Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [31]
The doctor entered, followed by a man in a gold tunic. Picard placed his age at about sixty. He had neatly trimmed, silver-gray hair and firm if weather-beaten features. He wore his command on his face and in his posture.
The captain was certain that this was the commodore. And judging by the man’s serious, almost sour expression, he was also certain that this was not a social visit.
Picard made those determinations in perhaps two seconds, but his most important observation took him some additional time to comprehend. The gold tunic, the starburst crest on the commodore’s chest: the captain was looking at a Starfleet uniform of a type that had not been worn in about a hundred years.
The implications of that were staggering, and could mean only one of two things: either he had been sent back in time by the alien technology as Geordi had suggested was possible, or this place and these people were an elaborate setup.
But the idea of a setup was already beginning to lose credence as he considered it. There would be little point in anyone going to the trouble of setting up such a scenario, when it would so quickly put him on his guard.
No, Picard was now nearly certain that he was as much as one hundred years in the past, on a Starfleet base. Of course, this was the more chilling of the two possibilities. The dangers of upsetting the time stream were grave. Besides ethical and Prime Directive concerns, he was in very real danger of altering history just by being there. Even a small misstep could have incalculable repercussions.
As the commodore studied him, the captain realized that he had only one path open to him. He would have to make certain that, at all costs, he avoided doing anything that could upset the flow of history. At this point, his most fundamental duty was to involve himself as little as possible with these people—until he could find a way to get back to his own time.
Then it struck Picard that the damage could have already been done. His communicator was not on his medical smock. If the commodore had it, even a cursory examination would reveal advanced circuitry that would not exist for the better part of a century.
The commodore was watching him closely with either concern or suspicion, or both, on his face. Had the captain betrayed his surprise when he saw the Starfleet uniform?
“Welcome, Mr. Hill,” the man said in an even tone. “I’m Commodore Travers of Starfleet.”
“Dixon Hill,” Picard replied. “And I thank you for your hospitality and medical care.”
Travers harrumphed. “We were pleased to offer it, especially considering how lucky you were that we found you at all.”
The captain could see the man making an effort to be personable. He was doing exactly what Picard himself would have done, trying to establish a rapport with the subject—while still watching him very closely.
“The ridge where you were found,” Travers continued, “is given to frequent landslides. Up until now, we have made a real effort to avoid it. But fortunately for you, we had a team installing seismic monitoring equipment in the area yesterday.”
“Yes, indeed,” the captain replied. “Very fortunate.”
“And something of a surprise for us,” the commodore went on. “We haven’t had many ships come out this way, and I doubt our scans would have missed you if you preceded the establishment of the colony on this planet.”
While Travers spoke, Santos was watching him carefully, as if she were waiting for him to upset her patient. Picard realized that, though it wasn’t formal yet, he was being interrogated. He’d need to frame his answers carefully.
“Actually, I arrived recently,” he said. “I suspect, not much before you found me.”
“Frankly, I find that hard to believe,” the commodore said, an edge creeping into his voice. “We have had no ships out this way