Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [92]
The captain nodded. “You remember the layout of this place? The arsenal … ?”
The Vulcan pointed. “About one hundred yards in that direction. But after an attack as thorough as this one …”
Kirk set his jaw. “I’ll risk it,” he said. Abruptly, he darted out into the plaza, drawing enemy fire on all sides. Harold couldn’t see if he got hit or not.
“Is he … all right?” he asked the doctor, who was kneeling beside him. The man looked down at him.
“He’s fine,” he answered. “For now.” A pause. “What happened here, son?”
The lieutenant thought about it. It all seemed like a vast, dark nightmare. He couldn’t remember who had done what, or when. The only things he could picture in his mind right now were the green disruptor beams that had walked the ground in long, deadly strides, and the screams, and the pain. Everything else was a blur.
Vaguely, he recalled a man he’d been ordered to look after. The man had meant something, hadn’t he? He’d been important to someone. But Harold could no longer remember why. The man, and many of the other details of the massacre, were already receding on the other side of a shadowy veil—one he never wanted to pull away, no matter the cost.
“It’s all right,” the doctor assured him, seeing he’d get no ready answer. He smiled pleasantly. “We’ll talk about it after we get you up to the ship.” Reacting to a nearby blast, he peered out at the plaza through narrowed eyes.
The lieutenant winced as a bead of perspiration traced a path along the charred skin of his cheek. Yes, he told himself. Maybe then, he could tell some things. Some.
But others, he would keep behind the veil, where he wouldn’t have to think about them. Not ever.
As Picard entered his ready room, he had the distinct feeling that something was different. Looking around, he checked off each furnishing in his mind, reassuring himself that all was as it had been several days ago, before his time-space accident.
Not that he would have been surprised if Commander Riker had made some small changes in his absence. After all, there was no harm in tailoring a place to one’s own needs—even on a temporary basis. But nothing was out of order. The room was just as the captain had left it, down to the lionfish swimming in his small, round tank.
Then why the feeling of alteration? Even before Picard had completed the unspoken question, he believed he knew the answer.
It was he who was different. He who had changed since he’d last walked this deck and performed the duties of a starship captain here. A week earlier, he had been interested in the past, even intrigued by it. Now he was involved with it. He was part of it.
And though he had been snatched from the trap that snapped shut on the doomed colonists of Cestus III, he had not escaped it completely. He had left a portion of himself behind.
Abruptly, the chimes outside his door sounded, alerting him to the presence of someone on the other side of it. “Come,” he replied, tugging down on the front of his tunic. ‘
A moment later, his first officer was framed in the open doorway. The man smiled in that way that seemed to come so easily to him and walked in.
“How do you feel, sir?” asked Riker.
Picard shrugged. “I am glad to be back,” he noted sincerely, allowing his fingers to brush the hard, polished desktop alongside him. “Very glad, in fact. And grateful to those who made it possible.”
The first officer tilted his head slightly. “All in a day’s work,” he demurred. “If there’s credit to be given, it belongs to the crew. And, of course, to Ensign Ro. If she hadn’t convinced me to enlist the help of the Bon Amar—”
The captain felt his spine stiffen. “The Bon Amar?” he repeated. “What did they have to do with this?”
Riker swallowed. Apparently, he had ventured onto dangerous ground without thinking. “Uh … are you sure you want to know, sir?”
Picard felt a surge of disapproval—but it was instantly tempered by an appreciation for the outcome. “You asked the Bon Amar for assistance,” he concluded. “And