Part 4 (2/2)

”Yes, Captain,” Picard said, unable to suppress a discreet grin. ”It's good to see you again.”

Riker returned the smile. ”Likewise, Captain. I wish it could have been under better circ.u.mstances.” He nodded to someone off-screen and continued, ”We're pretty banged up over here. My people are working a salvage mission in the nebula, but if there's any way you can lend us a hand, we'd be grateful.”

”I think something can be arranged,” Picard said. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Worf's confirming nod. ”We're on our way back to the nebula with the Aventine. Have your people found any survivors during your salvage?”

Frowning, Riker replied, ”Only on Voyager, and they refused to abandon s.h.i.+p or be rescued. They're doing the same thing we are, scrounging for parts, except they have to rebuild an entire warp engine, one coil and bolt at a time.” He shook his head. ”You have to give them credit-they've got spirit.”

”Indeed,” Picard said. ”Will...don't think I'm not glad to see you, but your arrival is rather unexpected. How did t.i.tan come to be in the Azure Nebula?”

The question pulled a tired sigh from Riker. ”It's kind of a long story,” he said. ”Do you want the full explanation?”

”I'm afraid we don't have time for that,” Picard said. ”Perhaps you could sum up?”

Riker nodded and lifted his eyebrows in mild amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Long story short: We followed energy pulses that we thought would lead us to a Borg installation. Instead, we found a species of powerful recluses called the Caeliar, who took us prisoner. A fellow prisoner helped my s.h.i.+p escape through a subs.p.a.ce tunnel, but I had to leave my away team behind.”

At the mention of a subs.p.a.ce tunnel, Picard's attention sharpened. His next question was driven not by logic but by a gut feeling, an intuition that the presence he'd sensed a short time earlier had to be connected in some way to t.i.tan's sudden arrival in the nebula. ”Captain, by any chance, did the prisoner who aided your escape come with you aboard t.i.tan?”

”As a matter of fact, she did,” Riker said.

For a moment, Picard broke eye contact with Riker and concluded that his feeling had been right. The timing of the two events was definitely not a coincidence. Riker pulled him back into the conversation by inquiring, ”Why do you ask?”

”Simple curiosity,” Picard lied. ”We'll reach you in just over an hour. If possible, have your chief engineer advance us a list of any parts or personnel you need to effect repairs.”

”Will do, Captain,” Riker said, looking utterly exhausted. ”We'll be looking forward to your arrival. t.i.tan out.” The channel closed, and the nebula's distant blue stain on the starry heavens returned to the Enterprise's main viewscreen.

Picard returned to his chair and sat down. Worf took his own seat at the captain's right. ”Mister Worf,” Picard said. ”Please contact Captain Dax and let her know that I would like her and Commander Bowers to join us here on the Enterprise when we welcome Captain Riker aboard.”

”Aye, sir,” Worf said.

The captain added, ”And instruct Commander Kadohata to coordinate with the Aventine in the creation of spare parts for t.i.tan and the a.s.signment of emergency crews.”

”She has already done so, sir.”

”Very good.” From his chair, Picard had an all but un.o.bstructed line of sight through the still-open door of his ready room, which remained a darkened, carbonized cave just off the bridge. Nodding to his scorched sanctum, he said to Worf, ”I want that door closed, Mister Worf.”

Worf scowled at the open portal. ”We have tried, sir. A plasma fire warped the interior bulkhead. The door is stuck.”

Unable to rein in a surge of irrational anger, Picard snapped, ”No excuses, Worf! Get it done.” Embarra.s.sed by his own outburst, he got up and walked to the aft turbolift. ”You have the bridge, Number One.” He felt the eyes of the bridge crew on him as he made his exit. The lift doors closed, granting him sanctuary in the solitude of the turbolift car.

”Deck Eight,” he said.

It took the turbolift less than ten seconds to descend seven decks. The doors parted with a soft hiss. Picard walked quickly and was grateful to return to the refuge of his quarters without encountering anyone else along the way.

He moved in light, careful steps through the living area and poked his head inside the bedroom. Beverly was asleep. Picard noted the time-just shy of 0500-and wished he had the luxury of slumber. No time for that now, he scolded himself. He undressed in the dark, kicked off his boots at the foot of the bed, and lobbed his perspiration-soaked, battle-soiled uniform into one corner, intending to put it in the reclamator later, when Beverly was no longer trying to rest.

Stripped naked, he padded into the bathroom and shut the door. The light faded up slowly, and he felt as if it were revealing him to himself, a figure taking shape in the shadows. There were fatigue circles under his eyes, darker than any he'd ever seen on his face before. Somewhere beneath the mask of years that stared back from the mirror, there lurked the younger man he'd remembered being not so long ago.

Keeping his voice down, he said to the computer, ”Shower, forty-six degrees Celsius.” Inside the stall, a fierce spray of hot water flooded the small compartment with water vapor. Overhead, the ventilators purred into action, drawing up the moist clouds to stabilize the humidity.

Picard stepped inside the shower and bowed his head under the pleasantly sultry mist. If only I could just stay here, he thought. But with his eyes closed, he continued to see the charred bulkheads and seared-bare deck of his ready room. He shook his head, trying to cast off the memory, which disturbed him for reasons he didn't dare to let himself name.

Instead, he focused his mind on the new presence. He didn't hear it the way he heard the Borg. Where the Collective spoke in a roar, this was but the faintest hush of a whisper, and it was all the more compelling for its subtlety.

As the Enterprise continued toward its rendezvous with t.i.tan, Picard knew one thing for certain: Whatever this new intelligence was, every moment was bringing him closer to it.

And one word echoed unbidden in his thoughts.

Destiny.

4527 B.C.E.

8.

”The wind's picking up,” Pembleton said with a wary eye on the gunmetal gray sky. He and the rest of the survivors huddled around the campfire, all bundled tightly against the frigid gale. ”Smells like more snow.”

”G.o.d hates us,” Crichlow muttered. ”That's what it is.”

A week had pa.s.sed since they left the wreckage of Mantilis and encamped near the sh.o.r.eline below. In that time, at least sixty centimeters of snow had fallen. Temperatures had plummeted daily, and the fjord, which had been crowded with pack ice, now was frozen solid. Adding to the group's misery was the fact that the days were growing shorter. Soon the sunrises would cease altogether, and several months of night would be upon them.

Flames crackled and danced around a tiny, gutted rodent carca.s.s, which was impaled on a sc.r.a.p-metal spit mounted on a pair of Y-shaped branches. Evaporating water inside the firewood hissed as it escaped, and one of the logs fissured along its length with a sharp pop. The aroma of cooking flesh had Pembleton's stomach craving sustenance, but it wasn't his turn to eat. Every other meal was reserved for Kiona Thayer, who needed to maintain her strength to fend off infection and promote the healing of her wounded foot, which would soon be strong enough for her to walk.

Mazzetti, who had become the group's de facto cook, gave the broiled rodent another quarter-turn on the spit. ”Almost done,” he said to Thayer, who nodded.

A chilling gust made the taut ropes of their shelter sing with vibration. Graylock eyed the ramshackle ma.s.s of metal, fabric, and microfiber rope. Then he turned with a glum expression back toward the fire and scratched at his stubbled face. ”We need to reinforce before we get more snow,” he said.

The three MACO privates groaned, and Steinhauer hung his head in denial. The chief engineer had sent them on daily hikes back up the slope, to salvage everything they could carry back down from the debris of Mantilis. Between the thin air and the strain of fighting this planet's gravity, it would have been a miserable a.s.signment even in good weather.

Crichlow sighed, frowned, and shook his head. ”Right, lads. Time for another trip up Junk Mountain.”

”Steinhauer, make sure you check the traps before we go,” Pembleton said. To the two officers, he said, ”It'll be faster work if I go with them to lend a hand. Will you two be all right here on your own for a few hours?”

Thayer harrumphed behind a cynical grin. ”Sure,” she said. ”We'll have a grand ol' time. Maybe we'll go ice fis.h.i.+ng.”

Through chattering teeth, Mazzetti replied, ”For what? More poisonous seaweed?”

”I think she was kidding, Nicky,” Crichlow said.

Pembleton summoned all his willpower to stand and step away from the comfort of the fire. ”On your feet, men, we need to move. We'll only have about nine hours of daylight today. Let's not waste them.” Watching the privates lag and dawdle, he coaxed them. ”Up, gents. With a purpose, let's go.”

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