Part 8 (1/2)
”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.