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The Fire In Which We Burn
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
"The most well-written story ever submitted to me"
- Michael Ruff, Editor, Ruff & Ready Press
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is dedicated to David B. Anderson.
(c) 1995-2005, Steve Anderson,
www.SGAcreative.com
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Published by Ruff & Ready Press in Look Before You Leap V (1995) and Tales From the Promenade
and Beyond (1995), under the pseudonym Timothy Gerard.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan-fiction.
It is presented here solely for entertainment value, and is in no way meant to infringe upon copyrights,
trademarks, or other intellectual property rights belonging to the original creators of the characters
and technologies referenced herein.
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It started like it always did.
The house was quiet, tranquil, the familiar Victorian
furnishings carrying memories of childhood and the echoes of a far more distant time. Age beyond years.
Time stretching back and forward throughout the long history of the family, growing rich with the years
in the pervasive scent of grapes and wine.
A storm wore on outside, watering the vineyards and
wrapping the whole house in the timeless hiss of rain. Far away, lightning flashed, and the dull rumble
of thunder completed the scene. The sound was hypnotic, and it had already lulled to sleep the three
humans who called the house their home in this generation, two snug in their beds and the third in a
classic wingback chair, her needlework still held numbly in one hand.
Only he was awake. He,
who watched silent and unseen, unable to alter any of what he knew was about to happen. He tried to
warn them, but they could not hear. He tried not to watch, tried to flee, but some part of him insisted
on staying to watch, and it, too, could not, would not, hear his plea.
Right on schedule, it came:
a flash of lightning, brighter than any of the others, arriving at the same moment as a deafening crack
of thunder, and bathing the house in a momentary wash of light. It was like a flashbulb, that light,
impressing the scene on his memory, every detail sharp and clear, and the shadows hard-edged and cruel,
like the fate that would claim them all.
And then, almost inaudible under the hiss of the storm,
came a softer crackle of electricity. As he always did, he cursed himself. He had known the power relay
was out of date, he had seen the danger with his own eyes when he had visited four years ago, but somehow
he had convinced himself that it wasn't important, that they would fix it themselves without his meddling
in their affairs even more than he had already.
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And so he had said nothing, and they, who had grown accustomed to the quirks of the old, old house,
had accepted what should have been warning signs as just another sign of the tremendous age of their
home. And now, as he watched as he had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times before, the relay fitzed and
crackled under the surge of power from the sky, and at length it spat out a company of sparks.
Most
died quickly in the cool air, but one--one--stayed alight long enough to reach the frayed edge of the
antique rug a few inches away. A handful of threads smoldered, and began to smoke, feeding each other,
sharing the heat of the spark. For a time, it seemed that the smoke would be the end of it, and he wished
with every fiber of his being that it would--but that happy ending was not to be.
A single thread,
dried with age, finally let out a tongue of flame, and as he watched in horror as he had too many times
before, the flame spread to another thread, and then another. Soon the corner of the rug was burning
in earnest, and the flames spread, licking at the antique wooden walls and spreading out across the floor,
growing quickly as they ran.
He could feel the heat building as the fire spread across the walls
and floor, and then suddenly the room seemed to explode, as if the very air had burst into flame. He
screamed, but still no one heard him, and all he could do was pull back, retreating from the terrible
fury of the flames. The fire came after him, extending its domain, not content with a single room but
eager to consume the whole house.
The overload had crippled the sensor net in the house, but the
smoke carried warnings of its own, filling the air with the acrid scent of danger. The woman stirred
in her sleep, and seemed on the verge of settling back again, and then suddenly she was wide awake, terror
filling her eyes. Her needlework fell unheeded to the floor as she stood, coughing as more smoke rolled
in, and she moved, instinct carrying her not away toward safety but instead toward her husband and son,
asleep in their beds upstairs.
But the way to the stairs was full of fire, and she had no choice
but to retreat. He watched as she did, grief tearing at him as the hope of the two men's rescue faded.
He screamed and screamed to them, but he was separated by time and space, and they could not hear his
voice. And at last, as he always did, he felt himself pulling away, the heat driving him, too, away
from the fire after the wife and mother.
He was outside now, watching as the fire lashed at the
house, unable to comfort the woman and just as unable to do anything for the men still trapped inside.
For an instant, he thought he heard a man scream, and he imagined that the voice was calling his name,
and then the fire found the casks of wine aging in the cellar and the house exploded in a fireball of
reds and yellows as time at long last claimed the home it had spared for so many generations.
Grief
and loss and frustration at his own inability to change any of it overwhelmed him, and he threw back
his head to scream. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
And he woke.
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He sat in his bed, holding his knees and gasping for breath, as the horror of the nightmare slowly,
slowly passed. It was all right. It had only been a dream. He was safe in his quarters on the Enterprise.
And then, by degrees, his eyes picked out the differences in the room, and the memories came surging
back. Not his quarters, just temporary quarters, an ensign's cramped accommodations, the best they could
find that he could have to himself.
And not the Enterprise, either, but a rescue ship fleeing
the scene. The Enterprise was gone, half of it demolished in space, the rest left abandoned on the surface
of the planet. It was dead, its body burned, just like his brother and his nephew. It was true, all
of it, and he had let it all happen. For the hundredth time, Jean-Luc Picard found himself trying to
fight back the tears of rage and grief.
An eternity later, when he had finally stopped shaking,
exhaustion claimed him, and he sank back into sleep... and dreamed of the fire once again. Soon, he
woke again, somehow smothering his scream, but the next time, the scream rang out loud and clear. And
when at last the morning came, he met it with bloodshot eyes and a horrified, haunted grimace.
It
just wasn't fair. To lose the ship now, when he needed the responsibilities of command more than ever,
the endless stream of mysteries and missions and personnel crises that drove so many captains to early
retirement and that would have allowed him a diversion from the terror of his own personal reality.
To be left with no choice but to face the loss of his brother and nephew head-on. It wasn't the least
bit fair.
But surely, he told himself, the captain of the flagship--the former flagship--of the
Federation could face personal grief. He had dealt with it before, every time a member of one of his
crews had been lost, and never had he had this much trouble with it. And that, of course--he sighed--that
was because it wasn't under his command. He hadn't been there to even try to save Robert and Rene.
Hadn't. Even. Been there.
He took a long, long shaky breath and stubbornly refused to cry yet
again, and then, finally, he stood and squeezed in behind the tiny desk crammed into the corner of the
room. "Computer," he ordered, "recognize Picard, Jean-Luc, alpha-two clearance. Give me all the information
you have on the Guardian of Forever."
After the briefest of pauses, the computer complied, displaying
the first page of the first of many files. Picard took another deep breath, more relaxed now that he
was doing something, and let his eyes move across the electronic page. Soon, absorbed in the material,
he lost all track of time, and he sat perfectly still, only his eyes moving, back and forth across the
pages, as the minutes and hours slipped quietly and unobtrusively past.
Hours later, he leaned
back and rubbed his eyes. Only then did he become aware of the crick in his back that was his first
real sign of how long he had been reading and how absorbed he had been in the material. And all, he
mused, for nothing. The Guardian of Forever was a masterpiece of engineering, still centuries beyond
Starfleet's own technology, and it had allowed tricorder scans to record detailed images of the histories
of dozens, even hundreds, of worlds. But the one time anyone had stepped through it and changed history,
it had thrown an absolute fit. And right now, that made it worse than useless.
Picard leaned
his head back and stared at the ceiling, and then finally turned back to the monitor. "Computer," he
said, "initiate security lockout procedures. You will make no record whatsoever of the inquiry I am
about to make."
"Working." A pause. "Security lockout initiated."
"Good." Picard stared
into space, his voice as cold and emotionless as that of the machine. "Search historical, scientific,
and theoretical databases for all known or hypothesized means of time-travel."
"Working." The
pause was longer this time. "List compiled."
"Limit to methods allowing history to be changed
without necessarily creating a paradox."
"Done."
"How long is the list?"
"There
are twenty-three known means of time-travel which conform to given parameters."
A slight nod,
almost imperceptible. "How many of those methods can be completed on board a starship?"
"Twelve."
"And of those," he went on, seeming not to have heard, "how many do not require warp power or warp
speed?"
"Eight."
The barest hint of a wince flashed in the corners of Picard's eyes. He
had hoped for better odds. Still, perhaps one of those eight.... "Computer," he asked, "how many of
those require materials which cannot be replicated?"
"Three."
The wince was gone, replaced
by just as tiny a sparkle of hope. Five left. The odds were getting better. "Identify the remaining
methods," he ordered.
"Method one," the machine replied. "The being known as Q has claimed to
be able to teleport himself across temporal barriers--"
The spark flared in the captain's eyes,
and took on the edge of irritation. "Computer," he ordered, "eliminate methods involving personal attributes
I do not possess."
The computer bleeped, as if offended that he had interrupted it, and then stated:
"Done."
"How--" He broke off, suddenly overwhelmed by the absolute certainty that there would
be no choices left, no way to do now what he had been unable to do the first time. He tried to finish
the question, and his mouth seemed unable to form the words.
"Please restate the question," the
computer prompted, and the words finally escaped his lips, marked by a touch of annoyance at the machine's
impatience: "How many methods remain?"
The computer's response was immediate: "One."
One.
A smile curled the edge of his mouth, and he sat perfectly still, staring at the monitor in wonder.
There was a way. He could do it. Without involving anyone else, and without putting anyone else at
risk, he could do it. The curl grew on his lip, and for the first time in days, an authentic smile appeared
on his face. "What can you tell me about that method?" he asked.
"Data is available in text or
holographic form."
"Holographic form?" Picard repeated, already rising from the desk and heading
for the door. "Transfer holographic record to Holodeck Two." Without waiting for a response, he stepped
out into the corridor.
Five minutes later, he stood in front of the holodeck entrance, hesitating
for the first time since he had awoken from his last dream. "Computer," he said at last, "is the program
I requested ready?"
"Program is complete," the mechanical voice confirmed. "You may enter when
ready."
For an instant, he found himself hesitating again, and then, with a sharp scowl, he thrust
away his doubts. He had failed in his duty to his brother and to his nephew, and this was the only way
of making things right again. With a slight nod and a subconscious tug at his tunic, he stepped forward
through the holodeck doors.
Inside, alone on the brilliant golden gridwork, stood the hologram.
The image was perfect, as if it had stepped off the pages of a history text--which, in a way, it had.
The crisp white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, the plain khaki trousers, all of it was just as
it should have been. Picard remembered his first glimpse of the man in a high-school history book, and
he smiled. "Run program," he said.
The stasis broke, and the hologram came alive, and Picard
was overwhelmed by just how relaxed, how personable, the young man from the past actually was. The hologram,
in turn, took a quick glance around and then settled his gaze on Picard, noting the rank insignia on
his collar and nodding. "Captain Picard."
Picard nodded, and years of diplomatic training took
over, even though he knew the man was only a holographic image. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Beckett,"
he said.
"Please," Beckett replied, "call me Sam."
Picard smiled, suddenly at ease, and
the program accommodated him. Two holographic armchairs appeared from nowhere, and soon he and Beckett
were chatting comfortably, their discussion ranging from history to philosophy to literature and back
again. They laughed and smiled together, and the serious concerns that had brought Picard to the holodeck
soon drifted away from his mind. For the first time since he had heard about the fire, he was able to
concentrate on other things and let his life go on.
That might have been the end of it, except
that the Starfleet computers that ran the holodeck were programmed to be at least as conscientious as
their users. There were children on starships these days, and letting educational programs avoid their
point indefinitely was not generally considered a good idea. And so, when it became clear that Picard
was not about to broach the subject himself, Beckett leaned back in his own chair and sighed, a thoughtful,
patient breath. "This isn't why you ran this program," he observed.
Picard closed his eyes, almost
cringing. He had forgotten. First he had failed in his duty, and now he had allowed himself to forget
that any of it had ever happened. The sour taste of guilt formed in his mouth. Slowly, sadly, he shook
his head. "No," he replied, "it isn't."
"Why don't you tell me about it?" Beckett prompted, his
tone reminding Picard of the way Counsellor Troi addressed him from time to time. And why not? They
were both trained in the timeless art of human psychology.
The captain stared off into space,
and then turned and met the physicist's eyes. "I need to know how you traveled in time."
Beckett
blinked, caught off-guard by the question, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Imagine your life as a
string. One end represents your birth--"
"I don't care about your theories," Picard snapped,
fury and impatience suddenly burning in his eyes. "I just want to know how to do it."
Beckett
cringed at the captain's intensity. "It's not easy," he observed, "and not very safe, either."
"Yes,
yes, get on with it."
With a long sigh, Beckett leaned back in his chair and started describing
the materials. The hybrid computer he'd spent years designing, that sounded suspiciously like a simple
duotronic matrix to Picard. The Imaging Chamber and the Waiting Room, and the complex systems that allowed
them to do their jobs. And, of course, the Accelerator.
When he had finished, Picard spoke a
few words to the computer, and in a matter of seconds, the entire Quantum Leap complex had appeared around
him. Hallways radiated away in all directions, leading to research labs, living quarters, and of course
the rooms and rooms of data storage space the hybrid computer needed to keep track of the flow of history.
Picard smiled at Beckett, honestly impressed, and the hologram stood silently, grinning to himself and
positively exuding pride and satisfaction.
"All right," Picard said, nodding toward the flamboyantly-colored
control panel that dominated the room, "ready the system. Let's get this over with."
Beckett
started to move, and then paused. "Captain," he said, and stopped, uncertain.
Irritated, impatient
to finish what he had started, Picard scowled at the hologram. "Yes, what is it?"
Still, Beckett
hesitated. "Sir," he ventured at last, "if I might ask, why are you using technology that must be, well,"--he
winced to hear himself say it--"hopelessly out of date?"
Picard paused, staring at the door to
the Accelerator. His instinct told him not to bother to respond, but that felt wrong, somehow. As if
he owed the holographic man an explanation. "Because it's the only way that doesn't involve anyone else."
Beckett looked at him sideways. "So this is an illicit jaunt through history?" he asked.
Picard
simply nodded.
"But--" Beckett's question trailed away into an uncomfortable silence. His life's
work, his quest to put right what once went wrong, and it was suddenly... a crime? "But why?" he asked
aloud.
Picard didn't want to respond, but somehow, he felt he needed to, if only to hear himself
say the words aloud. Half against his will, he spoke: "The Prime Directive."
Beckett squinted,
and shrugged; the term meant nothing to him.
"The highest law of the Federation," Picard explained,
"is that we will not interfere. Not in the natural development of other cultures, and--"
"And,"
Beckett finished for him, "not in the course of history."
"Exactly."
The holographic scientist
stared down at the control panel. "You disagree with that philosophy," he said.
"Not at all,"
Picard insisted, his features tightening into a scowl.
Beckett slowly raised his eyes and regarded
the imposing Frenchman. "I don't understand," he said.
"There are other duties that come before
my duty to the Federation," Picard explained.
Beckett was careful to keep a neutral tone. "Like?"
"Family." The word hung there between the two men, a hard-edged cloud of intensity, and at length
Picard explained, speaking the horrible truth. "There was a fire. My brother and his son were killed,
and I wasn't there to save them."
Hologram or no, Beckett winced, remembering his own need to
save Tom. "I understand," he told Picard. "My brother was killed in a war, and I wasn't there to save
him, either. Not until Quantum Leap."
Picard nodded. "So you know about the need."
Beckett
sighed, and the holodeck put its educational agenda on hold. "I know," he said, speaking slowly and
heavily, "about grief. But you must have lost people before. Why do you need to go back and change
things this time?"
"Because," Picard told him, "they're the only family I have." He stared off
into space, and his rage and impatience began to give way to grief and the sharper edge of guilt. "And
I wasn't even there to save them."
Even as a hologram, Beckett understood. But the truth had
to be said. "There aren't any guarantees," he said. "You may go back in time, and still not be able
to save them."
But Picard was insistent. "I have to try," was all he could find the words to
say.
"I know," Beckett told him. "I know about that, too." He started to go on, but couldn't
bring himself to say the words. So instead, he asked the practical question: "Who do you want to Leap
into?"
Emotion was clouding Picard's memory of his long-ago history lessons. "Leap into?" he
repeated softly.
"That's how Quantum Leap works," Beckett reminded him. "You take someone else's
place. Who was there who could have saved them?"
Finally, the memory came clear. "His wife,"
Picard murmured. Nodding absently, he went on, desperation coming into his voice: "Marie was there.
I'll take her place, and I'll save them. Try to save them. Have to try. Have to."
Beckett
ran his hand absently over the controls, trying to muster the strength to ask the final question.
"Have to try," Picard repeated, biting at his lip as grief and guilt fought for control in his eyes.
"Captain," Beckett said. It was going to hurt, but everything in his psychological profile insisted
that it be said. "Is it fair to them to try?"
Picard looked up, anger cutting through everything
else. There was no doubt about it: the question had stung. "What do you mean?" he demanded.
Now
it was Beckett's turn to hesitate. "Family is important to you," he said.
It was not a question,
but Picard nodded anyway. "Very important," he confirmed. "To all of us. And now I'm the last of the
family."
Beckett stared into Picard's eyes, and waited until Picard met his glance. "No," he
said, "you're not."
Picard just stared at him.
"Is it fair," Beckett pressed, wincing at
the question even as he asked it, "to risk the last two members of the family just for your peace of
mind?"
Picard's mouth dropped open in shock. "How dare you!" he seethed, the words only a choked
whisper.
Beckett winced, but even as a holodeck program, he knew this was the right thing to do.
"Listen to yourself," he insisted. "You aren't committed to saving their lives, you're committed to
knowing you tried to save them."
Picard blinked, digesting that.
"It's your sense of honor
that's at stake here," Beckett said, and pressed on before Picard could react. "There's nothing wrong
with that. But if you fail--if you fail in an experiment that runs against the highest law of your Federation,
you won't just lose your life and the last of your family, you'll lose your family's good name, too."
Picard sighed, and waited for Beckett to go on.
"Is it fair," Beckett asked again, "to do
that to their memory?"
Picard closed his eyes and slowly, slowly shook his head. "I can't do
nothing," he whispered.
"Of course not," Beckett answered, laying a hand on his shoulder. "But
you don't have to die for them. You can live for them, instead."
Picard just stared.
"Keep
their memory alive," Beckett told him. "And however many years your family has left, make sure they're
good ones. Make sure history remembers you well."
Picard nodded, just slightly.
Beckett
flashed an infectious, reassuring smile. "You don't have to travel in time to change history for the
better."
Picard nodded again, and felt a tiny smile of hope make its way through the pain and
grief etched in his features. "Thank you," he whispered, and then raised his voice. "End program."
Beckett vanished, and Quantum Leap went with him, and Picard was left facing the bare golden gridwork
of the present. "Computer," he ordered, "get me a subspace link."
The link was ready by the time
he returned to his room, and he squeezed behind the tiny desk once more. The Starfleet emblem gave way
to the image of a human female, and for the first time since the news had come, Picard met her gaze with
a steady one of his own. There was pain and grief in his eyes, but also a courage and a determination
that had been missing these last few days. "Marie," he said, and even managed a tiny smile.
"Jean-Luc,"
she replied, the same sad smile on her own face.
"I have some free time while I wait for reassignment,"
he told her. "Would it be all right if I came and stayed with you for a while?"
Her smile broadened,
and in a few seconds, it was settled. But it felt good to talk, and so the last two members of the ageless
Picard clan talked late into the night, and when at last they said their goodbyes, Captain Jean-Luc Picard,
late of the starship Enterprise, fell quickly into a deep and restful sleep.
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