Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [24]
“Just what I told you,” Picard said. “Our ships are roughly ninety years apart in development. The causality loop has put us together.” He gestured at himself and Riker, then at the area around them. “We are from the year 2368.”
Riker noticed that their guest instantly rejected the idea, then almost as quickly absorbed it, typical of commanders who had learned to distill situations in an instant. Bateson doubted what he heard, of course, but he also trusted the evidence of his own eyes. And he was gazing fiercely at Picard, as though the stare could make the liar break.
Letting the surroundings speak for himself, Picard blue-bloodedly remained untextured and took the glare.
“You’re sure about this?” Bateson asked.
“We’re double-checking everything now.”
“I’ll have to have confirmation, of course.”
“Of course.”
As Riker and his captain watched, Morgan Bateson crossed some line or other, and at least made a strong effort to participate in what he saw happening around him.
He fanned his hands casually. “Well, Captain Picard, Mr. Riker … if all this checks out, I’ll do everything possible, as I’m sure Starfleet will, to make you and your crew comfortable in our time.”
Riker actually winced. He was glad Bateson wasn’t looking at him right then.
“This must be terrible for you,” Bateson went on to the captain. “Perhaps there’s some way to use this causality to return you to your own time.”
“There isn’t,” Picard established. “We’ve been checking that more than anything else. The causality has a particular temporal flow that can’t be reversed by artificial means. In fact, it’s gone now. We think it’s subject to its own forces and it’s gone off to another era. Possibly another epoch. We can’t find it anymore.”
While he talked, Picard threw a glance at Riker—a deeply troubled glance, even a desperate one. The moment of terrible truth was getting closer and harder at the same pace, and the captain’s silent eyes asked the ugliest question: Are we sure it’s not us?
A chill ran up Riker’s arms. Trying not to draw attention, he slipped into a swivel chair before the captain’s desk and reached for the non-audio computer access tie-in. He fingered the controls, shutting off the vocal response mode. All he needed was for the computer to stupidly blurt out what it discovered.
Local celestial bodies … position … status … stellar correlations … home in on the beacon at the Linden Navigational Outpost, established only fourteen years ago … please be there …
Yes. Loud and clear.
He tilted his head, caught Picard’s eye beyond Bateson’s shoulder. Picard didn’t change expression, but maintained a perfect stage distance. Riker nodded with sad reassurance, then pointed quickly at Bateson. It’s him.
“Mmm,” Picard uttered. “Captain Bateson, I’m deeply sorry, but we’ve confirmed this … the causality was apparently a forward time current.”
Such a melodic voice when he wanted it to be. In the midst of the regret he was feeling now, Riker found himself admiring both that deep Shakespearean eloquence and how Picard could ease off on it when he needed to.
Judging from the sudden pallor in Morgan Bateson’s face, Picard was playing the part of both doctor and paster—to inform of bad news and also comfort the quaking aftermath.
Bateson slowly drifted down to sit on the couch—luckily he was standing right in front of it or he’d have gone down to the deck. Once down, he somehow continued sinking. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands fell limp. His head and shoulders slumped until he was staring at his own feet. His voice scattered out on the rag of a sigh.
“Oh, no …”
The ready room grew so quiet that the soft sounds from the bridge beyond the doorway, tiny beeps and breathy whirrs, actually came through the insulated door panel. It had to be pretty quiet for that. Usually there was classical music playing in here, or someone was talking to someone else. Riker never noticed before how quiet this office could be, or that the bridge activity could be heard at all.