Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [75]
As the corner of his mouth came up involuntarily, Picard smiled ruefully and repeated, “Ungood. Shakespeare couldn’t have said it better. And what do you think was ‘ungood’ about his new beliefs?”
“He wanted to keep them a secret. He knew Sandy wouldn’t like it that Jeremiah has turned against everything they both used to stand for. They had loyalties. They made promises. Sandy’s oath was made for life. Jeremiah went back on his oath. I don’t think I like Jeremiah very much. And I think he knows he’s wrong, or he would be prouder of himself. He wouldn’t be trying to keep secrets.”
“Mmm,” Picard uttered again. “May have something there. With which of these men do you find yourself agreeing?”
Alexander speared him with a glare. “With the sergeant, of course!”
“Why, Alexander?”
The boy balked at the question, not because of its difficulty, but that there should be any question at all. “Jeremiah made a promise to the king! That has to mean something. Sandy’s sticking with his promise. That’s honor.”
“What about Jeremiah’s honor? Remember, the Day of Honor holiday is meant to appreciate your enemy’s hon—”
“He doesn’t have any!” the boy said scornfully. “Or else, how could he turn his back on his whole family? His family raised him to be something, and they worked to give him things, and he swore an oath, and he’s dumping all that so he can be a rebellion person.” The boy leaned toward Picard and lowered his voice. “I think he changed so he could get that pretty wife. She’s American, you know.”
Trying not to grin, Picard nodded.
Alexander’s eyes widened in a parody of suggestiveness, and he nodded in agreement with himself.
“Mmm-hmm,” Picard muttered. “I do know that, yes …”
“These colonists,” Alexander went on, “none of them have any honor! How am I supposed to understand celebrating your enemy’s honor when he doesn’t have any to celebrate? This holiday doesn’t make any sense.”
He dumped himself down like a sack on the bench, next to the slowly turning form of Midshipman Nightingale.
“What makes you say they have none at all?” Picard persisted.
Alexander fanned his arms. “Why else would they attack a ship that’s stranded? That’s not honorable at all! It’s what cowards do!”
Picard tipped his head. “Actually, I thought it wasn’t a bad tactic at all.”
The boy hurled him a glowering look. “You’d do that?”
“If I had to, yes.”
Astounded by the lack of shame in Picard’s voice and his studied casualness at such an idea, Alexander pushed off the bench and stalked the room, patently avoiding the semistill figure of Jeremiah Coverman.
At the pie cabinet, he placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I never thought we were that kind of people!”
The purity of the boy’s heart rang and rang, and Picard began to realize that somehow, despite Alexander’s jostled upbringing and his life on board the starship—questionable at best for any growing child—he was turning out to be a young man of principle.
Feeling something shine in his chest from this revelation, Picard moved toward the boy.
“Alexander,” he asked, “what’s really wrong with you?”
The boy didn’t look at him this time, but other things about his demeanor changed. His posture declared that this had gone beyond a history lesson, beyond a tradition, and, in fact, beyond a rite of passage. A certain fundamentality had taken hold.
“Oh, I see …” Picard circled around in front of him without crowding him. “It’s your father and Mr. Grant, isn’t it?”
Alexander kicked the leg of a spinning wheel that had been tucked into a corner. “Don’t talk to me about my father! I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t. And it’s none of your business if I don’t.”
“Now, really,” Picard said. “Who’s being dishonorable now?”
Fuming, the boy toed the spinning wheel, but didn’t kick it this time. He gnashed and grieved, spun around as if to challenge, then recoiled, and finally chafed out