Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [57]
“If nothing,” said Travers. “I don’t recall asking you for advice on how to run this colony, sir. In fact, of all and sundry assembled here, you are the last person I would ask for advice.”
He looked to Julia, who had come up behind Picard. “Sorry,” she told the commodore. “I didn’t expect there to be any problem with bringing him here.”
The captain turned to her. “Julia … I am not trying to mislead anyone. I know of what I speak. If nothing is done, this colony will be annihilated.”
She looked at him, wanting to believe—wanting not to think he was crazy, or worse, a deceiver of some kind. But he hadn’t produced any evidence to convince her or anyone else. Nor was he likely to.
And in the long run, did it matter? The Gorn would be here soon enough. Either way, these people were going to die. Either way, they—
“Commodore?”
They all turned around to see First Officer Schmitter standing in the doorway. The man was looking straight at Picard—not a good sign, in the captain’s estimate.
Travers returned his security officer’s gaze. “Yes, Hans? What is it?”
Still scrutinizing the man he’d known as Dixon Hill, Schmitter cleared his throat. “I’ve just received a response to the inquiry we placed with Starfleet Command, sir. They say there is no one named Dixon Hill currently operating a commercial vessel—nor, for that matter, has there ever been.”
The commodore smiled grimly. “I see,” he noted. “And the ship our Mr. Hill claimed to command?”
Schmitter allowed himself a small, private smile. Hell, Picard might have found this amusing too, if their circumstances had been reversed.
“A Stargazer was destroyed almost a year ago,” replied the security officer. “On the other side of Federation space. According to Starfleet records, the Stargazer’s travels never took it within a hundred light-years of Cestus Three.”
Picard swallowed. Apparently, the jig was up.
Julia Santos was shaking her head, refusing to believe that her newfound friend had lied about these things. But her bias in his favor was hardly a secret these days—and even she couldn’t argue with cold, hard Starfleet facts.
Travers cleared his throat—almost happily, the captain thought. “Well, Mr. Hill—or whatever your name is. Care to comment on this less-than-startling revelation?”
Picard remained silent. What could he say now that they’d believe? At this point, not much.
The commodore looked at him askance. “Cat’s got your tongue, I see. No surprise there either, I suppose. Of course, that still leaves us with a mystery on our hands, namely—”
“Wait a minute,” interjected Hronsky. As he peered at Picard from beneath his shaggy, dark brows, he unconsciously laid a paternal hand on the top of his control console. “What if this man is a spy for …” He tilted his head to indicate the console’s monitor, where the telltale sensor image was still in evidence. “… for them?”
That stopped everyone dead in their tracks—Travers included. He looked at the stranger in their midst with a whole new level of mistrust.
“That would explain why he was so eager to throw a monkey wrench into the project,” Hronsky went on. “He didn’t want us to catch on to the fact that there was a civilization out there.”
Schmitter nodded. “Makes sense, in a way. Of course, he’s human—but that doesn’t really mean anything. He could have hired himself out to an alien race … maybe not even the one that the sensors picked up.”
Travers turned to his security chief. “You mean the Klingons?”
“Or the Romulans,” Schmitter suggested. “Could be they wanted that civilization all to themselves. And they needed someone on the inside to keep us from getting wind of it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Santos argued. She turned to the captain, her eyes clouded with just a hint of suspicion. “It is ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Picard nodded. “Yes. I am not a spy—not for the Klingons or the Romulans or anyone else.”
The commodore grunted. “Then who are you?”
The captain frowned.