Against the Dying of the Light
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
In too many years of waging war, Jean-Luc Picard had learned to make difficult choices, but the decision facing him now was not difficult.
It was impossible.
As commander of the small but valiant Stargazer, of a short series of other underpowered ships, and finally of the battleship Enterprise, Picard had learned to a science how to gauge risks, weigh odds, measure probabilities. None of those skills stood him in good stead now, for all he knew of the situation for certain was that the risks were unspeakably high. The odds were unguessable, the probabilities -- unknown.
How could he order the Enterprise-C, and the remnants of her gallant crew, back through the time-rift to certain destruction? How could he pledge his own ship, and her brave but battle-weary officers, to safeguard the other vessel's journey? Whatever other chances such actions might bring, one outcome was virtually assured: both ships, both crews, would perish -- Enterprise-C on the other side of the rift, Enterprise-D in their rear-guard effort.
//There is too much blood on my hands now, and I can wash it away no more than could Macbeth. I cannot --// For all his vaunted talent for waging war, Picard did not have the heart, or the stomach, of a warrior. Like all officers of his era, he had been born and raised to peace, and the deaths he had already wrought still brought him nightmares.
//This war isn't supposed to be happening.// It was the one thing Guinan had told him of which she seemed sure. It was her guess -- her *guess* that the return of the Enterprise-C to its own time, and the renewal of its doomed effort to save the Klingon outpost at Narindra Three, were the elements needed to prevent its precipation. Her *deduction* that sacrificing the older ship would save the lives of those billions who had fallen in the deadly conflict. Her *hope* that such lethal choices would give his own Enterprise the chance to fly as she'd said it was meant to, not as "a ship of war," but as "a ship of peace."
Guesses. Deductions. Hope. The only certainty was death, and he was sick to his soul of pointless death.
Yet he had ordered, or left, men and women to certain death before this, sometimes in pursuit of more ephemeral objectives than those Guinan proposed. He remembered, with a sudden tightening of his throat, the heroic rear-guard action the damaged Hawking had fought to allow his crippled Enterprise to escape what should have been certain destruction -- remembered how harshly he had demanded that sacrifice, for his ship was the most dangerous vessel Starfleet still commanded, and it must survive. Recalled how he had let the outmatched Silver and Scirocco occupy two overmuscled defenders to buy Enterprise the time to knock out a Klingon intelligence post; how the only help he'd been able to give them had been given too late. Thought, too, of the colony at Lemas, whom he had left defenseless in the face of a Klingon onslaught because his ship had been called to battle (a battle it had ended by fleeing) on another front.
What had all those sacrifices, all those lives lost, gained the Federation?
Nothing. Less than nothing. The war ground on like the mills of God, and every day hopes of Federation victory, or even Federation survival, were ground exceeding small. Picard's intelligence reports indicated that surrender to the Klingons would come in a matter of months, no more. (Though he had, in truth, guessed as much a year or more ago. When eighteen-year-old Wesley Crusher, a mere cadet, had been sent to Picard to pilot the flagship of Starfleet, the captain had known the Federation must be nearing the limits of its reserves.) With surrender, the worlds Picard had fought, and so many had died, to protect would be subject to the Klingons' harsh laws for conquered territories, their resources stripped, their people indentured to servitude. As for the surviving officers of Starfleet, including Picard's own crew, the most anyone could hope was that the Klingons would grant them honor for battles valiantly fought. But the Klingon concept of honor revolved around gallant --
Death.
Picard could keep the Enterprise-C with his own ship, in this time. He could refuse to tell its captain, Rachel Garrett, of the dangerous option Guinan had proposed; he could engage the older ship in the war effort. Starfleet Command would welcome another ship, even an outdated one, to their beleaguered ranks, little good though it would do. And nothing would change -- not the fact that Starfleet and the Federation would fall, most likely not even the fact that the Enterprise-C, and probably its successor as well, would also fall.
Or he could tell Garrett of the slim and dangerous chance that Guinan proposed, give her the option of returning to her own time, to complete her foredoomed battle. He could tell her that her sacrifice, and that of her ship and crew, were the only way the Federation might be able to travel a different path than the lethal one it now flew, the only way that he and his crew and so many others might be able to live.
Might. Perhaps. It might be that Garrett's sacrifice would be an end in itself, and yield nothing for their Federation's future, Picard's own deadly present. Before he even raised the question to the other commander, he had to know, and he could not. Even Guinan could not.
But something in Picard had resonated, so strongly that it frightened him, at Guinan's insistence that the Enterprise-D might be, ought to be, a "ship of peace." He had not Guinan 's awareness of time, her knowledge of its shifting probabilities, but something in that statement had sounded so right to him that his purely human, purely rational knowledge could hardly dispute it.
Picard knew this much: even in the midst of war, he had wanted, needed, peace for all of his life. He had wanted to command (been meant to command, perhaps?) vessels of exploration, ships that dealt in knowledge, not in death. Where others had longed for a Federation victory, he had longed only for an end to the ceaseless slaughter.
Picard had not let himself think of those old desires for two decades and more. He was a practical man, a man who dealt in realities -- in realities which had been given to him, and which he knew that he could not change. It had been given to him to fight, and so he fought.
But what if -- what *if* -- reality could indeed be changed? If, as Guinan asserted, it was in his power, and Rachel Garrett's, to change it? If, in the changing, there was any chance whatsoever to save billions of lives, avert the horrors of war -- redeem Picard's own ship and perhaps his soul? If those possibilities were not worth risk and uncertainty, then what was? When the only certainty that awaited all, otherwise, was death?
Picard had thought that his decision was impossible, but the truth was otherwise: it was no choice at all.
He had to go to Garrett and tell her what Guinan had said, tell her of the risk her ship might undertake, and of the pivotal role it might play in preserving the peace of a galaxy. More than that, though he had no right to command her in this, he had to urge her to take the chance, and offer her what help lay within his power: his own ship to guard her journey through the time rift. What he would ask, what Guinan had urged, could be the last battle of both Enterprises, but it was the only battle that offered any hope at all of ending the war.
Death might be worth the dying, for the hope of a life that might be worth the living.
Decision made, Picard left the ready room and announced his intention of beaming to the Enterprise-C. He had a message to share with Captain Garrett.
END
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
In too many years of waging war, Jean-Luc Picard had learned to make difficult choices, but the decision facing him now was not difficult.
It was impossible.
As commander of the small but valiant Stargazer, of a short series of other underpowered ships, and finally of the battleship Enterprise, Picard had learned to a science how to gauge risks, weigh odds, measure probabilities. None of those skills stood him in good stead now, for all he knew of the situation for certain was that the risks were unspeakably high. The odds were unguessable, the probabilities -- unknown.
How could he order the Enterprise-C, and the remnants of her gallant crew, back through the time-rift to certain destruction? How could he pledge his own ship, and her brave but battle-weary officers, to safeguard the other vessel's journey? Whatever other chances such actions might bring, one outcome was virtually assured: both ships, both crews, would perish -- Enterprise-C on the other side of the rift, Enterprise-D in their rear-guard effort.
//There is too much blood on my hands now, and I can wash it away no more than could Macbeth. I cannot --// For all his vaunted talent for waging war, Picard did not have the heart, or the stomach, of a warrior. Like all officers of his era, he had been born and raised to peace, and the deaths he had already wrought still brought him nightmares.
//This war isn't supposed to be happening.// It was the one thing Guinan had told him of which she seemed sure. It was her guess -- her *guess* that the return of the Enterprise-C to its own time, and the renewal of its doomed effort to save the Klingon outpost at Narindra Three, were the elements needed to prevent its precipation. Her *deduction* that sacrificing the older ship would save the lives of those billions who had fallen in the deadly conflict. Her *hope* that such lethal choices would give his own Enterprise the chance to fly as she'd said it was meant to, not as "a ship of war," but as "a ship of peace."
Guesses. Deductions. Hope. The only certainty was death, and he was sick to his soul of pointless death.
Yet he had ordered, or left, men and women to certain death before this, sometimes in pursuit of more ephemeral objectives than those Guinan proposed. He remembered, with a sudden tightening of his throat, the heroic rear-guard action the damaged Hawking had fought to allow his crippled Enterprise to escape what should have been certain destruction -- remembered how harshly he had demanded that sacrifice, for his ship was the most dangerous vessel Starfleet still commanded, and it must survive. Recalled how he had let the outmatched Silver and Scirocco occupy two overmuscled defenders to buy Enterprise the time to knock out a Klingon intelligence post; how the only help he'd been able to give them had been given too late. Thought, too, of the colony at Lemas, whom he had left defenseless in the face of a Klingon onslaught because his ship had been called to battle (a battle it had ended by fleeing) on another front.
What had all those sacrifices, all those lives lost, gained the Federation?
Nothing. Less than nothing. The war ground on like the mills of God, and every day hopes of Federation victory, or even Federation survival, were ground exceeding small. Picard's intelligence reports indicated that surrender to the Klingons would come in a matter of months, no more. (Though he had, in truth, guessed as much a year or more ago. When eighteen-year-old Wesley Crusher, a mere cadet, had been sent to Picard to pilot the flagship of Starfleet, the captain had known the Federation must be nearing the limits of its reserves.) With surrender, the worlds Picard had fought, and so many had died, to protect would be subject to the Klingons' harsh laws for conquered territories, their resources stripped, their people indentured to servitude. As for the surviving officers of Starfleet, including Picard's own crew, the most anyone could hope was that the Klingons would grant them honor for battles valiantly fought. But the Klingon concept of honor revolved around gallant --
Death.
Picard could keep the Enterprise-C with his own ship, in this time. He could refuse to tell its captain, Rachel Garrett, of the dangerous option Guinan had proposed; he could engage the older ship in the war effort. Starfleet Command would welcome another ship, even an outdated one, to their beleaguered ranks, little good though it would do. And nothing would change -- not the fact that Starfleet and the Federation would fall, most likely not even the fact that the Enterprise-C, and probably its successor as well, would also fall.
Or he could tell Garrett of the slim and dangerous chance that Guinan proposed, give her the option of returning to her own time, to complete her foredoomed battle. He could tell her that her sacrifice, and that of her ship and crew, were the only way the Federation might be able to travel a different path than the lethal one it now flew, the only way that he and his crew and so many others might be able to live.
Might. Perhaps. It might be that Garrett's sacrifice would be an end in itself, and yield nothing for their Federation's future, Picard's own deadly present. Before he even raised the question to the other commander, he had to know, and he could not. Even Guinan could not.
But something in Picard had resonated, so strongly that it frightened him, at Guinan's insistence that the Enterprise-D might be, ought to be, a "ship of peace." He had not Guinan 's awareness of time, her knowledge of its shifting probabilities, but something in that statement had sounded so right to him that his purely human, purely rational knowledge could hardly dispute it.
Picard knew this much: even in the midst of war, he had wanted, needed, peace for all of his life. He had wanted to command (been meant to command, perhaps?) vessels of exploration, ships that dealt in knowledge, not in death. Where others had longed for a Federation victory, he had longed only for an end to the ceaseless slaughter.
Picard had not let himself think of those old desires for two decades and more. He was a practical man, a man who dealt in realities -- in realities which had been given to him, and which he knew that he could not change. It had been given to him to fight, and so he fought.
But what if -- what *if* -- reality could indeed be changed? If, as Guinan asserted, it was in his power, and Rachel Garrett's, to change it? If, in the changing, there was any chance whatsoever to save billions of lives, avert the horrors of war -- redeem Picard's own ship and perhaps his soul? If those possibilities were not worth risk and uncertainty, then what was? When the only certainty that awaited all, otherwise, was death?
Picard had thought that his decision was impossible, but the truth was otherwise: it was no choice at all.
He had to go to Garrett and tell her what Guinan had said, tell her of the risk her ship might undertake, and of the pivotal role it might play in preserving the peace of a galaxy. More than that, though he had no right to command her in this, he had to urge her to take the chance, and offer her what help lay within his power: his own ship to guard her journey through the time rift. What he would ask, what Guinan had urged, could be the last battle of both Enterprises, but it was the only battle that offered any hope at all of ending the war.
Death might be worth the dying, for the hope of a life that might be worth the living.
Decision made, Picard left the ready room and announced his intention of beaming to the Enterprise-C. He had a message to share with Captain Garrett.
END