STAR TREK - TNG - 25 - Grounded

For Michael Cassutt

Tennis on Stardock sometime, Mike?

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank a few people for their help and support while I worked on this book:

Donald Maass, Kevin Ryan, Karen Erickson, Dennis Bailey. The staff and actors, past and present, of

STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, for constant electronic stimulation and inspiration. And a

special thank you to that great hard SF writer, Charles Sheffield.

Prologue

Stardate 45229.6

CAPTAINJEAN-LUCPICARDstarted to tug at his uniform, but stopped himself. The habit—that firm

grasp of the resilient red-blue fabric, that steady and knowledgeable reorientation of the synthetic fibers

around his slim, muscular torso—was something he used as an almost subconscious signal of authority.

Now, though, he was no longer on theEnterprise , nor was he in authority.

Nor was he in uniform.

He was wearing dull black mufti. Coveralls. They felt odd and unusual. The lack of his familiar rank pins

on his collar and his comm unit upon his breast made him feel almost naked.

They were keeping him waiting, and he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

Sitting beside him in uncomfortable, tense silence were three others from the USSEnterprise crew,

waiting as well. Commander William Riker looked as though he would much prefer pacing the office in

which they sat. His eyes started about and he scratched at his dark beard. If anything, thought Picard, his

Number One was taking the situation far less calmly than he was. Riker was a take-action-now sort, and

the frustration of the past days was plainly etched on his face. He, too, wore the same black coveralls on

his big-framed body, and seemed to like it about as much.

Sitting beside him, looking calm and poised as usual, was Dr. Beverly Crusher. Her legs were crossed,

her arms folded. She was frowning, and her usually smooth forehead was furrowed. She was showing

some uncharacteristic age lines around her eyes. The tension, no doubt . . . Still, she looked lovelier than

ever, her red hair somehow even more vibrant and alive against the black of the bulky, ill-fitting coverall

that had been issued to her. Her smooth face seemed calm, but those blue eyes were filled with worry.

She smiled a flicker of encouragement at him, and uncomfortable that he’d been caught looking at her, he

only nodded back curtly.

She said, “Look, we’ve got some of the best scientists, technicians, and engineers in the Federation

here, Jean-Luc. I’m sure they’ll solve the problem. That’s why we’ve come here, isn’t it?”

“We’re here,” said Picard, ruefully, “quite simply because our other options were exhausted.”

“Yeah, right, the best technicians, the best scientists, the best engineers,” said Lieutenant Commander

Geordi La Forge. “And they won’t let me do what I do, dammit.”

“Geordi, these are unusual circumstances.” Beverly Crusher placed a comforting hand on the engineer’s

shoulder. The handsome black man leaned forward, clasping his hands and shaking his head. Picard

looked at him, still not used to the way Geordi looked.

His pupils, dull milky white, stood out naked against his corneas. On either side of his head, the red lights

of his implants blinked. Geordi was truly blind now, his VISOR gone.

“Unusual? Seems like the usual to me,” said Riker, impatience straining his voice. “The usual

bureaucratic nonsense. I just hope it wasn’t a mistake coming here.”

“We didn’t have a choice, Number One,” said Picard, moving uncomfortably in his temporary outfit.

“We should just be grateful wegot here,” said Beverly, snapping a significant look at Riker.

“I guess so,” said Geordi. “I guess so. . . . I mean, Ihope so.”

Unable to sit any longer, Jean-Luc Picard rose and walked to the viewport. The usual wild havoc of

stars, bright and dim, spread across the velvet of the universe, holding their awe and mystery into

pinpoints of light, but Picard did not stare at them with his usual appreciation and wonder. The viewport

of the office had an excellent view of some of the docking ports of the starbase, as well as a wonderful

vista of the huge vessel’s spinning hub. Wires, catwalks, gondolas, protruded against the vast gray of the

hull. Usually Picard enjoyed looking at starbases. Such marvels of space engineering, they were . . .

monuments to the ingenuity of sentient life . . . marvels of architectural achievement for the Federation. . .

.

Now, though, it was all just an insignificant interplay of light and shadow.

At other times, he might also have appreciated just how large and elegant an office this was, filled not

only with certificates concerning the rank and achieve ments of its occupant, but a fine aquarium filled

with dozens of varieties of rare aquatic life. To say nothing of the tasteful array of holographic art upon

the far wall, the cutting edge in computer and desk design, and the very finest in sleek furniture. The

temperature was a little cool for Picard, but he had to admit that it, along with the muted lights and the

bubbles in the aquarium, gave the room a sense of peace and serenity. The odors, too . . . sandalwood?

A touch of myrrh and Cassiopeian jasmine? Masculine odors . . . stern and authoritarian smells, for

certain, that was supposed to boost one’s sense of security under the command of this individual as one

consulted with him in the office. Unfortunately, all this calmed Picard not one jot. Certainly he wore his

usual facade of stern dignity. But inside . . .

No, he told himself. Come, Picard. Where is your mettle . . . ? He ground his teeth a moment,

concentrated and . . . Ah! there it was. Deep, deep within him. Bedrock. Firm and strong. His sworn

obligation to duty, to preserve the tenets of justice and discipline that embodied the noble cause of the

Federation. Ideals were not just gauzy nothings. They were the anchors of the spirit, and Jean-Luc Picard

had his commitment to truth and loyalty to his service and to his cause, and nothing could ever sway him.

He must always remind himself of that. . . . He was a man of ideals, nothing more and nothing less. Other

matters were hardly as significant. . . .

Even this . . .

“What’s keeping the guy?” Riker said, bounding out of his chair and going to the desk, certainly headed

for the communicator to demand an explanation for the tardiness.

Beverly reached by her side as though for her PADD, but of course, found nothing there. She could not

hide her chagrin. Instead she craned her neck, finding a digital time-display device angled on the contours

of the desk before them. “The meeting was called for fourteen hundred hours, and it’s a quarter past.”

“I just don’t like the feel of it.” Geordi’s frustration was obvious. “I wish they’d at least give me a cane

and a Seeing Eye dog. Then I wouldn’t feel so damned helpless.”

“I’m sure they’ll find a replacement for your VISOR soon, Geordi,” Beverly said, comfortingly.

Riker shook his head in frustration. “They’ve just no conception of the importance of time.”

“It is not something we’ve got a lot of!” said Geordi.

“People, please calm yourselves,” said Picard, modulating his voice to both reassure and command.

“The crew of the ship is safe. We have reached safety. That is what matters. . . . All else is insignificant in

comparison.”

“What about Data?” said Geordi.

“I have promised you, just as I promised Data—he will be provided for, whatever the outcome.” Picard

straightened his shoulders and rubbed a hand over his smooth, bare pate. If he couldn’t tug on his

uniform, at least he still had that.

“But, Jean-Luc,” said Riker. “The Enterprise. We’re talking about our ship. . . .”

Our home . . .” said Beverly.

Picard stiffened and turned away. “I repeat, our crew is safe. We will do what we can about the ship, to

the utmost of our abilities. But we should not let sentiment mar our sense of place or duty.”

They said nothing, but he could feel them staring at him.

He sat back down and folded his arms, waiting.

Less than a minute later, two men walked in. One was Admiral Davies, a jowly, slope-browed man with

penetrating night-black eyes and a streak of gray though his dark, bushy hair. He had long, apelike arms

that were joined together thoughtfully now over his large belly. Weight control was easy in the

twenty-fourth century, but many of the upper echelon of the Federation chose to remain husky as an odd

symbol of the gravity and seniority of their office. For Davies, his girth made him look older than he really

was, a plus in a universe where men were still mortal and time clocked in duty still made a difference.

Admiral Davies was commander of this sector of the Federation and the high-ranked man on this,

Starbase 210. He had held the position only two years, but already had won wide acclaim for the

wisdom of his decisions and the accomplishments of the sector in achieving both the philosophical and

practical goals of the Federation.

Unfortunately, if Captain Jean-Luc Picard had his druthers, he would have gone to another starbase. He

and Admiral Davies had crossed paths before, initially in Starfleet Academy, when Picard had been a

freshman and Davies a senior. Those crossings had not always occasioned sparks, but neither had they

always been without friction.

And now it was Admiral Davies’s decision as to what was to happen.

The other man was taller, slender, younger, but with tired blue eyes. He was too thin, as though he spent

all his time on work and far too little in recreation or nutrition. He held a PADD and immediately went to

the computer console and started punching up numbers.

“This is the starbase’s chief science officer, perhaps the finest in Starfleet,” said the admiral without any

preliminary niceties. “Dr. Rolf Chavez.”

Pictures of theEnterprise began to pop up on a viewscreen. Layouts, superimposed with the way the

vessel looked now. The graphics, Picard noted, were top-notch, with even greater detail than the

Enterprise’s computer afforded. Dr. Chavez studied the busy screen for a moment and then turned

around, a sober look on his sour face. “Incredible. Quite incredible.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Riker. “We’ve been sitting here all afternoon, waiting for your report.”

“Weknow it’s incredible,” said Geordi.

“What we’dlike to know is what we cando about it!” Beverly chimed in.

“Admiral, please forgive my crew,” said Captain Picard. “But you can understand their . . .our

impatience. Especially since you’ve taken the matter out of our hands.”

“You came here for help, following procedure, regulations, and direct subspace communication quite

splendidly as usual. We can’t fault you for that.” The admiral stroked his double chin. He looked as

though he’d like to sit down, but he remained standing as though in deference to theEnterprise crew here

looking quite troubled and out of place in their ill-fitting black jumpsuits. He gave a quickyou or me ?

look to Dr. Chavez, nodded to himself, and then continued addressing himself formally to the

highest-ranked amongst them:

“Captain Picard, Dr. Chavez is here to give you the total report, but I’ll not mince words. This is the

upshot.” He cleared his voice and assumed a deeper, stentorian tone. “By the power vested in me by the

Federation, I find the USSEnterprise a total loss. And as I have been advised by my science officers

that its very presence here at Starbase 210 is a danger, I am ordering that it be towed by tractor beam

out to a safe portion of space, where it shall be destroyed by photon torpedoes.”

Silence descended on the room.

Picard found himself at a loss for words. He looked at Will Riker and Beverly Crusher, who were

registering a similar stunned look.

And Geordi La Forge . . .

Geordi just stared into space, blind.

Chapter One

One Week Before

Captain’s Log, Stardate 45223.4:

TheEnterprise has received a distress call from a remote scientific station upon the planet Phaedra in the

Xerxes system. The message was from Mikal Tillstrom, son of Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, a xenogeologist of

note. The distress call was patchy and disrupted by some electromagnetic phenomenon, which is not

surprising. Xerxes is known for its odd electromagnetic fields. Enough of the message came through,

however, to establish that some sort of disaster has overtaken Science Station 146, and emergency aid is

sought. Then the message was disrupted and ended.

I have ordered theEnterprise on a course and heading that will take us to Xerxes in a day and a half.

Rescue operations are being prepared.

I know Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, though I have not seen her in many years. She is a fine person as well as

a brilliant scientist. I only hope that we can save her and her son from whatever catastrophe has

occurred.

THE SUN SHONE DOWNfrom a clear blue sky, pleasant and warm on Will Riker’s back. In the near

distance, breakers crashed on the shore, spume filling the air with a fine, salty tang. Sea gulls hovered

above the sea, occasionally darting down for fish, and the breeze was just right to cool the players and

not compromise the game.

“Here you go, Will,” said Geordi, grinning in bathing suit and bare feet. He tossed his friend the white

inflated ball, and Riker caught it easily. Geordi pointed at the net above the sand held up by two

aluminum poles. “The idea is to boink the ball over that black mesh thing over there, but not past the

tennis shoe markers.”

Riker glared at the engineer. The last two times he’d served, he’d fouled out by hitting the ball too hard.

As he was a fine-caliber sportsman of many games, the two foul-outs had been particularly galling.

“Yes, Will,” said Deanna Troi, a laugh in her voice. “Just get the ball over and we’ll cover for you the

rest of the way.”

“Cease the bickering, hit the ball, and accept the eventual defeat that we shall mete out!” growled Worf

from the other side of the net amongst the opposition. Will Riker rued the day he’d suggested that the

Klingon try his hand at volleyball. Reluctance had rapidly melted away, to be replaced with a flashing

warrior in kneepads, shorts, and T-shirt.

“Right,” said Riker.

He lobbed the ball up and then pounded it over the net. Clean, crisp, and deadly, the ball caught an

ensign unawares, bounced off an outstretched palm, and rolled away toward the illusion of waves in the

background.

Worf snarled and gave chase.

“Pardon me, Commander,” said Data, some yards away, still in uniform, observing the game.

“Yes, Data?” said Riker, accepting the kudos of his team and bowing mockingly to the opposing team.

“As I have said before, I mastered the rules of the game long ago. . . .”

“Yeah!” said Geordi. “And it’s a damned shame you can’t compete with us in the play-offs at Rigel II,

Data. We’d win in an instant!”

Data cocked his head in bemusement. “But that would be unfair, Geordi. I would be able to exercise far

more skill than a human.”

Deanna Troi laughed, her curly, dark hair loose and draped down across the top of her turquoise

one-piece bathing suit. “I think that’s what Geordi means. He’d like to win the match by hook or by

crook. It will take you a while longer, I think, to understand the importance of competition to younger,

hormonally charged human males.” She winked at Geordi, who simply shrugged.

Still bemused, Data turned back to Will Riker. “In any case, Commander, my question is: Why do you

choose to play on a fabrication of a beach on a holodeck when it does not comply with the environment

of regulation volleyball competition?”

“Well, we practice in such a court as well, Data, you know. . . .” Riker looked around at the absolutely

splendid day. “As for why . . . Well, because it’sfun !”

“Fun.” The android nodded, his amber eyes gleaming. He seemed to absorb the information, but still not

totally understand it. “I confess, the human preoccupation with absorbing harmful solar rays beside a

briny body of water while playing on abrasive sand and rock is most fascinating.”

Geordi said, “Maybe it’s because our ancestors crawled out of the ocean with bottles of suntan lotion,

wearing sunglasses, Data.”

Data raised his eyebrows. “Ah! An excellent juxtaposition of incongruity, Geordi. A good joke, yes.

Still, perhaps if I study your reactions here today, I will understand better.”

“Believe me, Data,” said Troi. “You don’t want to. Just call it a custom and be happy with that.”

“Heads up, opponents!” called a deep voice, and a ball came flying toward Riker. He turned only just in

time to catch the volleyball sailing his way at enormous speed. Worf hustled to resume his place amongst

his team. “Serve again, and prepare for defeat.” Worf looked particularly odd in swimming trunks,

thought Riker.

Riker hit the ball directly at Wolf, and immediately saw the move was a mistake. The Klingon leapt up

into the air, snarling as though in battle. He pounded the ball back across the net so hard and at such a

steep angle, the opposing team could do nothing to stop it. The ball spiked down into the sand.

Hands on hips, Worf called over to his opposition. “Our serve, I think.”

The audience broke into applause.

As the other team moved around to take their places, setting up to serve, a man in full uniform stepped

out from the crowd.

“A most curious game, Number One,” said Jean-Luc Picard stiffly, brushing sand off his jacket with

distaste and squinting, clearly not enjoying the bright sun of this holodeck scenario.

“Captain, you should join us sometime!” said Troi, holding up her hands toward the other team to signal

a time-out.

“Riding, fencing, a few other sports—those are my diversions. And of course, curling up with a good

book. Alas, team sports are just not my cup of tea,” said Picard.

“Well, I hope you are there to root for us in the Federation competition,” she said, still smiling but clearly

taken aback by the abrupt response.

“Perhaps. I shall make an effort. But that’s neither here nor there. Number One, I trust this game is not

going to last much longer.”

“We shall finish it shortly, I promise, Captain!” Worf growled, digging in on the other side of the fence,

baring his teeth for fierce competition.

“That would be good of you, Lieutenant. I need to call a counsel in my ready room.”

“Certainly, Captain. Do we have time to shower?” said Riker, sensing the seriousness of the matter.

“Yes. I wish to discuss the situation on Xerxes, and we will not be arriving there until tomorrow, so we

have a little time left, I think.” He joined his hands behind his back and examined the tennis shoe markers

and gazed at the bent poles and slightly frayed net.

“Tell me. This game . . .”

“Volleyball, sir,” said Riker.

“Yes. ‘Volleyball.’ It hardly seems the pinnacle of achievement in Earth-derived sports. Surely there are

other more sophisticated and challenging sports to occupy you.” He looked around. “And on a beach?”

Troi seemed to sense the captain’s light tone. “It’sfun , Captain!”

Riker shrugged. “It’s something to do in groups where everybody gets to participate. We’re also

practicing here to represent theEnterprise in that competition.”

“‘Team spirit’ is the term, I believe, Captain,” put in Data. “A mass psychological tool for a cohesive

sense of community amongst disparate civilized beings.”

It was clear to Riker that the captain was a bit bemused at the notion of “team spirit.” Picard certainly

valued teamwork, in textbook as well as real form. But Riker knew that while his family was stomping

grapes in their vineyards, young Jean-Luc either had his head in books or in the stars. His sense of

achievement was more personal.

Deanna Troi said, “Very true, Captain, and seeing as we’re all a bit tense as to what may be awaiting us,

I suggested that we have our practice in a relaxing atmosphere.”

“Very good, Counselor. I bow to your wisdom as always. My ready room, Counselor, when it is

convenient.”

“Yes sir.”

Picard nodded and strode away.

“Say, are you guys ready or what?” called a member of the other team.

“Tell me, empath,” asked Riker. “Do you sense dissolution and fear amongst the opposition?”

“No, actually, I sense confidence and determination in them all, except for Worf.”

“Worf?”

“Yes. He seems to be serving, and he wants blood.”

“Prepare yourselves, opponents!” rumbled the Klingon behind the service line. He growled and

proceeded to hit the ball so hard to Riker, it seemed as though he wanted to puncture it.

Chapter Two

Captain’s Log, Stardate 45223.7:

I have called a briefing in my ready room, having previously assigned the appropriate crew members to

research the appropriate material concerning Phaedra and Science Station Beta Epsilon. Preparation,

when opportunity avails us of it, has always been a vital tool.

“THIS MEETINGwill come to order,” said Captain Jean-Luc Picard, swiveling his chair around and

sitting straight and alert at the head of the table. “We have an important matter ahead of us. I trust that

you all are suitably relaxed after your interesting game. Doubtless I shall need every bit of your attention

for what awaits us.” For his part, the surrounding hum and muted lights, the Dopplering stars beyond the

port, gave him a sense of control and well-being. He felt centered and ready to command—and to

synthesize the information presented to him into decisions.

Worf frowned and looked even more dour than was his usual wont. He looked at Riker, and though he

did not growl, it looked as though he would have liked to.

“Lieutenant Commander Data has prepared a full report,” Picard said. He nodded to the gold-skinned

android.

Data nodded back in an exact mimic of the gesture and then began to manipulate the control panel

before him. Cross-sectional graphics depicting a solar system appeared. Much of the nomenclature of the

picture itself was self-explanatory, and there were letters of coding beside the bodies as well, but as a

matter of formality, Data spelled the information out:

“Xerxes Gamma is a GO star in a cluster of the Cassiopeian system. Phaedra is the fourth of seven

planets, and is Class M.”

“Life?” said Riker, leaning forward intently, bearded chin propped on folded hands.

“No,” said Data, “although curiously enough, the proper oxygen-nitrogen exists at about fifteen psi.

Gravity is higher, at about one point three g’s. The most unique aspect of the planet Phaedra, indeed the

reason why a science station exists there, is its unique geological activity.”

“Yes, Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom is renowned for her studies in the formation of planets, including her

treatises on planetscaping,” said Beverly Crusher. “I’m, of course, a lay person in that area, but I’ve read

some of her articles. Quite fascinating. But what drew her to this planet, Data?”

“Essentially, the difficulty in the study of geology is of time,” replied the android. “Planetary crusts change

very slowly, particularly in late cooling stages of a planet’s life. Mountains are formed over millennia,

continents crawl over epochs along tectonic plates.

“Phaedra, however, is different.”

He hit a button, and a multicolored graphic of the planet came into view. “Phaedra, you see, has an

extremely dense metallic liquid core. Although Phaedra is about the size of Earth, it is heavier, denser. It’s

gravity is greater, and it spins faster with a ten-hour day, which increases the convection currents in the

core.”

“Damn,” said Geordi. “That would play hell with its magnetic poles, wouldn’t it?”

“Precisely.”

“Hmm,” said Riker. “Well, the Earth’s poles reverse every few million years, right? And as I recall, they

drift a little, too. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Precisely, Captain. Only the core of Phaedra is such thatits poles reverse approximately every

seventy-two point three Earth years. However, reversals are erratic and can occur at any time. Polarity

field changes, causing quite a unique situation for the study not only of paleomagnetism’s effect upon

geology, but countless other aspects of planetary evolution. Science Station Beta Epsilon was established

for just such a study, and Dr. Tillstrom’s efforts have revolutionized our understanding not only of

planetary formation but the laws of gravitation and magnetic physics in action.”

“Well, if there’s increased geological activity,” said Beverly, “Wouldn’t there be the danger of

earthquakes?”

“The station was built to withstand earthquakes of high magnitude,” said Picard, “and also constructed in

the most solid and fault-free area available. Nonetheless, we cannot discount that possibility. Data, have

you calculated the possible problems the station might be facing from the available information?”

“Yes, sir, and an earthquake is a possibility. There could have also been an equipment malfunction or a

large electrical storm, or something else as yet unknown.”

“Please report on the station, Data.”

“Yes, sir.” The android hit another button, and a schematic of a number of buildings built on what looked

like large springs—clearly shock absorbers—came onto the screen. “Beta Epsilon science station is

manned by twenty-two individuals, senior of which is Dr. Tillstrom. Its living quarters . . . here”—he

pointed—“are separated from the structure housing the instruments of scientific measurements. There are

vehicles which are used in the studies, both omni terrain vehicles and two flying vehicles. Here is the

landing field.”

“And that’s what we’re going to have to use to land a shuttle, aren’t we?” said Geordi.

Picard smiled grimly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re running a bit ahead of us here,” said Riker.

“I think what Geordi is concluding is what Data left out of the description of the planet,” said Beverly

Crusher. “A planet like Phaedra with a volatile paleomagnetic system . . . Well, the electromagnetic field

there would be quite extraordinary, wouldn’t it?”

“Very good, Doctor,” said Data. Yes. The electromagnetic field of the Earth is point three one gauss.

The electromagnetic field of Phaedra varies from five point two to three hundred one point two gauss.

Transporters can be used at low ebb; however, general safety policy has thus far been to rely on

shuttles.”

Picard nodded. “We’ve got a Personnel Shuttle Type Seven being fitted and readied for rescue

operations. I have another on call in case we have to evacuate the whole science team.”

“I just pray they’re alive,” said Crusher thoughtfully.

“So do we all. Now then, standard rescue operations utilizing shuttlecraft are familiar to us all. I’m

placing you, Number One, in command of the opera tion. Please review all materials and make

appropriate preparations.” Picard swiveled and focused on his engineering chief. “Commander La Forge,

given the information on Phaedra, do you see any difficulties in establishing and maintaining an orbit?”

“Well, sir, no, we’ve faced far stronger electromagnetic phenomena before without any problem.

However, you can bet I’m gonna review the history of orbiting that place.”

“That is not necessary, Commander,” said Data. “I have already taken the liberty of accessing computer

memory on that issue. There have been no orbital problems in the five-year history of experience with

Phaedra.”

Geordi shrugged and grinned. “Well, saves my weary fingers. Thanks, Data.”

“Nonetheless, I suggest you examine the records again, Lieutenant. An emergency suggests activity that

could well affect us,” said Captain Picard, dead serious. Levity had its place, but certainly not in a

briefing.

“Yes sir,” said Geordi, sobering.

STAR TREK - TNG - 25 - Grounded

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