Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [183]
Picard had never been here before. And yet, it seemed to him that he had been here, or at least someplace very much like it.
And he knew why. As a cadet at Starfleet Academy, he had studied many things—archaeology, drama, and astrophysics, to name a few. He had also developed more than a passing interest in architecture.
In the year 2064, a year before the S.S. Valiant left Earth orbit, a Frenchman named Goimard had unveiled his vision for rebuilding a world that had been wracked by its third World War. Unfortunately—at least from Picard’s point of view—that vision had only blossomed in dribs and drabs, a series of perhaps thirty buildings in nearly as many locations.
Evidently, he reflected, one of the Valiant’s survivors had been a Goimard aficionado—because here, on a planet a great many light-years from Earth, the Frenchman’s dream had been realized in all its glory. Picard felt compelled to smile at the irony.
“Not bad for a ragtag band of survivors,” Ben Zoma quipped.
“They’ve had almost three hundred years to build,” Picard reminded him. “This place could be thirty years older than our colony on Mars.”
“Welcome to Magnia,” said Williamson.
The second officer turned and saw their host approaching them through a wide, arched set of sliding doors. In person, Williamson was considerably taller than he had appeared on the viewscreen. He was also alone—a clear demonstration of trust.
Picard smiled. “Magnia,” he said, letting the word roll off his tongue. “Goimard’s name for his perfect city.”
The colonist’s eyebrows shot up. “You know his work?”
“I do,” said the second officer. “And frankly, I’m delighted to see it expressed here so faithfully. No doubt, Goimard himself would have been delighted as well.”
“We like to think so,” Williamson replied.
“How is Santana?” Picard inquired.
The colonist’s expression sobered. “She suffered considerable damage. However, our physicians tell me she’ll be all right.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Williamson indicated the arched doorway with a gesture. “Shall we?” he said, and led the way.
His offices were expansive, with rounded, pastel-colored furniture, ornate moldings, and an entire wall full of oval monitors. Each screen showed them a repair effort in a particular part of the city.
Picard looked at their host. “Your defenses, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Williamson. “I dispatched teams to our shield generators as soon as I knew that the Nuyyad were gone.” He gazed critically at one screen in particular. “Unfortunately, they’re not gone for good. The Nuyyad are eventually going to figure out what happened to their ship—and when they do, they’ll be merciless.”
Picard had no doubt of it. After all, he had experienced the Nuyyad’s propensity for violence firsthand.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to plan for that contingency?” the colonist asked him optimistically.
The second officer shook his head. “I must admit, I have not. However, I am of the mind that Magnia and the Stargazer can help each other out of this predicament…if they so choose.”
“Rest assured,” Williamson told him earnestly, “my people will do anything you require of them.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. Mainly, we are in need of parts to replace those the Nuyyad destroyed. Though I realize your technologies and ours may have developed along different lines, I am hopeful that you either have the necessary parts on hand or can manufacture them for us.”
The colonist shrugged. “I would be glad to have my engineers take a look at the specifications.”
“And in return,” said Picard, glancing at the oval screens, “we will see what we can do to expedite your repair schedule.”
Williamson nodded. “That would be much appreciated.”
“Are you familiar with the Kelvans?” Ben Zoma asked.
Unexpectedly, the other man’s expression seemed to sour. “I am,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“We have a Kelvan on board,” Ben Zoma explained, “an engineer named Jomar who seems to know Nuyyad tactical systems pretty well. You may want