Perchance to Dream Page 6

  “I guess there won’t be any time to pick up some souvenirs for us, then?”

  La Forge managed a gallows smile. “You never know. Maybe there’ll be a convenient tourist trap.”

  “Energize,” Riker said.

  O’Brien activated the unit and two solid bodies began to shimmer.

  On the bridge, Picard sank back into the firm contours of his command seat, thinking about the time he’d spent—wasted—trying to dig up nonexistent facts on the Tenirans. Normally, he’d simply have asked Data, and the android would have responded instantaneously. Did I take Data for granted? He was so—

  Picard cut short the thought. My God, I’m thinking of him in the past tense. I will not do that until—

  “Captain,” Worf said sharply. “Those energy patterns—”

  On the main viewscreen, Picard and the rest of the bridge staff saw colorful tendrils dancing and darting outside the Enterprise, and around the Teniran vessel, too.

  Two shafts of sparkling transporter energy touched the grassy ground of Domarus Four. As they solidified into Riker and La Forge, they were wrapped in a cloud of shifting colors. At the moment they completed transport, the mystified officers heard a vague and distant sound, like dissonant chimes. An instant later, the sounds and colors faded quickly away.

  Picard stood close to the large viewscreen, staring out in a mixture of wonder and concern as the swirls of energy pinwheeled around the Enterprise—though apparently causing no damage, and barely registering on sensors.

  “What the devil,” Picard muttered. “Lieutenant Worf, report.”

  “It is the identical energy pattern as before, Captain, surrounding the ship—both ships.”

  Before Worf could continue, the shifting veil of colors burst into a spray of glittering particles and faded as suddenly as they’d appeared. Picard was on his feet, facing his security chief.

  “Lieutenant, if that was energy, why didn’t our shields activate automatically?”

  “I do not know, sir. I will run a diagnostic scan of shield and sensor systems immediately.” Worf paused. “Message from the away team, sir.”

  “On audio.”

  “Captain,” Riker’s voice said over the speaker, “we just saw the damndest thing.”

  Picard listened to Riker’s report, intrigued by the coincident similarities. “As you were beaming down, Number One, we saw those same energy patterns out in space, around both ships.”

  “And then they just disappeared?”

  “Just like some sort of cosmic Cheshire cat.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think I like the sound of that, Captain,” Riker said, a telltale grimness in his voice. “We’ll make our visit to Wonderland as brief as possible. Riker out.”

  “Captain,” said Worf, “the Tenirans are hailing us.”

  Picard remained standing. Sometimes he simply felt more authoritative that way. “On screen, Lieutenant.”

  Once again, the unsmiling face of Captain Arit replaced Domarus Four on the main viewer. “Picard, we know that you have beamed people down to our world without permission, and we warned you that—”

  “This debate is getting tiresome, Captain Arit. We do not acknowledge the validity of your claim.”

  “This hostile act will not be tolerated.”

  “Our away team is not hostile, Captain,” Picard said forcefully, centering himself under the bridge’s transparent dome. “We are searching for clues to the whereabouts of our shuttlecraft—”

  “Which disappeared from space, not the planet. You have no right to—”

  “We have every right to pursue all possibilities that may present themselves in our search . . .”

  “Not on our planet,” Arit shot back.

  She continued her lecture, but Picard’s attention drifted from the viewscreen as he felt a sudden tingling sensation, like prickly feathers brushing against bare skin. Then he saw a tentative curl of color appear inside the bridge, just fluttering in mid-air as if trying to decide what to do next. As before, it didn’t remain a single color long enough to be labeled as red or blue or any other definite shade. As it changed continuously, it also grew, spiraling slowly around the circumference of the bridge.

  “. . . and a Teniran security squad will beam down and take custody of your away team,” Arit went on, though Picard was barely listening now.

  As the multicolored whorls wafted about him, he heard the same random tinkling Riker had described encountering on the planet. “Worf, internal sensor scan,” he murmured. Then he deftly replied to Arit’s threats without missing a beat—fully aware that as he spoke, the intensity of the sounds and colors increased. “Do not challenge the Enterprise, Captain. Domarus may not be uninhabited, and we will not permit the taking of hostages in your attempt to—”

  “What is that? Jevlin—what—what is it?” Arit said, her own attention now clearly distracted from her sparring with Picard. “Enterprise, if this is an attack—”

  “I assure you—we are not attacking your ship.”

  Without warning, the colorful swirls deepened, thickened and blew into a vortex around Picard.

  Worf’s eyes grew wide. “Captain!” Paying no heed to Arit’s frantic threat of retaliation coming through the comm speaker, Worf vaulted the railing, his muscular body stretched out in a headlong dive, hoping to wrench Picard free of the inexplicable force surrounding him. But before the security chief could reach him, the vortex and Picard disappeared in a scintillating haze.

  With a grunt, Worf landed hard on the deck, rolled quickly and saw that he’d failed. He felt a bellow of frustrated rage welling up from his gut—and forced it back just as he realized that he was now in command.

  Chapter Four

  WORF SCRAMBLED to his feet, trying to control the torrent of anger and shame he felt rushing through him like a storm-driven tide.

  “Enterprise! Enterprise! What have you done with Captain Arit?”

  As he heard this new and panicky voice squawking from the comm speaker, Worf willed himself to concentrate and take its measure—male, but not at all commanding . . . filled with fear.

  As security chief, his instincts as a natural warrior could be permitted freer reign. But if he’d learned anything from his time in Starfleet, the role of successful commander required more nuance, the sort of thing that went against his hereditary impulses. But nothing he couldn’t handle.

  “Enterprise,” the voice repeated, with no less breathless hysteria, “what have you done with—”

  “This is the Enterprise,” the big Klingon said as he settled into the captain’s empty seat, his voice low and deliberate. “Identify yourself.”

  “Jevlin, first officer of the Glin-Kale—my captain was talking with Picard—just talking. Then those colors—they—they filled our bridge—and then she was gone. What did you do?”

  “Interesting. But we have done nothing with your captain. Enterprise out.” Then, maintaining his calm demeanor, Worf called the away team. “Commander Riker, the captain . . . has vanished, just like the shuttlecraft.”

  “Dammit. Beam us up now, Worf.”

  In all the years since he’d given up the fiery pleasures of peroheen wine, there’d been more than a few times when Jevlin had found his resolve weakening. On more than a few occasions, he’d been so tempted to seek solace in a bottle that he could feel that old familiar burning down his throat despite being nowhere near a drink.

  But he’d never felt that way more than now. And he found himself in Arit’s cabin—good thing she didn’t let me fix that door or I might not’ve been able to get in—holding the same bottle she’d been holding earlier. He noticed it was considerably closer to empty than the last time he’d seen it, and that hadn’t been so long ago. Whatever else they say about the cap’n, she sure could hold her wine.

  The sound of footsteps in the doorway startled him and he nearly dropped the bottle.

  “I want my mother to come back, Jevlin,” said a small, composed voice.

  Jev
lin didn’t move, and he squeezed his eyes closed. He didn’t want to face Captain Arit’s little girl. Then he felt a hand resting firmly on his shoulder.

  “You miss her, too, don’t you,” said Keela.

  With a sigh, the grizzled old officer put the bottle down and turned to face the six-year-old. “Yes, Keela, I do.” He rubbed his own rheumy eyes as he noticed that hers were clear and wide.

  “Have you been crying?” she asked. She formed her words with the precocious precision of a child more accustomed to conversation with adults than with her peers.

  “No,” he said, more gruffly than he’d intended. “Well . . . almost . . . maybe a little. Have you?”

  Her lower lip quivered for a moment, revealing one tiny juvenile fang. The one on the other side had fallen out recently. “No . . . mother wouldn’t want me to.” She pointed at the bottle. “Is that juice? Can I have some?”

  Jevlin coughed out a short chuckle. “Uhh—no, it’s not juice. How do you know your mother wouldn’t want you to cry?”

  “Because I’m the captain’s daughter. I have to be strong like her. And she’s told me she might die someday, like father did on Ziakk Five. We all might. It’s just the way things are.”

  “They are, are they?”

  Keela nodded, the downy forelock of her mane falling across her brow. She brushed it away. “That’s right. Mother said it’s nothing to be sad about. She said we’ve lived a hard life and dying might be better.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?” Jevlin huffed, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Well, your mother’s too much of a fatalist, if you ask me.”

  The little girl cocked her head. “What’s a fatalist?”

  “That’s someone who believes the worst will happen, no matter what.”

  Keela shoved her way into his lap. “Do you think mother is dead?”

  The direct innocence of the question sliced through to Jevlin’s heart. He felt his eyes misting and he struggled to retain control. “Uhh—that’s some question, Keela. I—uhh—I’m not sure.”

  “Are you a fatalist then?”

  He looked into Keela’s preternaturally solemn eyes. “No, no, I’m not,” he said softly. “And I do think your mother is alive.”

  Keela smiled. “So do I. And I know that’s not juice . . . and I won’t tell her you drank some.”

  “Quick thinking, Mr. Worf—and commendable discretion,” Riker said as he took a seat at one end of the long curved table in the conference lounge.

  “I saw no need for the Tenirans to know that Captain Picard had also been taken,” Worf said.

  Dr. Crusher raised an eyebrow. “Taken. So we’re going on the belief that our shuttle and both captains were . . . transported . . . intentionally?”

  “Until and unless a better hypothesis comes along, yes,” Riker said. “Do you disagree, Doctor?”

  “No—but we still don’t have answers to a lot of key questions.”

  Engineer La Forge nodded in agreement. “Like who or what grabbed them—not to mention, why, where and how.”

  Riker scanned the faces of the others. “Anybody have any ideas?”

  “I’d bet a week’s pay they’re all on Domarus somewhere,” Geordi said.

  “Based on what?” Riker asked, his skepticism revealed by the creases on his forehead.

  “Well, for one thing, we don’t have any reason to think they’re anyplace else.”

  “I’ll agree that’s a reasonable starting point,” Riker said. “Go on.”

  “Even though we haven’t been able to pin down a specific source for those energy patterns,” Geordi said, “I think it’s better than even money they’re originating on the planet somewhere.”

  “Somehow, somewhere,” Riker said sourly. As much as the fate of the missing shuttle and crew concerned him, Riker had always regarded the safety of the captain as his special trust. Picard’s disappearance raised the situation to a whole new level of urgency. “Those aren’t my favorite words. We need specifics and we need them fast.”

  Standing astride the crest of a grassy knoll, Jean-Luc Picard squinted into the afternoon sun hanging high in the soft blue sky of Domarus Four. At least, he assumed it was Domarus Four beneath his feet. Whatever force had whisked him off the bridge, he hoped it hadn’t had the power to sweep him any farther off than the planet around which the Enterprise had been orbiting.

  I hope she’s still up there . . .

  As abductions went, this was proving to be an odd one. Without warning or threat, he’d been removed from his bridge and deposited here . . . wherever he was. But there wasn’t a soul to greet, berate or imprison him. It seemed he was free to wander.

  But wander where? He’d strolled through woods and fields for the better part of an hour, observing, wondering why he was here, wondering if his crew had any idea of his whereabouts. He tapped his chest communicator.

  “Picard to Enterprise. Picard to Enterprise—do you read me?” After only an obligatory couple of seconds, he muttered, “Still not working.” He had no reason to believe the device would suddenly resume function when it apparently hadn’t worked from the moment he’d materialized here. As soon as he’d made that dismaying but not unexpected discovery, he’d proceeded on the assumption that the communicator’s bio-telemetry signal normally monitored and tracked by ship’s sensors was also inoperative, or blocked from reception by the starship orbiting fifty-thousand kilometers out in space.

  If he was indeed alone and stranded, Picard decided quickly that he’d better see about survival needs. The daytime climate was pleasant, not unlike a warm spring day back home in Labarre, in the heart of French wine country—soothing sun, fresh breeze—just the sort of day his family might have left the Picard vineyards for a picnic on the bank of the river that meandered past the village. Though he couldn’t be certain, he doubted such a mild day would turn dangerously cold at night, so exposure to the elements probably posed no immediate threat.

  Plants grew in abundance here, and he expected he’d be able to find some edible vegetation without being poisoned. This much plant life indicated generous rainfall, and Picard hoped he’d find some open source of water in the vicinity. A pond or stream would fill his needs nicely.

  Between the walkabout and the warm sun, he’d become quite thirsty—he’d need to find potable water sooner or later, so now seemed as good a time as any. As he paused on the knoll, the knee-high grass around him bowing in the breeze, Picard caught the sound of rushing water nearby.

  It didn’t take him long to find it—a fast-flowing stream three meters across, perhaps a meter deep, and clear enough to see the bottom. He crouched on the bank, his boots compacting the gravelly sand beneath his feet as he dipped his hands in and let the icy water run through his fingers. Then he cupped them and scooped the water to his mouth, gulping it down. Thirstier than I realized . . .

  He bent forward for another serving, and noticed some fish at least as long as his forearm swimming lazily past him.

  A bit full of themselves, he thought. Presumably the top of the food chain in these parts. Well, that may change if I get hungry enough . . .

  Picard shook his hands in the warm air and dried them on his pants, then touched his communicator. “Personal log, continued. Starvation does not seem to be a concern here. In addition to the flora already mentioned, I have located a fresh-water stream with plenty of fish . . .”

  He glanced at a sizable specimen which seemed to be bucking the current just to stare out at this odd creature encroaching on its wet domain. “. . . Though I am as yet uncertain of how to catch these fish. The challenge may be a welcome diversion. I’ve been on this planet for nearly one hour, and still have no hint of who or what transported me here—or why. Yet . . . I do not feel in any danger. And, though I can’t explain the feeling, I believe my presence here will help solve the riddles of this place.”

  Deanna Troi was no stranger to darkness, which was after all a major environmental component of a life spent travelin
g through the void of deep space. But even in space, darkness was rarely absolute. There were always the stars.

  For the past two hours, though, Troi and her companions had been trapped in the shuttlecraft, in some place as dark as any she’d ever experienced. How they got here—wherever here was—they had no idea. With no exterior lights working, all they could see through the windows was virtual blackness, as if the craft had been sealed inside a box. Without operative sensors, they had no notion of what might be outside, so she and Data opted to postpone any exploratory ventures either until they had scanners running again—or until repair work proved totally futile, at which point they would reassess the risks of reconnaissance.

  As Data organized a strategy aimed at most efficiently resuscitating the shuttle’s inert systems, the Betazoid counselor concentrated on monitoring the psychological equilibrium of her three teen-aged charges. Their feelings and undercurrents had run the expected range, from intense initial fear to a more considered evaluation of their circumstances once the heart-pounding threat of imminent destruction had evaporated.

  Now, the two boys were crammed into the cockpit, under Data’s supervision, while Gina had been assigned to the rerouting of back-up sensor circuitry, a job that required her to kneel in order to gain comfortable access to the innards of the rear-cabin console. After fifteen hunched-over minutes of determined work on delicate electronic components, Gina slumped and lay on her back, stretching her kinked muscles by the glow of a single lantern.

  “Counselor Troi, are you bored?”

  “Are you?”

  “Is a sun hot?” Gina answered dully as she sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. “You bet I’m bored. It feels like we’ve been here for weeks, not hours.”

  “What else do you feel?”

  “Hmm.” Gina’s face scrunched thoughtfully. “If I don’t get out of this teeny-tiny shuttle soon, I might just go stark-raving bonkers—?”

  “I see,” Troi said with patient amusement.