Captain's Blood

23

JOLAN SEGMENT, STARDATE 57488.1

As the craggy black rock of Remus stretched to a horizon over which a bloated green Romulus peered like a baleful eye, Picard knew how close he was to success, and how close to disaster.

With two days remaining until the Hour of Opposition, there was still time to convince the Tal Shiar they had an alternative to war. But the key to Picard being able to offer them that alternative rested with Norinda, the being who flew this transport, the being he had just betrayed.

Picard knew it wouldn’t matter that the betrayal had been unwitting. On the bridge of the Calypso, he had been shocked that Kirk had so willingly given up his son to Norinda, to allow him to journey to Remus. But as they had made their way back to the cargo bay and the transport, Picard had reflected on what Joseph had said to his father, and before they had left the first corridor, Picard realized what Kirk must already have known.

Joseph wasn’t Joseph.

The singular child strapped into the passenger seat across from him in the bare, unfinished shell of the transport was the holographic doctor. Engaged in a flawless deception.

So far.

Because once this transport landed and Joseph was brought before the followers of the Jolara—which was surely what Norinda intended—as perfect as the Doctor’s illusion was to all physical senses, it would have to withstand the inspection of any telepaths among the Reman population.

And there would be telepaths, some no doubt as skilled and powerful as the first Shinzon’s Viceroy had been.

Even more worrisome, the Doctor might already have faced his first telepathic test and failed when Norinda had stared so closely at him on the bridge, and asked him what he would like her to be.

Clearly, she was opening herself to him, and had Joseph been a real being, whatever idealized images he had in his mind of females important to him—memories of his mother, of playmates, or even of the dabo girls who apparently had made quite an impression on the boy—should have filtered out to Norinda, whose appearance would have altered in response to those images.

But Norinda hadn’t changed at all. Merely agreed that the “boy” did not know what he wanted her to be.

Picard could only hope that the shapeshifter’s calm acceptance of her inability to access Joseph’s thoughts indicated she had had similar negative results with other subjects. Ferengi were certainly resistant to almost all forms of telepathy. But as Deanna Troi had often said about her experiences with Data, it was one thing to attempt to probe a mind, and find resistance, and quite another to sense that there was no mind to probe.

Picard was relieved that the Doctor was not bubbling over with observations and insistent queries the way the real Joseph would be, if he were in this ship, on this adventure. The fewer the interactions between Norinda and the Doctor, the better for everyone.

What Norinda’s reaction to the revelation of his betrayal would be then, Picard couldn’t be sure. For a being who professed to be the bearer of peace and love, she seemed to dispense anger and impatience almost as often, and in what she had done to Jim by appearing as Teilani, cruelty as well.

To Picard, it almost seemed as if Norinda’s fundamental personality were as mutable as her body. But where it was becoming easy to predict how she might change her form in order to create a powerful sensual connection with her followers, Picard had yet to detect the pattern of her changes of mood. And it was a given in warfare that the most dangerous enemy was the one whose actions and reactions could not be predicted.

“Jean-Luc,” Norinda said from her pilot’s chair, “look ahead: Worker’s Segment Five, protectorate of the Warbird Atranar.”

The transport banked under Norinda’s guidance, revealing a collection of ribbed domes spread across a black plain. Twisted tendrils of exhaust billowed up from geothermal vents. Lights sparkled behind the domes’ few transparent panels.

A million slaves at least, Picard estimated. Poor wretches. And because their fates were linked to a Reman warbird, the Tal Shiar had marked them for death, along with the inhabitants of two other segments.

The transport returned to its original course, and once again Romulus lay directly ahead, three-quarters full, its seas and land masses clearly visible, as were several storm fronts and the intense, glowing red pinpoints of active volcanoes. The yearly close approach of Romulus and Remus, with the resulting tidal stresses, kept both worlds tectonically active. On Romulus, the results were magnificent seasonal firefalls. Whether there were similar features on Remus, Picard did not know.

Casting his eye on Romulus, he tested his memory by identifying continents and regions, and as he did so Picard began to notice that a haze was developing around the planet. He checked the ground below and saw that the haze was a band of light hugging the horizon.

The transport was approaching the terminator, passing from eternal night to eternal day.

Of course, Picard thought. He remembered the ceiling domes in the chambers of Norinda’s Jolan Segment. She and her followers lived on the dayside of Remus. That fact raised a question.

“Norinda,” Picard asked. “Is there a difference between those Remans who live on the dayside of your world, and those who live on the nightside?”

Norinda looked at Nran, and he turned in his copilot’s chair to answer Picard’s question.

“Almost no Remans live on the dayside. The geologists say the sunward side has been more…geologically active?” He looked to Norinda for confirmation he had his facts in order.

“Continue,” she said, and Nran beamed like a pupil eager for the teacher’s praise.

“More eruptions because of…”

“Tidal stress?” Picard suggested.

The Romulan nodded. “So to mine, we’d have to dig deeper. But on the nightside, not as deep. So that’s where the mines are and…that’s where most of the miners live.”

Picard mulled over Nran’s information. Given the two extremes of illumination on the planet, he’d wondered if there might be a second offshoot of the Romulans with eyes that could tolerate bright light. But if most of the Remans lived underground in darkness, then it followed that most of the Remans would be intolerant of light.

“So, how is it that you came to live on the dayside?” Picard asked.

“We chose to go there,” Nran said. “After Shinzon.”

“You’re allowed to do that?” Picard asked, truly puzzled. “Choose your own living arrangements? On Remus?”

Nran looked at Norinda again, and if she said something to him, Picard couldn’t see past the back of her chair.

“Since Shinzon,” Nran said, “things have been different on Remus.”

“Different in the sense that things are better?”

Nran was about to answer again, but Norinda reached out to touch his arm, the contact instantly making Nran lose his train of thought.

“Just different,” Norinda said. “Almost home.”

She touched a control and the viewport darkened. A moment later the swollen red star of the Romulan home system blazed against the viewport, and Picard thought it likely that without its protective tint, they all might have been temporarily blinded.

A chime sounded from the controls, and Picard felt the transport dip, and even through the darkened port, he could see that on this side of Remus, the black rock shone with a glaring brilliance.

He wondered how it came to pass that Norinda and her followers had been allowed to relocate to this side.

He wondered why they would want to.

But then he put those minor questions aside, and thought again of war and betrayal, and how he might be responsible for both.

Not for the first time, he remembered when he had been an explorer, and wondered if that life would ever be his again.

The next betrayal was Norinda’s.

The transport landed smoothly on a target pad, then floated on antigrav skids to an airlock carved into the side of a small mountain.

An armored door swung down, and the entire chamber, easily the size of the Enterprise’s own hangar deck, was re-pressurized in seconds.

Norinda opened the side hatch of the transport and was the first to leave. Nran followed. Picard helped Joseph out, treating the hologram exactly as he would the real child, not daring to pass a signal even by the slightest eye contact, having no way to tell what level of surveillance they might be subject to.

Then they stepped down from the transport’s hatch ladder to find three Reman guards waiting for them, eyes protected by dark visors, armed with drawn disruptors.

With the deadline of Opposition so close and unchangeable, Picard abandoned civil negotiation. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Norinda seemed unperturbed. “For your protection. The Tal Shiar is everywhere, and now they know you’ve been trying to reach them. Some among them aren’t pleased by that, Jean-Luc. They think it means you’ve stumbled on their plans, and so they’d prefer to kill you rather than talk.”

“But I have to talk with them. I must!”

“And I do know that,” Norinda said. “And I will arrange it. But I am sure you’d prefer to speak with a member of the Tal Shiar who will listen to you, instead of shooting you on sight.”

Now Picard felt awkward for having jumped to a negative conclusion. Norinda had been following up on her promise, after all. Complications had arisen, but that was understandable. If it was troubling for him to think of an entente between the Tal Shiar and the Federation, it was reasonable to think that the Tal Shiar would be equally skeptical.

“Thank you,” Picard said, deciding a little civility was called for after all. “But with so little time remaining, you can understand my urgency.”

Norinda smiled, but did not use whatever power she had to make a connection, mind to mind. “I do understand. And you will have your meeting.” She glanced at Joseph as she continued to address Picard. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me and my followers in convincing Kirk to let Joseph visit today. And I will show my appreciation in return.” Then she motioned to the guards. “Be patient, Jean-Luc. Not much longer.”

Norinda and Nran left through one personnel door. The three Remans directed Picard and Joseph to another. Picard was intrigued to see that the guards had to duck their heads to step through the door. This facility had not been built with Remans in mind, but for Romulans.

The corridors here were also much different from the first ones Picard had encountered when he and La Forge had escaped with the help of Norinda and her mysterious mercenary—the apparently self-propelled suit of combat armor.

Picard still hadn’t reconciled those events with Norinda’s protestations of love and peace. The armored unit, or hollow robot as Picard was coming to consider it, had killed the Reman doctor—hardly the act of a follower of the Jolara. But if it had been a robot, little more than a tool, then perhaps Norinda hadn’t understood the nature of its programming.

Or maybe Norinda is simply lying about everything, Picard thought, then sighed, dismissing his paranoia with a wry smile.

“What’s so funny, Uncle Jean-Luc?”

Picard gazed down at the holographic child, remembered a phrase from his own childhood. “When you’re older.”

Joseph grinned maliciously. “Awww, geee, you always say that!” Then he began to skip along the corridor to join the guards and pester them with childish questions.

Picard passed door after door, none of them hidden as they had been on the nightside, many of them marked in Romulan script, which Picard regretted he did not have the skills to read properly.

He did recognize some engineering terms, though, and one door was clearly marked for orbital operations—likely the flight control room. But other doors seemed to be identified simply by numbers and a single icon, as if in code.

Then the Remans stopped before a specific door, and one of them operated a control pad on the wall beside it.

The door opened, and it was clear from their body language to Picard that the Remans wanted him and Joseph to step inside. The guards would not be following.

Picard had no choice but to trust Norinda, so he took Joseph’s hand and together they stepped inside where—

—Beverly Crusher ran into his arms and held him as closely as Kirk had held Joseph.

Picard was so startled, and suddenly so fearful that this was another of Norinda’s manifestations that he actually pulled away.

But when he saw Crusher’s expression of hurt surprise, he immediately regretted it, knew it was her.

“Jean-Luc, what’s wrong?”

Honesty was always best, no matter how strange, so Picard told her the truth. “There is an alien here who is a shapeshifter, and she once appeared to me as you.”

Crusher narrowed her eyes, put her hands on her hips. “Details, Jean-Luc.”

“It was for just a few seconds,” he said reassuringly.

“If ye don’t mind, I’ll just settle for shakin’ your hand, Captain Picard.”

Picard turned to see Mister Scott, hale and hearty. He shook the engineer’s hand with enthusiasm.

“This is a most unexpected and welcome surprise,” Picard said with great relief. “The last any of us had heard, you were both in need of extensive surgical treatment.”

“The Remans excel at repairing traumatic injury,” Crusher said. She ran a finger along her forehead and under her right eye. “I’ve seen the before and after imagery on my skull fracture, broken nose, and cheekbone. But look, not a scar.”

Scott tapped his jaw. “Same for me. Quick treatment. But no pretty nurses.”

Picard looked around the room they were in, and was surprised by how pleasant it was. In addition to a bookcase full of Romulan scrollbooks, through which Joseph now pawed, there were plants, several groupings of what looked to be comfortable furniture, and woven wall hangings, which Picard recognized as stunning examples of a Romulan craft style about a thousand years old. These were the furnishings he would expect in a senator’s country home on Romulus, not in an Assessor facility on Remus.

“When did you arrive?” he asked.

“This morning,” Crusher said.

“Aye, there were a crowd of others,” Scott added. “The Jolan people. But if you’ll pardon me interrupting, is there any word on the captain and the others?”

“Jim’s fine. We just left him back on the Calypso with La Forge.”

Scott grimaced. “Och, th’ poor lad’ll have his work cut out for him.”

“Actually, the ship’s in better shape than we thought. It’s a long story, but there’re no surprises up there.”

Crusher was in tune with him. “But surprises down here?”

“Many,” Picard said. “Each with an equally long story.”

“Which you will tell us another time, no doubt,” she said.

“No doubt at all.” Picard looked past her and Scott to see Joseph intently reading a scrollbook. “Joseph? You’re being rude not saying hello to your Uncle Scott and Doctor Crusher.”

“Sorrr-eee,” Joseph said, but he made no move to stop reading.

“Why is he down here?” Crusher asked.

“Aye, I thought the captain was dead set against th’ lad setting foot on Remus.”

Picard knew he couldn’t risk saying anything, or even hinting what the real story was. “It’s a favor to me. I’ll explain later.”

“Any idea when that might be?” Scott asked. “Have they said anything about how long they might be keeping us here?”

“I…would hope we’ll be back on the Calypso within the day.”

“That’s good to know,” Scott said.

“But why the delay?” Crusher asked.

“Norinda—she’s the woman, actually, she’s the shapeshifting alien who founded the Jolan Movement—she’s arranging a meeting for me. Then we’ll go.”

Scott scratched the back of his head. “Norinda…I know that name…but a shapechanger?”

Before Picard could remind Scott where he had first encountered Norinda, the door swung open, and a Romulan entered carrying a small silver case.

“Farr Jolan,” he said. “I am Zol. I am here to see the child.”

As if they had discussed what to do beforehand, the three adults turned to form a wall, shoulder to shoulder, blocking Zol from Joseph.

“For what reason?” Picard asked.

Zol placed his silver case on a table and opened it, as if there were nothing Picard or the others could say or do to keep him from Joseph. “I am here at the request of the Jolara.”

“I understand that,” Picard said. “But I ask again: What do you want with him?”

Zol held up a slender, silver object and made an adjustment to it. It looked familiar to Picard, but Crusher recognized it right away.

“That’s a blood extractor. Are you a physician?”

Zol took another instrument from his case, laid it out beside the first. “I am.”

“Well, so am I,” Crusher said. “And Joseph is my patient. And I absolutely forbid you to perform any procedures on him until you gain the consent of his father.”

“Consent has been given.”

“Show it to me.”

Zol gestured to Joseph, who now stood behind Picard, looking past him as if he were truly frightened. “The child is here.”

Picard had no intention of letting the Romulan anywhere near the holographic boy. “Joseph is here to meet his mother’s relatives and for no other reason.”

Zol approached the adults with a larger instrument in hand. “How are we to know his kin without having his genetic profile? You will stand aside.”

“I will not.”

Zol didn’t argue. He simply raised the instrument he carried and the moment Picard recognized it as a disruptor, Zol fired.

The setting was low stun, and Picard fell back onto a chair, gasping for breath, without the muscle coordination to stand. Two more quick shots took care of Crusher and Scott, and no one was able to shout at Joseph to run.

Joseph was doing his best to act the part and keep the Romulan away. He screamed in terror, threw every object he could find—including Zol’s own medical case—and ran back and forth with speed that Picard could see bordered almost on the impossible.

Another doctor might have given up, affected by the child’s reaction. But Zol wasn’t that kind of being. Distress in others did not concern him.

So he did what Picard knew he would do.

He shot Joseph.

The disruptor blast made Joseph’s form shimmer, like a faulty holodeck image, and Picard saw Zol’s shocked reaction.

The disguised Doctor tried to cover for his mistake, spoke into his wrist as if he wore a communicator there, and shouted, “Beam me up!” A moment later, he disappeared in a curtain of light, as if he had been beamed away.

But Zol appeared to be prepared for that subterfuge, and immediately pulled a tricorder from his belt, scanned the room, and fired a wide burst.

Picard saw the sparkling outline of the Doctor take shape, as if he were a sculpture made of water.

Zol fired again, this time with pinpoint accuracy, hitting the one part of the Doctor that wasn’t illusory—his holoemitter, no larger than a combadge.

A flash of sparks burst from the small device, and the outline vanished as the holoemitter dropped straight to the floor.

Zol walked back to Picard, looked down on him with a sneer.

“Jolan True,” he said.

And then he left.