Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [11]
Picard’s neck stiffened. “My duty requires me to look into this matter, Major Ferris. And I intend to see it through.” Picard hand-signaled Worf to close the channel.
“What do our sensors tell us about the technology of this civilization?” he asked Data.
“Comparable to twenty-first-century Earth around the time of the Post-Atomic Horror. They have primitive technology: radiation guns, nuclear warheads—a lot of weapons, but no long-range warp drive, no—”
“Captain!” It was Worf. “Spacecraft are scrambling from the planet’s surface. They are moving to surround us.”
“Put our shields up, on full, and track them. Please go on, Mr. Data.”
“Yes, sir. Scans detect a high density of video and audio sensors—probably surveillance gear, sir, permeating the population centers. The standard of living on the planet appears mediocre. A familiar syndrome. Their resources are used for munitions and covert operations.”
“Looks like they’ve made a Post-Atomic Horror of their own,” said Picard.
He looked at Deanna Troi.
“What do you feel about Ferris?”
The counselor replied without hesitation. “He’s telling the truth as he sees it. I am sure he has never heard of the Huxley. I felt it when you asked him.”
“Captain, guided projectile heading our way,” said Worf.
“Evasive, Wesley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Detonation,” said Worf.
The viewscreen went white.
The crew braced for impact but there was none.
“Missed us by ten kilometers,” said Worf, surveying his tactical panel. “Crude guidance and propulsion. Sensors show the ships don’t have anything more refined. If so, we can outrun anything they throw at us.”
“Yes, well, I’m not interested in playing that game with them,” said the captain as he paced the command area. “Did the recorder marker from the Huxley show damage consistent with the type of weapon we just evaded?”
“Very consistent. Thermonuclear, sir. Their ships have taken up positions around us.”
“Go to Yellow Alert, Lieutenant.” Picard stood over Troi. “Maybe Ferris really knows nothing about the Huxley, but Ferris strikes me as far from omnipotent. The evidence suggests that we must check this planet for survivors, and one way or another I am going to do just that. Any of you have something to add?”
Young Ensign Crusher did. “Ferris looks like an actor playing a part. Like something out of an ancient war movie, or ancient Earth politics … but I guess that’s not very germane.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Crusher. Possibly very germane. Counselor Troi, any further impressions?”
“Ferris seems to be getting advice from some other authority. I think Wesley is right—Ferris is being presented to us for image purposes. We should try our questions on someone else.”
“I agree,” said Picard. “Worf, reopen the channel.”
Ferris’ face reappeared on the viewscreen. He looked like an army recruitment poster from the old days, when there were armies on Earth.
“Major Ferris, do you speak for your entire planet?”
“I speak for the Cephalic Security organization.”
“And you do so alone?”
Troi could tell that Ferris was angry at the challenge, but only for the briefest instant, before his by-the-book persona snapped back into place.
The unseen companion to his side distracted him, and after a moment he rose and left the screen’s field of view.
Another man took his place. He was older by twenty years, and completely bald. He appeared to be the victim of some crude surgery or irreversible malady. His face was scarred and frozen in an eerie, nerveless mask.
“I am Crichton, Director of Cephalic Security,” he said. “Ferris is under my command.”
“But you aren’t the highest authority on this planet?” asked Picard.
Crichton’s scarred face showed no change.
“The Council of Truth is the highest authority here, but I’m empowered to represent the planet in all matters of security. Now I suggest, Captain Picard, that it would be easier for all of us, especially you, if you take your ship and leave.”
“Crichton.” Picard’s voice tightened up another notch. “Your weapons are no match for my ship. And even if you did drive us away or destroy