The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [141]
“Captain,” Ai’lara said, prompting him to stop at the doorway and turn around. “Until today, I had forgotten what I had lost. Thank you.”
“Jolan’tru,” Picard said with a nod. Then he exited the home and the door closed behind him.
He stood there on the doorstep for several minutes as the afterimage of Jarok’s resolute countenance continued to haunt him, grappling with the unexpected shock of receiving fortuitous and possibly invaluable information from a man long deceased, speaking all but from another era.
Eight years earlier, this man died aboard his ship while attempting to bring information to the Federation. Now the man’s last wish was known: to bring another pragmatic government official—a man already leading a duplicitous existence—under the shadowy and dangerous cloak of espionage.
But in the intervening years, fate had brought about a most improbable alliance as the two galactic powers shared the fight against a seemingly implacable enemy. And as allies, the two governments could not simply rely upon secret government operatives for intelligence sharing; their exposure could undermine everything they had gained, and lives could be lost for lack of trust. The captain was not about to allow additional blood to stain his hands.
He surveyed the landscape spread out before him. The sun was now higher in the sky, blanketing the landscape with comforting warmth. Along the horizon, the towers of the nearby city punctuated the skyline, and the splendor of the distant mountain ranges provided a powerful, majestic backdrop. Down the street at the end of the walkway, Picard observed the bustle of people moving about their daily tasks, oblivious to the drums of war beating in distant star systems. From somewhere nearby, he heard the joyful sounds of children playing.
As Picard meandered back down the path, flanked by the flowerbeds that teemed with exotic plantlife, his fleeting serenity was pierced by the chirp of his combadge.
“Riker to Picard.”
Picard tapped the insignia on his chest. “Go ahead, Number One.”
“Sir, Admiral Dougherty has reported in. He’s finished his meeting at Galae Command, and he’ll be beaming aboard in about ten minutes.”
“Acknowledged. Any word from the admiral on the progress of the talks?”
The pause on the other end of the transmission lasted mere seconds yet spoke volumes with distressing clarity. “Well, sir,” Riker responded, “he’s not particularly pleased. It seems at this point the Romulans are unwilling to share enough useful intelligence to effectively coordinate our initial campaigns against the Dominion.”
The captain made no attempt to hide the disappointment in his voice. “That’s unfortunate, Will. Inform the admiral that I’m on my way to the station now…” Feeling a slight tug on his arm, he stopped and gently removed one of the plants’ long tendrils that had snagged upon the fabric of his uniform.
Picard stroked the rough filaments on the tip of the appendage as his eyes drifted over the strangely alien and radically variant species of flora he had passed along the path, all peacefully coexisting in a soothing panorama. Golden, crimson, and violet flowers burst out from a mass of tentaclelike green sprouts—some long and spindly, others bloated and bedraggled, and all seemingly reaching out to him.
Eventually his gaze had retraced his steps back to the house, where behind the large oval-shaped front window, enveloped in a translucent glare from the sun’s reflected rays, stood the lone figure of Tiaru.
She had regained her composure, her greenish bloodshot eyes fixated upon him, providing a lens into a wisdom that belied her age. And within those eyes, Picard could plainly see the very hope that he himself so desperately sought.
“Anything else, Captain?”
Yes…His duty was clear, as was his obligation to spread the seeds that Jarok had sown. Perhaps in time, they would blossom into a peaceful future for both the