Captain's Blood

10

REMUS, STARDATE 57485.7

Watchful, ever watchful. Those were the words the slaves whispered in the mines, down through the generations, from the time of the Clans, from the legends of the Old Ways. Watchful like the stone. Watchful like their world itself, forever keeping one face turned to the sun, the other turned to the night, never blinking, never shirking, waiting for the time when change at last would come, and the slaves would be free, and the free, enslaved.

So Remus orbited its sun. So the Calypso orbited Remus.

It was one small ship, alien and alone, flanked protectively—or threateningly—by massive warbirds painted not with the plumage of Romulan raptors, but with the harsh script of the forbidden language of those who worked the stones.

Vast orbital refineries that would make Terok Nor look like a shuttlecraft wheeled above the Calypso, spewing clouds of superheated rock vapor, bringing pollution to the pristine vacuum of space. Ion freighters driven by thrusters venting light-speed streamers of plasma rose past the Calypso with holds overfilled with raw dilithium ore. Their blistering exhaust would devastate the surface of any other world. But Remus was beyond devastation.

It was a resource to be exploited, its veins of exotic minerals no different from the individual lives of the Remans who toiled within its caves. A rock crushed. A Reman life expended. Both had equal meaning to those who ruled from the sister planet.

Most Remans never saw that world to which they gave their lives. But for those few thousand trustees picked from among the buried millions, who crewed the freighters and the orbital refineries, who built and maintained the surface domes and structures, who had a chance to see the sky—that sister planet was more often than not a glittering green star, the brightest in the heavens.

But other times, as it was now, when the resonant orbits of the two worlds came into opposition, approaching within a million kilometers of each other in an echo of the single world they once were before they were shattered, Romulus was a disk that grew until its bands of green vegetation and soft white billows of clouds filled the sky like a window into Paradise.

Some Remans held within their hearts the secret wish, the secret dream, that Romulus was where their souls would be reborn after death, their reward for the punishment of their lives in the mines.

But other Remans knew that their only chance for reward was in this life, and that reward would come only when the inhabitants of Paradise—their Romulan brothers—were punished for their transgressions.

Shinzon had not been the first to arise from among the oppressed to fulfill the ancient legends of change and revolt.

But he had been the first to gain the ear of the Romulan Senate.

He had been the first to be given the ship and the soldiers to pursue his dream. And the truth that was known to those who had supported him, guided him, directed him, was that if only Shinzon had kept his word and pursued the one pure goal of Reman freedom, then Shinzon would have succeeded.

But Shinzon did not keep his face turned to the sun. He was not watchful.

As he accumulated power, he forgot the legends of the Old Ways, the lessons of the Clans. He allowed himself to be distracted by petty personal desires, and those distractions brought his downfall.

But those who had supported Shinzon were not defeated by his failure.

They had armed one surrogate to fight their battle, and they could arm another.

As many as it might take to bring the inevitable day of change.

Not the change the Remans dreamed of, but something even more satisfying, more welcome, more peaceful, more in accordance with the true reality of existence.

“I say we tell him everything.” Visual sensor implants glistening, Geordi La Forge looked around the narrow galley of the Calypso, as if daring anyone present to object to what he had so plainly stated.

But Picard couldn’t argue with his engineer. Indeed, he appreciated the irony that the one member of his crew who had been blind since birth was often the one person who saw a problem’s solution most clearly.

However, Picard was also very much aware of the holographic doctor studying him, awaiting his decision. And given current circumstances, there was only one decision Picard’s orders allowed him to make.

“That’s out of the question,” Picard told La Forge. He nodded at the Doctor, who stood at the side of the ship’s tiny galley. He was the only one present who wore a Starfleet uniform, and he apparently preferred not to crowd in with the others at the small table. The Doctor gave a tight smile and folded his arms as if acknowledging victory. “At least, at present,” Picard added, and enjoyed seeing the Doctor’s smile change to a frown.

“Well, I agree with Geordi,” Crusher joined in. “The whole point of this mission was to get to Romulus. Being sidetracked to Remus puts everything at risk.”

“We are merely delayed,” the Doctor said, giving a wonderful holographic impression of being exasperated. “Not derailed.”

“But for how long?” La Forge asked. “The longer we’re stuck on Remus, the greater opportunity there is for evidence to disappear on Romulus. And if we can’t find out who’s responsible for Ambassador Spock’s murder, then…” La Forge frowned in frustration.

Picard turned to the hologram. “Doctor, believe me, I understand what Admiral Janeway’s orders require of us.”

“That’s quite a relief,” the Doctor said without waiting for Picard to finish.

“But I also agree with my crew’s assessment. Conditions have changed, and I believe we, and the mission, would be better served if we brought Jim, and Doctor McCoy, and Mister Scott into our confidence.”

“Absolutely not,” the Doctor said flatly. “The renowned Captain Kirk is a maverick. A lone wolf. He barely functioned within Starfleet’s chain of command when he was officially in service, and now, as a civilian, with a child who is the focus of his concern, there is not the slightest chance that we can rely on him to put the needs of the Federation above his own.”

Picard tapped his finger on the narrow galley table, which looked like polished wood, but clicked like metal. The small room with its so-called gourmet food replicators was only large enough to hold ten people at a time, and under normal circumstances with a full crew and passenger load, people aboard the Calypso would have to eat in shifts. On the first day of this voyage, Picard had explored the ship and quickly decided it would be a safe place for private meetings with his fellow co-conspirators. It was far enough forward and away from the engine room that anyone approaching would be revealed the moment the turbolift doors opened in the quiet corridor outside. “Doctor, it was you who said that Kirk’s child would not be in any danger on this mission.”

The hologram looked offended. “That was Starfleet’s determination and I support it. We’re not monsters, Captain. No one at Command would even consider placing a child in harm’s way. And, in point of fact, it seems young Joseph is to be treated as an honored guest by the Remans.”

“Guest?” Crusher repeated in surprise. “I’m at the communications console, remember? From the messages flying back and forth, I’d say Joseph is considered to be a long-lost child at last returned home.”

The holographic doctor wasn’t convinced. “I fail to see how that translates into the possibility of harm.”

“Doctor,” Crusher said earnestly, “now that he’s here, I don’t think the Remans have any intention of allowing Joseph to leave.”

Before the hologram could reply, Picard added, “And if that is the case, then what do you think Jim’s reaction will be?”

But the Doctor took Picard by surprise, reversed the question. “What do you think his reaction will be?”

“The same as any other parent’s, with the added complication that Jim has more than enough skill and experience to reclaim his child from any Reman authorities rash enough to keep father from son.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor said, as if delivering the last unassailable word in the argument.

But Picard didn’t understand what point the hologram was making. “You’ll have to be clearer than that.”

For better or worse, the Doctor never seemed averse to talking in detail. “If you think our mission is in difficulty now, what do you think the repercussions will be for us if Kirk goes on a parental rampage on Joseph’s behalf, stirring up a diplomatic incident at the least, or an act of war at worst?”

“Don’t you think that it falls to us to prevent that?” Picard asked. “As a group.”

The holographic doctor looked up at the low ceiling of the galley, and Picard was struck by how convincing the artificial life-form’s emotional subroutines appeared to be. He felt a pang of loss as he thought of Data, and wished that the android and the hologram had had a chance to discuss their similarities and their differences. There’s never enough time, he thought. Not for any of us.

“Captain Picard,” the Doctor began sternly, “must I remind you that what passes for the current semblance of order in the Romulan Empire is so precarious, that the slightest provocation from an outside entity, such as the Federation, could ignite the civil war that is already within weeks, if not days of beginning.”

La Forge shook his head, his earlier frustration growing. “You really believe that Captain Kirk defending his child is enough to start a war?”

“Commander La Forge,” the Doctor argued, “there is no question that the forces of civil war are already in place at the heart of the Romulan Star Empire. If Shinzon hadn’t attempted to make his ill-fated attack on Earth, that war would already be upon us.”

“It would be upon the Romulans,” La Forge insisted.

“No, no, no, no,” the Doctor sighed. “These aren’t the days of Captain Jonathan Archer blundering through the galaxy from one isolated star system to the next, learning on the job as he goes. It’s not even the fragmented mosaic of independent political entities that Kirk and his contemporaries began to knit together. Those early explorers did their job, Commander, and today we truly are an intergalactic community, each system linked to the other through trade and commerce, despite our cultural differences.

“A civil war between Romulus and Remus can not—and will not—be considered a ‘local disturbance.’ The Romulan Fleet is arguably the third strongest in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants combined, which means they can tip the balance of power by aligning themselves with virtually any other political assemblage.”

“Not if they’re caught up in an internal war,” La Forge said. Picard knew the engineer well enough to see that his anger was rising. Since Data’s death, the engineer had seemed to lose his capacity for patience, as if now he must do everything in a hurry, as if untimely death stalked him, as well.

“But how long do you think that conflict would remain internal?” the Doctor countered. “How long do you think it would be before the losing side allied itself with the Breen? Or the Tholians? And then the winning side would counter by making overtures to the Klingons. Do you believe the Federation will stand by while the Romulans and Klingons form a new alliance?”

The holographic doctor gestured grandly as he listed his objections.

“We’re still rebuilding from the Dominion War. Millions of Federation citizens killed. Thousands of ships lost. It’s only now that the first Starfleet Academy class not affected by the war is graduating. And even the four full graduating classes between the end of that war and today did not come close to producing enough officers to replace all the ones lost during the conflict.

“The Federation would have to take action to prevent that alliance of two old enemies, and inevitably, the Romulan Civil War would become a galactic one.”

Picard could see that the Doctor had succeeded in making his point. There seemed to be little that La Forge, Crusher, or he could say in response.

But once again, Picard realized he should never underestimate his engineer.

“Look, Doctor, if a Romulan civil war is inevitable, then it really doesn’t matter what we do, does it?” La Forge spoke quietly, now, hands folded on the table, his impatience in check. “So why don’t we at least do the honorable thing?”

“Honor has many definitions, Commander. Klingon. Romulan. Human. Which would you suggest?”

La Forge didn’t hesitate. “Human. The fact remains that Starfleet is using Kirk and his son as window dressing for a covert operation. I won’t argue about the propriety of that. During a normal tour of duty, we have children on the Enterprise. But obviously Starfleet didn’t research this specific situation thoroughly enough. No one predicted the Reman response to the presence of Kirk’s son.”

“Well, how could they?” the Doctor protested. “The mother of the child was Romulan, not Reman.”

“Teilani was a Romulan-Klingon hybrid,” Crusher clarified.

La Forge wasn’t concerned about details. “The fact remains we’re in orbit of Remus. Because Starfleet failed.”

Picard was surprised by the power of those three words as they hung in the awkward silence.

Everyone in the galley had dedicated his and her life to Starfleet and its ideals. There were always opportunities for improving it. Cadets were taught to recognize the wide-ranging conditions under which orders could be questioned and commanders asked for clarification of intent.

But to hear the word “failed,” stated so baldly.

No one was comfortable with that.

Except, Picard could see, the holographic doctor.

“As Admiral Janeway’s representative on this mission,” the hologram said firmly, “it is my directive that we continue as planned, without informing the civilian members of the party.”

La Forge began to object, but the Doctor wouldn’t yield the floor.

“However, Commander—and everyone else—we will revisit this decision once we have additional information concerning the Remans’ intentions for Captain Kirk’s son. I suggest we leave it there.”

La Forge and Crusher looked to Picard, and he gave no indication of disagreeing with the Doctor’s pronouncement.

The discussion was over. For now.

“Very good,” the Doctor said, sounding quite proud of himself. “It is all for the best, you’ll see.” He stepped beside Beverly Crusher. “Doctor Crusher, if you’ll do the honors.”

“Of course, Doctor.” Crusher held out her hand, palm up. The holographic doctor nodded his head in farewell, and then seemed to melt into thin air. Picard could almost believe the doctor’s smile was the last to go, leaving him with the impression that he and his crew had just spent twenty minutes debating Starfleet policy and Romulan politics with the Cheshire cat.

The dull metal badge of the doctor’s holoemitter dropped into Crusher’s hand, and now there were three people in the galley instead of four.

“Sorry to be so contrary,” La Forge said to Picard. “But how can he expect orders written weeks ago on Earth to apply to what we’ve just encountered out here?”

Picard reached across the table to take the holoemitter from Crusher, held it up for La Forge. “I’m sure the doctor will be more than happy to explain that to you when he reappears.”

La Forge narrowed his artificial eyes at Picard. “You mean…he can still hear us, even when…he’s not switched on?”

Picard snapped open his bulky civilian communicator, revealing the hidden compartment inside. “How else could he come to our rescue if things go badly? As he puts it, he keeps an ear open.” Picard snapped the communicator closed.

La Forge stood up, stretched his back, went to the replicator. “So what constitutes ‘continuing as planned’ under current conditions?”

Picard attached the communicator to his belt, stood up as well. “Doing what soldiers have always done so well,” he said. “Wait.”

Crusher rose from the table, and Picard could tell from her sly smile she had something to say that would probably annoy the holographic doctor and amuse everyone else. But before she could speak, someone else did.

“Wait for what?”

Joseph stood in the doorway, a small figure with dark eyes wide and innocent beneath his Klingon brow. He had obviously arrived on this deck through the engineering ladders and not by turbolift.

Picard had no idea what to say next. He could converse with Joseph if he had time to prepare himself. But unanticipated meetings with any child invariably left him feeling as if he had met an unknown alien after leaving his Universal Translator pinned to his other uniform.

Crusher smoothly took the burden of a reply from Picard. “We’re going to wait for dinner, sweetie.” Picard imagined that this was how she had once talked to her own son, Wesley, when he had been Joseph’s age. “Are you having dinner with us tonight?”

Joseph nodded, and stepped into the galley.

Picard wanted to know how long the child might have been in the corridor, how much he might have heard, how much of that he might have understood. But even to ask the question would be to make the moment too important—something he might describe to his father.

“What would you like now?” Crusher said. She took Joseph’s hand and moved along the wall toward the replicators. La Forge was just removing a coffee drink from one of the wall-mounted machines, a sweeping spiral of something white rocking back and forth on the surface of the liquid. “Chocolate milk?”

Joseph shook his head. “Tranya,” he said.

Crusher peered at the drink replicator, peering at the fine print on its instruction screen. “Let’s see if that’s programmed….”

As she read, Joseph looked back at Picard, pointed at him with one of his three perfect fingers. “One,” he said earnestly. Then he looked at La Forge. “Two,” he said. He pointed at Doctor Crusher beside him. “Three.”

Picard wasn’t sure what a correct response would be, so he covered, “Very good, Joseph,” as if counting to three was an arduous task.

And then Joseph innocently added, “But where’s number four?”

That’s when Picard knew they had a problem.