Star
Trek:
The
Next Generation
Dark
Destiny
Kerri
Ann Shotts
Dark Destiny
Prologue
Questions
The stars moved slowly. So peaceful, it seems out there, Jean-Luc thought. So much unlike my own mind. He sighed. Recent happenings in Star Fleet Command had him questioning his faith in the system. Too many people in high places now seemed only too willing to compromise the ideas upon which the Federation was based in order to gain personal advancement. Am I one of the few who actually believe what the Federation was based on? Or am I too old-fashioned?
His mind wandered to what had so disturbed his sense of peace. His desk computer showed a communique from Admiral Necheyev offering him a promotion to Admiral if he so desired it. Such a promotion would undoubtedly bring with it all the responsibilities of the office – a desk job, pushing papers around. But could I do more there, or here? Am I useful where I am? The Captain of the Enterprise was familiar with the Vulcan view of usefulness: Anything that averts the natural order of the universe, that is, anything that stops and/or reverses the natural entropy of the universe. "Am I preventing the entropy of the Federation by staying a Captain?" he wondered out loud.
His mind regressed among past experiences – most striking, the Enterprise had thwarted the attempt to destroy a mere hundred people in order to extend the lives of the children of those people and to apply the benefits of some sort of metaphasic radiation to extend the lifespan of those in the Federation. Though command officially looked upon the attempted murders with disdain, Picard had to wonder how many individuals were secretly praising Admiral Kiros(?) for his initiative to make the Federation "strong" again. 'Strong.' – at what cost to ourselves do we make our name 'strong'? And at what cost to our principles for which we are so known?
"Personal Memo," the neutral female voice of the Enterprise began – "The reception for the I'lkaron is scheduled to begin in twenty minutes." Picard's reverie now broken, he stood from his seat, adjusted his tunic, and aimed for the door. As soon as he stepped on the bridge, he called out: "Counsellor, would you accompany me to the ballroom?"
Deanna Troi knew what would come next. A quick briefing upon the culture of the I'lkaron, how to say 'hello,' and what they would expect a gracious host to do for them while they "enjoyed" each other's company. "I would be delighted," was all she said as she walked towards the 'lift. Its doors opened obediently to admit both people. When the doors had closed with a slight hiss, and the captain had instructed the turbolift to go to Deck 27, Deanna began. "Their formal greeting is Ichta' nikhen meashah moire." Picard repeated the phrase as well as his vocal chords would allow. His attempts met with a grin from the Counsellor. "I'm not sure that you're going to want to say that to our guests." Confusion on his face, he queried, "What did I just say?" At this, Deanna felt her cheeks grow slightly red. Roughly translated, 'Iktar nichimesa mier' had nothing to do with 'hello' – it had everything to do with proposal – the marriage type, that is. "I believe, sir, you just asked me to marry you."
The look on Picard's face was priceless, and Deanna could no longer hold a straight face. Jean-Luc's solemn facade could no longer remain formal. After he had a good laugh, he said: "Let's try that again, shall we?"
"Right," Deanna began. "Ichta' nikhen meashah moire." The captain dutifully repeated the phrase, careful to correctly pronounce all the obvious nuances he had missed the time before. Deanna's grin widened. "That's better. Now – per tradition, you will be required wear the formal cloak and dance with the wife of the I'chorik." The captain's face showed that he clearly disliked such formalities – they had a tendency to make him look stupid. "Are you absolutely sure that there's no way I can't delegate this to Riker – or Data?"
Troi gave him a grave look. "And risk alienating them and causing them to withdraw from the Federation? I don't think so. Their local customs clearly dictate that the host wear the cloak and dance with the I'chorik's wife." Jean-Luc decided it wasn't worth the risk. The turbolift doors opened with a hiss and the two walked out into the corridor leading to the ballroom.
+ * +
The occasion was pretty much in full swing. Several of the guests were talking pleasantly with crewmen, and vice versa. Locating the I'chorik proved to be slightly difficult, as it seemed that the I'lkoran all looked the same. But with Deanna's unerring sense of "who's who," finding him only took a few minutes.
Picard took a moment to reflect upon what he saw before him. The I'lkorie was only about five feet tall, was very thin – it seemed that there was only bones and no muscle – but other than that, the I'lkorie looked very much like a human being. Am I being presumptious when I compare their looks to ours? Oh well – here goes with the greeting: "Ichta' nikhen meashah moire."
The I'chorik smiled, showing off his perfectly chiseled teeth – My! Those things look sharp! – and responded in kind: "Kora noek ethlicshwa. We are grateful for your hospitality, Captain. We look forward to a long and joyful relationship with your Federation." At this Picard also smiled; some of the tension had worn off. The I'chorik paused a second, and motioned to one of his group. A remarkable looking young woman – at least, that's my assumption – brought forward a cloak similar to what the I'chorik was wearing, though it had been altered so it would appropriately fit the six feet, four inch frame of the captain. Accepting the garment and slipping it over his dress uniform proved to be slightly more difficult than it would appear to be, but aside from a few lumps showing through, the cloak fit reasonably well. He turned back to the I'chorik. "I believe a dance is in order, is it not?"
The I'chorik's smile grew wider, showing even more of his (so sharp) pointed teeth. Though the smile presently was not menacing, Picard decided right then and there that he would rather not meet up with one of these people in a dark corridor. The guest walked towards Picard and, in turning, revealed the woman with which Picard was expected to dance.
Jean-Luc found it hard to imagine that this was the frail-looking I'chorik's wife. She stood taller than even himself, and was, well, large. The woman moved towards Picard with her hand offered. Picard took it, and as best as he could muster said: "May I have this dance?" A pointy-toothed smile was his reward, and thus they began.
As soon as he could, Jean-Luc excused himself from his guests claiming "duty calls," and began to exit the ballroom. At that precise moment, Riker, Data, and Geordi walked through the main doors. Spying Picard wasn't difficult – after all, he was the only person with a bald head and a lumpy cloak. "Well, if it isn't Friar Tuck!" joked Riker. Picard gave a look that would put any ordinary man six feet under, while Geordi decided that his internal laughs couldn't be stopped from making it on to the outside. Data, on the other hand, spoke simply: "There is a striking resemblance, sir. But where is Robin Hood?"
The captain merely said: "Dead – which is what all of you are going to be. Just wait." A smile formed on his lips and he excused himself from the three giggling officers. After the door had closed behind him, he walked down the corridor towards the closest turbolift, attempting to work his way out of the cloak that had been intended as a gift.
The 'lift doors closed behind him, and he realized that he was alone. Though he had excused himself upon the pretense of duty, his real reasons were personal. He sighed and told the turbolift to take him to "deck 5," where his quarters were. As it traveled, his thoughts turned back to the communique from StarFleet. Should I accept it? How many more times will they ask if I keep turning them down? Do I want to be a captain forever?
The doors hissed open, and he walked towards his quarters with thoughts of Earth. If I do accept, I can finally go home. Sure, he thought of the Enterprise as a home, but recently – when did this feeling begin? – he had a gnawing longing for his true home on terra firma. He punched in his access code at the door and walked into his darkened quarters. Walking towards his couch, he picked up a padd and sat down with a sigh. On the padd was a letter from his long dead brother. Oh how many years I missed knowing my family. The letters and a few pictures were all he had left of the family, that at the time he really didn't know he had.
Standing up and straightening his tunic, he walked towards the replicator. "Earl Grey, Hot." After a few seconds, a steaming cup of tea materialized out of thin air. No sooner had he sat down again, did his door chime. Do I want visitors? He decided that he didn't, but there was probably only one person who knew where he was currently, and that was probably the Counselor. "Computer. Lights, normal illumination. Door open."
The doors parted to reveal exactly the person he thought would be standing there. "May I come in, sir?" Picard sat up straight, and faked a smile. "Of course, Counselor. Would you like anything to drink?" He started to get up, but sat back down when he noticed her shaking her head – "No." She sat down in a chair near the couch. "Care to talk about it?" she asked, innocently.
"About what?" returned the captain. "About why I sense such indecision and melancholy from you." A sigh. I never could hide my feelings from her. Nor can I lie to her now. He reached for the padd on the table in front of him. He pressed a few buttons, and then handed it to Deanna. "That's part of it," he said, with little attempt to make the news on the padd sound good.
It was plainly a communique, from StarFleet:
StarFleet Command Comminique
From: Admiral Necheyev (SS#:939-29384-09943322)
To: Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Enterprise
Dear Jean-Luc,
It's been a while, since we've corresponded, hasn't it? I hope that life finds you well and happy. I do have a specific question, however, for my sudden arrival in your mailbox. I think I already know the answer, but it has come up again at Command.
Admiral Niekor wants to promote you to Admiral. I would like to see you one too, and I'm required to sign off on the promotion as to whether or not I would recommend it. Jean-Luc, I realize that this would be a large step – I know you love your ship and crew, but we could use you here too. You can't remain a captain, forever, after all.
So what's your answer? I'm pretty sure you won't surprise me, but I could always hope. No rush – the request will remain on my table as long as necessary.
Friends,
Mark
At first, Deanna was stunned. I've known that eventually he would move on, but – deep, down, I've always been of the opinion that I would always be his Counselor, and He my captain. Things have been going very well, and this… well, it's unexpected to say the least. Her captain's words brought her out of her catatonic state: "Could I be of more use out there? Have I been here too long? What would my acceptance of this mean for me, my crew, my ship?"
Sensing that some sort of answer needed to be made, Deanna started: "Well, I think it's quite an honor to be asked to become an Admiral. Most people would jump at the chance. And you could be of great use to StarFleet back home, sir. But we would miss you greatly here, as well."
Picard sighed. He turned around from facing the stars and faced his counselor. "That's what I mean, Deanna! Have I been here too long? There are plenty of captains out there who stay on a ship no more than two years, whip the crew into shape and move on. The captain doesn't miss the ship or crew, and likewise: the crew doesn't miss their captain. Instead they welcome the new one, with no expectations about character or length of stay. Would the same occur here? I've become so comfortable with my position here that I'm not sure what it would be like to move on."
"Captain – you've been that for what? Fourteen years, at least? You're not useless here; you've not overstayed your 'welcome.' We function as crew and captain and ship as one. How many other ships out there can claim that? We work well together because we've stayed together for so long. We aren't just crew versus captain, rather we are more like family." There was a sense of melancholy when she mentioned that last word – that's the other half of his feelings, she thought internally. "Surely you remember what we were like the first few years – we didn't always work well together, and we certainly had our issues. But we've worked through all that and now we're like well-oiled gears – nothing out of whack, everything in sync. I think you're just as useful out here as you could be back on Earth."
Another sigh. "That's the other part, Deanna. I don't know when it started, but I sorely miss Home. Sure, the Enterprise has been a home, even a family, but…" He looked down and studied his hands as he tried to formulate what wouldn't come. He looked at Deanna with a longing in his eyes: "I want to go Home, Deanna."
It was Deanna's turn to study her hands. She took a deep breath, and, knowing it wouldn't be easy to say, spoke: "Then, Jean-Luc, by all means – take the promotion. If that's what you really want."
"I think it is, counselor. I think it is."
+ * +
The object moved silently through space, finding nothing in its path that could withstand its ferocity. Every ship, even every world had found itself obliterated when it had attempted to fight against its might. But that was the past. Perhaps this world would be different. It certainly looked like so many others: blue, white, green, brown, and with approximately seven billion sentient life forms living life with no thought of what might soon befall them.
It sent out its welcome: "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. You will service the collective. Resistance is futile."