Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [36]
“Ready,” Picard said. The lieutenant offered to carry the duffel bag, but the captain politely declined. Once outside, he was enthralled by the sight of the outpost.
He had studied the raid on Cestus III years before—during his encounter with the Gorn on the Stargazer—so he was familiar with the layout. The compound was basically a semicircle of interconnected, low structures that from a distance looked like a curved wall. But Picard knew that the visible structures were merely the entrances to larger, subterranean buildings. Most of the compound’s living and working space was underground—an effort to avoid the desert heat on the planet’s surface.
The infirmary was roughly at the apex of the semicircle. On his left were the residences and dining area. To his right was the life-support section, above which were large globes that Picard identified as sensor relays. Behind and beyond the semicircle, the captain recognized, was the massive sensor array, laid out across hundreds of yards of flat plains. Nearby would be the warp generator that ran the array.
Inside the semicircle stood two medium-sized buildings, which Picard knew were the administrative offices and the armory. In between them and farther ahead was the fusion generator that the colony depended on for power. Past the generator, in the distance, the captain could see low mountains.
Picard had expected all of this. Yet somehow, it looked wrong. For a moment, he couldn’t place what it was, then it came to him: the colony was alive. The buildings were intact, recently created structures. And they were full of people. Technicians, scientists, and people in civilian clothing working, walking, or just talking to one another.
The few images the captain had seen of Cestus III were taken from Kirk’s Enterprise’s logs. They showed a devastated compound, scorched with black scars, full of craters and rubble. Much of the basic structure and layout of the colony was visible in these pictures, but barely.
He was not prepared for casual activity, nor for the clean, slightly fragrant smell in the air. Picard’s study of the outpost had centered on its death; he had not been prepared to confront the fact of its life.
“Sir?” Harold asked gently.
The captain snapped out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, I was staring. It’s just that I have not been on a planet in some time,” he replied. At least partially true, he thought.
They made the short walk to the residence area in silence.
“You’re in residence eleven-H,” Harold said. “I’ll be in eleven-J. If you’ll follow me—”
“That will be all, Lieutenant,” Santos interrupted.
“Excuse me, Doctor?” Harold asked.
She smiled, but with a certain underlying forcefulness. “I will take charge of Mr. Hill from here.”
The lieutenant stiffened. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but Commodore Travers ordered me to escort the … to escort Mr. Hill to his quarters and to see that—”
“He was made comfortable,” Santos interjected again. “You’ve certainly seen that he arrived. And if you don’t mind, I will take care of the rest. Mr. Hill has been cooped up in the infirmary for two days. If he’s agreeable, I would like to offer him a tour of our humble outpost. I’m sure the commodore would approve, and I’m prepared to take full responsibility for Mr. Hill.”
Harold listened carefully as the doctor spoke. When she finished, he simply sighed. Clearly, he knew when he was beaten—and when he was outranked. “All right, Doctor. You can reach me by communicator if you need anything.”
As Harold smiled graciously in defeat, the recognition that had been nagging at Picard rushed to the surface. Staring at the lieutenant, he added some radiation burns to the likeness, hardened the expression, and then gave the face a frightened cast. When he was finished building the picture in his mind, Picard knew whom he was looking at: Lieutenant Matthew Harold, the sole survivor