Prologue
When Dr. T'Prianne Rhaenn delivered the last material to her contact, she knew that her temporal life was over: Soon, her betrayal would become clear, and sometime after that she would die, killed by those whom she had helped for so many years, and whom she well knew would not tolerate such treachery. T'Prianne understood this; to a Vulcan, it was logical. She expected to die. In fact, she was counting on it. Her death was only a step, but a necessary one, triggering the event cascade needed to achieve the greater purpose she had worked toward for so long.
In the months preceding her betrayal, T'Prianne had felt an increasing joy in the hearts of the people she had worked for; victory was theirs at long last, a victory gained in great measure through the information she and her husband had secretly provided. And she could also feel the impatience, running like a dark fever, in those who backed their side, and who were waiting for their opportunity to strike.
This was what had caused her to act. A crisis had to be brought about, now, when it was least expected, and while all the parties were off-guard, now, while it was still possible to destabilize the situation. It would be a crushing setback for the people she and her husband had aided for years; unfortunate, but integral to her larger purpose. She needed to buy time for the real actors to finish their work. The future of the Federation depended on it.
When they returned to Selasdana a few days later, her husband immediately bundled up their daughter and sent her off to Vulcan; Anna would be protected there, and her safety was paramount: The child's destiny was hurtling toward her now, would open and catch her and set her on her future path in the same moments as her parents' death. Once their daughter was safely on her way, T'Prianne and her husband settled back into their work, and waited for the inevitable.
The weeks went by, and turned into months. T'Prianne watched as her betrayal reaped its devastating harvest. And, as she had planned, her perfidy was discovered, and now those she had betrayed, intent on revenge, had come and were hovering over her home like avenging angels, watching and waiting. But they did not attack.
T'Prianne re-evaluated the situation. She explained to her husband that she felt the killers, in their need to punish and destroy, were waiting for their daughter to return home to Selasdana, waiting patiently, in order to kill, not just T'Prianne, but her entire family. This, too, was logical: Her betrayal had cost the people she had worked for very dearly, and they wanted her to pay as dearly.
As a Vulcan, T'Prianne could accept that she had to die, and that many others would die with her. If she had calculated correctly, many billions of others would be saved by her death. And if she didn't act to head off events, the result would be a cataclysmic war, death and disorder and ruin, a devastating conflict that would last for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. The small, controlled action she was playing a part in bringing about now would forestall that other, darker, fate.
Her husband was half-human, however, an emotional man, when he wasn't being scientifically rational. He had questioned her very closely about her plan before, and now his questions renewed, with a greater intensity of feeling: Wasn't there some other way? Did so many have to die? What about their child? How would they save her? Could Anna be saved?
She considered this question. There was a second option, a plan of action which might now be set into motion, a way to precipitate the needed crisis, and at the same time, possibly save their daughter. This strategy would require exquisite timing; and there was a chance the child couldn't be saved. Her plan was a calculated risk, but with a high probability of success.
She discussed all of this with her husband. Afterwards, he appeared resigned, said only that their daughter was young for such a step. Still, if the child's life could be spared in this way, then ...
T'Prianne Rhaenn sent a message along through her contact: No further delays. The time for the Enterprise to visit their Outpost had arrived. Shortly thereafter, she received the affirmative reply she was expecting. Everything was now in place. One way or another, the Federation would have no choice but to act.
Knowing that their daughter would be saved, her husband was a little easier about their own fate, although T'Prianne often felt flashes of sorrow and regret in his heart over the impending loss of her corporeal being. Regret was a particularly human emotion, and of all the human emotions, the one she understood least; regret was truly illogical, a waste of time and energy.
As for T'Prianne herself, her Vulcan logic had long ago overridden every other consideration. The truth for her was a burnished beacon, shining and clear, and it never changed: The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.
"Computer."
The computer obediently chirruped. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, U.S.S. Enterprise, leaned forward, looking into the viewing screen on his desk.
"Captain's Log: The Enterprise has arrived at Outpost Selasdana in the Corridor; it is evening here. We will conduct our official visit in the morning. From Selasdana, we will proceed to Outpost Verdana, and so on, until we've completed our tour of the Corridor, as ordered. Computer, close log."
The computer chirped its compliance.
He stared at the empty screen; openly conscious, suddenly, of his reflection there. The deep lines cutting around his nose down to his set mouth and chin, the straight-gazing eyes, the bristle-short white hair, growing low around his ears; somewhere in the years between wet- behind-the-ears Ensign and here, sitting in his Ready Room, Captain of the Enterprise, he had acquired the authority reflected in his face. He was Captain of this ship; down to the marrow in his bones, and beyond that, to his soul, he was the Captain. In this closed, self-contained world, he was the living core, the center from which all else radiated, decisions considered and taken, actions proceeded or deferred, moments known and unknown flowed, his mind, his will, even his whim, capable of moving the Enterprise and everyone and everything on it through the universe, like an unseen but all-powerful uniting force, like a god ...
Like a god, ultimately responsible for all the souls on his ship.
He leaned forward. "Computer, Personal Log." The computer chirruped softly.
"Personal Log: ..." He stopped, searching for the right words, words alien to his mind, his tongue: An expression of defeat. No, he couldn't, he wouldn't say that, not at least, yet. Well, what then? In the screen, he saw that his expression had changed from resolution, to anger, and even doubt. He sank back a little into his chair.
An acknowledgment, perhaps, for history. He gripped the armrests, and leaned forward. "Personal Log: Everyone in the Federation knows our situation. This ship is a match, and we've flown deliberately into the tinderbox. Should anything happen to the Enterprise or to anyone aboard this ship while we're on this mission, let it be known that I personally accept full and moral responsibility. Let history record that my failures, as a man and as a Star Fleet Officer, brought this fate upon ourselves, and upon the Federation."
He leaned back into his chair after a moment. "Log off." He stared unflinchingly at the grim face reflected in the screen.
It was done. No throat-clearing, no chair-scraping, no finger-pointing, later on. If the Enterprise was lost, the blame would ever lay squarely where it belonged: On his shoulders.
Lopez/The Scientist's Daughter/3
