Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [93]
The first officer nodded. “They were,” he confirmed.
The captain frowned. “You know that was a breach of Starfleet policy?” he asked.
Riker nodded again. “I do. But at the time, it seemed like the only way to get you back. And as it turned out, it was. If not for the Bon Amar …”
Picard held up a hand. “It’s all right, Will. No need to continue.” He paused. “Under the circumstances, we’ll call it a forgivable offense… .” A subtle smile played at the corners of his mouth. “An eminently forgivable offense … and leave it at that.”
The first officer seemed relieved. “Agreed, sir.”
Picard came around the desk and sat down. Riker just stood there, waiting patiently for the captain to acclimate himself.
“We’re headed for Gorn?” asked Picard finally. Tentatively, he leaned back, getting the feel of his chair again.
“At best speed,” his exec assured him. “With any luck, we’ll be there in time to salvage the situation.”
“Good.” The captain sighed. “I suppose I should prepare myself,” he said meaningfully.
“Of course,” responded Riker. “I’ll leave you to it.”
But halfway to the door, he stopped and turned around again. Noting the first officer’s hesitation, Picard looked up at him.
Riker shook his head, as if in envy. “I was just wondering,” he said. “What it was like. To see history unfolding like that, right before your eyes.”
The captain looked down at his hands. The same hands that had held Julia Santos as her life ebbed away, a hundred years ago.
“Not history, Number One. I cannot look at it that way. Not anymore.”
It was not much of an answer, but it was the only one he was prepared to give. Nor did Riker press for him to elaborate.
All he said was “I understand, sir.” As soon as he was gone, the doors whooshed closed behind him.
Once again, the captain was alone with his thoughts. And one thought was foremost: to reach the Gorn homeworld and forge a new treaty—one that would serve as a tribute to the dead of Cestus III. To Julia.
He would brook no obstacles. He would shape a lasting peace between the Gorn and the Federation. He would not—repeat, not—allow those good and courageous people to have died in vain.
Epilogue
PICARD FELT AWKWARD standing with his back to the transporter operator, but there was a reason for it. As he knew from experience, this was the way the Gorn positioned themselves for transport.
Of course, he could have had Lieutenant Kandel turn him around one hundred and eighty degrees when he materialized. It would hardly have been the most difficult maneuver she’d had to execute. But it was important for the captain not only to materialize like a Gorn, but to think like a Gorn.
“Ready, sir?” called Kandel.
He nodded, even though she could only see the back of his head. “Energize,” he intoned.
In accordance with protocol, he turned to face his hosts. The next thing he knew, there was a reptilian face in front of him. Not at a polite distance, as he now expected, but mere inches from his own.
He should have been prepared for the flaring nostrils, the rows of cruel and deadly teeth, the orblike eyes. But he wasn’t.
All he could see was a sea of broken colonists, torn and burned and disfigured by nightmare weapons—and in the foreground, Julia, her brows knit tight against the awful pain. He could smell her charred flesh, hear her pitiful moans, feel the weight of death pressing down upon her.
An anger rose up inside him, a geyser of hate and loathing that threatened to consume him utterly. And why not? Was this not the face of the enemy, the inhuman destroyer?
No, the captain told himself. You must not do this. It will make their deaths a hollow thing—and then you will have done something worse to them than the Gorn ever could. Hadn’t Julia herself spoken of sacrifices? And what it cost, sometimes, to ensure the future?
It was difficult, exceedingly difficult, but he wrenched his emotions back onto firmer ground. Composed himself. And addressed the Gorn who stood before him.
“Bring me to Leader Keeyah,” he demanded.