Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [73]
That gave the others pause. Even Shastakovich. But they still weren’t certain as to the right course of action—and there was too much hanging in the balance to take the wrong course.
“Well?” said Picard.
It seemed to Ben Zoma that he was floating, twisting out in space like a piece of debris from a ruined starship—or a roll of pressed grain that had been marked with fruit juice, a smelly, makeshift flag of truce.
“Gilaad?” said a voice from far away.
Strange that he could hear out here, in the vacuum of space. Or smell, for that matter. Didn’t one ordinarily need air for that?
“Gilaad?” the voice said again.
He opened his eyes and saw that someone was looking down at him. His vision was hazy, so he couldn’t tell who it was. Then he began to focus and get a clearer picture.
“Gilaad?” the voice said a third time. And at last, Ben Zoma recognized its source.
It was Picard. And they were in sickbay, the first officer stretched out on one of Greyhorse’s biobeds while his friend hovered over him.
What’s more, Paris was lying one bed over. They had made it, both of them. They hadn’t died on that D’prayl scout ship.
“We know a few things about the aliens’ technology now,” Picard explained, “so we were able to disable your shield emitters and beam you off. How do you feel?”
That’s when it all came rushing back to Ben Zoma—what he had seen and heard on the D’prayl ship. Especially what he had learned about Lieutenant Ulelo….
“Jean-Luc,” he croaked.
“Yes,” said his friend, leaning a little closer. “I am here, Gilaad.”
“Jean-Luc,” he said again, knowing how strange this would sound, “we’ve got to turn Ulelo over to the aliens.”
Picard looked at him. “What?”
“Lieutenant Ulelo,” said Ben Zoma, “he’s one of them. That’s why they’re here—to get him back.”
“But Ulelo is human,” Picard protested.
“Not according to the D’prayl,” said Ben Zoma.
He saw his friend stare at him, trying to digest what he had said. It wasn’t going down easily. But then, the first officer hadn’t expected it to.
“I’m not delirious,” Ben Zoma said. “And I haven’t been brainwashed by the invaders.”
Picard’s brow furrowed. “So you say.”
“It’s the truth, Jean-Luc.”
“But,” said Picard, “how do you know that? How can you be certain?”
Ben Zoma had anticipated the question. Indeed, he had asked it himself, back on Otholannin’s vessel. And he had received proof of the D’prayl’s contention.
Proof he shared now with Picard.
Chapter Nineteen
BEN ZOMA HAD ADVISED that the D’prayl’s patience wouldn’t last long. So when Picard heard from Greyhorse, he left the bridge and the alien vessels amassed against him, and hurried down to sickbay.
The doctor met him at the door. “Have you found something?” the captain asked.
“Take a look,” said Greyhorse, showing him a padd with a still image on its tiny screen—a picture of a white line on a flesh-colored field.
Picard studied it. “What is it?”
“A scar,” said Greyhorse, “less than a millimeter in length—so small that I would never have found it unless I was looking for it. And it appears it’s surgical in origin.”
“Which,” said the captain, “would seem to support the story Commander Ben Zoma brought back with him.”
“It would,” Greyhorse agreed.
Ulelo’s internal organs had appeared human on scans. Likewise, his biochemistry. But the aliens hadn’t bothered to hide the scars, tiny as they were.
Picard nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Greyhorse.
“Take the next step,” said the captain, “and see what happens.”
Ulelo was sitting upright on a biobed. He looked tired, despite the sedatives that had been administered.
“Lieutenant,” said Picard.
Ulelo regarded him with what seemed like trepidation. But then, he had been through a great deal of pain, and he had no reason to believe it was over.
“Captain,” he said, inviting Picard to add yet another wrinkle to his uncertainty.
Picard frowned.