Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [26]
In his peripheral vision, Morgan Bateson’s hands were ice white, and the shocked man was undoubtedly gathering up the courage he’d need to tell his crew about this.
“Well, all right, tell me,” Bateson said harshly. “Did we at least … matter?”
“Did you!” Riker heard himself blurt the silly question and immediately gulped the words back—of course it didn’t work that way.
Bateson looked up at him. His eyes were red with effort as he waited for an explanation.
“Go ahead, Number One,” Picard said softly. “Tell him.”
Riker stood up and tried not to be so damned tall. “On Rhodes Colony,” he began, speaking slowly, “where Starbase 12 is still intact and operating, the main spaceway is called Bateson Boulevard.”
Bateson’s head dropped into one hand. “Oh, please, gentlemen,” he sighed, “this isn’t necessary.”
“It’s true. Everyone knows what you did. By standing down Kozara, you saved over fifty thousand people, a full-sized starbase, several colonies, and the security of two sectors.
“The incident was investigated for months. The search and rescue alone went on for weeks. They looked everywhere for you. Starfleet teams, civil volunteers, starbase residents, and Rhodes colonists. Two sectors turned out for the search.”
Bateson nodded bitterly. “They couldn’t find a trace, of course.”
“Of course,” Riker said. “Kozara was chased out of Federation space by Admiral Kirk and Captain Spock on the Enterprise, who responded to your comm buoy. The Klingon plot was exposed and condemned as cowardly espionage rather than noble challenge, which embarrassed the entire Klingon Empire and shook the High Council to its bones. They went through several turnovers of power. Several families fell out of influence, including Kozara’s. He was saved from execution by his one nominal victory …”
“Destruction of me and my ship,” Bateson finished, his voice heavy with irony.
Riker nodded. “That was his one credit, sir. He never recovered from an incident you stopped from happening. His career went no farther. He’s spent his life clinging to the one shred of respect—destruction of the Cutter Bozeman and the best border captain the Federation ever had.”
“Best enough to get good and lost,” Bateson derided. “Is there … are there any ways we could go back in time?”
“There are ways,” Picard complied. “None very dependable or accurate. We know we can go back to general periods, with great strain and risk, but to go back to a particular month or even year … no. You may overshoot your own time by decades in the other direction.”
His voice rough, Bateson said, “You don’t mind if I look into it myself?”
Tolerantly quieter, Picard said, “Of course you should.”
Sitting in front of the desk, Riker wished he weren’t here, for Bateson’s sake. Surely this was embarrassing enough. Bateson had a notable reputation which had naturally bloomed with time and the fullness of appreciation for his one-ship standoff with a fullly armed Klingon warship. The pertinacity of Morgan Bateson was so entrenched in society at Starbase 12 and Rhodes Colony that the official Federation mascot was a bulldog.
“Please be assured,” Picard gently went on, “we’ll all do whatever we can to help you, and anyone in your crew.”
The offer sank in slowly, a gracious but empty gesture Bateson had extended to Picard only minutes ago. Somehow it seemed hollow the second time around.
After a few moments, Picard urged, “What would you like, Captain?”
Perhaps that seemed like rushing things, but these were not ordinary men, Riker knew. These were captains. Riker himself had enjoyed the prestige of a captain without having to continually shoulder the responsibilities of one, and he knew that would change a person. Captains had to think faster, grasp concepts faster, everything faster, bigger, more.
“I’d like—” Bateson began, then paused and gestured weakly at Riker. “I’d like your first officer to brief my crew and show them the records once I inform them of what’s happened.”
“Done,” Riker said, then pressed his lips together. He shouldn