A Call to Darkness.

by Michael Jan Friedman.

Chapter One.

Captain's Log, Stardate 42908.

Our efforts to find the research ship Gregor Mendel have led us to the Trilik'kon Mahk'ti system, well outside the boundaries of Federation space. I do not believe it is an overdramatization to call Trilik'kon Mahk'ti our last hope.

We have been searching this sector for weeks, painstakingly inspecting every system, every planet-without so much as a hint of success. Even our communications beacons have been unproductive, their broadcasts met with silence.

Yet there is only so much margin for error in the calculations of our ship's computer. And the research vessel's last communication, a subspace distress signal, was determined to have originated in this vicinity.

Nor could the Mendel have gotten very much farther-at least, not under her own power. The some sudden and unusually treacherous Murasaki disturbance that threw her off course also effectively crippled her propulsion systems-or so we were given to understand.

It seems more and more likely that the Mendel has fallen victim to one of the myriad dangers awaiting a crippled ship in space. Or that the damage to the ship's systems was more profound than first reported-profound enough to result in a devastating explosion.

Nonetheless, we carry on.

CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD sat back in his command chair, the words from the log entry he'd made almost an hour ago still echoing ominously in his ears.

Log entries are so neat, so concise. And for good reason. Starfleet deals in facts, not sentiments.

But there were times when the facts alone were insufficient. When a man's emotions cried out to be heard as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, Picard noticed Counselor Troi gazing at him. He turned to regard her.

Troi was a Betazoid, an empath; she could feel the turbulence that was going on inside him. But she would not bring it up for discussion-not here, on the bridge. She knew better than that.

Still, something passed between them as their eyes met. A warmth-no, more. An assurance that whatever he was going through, he was not going through it alone. It calmed him somewhat, gave him a little more perspective.

Picard inclined his head almost imperceptibly-a token of his gratitude that only she would notice or understand.

Troi smiled and looked away again, went back to her scrutiny of the main viewscreen. In her own way, she too was searching for the Gregor Mendel-or rather, for its crew. Her talents were not nearly as far-reaching as the Enterprise's long-range scanner/sensor systems, but that did not stop her from trying Picard looked around the bridge. He wondered if anyone else had noticed his increasing agitation. If so, they gave no sign of it.

First Officer Riker was hovering over the conn station, discussing some navigational issue with the officer in charge. Though Riker probably knew the captain better than anyone else-with the exception of Troi, of course-there were too many others who needed his help and guidance for him to have thought much about Picard lately.

Data, positioned at the Ops console, was intent on the information scrolling across his monitor-nor was he likely to have perceived any change in Picard anyway. Regrettably, the android had certain limitations when it came to nuances of human nature.

Worf was actually quite discerning at times-particularly in recognizing the less gentle emotions. But the Klingon was entrenched now among the science-section people on the afterbridge, too busy to notice much of anything that didn't have to do with thorium ion concentrations. Impulse engines routinely shed such particles-and Worf was gambling that the Mendel had had enough engine function to leave a trail of them.

Picard's musings were interrupted as his first officer crossed the bridge. Graceful for a man his size, he folded himself into his customary seat at the captain's right hand.

"It appears that you were right," said Riker.

"About what, Number One?"

"About our precautions. There's nothing left of the Klah'kimmbri. Plenty of debris that might once have been ships, free stations and satellites-but no evidence that the Klah'kimmbri themselves are still around."

With a little tilt of his head, he indicated the main viewscreen-where Trilik'kon Mahk'ti's outermost world was a slowly growing hole in the starry fabric of space, defined mainly by a sliver of white light around half its circumference.

"If they had survived," Riker went on, "they would surely have maintained an outpost here-at the gateway to their home system. But scanners show no installation of any kind on the planet's surface." He leaned back. "Only a couple of massive, blackened pits where installations could have been located."

Picard considered his first officer. "You sound disappointed."

Riker smiled. "Maybe a little. I mean, I certainly wasn't looking forward to a confrontation with the kind of people the Klah'kimmbri used to be. Not with their record for shooting first and asking questions later-if at all. But I was hoping that there was something left of them. A culture, maybe, that had learned its lesson after its clash with the Cantiliac. One that had found more peaceful means of existence..." His voice trailed off wistfully.

Picard nodded. "Yes. That would have been interesting. It seems, however, that for once the common wisdom has proven accurate. The Cantiliac offensive was of such a magnitude that the Klah'kimmbri were obliterated. That proud fleet of theirs must have been destroyed before it knew what was happening-and the rest of their civilization soon after."

The other man grunted. "It's like my grandfather used to say. No matter how big and tough you think you are, there's always someone bigger and tougher."

"A wise man, your grandfather." But the captain's mind was on neither the fate of the Klah'kimmbri nor Riker's homespun advisement. His thoughts had returned to their former course-to the research ship Gregor Mendel and the personal burden it represented.

It was quiet for a moment, the only sounds coming from the subtle hum of the impulse engines and a murmured conversation at the aft stations. The system's outermost planet gradually loomed larger.

"Of course," said Riker, "I'd like to keep the shields up-just in case. File it under Appearances Can Be Deceiving."

"By all means," said Picard. "Whatever you think best."

And then someone called for the first officer's help, and he was consuming the bridge again in those ground-eating strides of his.

Alone again, with Troi immersed in her search efforts, Picard regarded the planet framed in the viewer. He found himself going over the statistics that he'd memorized in his preparation for Trilik'kon Mahk'ti.

One stuck in his brain. Two billion four hundred thousand miles. The average distance from this outermost world to its sun. No doubt, Data could have calculated a more precise number, but it was sufficient for the captain's present need.

Two billion four hundred thousand miles. Not a very big system. The last one they had combed was twice that size.

In a way, though, Picard wished it were big. Infinite, in fact. For if it were, he would never have to face the slowly unraveling truth.

Suddenly, he found he couldn't remain in his chair. He had an irresistible urge to get up, to move. To do something.

It took all of his willpower to stand up in a decorous manner, and to gradually approach the screen, hands clasped behind his back, until he was almost even with the forward consoles.

The planet was a bit closer now, a bit more fiery at the edges, but it remained dark and essentially featureless. Picard peered at it as if he could have spotted the Mendel just by looking hard enough-as if he could have outdone the Enterprise's vast array of instruments, not to mention Troi's considerable abilities, by determination alone.

But of course, there was nothing to be seen. Even if the research ship was anywhere in orbit around this world, they were still too far away to be able to detect it.

The captain took a deep breath, let it out. It was all so damned... frustrating.

The doors to the turbolift whooshed open, providing Picard with a momentary distraction. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see one of Worf's security people come out onto the bridge. There was a brief sotto voce discussion with the Klingon, and then the man exited again.

The exchange aroused Picard's curiosity. What could the man have had to say that could not have been communicated over the intercom?

And then he realized what had just happened.

That security officer had been Worf's replacement. The Klingon's shift was over, and yet he had refused to abdicate his position on the bridge.

It was a breach of regulations, no matter how small or well-intentioned.

Picard traversed the bridge, leaving the expanding shape of the planet behind. As he approached the aft stations, Worf glanced at him and looked away again.

Surreptitious behavior, observed the captain. He knows that I know.

"Mister Worf," he said. "A word with you, please."

With obvious reluctance, the Klingon tore himself away from his place at one of the scanner monitors.

Picard headed for his ready room. The doors slid aside and he entered. Nor did they close again until Worf had followed him in.

Picard sat down behind his desk and watched his security chief take a seat on the other side of it. The Klingon didn't seem comfortable-and not just because the chair was a bit too small for him.

"I thought," said the captain, "that we had been through this already. Months ago."

Worf scowled, held his head up with what would have appeared to be defiance in a human. "Aye, sir," was all he said.

"Then why did you refuse to turn over your duties at the end of your shift?"

The Klingon shrugged his broad shoulders, eliciting a tiny klink from the metal honor band he wore across his chest. "It seemed the best course of action at the time."

Picard grunted. "I applaud your perseverance, Lieutenant. No one will ever call you a shirker. But all those selected for bridge duty are highly trained-as you well know, having provided the training yourself in some instances. What's more, we have finite shifts for a reason. Neither human nor Klingon-nor anyone else, for that matter-can maintain a peak level of performance indefinitely." He paused for effect. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye," rumbled Worf. He seemed as if he was about to say something more, but didn't.

"Is there anything else?" prodded the captain.

The security chief's scowl deepened, but he could not avoid answering the direct question. At least, not altogether.

"There is," he said finally.

"Elaborate," Picard instructed, having had the experience of having questioned his Klingon officer before. It was a laborious process, to say the least.

Worf's eyes narrowed. "You," he said.

The captain leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "Me? What about me?"

"You are the reason I acted as I did-sir. It is apparent that this mission means a great deal to you. So I took it upon myself to become more... personally involved."

It was perhaps the longest speech Picard had ever heard him make. And it took him aback. Surprised him.

Not that Worf had seen through to his anxiety-but that he had been so wrong when he thought he'd masked it. That his judgment could have been so far off.

The captain cleared his throat. "Tell me," he said. "Have you shared this perception with the others?"

Worf nodded-a short, quick movement of his oversize head. "It was Mister La Forge who pointed it out to me-though I had already come to my own conclusion."

Picard considered that. "Mister La Forge," he echoed. "He also thinks I'm... agitated over the outcome of this mission?"

"Aye," said Worf. "Also Mister Crusher. And Commander Riker. And Counselor Troi, I believe, though she would not comment on the matter."

Picard found that his mouth was open. He closed it.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"No," said the Klingon. He went on to list the others.

"Really," said the captain. "And to what do you-all of you-attribute this agitation?"

Worf shrugged a second time. "That," he said, "is unknown. Except, of course, to you-sir."

Inwardly, Picard breathed a sigh of relief. At least that stone had remained unturned. He leaned forward over his desk.

"I must confess," he began, "that this mission does have a personal meaning for me-though I had hoped to keep that information from becoming common knowledge. And I am grateful for your concern." He consciously changed his tone. "But that still does not mean that bridge shifts need be altered. You will contact your replacement and have him up here on the double."

"Understood," said Worf. Was that a note of petulance in his voice? After all, Klingons hated to be lectured. "I will notify the others."

Picard looked at him. "Don't tell me," he said, "that the others have overstayed their shifts as well."

The expression that took shape on Worf's face was a new one on the captain. It seemed to partake of surprise and shame and a desire to escape, in more or less equal portions.

The Klingon's temples worked savagely as he tried to fashion an answer-one he could live with.

"Lieutenant?"

The security chief sighed. "Aye, sir. It is... as you say."

Picard felt a gobbet of anger rise in his throat. Not at his crew, but at himself. How far had he let things slip in his preoccupation with the Gregor Mendel?

Turning away from the Klingon abruptly, he punched a code into his computer terminal. A list sprang up on the screen. After taking a moment to digest the information, he erased it.

Worf still sat on the other side of the desk, looking miserable.

"You are dismissed," said Picard.

The Klingon rose. "Thank you, sir." He turned on his heel and exited-grateful to be gone, the captain thought.

So. Worf was not the only one who had breached this regulation. Almost a third of the bridge crew had done the same.

In a way, it was all very touching. Picard had never made an effort to be popular-only to be fair. It was gratifying to see the lengths to which his people had gone on his behalf.

But he couldn't allow it to continue.