The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [19]
The air was dry and tartly scented, and he inhaled deeply, eager to flush his lungs of the odorless mixture of gases that filled the starship. Picard smiled, savoring the feel of his mind stretching to encompass an alien landscape.
The smile faded when he caught sight of a small metallic tag driven into the ground; it marked where a body had been found. Four archaeologists had died in the plaza that sprawled out before him.
Lieutenant Worf stepped out of the shadows where he had been waiting for the captain’s arrival.
He pointed to a marker by his feet. “T’Sara fell here.”
Three other tags were arranged in a rough semicircle around the Klingon, placed where the archaeologists had gathered to face their leader.
According to Riker’s mission report, Soth and T’Challo were also armed, and T’Sara was caught in their cross fire.
Picard tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind, but it was difficult to place Vulcans in the midst of such violence. For ten years T’Sara and her colleagues had patiently worked their way through these ruins. What combination of actions and reactions among them could have led to this fatal tableau?
“Lieutenant, where was their last excavation site?”
“Over here.” Worf retreated into the shadows.
The captain followed, picking his way through a maze of fallen blocks, wary of loose tiles that rocked underfoot.
“We removed a scanner and several sonic tools from this area,” said Worf.
As his eyes adjusted to the shade, Picard could see that a patch of ground had been cleared of stones to provide access to a delicate bas relief of hieroglyphics carved on the tower wall. One section was partially restored, but if the Vulcans had managed to decipher the alien language, the message had been lost again when the expedition’s data files were erased.
“I had hoped for something more momentous,” said Picard with a sigh, “but I’m afraid this would only have been a footnote in her latest—” He spied a black shadow breaking the expanse of gray wall; it was tall and narrow, like a doorway.
Curiosity demanded an explanation. Picard walked to the wall, but even up close his eyes strained to see through the opening. He stretched out an arm. His hand sank into the darkness and touched air that was several degrees cooler than where he stood.
“Another footnote?” asked Worf.
“Perhaps. Why don’t we find out?”
Picard stepped through the opening.
The tunnel was narrow—he could hear the sound of Worf’s shoulders brushing against the sides of polished stone—and if the light grew any dimmer he would be foolish to forge ahead. The darkness did not thicken, however. Instead, a glowing light beckoned him to continue his exploration.
They soon discovered that the illumination came from a field lamp abandoned in the corridor. Its light revealed that the end of the tunnel had once been bricked over, but the archaeologists had cut through the barrier to reach the circular chamber beyond.
“More than a footnote,” said Picard when he caught sight of the interior.
A huge throne, hewn out of the same stone as the tower above, was set in the center of the bare room.
The attenuated figure that sat on the throne was no statue, however. On his first breath, Picard had inhaled the musty odor of mummification. Skin and tissue had dried, shrinking against the skeleton beneath.
In life, the alien had been tall and willowy; in death, it was crouched like a spider in its web.
“It’s holding something,” he said, observing how its arms and hands came together as if cupping a small object in its palms. When Picard approached for a better look, his boots stirred dust motes of decay into the still air.
The object was gone.
He knew the prickle of apprehension that shuddered through hi m was irrational and unwarranted.
Surely, the contents of this chamber must have been plundered centuries before the Vulcans had set foot on the planet.
“I’ve seen enough.”
Worf nodded impassively, but he scrambled out the portal somewhat faster than he had entered.
Picard ducked his