by Diane Carey
Picard was glad. Whatever happened, this terrible personal ordeal would be over. Then, in a moment of silly realization, he remembered that Kirk hadn’t died here and now.
How absurd to have forgotten!
The transporter room fell quiet, but for the soft thrum of contained power. How long would it take? Picard didn’t know about these old-style devices. They were more touchy than transporting in his time, he knew that much.
Behind the console, Spock seemed almost to fidget. McCoy did, without trying to hide the fact. He glanced at Spock, but restrained himself from urging. Apparently the process needed a certain amount of time. Were they guessing?
Then one light, only one, came on near Spock’s left hand. He instantly enabled the transporter process, and the sparkling lights appeared again where two Kirks had been standing before.
Softly, peacefully, as though to apologize for having been broken, the transporter beams were almost musical as Captain James Kirk materialized and stood upon the platform—alone.
No one spoke. Picard held his breath. How much damage had been done? Would the captain need therapy? Treatment? Counseling? Would Spock take command for a time?
Kirk blinked, wobbled a step, looked at Spock, at McCoy.
Finally, McCoy could stand it no longer. He leaned forward and gasped, “Jim?”
The word was almost like a slap in the quiet room, but Jim Kirk drew a tight breath and stepped down from the transporter. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and ordered, “Get those men up here fast!”
Relieved and not hesitant to show it, Spock nodded forcefully. “Right away, Captain.”
Kirk stepped out of the way, and McCoy went to the console and started ordering a medical unit to come up to the transporter room.
Stepping to Kirk’s side, Picard said, “Congratulations. I’m glad it’s over for you.”
“Over?” Kirk clenched his fists. “I still have to live with that part of me . . . knowing what I’m like without him. He took away everything that made me strong. Everything that let me make quick decisions. Everything that made me protect myself, my ship, my principles—”
“Your intellectual half came to understand the value of the brute,” Picard said. “The brute never learned the same. He thought he was better that way. The intelligent part of you was the part that learned something.”
“That’s what intellect does,” Kirk said, watching the transporter platform as three of his crumpled, half-frozen landing party materialized. “It makes the future wider than just today.”
“Yes,” Picard agreed. “Captain, I owe you an apology. I was laboring under a legend. I never saw you as having doubts to overcome.”
“What kind of man doesn’t?”
“I don’t know.” Finding himself smiling, Picard said, “But suddenly I feel rather better about myself too. And I understand now that you never lost your edge because your talents and your heart’s desire were the same. You wanted to be the commander of a ship. I had the talent to command, but my heart’s desire had too many other attractions. That’s why I’ve avoided the admirality. The same as you. And why Riker avoids senior command. That rule about captains being too important to go on away missions—yes, yes, that’s it. We who make the decisions want to share the risks. I do want command more than anything else. Until today I never really knew why.”
“Now you do.”
Picard squared his shoulders, feeling better than he had in years, and smiled. “Captain Kirk . . . thank you most sincerely. May I shake your hand? I never did that, and I believe I should.”
Kirk’s hand was warm, his handshake tight and confident. A good grip, and the feeling sustained Picard in his new decisions.
Then a knock came on the outer wall. “Captain! Captain Picard? How does this door open?”
“Captain Reynolds, one moment. I’m coming. Computer, end program.”
He watched with satisfaction and some regret as James Kirk nodded in companionable farewell, and the program disappeared. Once again he was in the simple yellow-lined black grid of this small holodeck.
“Door open,” he said.
Captain Reynolds came in just as Picard added, “End program,” and now they were standing in the empty holodeck grid.
“We’re entering Cardassian jurisdiction,” Reynolds informed Picard. “How do you want to handle this?”
“I was intending to go in and negotiate. That’s all over. I don’t feel like negotiating anymore. Change course immediately. And give your men the sidearms I provided.”
Chip Reynolds paled a bit with the realization that things weren’t going to go smoothly. To his credit, he made no argument and didn’t waste time with questions.
“Whatever you say . . . it’s your charter.”
Picard stepped to the holodeck computer access and removed the cartridges of James Kirk’s logs. “And give these back to Mr. Riker. I won’t be needing them anymore.”
In a ship detached far from superior authority, there was nothing a captain might not do . . .
Hornblower and the Atropos
Chapter 20
“You!”
“Yes. It’s me. Picard. Jean-Luc. SP dash nine three seven dash two one five.”
“Son of . . . Yvette and Maurice Picard . . . born Labarre, France . . . former captain of the Stargazer—”
“Former captain of the Enterprise-D.”
“Ah . . . I hadn’t heard. Do you mean to have revenge on me? Will you torture me in return for what I did to you? Picard, you’re a peacock pretending to be a hawk. You’re not the type for revenge. I know that much.”
“You’re right. Revenge would never be motivation enough for what I’m about to do.”
“And what is that? Go ahead and do it.”
“First, Madred, I’ll tell you why.”
“Tell.”
Cardassia’s most famous interrogator cautiously remained seated behind his desk. To stand would be to give something away. Mustn’t have that.
Before him, Jean-Luc Picard strolled slowly into the large expanse of the interrogation room without glancing around. Of course, Picard knew the lay of this place. He had spent many severe hours here.
“There are several Starfleet and Federation spacefarers missing in or near Cardassian space,” Picard said tonelessly, “and we know you have some of them held hostage as you held me. You have them, and I want them back.”
Madred kept his hands upon his desk, knowing that Picard would know about the signaling device under the desk. Certainly the captain had anticipated that. This ruse of being alone here was not Picard’s way. He was a team man.
So where was the team?
“What makes today different from yesterday?” Madred asked, prodding for information.
“The difference is the Klingons,” Picard said. “They’ve set their sites on Cardassia for war. You know it and so do I. If the Klingons attack Cardassia, you’re going to need the Federation at your side. At the very least, our neutrality. You’re holding Captain Kaycee Fernando of the escort ship U.S.S. Durant, his command staff, and several of his crew. You’re also holding, we believe, Captain Brent Atherton and the survivors of wreckage from the satellite tender Tuscany. Starfleet patrols recovered wreckage of both ships, including several dead personnel and evidence of Cardassian presence aboard.”
“Silly magic. You have no such evidence.”
“On the contrary, you underestimate Starfleet forensic analysis capabilities.”
Studying Picard’s manner for vindicatory hints, Madred decided not to prod for details of forensic tricks. In Picard’s pale face and smooth brow, his simple black commando clothing and cool self-control, Madred saw a reflection of how physically different their peoples really were—his own steel-gray face, its corded features and scaly exterior arteries, his typical Cardassian uniform of metallic fibers . . . many differences.
Picard was not wearing a Starfleet uniform, but commando fatigues instead. Madred wondered whether that was for his b
enefit, or Picard’s. Was this a covert mission? Had Picard snuck into Cardassian space? How had he gotten past the portmaster’s armed guard ships? Had he stowed away somehow?
Interesting questions. Madred restrained himself from asking them outright. The answers would come, slowly, with time.
As Picard approached the other side of the desk, Madred felt a queasy commonality with this man. They were both humanoid, of course, as Starfleet tended to put it. Arms, legs, heads, a face with two eyes, a nose, a mouth—in a galaxy of uncounted bizarre life-forms, they were practically twins. They had similar ambitions, desires, and needs, which Madred regularly preyed upon and knew very well. He could distill most humanoids down to the common needs and fears—Terrans, Romulans, Klingons, even other Cardassians.
A flashing memory of those Cardassians he had tortured came unbidden into his mind. He shook it off.
Picard was looking at him with a slightly scolding expression now.
“Did you really think,” the captain asked, “that drinking tea in front of me would make me talk to you?”
Madred tipped his head in a shrug. “Simple, but often effective to the thirsting. After all, I’d left you hanging from the ceiling all night. I’d blistered your innards with my subcutaneous implement—”
“Yes, your pain device is gaining legendary status. Not for its innovation, but for your tired use of it. I had no information to give you, Madred. At least, not about what you were asking. It’s a torturer’s biggest problem. What happens when your victim really doesn’t know? How do you live with yourself?”
“I do well enough. Of course, I’m not a heat-treated dandy like you, so I must have trouble in life. We can’t all be Picards, can we? I suppose it’s an occupational hazard of mine that one of you would eventually come back for revenge. It’s the nature of my work, you see.”
“I told you,” Picard clarified, “I’m not here for revenge. What you did to me simply wasn’t bad enough to go to all this bother. I’ve had worse heckling from petty criminals I’ve arrested. Otherwise, what’s a little physical discomfort? Some spasms and cramps?” He flexed his fingers and looked at them. “I seem to still have all my digits, all my limbs . . . you weren’t even atrocious enough to maim me. You thought you were debasing me by stripping my clothing off? You forgot I’d been through Starfleet Academy hazing. Just keep your hands on the desk—”
“I will.”
Madred pressed his palms to the glossy desktop. He had inadvertantly lowered one hand to his lap, but even if he could reach the signal button, he didn’t want to do that yet. He was interested in what Picard was saying, and in why.
They had spent many hours together. Madred had plumbed for Picard’s inner weakness and found a most uncomplex man with a great deal of grudgeful determination. The captain was also stoutly unimpetuous. His presence here had no doubt been long considered. Madred kept that in mind. He would have to think quickly and be very careful in order to match Picard’s preparation.
To that end, he said nothing, but let the captain continue to speak. Such moments as this tended to make truths bubble to the surface.
“When you told me the Enterprise was burning in space,” Picard went on, “I knew you were lying. You were just too casual about it. Too neutral. You should’ve pretended regret, acted sympathetic, even embarrassed. Maybe begun to unshackle me. I might’ve swallowed that. But you showed nothing but the satisfaction of telling me, so I knew you were lying. You also promised to kill me, but then you didn’t. I had no reason to pay attention to you after that. You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, even to captives.”
“Good advice,” Madred accepted. “I’ll put it down in my book of wisdom from inelastic ninnies.”
Very odd . . . he had expected to see some retaliatory deviltry in Picard’s manner by now, but there still was none. Picard spoke of those hours of torture with the same impassivity Madred himself might have used. There was no rancor in the man. Or perhaps that was an act. Picard must be trying to vex Madred by pretending to be unaffected by those hours. That was it—trying to make Madred feel ineffective, something quite annoying to a skilled artisan.
Yes, that was it.
Madred shuddered down an instant of personal fear. Picard might be calm because he was planning something brutal. That happened sometimes. Madred was usually very calm when he had made up his mind about something. Picard might be the same kind of man. They had found themselves matched once before. Picard had not broken down.
Of course, Madred hadn’t had a chance to finish before the game was raided.
“Remember what you said to me?” Picard went on when Madred said nothing else. “ ‘Enemies deserve their fate.’ You said Jil Orra had been raised with that. Oh, yes, even through the haze I remember your daughter. How old was she then?—about seven in Earth years? Eight? I was rather dismayed that you let her into the torture room, let her see me lying there on your floor, almost destroyed by your subcutaneous instrument, exhausted and wrecked at your order, at your whim . . . you excused yourself by telling me that Jil Orra understood that Cardassia had enemies and enemies deserved what they got. Now she would be about thirteen, isn’t she? Fourteen?”
“By your reckoning, yes.”
“I’m sure she understands now that things are not so simple. As she grows older, she’ll distill the ugly truth that her father freely executed torment when no crime had been committed.”
“She might.” Madred accepted Picard’s point.
“You weren’t even a particularly imaginative torturer.” Picard lowered his voice, narrowed his eyes, and looked penetratingly at Madred. “Did you think the tide would never turn?”
Madred felt strangely unmoved, though Picard was trying very hard to move him.
“Are you looking for my repentance, Captain?” he asked directly.
“Not at all,” the Starfleet man said. “If the Cardassian ruling council expects Federation help to fend off aggression by the Klingons, and you had better, then now is the time to make a strong gesture of good faith. And you had better. Otherwise there will be legal action, no treaty, and you’ll have not only Klingons but also Starfleet at your throat.”
“Legal action?” A nervous laugh bolted through Madred’s chest. “Are you threatening me with your Federation courts? Picard, really. What a joke.”
The captain took a step back from the edge of the desk and seemed more insulted by that comment than he had by all the torture.
“We are a body of laws and rights,” he said. “If Cardassia wants to deal with us, and you’re going to very soon, you’ll have to abide with our laws and rights and our judicial process, and treaties, and all kinds of things criminal governments don’t fancy.”
The room seemed chilly. Probably just the company. And large—Madred was used to the sprawling size of the “office”—in fact, he had designed it, but today it seemed rather too big. The size gave his customers a sense of smallness, insignificance. The slate floor offered no comfort to bloodless feet. The lighting here was harsh and directed, and cast shadows. It lay crassly upon Jean-Luc Picard’s carved features as he closed up the small space between himself and Madred’s desk.
“Captain Fernando,” he demanded, “First Officer Court, Second Officer Garland, Chief Engineer Rollins, Third Officer Ballenger, Fourth Officer McClellan, Engineer’s Mate Leith, and seventeen crewmen . . . Captain Atherton, his first and third mates, his wife, and nine deckhands. Their location or locations. Right now.”
The litany of names actually caused a slight echo in the big room. Or perhaps it was only the way Picard spoke. Until now Madred had not known the extent of detail Starfleet knew about who was being held and who wasn’t. The numbers were off by a few, but very few.
Another problem—some of those persons were no longer animate. Of course, Madred hadn’t admitted anything yet. There was still time to admit nothing.
Admission might not be necessary. Picard knew perfectly well that there were captives held by the
Cardassians. In fact he knew it firsthand. Denial would be silly.
The captain stood with a barrister’s posture before Madred, one shoulder slightly toward the desk, one slightly away, and there seemed to be something important about not blinking.
The effect was not without its success.
“I understand you,” Madred offered. “Times do change. I would be lying to shrug and say that Cardassia is not interested in the support of the Federation against the Klingons. That is no secret, obviously, and you already said I’m a bad liar. Perhaps we can avoid a grim scene, Jean-Luc. Perhaps I’m ready to deal. Perhaps you can tell me . . . if I had possession of these missing people, what if I appease you with a few of them?”
“I will not be appeased,” Picard said sharply. “You hardened me, Madred, during those days of torture. After you, the Borg got a hold on me. Compared to them, you’re what we call a burlesque show.”
“Mmm, so I’ve heard. You’re not the first, you know,” Madred told him, rocking back in his chair. “Others have thought to take vengeance on me. I’ve felt the wrath of the ‘hardened.’ Do your worst.”
“Oh, I will.”
Not a hollow promise, Madred was certain. He had not believed Jean-Luc Picard would do petulant harm upon another living being, but then again . . . much of this man remained an unknown quantity. And people could change.
“You know, this is interesting, Picard. I watched your eyes just now while you called out those names. You know what? I’m still torturing you. You’re so drowned in your own hauteur that you don’t know I’m still in control. What I say now, if I tell you I have them, or tell you I don’t, you’re still at my whim. Isn’t that curious? Even with you in charge, the great stonelike Picard, I’m still getting information.”
“You may be getting tidbits,” Picard agreed, “but your method is overall flawed. You try to get to your victim’s soul by going through his body. That’s the crack in your plan. You have nothing but flesh to feed on. If you can’t get through to your victim’s soul, then even if he dies, you’ve failed. You’re just another bully. A pathetic little badger who thinks he can inflict the death of the soul with a bunch of little bites. And keep your hands up on this desk!”