keroth1701@sbcglobal.net
02-08-2008, 09:53 AM
Title: Home
Author: Ke Roth (keroth1701@sbcglobal.net)
Series: TNG
Part: 36/?
Rating: R
Codes: P/C, P/f, D/f
Summary: Four years after the event of Nemesis, life has gone on for
the crew.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except my
characters. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. Don't
I wish.
Feedback is happily welcomed.
Thanks to Mrs. Peel who is very generously and very kindly posting
this on her website as well. You can find it at: http://www.picard-crusher.net/HOME.htm
Chapter 36
If a lifetime spent in Starfleet had taught him anything, Picard
thought, it was that life was filled with compromises. You sacrificed
something of a certain importance in order to gain something of
greater importance - all while your adversary attempted the same feat.
If all went well, you both came away from the negotiating table
feeling satisfied - perhaps even feeling a bit triumphant.
Occasionally, however, things did not go as well - and what you
sacrificed cost more than you would gain in return.
And this compromise had cost him what he held most dear: his pride,
his honor... his sense of Gallic chivalry, he admitted, while all he
had gained was the loss of a single task.
It didn't help that Andile was hefting the blade with an air of ease
and competence he didn't think he could match; with an easy grace and
rhythm she swung the knife from side to side, cutting back the
thickening layer of low growth that marked their emergence from the
deep rainforest of the Kvesterian camp into the denser forests north
of the encampment, and providing them both an easier path through the
otherwise impenetrable woods.
Easier, he reminded himself, but still requiring due diligence for
each step they made; while Andile may have been cutting back the
leaves and thinner stems of the plants that barred their way, neither
her machete nor her strength could do anything about the thicker
branches and trunks that were left behind. He looked down again,
stepping over a protruding root, deftly avoiding a low-lying branch -
and promptly stepped into a muddy puddle.
Water, filthy and cool, sprayed his already sodden and mud-soaked
pants, then dripped into his boots, where it joined the water and mud
of a hundred other mis-steps into puddles and shallow streams that
marked the floor of the thick forest.
He grimaced, briefly, then pushed back his annoyance; this wasn't the
first time he had gotten filthy and sodden, nor would it be his last,
he added - then grinned to himself, his mood lightening as he realized
that, perhaps, this would not be his last adventure after all.
He looked up - then found himself smiling again, enjoying the sight
before him; the glint of the metal as it caught the occasional ray of
light, the soft 'swoop' as it sliced through leaves and twigs, the
release of a scent of something unfamiliar yet deliciously green as
sap sprayed through the air, the more decided 'thunk' of the blade as
it crashed into - and through - the branches and trunks of the smaller
plants...
...and, he had to admit, he didn't mind watching the smooth flow of
Andile's muscles moving as she worked her way forward. Powerful yet
elegant, he thought - then quickly averted his eyes as she glanced
back at him.
"We can always switch," she reminded him, grinning.
"No," he replied... again.
"Okay - but no complaining when we make camp tonight," she reminded
him.
"Have I complained yet?" he countered.
Andile shook her head, then turned back to the work of cutting the
path.
Swoop.
Swoop.
I should be the one doing the work, he chided himself silently, his
mood souring despite his enjoyment of watching her work. This should
be her chance to recover for the ordeals of the last four years, to
rest, recuperate, rebuild her inner and outer strength - and yet she's
been forced to perform hard, physical labor ever since we arrived! he
protested wordlessly.
"I told you I would relinquish the machete," she reminded him, "but
only if you allowed me to carry my share of the supplies."
"I offered to do so," he protested, "and the offer still holds."
"That wasn't an offer, Jean-Luc; it was an insult," she said
petulantly. "I represent fifty percent of this party, so I should
carry fifty percent of the gear and cut the path half the time," she
reminded him. "But would you be reasonable about it? No. Gallic pride
my ***; it's Gallic pig-headedness," she muttered.
She swung again, but the stroke missed its target; struck on the flat
surface, a broad leaf quickly swept back, passing Andile and nearly
hitting Picard. He raised an arm to block the oncoming greenery,
stopping it successfully - but catching a faceful of rainwater
nonetheless.
A faint sense of triumph tickled at him, and he suspected the
'missed' foliage hadn't been missed at all.
Ignoring her reprisal, he continued, "I was not being pig-headed; I
was being quite reasonable," he replied evenly, exhibiting a calm he
was not feeling. "You represent fifty percent of this expedition in
terms of personnel, but in terms of muscle mass and strength you
represent less than a quarter." And that was being generous he added
silently, looking at the diminutive woman; her muscles might be sleek
and firm, but she still weighed less than half of what he did.
Expecting her to carry half of her body weight in equipment was out of
the question.
More than out of the question, he added; it was demeaning. After all,
she was his guest here - and one simply did not ask one's guests to
serve as laborers!
"Indeed, asking you to carry a quarter of the gear was far from
reasonable - a tenth would have be unreasonable! - but I was willing
to allow it," he added.
"Willing to allow it? Willing to allow it?!" she snapped back,
turning to glare at him. "Who the **** do you think you are Picard?!"
she returned. "You're not a Starfleet admiral here - and even if you
were, having you carry three quarters of the gear AND cut the path is
far from a fair distribution of the work load," she grumbled. "So if
we can't be fifty-fifty the reasonable way, we'll do it the
unreasonable way: you carry the packs and I cut the path," she
reminded him.
Which was equally unreasonable, he protested silently; cutting
through the dense undergrowth of this tropical rainforest was grueling
work - and while the sight of her working had certain charms, he
thought, he knew it was exhausting as well.
Not that she would admit it, he added... but if she won't, I won't,
he countered wordlessly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his
shoulders and back. Despite his protests, he thought, it has been some
time since I've carried a sixty kilo pack for this many kilometers.
And as many to follow, he reminded himself.
He'd been checking the padd throughout the last few hours, determined
to reach the halfway point of their trek before making camp for the
night; now that they were finally at the point in their walk, he'd
begun to search for a suitable resting spot - but the constant rains
and thick undergrowth were unrelenting.
As they had been the night before, he reminded himself. Unlike the
first night when the high, dense canopy had blunted the worst of the
persistent rains, the thinner forest they were traversing now allowed
more sunlight - and also more rain - to reach the forest floor. The
end effect was a dense undergrowth that slowed their forward progress,
kept them even wetter than at the base camp - and deprived them of any
chance of a decent night's sleep, he thought.
Even the carefully constructed mounds of leaves and fronds that they
had built to keep them off the wet ground had proved insufficient
against the mud that sucked at their every step; by the middle of the
night, the greenery had sunk into the filth, and water slowly slept
into the thin blanket that served as their ground cover.
Indeed, Picard mused, I wonder how much of the weight of these packs
is nothing more than mud and water that we're carrying from the
previous camps?
He didn't know; to be honest, he no longer cared. Roused from their
exhausted sleep by the growing dampness and oozing mud, they had
hurriedly built a makeshift mat of fresh fronds, then huddled together
beneath the sodden blankets, shivering against the dampness for the
balance of the night, dozing as fatigue took its tool, and aching for
first light and the chance to move on - hopefully to a location that,
if not dry, would at least be dryer.
He caught a momentary flash of the arid heat of Cardassia blowing
through the back of his mind, its blessed heat and dryness leeching
away the worst of the rainforest's moisture from his spirit - if not
from his body.
"Thank you," he murmured softly, knowing the source of the sensation.
"You're welcome," she replied. "But it's not a substitute for getting
dry, Picard," she reminded him. "A couple more days of this and we're
not going to be able to walk," she added.
He nodded, understanding - all too well.
What was the old military axiom? "An army marches on its stomach"? he
asked himself silently. No, he countered, the truth was that an army
marches on its feet - and issues of trenchfoot, fungi and parasites,
ill-made boots or those designed for their appearance rather than the
practicality of weather or the conditions of a campaign had decided as
many wars as had the strategy of its leaders.
The latter wasn't an issue here, Picard knew; there were no parasites
or fungi that affected humans on this planet; their boots were
perfectly fitted by the ship's computers and the provisioning
replicators that manufactured them followed those details exactly;
they were as waterproof as modern technology permitted; their feet
were coated every night and morning with proven moisture-blocking
ointments as directed by Alyssa Ogawa - they even changed into dry
socks - well, drier socks, Picard thought, suspecting nothing on this
planet was ever fully dry - every few hours... and still their feet
were wet and getting wetter.
And getting more and more painful as the thick tissues on their soles
slowly absorbed the rainwater, swelled and folded in upon themselves,
he added. In a bathtub, the effect was amusing: feet and hands
wrinkling like prunes, he thought to himself, remembering how the
presence of the wrinkles had always been his mother's cue to remove
him from the giant claw-footed tub that had filled the bathroom he and
Robert had shared in the house in LaBarre - but here, trying to
walking on the infolded tissues was anything but amusing.
"We need a fire," he told Andile - pointlessly, knowing she was as
cognizant of the problem and the solution as he was.
"Agreed. You find the dry wood and I'll find a dry spot to start it,"
she replied.
He grinned despite himself; not only was there no dry wood to be had,
but there was no place dry enough to build the fire, even if they had
found the wood.
"If we had a phaser, we could dry out the ground..." he mused.
"If we had a phaser, we could have cut through this muck and been out
of here yesterday," she countered, she said, panting slightly as she
brought the machete down and turned to face him. "Hell, Admiral, if
we're fantasizing, let's imagine having a site-to-site transporter so
we wouldn't have to deal with any of this!" She set the knife down,
then bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she worked to catch
her breath.
"Point taken," he replied, then studied her concernedly. "I can take
over for a while," he said.
"Okay," she agreed. "Give me a moment - then we can switch gear," she
added.
Taken aback, Picard began, "I didn't mean that you should..."
"I know what you meant, Picard - and I've told you: it doesn't work
that way," she responded. "We share - or we go on just like this."
He shook his head, not wanting this argument again. "Dee, you're my
guest..." he started.
She looked at him unhappily. "Your guest? And here I was, thinking I
was your friend. Gods, Picard, you're not the only one with some
pride! This isn't four years ago; this isn't the Enterprise - and I'm
not an invalid!" she shouted angrily. "I don't need you to save me! I
don't need you to rescue me!"
Furious, she grabbed the knife, turned away, and began hacking at the
plants.
*******! she swore at him silently, not caring whether he heard her
thoughts or not. ****ing arrogant *******! His guest! His guest, damn
it! Not his equal, not his partner in this debacle - not his friend!
I'm his ****ing _guest_!
She slashed angrily, ineffectually, at the leaves, ignoring them as
they slapped back in her face, pushing them away as she struck at the
next patch of heavy growth.
His _guest_! she swore again. His gods'-cursed _guest_!
She hacked at the leaves once more, the rain and the spraying sap
flying in her face, blinding her even as they diluted the tears of
anger and hurt that filled her eyes.
I thought... I thought....
You thought what? she asked herself. It was four years ago! Four
years! He's moved one - you've moved on! Whatever you once were -
friends, fellow officers - that was then! This is now. Move on!
Her breathing rough from the anger and the exertion, she stopped,
staring ahead at the overgrown plants - then turned to Picard.
"Padd," she said quietly, refusing to yield to her emotions again,
extending her hand for the device.
And was surprised when something else - something warm - no, hot! -
was pressed into it.
Looking down, she was surprised to see one of the self-heating food
packs resting in her grip.
Glancing at the companion, she watched as he touched the control on a
second pack, waited the requisite seconds, then opened the pouch.
"What?" she said quietly. "Do you assume that if I'm in a bad mood, I
must be hungry?"
He met he gaze and shook his head. "No. You're usually in a bad mood,
regardless of whether you've eaten or not," he replied.
She looked back at him - then managed a small smile. "Yeah, but I'm
even worse when I'm hungry," she admitted. "It's one of the drawbacks
to having a normal diet - you really begin to feel it when your
glucose level drops. It's easier just to starve your self," she added.
"You're foul-tempered - but it's a consistent foul temper."
It might be easier on those around you - but it was also easier to
make mistakes, he countered - wordlessly, knowing this was not the
moment to remind her that while events might force such deprivation
upon her, there was no need to force them upon herself needlessly.
There would be time for that confrontation - later.
Or not at all, he reminded himself; Dee was not a child, not some
naïve innocent who needed help in making choices and decisions; she
was ten time - no, a hundred times - older than he was, with as many
more life experiences. She didn't need him to tell her what she should
and should not do.
She was right: she did not need him to rescue her.
Except, of course, when she did.
This however, was not one of those times.
"I'd argue the point," he replied, "except that on more than a few
occasions, Beverly has made the same observation about my behavior.
However, we've been walking all day - and I'm hungry," he explained.
He squeezed the pouch, forcing a small amount of the thick substance
to the opening, then sniffed it tentatively.
"Jelleb paste," he said after a moment's thought. Not haute cuisine,
but...
"At least it's hot cuisine," Andile concluded for him, then took a
small mouthful.
Jelleb paste was many things, she thought as she worked the thick
mass through her mouth; it was highly nutritious for almost every
species in the Federation, offending neither palate nor digestive
systems for most people, and having been made from a root vegetable,
ethically agreeable to most vegetarians and omnivores - though, she
admitted, there were a few species who declined to eat it because they
had not killed it themselves.
It didn't mean they couldn't eat it, she added, simply that they
chose not to.
Given a choice, however, it would not be one of her preferences,
either.
At least, not like this, she thought, taking a second mouthful;
jelleb root, in any of its forms, had a tendency to take on the flavor
of whatever it was cooked with. Add some spice, and you would have a
savory addition to a meal; add some fruit, and it would make a filling
a nutritious sweet. Add some meat or vegetables...
She thought for a moment, then held out her hand once again. "Can I
have the padd for a moment?" she asked.
Picard smiled to himself at the change in attitude that a few
mouthfuls of food - and a short respite from their efforts - had
brought about. He drew the small machine from the depth of his pocket
and handed it over.
Thumbing it on, she watched the screen come to life, then slowly
adjusted the scanner until she could see a map of the area. Frowning
at the display, she touched a control, slowly pulling back on the area
until she found something that met with her approval.
Rising, she stepped into the jungle around them, quickly losing
herself in the overgrowth.
"Dee?" Picard called after her, a slight hint of worry building.
_Don't worry,_ she thought back at him - then fell silent once more.
For several minutes, Picard waited in silence, listening carefully
for the sound of her movements in the depths of the trees, feeling the
sensation of fear grow at her prolonged absence - and forcing himself
not to yield to it.
Of course, he reminded himself, he had every reason to worry; Andile
might be a seasoned explorer - but even the best of them had been
known to encounter something unexpected, something dangerous -
something deadly - and out here, there were no communicators to call
for help, no transporters to move them to a place of safety - no ship
to rescue them from whatever disaster befell them.
But that was the nature of being an explorer, he reminded himself;
that was why he enjoyed doing this. This was why he had joined
Starfleet.
But Starfleet was no longer what it once had been. Indeed, life in
Starfleet had become safe, predictable, routine.
And I? he asked himself - then sighed. I am as Starfleet: safe,
routine, predictable.
It wasn't a surprise, he reminded himself; we're both growing older -
maturing, yes, becoming more responsible, more established, settling
into ways that work for us - but perhaps also settling into ways that
are simpler, easier to hold to, rather than challenging the status quo
as we once did.
As I once did, he added. But no longer, he thought ruefully; I'm no
longer the rebel I once thought myself to be; I've become part of the
system. Worse, I enforce the system, he thought. As an ensign, a
lieutenant, a commander - even as a captain, I was in the field,
working, evaluating situation and trying to create real and workable
solutions for the people, societies - even civilizations, he thought -
and if the rules needed to be bent or broken, then they were - and
damned be the consequences to me!
Now? Now I sit at a desk, reading reports, enforcing the rules I once
fought against. And not because I necessarily believe in them, he
Added, but because I am required to do so.
The chains of command, he thought; who would have guessed that they
bind more tightly at the top than they do at the bottom?
But not here, he reminded himself: here there was chain of command,
no regs or rules - and no safety; no miracles to save us from
unforeseen danger; no regulations to keep us from harming ourselves -
or others - through error or omission. Here, life would be what we
made it - full of risk, danger - and perhaps, he added, reward.
Intellectual reward, he thought, imagining the results of his - or
Femishar's - discoveries on the planet; emotional reward, he added,
enjoying the enlightenment of the last few days, his discoveries about
himself and the changes in his attitude toward his life - and the
physical rewards, he mused, feeling the dull ache in the muscles of
his back - and savoring the hours of work and effort they represented
- and the freedom from the constraints that had bound him for so many,
many years.
He rolled his shoulders, easing the strain of the fatigued muscles,
listening to the sound of the contents shift within the bag - then
realized again that it was the only sound he heard.
"Dee!" he cried out again, wondering how long he had been lost in his
reverie; he glanced down, searching for the padd - then realized that
she had it.
Damn it, he thought angrily; if something happens to her, then I'm in
trouble as well! There's no way to the second dig site without that
map the device contained - and no way back either! I'd be stuck here
until the Enterprise returns - and I'd look a right fool!
"Talk about speculating ahead of the evidence," a voice interrupted
his thoughts. "You've been hanging around Professor Femishar too
much!" Andile laughed as she pushed her way through the last of the
plants and back into the small clearing.
He opened his mouth to protest - then closed it again. "Guilty as
charged," he replied sheepishly.
She handed the padd back to him then reached into her own pocket,
pulling out a small knife. With a swift gesture, she sliced off the
top of the self-heating food container, then handed it to Picard.
"Hold this," she ordered, then fished a small red sphere from her
other pocket and began to slice the object into small pieces, dropping
them, and the brilliant crimson juice into the package of jelleb
paste.
"What the..."
"Femishar said the native plants are safe to consume..."
"And you believed him?" Picard retorted in astonishment.
"Of course not," she countered. "But the briefing materials you gave
me back on the Enterprise did say that the plant life here was, for
the most part, safe and digestible. I had the scanner in the padd
evaluate it. It said it was safe, non-toxic, and compatible with human
biological systems," she said.
Reaching the hard core of the red object, she tossed it over her
shoulder, then pulled a second one from her pocket. Grabbing the
second food pouch from Picard, she deftly opened it and cut the plant
into the container before handing it back.
Picard looked at the now whitish/pink mass apprehensively. "Did the
scanner say what it tasted like?" he mused.
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, weren't
you just bemoaning the lack of adventure in Starfleet? Well, here's
your chance to be adventurous," she said. "Eat up," she said, then
dipped a single finger into the mix, studied it - then plunged it into
her mouth.
"Hmm..." she murmured, then met his anxious gaze. "Have you ever
eaten poi?" she asked.
Picard nodded, remembering - not fondly - his encounter with the
slightly fermented porridge-like delicacy from Earth's Hawaiian
Islands that had been served at one of the requisite ceremonies he had
attended there once. It had been treated with veneration and presented
to him as an honor - but if it had been up to him, he would have spit
out the offending mass and disposed of the remains. Protocol, however,
required that he choke down a polite portion of the food, which, being
a Starfleet officer he managed to do - despite the protestations of
his stomach.
Protocol, he sighed. Decorum.
Starfleet.
"I have," Picard replied, looking at the mixture suspiciously, trying
to conceal his lack of enthusiasm.
"Well, it doesn't taste anything like that," she announced. "It's
more like garlic and onion - but milder."
Curiosity - and appetite - whetted, Picard took a fingerful of the
mass, tasted it - then nodded. "Not onion; more like leeks," he
decided. "It reminds me of vichyssoise," he said, "only thicker. And
hot," he added. "And without the cream."
She gave him a caustic look. "Well, it reminds me of pumpkin pie,"
she offered. "Only without the spices, the sugar or the crust."
Picard looked at her askance - then realized she was teasing him.
"Vichyssoise is a cold potato soup," he explained. "Usually flavored
with onion and leek, sometimes with a touch of garlic," he added. "The
flavors are similar - but the texture is different."
Andile took another fingerful of the mix, put it in her mouth - then
nodded. "I can see it," she agreed, "though you'll have to admit it
has the consistency of mashed pumpkin," she said.
"So we're both right?" he said bemusedly.
"It has been known to happen," she suggested.
They ate the mix for several minutes, then Picard said, "I didn't
mean to insult you."
"I know - but you did," she replied, then set down the packet of food
and looked at him. "Jean-Luc, I'm not the frail, sickly woman you knew
four years ago - and I'm not the mentally disturbed woman you pulled
out of a Cardassian jail two years ago."
That might be questionable, Picard thought to himself; even on her
best days, Andile's mental health had been fragile - but he wisely
refrained from remarking on that fact.
"I don't need to be pampered or cared for," she continued. "I don't
need to be saved or rescued. I'm not entirely sure I even need to be
taking a vacation right now," she added, then hastily continued, "but
I agreed to it - not because I wasn't capable of persevering; I agreed
to it to facilitate my children getting home safely.
"I would like you to remember that - and to remember that I am a
healthy and strong individual who would like to be treated as such.
Let me do my share of the work, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Treat me
like an equal. You wouldn't treat Beverly like you've been treating
me," she added pointedly.
"Yes, I would," he protested swiftly.
Surprised, she said, "You would?"
"Yes," he insisted. "And within five minutes she would be doing
exactly what you are doing," he admitted, "reading me the riot act,
telling me what I can do with my Gallic chivalry, and storming off
into the woods. The only difference is that she would find some new
fruit instead of red garlic onions," he added.
Andile chuckled at his observation, then shook her head. "Not on this
planet," she countered.
He frowned.
"No fruit," she said.
"No fruit?"
"Uhn-uh," she confirmed. "No flowers either," she added - then
grinned at him mischievously. "Let me know when that sinks in."
Picard looked around the heavy growth - then realized the woman was
right; not only were there no obvious fruiting bodies on any of these
plants - but there were no flowers of any type.
Not here; not at the primary campsite.
He looked at her, then nodded, comprehension registering. "No
animals," he said, recalling the odd silence that had accompanied them
throughout their travels. "No animals at all," he realized. "Not even
insects."
He hadn't realized that fact before; at the base camp, the noise of
the work had disguised the absence, but at night the lack of sounds
had plagued him at a subconscious level. No animals moving, no bugs
buzzing or crawling, shifting the leaves and dirt that covered the
ground.
All there was was silence.
Silence wasn't a natural state in his world, he realized; in his
quarters on Earth, there was always noise from the street, the
apartments that abutted his living space, dogs barking, people
passing.
Even on shipboard, there was always some level of ambient noise - and
with it the reassurance of life continuing around him.
But not here, he thought; here there was no sound but for that of
Femishar and his people, Andile and himself, and the faint sounds of
wind in the trees.
The planet was still, quiet; not lifeless, but still somehow
uncomfortably wrong.
"No animals," he repeated, "so no need for fruit that will entice the
animal to eat it, then spread the seed in its excrement."
"No insects, so plants pollinate on the winds," she concurred.
"And that thing we just ate?" he queried.
"A seeding body; we're coming up to rainy season, so they are
ripening now, ready to be dropped in the heavy rains, then carried
downstream; the outer body protects and feeds the seed until
conditions are right for the seed to sprout and start to grow," she
concluded.
"Interesting," Picard replied.
"There are similar plants on most worlds; it's not unique," she
admitted. "We'll probably find a dozen variations on it - but without
finding any that have the sweetness of fruit," she added with a pang
of regret.
He studied her for a moment, surprised by the disappointment in her
eyes - then remembered her fondness for apples...
"Pears," she corrected him.
"Pears," he agreed - then smiled, adding, "and raspberries."
She gave a purr of delight at the memory of the tiny, seed-filled
fruits. "Raspberries," she murmured, then sighed, "but I suppose that
would have been asking too much of this planet."
He looked at her curiously. "How so?"
"Well, the seed isn't unique: there are similar seeding bodies on
planets through the quadrant. But this place is. Unique, I mean," she
furthered.
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed," she countered brightly, her eyes beginning to shine
with anticipation. "Tell me, my dear Admiral Picard, what other planet
that has this level of plant growth - but no animal life?" she asked.
He considered for a moment then shook his head. "I don't know of any
- except of course for a few colony worlds that Starfleet has..." he
started, then stopped as he understood her point.
"There aren't any," he continued, watching her smile grow, "except
for..."
"Except for terraformed worlds," she agreed. "Jean-Luc, this planet
was built - or rather, re-built, by someone, for someone."
"And Femishar's artifact? The primary dig site?"
"A souvenir of an off-world trip to a primitive world, perhaps even a
colony of primitives for the locals to observe; perhaps one of dozens
of colonies alien species they kept - a zoo, a research facility..."
"Dear God," Picard murmured.
"Or there could be any one of a thousand other explanations for what
he found," she offered. "The point is that we don't know what this
place was, or who built it... No one does," she added. "At least, not
yet.
"But we can," she went on quietly. "Jean-Luc, if we're right, if this
world was terraformed - or whatever-a-formed," she added with a smile,
"we can be the first. Or at least the first in a long, long time," she
said. "The first since its builders left it behind.
"You want exploration, Jean-Luc? You want adventure? You want the
thrill of discovering, of finding out - of learning and knowing?" she
asked seductively. "Well here it is."
He looked at her - and felt the same light in her eyes growing in his
own - then grabbed her hand. "Come on. We can make another kilometer
before the sun sets," he said as he reached for the machete.
"We can make two if you let me carry half the gear," she pointed out.
He stopped, ready to protest - but the tug of the adventure, the
opportunity to explore the unknown was too strong to bother with the
old argument. There was chivalry, yes - but there was also
opportunity, excitement... and fun.
And it had been a hell of a long time since life had been fun.
He released her hand, shrugged out of the backpack, opened it and
quickly began to divide the supplies.
Ten minutes later, the gear was separated - albeit it still less
evenly than Andile would have liked - and the packs ensconced on the
backs of their carriers.
Picking up the machete once more, he stepped toward the unbroken
forest - then looked back at his companion.
"Well?" he asked - then extended his hand to her.
She studied the hand for a moment - then took it, felt the warmth of
his embrace enfold her hand, and followed him into the green depths.
Author: Ke Roth (keroth1701@sbcglobal.net)
Series: TNG
Part: 36/?
Rating: R
Codes: P/C, P/f, D/f
Summary: Four years after the event of Nemesis, life has gone on for
the crew.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except my
characters. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. Don't
I wish.
Feedback is happily welcomed.
Thanks to Mrs. Peel who is very generously and very kindly posting
this on her website as well. You can find it at: http://www.picard-crusher.net/HOME.htm
Chapter 36
If a lifetime spent in Starfleet had taught him anything, Picard
thought, it was that life was filled with compromises. You sacrificed
something of a certain importance in order to gain something of
greater importance - all while your adversary attempted the same feat.
If all went well, you both came away from the negotiating table
feeling satisfied - perhaps even feeling a bit triumphant.
Occasionally, however, things did not go as well - and what you
sacrificed cost more than you would gain in return.
And this compromise had cost him what he held most dear: his pride,
his honor... his sense of Gallic chivalry, he admitted, while all he
had gained was the loss of a single task.
It didn't help that Andile was hefting the blade with an air of ease
and competence he didn't think he could match; with an easy grace and
rhythm she swung the knife from side to side, cutting back the
thickening layer of low growth that marked their emergence from the
deep rainforest of the Kvesterian camp into the denser forests north
of the encampment, and providing them both an easier path through the
otherwise impenetrable woods.
Easier, he reminded himself, but still requiring due diligence for
each step they made; while Andile may have been cutting back the
leaves and thinner stems of the plants that barred their way, neither
her machete nor her strength could do anything about the thicker
branches and trunks that were left behind. He looked down again,
stepping over a protruding root, deftly avoiding a low-lying branch -
and promptly stepped into a muddy puddle.
Water, filthy and cool, sprayed his already sodden and mud-soaked
pants, then dripped into his boots, where it joined the water and mud
of a hundred other mis-steps into puddles and shallow streams that
marked the floor of the thick forest.
He grimaced, briefly, then pushed back his annoyance; this wasn't the
first time he had gotten filthy and sodden, nor would it be his last,
he added - then grinned to himself, his mood lightening as he realized
that, perhaps, this would not be his last adventure after all.
He looked up - then found himself smiling again, enjoying the sight
before him; the glint of the metal as it caught the occasional ray of
light, the soft 'swoop' as it sliced through leaves and twigs, the
release of a scent of something unfamiliar yet deliciously green as
sap sprayed through the air, the more decided 'thunk' of the blade as
it crashed into - and through - the branches and trunks of the smaller
plants...
...and, he had to admit, he didn't mind watching the smooth flow of
Andile's muscles moving as she worked her way forward. Powerful yet
elegant, he thought - then quickly averted his eyes as she glanced
back at him.
"We can always switch," she reminded him, grinning.
"No," he replied... again.
"Okay - but no complaining when we make camp tonight," she reminded
him.
"Have I complained yet?" he countered.
Andile shook her head, then turned back to the work of cutting the
path.
Swoop.
Swoop.
I should be the one doing the work, he chided himself silently, his
mood souring despite his enjoyment of watching her work. This should
be her chance to recover for the ordeals of the last four years, to
rest, recuperate, rebuild her inner and outer strength - and yet she's
been forced to perform hard, physical labor ever since we arrived! he
protested wordlessly.
"I told you I would relinquish the machete," she reminded him, "but
only if you allowed me to carry my share of the supplies."
"I offered to do so," he protested, "and the offer still holds."
"That wasn't an offer, Jean-Luc; it was an insult," she said
petulantly. "I represent fifty percent of this party, so I should
carry fifty percent of the gear and cut the path half the time," she
reminded him. "But would you be reasonable about it? No. Gallic pride
my ***; it's Gallic pig-headedness," she muttered.
She swung again, but the stroke missed its target; struck on the flat
surface, a broad leaf quickly swept back, passing Andile and nearly
hitting Picard. He raised an arm to block the oncoming greenery,
stopping it successfully - but catching a faceful of rainwater
nonetheless.
A faint sense of triumph tickled at him, and he suspected the
'missed' foliage hadn't been missed at all.
Ignoring her reprisal, he continued, "I was not being pig-headed; I
was being quite reasonable," he replied evenly, exhibiting a calm he
was not feeling. "You represent fifty percent of this expedition in
terms of personnel, but in terms of muscle mass and strength you
represent less than a quarter." And that was being generous he added
silently, looking at the diminutive woman; her muscles might be sleek
and firm, but she still weighed less than half of what he did.
Expecting her to carry half of her body weight in equipment was out of
the question.
More than out of the question, he added; it was demeaning. After all,
she was his guest here - and one simply did not ask one's guests to
serve as laborers!
"Indeed, asking you to carry a quarter of the gear was far from
reasonable - a tenth would have be unreasonable! - but I was willing
to allow it," he added.
"Willing to allow it? Willing to allow it?!" she snapped back,
turning to glare at him. "Who the **** do you think you are Picard?!"
she returned. "You're not a Starfleet admiral here - and even if you
were, having you carry three quarters of the gear AND cut the path is
far from a fair distribution of the work load," she grumbled. "So if
we can't be fifty-fifty the reasonable way, we'll do it the
unreasonable way: you carry the packs and I cut the path," she
reminded him.
Which was equally unreasonable, he protested silently; cutting
through the dense undergrowth of this tropical rainforest was grueling
work - and while the sight of her working had certain charms, he
thought, he knew it was exhausting as well.
Not that she would admit it, he added... but if she won't, I won't,
he countered wordlessly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his
shoulders and back. Despite his protests, he thought, it has been some
time since I've carried a sixty kilo pack for this many kilometers.
And as many to follow, he reminded himself.
He'd been checking the padd throughout the last few hours, determined
to reach the halfway point of their trek before making camp for the
night; now that they were finally at the point in their walk, he'd
begun to search for a suitable resting spot - but the constant rains
and thick undergrowth were unrelenting.
As they had been the night before, he reminded himself. Unlike the
first night when the high, dense canopy had blunted the worst of the
persistent rains, the thinner forest they were traversing now allowed
more sunlight - and also more rain - to reach the forest floor. The
end effect was a dense undergrowth that slowed their forward progress,
kept them even wetter than at the base camp - and deprived them of any
chance of a decent night's sleep, he thought.
Even the carefully constructed mounds of leaves and fronds that they
had built to keep them off the wet ground had proved insufficient
against the mud that sucked at their every step; by the middle of the
night, the greenery had sunk into the filth, and water slowly slept
into the thin blanket that served as their ground cover.
Indeed, Picard mused, I wonder how much of the weight of these packs
is nothing more than mud and water that we're carrying from the
previous camps?
He didn't know; to be honest, he no longer cared. Roused from their
exhausted sleep by the growing dampness and oozing mud, they had
hurriedly built a makeshift mat of fresh fronds, then huddled together
beneath the sodden blankets, shivering against the dampness for the
balance of the night, dozing as fatigue took its tool, and aching for
first light and the chance to move on - hopefully to a location that,
if not dry, would at least be dryer.
He caught a momentary flash of the arid heat of Cardassia blowing
through the back of his mind, its blessed heat and dryness leeching
away the worst of the rainforest's moisture from his spirit - if not
from his body.
"Thank you," he murmured softly, knowing the source of the sensation.
"You're welcome," she replied. "But it's not a substitute for getting
dry, Picard," she reminded him. "A couple more days of this and we're
not going to be able to walk," she added.
He nodded, understanding - all too well.
What was the old military axiom? "An army marches on its stomach"? he
asked himself silently. No, he countered, the truth was that an army
marches on its feet - and issues of trenchfoot, fungi and parasites,
ill-made boots or those designed for their appearance rather than the
practicality of weather or the conditions of a campaign had decided as
many wars as had the strategy of its leaders.
The latter wasn't an issue here, Picard knew; there were no parasites
or fungi that affected humans on this planet; their boots were
perfectly fitted by the ship's computers and the provisioning
replicators that manufactured them followed those details exactly;
they were as waterproof as modern technology permitted; their feet
were coated every night and morning with proven moisture-blocking
ointments as directed by Alyssa Ogawa - they even changed into dry
socks - well, drier socks, Picard thought, suspecting nothing on this
planet was ever fully dry - every few hours... and still their feet
were wet and getting wetter.
And getting more and more painful as the thick tissues on their soles
slowly absorbed the rainwater, swelled and folded in upon themselves,
he added. In a bathtub, the effect was amusing: feet and hands
wrinkling like prunes, he thought to himself, remembering how the
presence of the wrinkles had always been his mother's cue to remove
him from the giant claw-footed tub that had filled the bathroom he and
Robert had shared in the house in LaBarre - but here, trying to
walking on the infolded tissues was anything but amusing.
"We need a fire," he told Andile - pointlessly, knowing she was as
cognizant of the problem and the solution as he was.
"Agreed. You find the dry wood and I'll find a dry spot to start it,"
she replied.
He grinned despite himself; not only was there no dry wood to be had,
but there was no place dry enough to build the fire, even if they had
found the wood.
"If we had a phaser, we could dry out the ground..." he mused.
"If we had a phaser, we could have cut through this muck and been out
of here yesterday," she countered, she said, panting slightly as she
brought the machete down and turned to face him. "Hell, Admiral, if
we're fantasizing, let's imagine having a site-to-site transporter so
we wouldn't have to deal with any of this!" She set the knife down,
then bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she worked to catch
her breath.
"Point taken," he replied, then studied her concernedly. "I can take
over for a while," he said.
"Okay," she agreed. "Give me a moment - then we can switch gear," she
added.
Taken aback, Picard began, "I didn't mean that you should..."
"I know what you meant, Picard - and I've told you: it doesn't work
that way," she responded. "We share - or we go on just like this."
He shook his head, not wanting this argument again. "Dee, you're my
guest..." he started.
She looked at him unhappily. "Your guest? And here I was, thinking I
was your friend. Gods, Picard, you're not the only one with some
pride! This isn't four years ago; this isn't the Enterprise - and I'm
not an invalid!" she shouted angrily. "I don't need you to save me! I
don't need you to rescue me!"
Furious, she grabbed the knife, turned away, and began hacking at the
plants.
*******! she swore at him silently, not caring whether he heard her
thoughts or not. ****ing arrogant *******! His guest! His guest, damn
it! Not his equal, not his partner in this debacle - not his friend!
I'm his ****ing _guest_!
She slashed angrily, ineffectually, at the leaves, ignoring them as
they slapped back in her face, pushing them away as she struck at the
next patch of heavy growth.
His _guest_! she swore again. His gods'-cursed _guest_!
She hacked at the leaves once more, the rain and the spraying sap
flying in her face, blinding her even as they diluted the tears of
anger and hurt that filled her eyes.
I thought... I thought....
You thought what? she asked herself. It was four years ago! Four
years! He's moved one - you've moved on! Whatever you once were -
friends, fellow officers - that was then! This is now. Move on!
Her breathing rough from the anger and the exertion, she stopped,
staring ahead at the overgrown plants - then turned to Picard.
"Padd," she said quietly, refusing to yield to her emotions again,
extending her hand for the device.
And was surprised when something else - something warm - no, hot! -
was pressed into it.
Looking down, she was surprised to see one of the self-heating food
packs resting in her grip.
Glancing at the companion, she watched as he touched the control on a
second pack, waited the requisite seconds, then opened the pouch.
"What?" she said quietly. "Do you assume that if I'm in a bad mood, I
must be hungry?"
He met he gaze and shook his head. "No. You're usually in a bad mood,
regardless of whether you've eaten or not," he replied.
She looked back at him - then managed a small smile. "Yeah, but I'm
even worse when I'm hungry," she admitted. "It's one of the drawbacks
to having a normal diet - you really begin to feel it when your
glucose level drops. It's easier just to starve your self," she added.
"You're foul-tempered - but it's a consistent foul temper."
It might be easier on those around you - but it was also easier to
make mistakes, he countered - wordlessly, knowing this was not the
moment to remind her that while events might force such deprivation
upon her, there was no need to force them upon herself needlessly.
There would be time for that confrontation - later.
Or not at all, he reminded himself; Dee was not a child, not some
naïve innocent who needed help in making choices and decisions; she
was ten time - no, a hundred times - older than he was, with as many
more life experiences. She didn't need him to tell her what she should
and should not do.
She was right: she did not need him to rescue her.
Except, of course, when she did.
This however, was not one of those times.
"I'd argue the point," he replied, "except that on more than a few
occasions, Beverly has made the same observation about my behavior.
However, we've been walking all day - and I'm hungry," he explained.
He squeezed the pouch, forcing a small amount of the thick substance
to the opening, then sniffed it tentatively.
"Jelleb paste," he said after a moment's thought. Not haute cuisine,
but...
"At least it's hot cuisine," Andile concluded for him, then took a
small mouthful.
Jelleb paste was many things, she thought as she worked the thick
mass through her mouth; it was highly nutritious for almost every
species in the Federation, offending neither palate nor digestive
systems for most people, and having been made from a root vegetable,
ethically agreeable to most vegetarians and omnivores - though, she
admitted, there were a few species who declined to eat it because they
had not killed it themselves.
It didn't mean they couldn't eat it, she added, simply that they
chose not to.
Given a choice, however, it would not be one of her preferences,
either.
At least, not like this, she thought, taking a second mouthful;
jelleb root, in any of its forms, had a tendency to take on the flavor
of whatever it was cooked with. Add some spice, and you would have a
savory addition to a meal; add some fruit, and it would make a filling
a nutritious sweet. Add some meat or vegetables...
She thought for a moment, then held out her hand once again. "Can I
have the padd for a moment?" she asked.
Picard smiled to himself at the change in attitude that a few
mouthfuls of food - and a short respite from their efforts - had
brought about. He drew the small machine from the depth of his pocket
and handed it over.
Thumbing it on, she watched the screen come to life, then slowly
adjusted the scanner until she could see a map of the area. Frowning
at the display, she touched a control, slowly pulling back on the area
until she found something that met with her approval.
Rising, she stepped into the jungle around them, quickly losing
herself in the overgrowth.
"Dee?" Picard called after her, a slight hint of worry building.
_Don't worry,_ she thought back at him - then fell silent once more.
For several minutes, Picard waited in silence, listening carefully
for the sound of her movements in the depths of the trees, feeling the
sensation of fear grow at her prolonged absence - and forcing himself
not to yield to it.
Of course, he reminded himself, he had every reason to worry; Andile
might be a seasoned explorer - but even the best of them had been
known to encounter something unexpected, something dangerous -
something deadly - and out here, there were no communicators to call
for help, no transporters to move them to a place of safety - no ship
to rescue them from whatever disaster befell them.
But that was the nature of being an explorer, he reminded himself;
that was why he enjoyed doing this. This was why he had joined
Starfleet.
But Starfleet was no longer what it once had been. Indeed, life in
Starfleet had become safe, predictable, routine.
And I? he asked himself - then sighed. I am as Starfleet: safe,
routine, predictable.
It wasn't a surprise, he reminded himself; we're both growing older -
maturing, yes, becoming more responsible, more established, settling
into ways that work for us - but perhaps also settling into ways that
are simpler, easier to hold to, rather than challenging the status quo
as we once did.
As I once did, he added. But no longer, he thought ruefully; I'm no
longer the rebel I once thought myself to be; I've become part of the
system. Worse, I enforce the system, he thought. As an ensign, a
lieutenant, a commander - even as a captain, I was in the field,
working, evaluating situation and trying to create real and workable
solutions for the people, societies - even civilizations, he thought -
and if the rules needed to be bent or broken, then they were - and
damned be the consequences to me!
Now? Now I sit at a desk, reading reports, enforcing the rules I once
fought against. And not because I necessarily believe in them, he
Added, but because I am required to do so.
The chains of command, he thought; who would have guessed that they
bind more tightly at the top than they do at the bottom?
But not here, he reminded himself: here there was chain of command,
no regs or rules - and no safety; no miracles to save us from
unforeseen danger; no regulations to keep us from harming ourselves -
or others - through error or omission. Here, life would be what we
made it - full of risk, danger - and perhaps, he added, reward.
Intellectual reward, he thought, imagining the results of his - or
Femishar's - discoveries on the planet; emotional reward, he added,
enjoying the enlightenment of the last few days, his discoveries about
himself and the changes in his attitude toward his life - and the
physical rewards, he mused, feeling the dull ache in the muscles of
his back - and savoring the hours of work and effort they represented
- and the freedom from the constraints that had bound him for so many,
many years.
He rolled his shoulders, easing the strain of the fatigued muscles,
listening to the sound of the contents shift within the bag - then
realized again that it was the only sound he heard.
"Dee!" he cried out again, wondering how long he had been lost in his
reverie; he glanced down, searching for the padd - then realized that
she had it.
Damn it, he thought angrily; if something happens to her, then I'm in
trouble as well! There's no way to the second dig site without that
map the device contained - and no way back either! I'd be stuck here
until the Enterprise returns - and I'd look a right fool!
"Talk about speculating ahead of the evidence," a voice interrupted
his thoughts. "You've been hanging around Professor Femishar too
much!" Andile laughed as she pushed her way through the last of the
plants and back into the small clearing.
He opened his mouth to protest - then closed it again. "Guilty as
charged," he replied sheepishly.
She handed the padd back to him then reached into her own pocket,
pulling out a small knife. With a swift gesture, she sliced off the
top of the self-heating food container, then handed it to Picard.
"Hold this," she ordered, then fished a small red sphere from her
other pocket and began to slice the object into small pieces, dropping
them, and the brilliant crimson juice into the package of jelleb
paste.
"What the..."
"Femishar said the native plants are safe to consume..."
"And you believed him?" Picard retorted in astonishment.
"Of course not," she countered. "But the briefing materials you gave
me back on the Enterprise did say that the plant life here was, for
the most part, safe and digestible. I had the scanner in the padd
evaluate it. It said it was safe, non-toxic, and compatible with human
biological systems," she said.
Reaching the hard core of the red object, she tossed it over her
shoulder, then pulled a second one from her pocket. Grabbing the
second food pouch from Picard, she deftly opened it and cut the plant
into the container before handing it back.
Picard looked at the now whitish/pink mass apprehensively. "Did the
scanner say what it tasted like?" he mused.
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, weren't
you just bemoaning the lack of adventure in Starfleet? Well, here's
your chance to be adventurous," she said. "Eat up," she said, then
dipped a single finger into the mix, studied it - then plunged it into
her mouth.
"Hmm..." she murmured, then met his anxious gaze. "Have you ever
eaten poi?" she asked.
Picard nodded, remembering - not fondly - his encounter with the
slightly fermented porridge-like delicacy from Earth's Hawaiian
Islands that had been served at one of the requisite ceremonies he had
attended there once. It had been treated with veneration and presented
to him as an honor - but if it had been up to him, he would have spit
out the offending mass and disposed of the remains. Protocol, however,
required that he choke down a polite portion of the food, which, being
a Starfleet officer he managed to do - despite the protestations of
his stomach.
Protocol, he sighed. Decorum.
Starfleet.
"I have," Picard replied, looking at the mixture suspiciously, trying
to conceal his lack of enthusiasm.
"Well, it doesn't taste anything like that," she announced. "It's
more like garlic and onion - but milder."
Curiosity - and appetite - whetted, Picard took a fingerful of the
mass, tasted it - then nodded. "Not onion; more like leeks," he
decided. "It reminds me of vichyssoise," he said, "only thicker. And
hot," he added. "And without the cream."
She gave him a caustic look. "Well, it reminds me of pumpkin pie,"
she offered. "Only without the spices, the sugar or the crust."
Picard looked at her askance - then realized she was teasing him.
"Vichyssoise is a cold potato soup," he explained. "Usually flavored
with onion and leek, sometimes with a touch of garlic," he added. "The
flavors are similar - but the texture is different."
Andile took another fingerful of the mix, put it in her mouth - then
nodded. "I can see it," she agreed, "though you'll have to admit it
has the consistency of mashed pumpkin," she said.
"So we're both right?" he said bemusedly.
"It has been known to happen," she suggested.
They ate the mix for several minutes, then Picard said, "I didn't
mean to insult you."
"I know - but you did," she replied, then set down the packet of food
and looked at him. "Jean-Luc, I'm not the frail, sickly woman you knew
four years ago - and I'm not the mentally disturbed woman you pulled
out of a Cardassian jail two years ago."
That might be questionable, Picard thought to himself; even on her
best days, Andile's mental health had been fragile - but he wisely
refrained from remarking on that fact.
"I don't need to be pampered or cared for," she continued. "I don't
need to be saved or rescued. I'm not entirely sure I even need to be
taking a vacation right now," she added, then hastily continued, "but
I agreed to it - not because I wasn't capable of persevering; I agreed
to it to facilitate my children getting home safely.
"I would like you to remember that - and to remember that I am a
healthy and strong individual who would like to be treated as such.
Let me do my share of the work, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Treat me
like an equal. You wouldn't treat Beverly like you've been treating
me," she added pointedly.
"Yes, I would," he protested swiftly.
Surprised, she said, "You would?"
"Yes," he insisted. "And within five minutes she would be doing
exactly what you are doing," he admitted, "reading me the riot act,
telling me what I can do with my Gallic chivalry, and storming off
into the woods. The only difference is that she would find some new
fruit instead of red garlic onions," he added.
Andile chuckled at his observation, then shook her head. "Not on this
planet," she countered.
He frowned.
"No fruit," she said.
"No fruit?"
"Uhn-uh," she confirmed. "No flowers either," she added - then
grinned at him mischievously. "Let me know when that sinks in."
Picard looked around the heavy growth - then realized the woman was
right; not only were there no obvious fruiting bodies on any of these
plants - but there were no flowers of any type.
Not here; not at the primary campsite.
He looked at her, then nodded, comprehension registering. "No
animals," he said, recalling the odd silence that had accompanied them
throughout their travels. "No animals at all," he realized. "Not even
insects."
He hadn't realized that fact before; at the base camp, the noise of
the work had disguised the absence, but at night the lack of sounds
had plagued him at a subconscious level. No animals moving, no bugs
buzzing or crawling, shifting the leaves and dirt that covered the
ground.
All there was was silence.
Silence wasn't a natural state in his world, he realized; in his
quarters on Earth, there was always noise from the street, the
apartments that abutted his living space, dogs barking, people
passing.
Even on shipboard, there was always some level of ambient noise - and
with it the reassurance of life continuing around him.
But not here, he thought; here there was no sound but for that of
Femishar and his people, Andile and himself, and the faint sounds of
wind in the trees.
The planet was still, quiet; not lifeless, but still somehow
uncomfortably wrong.
"No animals," he repeated, "so no need for fruit that will entice the
animal to eat it, then spread the seed in its excrement."
"No insects, so plants pollinate on the winds," she concurred.
"And that thing we just ate?" he queried.
"A seeding body; we're coming up to rainy season, so they are
ripening now, ready to be dropped in the heavy rains, then carried
downstream; the outer body protects and feeds the seed until
conditions are right for the seed to sprout and start to grow," she
concluded.
"Interesting," Picard replied.
"There are similar plants on most worlds; it's not unique," she
admitted. "We'll probably find a dozen variations on it - but without
finding any that have the sweetness of fruit," she added with a pang
of regret.
He studied her for a moment, surprised by the disappointment in her
eyes - then remembered her fondness for apples...
"Pears," she corrected him.
"Pears," he agreed - then smiled, adding, "and raspberries."
She gave a purr of delight at the memory of the tiny, seed-filled
fruits. "Raspberries," she murmured, then sighed, "but I suppose that
would have been asking too much of this planet."
He looked at her curiously. "How so?"
"Well, the seed isn't unique: there are similar seeding bodies on
planets through the quadrant. But this place is. Unique, I mean," she
furthered.
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed," she countered brightly, her eyes beginning to shine
with anticipation. "Tell me, my dear Admiral Picard, what other planet
that has this level of plant growth - but no animal life?" she asked.
He considered for a moment then shook his head. "I don't know of any
- except of course for a few colony worlds that Starfleet has..." he
started, then stopped as he understood her point.
"There aren't any," he continued, watching her smile grow, "except
for..."
"Except for terraformed worlds," she agreed. "Jean-Luc, this planet
was built - or rather, re-built, by someone, for someone."
"And Femishar's artifact? The primary dig site?"
"A souvenir of an off-world trip to a primitive world, perhaps even a
colony of primitives for the locals to observe; perhaps one of dozens
of colonies alien species they kept - a zoo, a research facility..."
"Dear God," Picard murmured.
"Or there could be any one of a thousand other explanations for what
he found," she offered. "The point is that we don't know what this
place was, or who built it... No one does," she added. "At least, not
yet.
"But we can," she went on quietly. "Jean-Luc, if we're right, if this
world was terraformed - or whatever-a-formed," she added with a smile,
"we can be the first. Or at least the first in a long, long time," she
said. "The first since its builders left it behind.
"You want exploration, Jean-Luc? You want adventure? You want the
thrill of discovering, of finding out - of learning and knowing?" she
asked seductively. "Well here it is."
He looked at her - and felt the same light in her eyes growing in his
own - then grabbed her hand. "Come on. We can make another kilometer
before the sun sets," he said as he reached for the machete.
"We can make two if you let me carry half the gear," she pointed out.
He stopped, ready to protest - but the tug of the adventure, the
opportunity to explore the unknown was too strong to bother with the
old argument. There was chivalry, yes - but there was also
opportunity, excitement... and fun.
And it had been a hell of a long time since life had been fun.
He released her hand, shrugged out of the backpack, opened it and
quickly began to divide the supplies.
Ten minutes later, the gear was separated - albeit it still less
evenly than Andile would have liked - and the packs ensconced on the
backs of their carriers.
Picking up the machete once more, he stepped toward the unbroken
forest - then looked back at his companion.
"Well?" he asked - then extended his hand to her.
She studied the hand for a moment - then took it, felt the warmth of
his embrace enfold her hand, and followed him into the green depths.