Encounter at Farpoint (5 page)

“Sir!” The young Klingon jumped to his feet in protest, his outrage overriding his normal respect for the superior officer. “I am a Klingon, sir. For me to seek escape while my captain goes into battle—”

“Noted,” Picard said quickly. His voice turned cold. “But you are also a Starfleet officer, Lieutenant, and you have been given an order.”

Worf hesitated, considering another protest. The years of discipline and ingrained obedience prevailed, and he nodded his head once at the captain. “Aye, sir.” But his expression spoke volumes.

Picard tapped a control on his right hand panel and spoke quietly. “Captain’s log, Stardate 41153.73. At this moment, I am transferring command to the battle bridge.” He gestured to Data. “Make the signal.”

Data touched a control lightly, and the traditional bugle call “Beat to Quarters” rang over the bridge. It repeated over and over as the duty officers swiftly moved toward the battle turbo. Replacements began to arrive almost immediately on the other two lifts, and the main bridge was fully remanned in moments.

Reluctantly, Worf moved over to the captain’s command chair and contemplated it dourly before he settled down into it. “Prepare for battle configuration,” he said firmly. “On the captain’s command.” The thought flickered across his consciousness:
If a Klingon were in charge of this ship, we wouldn’t be running.
But he was a Starfleet officer and—well, the captain might not always be right, but he was always the captain.

The turbolift fell swiftly toward the battle bridge. Picard stared unseeingly at the lift’s directional lights as he considered his plan. The disengagement of the command disk at high warp speeds was a dangerous tactic, but they had to have enough of a lead on the
Q
ship (or whatever it was) so they could turn and face it while the saucer made away with the majority of the ship’s company and her noncombatants.

The turbo sighed to a stop, and the doors popped open, revealing the stark and functional battle bridge. Picard led the way into the smaller station, his bridge crew quickly fanning out to their duty positions. Data activated the conn and scanned the panel while Picard quietly dictated the captain’s log supplementary, explaining his strategy.

“Hostile is still closing on us, sir. Their speed is holding at warp nine point nine.”

“Interesting,” Picard noted. “Whoever or whatever it is, has the same warp envelope limitations as we do. Perhaps they are not so powerful as they like to pretend.” Picard nodded toward Tasha. “Lieutenant, I want a full spread of photon torpedoes aimed to detonate close enough to the hostile to blind it at the moment we separate. Stand by to fire on my ‘mark.’ ”

“Understood, sir.”

Picard tabbed his communications control. “Lieutenant Worf, this is the captain.”

Worf’s voice replied crisply over the speaker. “Yes, sir?”

“As separation begins, we will reduce power just enough to get the saucer section out ahead and clear of us.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Begin countdown.” Picard paused, gauging the glittering intruder on the viewscreen, then said firmly, “
Mark!”

Tasha’s fingers flew over her weapons console. “Photon torpedoes away.”

The torpedoes leapt away from the
Enterprise
’s aft tubes with solid satisfying ka-chunks. Each one flashed and glittered as it sped rearward.

Tasha was a superlative weapons officer, but the timing Picard required depended largely on the assumption that the hostile was traveling at its maximum speed. If it was not—if it could still increase its faster-than-light velocity, then the torpedoes would very likely detonate behind it, losing the advantage the command disk needed to get away. Picard was counting on the limitations of the alien’s technology as an ally.

“On the count,” Data said. “Six, five, four, three, two, one,
separation
.”

At the rear of the saucer section, where it joined the gooseneck of the stardrive section, a crack appeared. The massive retention assemblies unlocked and pulled back into their housings. Jets of vapor hissed into vacuum as connections were pulled free.

“Captain’s log. Moment of separation, Stardate 41153.75. We are now free to face the hostile.”

“Good luck, sir,” Worf murmured as he watched them drop away.

The great disk angled up, up and away from the cobra-shaped stardrive section. As they cleared, the locking mechanisms completed their rotation and finished up flush in their housings with a thump that was unheard in space but which was felt in the disk. Worf checked his distance and ordered the impulse engines to full power. The immediate response quickly thrust the saucer section away so the stardrive section could maneuver. The instant that the saucer section cleared the warp envelope of the
Enterprise
battle module, it appeared to vanish. The
Enterprise
and its pursuer were past it in an instant too brief to register on any instruments.

This was what Picard had been hoping for—a chance for the saucer section to lose itself in the vastness of space and make a run for Farpoint Station.

On the battle bridge, Data reported quietly, “Separation is successful, sir.”

Picard found himself breathing a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. “Grâce à Dieu. Where is the hostile?”

Data tabbed his console, and the viewscreen again showed the glint of the alien vessel at its center. The multiple flares of photon torpedo explosions were still glistening around it. Picard clenched his fist and hit his knee in triumph.

“Good timing. All stop. Reverse course.”

The
Enterprise
collapsed its warp envelope and swung around to face its pursuer head on. On the huge forward viewer, Picard could see that the photon torpedoes had apparently had no effect on the
Q
ship. Despite several near-direct hits, the alien vessel remained unchanged. It drove on toward the
Enterprise
with no decrease in speed. The two ships were on a collision course.

Picard studied the viewscreen a moment longer and then said, “Hold position.”

Data suppressed a surprised look and replied evenly, “Aye, sir.”

“They’ll be on us in minutes—” Troi began.

“I know that, Counselor.”

“Will we make a fight of it, Captain?” Tasha asked. “If we can at least damage their ship—”

Picard pointed at the viewer and snorted. “Lieutenant Yar, are you recommending we fight a life form that has already demonstrated significant military superiority?” He stared at her, waiting. “If you think we have a chance of winning, I’d like to hear your advice.”

Lt. Yar flushed and looked away, unable to face her captain’s challenging look. He was right, of course. And she was embarrassed.

Tasha Yar knew what her worst fault was. She reacted too quickly. It was why she was a good security chief. But it was also why she often had trouble coping with situations where ship’s security was compromised. She still found it difficult to allow for diplomatic and strategic considerations.

The renegade colony in which she had grown up had been lawless and murderous. Her early years had been spent surviving, and all her experience had taught her to act first and try to control a situation before analyzing it. Until she entered Starfleet Academy, she had acted on the sure knowledge that hesitation could mean death. The humanitarian principles on which Starfleet based all its decisions had at first been a shock to her. But see had listened and she had learned. . . .

Something about Starfleet’s basic tenets spoke to her. Not to the person she pretended to be, or the performance she put on for the people around her, or even the person she wanted to be—it spoke to who she really was. Her secret self. The self that she had shared with no one in her life.

Starfleet’s policies were based on the single assertion that
Life is sacred. Everywhere
.

Tasha had not trusted this assertion. Not at first. Her initial reaction had been skepticism and derision. The Starfleet Ethics and Moral Philosophy courses were full of those discussions. But after a while, Tasha began to realize that what they were really talking about was the same thing that she had secretly dreamed of for years.

Life as it is lived isn’t necessarily the way life has to be. We can do better. We are each and every one of us, always capable of going beyond what we think are our limits. That is our history. We will do better
.

Tasha realized—like the dawning of a great light—that Starfleet truly wanted the same things she did. Children did not have to die of starvation. People did not have to live in poverty. Illiteracy was not inevitable. The conditions under which she had grown up were a terrible aberration, and
not
a norm.

This was the life she had dreamed of—she could start living it today. And she had accepted that in a simple declaration: “If it is to be, let it begin with me.”

And from that moment, she was never the same woman again.

But even so, there were moments—like this one—when she still responded with her old instincts. “I . . . spoke before I thought, sir. We should look for some way to distract them from going after the saucer section.”

“Better, Lieutenant,” Picard said, nodding approval.

“Full stop, sir,” Data reported. “Holding position.”

Picard looked over at Troi, who was manning the communications board. “Troi, signal the following in all languages and on all frequencies. ‘We surrender.’ State that we are not asking for any terms or conditions.”

A ripple of consternation flowed around the battle bridge as the crew exchanged puzzled looks.
Surrender?
This from Jean-Luc Picard? Only Troi felt the calm, the confidence, the sense of
rightness
that the captain put forth. It was not a sense of failure or capitulation. Picard clearly had the conviction this was the only correct thing to do.

“Aye, sir,” Troi said firmly. “All language forms and frequencies.” She opened the communications channels and tied in the universal translator. “
Enterprise
to
Q
. We surrender. Repeat: we surrender. Our surrender is unconditional. We do not ask for terms.”

As Troi repeated the broadcast, all eyes turned to the viewscreen where the alien hostile was seen to be rapidly bearing down on them. As it neared them, the gleaming shape began to open up, partially revealing the grid. It curved and expanded, reaching out to enclose the
Enterprise
. As it encompassed them, a cacaphony of sound tore through the ship, the scream of metal being stressed beyond its limits. The entire battle section was shaken violently, forcing the crew to grab for anything solid that they could cling to. The raging, howling sound rose to a peak, and the violence of the shaking increased. A fierce, blinding flash of light bathed the battle bridge.

Then there was silence.

T
HE LIGHT FADED
.

Picard was no longer on the battle bridge. He, Data, Troi and Tasha were seated in the prisoner’s dock of an immense courtroom. The courtroom was gleaming steel and glass, stark and supremely functional. Spectators were still filing in, and a buzz of excited speculation filled the air. A cadre of soldiers was spotted around the courtroom. They were armed and appeared to be uniformly surly. The clothing, hairstyles and facial decorations of the spectators also indicated the time period was the same as the soldiers’. Picard had always enjoyed the study of history; even the unpleasant chapters had their lessons to be learned. He recognized the architecture and tone of this setting in which they had been placed as apparent prisoners.

Picard was not sure exactly how it had happened. A time warp? Not likely. Transport to a carefully prepared setting? Possible, but if so, where were the other bridge officers? Why were only he, Troi, Tasha and Data here? Had
Q
changed the battle bridge somehow? That seemed the most likely probability.
Q
had had no difficulties changing his personal appearance when he appeared on the
Enterprise
and had ended with a characterization of this time period.

The sound of a bell drew their attention to a man at the front of the courtroom. An Asian in a long robe appeared, carrying a slim portable viewscreen. From his studies, Picard knew this would be a Mandarin-Bailiff. The man nodded to a court functionary, who once more used an ancient Oriental bell to gain attention.

“The prisoners will all stand,” the Mandarin-Bailiff announced. Picard motioned to his officers to remain seated.

Data had been studying the room with great curiosity. Picard could almost feel the intensity of analyzation from the android as he catalogued the courtroom, its spectators and appurtenances. “Historically intriguing, Captain,” Data commented. “Very, very accurate.”

Picard nodded, his admiration held in abeyance by the feeling that this setting would be used as a weapon against them. “Mid-21st Century, the post atomic horror . . .” Picard hated the era. It had been a time of deep human crisis. Still wounded and bleeding from the terror of nuclear war, humanity had sought answers to its pain and problems through the merciless application of a new form of dictatorial government and law representing neither capitalism nor communism, but taking a few dollops from both. It had been the last of the worst Earth governments, for once it had been overthrown, humanity began to grow toward its true potential.
Q
, of course, had chosen to ignore later eras that would place humans in a better light.

The court functionary clanged the bell again. “All present, make respectful attention to honored judge!” the bailiff intoned.

The spectators, still pushing and crowding to get in, dropped into silence and stood. Some had to be prodded to their feet by the heavily armed soldiers. Picard held out his hand, palm down, to Data, Troi and Tasha, indicating they should not get up.