Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
Again, Travers eyed him. “Do you know much about Earth’s second world war, Mr. Hill?”
“I remember a bit of what I learned in school,” the captain replied.
The commodore put down his utensils to address Picard. “The story goes that the American forces were often in the position of having to determine rather quickly whether or not other soldiers were German infiltrators. It’s said that the Americans would ask the solider in question what wine to drink with fish. If the person answered correctly, they knew he could not have been American.” Travers leaned forward slightly. “Dr. Santos tells me you are from France. Do you know much about wine, Mr. Hill?”
“I did pick up a bit at home,” Picard replied. “Where I am from, it was difficult not to.”
“What do you think of this wine?” the commodore asked pointedly.
The captain was very aware of the silence that had descended on the room. Keeping his face neutral, he reached for his glass and took a sip. After making his determination, he nodded his head diplomatically.
“Considering your relative isolation, good wine is sure to be scarce,” Picard remarked.
“What do you mean?” Travers probed.
“Well, unless I miss my guess, this is Chateau Briar, vintage twenty-one ninety-one. As a rule, a good year. However, one-fourth of the Briar crop was damaged by frost that year. As a result, a commensurate portion of that vintage was rendered somewhat bland. I suspect that your dealer was not entirely scrupulous.”
The commodore’s face betrayed the first genuine emotion of the evening for him: surprise. The others around the table kept their expressions carefully neutral—except for Julia, who was grinning behind her napkin.
“I apologize,” Picard said to Travers. “I didn’t mean to insult your choice. But …”
“I did ask,” the commodore supplied. He was smiling, but it seemed to the captain that the good humor did not extend to his eyes. “You are something of an enigma, Mr. Hill. You really don’t seem much like a merchant commander.”
Picard glanced at Julia. “I have heard that before. Nevertheless, that is what I am, or was, until recently.”
“For one thing, you’re remarkably healthy. Did Dr. Santos mention that to you?”
“No,” the captain replied, immediately on his guard.
Travers pressed on. “Besides that mysterious artificial heart, which my people are still trying to figure out, you are free of any signs of ill health whatsoever.”
Picard considered his wine. “More a credit to my doctors than to myself, I am sure.”
The commodore grunted. “Then your doctors must be really extraordinary, Mr. Hill. Our tests show absolutely no sign of past injury—no visible scar tissue, no healed fractures, not even the surgical scars one would expect from a cardiac replacement operation. Moreover, your lungs and blood are completely free of even the most minute traces of the pollutants and gases that starfaring crews are regularly exposed to.”
An unexpected turn, thought the captain. He had known cardiac replacement would be trouble, but had hoped that his story of alien manufacture would satisfy Travers at least temporarily. Still, it was difficult to explain the differences in his body wrought by a century of medical advances. Techniques for healing wounds and repairing bones were much more sophisticated in his day than in the commodore’s.
Stealing a glance at Julia, Picard could see by the set of her mouth that she was becoming annoyed, presumably at Travers. Certainly, she had the same questions, but was planning to wait and ask Picard about his medical history when they were alone. The commodore’s public questions were both a breach of privacy and in very bad taste for dinner conversation.
But Travers was obviously unconcerned. He had leveled his gaze at his visitor and was not going to back off. “And do you know why it is,” the commodore continued, “that you are immune to the common cold?”
Picard found anger rising in his throat, and had to fight down the impulse to respond more strongly to Travers’s accusing tone. Reminding himself that the commodore was merely doing