Disclaimer: Paramount is the omnipotent and loathsome owner and God of this A/U and all others. Ah, but if only, like Q, they had a quirky sense of humor and a secret soft spot for us, the mere mortals.
Author's Note
Somehow I caught a wild hair and decided to set up this little A/U trilogy (aren't I ambitious). At some point in the distant future they're going to loop back in to the "real" TNG timeline, in what I hope will also be the thrilling conclusion to the "Magicians" chronicle, which will end with this fabled last crossover story (it's going to be a whopper – let's hope life is kind to me and I can get it out). Beverly does not serve on the Enterprise or currently exist in Jean-Luc's life in this A/U / war timeline. We see Beverly's life here as affected by this war / reality and in another place in the Federation. This is time as it would be if "Anna Young" (our villain from Magicians / Canaan) succeeded in her mission to stop Beverly and Jack's marriage, and a reality where that success were possible. Time in this story started changing for our heroes from the point at which Anna disrupted the Jack / Beverly reality and Wesley was not born/dies. This is the result.
Echoes of Destiny
Episode One
The Fog of War
One
Jean-Luc Picard knew it was going to be a bad day as soon as he awoke. Exactly how bad it might be he could not anticipate. But it was there as soon as he opened his eyes. That slow feeling in his gut. A sense that even before his feet hit the floor, things in his life had moved past him. He sent up a plea that there would be no crises today. On days like this, crewmembers came back from missions dead.
Quickly he slipped on a pair of standard running shorts and t-shirt. Over this he donned athletic pants and a sweatshirt. A brisk run would help him clear his mind. If nothing else he might lose that feeling that he was one step behind – that awful slowness that fogged his mind. He felt it more often these days. As he approached mid life, it fell upon him with more regularity – and it was always disturbing. A run, a good strong cup of Welsh Morning and a review of his day would go far to bring him back to center. Again, though, he hoped there would be no crises onboard before he lay back down that night.
Distracted, he walked out of his cabin and straight into a Lieutenant from exobotany. Petite, the woman staggered backwards and would have fallen if it had not been for the bulkhead. Picard apologized profusely, as did the woman. He laid his hand on her shoulder as he did so, his face a mask of concern until he caught her smiling. His frown broke and he too grinned. After a brief exchange and another assurance that he had not done any damage, he moved on, shaking his head.
Consumed by thoughts of daily duties, he missed his stop on the lift. A young ensign who had boarded smiled nervously and coughed, breaking the Captain's reverie. He scowled when he realized what had happened, and tersely ordered the lift back to mid-ship. This was ridiculous. He tapped his communicator. "Picard to Riker."
"Riker here sir, what can I do for you?" The Commander was still on the bridge, having taken the swing shift the night before.
Picard hated to do it, but he would not put his crew in a compromised position simply because he could not get it together. They were at war, for gods' sake.
"Number One, I need some extra time this morning. Can you please give me another two hours on the bridge?" Picard's tone was commanding, but not hard. His whole crew had given so much in these past months. It was an order, but it was also a favor.
"Absolutely, Captain. Take your time." Standing as he spoke, Riker surveyed the bridge crew that was on with him. They'd all been on since early that morning. They were tired. He signed off with Picard. "You heard him. Two more hours." Since the war with the Romulans had begun, Starfleet had changed rotation of the duty rosters. Now, crews worked in set teams instead of randomly assigned shifts. It had been an adjustment, but no one had complained. In fact, the system was working well.
Riker met each set of eyes on his team, his own twinkling with mischief. "I think that means we have time for one more drill." His dark beard broke in two, split by a set of shining white teeth. It was challenged with groans and smiles from the front and the back of the bridge. Riker chuckled.
"You heard me. Let's go." He turned to Mikulski, a stout woman serving under Worf, one of the few women and humans the Klingon fully trusted. "Load up the Kobayashi-Maru, Bean."
More groans. A wry Vulcan at opps. turned and cracked a rare joke. "Surely a scenario we're likely to encounter." It wasn't much, but Riker appreciated it nonetheless. Strictly speaking, Vulcans didn't make jokes. But Timor had been known to break from his heritage in that regard on several occasions – and the Commander had noticed.
Twenty minutes later, they were still fighting. Riker had lost half the crew, and two bridge officers, but the Enterprise was still in one piece – and they'd taken out half a dozen enemy warships. But this seventh was wicked. There would be no beating it. Their phaser banks were empty, and they were out of torpedoes. There wasn't even enough left in the damaged warp core to back away and strategize. Riker used the last option available. "Mikulski, I need a distraction. I need you to blind them – sensors and all – for at least 5 seconds. I need it now." Perspiring slightly, he turned and fixed steely blue eyes on the woman. She met them with even blue eyes of her own and nodded. While Riker consulted with the officer at conn., she turned to a tactical officer at the back of the bridge. "Timor, I'm feeding you a set of coordinates. On Mikulski's mark, I want all the speed you can get." The Vulcan nodded gravely as the numbers scrolled over his panel.
A few tense moments passed, and Riker turned aft. "Time's up. Have you got it, Bean?" She nodded her head. Riker turned back to the front. "All right. Conn – on Mikulski's mark, engage course." Suddenly, Riker grabbed the arms of the Captain's chair as the ship rocked under another volley from the massive warship in front of them. Sensors told them another was closing fast. In the eerie, pulsing red glow of the emergency lighting, Will Riker read the tension in the muscles and faces of his crew. Drill or not, they all knew the stakes. Despite Timor's earlier comment, each knew the situation was not so far-fetched. The Federation wasn't winning the war. The Klingon forces were dwindling, as were those of the rest of their allies. The uncomfortable role of underdog was now familiar.
Mikulski piped up from the back. "4 seconds sir." Time crept slowly by. "OK! Their sensors are offline. Now!"
Riker gripped the arms even tighter and raised his voice. "Brace for impact." Given their trajectory is was an absurd order.
The ship surged forward and directly into the engineering section of the Bird of Prey. A brilliant burst of light filled the forward view screen as both ships exploded as the warp core of the Warbird was compromised. Then, for a moment the bridge was black. Finally they all blinked as the lights came back up to normal day levels. The bridge was filled with a heavy, stunned silence.
Riker stood, his face stern but proud. "Well done everyone. We beat our best time by at least 5 minutes. And you never know what can happen in 5 minutes." He met each of their eyes in turn. It was a hard drill, a mental challenge as much as anything – enduring and fighting in a situation you know will end in your death – a situation that by its very existence screams to you that you are all too mortal, too fragile. He knew they were tired going in. And he knew that when the time came for the Enterprise, they might be even more tired. Maybe exhausted – and they would be called to perform.
"Picard's team will give us an extra hour tomorrow morning. Use it well – get some rest." His tone was again praising but somber. The team nodded and returned to work, reviewing the immediate past and evaluating what they might have done better – where they might have saved time or resources. They would review now, while they were still running on adrenaline, and also later that day in the sober confines of their quarters. Research and exploration were a thing of the past. War had replaced these in the minds of the entire crew, including the Captain.
It was a weary crew that greeted Picard as he stepped on the bridge an hour later, his eyes bright and slightly red at the edges. He stalked down the ramp to the fore and lay his hand on the wide shoulders of Will Riker. "Anything to report, Commander?"
Riker stood to address the Captain. "Only that this is the finest crew I've ever served with, sir." His tone was dead serious, only his eyes betraying the joviality of his mood. For five years they had labored under the yoke of war and its constant sense of impending doom. As a leader on the Enterprise, it was his job to make sure it didn't break them. If the Romulans were to destroy the Federation, it would not be a psychological victory – not if Will Riker had anything to say about it.
"I agree Will, I agree." Picard walked forward and stood directly in front of Riker. Despite the dissimilarity in stature, there was no doubt who was in command. "It's as much a credit to you as anything."
Riker tipped his head to the Captain and smiled. "We'll see you at 0800 tomorrow morning, then sir."
A grin curled Picard's lip. "It's the least I can do, Will. Try and stay out of trouble until then."
Riker clapped Picard on the arm and walked toward the aft lift, his team already headed out as Picard's came on to relieve them. They hadn't lost anyone that day during their 8 hours on the bridge – and with that knowledge all of them would sleep well that nite.
Doctor Beverly Howard yanked her long red hair into a rough ponytail and swept a few errant strands behind her ears, dragging blood through it as she did so. She hardly noticed, as it was already caked in mud.
Rain pounded the roof of the emergency shelter, her world damp and close because the air conditioning unit had broken down three days ago. Thanks to sturdy standard issue boots, her feet were still dry, though the floor was covered in an inch of water. Before her a young man writhed in agony as she did what she could do to heal the severe burns covering his body. Just moments ago she had delicately cut away his burgundy tunic as he screamed, the fabric seared to his skin. Well, it had seemed burgundy to her. In fact he was a security officer, his mustard yellow uniform so soaked in blood that the color was completely camouflaged. Phaser burns made a patchwork of his torso. His injuries were painful, but not as severe as others.' She ran a gentle cooling hand over his forehead and injected him with a very mild sedative.
Beverly nodded to a nurse cataloging supplies nearby, a rugged, dark young Klingon who hustled over immediately to continue the skin regeneration process. Though the officer's wounds were not yet life threatening, they would be if infection set in. And their field hospital was far from sterile.
On the next bed lay a young girl. Howard ran a tricorder over the tiny still form and frowned. Her signs were otherwise stable, but her blood pressure was steadily dropping. She fingered the blond curls that clung to the porcelain skin of her damp cheek. The girl's fever still had not broken, despite their best efforts and more attention being paid to the child than they could afford. They had medicated her as much as possible without risking further damage to her heart and brain tissue, but it was likely she would not recover. Beverly sighed and snapped shut the tricorder.
She looked up over the sea of injured Federation crewmembers. They were the casualties of the front line, an anachronism in 24th century warfare. But the Federation was desperate to hold three or four key planets near the neutral zone and in other strategic sectors. They did not have the firepower necessary in ships, and that meant doing things the old-fashioned way – the hard way. Violent, ugly, hand to hand combat. Howard was a medical mercenary, shipped from planet to planet on whatever wrecks she could secure passage. Gone were the days of errands of mercy – the Federation got their medical personnel where they were needed with crafty, dodgy smugglers. The Romulans held a blockade over Aeron V, where she currently struggled to keep troops fighting as long as they could stand and hold a phaser or grenade. Now they were running low on supplies. She prayed the next shipment would get through soon. Her stomach growled. It was best not think about food.
Suddenly alarms rang out from the dimmed ICU. Currently there were 5 occupants, but Beverly knew who was crashing. A woman had been admitted early that afternoon. Almost Beverly's age, she was a Lieutenant Commander, second in charge of the field for the continent the Federation held. She had been out with her soldiers, fighting back an incursion over a remote mountain passage. They had successfully beaten it back, and were done with major combat when a Romulan suicide bomber in their custody detonated a small personal explosive. Lieutenant Commander Paul had been closest, her injuries the most severe. Her team had rushed her to the field hospital immediately, using an unauthorized and unfortunate amount of reserve power on the emergency transport. It was only because of that that the woman had lasted this long. It was likely the power sacrifice would be futile – Paul's injuries were beyond reason.
Tears streaked Beverly's face as she worked on Ellie, though she paid little attention. She cried a lot lately, so much that it was like breathing when she did. She and Paul had become fast friends – there weren't many senior women in their position, and they were the only two female ranking officers on the planet. They had given up family and friends to serve in the war, both driven by their belief in the future of the Federation. Learning about Ellie's life and sharing stories over bad coffee in front of weak firelight was what Beverly remembered as she watched her friend die. Finally, it was enough. It was time to let Ellie go, to have some peace.
"Time of death 03:27." She wiped her face with a dirty sleeve and stepped back. She shut Lieutenant Commander Paul's eyes and pulled a sheet over the body. She turned and stalked through the hospital, out into the lonely, murky moonlight. Breathing deeply, she lifted her head to the sky and let the rain mingle with her tears.
