Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [77]
“Yes, but—”
“He didn’t go into the British Grenadiers because it was that or starve!” the boy went on. “A lot of soldiers joined because of that, you know. I checked.”
“When did you check?”
“When Mr. Riker came in. I didn’t eat lunch. I went and looked in the historical banks about this time period.”
Hmm—one step in the right direction, at least. Looking for his own answers.
“Your father was born into a powerful family, yes,” Picard said, “but there are limitations of all kinds. Your father is trying to choose between his honor, Mr. Grant’s safety, and the influence of Mrs. Khanty on the planet. It’s not easy, and not as simple as you may think.”
“It’s simple,” Alexander countered. “He’s chickening out. And I don’t know why. If that’s Klingon honor, then I don’t want it. I think I’d rather stay here and be a grenadier.”
Picard smiled. “You can’t stay here. It’s a holoprogram.”
“Well, there must be some planet somewhere with a Royal Marine unit I can join!”
In a moment of complete insanity, Picard almost turned to Mr. Nightingale and the seamen and told them they could resume eating. These people around them, still alive with minimal movement, were not the same cold, flat figures conjured up by the holodeck’s amusement programs, like characters in some story. These were real people who had lived and died, who had real passions and grieved real losses, no less than he and the boy. They had simply done all that in a different blink of time. On the cosmic scale, he felt very close to them.
Obviously, tragically, Alexander did, too.
“Well,” Picard began, “why don’t we play all this out, and make ourjudgments later? After all, there are a few sides we have yet to hear. Shall we?”
Alexander hung his head, but his eyes still peered up at his captain. “I guess.”
“Computer,” Picard snatched at the moment, “resume program.”
“I can no longer bear this!” Sandy Leonfeld’s voice filled the cabin. He chopped a hand between himself and his cousin and made for the front door, clearly of no mind to remain in this den any longer.
“Sandy!” Frightened, Jeremiah rushed forward and caught the sergeant before Sandy’s hand touched the iron latch. He took Sandy by the arms with the same urgent familiarity they had shown to one another moments ago, when things were so different, though little of that was returned from the grenadier. “Please … you must not go out.”
“And why not?” Sandy gnashed. “Am I not in a clutch of my enemies? What safety does this place afford loyal Britons? Why should I not take my leave of you?”
Jeremiah pulled him away from the door. “Because you’ll be hanged.”
Sandy twitched, ready to shoot him an angry response, but what could he say?
Imploring with his eyes, Jeremiah waited until Sandy stopped pushing against his grip. “The message from the nailery … your ship is being towed upriver to the boatyard, where it will be converted for use by the patriots. Those officers and seamen still alive are imprisoned in the public stable. If you’re caught, it’ll be assumed you’re attempting escape. You’ll be executed as spies. Please—now, please. We disagree, yes … but I couldn’t bearit if you were killed.”
A crushing emotion rose between them. Despite his attempt at indignation, Sandy Leonfeld was clearly very upset. This was a terrible inner blow, not just a rift in philosophy. These things were deeply ingrained in his heart, and his heart was breaking.
“Sergeant,” Picard interrupted, taking Sandy’s elbow, “why don’t we sit down and have something to eat?”
“I would retch,” Sandy muttered.
“Please,” Amy Coverman came to life, fluttering around and pouring cider into the tankards. “I shall have no one hungering in my home.”
“Thank you,” Picard said as he took a seat, surmising from their hesitation that the midshipman and deckhands would