Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [27]
But Picard didn’t contradict him.
Bateson was gazing at the carpet now, thinking and obviously trying to be practical at an impractical moment. “I’d appreciate your help with any of my crew who want to contact their relations or … find out what happened to their families.”
“Certainly,” Picard agreed.
“Despite the time difference, and the …” Bateson waved both hands limply and glanced around the ready room. “… obvious technological gap, I’d very much like my ship to remain commissioned as long as possible. She’s our only anchor now.”
Picard nodded. “I’ll make that recommendation and throw my influence behind it.”
“I’d like to remain their captain indefinitely.”
“I would like that as well. I doubt there’ll be any resistance to it. Also, I’ll make the ship’s counselor available to assist your crew through the emotional transitions. She—”
Bateson’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry—your ship’s what?”
Pausing, Captain Picard seemed momentarily disarmed. “Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor. She’s ostensibly under the authority of the—”
“A babysitter, you mean.” Bateson huffed and his eyes flared. “My crew won’t need any ‘counselor,’ Captain. No offense, but we’ve got each other.”
Riker frowned and embarked on a tailspin to try remembering when the counseling program had been made regular duty, but Jean-Luc Picard smiled. “None taken. Smaller vessels run on a different dynamic than a full-sized cruiser.”
Without a beat, Bateson shot back, “Perhaps in this century they do.”
Bristling at the tone, Riker clamped his lips shut and realized that Bateson wasn’t trying to insult them. He’d just run headlong into a glaring difference between his time and this. His voice was harsh with bitterness at the cruel twist, and he was trying to tread water in a very big sea. Bateson wasn’t alone—the concept of a ship’s counselor had bothered a lot of people when it was first proposed. Even now it had its hardcore detractors, even captains who gave their counselors every conceivable duty to keep them from counseling.
“Well, there’s one little quirk in your favor,” Picard mentioned, moving forward.
Trying to conjure up a bright side, Bateson looked up and asked, “Which is?”
Picard held out one hand. “Your seniority.”
“That’s right!” Riker put in. “There’s no provision in Starfleet’s active duty articles that takes time travel into consideration!”
“Actually, there is,” Picard corrected. “Before James Kirk traveled back in time on a mission to examine the 1960’s, a provision was incorporated allowing any Starfleet personnel to retain seniority as accrued from the date of commission despite passage backward in time. However,” he added, “in your case, Mr. Riker is quite right. There’s nothing about moving forward in time. Your commission date still stands, making you in fact the most senior captain currently on duty. You may be able to parlay that into great influence, Captain. And on behalf of all you have sacrificed in the line of duty, I will defend that seniority.”
“So will I,” Riker chimed in.
Bateson shook his head and wiped a film of sweat from his cheek. “It gives me seniority of a captain four and a half times my age or experience,” he sadly mused, and there was a glint of possibility in his voice this time. “I’ve … no idea how to use that …”
Briefly seeing the future through the murk, Morgan Bateson pushed off the soft simulated leather of the couch, stood up, wavered understandably, then shuffled to the huge viewports that made up one full curving wall of the captain’s ready room. He drew a breath, let it shudder out, drew another, and had a little more control this time. He gazed out at open space.
“We have no mission … our ship is outdated … my crew doesn’t need counseling, gentlemen. They need a purpose. They need a reason to focus their minds forward. It’s my new mission in life to provide them with one.”
Picard looked at Riker—they’d found a thread of hope—and back at Bateson.
“Something tells me you’ll find your way, Captain. And we will unceasingly defend you.”
Riker smiled. “Yes, we will. That’s a promise.