Star Trek: Picard: The Last Best Hope

Una McCormack

• Publisher: Pocket Books/Star Trek
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781982139452
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Fantascienza

The USA TODAY bestseller—based on the new Star Trek TV series! "Fifteen years ago…you led us out of the darkness. You commanded the greatest rescue armada in history. Then...the unimaginable. What did that cost you? Your faith. Your faith in us. Your faith in yourself. Tell us, why did you leave Starfleet, Admiral?" Every end has a beginning…and this electrifying novel details the events leading into the new Star Trek TV series, introducing you to brand-new characters featured in the life of Jean-Luc Picard—widely considered to be one of the most popular and recognizable characters in all of science fiction.

Part 1 THE HOPE

2381–2382

1

La Barre, France

Many years after

In latter days, sitting alone in his manor, pondering the events of the years that preceded this self-imposed exile, trying to understand where and how it had all gone wrong, M. Jean-Luc Picard (formerly of Starfleet) would often come back to one moment. Sitting on the bridge of the Enterprise, in command, listening to the gentle rhythms and pulses of his ship…

Playing back the memory, he would slow down time, as if instructing the visuals to move at half speed, at quarter speed, and he would observe himself, sitting in his chair, and he would marvel at the sight of the man he had once been: calm, assured, fully in command of himself and all around him. This, he would think, was the moment before the storm began, the split second before the end of his old life, when he took the first step down the path to here—the house that had never been the home, the land that he had longed to swap for strange and distant lands, the quiet, the immobility. The knowledge that nothing that he did now with his days mattered in the slightest. One more outcast, cast adrift. Prospero, on his island. An old conjurer, his magic spent, nursing old grievances.

Here, now; this was the moment when everything changed. It was nothing that anyone noticed at the time. His ship, the Enterprise, his home, from which he had been banished, was sailing close to the Neutral Zone. The old order. A quiet chime on the comm, and La Forge’s voice coming through.

“Captain, we’re picking up some very strange readings here…”

And he had said—Incredible, now he thought of it! How blind can a man be!—he had indeed said, “Anything for us to worry about, Commander?”

Yes, thought Picard, years later, yes, more than you could have ever known. Watch out. Beware. Choose your course wisely now…

“Let me get back to you on that one.”

Another chime, this one signifying an incoming message from Starfleet Command. Picard stood up, smoothed imagined imperfections from his uniform, and went into his ready room, where he received a summons back to Earth.

And all that was to follow had followed. He had not, now that he thought about it, seen the Enterprise since.

Clouds flecked across the hillside. The vines hung heavy. The old clock ticked in the hall. Time yawned ahead: empty time. Picard, in limbo, pondered the past, and continued to fail to find answers there. Such were his mornings, his afternoons, his evenings. Such passed the days, for M. Jean-Luc Picard (formerly of Starfleet), the most disillusioned man in two quadrants.

At this point, usually, Picard would sigh, and raise his eyes, and look around his beautiful, too-quiet land, and he would catch sight of either Laris or Zhaban looking back at him, shaking a head, as if to say: He thinks too much, and it does no good.

No, he thought. None of it had ever done any damn good.

Starfleet Command

San Francisco, Earth

It was a fine morning for the start of the end of everything. San Francisco gleamed in the sunshine, brash and confident, the sleek and rhythmic pulse at the heart of a great power. The kind of morning in spring that makes the world seem full of possibility. A sea breeze freshened the air when Picard stepped out of the transporter and walked with purpose across the plaza to the headquarters building. Waved through at once by a young ensign who purpled at the sight of the great man. Ushered with some ceremony up to the commander-in-chief’s meeting room. Earl Grey tea ready when he took his seat, steam rising in wisps from the cup.

A room that spoke of power, of duty, honor, and responsibility. Seated already: two colleagues, about to change everything, forever.

“What we are about to tell you, Jean-Luc,” said the C-in-C, “is almost unbelievable.”

Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise, accustomed to believing many impossible things before breakfast, nodded at his commander-in-chief, folded his hands, and made himself more comfortable in his chair.

“I need hardly add that it is highly classified,” said the C-in-C.

Picard, hardly unused to being privy to such information, gave a noncommittal smile. Inwardly, he felt himself tighten, shift onto alert. He gave his C-in-C a more careful look.

Admiral Victor Bordson, several years his junior, was, in Picard’s estimation, a careful man. Picard did not mean this pejoratively; quite the contrary. Rather, he considered Bordson to be a man who took care: measured, disinclined to make rash decisions, somewhat impersonal, and lacking the common touch. Picard had often tried to place him—not German, not Austrian, not Swiss, not Belgian… What, then? (He had been amused, at a formal dinner one evening, seated next to the man’s husband, to discover that Bordson was from Luxembourg. He had only just stopped himself from slamming his palm onto the table and exclaiming, “Of course!”) Bordson was not averse to taking action, but considered action; he was decorated, as one would expect of his generation and seniority, multiply so—a veteran of some of the grimmer arenas of the Dominion War. One did not come through repeat engagements with the Jem’Hadar without a mark being left, some bruise, whether visible or not. Typically, in Picard’s observation, such officers were dogged, implacable, and more than a little haunted. Northern courage, he believed it was called in the sagas, the determination to carry on even when all hope was gone. Yes, Bordson brought to mind the Saxon warrior, shaking his spear at his enemies, sure only of defeat:

“Thought must be the harder, heart be the keener,

mind must be the greater, while our strength lessens.”

A careful man; a man of cares. Gently, Picard said, “What’s going on, Victor?”

“Everything,” said Bordson, “is about to change.”

He turned to his second. Captain Kirsten Clancy, sitting at his right hand, nodded. Leaning forward, she whispered, “The Romulan star is about to go supernova.”

Picard took a moment to consider some of the implications of this statement. As these became overwhelming, truly and terrifyingly all-encompassing, he lifted his hand to press his fingertips against the right side of his face. An instinctive action that he had never quite suppressed, to protect where he felt most vulnerable. Where he had been most harmed.

“Merde.”

“Quite,” said Bordson. “Kirsten, shall we look at the presentation?”

Clancy reached out and activated a padd. A huge screen, on the opposite wall, glowed into life. The room began to darken. Before the presentation began, and under cover of the dimming light, Picard stole a rapid look at Clancy. A crisp woman in her middle years, hair short and turning white, she had considerable poise. One also sensed steel. Not someone to suffer fools. They had met only once or twice, briefly, in passing, at some function or other. Picard knew her chiefly by reputation, which was, as befitted someone this high up in Starfleet Command, exemplary. She also plainly had her eye, ultimately, on Bordson’s post. Picard did not covet that role, far from it. The commander-in-chief was the person in whom the military functions of Starfleet and the political concerns of the Federation met. A great deal of Bordson’s time, Picard suspected, was spent setting councilors at ease, appearing in front of committees, listening rather than acting. No, Picard would not willingly take on that role. Give him a ship, heading into the unknown, the chance to explore, to make a difference…

On the screen, an officer in a gold ship’s service uniform was getting ready to deliver a presentation to a small audience. Picard, leaning over to Bordson, murmured, “Who has seen this already? Who was there?”

“Me, Clancy, the president, the chief of security. The officer giving the briefing, of course, and her immediate superior.” Bordson gave a wan smile. “You’re seventh to know, if that’s part of what you’re asking.”

Seventh. A not-insignificant part of Picard’s mind shifted toward sketching out what the mission was going to be and computing how quickly he could be back on the Enterprise to begin the undertaking.

On-screen, the woman said, “My name is Lieutenant Commander Raffi Musiker, and I’m an intelligence specialist at Romulan Affairs. As you’re aware, we’ve been tracking some odd communications from Romulan space in recent weeks—odd even by Romulan standards.”

Listening to Musiker, Picard found himself taking a liking to her. She had a faintly disreputable air, a pleasant change from the smooth operatives that Starfleet Intelligence usually fielded. Her frankness was refreshing, as was the fact that she was clearly not daunted by the grandeur of her audience. Most of all, she was on top of her briefing. A question came about the reliability of their sources, which was dispatched with confidence and ease. Then another question came about the range of the blast from the supernova, and here she stopped and took a moment to collect herself.

“What I want to say is that these calculations are a worst-case scenario. This implies that effects in climate change are already being felt. Sometime in 2387. I’ll show you that first. Because it might make the best-case scenario less damn frightening.”

Picard leaned over to Clancy. “What was her name again?”

“Raffi Musiker,” said Clancy. “Lieutenant Commander Raffi Musiker.” Picard filed the information away for future reference.

On the screen behind Musiker, a simulated model of the Romulan system appeared. Its wounded star lay in the center. As Picard watched, the star imploded, and concentric circles spread out from its death throes. They fanned out, and out, and out, on and on… Someone in Musiker’s audience, said, “Holy fucking shit.” Picard could not be sure, but he thought it might be the president.

“Yeah,” said Raffi. “You know, I’ve watched that maybe two dozen times now, and let me tell you it never gets any better. It only ever gets worse. Life, huh? Only ever gets worse. Let me show you the best-case scenario.”

This, Picard thought, as he watched the rings spread out again, was stretching the definition of the word best beyond reason.

“Our best estimate?” said Raffi, to the question Picard was posing in his mind. “The impact is likely to be felt within 9.7 light-years of the Romulan star. Whichever way we model this—and trust me, we’ve run a lot of models—the threat to the stability of the Romulan Star Empire is catastrophic. Shall I go into the specific ramifications of this, or are the broad lines pretty clear?”

Quite clear, Picard thought. Trillions would be affected, not only in the home system, but well beyond. He leaned forward in his chair and watched the presentation to the unhappy end. Beside him, his tea, forgotten, cooled. Nothing will ever be the same again…

(M. Jean-Luc Picard, recalling himself thinking this, almost laughed out loud at the naivety.)

The presentation ended. Raffi Musiker was held freeze-framed on screen for a split second, and then her image was replaced by the symbol of Starfleet Command. Clancy raised the lights.

“Well?” said Bordson.

“We must help,” Picard said simply.

“Indeed,” said Bordson.

There was a pause, as the thought of what that might involve seeped through the room.

“Whatever happens, Victor,” said Picard, “saying that is worthwhile, and will also be worth remembering whenever we face doubts or obstacles, as we surely shall. But we must help.”

“Yes,” Bordson said. “But how?”

Clancy stirred. “There are significant complications. Not least that the Romulans are not entirely keen on Federation involvement.”

No, thought Picard, they would not be. “Have they asked for help yet?”

“They’ve only just admitted to us that the star is going supernova,” Clancy said, “and then only because we sent them some of Musiker’s reports. And their own secure communications, back at them.” She gave a grim smile. “They didn’t like that much.”

“I imagine not,” said Picard.

“The good news,” said Clancy, “is that after…” She pushed out a breath. “Well. Let’s say that after a few intense days of negotiation, the Romulans have agreed to some limited involvement on our part. But we need to play our hand carefully if we want to ensure that agreement holds.” She shook her head impatiently. “We’re trying to help! And they’re playing hard to get.”

“Secrecy is hardwired into the Romulan psyche,” Picard said. “What have they said?”

“They won’t allow us into the home system,” Bordson said. “No surprise. But we are being allowed limited access to some of the systems beyond. The environmental impact won’t be felt as badly there, but the stress on infrastructure most certainly will. If we are successful there, and keep the Romulans...