by Various
A nearby guard watched Picard’s face as the nameless prisoner was tortured only a few yards away, but Picard refused to give the smirking soldier the reaction he was surely hoping for. He maintained a stony expression, even as he winced inwardly at the pitiable noises coming from his fellow human. Had the door deliberately been left open for his benefit? Picard wouldn’t put it past the spoonheads. Gul Madred loved his mind games.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the brutal session came to an end. Picard watched stoically as two Cardassian soldiers dragged the naked prisoner past him. “Five lights,” the man mumbled weakly, only half conscious. “I see five lights….”
What’s that all about? Picard wondered. He hoped he never found out.
“Come in, Luc,” Gul Madred called from his office. “I’m ready for you now.”
Pushing the tortured man from his mind, Picard entered the chamber. The bare steel walls gave the room a forbidding feel. Yellow sunlight, filtered through translucent crystal windows, failed to relieve the gloomy atmosphere. The hanging manacles had mercifully been retracted into the ceiling, yet the prisoner’s gasps and moans still echoed within Picard’s skull. A single drop of human blood glistened upon the floor.
“Welcome back, Luc.” Gul Madred sat behind a large obsidian desk, beneath an array of unlit spotlights. The Cardassian’s phlegmatic tone belied the hospitality of his greeting. Time and responsibility had weathered his reptilian features. “I trust you have something for me.”
“Indeed.” Picard extracted the Stone from his carryall and laid it atop Madred’s desk. “Another fragment of the fabled Stone of Gol, just as I promised.”
Madred examined the relic. “So I see. An excellent addition to my collection.” A scaly finger traced the glyphs carved upon the Stone. “From the so-called Time of Awakening, over four thousand years ago.”
Two thousand, Picard thought irritably. Although Madred fancied himself quite the scholar, Picard secretly considered the Cardie no more than an archeological dilettante. Still, as he depended on the gul to subsidize his expeditions, he declined to correct his patron. Dealing with Madred was the price he paid to continue his work. He regretted having to hand over the artifact to Madred, as he had the Sword of Kahless, the Orb of Prophecy, and so many others, but at least he’d had the opportunity to examine and catalog the Stone fragment extensively before it disappeared into Madred’s private collection. Picard’s workstation back aboard Stargazer was currently buried beneath copious notes and diagrams.
“I’d guard that carefully,” he advised Madred. “According to legend, the intact Stone of Gol was a weapon of considerable power.” The location of the third and final component remained a mystery, but it couldn’t hurt to keep the other two pieces safely under lock and key, just in case. “Some scholars believe that the device was actually a powerful psionic resonator that amplified a Vulcan’s natural telepathic abilities to a lethal degree.”
“Superstitious nonsense.” Madred dismissed Picard’s concerns with a wave of his hand. He placed the Stone down on his desk, next to the authentic Veltan sex idol he used as a paperweight. “Cardassian science has conclusively proven that the Vulcans’ vaunted ‘powers of the mind’ amount to little more than cheap parlor tricks. The Alliance has nothing to fear from primitive myths and propaganda.”
Picard bit down on his lip. Experience had taught him that there was nothing to be gained by challenging the Alliance’s revisionist approach to history. “It was only a theory.”
“Of course,” Madred said affably. “Don’t be too embarrassed, Luc. It’s hardly your fault that your own ignorant species never saw past the Vulcans’ smoke and mirrors.” He poured himself a cup of steaming fish juice from a thermos on his desk. “Now then, what do you have in mind for your next expedition?”
Picard stepped forward eagerly. This was the part of the meeting he had been waiting for, the part that made all the rest worthwhile. “I have a lead—a strong one—on the location of a genuine Native American colony on an unnamed planet somewhere in Sector V-17. According to reliable reports, the people on this planet still live much as the ancient Mohicans did on Earth over eight centuries ago.” He didn’t bother to conceal the excitement in his voice. There was so much that could be learned from such an isolated community, if it truly existed. “We could be talking about living history here.”
“I see.” Madred sounded underwhelmed. “And would these hypothetical throwbacks have produced any valuable artwork or jewelry? Are they likely to possess any artifacts of historic importance?”
“Well, that depends on how you define importance,” Picard hedged. If only he could convince Gul Madred of the magnitude of such a discovery! “Just observing their way of life could be of incalculable value in illuminating the past, not only of the human race, but of other early tribal cultures.”
Madred shook his head. “I sincerely doubt that there is anything of value to be learned from some debased remnant of Terran civilization.” He sighed wearily. “Luc, Luc, we’ve had this conversation before. Nobody’s interested in the failed history of your undistinguished breed. The Vulcans, at least, gave birth to the Romulan Star Empire, but the human race has left no legacy worth noting. And I certainly do not employ you to go digging through the dirt for crude beads and stone knives.” Picard started to object, but Madred raised his hand to forestall any further discussion. “I admire your persistence, but better that you focus your energies on recovering legitimate archeological treasures.” He fondled the Stone on his desk. “Like, perhaps, the third component of this intriguing little item?”
Picard’s shoulders sagged in defeat. I should have known better than to raise my hopes, he thought bitterly. Madred had never shown any interest in the history of mankind and its short-lived Empire. I was wasting my breath.
“I’ll get right on that,” he acquiesced. “Let me get back to my research.”
“That’s the spirit, Luc,” Madred said. The Stone of Gol component disappeared into a drawer beneath the polished black desktop. “Make it so.”
Picard’s mood was dark as he trudged back to the spaceport. This was hardly the first time that Gul Madred had shot down Picard’s own archeological agenda. The acquisitive Cardassian had also consistently refused to sponsor any investigation into the theories of the late Richard Galen, Picard’s deceased mentor. Although entirely self-educated and lacking any academic standing within the Alliance, Galen had known more about galactic history than any expert Picard had ever met, human or otherwise. Buried anger simmered deep inside him as he recalled how Galen had been executed years ago because of his “seditious” theory that the Cardassians and the Klingons shared a common genetic heritage with the human race. Part of Picard had never forgiven the Alliance for Galen’s death…and for the way they had stonewalled any further research in that direction.
No wonder Madred vetoed the Mohican expedition, he thought. I was a fool to ever think he would do otherwise.
No overbearing Klingons accosted him upon his return to Stargazer, for which Picard was grateful. Wesley, who was camped out in front of the ship, sprang to his feet as he approached. “Everything’s just the way you left it, Luc,” he proclaimed loudly. “Nobody’s going to mess with Stargazer while I’m around.”
“Thanks for looking after her for me.” Picard tossed the teenager another coin, as was their tradition. “Now go find yourself something to eat…and don’t spend it all on Thalian chocolate.”
Wesley licked his lips. “Chocolate. What a great idea!” He scurried away before Picard could lecture him on the importance of proper nutrition. He winked impishly at the older man. “See you later, Luc!”
“Au revoir, you scamp.” Picard smiled and shook his head as the urchin disappeared into the dusty streets beyond the spaceport. Life couldn’t be easy for the orphaned lad; like so many children of the street, he didn’t even know who his father was. Yet Wesley never seemed to let his impoverished existence weigh down his spirits. Picard
envied his exuberance. I could do worse than follow his example.
He was surprised to find the lights on inside Stargazer. He frowned, certain that he had powered down the vessel before setting out earlier. His eyes searched the central cabin, which served as both his living quarters and office. Nothing appeared to be amiss, but he warily retrieved his disruptor pistol from a concealed compartment beneath a counter. Weapon in hand, he stalked through the cabin, on guard against any possible intruder. He glanced at his workstation over by the starboard bulkhead. Star charts and data padds still littered the desktop. Ship’s life support provided relief from the torrid heat outside. Wadded sheets lay in a heap atop his empty bunk.
A loose tile squeaked behind him and he whirled around, his finger tightening on the trigger of his weapon. Before he fired, however, a familiar figure emerged from the rear cargo compartment. His eyes widened as he recognized the slender brunette standing in the doorway.
“Really, Jean-Luc,” Vash chided him. “Is that any way to greet the love of your life?”
“Former love,” he corrected her. “Your idea, as I recall.” He relaxed his trigger finger, but did not lower the weapon. “How did you get past Wesley?”
“He’s a teenage boy,” she said with a shrug. “I bribed him. How else?” A two-piece khaki jumpsuit clung to her athletic physique. “Plus, I convinced him that you wouldn’t be too upset to find an attractive woman waiting for you.” She struck a vampish pose. “There may have also been just the tiniest bit of Vulcan massage involved.”
Picard remembered Vash’s nimble fingers. Poor Wesley never stood a chance. “Robbing the cradle are we now?”
“Beats robbing tombs,” she shot back. Chestnut eyes flashed defiantly, not at all intimidated by the weapon aimed at her head. “I assume you’re still plundering the galaxy for your Cardie masters?”
“I am conducting important archeological research under the best terms I can manage, given the harsh realities of the universe we live in.” He bristled at her accusation. “What about you?” he challenged her. “Are you still risking your life in some quixotic attempt to overthrow the Alliance?”
“The Resistance is this galaxy’s last hope for freedom,” she declared passionately. “You’d know that if you weren’t too busy collaborating with the enemy.” Her harsh words seemed to catch her by surprise, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. When she spoke again, her husky voice sounded more tired than angry. “Please, Jean-Luc, let’s not have the same old fight all over again.” Plaintive eyes entreated him. “Put down that disruptor.”
Picard had to admit that she had a point. He was disappointed at how quickly they had fallen back into the same ugly argument. It hadn’t always been that way, he remembered. He and Vash had once traveled the galaxy together, before splitting up over politics. Sometimes he almost convinced himself that he didn’t miss her.
He lowered the disruptor and tucked it into his belt. “Hello, Vash,” he said softly. “What brings you my way after all this time?”
“Can’t a girl just drop in on her ex for old times’ sake?”
I doubt it, he thought, but didn’t feel like pressing the issue just yet. Vash would surely make her true intentions known when the time came. “I suppose.” He gestured at a nearby seat. “Make yourself at home. More so than you already have, that is.”
“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” She was the only person who ever called him by his full name. Ignoring the proffered chair, she sat down on the edge of his bunk instead. “I don’t mind if I do.”
Her eyes surveyed the cluttered cabin, lingering on the handwritten notes strewn about his workspace. “You look like you’ve been keeping busy.”
“Collaborating is a full-time occupation,” he said dryly. He didn’t ask her how she had been occupying her time lately. The less he knew about her subversive activities, the better for both of them. “Pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
Wesley owes me a coin, he thought. Some watchdog he turned out to be.
She smoothed out the crumpled sheets beneath her. “You don’t need to clean up for me,” she teased him. “I already know what a terrible housekeeper you are.” Her gaze drifted to a star chart affixed to the port bulkhead. “So, have you made any progress on the Iconian front?”
“That’s still a tough nut to crack,” he admitted, “but I’ve been working on a new approach.” He didn’t volunteer the details; why share his secrets with the Resistance? “Nothing I’m ready to discuss yet, though.”
Vash took the hint and changed the subject. She nodded at an old-fashioned bottle of wine carefully stored upon a nearby shelf. A miniature stasis field protected the glass bottle from breakage. “I see you still haven’t opened the ’47.”
“I’m saving it for a special occasion,” he insisted. A recurring pang stabbed at his heart. As far as he knew, the fragile bottle contained the last surviving sample of Château Picard in existence. His family’s ancestral vineyards had been long ago confiscated by the Alliance. An ore-processing plant now occupied the once-green farmlands. His brother’s bones were buried somewhere beneath the plant. Stubborn to the last, Robert had foolishly tried to defend the winery against the occupying forces. Picard had never been able to find out what had become of his brother’s wife and child. Doubtless they had ended up dead or enslaved.
The solitary bottle was all that remained of his family’s heritage.
Vash knew all this, of course. He half expected her to launch into another spirited call to arms against the Alliance, but instead she merely eyed him sadly, sharing his pain. “Maybe someday you’ll have something to celebrate,” she whispered.
“Perhaps.” He made an effort to shake off the melancholy coming over him, if only for his visitor’s sake. “We can only hope.”
She patted the edge of the bunk, inviting him to join her. Her voice took on a more playful tone. “Speaking of celebrations, remember the time we ‘christened’ this ship right after we moved in?”
“How could I forget?” The memories stirred his senses, especially with Vash’s long legs stretched out in front of him. “As I recall, we did quite a thorough job of it, from the cockpit to the cargo hold.” He sat down beside her, acutely aware of her lithe body next to his. Proximity alarms went off in his head. “So, are you…seeing…anyone these days? Aside from Wesley, I mean.”
“What can I say?” she joked. “His ragged attire drove me wild.” She eyed him slyly. “What about you? I hope I’m not cramping your style by showing up without notice. You sure you aren’t expecting any special visitor this afternoon?”
“Hardly.” He had not exactly been celibate since she had left him, yet his occasional liaisons had been fleeting and superficial. No woman, of whatever species, had ever filled the hole that Vash had left in his life. “I had only long hours of diligent study in front of me.”
“Well then, thank goodness I came along to rescue you.” Turning toward him, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him. His mouth found hers, and he savored the intoxicating taste of her lips. He inhaled her familiar fragrance. The gravitational tug of her presence was irresistible.
This is a mistake, Picard thought, even as she pulled him down onto the unmade bed. Her hands deftly undid his belt and tossed his disruptor aside. It clanked harmlessly to the floor. Picard barely noticed.
His modest bunk was not large, but it was large enough….
“Why are you really here?” he asked her afterward.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The squalid tavern had been set up inside an abandoned dilithium refinery, and most of its furnishings looked as if they had been salvaged from a junkyard. Empty valves and conduits ran across the ceiling. The corroded steel walls were patched with crumbling thermoconcrete. A ceiling fan, constructed from a discarded turbine, fought a losing battle against the muggy atmosphere. Metal grates covered the floor, providing a degree of traction despite the spilled drinks and puddles of spit. A homemade
still chugged behind the bar, dispensing a crude alcoholic concoction that bore little resemblance to the exquisite vintages once produced by Château Picard. Metal crates and barrels served as tables. Portable lights glowed feebly atop the tables.
The clientele consisted mostly of human laborers, trying to get drunk as cheaply and efficiently as possible on the bar’s dubious spirits. A handful of Andorians, Tellarites, Bolians, Deltans, and other subject races were mixed in with the humans. The scruffy-looking patrons huddled around the makeshift tables, muttering among themselves. Mandatory patches on their soiled coveralls identified their planets of origin. Klingons and Cardassians were conspicuously absent; the elite of the Alliance wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.
Picard wondered what he was doing here. Against his better judgment, he let Vash lead him to a murky corner far from the front entrance, where an elderly stranger was seated behind an upright steel drum that, according to a faded Klingon label, had once held biomimetic waste. Vash slid in beside the man and waited for Picard to join them. Three tarnished tin mugs rested atop the lid of the barrel.
“Jean-Luc Picard, meet Noonien Soong.”
He peered across the table at perhaps the oldest human he had ever met. Deep wrinkles creased Soong’s face. Age spots peppered sere brown skin that reminded Picard of crinkled papyrus. A worn burlap overcoat was draped over his hunched shoulders. Wisps of thin white hair clung to his cranium. Under Alliance rule, the average life expectancy for humans had been declining for years, but Soong had to be in his eighties at least. Picard was impressed despite himself.
“Pleased to meet you,” Soong said in a dry croak of a voice. “I took the liberty of ordering our drinks, such as they are.” Alert gray eyes belied his obvious age and infirmity. “The lovely Vash speaks highly of you.”