Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [36]
Captain. Was that his true title? Or was he governor of Enterprise?
Here they were, these thousand-and-some, colonizing a ship instead of a planet. Colonizing space itself, citizens of the Federation at large. In generations to come, these children’s children would come to see these kinds of ships as their country, their planet, their nationality. The answer to “Where are you from?” would be “I’m from Enterprise.”
Habitat. Environment. A place, not a thing, not a ship. A moving place. Instead of “I’m a citizen of this sector or that system, this planet, that outpost,” the answer would be “I’m a citizen of the Federation.”
Finally there would be total unity within the Federation, the first step toward people’s being at home on any planet instead of only one. The principle from the old United States, basically; it didn’t matter if you were raised in Vermont and lived in California. You were still home, still American. If your name was Baird or Yamamura or Kwame, you weren’t necessarily loyal to Scotland, Japan, or Ghana, but to America. A few decades of space travel, and the statement became “I’m a citizen of Earth,” and no matter the country. This ship was that kind of first step. Whether born on Earth or Epsillon Indii VI, you were a citizen of the Federation. The children on this colony Enterprise would visit the planets of the Federation and feel part of each, welcome upon all. This starship was the greatest, most visionary melting pot of all, this spacegoing colony. Unique. Hopeful.
Risky.
And it befell Jean-Luc Picard to make it work.
Why me? Has the prestige blinded me to my losses of freedom and adventure? Children. Imagine it.
“Mr. Riker,” he spoke up then, breaking into his own thoughts. “I want you, Data, and LaForge to go down to engineering and get me a thorough spectrometric and electronic analysis of the phenomenon’s composition while we still have time. I want to know what’ll happen if we fire our weapons directly into it, and what’ll happen if we don’t.” He suddenly jabbed a finger at his first officer and firmly said, “Riker, you’re in charge of figuring out how to deal with that thing.”
It took every bit of Riker’s control to keep from fidgeting. He felt his body stiffen. “Aye, sir.” He nodded and wheeled toward the turbolift. “Data, LaForge-with me.”
They filed off the bridge, and in a fluid bouquet of movement were replaced at the Conn and Ops positions by Worf and Tasha. Picard watched them leave and felt less alone against the coming hours’ dark tunnel walls. He glanced around; the ship was still here, systems clicking and rerouting power in a million tiny alternative tracks, anything to get working again, stealing energy from each other, certain systems taking precedence over others as the giant computer core made the kinds of tiny decisions only machines could make. He felt the presence of the myriad engineers belowdecks, all scrambling to guide that delicate energy theft, felt them just as surely as Counselor Troi felt the presence of the beings who posed so plain a threat.
“I’ll be in sickbay,” he said, and started toward the turbolift.
“Confusion, sir.”
Troi lay on the diagnostic bed in the artificial quiet of sickbay, trying to put words to that which had no letters, no punctuation. To her right, Captain Picard took charge, kept things in line, gave her fortitude. To her left, Beverly Crusher provided another kind of anchor, watching her in a different way altogether. But now the captain wanted answers, suggestions, and none were presenting themselves without a fight.
“There seem to be thousands of separate emotional bands, if you will,” Troi said. “Perhaps there are millions. I feel helpless to explain this to you clearly-doctor, may I get up, please?”
Crusher scolded her with a look, then said, “I suppose so. But only because I can’t find anything wrong with you. That doesn’t mean you’re not injured in some way.”
She swung the diagnostic shell away from Troi and stood back while the captain helped