Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [35]
“Besides,” he went on, “I have given him a great deal to be suspicious about. And since I have nothing to hide, I certainly don’t mind being kept under surveillance.” It troubled him to lie so casually, but duty gave him no option.
As it happened, the lie was effective. Santos cheered a bit. “I’m sure it won’t be for long,” she offered.
At that moment, a young man in a gold lieutenant’s uniform entered. He was in his mid-to-late twenties, with dark hair and a serious, earnest expression. It was his escort, Lieutenant Harold. Picard was certain of it.
Santos turned to address the lieutenant, keeping her tone light and informal. “Lieutenant Matthew Harold, may I present Merchant Captain Dixon Hill.” The newcomer smiled reflexively and offered his hand. Midway, however, he reconsidered—no doubt troubled by the friendly informality the doctor had initiated with her almost social introduction. To his credit, Harold only hesitated for a moment, and then followed through with his hand.
“Captain,” the younger man said, nodding.
“Lieutenant,” Picard responded. “But please, my name is Dixon Hill. I’m afraid that with the loss of my ship, the rank has lost most of its meaning for me.”
Harold nodded again. “I’m here to escort you to your quarters, which are next to mine. If you need anything or have any questions, I’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thank you,” responded the captain. “I will want to discuss securing passage on the next supply ship. In the meantime, perhaps we could discuss the possibility of getting me assigned to one of your technical departments.”
Harold seemed taken aback by the captain’s friendliness, as much as by the suggestion of an assignment. No doubt, he had expected Picard to act more suspiciously—more like a prisoner.
The captain would need to establish trust with his escort, to gain the kind of freedom of movement his escape plan would require. Santos had unknowingly helped by setting a casual tone. Picard would now have to do his best to follow through.
“And if you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I will accompany you both,” Santos interjected.
Harold merely nodded, masking any further surprise at the unexpectedly warm atmosphere he’d found in the infirmary.
Then Santos turned to Picard. “Would you like to put your clothing back on? It’s in good condition, and you might feel more at home. It’s right in the closet here.”
“No, thank you,” Picard said quickly. If the doctor opened his duffel, his chances of escape would disappear in an instant. “You see, it’s my uniform from my ship. At the moment, the associations aren’t pleasant.”
Santos appeared to accept the explanation. “Sorry,” she told him. “Give me a moment, all right?” Abruptly, she disappeared into her office and came out with a pair of simple, blue coveralls, the kind that technicians still wore in the twenty-fourth century. Then she reached into the supply cabinet and pulled down the captain’s duffel bag. For a moment Picard caught his breath, wondering if she would notice the extra weight. Fortunately, she didn’t, and merely placed the duffel and the clothes on his bed.
“Doctor … did you recover a small gold insignia when you found me?” the captain asked.
Santos considered it. “No, I didn’t. Was it important?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Just a sentimental attachment.”
“You must have lost it in the rock slide,” she decided. “I’d like to tell you that we can look for it, but the area isn’t safe.”
“Quite all right,” Picard responded.
Well, that answered the question of what had happened to his communicator. It was fortunate. The device would have raised questions that he wouldn’t have been able to answer without severely compromising the Prime Directive—if not history itself.
Dr. Santos and Lieutenant Harold left, granting him his privacy. Changing out of the infirmary pajamas, the captain took extra