if the ships could get here before the end, but fifty or even a
hundred ships could do little for most of the twenty million people. Mobs would be fighting one another
below to get a chance at rescue, perhaps storming the places where transporter beams were to touch
down, making it impossible to do anything more than to beam up jostling bodies in bits and pieces.
“So your ship is all there is?” Dorcas Dydion was saying, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Yes,” Picard said, and Troi caught the undercurrent of rebellion in his emotions.
“Then there is only one rational course to take,” Samas Rychi said, but his voice broke and he paused.
Minister Fabre was waiting for him. He nodded at her, then went on, “You can’t save our world or most
of its people, but it might be possible to save our culture. Some of us on this council are its custodians,
people who have done what we can to uncover and preserve this world’s past. Others, such as my
colleague Mariamna Fabre, have enriched our culture with their contributions to its science and art—she
is, as you may know, one of our most gifted composers.”
Fabre grimaced, as though resenting his mention of her accomplishments in so grave a context.
“And all of us here,” Rychi continued eloquently, “were elected to our positions because others trusted
us to serve and to guide our world. We and a few of those like us must survive. Take some children, of
course, but take other people as well—our best and most accomplished people, along with some of our
most treasured artifacts. What will those children have if there is no one left to remember, and no one left
to teach them what we had here?”
“I see your point,” Picard said, but Troi sensed the captain’s dismay. He had admired Samas Rychi’s
work and thought something of the man, and now disillusionment was clearly setting in. Rychi’s argument
might be sound—she could grant him that much—but she also sensed what seemed to be fear and
self-interest behind his statements.
“I’m partly in agreement with Samas,” Dorcas Dydion said, “but Czeslaw has a point, too. Take what
people and artifacts you can from our planet, then go after the sublight ships.” She looked around at the
other council members, who seemed to be agreeing with her.
“What would we be saving?” Minister Fabre asked. “Our world’s life will die, and will not live again in
the few who survive. It’s not the few who need to be saved. It’s our world that needs saving.” She spoke
with despair in her voice, and there was no hope in her eyes.
“That is not possible, Minister,” Picard said softly. “I wish it were otherwise. If only we had known
earlier what had kept this sun stable—the Federation wouldn’t have risked settlements here until more
was known.”
Fabre bowed her head. “We were so in love with this world,” she said, “these few generations that have
lived here, that perhaps we didn’t wish to look too closely at the great gift left us.”
Troi knew what was coming now. The presence of theEnterprise, rather than giving comfort and safety
to some, would drive many to desperate and violent acts. The starship could easily repel boarding
parties, but the agony of having to do so would place cruel emotional strains on the crew. Below, on the
planet, the suicide rate was likely to rise quickly; many would prefer a peaceful end in place of a
conflagration.
She caught a wave of distress and agony, at close range this time. At her station, Ensign Ganesa Mehta
was as still as stone as she watched the viewscreen. How would the young woman react if she had to
refuse desperate friends and relatives passage on theEnterprise? Would she be able to bear up if people
she cared about chose to take their own lives before the nova flared? What would the ensign do when
the last messages came, when her world began to die? She shouldn’t be on bridge duty, Troi thought;
she’s close to falling apart now.
“May I ask another question, Minister Fabre?” Picard said. “Our records show that you have at least
two cargo-carrrier-class starships.”
Fabre nodded. “Yes, we do—theOlympia and theCarpathia.”
“Where are they?”
“On their way here with cargo from several ports of call,” Fabre replied. “They’re scheduled to arrive
three weeks from today. Their captains have said that they won’t turn away from a course for home until
all hope is gone.” She folded her hands; her knuckles were white. “We were building a third cargo
carrier, as well as a cruiser-class starship, but they can’t be completed before the end. The twenty others
we had, all nonwarp intrasystem craft, were, as I said before, commandeered by three of my fellow
council members before anyone else could get to them.” The minister averted her eyes.
Troi almost heard Picard try to say, “Perhaps a way can be found to save your people,” but he held
back, obviously knowing that hollow words, even from a starship captain, would be useless to set a
brave example in a hopeless situation. Minister Fabre’s people would show their best and worst, and
mere words would not bring dignity to the coming disaster; nothing could.
Minister Fabre ended the meeting quickly. There was nothing more to say, and she and her colleagues
would have their hands full struggling to keep some order among their people before the end.
Picard found himself gazing at the screen, which was again showing the planet below. He felt the eyes of
his officers on him, but for a moment he did not look back.
At last he turned toward Riker and said, “There is only one course of action to take, as unfair as it is.
We have to start beaming up as many people as we can take, together with any essential or especially
precious artifacts and documents, immediately. And we don’t have the time to start any kind of fairness
lottery for which deserving three thousand or so people can come aboard. Three of the council members
have already sent away those nearest and dearest to them, so the six remaining ministers might as well
pick the rest, themselves included. Chance would be just as unfair as what’s already happening. A
technical fairness would be cold comfort.”
Riker frowned. “As you say,” he began, “there’s no fair way to handle this, except perhaps to reach
down into populated areas and simply beam up people at random, which would be dangerous.”
“Permission to speak, sir,” said the young officer sitting at the control and navigation station, and Picard
recalled that the young pilot, Ganesa Mehta, was from Epictetus III. It was unfortunate but unavoidable,
since Starfleet made a point of recruiting from as many Federation colonies as possible.
“Go ahead, Ensign Mehta,” Riker said.
“You can trust Mariamna Fabre to be fair,” the dark-haired ensign said. “She’s been a member of the
council for nearly twenty years. There’s never been a hint of scandal involving her, and she’s scrupulously
honest. That’s why she keeps getting reelected and why she’s almost always asked to speak for the
council as a whole. If anyone must make difficult decisions, she’s the one to do it.” Ganesa Mehta
lowered her eyes. “You can’t say the same for some of the other ministers.”
“La Forge and O’Brien,” Picard said, standing up and turning aft, “how long to beam up three thousand?
And how crowded would we be?”
“If we use all six personnel transporters,” Geordi La Forge replied, “we could beam up seven hundred
persons per hour at most.”
“If we reset the cargo transporters to handle life-forms,” Miles O’Brien added, “we could manage an
additional three hundred per hour.”
Data turned his chair around and said, “Therefore, the shortest amount of time it would take for three
thousand is three hours, but it would be safer to allow a bit more time than that. Our life-support systems
can handle that many additional people, and there is enough space to hold them, despite the crowding. It
is deciding which persons to bring aboard that is likely to take most of our remaining time.”
And then, Picard thought to himself, we simply leave this planet to its fate.
Riker stood up and went over to Ganesa Mehta’s station. “Ensign,” he said softly, “I’m relieving you of
duty.”
“Sir,” she replied, “I can handle my duties at conn.”
摘要：

ThisshoreleaveisdedicatedtoJamesGunn,whointroducedustoJohnOrdover,MasterofAllPrintTrek;toGregoryBenford,whosuggestedwetakeasliceoutofEpictetusIII;andtoCharlesPellegrino,whohasageniusforthewonderofdetails.ChapterOneASHEWAITEDinhisreadyroom,CaptainJean-LucPicardwonderedexactlywhatStarfleetwantedfromhi...

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