Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [62]
Leaning against one of the walls of his cell, Picard sighed. He would not have thought it possible for his situation to get any more complicated. And yet, as if some fiendishly sadistic deity were looking after him, it had.
If time unraveled the way history had taught him it would, Lieutenant Harold was slated to survive the massacre by the Gorn. That was just about the only fact he could cling to with any certainty.
However, a matter-antimatter explosion would leave no survivors. That was an irrefutable scientific fact. Therefore, if time was to follow the course he knew, there would be—could be—no explosion.
And yet, he had seen evidence of the power source’s instability. It was real, not imagined. If left alone, it would have devastating consequences.
The captain scowled. So there were two possibilities. Either history would be changed—or someone would prevent the explosion. And if someone did prevent it, who would that someone be?
Try as he might, he could come up with only one answer.
It was an almost poetic notion, wasn’t it? To be thrown back in time by an apparent accident—only to find oneself the instrument by which history maintains its course. Poetic indeed.
Or—and there was always an or when dealing with the sanctity of the timestream—was it possible that his intervention would somehow have the opposite effect? Would he throw history off course, despite his best efforts, in some way he hadn’t considered—and thereby eliminate the timeline in which he and the Federation made peace with the Gorn?
There was no way to know for sure. All Picard had to go on was his instincts—and his instincts told him that he had to prevent the matter-antimatter source from going haywire. As ironic as it sounded, he had to save the outpost and its people—so that the Gorn could destroy them a short time later.
The captain took in his surroundings and sighed again. But you can’t do anything, he told himself, as long as you’re stuck here in the brig. So the first step is to get out of here.
The thought had barely formed in his mind when the doors to the larger room opened and Julia Santos walked in. Immediately, her eyes flicked in Picard’s direction—but only for a moment. Then she was giving the guard her full attention.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the man was saying. “He’s not supposed to have any visitors.”
“I’m not just a visitor,” Julia replied. “I’m a doctor. And despite whatever else may have happened, he is still my patient.”
The security officer frowned, Casting a glance in Picard’s direction, he seemed to momentarily assess the prisoner’s potential for violence. In the end, he nodded.
“All right,” he said. “But make it as quick as possible, okay?”
Agreeing that she would do that, Julia approached the energy barrier. This time, when her eyes met the captain’s, they did not let go.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Picard shrugged. “I don’t like being incarcerated. Other than that, not badly.”
The doctor turned to look back over her shoulder. “I need to go inside,” she told the security officer.
The man made a sound of exasperation, but Julia stood firm. Obviously acquainted with her stubbornness, and knowing where any argument would eventually end, the redshirt covered the distance to the brig in four long strides.
Taking out his phaser, he made sure that it was set on stun. Then he touched the pressure-sensitive wall pad that governed the barrier. A moment later, it was gone, allowing the physician to step over the threshold.
As soon as she was inside, however, the security officer reactivated the energy field. When Julia looked at him, he shrugged. But this time, she didn’t protest. After all, the man was only doing his job—just as she was.
There was a bench built into the wall in the back of the cell. The captain indicated it with a gesture that smacked of more gentile surroundings.
Normally, the doctor would have been amused by the incongruity. However, her expression didn’t change as she accepted his offer and took a seat. Sitting down next to her, Picard watched her eyes