Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [20]
You won’t do that.
“Won’t I?” asked the captain.
He estimated that it had been two minutes since he had given the order to abandon ship. By then, all surviving members of his crew should have cast off, with the possible exception of Offenburger and Siregar. And even they should have reached a pod.
With that in mind, he tapped in a detonation time. Then he took a moment to reassess Agnarsson’s condition.
With an effort, the engineer had propped himself up on his elbow. Slowly, laboriously, he was reaching out in Tarasco’s direction, no doubt intent on blasting him with another energy surge.
The captain didn’t wait to see if Agnarsson had recovered enough to generate a charge. He simply fired at the deck below the man. As before, it took a few seconds to penetrate the plating and open the conduit.
A third time, the engineer was bathed in electrocharged fire. And a third time, he escaped its clutches to collapse on the deck, a crisped and bloody thing that barely resembled a man.
Tarasco almost allowed himself to believe that Agnarsson was dead—that he could deactivate the missiles and save his ship. Then the husk that had been the Valiant’s engineer began to stir again—began to roll over so it could see its tormentor.
Its eyes had the same startling silver cast to them. And they pulsated with hatred for the captain.
Damn you, Agnarsson rasped in Tarasco’s brain, you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m your future, your destiny…
If the captain had needed a sign, he had gotten one. He didn’t dare think about turning back.
So instead, he stood there and waited, counting down the seconds. He watched the engineer recuperate as he had before, but it didn’t seem that Agnarsson was going to mend quickly enough to be a problem.
Tarasco’s last thought was for his crew. Like Moses, he was going to be denied the Promised Land—but after all his people had been through, he hoped they, at least, would make it back to Earth alive.
Part One
United Federation of Planets Starship
U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701-D
2367
One
In the dream, he was on a crowded shuttlecraft.
They had left the Stargazer behind—a hulk, crippled in the encounter with the Ferengi at Maxia Zeta. Somewhere ahead—weeks ahead—was Starbase 81.
But there was no trace of the desperation they’d felt during the battle. No trace of the sorrow for lost comrades that had hung over them like a cloud.
Instead, there was an air of optimism. Of camaraderie, as there had been on the ship when it was whole. He looked around at the faces—familiar faces. Gilaad Ben Zoma, his first officer, dark and handsome, confident as ever. Idun Asmund, his helmsman, tall and pristinely beautiful as she bent over the shuttle’s controls. “Pug” Joseph, his security chief, characteristically alert, ready for anything.
And another—a face that he was gladder to see than all the rest.
“Jack,” he said.
Jack Crusher turned his way. He indicated their surroundings with a tilt of his head. “A little snug in here, isn’t it, Jean-Luc?”
“That’s all right. It won’t be forever.”
The other man quirked a smile, brushing aside a lock of dark brown hair. “I guess not. It’ll only seem like forever.”
It was so good to see Jack sitting there. So very good.
“You’re out of your mind,” someone rasped.
He turned and saw Phigus Simenon, his Gnalish head of engineering. As usual, Simenon was arguing some point of science or philosophy with Carter Greyhorse, the Stargazer’s towering chief medical officer.
“If it’s by definition the smallest thing possible,” the Gnalish went on, “how can there be anything smaller?” His ruby eyes were alive with cunning in his gray, serpentine visage.
“Easy,” Greyhorse answered, the impassivity of his broad features belying the annoyance in his deep, cultured voice. “You take it and cut it in half.” Easing his massive body back into his seat, he raised his arms. “Voilà, you’ve got something even smaller.”
“Can’t be,” Simenon argued. “By definition, remember, it’s the smallest—”
The Gnalish