Star Trek - Requiem. Part 8

"Dixon Hill," Picard replied. "And I thank you for your hospitality and medical care."

Travers harrumphed. "We were pleased to offer it, especially considering how lucky you were that we found you at all."

The captain could see the man making an effort to be personable. He was doing exactly what Picard himself would have done, trying to establish a rapport with the subject-while still watching him very closely.

"The ridge where you were found," Travers continued, "is given to frequent landslides. Up until now, we have made a real effort to avoid it. But fortunately for you, we had a team installing seismic monitoring equipment in the area yesterday."

"Yes, indeed," the captain replied. "Very fortunate."

"And something of a surprise for us," the commodore went on. "We haven't had many s.h.i.+ps come out this way, and I doubt our scans would have missed you if you preceded the establishment of the colony on this planet."

While Travers spoke, Santos was watching him carefully, as if she were waiting for him to upset her patient. Picard realized that, though it wasn't formal yet, he was being interrogated. He'd need to frame his answers carefully.

"Actually, I arrived recently," he said. "I suspect, not much before you found me."

"Frankly, I find that hard to believe," the commodore said, an edge creeping into his voice. "We have had no s.h.i.+ps out this way in over six months." Whatever this man's talents, Picard decided, diplomacy was not one of them. The captain could see that the minimal civility he was receiving came at some cost to Travers.

"Then allow me to tell you my story," Picard replied. He would have to defuse the situation rather quickly, before the commodore made the encounter a confrontation. "I am the master of a small commercial transport called the Stargazer-a fast s.h.i.+p with which we did a fair business transporting rare metals, until we were set upon by Orion pirates. The Stargazer is, or was, almost completely unarmed; we had always depended on speed to avoid trouble. But the Orions used cloaking technology to get close, and it was all over in moments."

"Your crew?" Travers asked.

"Dead."

The commodore nodded. "But they left you alive?"

"This Orion commander was superst.i.tious about killing the master of a s.h.i.+p. He approached this planet under cloak and then beamed me down."

"Into a geologically unstable and dangerous area," the commodore interjected.

"Yes," the captain maintained. "I think the Orion's superst.i.tion only prevented him from killing me directly."

"Interesting," commented Travers. "My sympathy for the loss of your s.h.i.+p and crew." A pause. "I will have to file a report to Starfleet about the new threat represented by Orions with cloaking technology." However, the commodore's features did not soften. Clearly, he was still skeptical.

"I can attest to that threat," added Picard.

Travers cleared his throat. The captain could see that the interrogation was nearly over, for now. "One minor detail, Mr. Hill. We couldn't find a match for your retinal scan in our data banks. Are you from Earth?"

"Yes," Picard answered. "Though I have not been back for some time."

The commodore frowned. "I'm sure that Starfleet will have more complete records. I'll order a search when I file my report." He made a show of checking the chronometer on the wall. "I'm afraid I must be going, though I'm sure we'll have time to talk again soon." He turned to depart, but stopped partway and eyed the captain again. "By the way, Dr. Santos tells me you have a bionic cardiac replacement."

Travers let the statement hang in the air. He watched Picard closely. Clearly, this was a matter of some importance to him.

"The result of a youthful indiscretion," the captain replied.

The commodore's eyes narrowed a notch. "What I find curious is that it matches no known model my people have ever seen. The power cell is, well ... extraordinary. And the device seems to be engineered on the molecular level to mimic your cell structure, presumably to prevent rejection."

Picard shrugged. "I bought the device from a Murani trader. Frankly, I don't know how it works."

Travers cleared his throat. "Well then, I hope you won't mind if Dr. Santos runs a few more scans on it. My engineering staff is fascinated by the technology."

"Of course," the captain said, wondering if he had already damaged history. The power cell and molecular construction techniques used in it would not be invented for many years still.

"Excellent," responded the commodore.

Picard held up a hand. "One question before you go, sir. What planet am I on?"

Travers seemed a little taken aback by the question, but he answered it nonetheless. "Cestus Three, of course."

The captain's breath caught in his throat. Cestus III? Suddenly everything made perfect sense. Both Santos and Travers had seemed familiar to him. Now he knew why. They had been mentioned in the history tapes on the Cestus III ma.s.sacre. Picard fought to keep his voice steady while he asked his final question.

"And what is the stardate?"

The commodore looked at him. "Three-oh-four-one-point-six," he said. "Anything else?"

The captain shook his head. "No. Thank you."

Travers frowned. "In that case, good day, Mister Hill. Doctor Santos, could we have a word outside?"

Picard watched them go, while running the numbers in his head. The calculation took him only a split second, and confirmed his worst fears. In less than four days, the Gorn would attack the colony on Cestus III, killing Commodore Travers, Dr. Santos, and every man, woman, and child in the colony-save for one individual. The captain couldn't remember the name of the survivor, but he was absolutely certain it was not Dixon Hill.

Chapter Four.

FOR PICARD, there was no question of what he needed to do. Escape was his only option. The events on Cestus III would have to unfold without him.

In fact, history would be served best if he kept his contact with the colonists to a minimum. The end was only three days away now and-though it was unfortunate that a colony full of fine people like Dr. Santos would meet such a tragic fate-that fate was nevertheless inevitable.

The only question that remained for him was how to proceed. In three days, the Gorn would arrive, and Picard needed to be far enough away to completely escape their notice.

The captain knew the colony would be ceded to the Gorn after Captain Kirk's first encounter with the reptilian beings. But that agreement would be negotiated by subs.p.a.ce radio without a face-to-face meeting. And, as far as Picard was aware, no Federation personnel would return to Cestus III up until his own time. In fact, shared use of facilities was one of the items on his agenda for the upcoming Gorn summit.

Upcoming, the captain thought. It seemed to him to be only a few days away. In fact, he still felt the nagging need to make his preparations for the meeting-though he had a century, not days, to prepare.

Picard retained hope that he would somehow still be able to fulfill his mission. There was a good possibility that Commander Riker would deduce what had happened to him by examining the alien station and the s.h.i.+p's sensor readings. But would Riker be able to trace his captain's transport through time and s.p.a.ce? Or would his Number One simply a.s.sume that Picard was dead?

Of course, it was possible that the station had been destroyed in the surge that sent the captain here. But if the station had survived, his crew might find a way to use the technology to retrieve him. To prepare for that possibility, Picard would need to find a way to leave a signal that could be found by Starfleet in the future. At the very least, he knew, he had a duty to record what had happened to him and make a final report. But how?

The questions were almost endless. In the midst of them, the captain realized that the only certainty was the fate of the colony. Unless he left the area quickly, his would be the same fate. He needed to begin collecting supplies and planning his escape.

He was almost certainly up to the task from a physical standpoint. After a full night of sleep, he felt refreshed. The pain in his head was gone, and though his immobilized right arm would be a handicap, it would not be a critical one.

Throwing his feet over the side, Picard got out of bed. The infirmary was perhaps seven meters across, with a total of five beds. At the front of the room stood the supply cabinet that Dr. Santos had indicated that morning, when she told him that they had cleaned his clothes-and that they would be returned to him when he was released from her care.

The cabinet was unlocked and full of dressings, bandages, slings, and other innocuous pieces of medical equipment-nothing that would be of much immediate value to him. However, there was a duffel bag on the upper shelf, which he opened to find his uniform neatly folded inside.

Taking the duffel bag with him, the captain ventured into Dr. Santos's adjoining office. The s.p.a.ce appeared to be empty-but to be certain, he called to the doctor in a low voice. When he received no response, he made his way behind her desk and tried the door there. It opened with a push, and Picard could see a small room lined with Santos's more important medical supplies.

Moving quickly, he scanned the place for what he might need. Looking past the drugs and medicines, he located a row of neatly stacked tricorders. Taking one from the back, he moved on to the field medical kit-both pieces of equipment would be extremely useful. There was nothing else he could use at the moment, but he made a mental note to remember the open door.

Returning to Santos's office, Picard carefully closed the closet. Next, he relied on a hunch and began opening the drawers in the doctor's desk. He went through each of them quickly, making an effort not to disturb the contents. Finally, in the back of the bottom drawer, he found what he was looking for.

Pulling out the small type-I phaser, the captain studied the outmoded device-which until then he had only seen in the Fleet museum. The range, accuracy, and battery power would not be nearly as great as the equipment he was used to, but it would suffice for now. With any luck, he wouldn't need to use it at all.

Picard then closed the drawer, making a note of the lax security procedures. The lack of precautions was not out of the ordinary in a small, closed community, where everything was based on trust. That thought caused him a pang of guilt. Not only was he stealing from the colonists, he was doing so in a Starfleet facility-and from a doctor who had been extremely kind to him.

The logical arguments to support what he was doing came quickly to him, but he brushed them aside. The issue was not what was logical or practical, it was a matter of right and wrong. And at the moment, despite duty and compelling necessity, Picard knew that what he was doing violated his personal code of conduct. For that moment, he felt as if he was bringing something dark and sinister to the small secluded colony.

Quickly putting the equipment into the duffel bag, the captain placed it back on the shelf in the supply cabinet near his bed. Then he sat at the desk set aside for patients and turned on the reader. The screen lit up with prompts, but he ignored them and sat in silence.

His wait was not long. In a few minutes, Dr. Santos entered, smiling warmly at the sight of him sitting at the desk.

"You're out of bed," she observed.

"Yes. How soon can we discuss my release?" he asked.

Santos feigned a frown. "I'll a.s.sume you're asking only because you're anxious for activity-and not out of a desire to escape your harsh treatment here."

Picard allowed himself a smile. "You've been very gracious, and my care has been excellent, but I'm anxious to do something."

The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. "In that case, consider yourself released. Your shoulder doesn't need any more attention, just a chance to heal naturally. Give me a moment and I will arrange for temporary quarters for you-although I don't know how long temporary will be." She looked vaguely apologetic. "It's sometimes weeks between supply s.h.i.+ps. And it may be longer than that before you find one going your way. The fact is, you may be with us for a little while."

Picard nodded. "In that case, I will have to try to make myself useful."

Santos shrugged. "If you have any technical skills, I know our chief engineer would love to get his hands on you. And if you stay for a couple of weeks, you'll be here when our sensor array goes on-line. It's actually an exciting time for us." She turned and headed for her office. "Just give me a minute."

The captain found that the smile remained on his face. The doctor had an enthusiasm that was undeniably infectious. But his smile faded a moment later when he realized how short her future would be.

Santos returned a moment later. From the serious cast of her eyes, Picard could tell immediately that something was wrong.

"Commodore Travers has a.s.signed you guest quarters," she announced, not without a hint of cynicism. "He has also a.s.signed you an ... escort. Lieutenant Harold will be here shortly."

The captain could see what was troubling her. The same thing troubled him, though for different reasons-a Starfleet escort would complicate his own plans immeasurably. In the end he said, "The commodore is merely being cautious," keeping his tone noncommittal.

"He's a good commander, but a suspicious man," Santos remarked. Evidently, she hadn't foreseen this turn of events, and she was embarra.s.sed by it.

Picard grunted. "I quite understand. I'm a commander myself, remember. And I have found that there are two ways to face the unknown. One is to embrace it, the other is to proceed with caution. In the past, perhaps, I have lacked caution, which is one of the reasons I'm here-so clearly, caution has its place.

"Besides," he went on, "I have given him a great deal to be suspicious about. And since I have nothing to hide, I certainly don't mind being kept under surveillance." It troubled him to lie so casually, but duty gave him no option.

As it happened, the lie was effective. Santos cheered a bit. "I'm sure it won't be for long," she offered.

At that moment, a young man in a gold lieutenant's uniform entered. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, with dark hair and a serious, earnest expression. It was his escort, Lieutenant Harold. Picard was certain of it.

Santos turned to address the lieutenant, keeping her tone light and informal. "Lieutenant Matthew Harold, may I present Merchant Captain Dixon Hill." The newcomer smiled reflexively and offered his hand. Midway, however, he reconsidered-no doubt troubled by the friendly informality the doctor had initiated with her almost social introduction. To his credit, Harold only hesitated for a moment, and then followed through with his hand.

"Captain," the younger man said, nodding.

"Lieutenant," Picard responded. "But please, my name is Dixon Hill. I'm afraid that with the loss of my s.h.i.+p, the rank has lost most of its meaning for me."

Harold nodded again. "I'm here to escort you to your quarters, which are next to mine. If you need anything or have any questions, I'll be happy to help you."

"Thank you," responded the captain. "I will want to discuss securing pa.s.sage on the next supply s.h.i.+p. In the meantime, perhaps we could discuss the possibility of getting me a.s.signed to one of your technical departments."

Harold seemed taken aback by the captain's friendliness, as much as by the suggestion of an a.s.signment. No doubt, he had expected Picard to act more suspiciously-more like a prisoner.

The captain would need to establish trust with his escort, to gain the kind of freedom of movement his escape plan would require. Santos had unknowingly helped by setting a casual tone. Picard would now have to do his best to follow through.

"And if you don't mind, Lieutenant, I will accompany you both," Santos interjected.

Harold merely nodded, masking any further surprise at the unexpectedly warm atmosphere he'd found in the infirmary.

Then Santos turned to Picard. "Would you like to put your clothing back on? It's in good condition, and you might feel more at home. It's right in the closet here."

"No, thank you," Picard said quickly. If the doctor opened his duffel, his chances of escape would disappear in an instant. "You see, it's my uniform from my s.h.i.+p. At the moment, the a.s.sociations aren't pleasant."

Santos appeared to accept the explanation. "Sorry," she told him. "Give me a moment, all right?" Abruptly, she disappeared into her office and came out with a pair of simple, blue coveralls, the kind that technicians still wore in the twenty-fourth century. Then she reached into the supply cabinet and pulled down the captain's duffel bag. For a moment Picard caught his breath, wondering if she would notice the extra weight. Fortunately, she didn't, and merely placed the duffel and the clothes on his bed.

"Doctor ... did you recover a small gold insignia when you found me?" the captain asked.

Santos considered it. "No, I didn't. Was it important?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Just a sentimental attachment."

"You must have lost it in the rock slide," she decided. "I'd like to tell you that we can look for it, but the area isn't safe."

"Quite all right," Picard responded.

Well, that answered the question of what had happened to his communicator. It was fortunate. The device would have raised questions that he wouldn't have been able to answer without severely compromising the Prime Directive-if not history itself.

Dr. Santos and Lieutenant Harold left, granting him his privacy. Changing out of the infirmary pajamas, the captain took extra care to jostle his right arm as little as possible as he removed the sling and put on the coveralls. When he emerged into the infirmary's outer offices, he found Santos and Harold locked in low conversation.

"Ready," Picard said. The lieutenant offered to carry the duffel bag, but the captain politely declined. Once outside, he was enthralled by the sight of the outpost.

He had studied the raid on Cestus III years before-during his encounter with the Gorn on the Stargazer-so he was familiar with the layout. The compound was basically a semicircle of interconnected, low structures that from a distance looked like a curved wall. But Picard knew that the visible structures were merely the entrances to larger, subterranean buildings. Most of the compound's living and working s.p.a.ce was underground-an effort to avoid the desert heat on the planet's surface.

The infirmary was roughly at the apex of the semicircle. On his left were the residences and dining area. To his right was the life-support section, above which were large globes that Picard identified as sensor relays. Behind and beyond the semicircle, the captain recognized, was the ma.s.sive sensor array, laid out across hundreds of yards of flat plains. Nearby would be the warp generator that ran the array.

Inside the semicircle stood two medium-sized buildings, which Picard knew were the administrative offices and the armory. In between them and farther ahead was the fusion generator that the colony depended on for power. Past the generator, in the distance, the captain could see low mountains.

Picard had expected all of this. Yet somehow, it looked wrong. For a moment, he couldn't place what it was, then it came to him: the colony was alive. The buildings were intact, recently created structures. And they were full of people. Technicians, scientists, and people in civilian clothing working, walking, or just talking to one another.

The few images the captain had seen of Cestus III were taken from Kirk's Enterprise's logs. They showed a devastated compound, scorched with black scars, full of craters and rubble. Much of the basic structure and layout of the colony was visible in these pictures, but barely.