Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [39]
The doctor grunted. “Because there’s no such thing as a meaningless sacrifice, Mr. Hill. Because any positive act, no matter how hopeless or insignificant, is ultimately worthwhile.”
Picard found himself smiling. “Philosophy,” he noted.
“One of my vices,” she replied.
Leading the way down a couple of ramps, Santos guided him into an open, fairly spacious dining hall. The tables were laid out symmetrically in the center, with smaller-sized alcoves on the outer walls. The construction was rather stark, layers of concrete supporting the gray metal walls—but the right angles and shadows that defined the architecture appealed to the captain.
The hall didn’t look molded or sculpted. Instead, it looked as if it had been built by human hands. Hands that had dared to establish a foothold on an isolated planet, far from the center of the Federation.
The doctor proceeded to the serving area, where human personnel worked behind the counter. Santos ordered sliced chicken and a rice dish and Picard followed suit. Then he followed her to one of the sparsely populated alcoves.
“It’s near the end of lunch,” the doctor told him. “Most people have gotten back to their assignments.”
As he sat down, the captain noticed that the few remaining eyes in the area were on him. No doubt visitors were rare in this closed community.
“They’ll get used to you quickly,” Santos assured him, divining his thoughts. “In two weeks the sensor array goes on line. But until then, you’re the biggest news we’ve had in months.”
Picard took a bite of his meal and found it surprisingly good. “Excellent,” he said. “I’m impressed. I assumed an outpost barely a year old would still be dependent on reconstituted food.”
Santos smiled. “This is nothing compared to what you’ll find at the commodore’s table. He thinks it’s impossible to make a permanent home when you’re living on rations.”
“An enlightened point of view,” the captain replied. In fact, Travers was years ahead of his time. It wouldn’t be until replicator technology made food preparation simple that families would be regularly deployed on starships—and Picard doubted that that was a coincidence. “My father would have approved. He wouldn’t allow replicated—I mean reconstituted—food in the house.”
They passed the rest of the meal pleasantly. The captain managed the food with his left hand without too much difficulty. Throughout, he took careful note of his surroundings. There was no security at all as nearly as he could tell. Not even locking doors, which, of course, would be unnecessary in this community. Apparently, the kitchen staff went home after the evening meal, which—he learned—was from five to seven-thirty. After that, Santos explained, the kitchen was open to whichever colonists cared to help themselves.
Once again, the atmosphere of trust that seemed to govern the outpost would work in Picard’s favor. A pang rose up inside him at the thought of taking advantage of that trust, but he brushed it aside; he would have time for self-recrimination later. For now, he needed to concentrate on his escape.
Undoubtedly, the kitchen would be able to supply the essentials he would need for survival outside of the compound. Water and food were his biggest concerns. And the captain was certain there would be some reserves of food concentrates in the storage areas, regardless of the commodore’s personal preferences.
Of course, his Starfleet survival training would allow him to sustain himself for a time without supplies. However, if he carried one or two days’ rations with him, he would be able to move more quickly without stopping—which would allow him to put as much distance as possible between himself and the outpost before the attack came.
Picard already had the tricorder and medical scanners, which would enable him to track any pursuers. Yes … if he could secure some supplies after dinner, he could possibly even make his escape tonight.
He and Santos kept their lunch brief. The doctor was