STAR TREK - TNG - 10 - A Rock and a Hard Place

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Author’s Notes, Dedications
and Assorted Ramblings
A Rock and a Hard Placehas a long history that I won’t bore you with, except at conventions. It’s gone
through several name changes—anyone at a recent Creation Con who heard me mentionSpace Case or
Trouble in Paradise,this is it. Look no further.
Be warned: I think this novel is even more serious than my last ST:TNG novel,Strike Zone. Rock
features borderline psychotics, tragedy, loss, narrow escapes (yes, the scene with Riker on the cover is
really in the book) and at least one genuine cliffhanger. But probably everyone will tell me they loved the
poker game and it’s another David laugh riot (just as they did withStrike Zone, which featured such
side-splitting topics as terminal illness and nervous breakdowns.)
For those interested, DC Comics is once again publishing Star Trek comics, with the originalEnterprise
crew stories by myself, and the new guys as written by Michael Friedman. Lots of stuff that should not be
missed, so don’t. Also, Michael and I, along with Carmen Carter and Bob Greenberger, are teaming on
Doomsday World, the first group ST novel. It’s due out summer of 1990. You get to guess who wrote
what.
I thanked everyone and his brother last time out since I never thought they’d let me write another one of
these things. Since they have, I want to thank, if I haven’t already, Jeff Jonas who’s permanently loaned
me the computer I’ve been writing on.
Major thanks to Marina Sirtis who, at the last Shore Leave Convention, displayed extreme graciousness
in answering my incessant questions about Troi. Her comments and insights were invaluable.
A special hello to my sister, Ronni Beth David, who can now show this book to disbelieving friends and
say, “See, I told you I’m related to him.” Why she would actually boast of this, God only knows.
Thanks also to Kevin Ryan for his usual support above and beyond, and to Dave Stern for going to the
wall for this novel.
Thanks to my wife, Myra, for her continued support—although, ever since she told me that Quintin
Stone was just like me, I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights.
And finally, this book is dedicated to Jennifer Kingsley Westburg, who personifies the message of hope
and endurance thatStar Trek is all about.
Chapter One
“STONE.IN MY QUARTERS.”
Captain Borjas did not get the reaction he expected from his first officer. Actually, he got no reaction at
all.
Stone just sat there, at his customary corner table in the crew lounge, and stared thoughtfully at the glass
in his hand. The synthehol swirled around inside, catching the overhead lighting and glistening with the
multicolor effect for which the Ferengi invention was noted.
It was not, Borjas noted, the standard-issue glass used in the lounge. Stone kept his own glasses, his
own liquor supply, his own everything, as if he was determined to keep himself isolated from the rest of
the crew.
Borjas stood there a moment more, composing himself. He knew that the eyes of various crew members
were on him. He should have sent a subordinate down to do this. Hell, none of it would have been
necessary if Stone had just answered the damned page in the first place.
Borjas leaned forward, knuckles on Stone’s table. A roll of fat was just starting to develop around
Borjas’s waist. He was grateful for the recent redesign of Starfleet uniforms that provided for the short
jacket uniform top instead of the straight, simple lines of a one-piece jumpsuit. It was kinder to older
officers.
Borjas had thinning black hair and eyebrows so thick that they seemed to join across the bridge of his
nose. His jaw twitched in irritation. Generally, his scowl was enough to intimidate even his veteran
subordinates.
Not this time, though.
“Stone, the longer you continue to ignore me, the harder you’re going to make it on yourself.”
Slowly, Stone looked up.
Borjas remembered the first time that he had seen Stone. The man had made him nervous since the
beginning of their relationship. Stone had sturdy enough features, high cheekbones, a pointed jaw, but a
long scar ran down the right side of his face. Stone’s scar was odd because modern technology could
remove such unpleasant blemishes in a matter of seconds. But Stone wore his like a medal.
His hair was black, cut short and spikey. Regulation, but . . . odd looking. His eyebrows were upswept,
almost to the point where Borjas wondered if he had some Vulcan blood in him.
His eyes, though, had been what disturbed Borjas that first time. Those eyes could bore through you, or
focus on some other part of the room, or meditate on his inner self. There was a great deal going on
behind those eyes, and Borjas never knew what it was.
Stone took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, lovingly. “Ahhhh.” It was a sigh of relief. “There it
is.”
“There what is?”
Stone made no reply, merely smiling. It was not a smile conducive to peace of mind.
Borjas was becoming acutely aware that all other talk in the lounge had ceased. He considered ordering
the lounge emptied, but decided that he would be damned if he disrupted everybody else because of
Stone. Besides, let them see who was really in charge of the StarshipNimitz.
“Stone, I’m giving you exactly three seconds to come to my quarters.”
Stone’s expression said,or what?His mouth didn’t have to.
Borjas pulled all his authority around himself and cloaked himself in it. “You are facing court-martial for
insubordination, Stone.”
“Court-martial?” was the calm reply.
Was he finally getting through? Borjas forged onward, leaning across the table. “Yes. Court-martial. For
insubordination, and for endangering the lives and safety of this crew.”
Stone seemed to be looking at a far wall. “Endangering. Endangering.” He considered the word, rolled it
around on his tongue. “All I remember doing is saving some crewmen’s lives. Crewmen you wrote off.”
“You broke regulations,” Borjas said hotly, “regulations designed to guarantee the well-being of the
entire crew.”
“Guarantee?” said Stone. He tilted back the glass and finished the contents. Then he began to roll the
glass between his palms. “Out in the middle of space, with instant death by a crushing vacuum staved off
by a hull and prayers—and you want a guarantee? All right, Captain. Death is guaranteed. Nothing else.”
Stone made a sweeping gesture, taking in all those around him. “These people understand that. Even if
you don’t.”
Borjas shook his head sadly. “Stone, you are relieved of your post. That’s all. I didn’t want to do this in
front of the crew, but . . . report to your quarters.”
Stone ignored him, reached for his bottle of synthehol.
“Get up, I said!”
“Morning already?” said Stone lazily as he started to pour.
Furious, Borjas snatched the bottle away from Stone. Not so much as a flicker of surprise moved across
Stone’s face. Instead, he remained frozen in position, his glass in his left hand, his right hand poised as if
pouring.
Then, very deliberately, he lowered his hand and raised his gaze staring at Borjas’s head as though his
glance was boring through to the back of the captain’s skull.
Borjas matched his gaze. “Go to your quarters,” he said. “Or to the brig. It’s your choice.”
“I don’t like those choices,” Stone replied calmly.
Borjas tapped his communicator. “Security,” he said. “Report to crew lounge and escort Commander
Stone to the brig.”
“They can’t make me go to the brig either.”
Borjas folded his arms and said, “I don’t see where you have much say in the matter.”
Stone stared at his glass. “I’m going to sickbay.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me. It’s more comfortable.”
“You are not going to sickbay.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Borjas said confidently, “you’re not sick.”
Stone pondered that a moment.
And then Borjas and everyone else in the lounge jumped involuntarily as a sharp crack sounded.
Borjas looked in horror at the source.
Stone had crushed the glass that he’d been holding. Unlike the unbreakable ones in the lounge, this one
was actually made of real glass. The stem dropped to the table and rolled off.
Stone sat frozen in position for a moment, his fist clenched. Then he slowly opened his hand. His palm
and fingers were a bloody mess.
“I am now,” said Stone.
Chapter Two
O’BRIEN THREW DOWNhis cards in disgust and started to get up from the table. “That’s it. I’ve had
it. I want Pulaski back.”
William T. Riker placed a restraining hand on O’Brien’s forearm. He knew that the transporter chief’s
irritation was genuine, and fought to restrain the smile that played across his lips. He was only partially
successful. “Now come on, Chief,” said the bearded first officer of theEnterprise. “You haven’t been
doing that badly.”
“I’ve lost five straight hands!” said O’Brien, stabbing a finger at the seriously diminished stack of chips in
front of him. “I’ve never lost five straight hands in my life. In mylife.
“Everyone has a bad day,” said Riker soothingly.
“It’s her fault. She’s cheating.”
Riker looked in astonishment at the person to whom O’Brien was pointing. “Never.”
“Of course you’d defend her,” said O’Brien. “You and she have an ‘understanding.’” He mimed
quotation marks around the last word. “But I don’t have an understanding. I have a cash flow problem.”
“I’m not cheating,” came the quiet reply.
O’Brien sagged back in his chair. “Look, Counselor, I’m not even saying it’s your fault. It’s my fault.
You’d think I’d have learned by now—you don’t play poker with an empath. That’s all. You just don’t.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” said Deanna Troi defensively from behind her massive pile of chips.
“You don’t see!” said O’Brien. He placed his fingertips to his forehead and, in a fair impression of Troi’s
exotic accent, said, “Captain, I sense . . . great bluffing. Yes. O’Brien is talking through his hat, and in
fact he has a busted flush.”
Data, seated to Riker’s right, frowned in curiosity. “Talking through his hat?”
“Slang for bluffing.”
“Ah.”
“O’Brien, if there is one thing that I know, it is my own mind,” said Deanna Troi primly. The
exotic-looking half-Betazoid sat with perfect posture, shoulders squared, spine straight. Riker and
O’Brien slumped in their chairs. Data slumped because he was imitating the other men.
“I would not,” she continued, “use my abilities in the manner you suggest.”
“Maybe you can’t help it.”
She studied him with her large eyes. “I know you’re frustrated . . .”
“You didn’t have to be anem path to pick up on that, did you?”
“Come on, O’Brien,” said Riker. “Are you going to deal or what?”
“No. Forget it. Look, at first I was nervous when we let Data in on the game.” He gestured towards the
white-skinned android who stared at him with open curiosity, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dimly lit
room. “I thought, ‘Great, how am I going to outthink a guy with a computer in his skull?’ But that was
before I found out I could bluff his socks off.”
Automatically, Data looked at his feet, but then he looked up in understanding. “Oh. I see. Another
clothing metaphor.’’
O’Brien nodded. “But Troi . . . look, Counselor. I’m just afraid that, even though you don’t intend to,
that somehow you’re still picking up emotions, even subliminally, and—”
Deanna put up a hand. “You don’t have to say any more, O’Brien. I understand completely.” She rose
from her seat and said calmly, “Perhaps it would be best if someone new participated. I am beginning to
think that poker isn’t my game.”
“Now come on, Deanna . . .” Riker began.
“I have things I must attend to,” she said, in a tone that indicated that further discussion would be
useless. She turned, and with a swish of her long green skirt, she was gone.
“That wasn’t particularly nice, O’Brien,” said Riker in rebuke. The expression of annoyance showed that
he was not kidding.
“Okay, okay, maybe I came down a little too hard on her. I’ll apologize later, okay? It doesn’t change
the fact that we need a fourth again.”
“Certainly, there must be someone on the ship interested in participating,” Data said.
“How about the captain?” said O’Brien after a moment of thought. “Bet he wouldn’t mind a chance to
let his hair down . . . so to speak.”
Riker stared at him. “You think you can outbluff the captain?”
O’Brien conjured up a mental image of the formidable Picard, glaring at him and saying with that
clipped, accented voice, “See your ten and raise you twenty.” Slowly he nodded. “Good point,” he said.
“But then who—?”
The door hissed open at that moment and Beverly Crusher, the ship’s chief medical officer, entered.
Crusher was a study in contradictions. She had an almost waiflike air about her, but she gave as good as
she got. The crew had quickly learned that behind her innocent demeanor was an iron will.
She had just returned to the ship after a year at Starfleet Medical, and that return was welcomed by
many.
Crusher stood there a moment, glancing around the room. “I’d thought Deanna was down here. Sorry.”
“She had things to do,” said O’Brien.
“Oh.” Crusher paused, looking at the three men around the table. “What are you playing?”
“Poker,” said Data. “A card game factoring the elements of chance with—”
“Later, Data,” said Riker, whose mind was already going in the same direction as O’Brien’s.
O’Brien, for his part, was smiling at Crusher in the same way as Riker. Behind that beard, Riker looked
almost satanic. “Have you ever played . . . poker?” said Riker.
“Many years ago,” said Crusher after a moment’s thought. “I was a teenager, and a couple of my
girlfriends and a few guys, we played stri—”
She stopped and cleared her throat. Data wondered why her cheeks were flushing a bit. “We, uh,
played a variation. But I haven’t since then. I don’t remember what beats what. That sort of thing.”
“We have room,” said O’Brien a bit too eagerly.
“Well . . . sure, why not?” said Crusher, and she walked over to the chair and sat. She smiled
ingratiatingly at the others. “Now go easy on me, okay?”
O’Brien looked at Riker and made the soft, cooing sounds of a pigeon.
Data offered the only advice that came to mind. “Watch out for your socks,” he said.
She looked at her feet and frowned.
Picard was frowning as well.
In his quarters, the veteran captain of theEnterprise stared at the image of Admiral Williams that gazed
back at him from the viewscreen. “Commander Riker is an integral part of what makes theEnterprise
function smoothly, Admiral,” he said tartly. He was circling his quarters, his hands behind his back. “I
cannot say that I am pleased over being summarily relieved of him.”
“We regret the abruptness of this move, Captain,” said Williams calmly. Williams was only a few years
older than Picard, yet she had a long and illustrious history. Also, she had all the right connections in
Starfleet and was very adept at making command decisions from the safety of an office. “The situation on
Paradise, however, does require Commander Riker to oversee it, for the reasons I have outlined. Why is
that a problem? Are you concerned that you cannot make do without your number one?”
“We have ‘made do’ before, Admiral,” Picard told her, “as you well know. In fact, I encouraged him to
leave us to take up the temporary position of Klingon first officer. This, however, seems a frivolous use of
manpower and something of a waste. And, as always, a gap in the chain of command is irritating to fill.”
Something about her expression at that moment made Picard think that he had just walked into
something. Williams smiled pleasantly as she said, “There, I believe, we can help you, Captain. We have
a temporary substitute for first officer.”
Mentally, a red alert klaxon sounded in Picard’s head. “A substitute?”
“That’s right. A substitute.”
“What sort of substitute?”
“A temporary one.”
“Admiral, we are going in circles here.” He paused, then took a step closer to the viewscreen and
dropped his voice to a tone of confidentiality. “Karen . . . what the devil is going on?”
Admiral Karen Williams forced a smile. “Couldn’t slip anything past you, Picard.”
“Reassigning Riker is only part of it, isn’t it?” said Picard slowly. “Just as important to Starfleet is that
this temporary first officer be brought aboard theEnterprise. All right, Karen.” He sat down as if better
able to brace himself. “What’s the problem with this officer?”
“Nothing extreme,” said Williams. “The fact is that he’s a brilliant officer. Top rate tactician. Incredible
personal magnetism.”
“The problem is—?”
“He’s a lunatic.”
Picard blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“He’s a loose cannon. A space case.”
“Good lord. And this man is a Starfleet officer? How is that possible?”
“Because his psych profile is clean. His ratings are well within the norm. His stress and adaptation
reactions are first-rate. According to every test we have, the man is stable.”
“But—?”
“But according to every officer he’s served under, the man’s impossible. He does what he wants, when
he wants to. Somehow it always seems to all work out . . . his instincts are absolutely dead on. But he’s
all instinct. He knows the rules, but he just does what he damned well feels like—the problem is that he
hasn’t been wrong yet. Of course, he’s had several reprimands, but nothing serious enough to warrant
dismissal. He lasted three months with theNimitz, and that’s practically a record for him.”
“That’s Andy Borjas’s ship.”
“That’s right.”
“Borjas is a good man.”
“Well, your good man informed Starfleet that either Stone is transferred or he gets blown out a photon
tube.”
“Stone?”
“That’s his name. Quintin Stone.”
Picard scratched his head in puzzlement. “What did he do that angered Borjas that much?”
“He saved some lives.”
Now Picard was really confused. “I’m not following.”
Williams sighed, and Picard suspected that she had already related this story a number of times. “There
was a star system where the sun was unstable, and theNimitz had a geological team exploring one of the
middle planets to investigate environmental impacts. The sun began to deteriorate much faster than
expected, however, and the combination of magnetic radiation and solar flares rendered the transporters
inoperative. Not only that, but the ship itself was in danger. Borjas, concerned about the safety of the rest
of the crew, elected to move out of the area.”
“Opting to sacrifice the away team for the preservation of the ship,” said Picard. “Never an easy
decision.”
“Yes. It was not a decision Stone agreed with. Without Borjas knowing it, Stone commandeered a
shuttlecraft and departed theNimitz seconds before she was supposed to leave. He went down to the
planet surface, found the away team after skimming the area they’d been beamed down to, got them
aboard, and took off. Luckily for Stone, Borjas ordered departure at sublight speed rather than warp, or
the shuttle would never have caught up with him.”
“So once Stone took the initiative, Borjas decided he could not just write off the away team.”
“Let’s just say Borjas had his arm twisted into it and was not pleased And when Borjas wanted to
discipline Stone upon his return and have him confined to the brig, Stone . . . well, it will all be in your
report.”
“It sounds to me as if Stone, despite his enthusiasm . . . may not be Starfleet material.”
“Jean-Luc, he beat the Kobayashi Maru Simulation.”
Picard wasn’t quite sure he had heard properly. “What? Without cheating?”
“Yes. Stone blew it out of the water. Programmers were in mourning for a week.”
“I’m impressed.”
“We’re all impressed. Stone is an impressive officer. But he lacks discipline. And we need someone
who can teach him that.”
“And I’m elected.”
“Starfleet isn’t exactly a democracy, Captain, but . . . yes. You’re elected.”
Chapter Three
MARKMASTERS STALKED AROUNDthe inside of Jackson Carter’s office. Masters fit the
description of most terraformers—sturdy, wiry, and grizzled. The soft-soled boots made no noise on
Carter’s polished floor. Carter simply watched without comment.
“It stinks!” Masters said at length.
Carter nodded agreeably. “There is that.”
“We contracted with the Federation! Contracted exclusively for terraforming privileges.”
“I know we did,” said Carter. “I was one of the ones who signed the contract. You’re not telling me
anything I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you whatI don’t know! We’ve been doing a fine job! Sure it’s been going slower than
planned. But why in hell do we need the Federation shipping us a monitoring and research group?”
“Why not? It’s a big planet.”
“You’re kidding, right? Ninety-five percent uninhabitable and he calls it a big planet.”
Masters strode to the window of Carter’s office. The office was on the third floor, which was as tall as a
building got in Starlight.
Through the window was a beautiful view of a hell called Paradise.
Once, barely years ago, there had been no life on the planet at all. It hadn’t even had a name, merely an
identification number. Once it had had population, life. But that was many centuries ago, and the
populace had obliterated themselves through environmental atrocities and pointless war. To this day, the
planet had been uninhabitable by humanoid life.
It was the perfect type of planet for terraformers.
They had laid their claim with the Federation, guaranteeing that the planet was being developed for
colonizing, and that any activities would involve only those intended for benefiting peaceful coexistence.
In other words, no making use of the desolate area for developing weapons.
The Federation had agreed, and the terraformers—112 in all—had dubbed their new home “Paradise.”
With the furious winds, perpetual snowfall, hard-to-breathe air, heavily ionized atmosphere, and
inhospitable land, it was definitely a misnomer.
The first thing had been construction of an atmosphere processing plant, slowly supplying a small area
with proper atmospheric conditions. This alone had taken long, arduous months, and the result had been
Starlight, the first city on the surface of Paradise in who-knew-how-many centuries. It was only a few
miles square, and there was a definite grunginess about it. But it was home.
The buildings were stark and functional, and there was a constant dim haze in the air—a result of the
interaction between the reconditioned atmosphere and the natural one. Buildings wore a coat of perpetual
grime, and the terraformers had given up trying to keep them clean long ago. Instead, the buildings had
names or off-color messages etched in the dirt on a daily basis. By the next day, new dirt, and new
messages, replaced the old.
The city had been laid out helter-skelter, which had never been a problem since everyone there knew
where everything was. At night there were glowing, flashing signs on the buildings to summon the
terraformers to the pub for relaxation and recreation.
Once Starlight had been established, the skeleton crew of terraformers swelled to its full complement of
112. The buildings had gone up, and scientific research bases were established. Plans were well under
way to create other atmosphere centers, other cities. Feasibility studies of networking tunnels, for
quicker, safer access to future cities, were conducted. All of it, however, took time.
And there were the setbacks . . .
“It’s the Wild Things, isn’t it?” said Masters, still looking out the window. “They heard about the Wild
Things and they’re upset.”
“No one anticipated the Wild Things,” replied Carter soothingly. “A genetic mishap, that’s all.”
“They shouldn’t have escaped. I’m head scientist. It’s my fault.” He turned towards Carter. “I’ll resign.
The Federation is probably looking for a head to roll, and it’ll be mine. If I go willingly, me and the family,
then maybe they’ll—”
Carter put a hand up comfortingly. There was something about Carter that radiated calm. He had a
thatch of graying hair, a rounded, bearded jaw, and a smile so perpetual that at first you thought he must
not have understood the gravity of the situation. But Carter always knew every aspect, every angle.
摘要:

Author’sNotes,DedicationsandAssortedRamblingsARockandaHardPlacehasalonghistorythatIwon’tboreyouwith,exceptatconventions.It’sgonethroughseveralnamechanges—anyoneatarecentCreationConwhoheardmementionSpaceCaseorTroubleinParadise,thisisit.Looknofurther.Bewarned:Ithinkthisnovelisevenmoreseriousthanmylast...

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