PRECHANCE TO DREAM
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Author’s Notes
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
For
Tom Roberts—
friend
and
teacher
Author’s Notes
Twenty-five years!?
Wait a minute. How did twenty-five years go by so quickly? I was just this twelve-year-old kid watching “The City on the Edge of Forever” and “The Trouble with Tribbles” and “Journey to Babel”—
And suddenly, I’m . . . well, we don’t really need to go into how old I am now, do we?
As I write this, we’re celebrating the silver anniversary of a unique show biz/pop culture phenomenon—“Star Trek.” The original cast appears in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country in theaters, and the amazingly successful “Next Generation” is into its fifth season.
Like many of you, I’ve been a “Star Trek” fan pretty much since the beginning. By now, of course, the story of “Star Trek’s” struggles to survive its early days has become legend—how NBC threatened to cancel the show after each of its first two seasons before finally pulling the plug after a disappointing third year . . . and how Star Trek snuck from its assigned grave under cover of rerun darkness, and rose on syndicated wings to a rebirth in movies and “Next Generation” reincarnation on television.
Whew . . . sounds kind of religious, huh?
Well, in considering “Star Trek’s” amazing journey, I dug up an interesting artifact from my files (yeah, I’m a pack rat): a twenty-two-year-old note from NBC responding to my letter protesting “Star Trek’s” final cancellation. I’ll be kind and omit the name of the guy who signed it, but I wanted to share with you a paragraph from this historical footnote, dated June 5, 1969:
“We too believe that ‘Star Trek’ is an attractive show with a fine cast. It was for these reasons that it found a spot in our schedule in the first place but, unfortunately, the program failed to develop the broad appeal necessary for keeping it in our schedule next season.” [My italics]
Uh-huh. I hereby nominate the above statement for the “Famous-Last-Words Hall of Fame,” where it should take its place of honor alongside such utterances as “Are you kidding? They’ll love the Edsel!” and “MTV? Who’s gonna watch music on televison?” and “Don’t worry about the tapes, Mr. Nixon—nobody’ll ever find out about ’em.”
In fairness, of course, nobody had any idea “Star Trek” would prove to be so durable. But it has, enriching countless lives in countless ways. For me, “Star Trek” is part of what made me want to become a writer; and many of my best friendships have grown out of my encounters with “Star Trek” and its fans.
So, a special silver-anniversary tip of the hat to some golden “Trek” friends and colleagues, without whom, as the saying goes, none of this would have been possible: Bob and Debbie Greenberger, Dave McDonnell and Starlog, Lynne Stephens, Joel and Nancy Davis, Cindi Casby, the Burnside clan, Rich Kolker, Peter David, Sharon Jarvis and Joan Winston, Steve and Renee Wilson, Lance and Kathy Woods, the generous and dedicated committees of the Shore Leave, Clippercon, OktoberTrek and Fan-Out conventions, David Gerrold, Harlan Ellison, Ann Crispin, Dave and Kevin at Pocket Books . . . and you, the folks who’ve supported Star Trek and read these novels for all these years.
Here’s to the next twenty-five—
Howard Weinstein
Autumn 1991
Chapter One
“JEAN-LUC, I DO not like being handcuffed.”
Captain Picard sighed. “In what context, Dr. Crusher?” From the pugnacious thrust of her chin, it was quite clear that his chief medical officer had been mightily offended by someone or something. It was equally certain that Beverly Crusher had no intention of leaving Picard’s ready room until she’d extracted a satisfactory response to her displeasure.
He folded his hands in priestly patience, knowing he wouldn’t have to wait long for her to get to the specifics. Like gathering stormclouds, her eyebrows lowered into a frown. Here it comes—
“I don’t like twiddling my thumbs while patients suffer—and I will not simply wait for someone else to cure them.”
Picard motioned her to the couch across from his desk as he tried to deduce the source of her wrath.
It was only as she sat that the doctor noticed the tiny holographic solar system hovering over the captain’s shoulder. At least three dozen objects darted, spun and whirled—planets, moons, random rocks and a squadron of tiny spacecraft. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“Hmm?” With a flicker of frustration in his eyes, he glanced at the cosmological chaos floating in the air. “Oh, just some blasted navigational puzzle that’s been driving me to distraction for the past week. But I refuse to surrender. Computer, store puzzle for later reference.” The hologram winked out of sight and Picard faced Crusher. “Would I be correct in guessing the cause of your indignation to be our orders to pick up those ten injured workers at the Chezrani outpost?”
“You would. By telling the Enterprise to get them and then rush them to a starbase hospital, Starfleet is as good as implying that the Enterprise is just some ambulance and the ship’s medical staff are ambulance attendants.”
“Doctor, I hardly think—”
“No one has ever been poisoned by processed ridmium particles before,” she said, cutting him off. “There’s nothing in the medical literature about effective treatment regimens.”
“So you’re saying these patients will not necessarily get better care at Starbase 96 than they might in your sickbay—?”
Crusher’s fists clenched. “No. I’m saying I can do more for them on the Enterprise. The only thing we really know about ridmium is that it attacks the immune system.”
“Ahh. And if I recall, research in immunology is one of your specialties.”
“You recall correctly, Jean-Luc. And my medical staff is just as capable as any—”
“You are preaching to the choir,” said Picard calmly, hoping to deflect her anger. “It’s going to take us approximately thirty-six hours to get fr
om the Chezrani system to Starbase 96. I see no reason you shouldn’t devote that time to developing an effective treatment.”
Beverly did seem placated, a bit of the starch washed from her posture. “That’s what I planned to do all along. I just wanted to make sure I had your support.”
“You always have that. You know the high regard I have for your professional skills.”
“I wish Starfleet shared that opinion,” she pouted.
“I seriously doubt they view you as a glorified ambulance attendant.”
“Who said anything about ‘glorified,’ ” Crusher said, a flash of resentment in her eyes.
Picard rose and circled the desk, standing over her. “Beverly, they made you Chief of Starfleet Medicine. What greater compliment could they pay you?”
With a sigh, she slumped back against the couch cushion. “I guess you’re right, Jean-Luc. Maybe I’m overreacting.”
“I don’t think this is the only thing on your mind.”
The doctor managed a sliver of a smile. “Trespassing on Counselor Troi’s turf?”
Picard smiled back. “Without Betazoid empathic powers, I would not even make the attempt. But we simple starship captains can also benefit from developing a certain sensitivity to the moods and concerns of crew members.”
His oblique invitation to dump her troubles right there on his ready room desk was definitely tempting, but she waved it off with a shake of her head. “Oh, hell . . . you wouldn’t understand, Jean Luc.”
“Try me.”
Beverly considered the offer, but remained mute. During the silence, Picard pondered the merits of continued persistence. He truly liked and respected Beverly Crusher, but he’d be the last to claim any clear comprehension of her inner workings. She could be mercurial, stiff-necked, skeptical—all matching the personality profile usually associated with redheads. But she was also much more than that simple profile. And exceedingly complex. Gaining firsthand knowledge of her personal demons might not be his wisest course.
Still, she was not only a trusted officer. She was also his friend. So much for wisdom, he concluded with a mental shrug. He was not going to let her leave without giving her every chance to unburden herself.
“I know you usually confide in Counselor Troi,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I thought I might suffice for the moment. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you’re worried about Wesley.”
“Good lord—am I that transparent?” Crusher’s expression softened into a wondering, gentle laugh. “It’s so strange, Jean-Luc. When I took that Starfleet Medical assignment back on Earth, I worried about my son because I didn’t know what he was doing or where he was. Then I came back to the Enterprise, and I started worrying about him because I did know what he was doing and where he was. When you’re a mother, you just can’t win.”
“I understand better than you might think,” Picard said with a twinkle as he perched on the edge of his desk.
“Hmm. I guess there is a maternal, nurturing component to being a starship captain.” With a shake of her head, she got up and paced the small ready room. “I know Wesley’s been on away teams before. I keep telling myself that. But somehow it was different when the Enterprise was right there in planet orbit. This is the first time he’s gone down to a planet and we’ve gone off to do something else.”
“So you feel like you’ve abandoned him on Domarus Four?”
“I guess I do.”
“Beverly, it’s not like we dropped him naked and helpless,” Picard scolded gently. “He’s with two other capable Academy candidates, not to mention Data and Troi. And they do have a shuttlecraft.”
Despite her best efforts to sidestep her gathering gloom, Beverly’s expression darkened and her voice took on a momentary quaver. “I know that. I know that we’re going to be rendezvousing with them in an hour or so. I also know that someday, he’s going to be off on a ship of his own and I won’t be able to keep an eye on him. And I do know that Wesley isn’t Jack—” As soon as she’d said it, she was sorry.
The captain felt himself tense at the mention of Beverly’s late husband, who’d died years ago under Picard’s command. He hoped she wouldn’t notice his reaction, but by the way her eyes looked away from his, he sensed her regret at having mentioned Jack’s name. Was the source of that regret her natural reluctance to equate the father’s fate with the son’s future? Or was she sorry because she knew she’d inadvertently reminded Picard of his own feelings of responsibility and regret over Jack’s death?
He couldn’t be sure. But he was certain of this: no captain ever forgets the death of a comrade. Nobody knew that better than Beverly Crusher. Through her own grief, she’d seen the sorrow in Picard’s eyes the day he brought Jack’s body home. And as Enterprise chief medical officer, she’d seen the echoes of that same sorrow every time she’d had to tell him a crew member had died.
When it came to Jack, though, they’d never completely sorted out their tangled feelings. It wasn’t any great surprise, then, that throughout Beverly’s years serving aboard Picard’s starship, the ghost of Jack Crusher had been along for the voyage. For both of them.
She made a halfhearted attempt to erase the moment of revelation. “I didn’t mean . . . oh, dammit, yes I did. I tell myself over and over that just because Jack died on a space mission doesn’t mean my son will. But in here . . .” She brushed her hand across her heart. “. . . I can’t convince myself of that.”
“Beverly, sooner or later you’ll have to let Wesley lead his own life.”
“I know. And the closer that time comes, the more I want to push it back.” She took a breath, not at all certain she wanted to pursue the matter. “Jean-Luc, can I ask you something personal?”
“Yes.”
“When did you feel like your mother let you go?”
Picard suppressed a smile, but it lit his eyes. “Never.”
Beverly Crusher winced. “Oh, wonderful . . .”
Shading his eyes with one hand, Wesley Crusher fended off the setting sun of Domarus Four as he peered toward the flattened crest of the mountain looming over him. She was up there somewhere, but he couldn’t spot her. He wondered if she’d ducked back into one of those little caves pocking the flanks of the rugged mesa.
Gina Pace was forever charging headlong over, through and under things and places that most people would approach with caution. Wes couldn’t call her reckless. Not exactly, anyway. She just treated risk as something to be prepared for and dealt with, rather than a cause for alarm. As both Gina’s friend and fellow Starfleet Academy candidate, Wes found her enthusiasm alternately amusing and exasperating.
Right at this moment, however, he was not amused. The gathering dusk had already tinged the sky with darkening splashes of purple and red, and this field trip was drawing to a close. They still had equipment and samples to stow on the shuttlecraft before they could head for orbit and rendezvous with the Enterprise on the Starship’s return from a supply drop at the Nivlakan colonies two days distant.
The Starfleet chest insignia pinned to his uniform let out an electronic chirp, followed by a voice. “Commander Data to Ensign Crusher.”
Wes tapped the communicator to reply. “Crusher here, sir.”
“Are you returning to base camp?”
“Uhh—we’re on our way, Commander. Crusher out.”
Wes cupped his hands and bellowed up to where he’d last seen Gina. “Hey, Pace! Come down now!” He could have called her via communicator, but—what the hell—echoes were fun. Even at eighteen, and knowing the physics and acoustics involved, he still found a moment of childlike joy in hearing his own voice rebounding off cooperative rocks.
He squinted skyward again, just as Gina popped out of a cave entrance and clambered like a mountain goat down the steep slope. Loose pebbles skittered down ahead of her, but she never missed a step.
She hopped off a ledge and landed in front of Wesley. “I’m not late, am I? I just wanted to get a few more rock samples. Am
azing formations up there! I couldn’t leave without getting the best possible selection. If you were the captain and I was your science officer, wouldn’t you want to know you could rely on me to do the best, most thorough job possible?”
She finally stopped for a breath, and he looked down at her, trying to maintain a gaze of Picard-like sternness—no easy task, since Gina was small and exceedingly cute, with large dark eyes, and he really wanted to run his fingers through her thick shaggy hair. He and Gina hadn’t always gotten along. A few years ago, at fourteen, he’d been shy as a fieldmouse, and he thought she was loud and obnoxious. Then, at sixteen, when he felt ready for some tentative flirting, he thought she’d become a lot less childish. Now, at eighteen . . .
But this wasn’t the time or place. He was her commanding officer on an important field excursion detail and he felt duty-bound to set an example. It took him a second to refocus his attention. What did she just ask me? Oh, yeah . . .
“Yes,” he managed to say, finding his way back to the loose end of their conversation, “I’d want my science officer to be thorough. But I’d also like to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting lost or left behind because she went off on her own. Understood?”
“Understood.” She narrowed her eyes, weighing the gravity of the moment. “I don’t have to call you ‘sir,’ do I?”
“Nobody’s keeping score. Let’s get back to camp.”
They began walking, quickly. Gina barely came up to Wesley’s shoulder, and the height disadvantage forced her to jog just to keep up with his long-legged strides. “Where’s Kenny?”
“I sent him back while I was looking for you,” he said with a reproachful look.
“Oh. Y’know, I can’t believe he wouldn’t go into those caves with us.”
“Some people prefer wide-open spaces.”
“But Kenny doesn’t,” she said with a derisive laugh. “He’d rather be on a space ship than a planet. Sometimes I just don’t believe him. He can be so strange.”