“I do not actually have such a chip, sir.”

  I know, Data, Riker thought, and that this time he didn’t get the joke could mean Data had turned off his emotion chip, perhaps to give himself a better edge. They’d need it.

  “Evasive pattern zeta-three-three,” Riker ordered. “Engage.”

  “Thanks, Fahim. An unexpected turn of events, as the Federation Starship Enterprise surprisingly returned to the system, hours ahead of schedule. Our lunar office brings you these images, a UPI exclusive, from the battle playing out above Earth orbit. Here you see several small Federation craft destroyed by the North American defense platform as Enterprise seems to hover near Starbase 1. Then, quickly, the U.S.S. Columbia joins the Enterprise in what we believe was meant to be an attack on the three vessels firing on San Francisco. But our own defensive platform has somehow been turned against us, its massive firepower trying to pull our starships from the sky.”

  “Search all frequencies for one with activity,” Picard ordered. “Someone is controlling that platform remotely.”

  “Nothing, sir. However…” Amarante paused. She wanted to be sure, obviously, but Picard didn’t have time to wait for insecurity.

  “Ensign, report!”

  Startled a bit, she did. “It’s possible the platform is the source of all the frequency jamming.”

  Picard pondered that a moment, then pointed to one of the ensigns monitoring ops itself. “Transfer all power to the transporter room.”

  “All available power?” the young man asked.

  “Negative. All power. Now.”

  The captain turned toward the emergency transporter, calling for Deanna first, than deciding to leave her in charge. “Commander, you have the conn. Ensign Lebel, with me.”

  Once in the transporter room, Amarante admitted what she wouldn’t have among her classmates. “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone is on that platform,” Picard told her as he furiously programmed coordinates into the transporter controls.

  “I thought it was constructed with materials resistant to beaming.”

  “It is. Which is why I’ll need all power.”

  Taken aback, Amarante first whispered, “No,” and then spoke more clearly. “We’re putting it all through the transporter? It will blow the buffers and kill you.”

  “You’re going to bypass the buffers entirely,” he told her, stepping up to the transporter dias as he set his hand phaser and checked its charge.

  “And what happens if I can’t get you through to the platform? Without the buffers you’d be gone.”

  Standing on the transporter pad, Picard pursed his lips a moment, pushed out a quick breath, then spoke in his best firm yet caring tone. “Amarante, there are hazards to being a Starfleet officer, I shouldn’t need to tell you that. We take them, when necessary, because to not do so risks more. There are times—often in this career—when inaction is worse than action, no matter the danger.”

  She looked down at the console, then back up at him. “We have full power available. Buffers are offline.”

  “Energize.”

  She hesitated. “Uncle—”

  “Give my best to your aunt,” Picard said, and brought his phaser up to an aiming position. “Now energize.”

  Before Picard had even fully dematerialized he was beginning to thumb the trigger on his phaser if need be. “Don’t move.”

  Obviously startled, the thin man in the tight console smiled a whispy smile and checked his watch. “I actually expected someone at least five minutes ago.”

  “Step away from the console,” Picard ordered.

  “Oh, I’ll do better than that. I’ll—”

  Before the tall man could move more than a centimeter, the captain fired his phaser, set to heavy stun, and the alien collapsed into a gangly heap.

  What looked to be a small palm-disruptor fell from the man’s hand, and Picard quickly snapped it up and pocketed it.

  “I don’t really have time for a chat,” the captain said dryly as he spied all the modifications that had been made to give the intruder control over the platform. “I don’t have time to undo all this neatly, either.” Firing again, the internal panel flashed into a storm of electrical flame. Then power was gone from the entire platform and only the light of sizzling circuits lit the alcove in which Picard stood.

  But, at least, the frequency jamming should be gone.

  He tapped at his combadge. “Picard to Enterprise.”

  “Enterprise, Riker here.”

  “I’ve secured DP-7. Go, Will.”

  Grinning at his captain’s ingenuity once again, Riker pointed toward Perim. “All ahead full, two-one-zero mark five.”

  “All ahead full.”

  “Mr. Daniels, lock on and fire!”

  Twisting one way, then another, Enterprise swooped down, an angry eagle spitting raw power from its maw. Hot bars of phaser fire blasted through the nearest enemy vessel and the ship’s hull seemed to melt and congeal again, then disappeared to reveal a different configuration underneath. No one thought they were actually Tellarite freighters, but this certainly proved it.

  Columbia dove into the fight, attacking both of the other enemy ships, white torpedo bulbs pounding into each vessel, disrupting the holographic projectors that cloaked their true design as well.

  “Breen ships, sir,” Daniels said.

  Riker nodded grimly. “Maintain fire.”

  The Breen warships turned away too slowly, and their armaments were for destroying a city, not doing battle against two starships. As Enterprise pummeled the first ship with quantum torpedoes and phaser flame, Columbia added a few shots as it remaneuvered for another go at the last two.

  The first vessel caved in on itself, then thrust forward in a massive explosion that bulldozed out, pushing away her two sister ships as they drifted, listlessly disabled.

  Beamed right to his bridge from the now useless defense platform, Captain Jean-Luc Picard nodded to Riker and slowly, somberly lowered himself into his command chair.

  Space calmed as both Enterprise and Columbia fell into quiet orbit. Below, Riker thought sadly, there were wounds to tend, and honored dead to bury.

  “In a statement broadcast via subspace but not personally delivered today, the Breen ambassador to the Federation Council declared that official diplomatic associations with all Federation members would be restricted and that the Breen were formally entering into an alliance with the Dominion. There was no comment on the Breen attack on the Earth yesterday, but unofficial channels suggest the Breen government is not denying responsibility. Federation President Min Zife this morning, at an impromptu press conference in Paris, said the Breen statement was a very loud, aggressive threat to the Federation and interstellar peace. The Council’s office said President Zife would be joining the United Earth Prime Minister and the President of the United States in touring the battle-ravaged city of San Francisco. Final casualty counts are still not determined, but early and unofficial sensor reports put injuries in the millions, and deaths in the hundreds of thousands. We’ll have more on this, and the disturbing reports of increased Breen activity near Chin’toka, later in this hour.”

  “Captain?” Deanna Troi touched his arm and Picard slowly turned his gaze away from the San Francisco sky. The fires were out, more quickly than he thought they’d be. For some reason he had hoped the day would be overcast, or at least hazy. The sun was too bright for an occasion as unpleasant as a funeral.

  “Counselor.” He acknowledged her with a nod, glanced briefly back at Amarante and the other officers gathered at the ceremony, then turned back away.

  Deanna came up along side him and also watched the sky.

  “This is a very old cemetery,” Picard said softly. “The first where any Starfleet officer or noncom was buried after the Federation was founded.”

  She nodded. “Admiral Ling was a friend?”

  “He was,” Picard said. “Not that being one matters so much. There’s enough death in this city today to mourn without knowing each name or touching each life.”

  “If not for you, there would have been more dead to mourn.” He took little comfort in her words and said nothing. “It’s true,” she told him finally.

  “Never should numbers matter less than when talking about death, and yet never do numbers matter more.”

  “Who said that?” she asked.

  “I just did. That’s why it’s hardly profound.” He followed a sea-gull as it floated almost aimlessly toward the bay, its large white wings flashing against the sapphire sky.

  Deanna smiled and gave his elbow a squeeze. “You’re very hard on yourself.”

  Amarante came up beside them, and Deanna greeted her warmly, then left the two of them alone.

  Picard turned to her, and was surprised when Amarante hugged him with such strength that he nearly lost his breath. “Well—” He returned the hug as best he could. Not practiced in such embraces, he felt a bit awkward.

  She released him and took a half step back. “I’d always felt as if I knew you from our correspondence, but…” She looked up at him, her hazel eyes very bright and a bit moist. “I respect you a great deal, and…love you very much.”

  Looking up only a moment, Picard noticed Deanna was standing by a far tree, trying unsuccessfully not to watch him and Amarante. If she wasn’t within earshot, she was certainly within the range of his emotions.

  “I have been very impressed with your courage and strength,” he told his niece, and then realized he’d sounded more like a professor complimenting an Academy student than an uncle showing the true affection he’d come to feel for his niece. But it was also true that he was impressed with how she’d handled the situation into which she’d been thrust. It was why he’d decided to see she got her starship assignment. “Amarante…” he leaned down, almost telling her he loved her as well, but he pulled back at the last moment. “I can talk to the captain of the Lexington if you’d like,” he said finally. “See if she needs an able ensign, and—”

  “Oh,” Amarante interrupted, bringing a hand to her lips in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you? I asked for duty here.”

  “Here?”

  “Starfleet Command needs to be rebuilt,” she said. “And after seeing how much needs to be done here and at the starbase,” she leaned forward and whispered, “not to mention the defense platform you destroyed…”

  Impulsively, Jean-Luc Picard embraced his niece again, this time of his own volition. “I do believe you’re dismissed, Ensign. Don’t make me have this insubordination put on your record.”

  She giggled and gave him another tight squeeze.

  “I love you too,” he whispered finally, so low he wasn’t sure even she heard him.

  Stepping away again, Amarante wiped a small tear from one eye and nodded a salute at her uncle. “I’d like to still keep in touch, sir.”

  “You’re under orders to do so, Ensign.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” she said, and added, “Thank you, Captain-Uncle,” as she moved toward the transport that would take her back to the temporary buildings being used for Starfleet Command.

  As Picard walked toward Deanna to join her at the transport point, he knew she had overheard more than he’d have liked. She greeted him with a very bright grin. “Softie,” she murmured.

  “Belay that,” he grumbled, then tapped his combadge. “Picard to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”

  As they dematerialized and San Francisco disappeared before them, Picard was almost sure he heard Deanna’s voice. “Aye aye, Captain-Uncle.”

  Safe Harbors

  Howard Weinstein

  War correspondence: This story takes place just prior to “The Changing Face of Evil.”

  Howard Weinstein

  It’s been thirty years since Howard Weinstein sold his first story at age nineteen (“The Pirates of Orion,” an episode of the animated Star Trek series in 1974). Since then, his varied credits include six Star Trek novels and sixty Trek comics. Howard’s last Star Trek comic work was Enter the Wolves, a WildStorm special issue coscripted with Ann Crispin, from Ann’s story about the lifelong conflict between Spock and Sarek. His most recent book is Puppy Kisses Are Good for the Soul and Other Important Lessons You and Your Dog Can Teach Each Other, the nonfiction account of his fifteen-year relationship with his wonderful Welsh Corgi, Mail Order Annie. It’s filled with funny and heartwarming tales of life with Annie, and the lessons she had to teach about dogs, humans, life, and love. A lifelong baseball fan, Howard had the pleasure of writing a biography of his childhood hero, Yankees star Mickey Mantle. Howard’s other main occupation these days is Day-One Dog Training. He calls himself a “doggie social worker” and enjoys using Annie’s valuable lessons to help dogs and humans have the best possible life together.

  McCoy…Personal Log…Stardate 52603.2.

  Everything that happened was so real. But it wasn’t.

  But it was.

  It began with the loudest crash of thunder I’ve ever heard. When it hit, I practically fell out of bed. The clock said 2:49. A heartbeat later, I knew it wasn’t thunder at all, when a chain of bone-rattling booms rolled across San Francisco.

  Way back in medical school, I learned the hard way that emergencies don’t wait. Over a century later, it’s still second nature for me to wake up in a flash. So when those explosions shook the rafters, I threw back the covers, and rushed to the window.

  “Blinds—open!” I called out. The opaque layer embedded in the glass took a few seconds to clear completely, but I could already see the hellish glare of flames leaping from Starfleet Headquarters across the promenade from my apartment tower. Dear God almighty.

  I flinched as a squadron of alien fighters screamed through the dark smoke billowing from the ruins, cannons blasting as they swept across the skyline…

  Somehow, next thing I knew, I was down there, right on the promenade. That was such a beautiful space, with the reflecting pool and trees shading the paths. That very afternoon, that perfect afternoon, I’d had my lunch there, and that sun felt so good and warm. Now, in the middle of the night, I was there again, dodging debris, choking on ash, racing across in the flicker of fires burning all around. Other people rushed away from the Starfleet building, trying to escape. And there I was, plunging toward it, like I was being pulled by a magnet.

  And then I was inside. Twisted metal, railings and girders and beams, and shattered glass everywhere, crunching under my feet with every step. And the fires! I’ve never felt anything so hot. I heard the screams of the dying as I stepped over the dead. At first, it was just a few voices, then ten, then a hundred or a thousand…I couldn’t even tell. And there wasn’t any time to care. In all that noise and heat, I homed in on two voices I’ll always hear inside my head, as long as I live. Finding them was all that mattered. God knows how I knew where they were.

  But then I saw their blistered, bloody faces, caught in the maze of buckled steel and tangled wires. I had to shout over the sounds of the people and the building, all dying. “Jim! Spock! Hang on!” I tried to fight my way through the flames to reach them. There was no way they could reach me. They were trapped, their bodies broken and pinned by all that rubble.

  Then I felt the ground shiver, like an old subway was running right underneath me. The shiver became a rumble, and then a roar. And I looked up, and the whole building was coming down, collapsing on us. The noise drowned out everything else, except Jim shouting out my name, and then Spock moaning. And I didn’t know whether to run or to pray. I tried to turn, but my foot got caught and I fell. And I screamed, because I didn’t know what else to do….

  “McCoy…McCoy!” It was a different voice yelling my name, louder than the scream in my own head. I felt hands, strong hands, shaking me. Lifting me. I opened my eyes and I was looking into Scotty’s face. Where the hell did he come from? He looked so worried. But the heat from the fires was gone. In fact, my clothes were drenched in cold sweat and I was getting damned chilly.

  “What—? Scotty?! Where are we?”

  “You’re on the Hudson.” There was something about that brogue that made me start feeling better, safer. Maybe it’s knowing that Scotty can fix pretty much anything. After all these years, I know this: if I had to be stuck in a leaky rowboat in the middle of the ocean, there’s nobody I’d rather be stuck with than Scotty.

  I looked around, trying to get myself oriented. I wasn’t on Earth—or on fire, thank God. I was in a cramped room. A ship’s cabin? When I tried to talk, my voice was shaking, kind of like the rest of me. It’s fair to say I wasn’t exactly firing on all thrusters. “On the…the what? The Hudson?”

  “Aye. She’s a runabout,” Scotty said. “You were takin’ a nap and y’must’ve had some nasty nightmare. Y’fell right outta your bunk.”

  My legs felt all rubbery. Scotty helped me sit back on the bed. “Where are Spock…and Jim?”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “Spock? Still on bloody Romulus. And Jim’s been gone for eighty years.”

  Nothing made any sense. I had this dim memory of hearing about an accident, on the Enterprise-B, a long time ago. Jim—lost? But my brain couldn’t let go of what I was sure I’d just seen. “Eighty years? But…they were just here…or, I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “San Francisco. Starfleet Headquarters. We were under attack! Earth…Earth was under attack…by the Dominion. But…” I stared at Scotty’s face. The wrinkles around his eyes, the silver hair. “When did you get so old?”

  Then those eyes of his crinkled and he chuckled. “You think I’m old? Have you looked at yourself lately?”

  I was still pretty wobbly, so he gripped my elbow and helped me over to a little alcove with a sink and a mirror. And I leaned forward and saw a white-haired creature with sags, bags and jowls staring back. I looked older than the mountains, with twice as much dust. “Good God, I must be a hundred and fifty.”