Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [151]
Then he heard a tinkling sound and he looked down. Santana’s drink was moving, levitating off the table, the ice in it clinking merrily against the sides of the glass.
As Picard watched, the drink gradually rose to a height of perhaps twenty centimeters. Then, just as slowly, it descended, eventually coming to rest on the table again.
He looked up at Santana. “Impressive.” He meant it.
She shrugged. “Eliopoulos didn’t think so. He kept waiting for me to send his station spinning through space like a top.”
“You have tops where you come from?” Picard asked.
“We are human,” she reminded him. “If you saw my world, I’m sure you’d see a lot that’s familiar about it.”
He found himself smiling. “And a lot that’s not, no doubt. To be honest, it’s the latter that intrigues me.”
“You want to know how we’re different?”
“I do indeed.”
Santana thought for a moment. “As Eliopoulos must have told you, we value our privacy.”
“He mentioned that,” Picard conceded. “But surely, that’s not the only quality that sets you apart from us?”
She thought some more. “We’re good gardeners, as a rule. And good musicians. Unfortunately, I’m one of the few exceptions to the rule. I couldn’t carry a tune if my life depended on it.”
“Anything else?”
Santana shook her head. “Nothing. Except for our mental powers, of course. But I think we’ve already covered that topic.”
“Not completely,” the second officer said. “You haven’t shown me much of your telepathic abilities.”
She waved away the suggestion. “They’re not very impressive in comparison to my drinking glass trick.”
“Nonetheless,” Picard insisted.
“Persistent, aren’t you?”
“So I’m told.”
Santana sighed. “Have it your way, Commander. You’ll have to think of something, of course. Something pleasant, I hope.”
“I’d be happy to,” he told her. And he did as she had asked.
Santana’s brow furrowed for a second. Then she said, “Your mother was a lovely woman. And if I’m not mistaken, a wonderful cook.”
Picard was intrigued. He had created an image of his mother in his mind’s eye, but he hadn’t pictured her preparing food.
“Why do you mention her cooking?” he wondered out loud.
“The smell of her,” Santana explained. She closed her eyes. “I don’t recognize it, but it’s some kind of spice. Sharp, pungent…”
Abruptly, the second officer realized what she was talking about. “Cinnamon,” he said. “She would use it in her apple tarts.”
Her eyes still closed, Santana inhaled deeply, as if she were in Picard’s mother’s kitchen. “And you liked those tarts, didn’t you? In fact, you used to think about them on your way home from somewhere.”
“School,” he confessed.
She opened her eyes. “Yes. School.”
“Extraordinary,” said Picard.
Santana shook her head. “No. What would be extraordinary is if I could read your mind like a book, finding any memory at all. They say some of our people could do that in the days when the colony was first founded. But we can’t do it anymore.”
Perhaps it was the look on her face, a little sad and a little dreamy, as she contemplated something she considered wondrous. Perhaps he had crossed some invisible threshold of familiarity. Perhaps many things.
Picard couldn’t explain it. He just knew that he was intensely aware of how beautiful Serenity Santana was, and that that awareness was making his heart beat faster.
Then he saw her blush, and he realized that she had read his thoughts again. He felt embarrassed and ungainly, like a youngster whose crush on some girl had inadvertently been exposed.
“I’m sorry,” the second officer told her.
Santana looked sympathetic. “Don’t be.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I didn’t mean to—”
She held up a hand for silence. “I’m serious, Commander. There’s no need to feel awkward.” Unexpectedly, her expression turned coquettish. “After all, who knows how embarrassing my thoughts might be.”