Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [25]
The tragedy for Bateson’s crew—going forward in time—was far worse than to go backward. Anyone finding himself in the past could at least contrive to send a message forward, let relatives know what had happened. There was separation, but no tragedy. For a whole crew, the chance of success was pretty good. One message might fail, but a hundred or more, each requesting that the whole crew’s families be notified, would surely succeed. Riker found himself mentally plotting out the process, just how he would do it, where to leave messages.
People who went backward in time had a chance to fit in. They would be living in a time to which they were technologically superior, and that was at least a comfort. Very little would be beyond them.
But to go forward in time was something else. No way to tell families what happened. The sense of tragic loss would endure and endure. Men from the past, in a ship that was already old ninety years ago, were instantly out of date, their hard-won skills obsolete. They were oddities. The process of fitting in would be the struggle of their lives. They’d be pathetic curiosities, and if they didn’t want to deal with that, their only choice would be self-imposed isolation. They’d have to just about turn shepherd.
Riker watched sadly as all this ran through Morgan Bateson’s mind. The click of thoughts was almost audible, until finally they started to come out.
“My first mate’s about to be married,” Bateson faltered. His face was like plaster, his eyes shallow and pained. “Our second engineer just became a father. I still have the cigar …”
Empathy crushed Riker to his chair. A terrible moment, worse than breaking news of a death. Should he go over there? Sit by Bateson and offer support with his presence? Just as he braced his legs to stand up, he changed his mind and decided he wouldn’t like that from a stranger. Not yet, anyway. Captain Picard wasn’t moving yet either, but just watching Bateson in a patriarchal way, not interfering.
This was a loss entirely catastrophic to poor Bateson and his crew. They wouldn’t be able to tell their families what happened to them. That moment was gone. The mate’s fiancée would never know why he didn’t come home. The engineer’s child would grow up without his father and never know why. That awful note in the file would read, “Missing in deep space, lost in the line of duty. Outcome inconclusive.”
Ninety years. Even the baby was old now.
All this sat on Bateson. Riker could see the other man’s mind spinning. Oddly, Riker felt just as bad for his own captain. That sorrow-filled gaze, the struggle to remain clinical for his own sake—Riker saw through it. Picard was sharing what could not possibly be shared, and Riker was too. What if it had turned out to be us and not Bateson? I feel relieved and rotten at the same time.
Riker flexed his arms, then fought to relax them. He’d never forgive himself if he added to Captain Bateson’s irreversible tragedy by showing how lucky he felt that it wasn’t William Riker going through that. He didn’t dare appear smug, or hurry Bateson through this moment by being casual either. There really wasn’t any posture that said the right thing, was there?
He beat down a shudder. Just like that, misplaced in time. No family, no friends, homes ground to dust, and ninety years obsolete.
Just like that.
How many times had they tampered with time? How often would luck bail them out as flippantly as it had failed Bateson? For this captain and his crew, once was too much. Snap—and everything’s changed. Their lives were fouled on a spur of bad luck, and that was as complicated as it would ever get.
“What can I possibly tell my crew?” Bateson uttered, almost a whisper.
The truth.
Ouch—Riker had almost said it out loud.
Steeling himself visibly, Bateson swallowed a couple of times, then croaked, “This isn’t me. This is my stunt double. I’m still sleeping in my bunk. Go wake me up.”
Outside the solar system, just at its edge, a comet streaked by like some kind of harbinger. Riker found himself watching it for a few moments, just to avoid