THE VALIANT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Mr. Paxton,” he said, “hail the colony.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the response.

  Almost a minute passed as Paxton tried one frequency after another. Finally, he seemed to hit on the right one.

  “They’re returning our hail,” he told Picard.

  The commander folded his arms across his chest. “On screen.”

  Abruptly, the image on the viewscreen was replaced by that of a long-faced, middle-aged man with thick eyebrows and dark, wavy hair. He seemed to stare at Picard for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Then he smiled.

  “You’re from Earth,” he concluded. “So Daniels and Santana must have reached you.”

  “They did indeed,” Picard confirmed. He identified himself as the commander of the Stargazer.

  “My name is Shield Williamson,” said the colonist. “I’m in charge here. Speaking for everyone, I have to tell you how grateful we are that you chose to help us.”

  “Especially after you led us into a trap,” Picard expanded, hoping to nail down at least that bit of information.

  Williamson’s smile faded. But far from denying the charge, he nodded soberly. “Yes. After that.”

  “I trust the Nuyyad ship we destroyed had something to do with it?” the commander suggested.

  The colonist sighed. “It had everything to do with it.”

  “I would like very much to hear the details,” said Picard. “But first, I need to know if you will assist us. We have suffered considerable damage at the hands of the Nuyyad. We were hoping—”

  “That we could help with repairs?” Williamson spread his hands out. “Absolutely—however we can. As I said, Commander, we’re grateful for what you did for us—especially in light of what happened before.”

  “Thank you,” said Picard.

  “It’s the least we can do,” the colonist told him. “And if I may ask, how are our people—Daniels and Santana?”

  The second officer frowned. “Daniels was detained for security reasons by our Starfleet. There were suspicions about him and Santana, as you seem to have anticipated.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Williamson. “And what of Santana? Is she with you now?”

  “She is,” Picard told him. “However, she was severely injured in the Nuyyad’s ambush.”

  The colonist looked devastated. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes. But she seems to have withdrawn into some sort of coma. Our doctor is at a loss as to—”

  “Our physicians will know how to treat her,” Williamson assured him. “But we’ve got to hurry. Her condition sounds precarious.”

  Picard had no intention of hanging onto Santana if there was any chance her people could help her. She may have led the Stargazer into a deadly trap, but it wasn’t his place to demand an eye for an eye.

  “As you wish,” he replied. “I’ll notify my ship’s surgeon.” He tapped his combadge. “Picard to Greyhorse. We’re going to beam Santana down to the colony.”

  “That’s fine,” came the medical officer’s reply. “I’ll prepare her for transport immediately. But I want to come along, Commander. The woman is my patient, remember.”

  Picard regarded Williamson. “Do you have a problem with Dr. Greyhorse beaming down as well?”

  The colonist looked at him as if he had grown another head. “Beaming down?” he echoed.

  The second officer had forgotten . . . Santana’s people were descended from a crew that left Earth nearly three hundred years earlier. At that time, there were no such things as molecular imaging scanners, phase transition coils, and pattern buffers.

  As Earth pushed out into the galaxy in the twenty-second century, there had been a need for a quick way to board and disembark from spacegoing vessels—and transporter systems had filled that need. However, the colonists might never have been impelled in that direction.

  “It’s a sophisticated procedure,” he explained, “in which a subject is disassembled at the subatomic level, transmitted to another location and reassembled at the other end.”

  Williamson looked at him. “Impressive. And are there any . . . casualties when you employ this technology?”

  “None when the equipment is working correctly,” Picard assured him. “And without question, it would be the fastest way to convey Ms. Santana to your planet’s surface.”

  The colonist hesitated—but only for a moment. “Very well. Where should we expect your medical officer and Santana to arrive?”

  “Where would you like them to arrive?”

  Williamson thought about it. “What about the plaza outside our central medical facility? It’s shaped like a hexagon and it sits between two of our tallest towers.”

  Picard glanced at his communications officer. “Mr. Paxton?”

  Paxton responded without looking up. “I’m relaying the information to Lieutenant Vandermeer now, sir.”

  “Actually,” Williamson interjected, “you may want to consider accompanying your medical officer. At some point, Commander, you and I will need to speak in person. It might as well be now.”

  “Sir,” said Paxton, before Picard could give the colonist an answer, “Lieutenant Vandermeer says she’s located the hexagonal plaza.”

  “Acknowledged,” the second officer responded.

  Ben Zoma, who had returned to the engineering console, whispered, “You’re not going down there without a security escort, are you?”

  Picard glanced at him. It was the type of sentiment he might have expressed to Captain Ruhalter just a few days earlier. But somehow, it sounded less urgent when one was on the other side of the rail.

  He turned back to the colonist. “I would like to take you up on that,” he said diplomatically. “However, I am not the only one who would like to speak with you.”

  “Bring whomever you wish,” Williamson responded. “Even a security team, if you feel you need one. But as you’ll see, Commander, we no longer have any reason to deceive you.”

  After their experience with Santana, Picard had no business believing Williamson. But for some reason, he did.

  Chapter 11

  Evening had already fallen on the colonists’ continent when Jean-Luc Picard and his entourage beamed down from the Stargazer.

  The second officer could have accompanied Greyhorse and Santana to the medical facility as he originally intended. However, he had instead accepted Shield Williamson’s invitation to meet him in his offices.

  Picard was instantly pleased that he had made that choice. Looking out from a semicircular balcony, he found himself gazing at the most impressive city he had ever seen.

  It was sleek, elegant, magnificent in scale . . . a titanic landscape of hundred-story-high buildings with proud, rounded shoulders and breathtaking, sky-spanning footbridges, cast in soft pinks and yellows by an abundance of tethered, softly glowing globes.

  Hovercars of different sizes and shapes sailed effortlessly through the spired landscape, looking like graceful, exotic fish in the depths of an alien ocean. As for foliage . . . dark blue trees and shrubs were everywhere, defining spacious, ground-level plazas and overhanging public balconies, filling the air with a pleasant, slightly tart fragrance.

  Picard had never been here before. And yet, it seemed to him that he had been here, or at least someplace very much like it.

  And he knew why. As a cadet at Starfleet Academy, he had studied many things—archaeology, drama, and astrophysics, to name a few. He had also developed more than a passing interest in architecture.

  In the year 2064, a year before the S.S. Valiant left Earth orbit, a Frenchman named Goimard had unveiled his vision for rebuilding a world that had been wracked by its third World War. Unfortunately—at least from Picard’s point of view—that vision had only blossomed in dribs and drabs, a series of perhaps thirty buildings in nearly as many locations.

  Evidently, he reflected, one of the Valiant’s survivors had been a Goimard aficionado—because here, on a planet a great many
light-years from Earth, the Frenchman’s dream had been realized in all its glory. Picard felt compelled to smile at the irony.

  “Not bad for a ragtag band of survivors,” Ben Zoma quipped.

  “They’ve had almost three hundred years to build,” Picard reminded him. “This place could be thirty years older than our colony on Mars.”

  “Welcome to Magnia,” said Williamson.

  The second officer turned and saw their host approaching them through a wide, arched set of sliding doors. In person, Williamson was considerably taller than he had appeared on the viewscreen. He was also alone—a clear demonstration of trust.

  Picard smiled. “Magnia,” he said, letting the word roll off his tongue. “Goimard’s name for his perfect city.”

  The colonist’s eyebrows shot up. “You know his work?”

  “I do,” said the second officer. “And frankly, I’m delighted to see it expressed here so faithfully. No doubt, Goimard himself would have been delighted as well.”

  “We like to think so,” Williamson replied.

  “How is Santana?” Picard inquired.

  The colonist’s expression sobered. “She suffered considerable damage. However, our physicians tell me she’ll be all right.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Williamson indicated the arched doorway with a gesture. “Shall we?” he said, and led the way.

  His offices were expansive, with rounded, pastel-colored furniture, ornate moldings, and an entire wall full of oval monitors. Each screen showed them a repair effort in a particular part of the city.

  Picard looked at their host. “Your defenses, I take it?”

  “Yes,” said Williamson. “I dispatched teams to our shield generators as soon as I knew that the Nuyyad were gone.” He gazed critically at one screen in particular. “Unfortunately, they’re not gone for good. The Nuyyad are eventually going to figure out what happened to their ship—and when they do, they’ll be merciless.”

  Picard had no doubt of it. After all, he had experienced the Nuyyad’s propensity for violence firsthand.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to plan for that contingency?” the colonist asked him optimistically.

  The second officer shook his head. “I must admit, I have not. However, I am of the mind that Magnia and the Stargazer can help each other out of this predicament . . . if they so choose.”

  “Rest assured,” Williamson told him earnestly, “my people will do anything you require of them.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that. Mainly, we are in need of parts to replace those the Nuyyad destroyed. Though I realize your technologies and ours may have developed along different lines, I am hopeful that you either have the necessary parts on hand or can manufacture them for us.”

  The colonist shrugged. “I would be glad to have my engineers take a look at the specifications.”

  “And in return,” said Picard, glancing at the oval screens, “we will see what we can do to expedite your repair schedule.”

  Williamson nodded. “That would be much appreciated.”

  “Are you familiar with the Kelvans?” Ben Zoma asked.

  Unexpectedly, the other man’s expression seemed to sour. “I am,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “We have a Kelvan on board,” Ben Zoma explained, “an engineer named Jomar who seems to know Nuyyad tactical systems pretty well. You may want to consult with him.”

  Williamson didn’t answer right away.

  “Judging by your expression and your silence,” Picard asked, “am I to infer that you’ve had conflicts with the Kelvans?”

  The colonist frowned. “They’re not the Nuyyad,” he said, “I’ll grant you that. But those few we’ve met have been arrogant and untrustworthy in their dealings with us.”

  Picard smiled. “Jomar can be arrogant at times. On the other hand, he’s absolutely dedicated to stopping the Nuyyad from invading the Federation. If I were you, I would take advantage of that dedication.”

  Williamson thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. In the interest of working together, we’ll welcome this Jomar as well.”

  “Good,” said Picard. “But before we work out the details, I would like to know more about the Nuyyad’s interest in your world . . . as it may shape some of our tactical decisions.”

  “Of course.”

  “From what I have seen so far,” the second officer went on, “the Nuyyad did not have any presence here on your planet’s surface. They seemed content to remain on their vessel.”

  “That’s true,” the colonist responded.

  “Then why bother to come here at all?” asked Ben Zoma.

  Williamson smiled ruefully. “Actually,” he said, “it was your fault. Your Federation’s, I mean.”

  Picard was surprised. “The Federation’s?”

  “That’s right,” the colonist told him. “A short time ago, the Nuyyad got wind of your existence—apparently, from a species that routinely crosses the galactic barrier. They’re known as the Liharon.”

  Picard nodded. “Yes . . . I am familiar with the Liharon. They are traders, for the most part.”

  “They trade, all right,” said Williamson. “But not material goods. Their main business is information.”

  Again, the Earthman was surprised. “The Liharon are spies? No one in Starfleet has ever suspected . . .”

  “Of course not,” said the colonist. “If everyone knew the Liharon for what they are, they wouldn’t be very effective.”

  “I guess not,” Ben Zoma allowed.

  Williamson continued. “Once the Nuyyad knew something about the Federation, they couldn’t help seeing it as a potential conquest. But before they could launch a military offensive on the other side of the barrier, they needed to know more about your defensive capabilities.”

  The second officer began to understand. “And even the Liharon couldn’t obtain that kind of data. Then someone pointed out the similarities between your people and the human species . . .”

  “Exactly,” said the colonist. “An intrusion into our database confirmed the connection. We were human, the Nuyyad discovered. Even better, we shared a common history with Federation humans. And if we sent a plea for help to the Federation, it would likely be answered.”

  Picard grunted thoughtfully. “So it was our fault that the Nuyyad were drawn to you.”

  Williamson smiled again. “As I said. Mind you, none of us wanted to cooperate with them. We had no desire to be part of their plans for conquest. However, we had little choice in the matter.”

  “Because the Nuyyad had taken your world hostage,” Ben Zoma observed.

  “Yes,” said the colonist. “Once they had us where they wanted us, they went through our records. After a while, they selected two ‘volunteers’ on the basis of intelligence and resourcefulness.”

  “Daniels and Santana,” said Picard.

  “Daniels and Santana,” Williamson confirmed. “They were to visit Federation territory and lure a Starfleet vessel out past the barrier.”

  “Judas goats,” Ben Zoma noted.

  “Yes,” said the colonist. “Though quite unwillingly. After all, they hated the Nuyyad species and all it stood for. However, the alternative to cooperation was to see their families and friends tortured to death, and that was too bloody a scenario for either of them to contemplate.”

  Picard couldn’t help sympathizing with Santana’s plight. Had he been given the same choice by the Nuyyad, he would have had a difficult time deciding which road to take.

  “I hope you understand,” said Williamson, “how terrible we feel about this. We’re a proud people. The notion of being forced to do something against our will is anathema to us.”

  Picard nodded. “And the fact that you were betraying your own species must have made it even more difficult.”

  The remark elicited an unexpected change in the colonist’s demeanor. He seemed aloof for a moment, almost resentful. However, he continued to look the Starfleet
officer in the eye.

  “Clearly,” he said, “we didn’t warm to the prospect of deceiving anyone. But to be perfectly honest, Commander Picard . . . we feel no more kinship with Earth than we do with any other inhabited world.”

  At first, the second officer thought he might have heard incorrectly. Then he saw the boggled expression on Ben Zoma’s face.

  “And why is that?” Picard asked the colonist.

  Williamson shrugged. “Put yourself in our ancestors’ positions. You’ve risked your life to push out your people’s boundaries, to further Earth’s knowledge of the galaxy. And yet, when you fail to return, what does your homeworld do for you?

  “Does it plan a rescue? Does it dispatch another vessel to go after you, to see if there were any survivors of your flight? Even after Federation technology allows your people to cross the bar rier unscathed, does even one Earth ship come out here to determine your fate?”

  “The Valiant’s captain sent out a message buoy,” Picard noted. “It suggested that he was going to destroy his ship.”

  “And that was enough?” Williamson asked evenly. “Nobody cared enough to pursue the matter further?”

  There was little the commander could say to that. “Apparently not,” he conceded, feeling a twinge of shame on the Federation’s behalf.

  The colonist spread his hands out. “Then I ask you . . . is it any wonder we no longer feel any particular kinship with Earth? Is it a surprise that we’ve come to see ourselves as a separate civilization . . . even a separate species in some respects?”

  Picard saw Williamson’s point. As far as the Magnians were concerned, Earth and its people were a distant memory . . . and under the circumstances, not an especially sweet one.

  Of course, he still didn’t approve of what Santana had done. It was still an act of treachery that had cost some of his comrades their lives. However, he understood now why she was willing to contemplate it.

  “I would like to return to my ship now,” said Picard, “and put together the engineering teams that will help you.”

  “Excellent,” Williamson told him. “And I will put some teams together to help you.”