“U-unknown, Force Commander, I—”
“Well, find out! Give me some answers!”
“Yes, Force Commander, a moment please while I check—”
Sawliru cut him off abruptly, furious at the man. The first positive proof that the objective was even in this part of the galaxy, and the idiot didn’t know any details! If there was proof that the objective was destroyed in the storm, they could safely return home from this fool’s quest and begin to deal with the situation there. If not, then they would have to stay out here until it was.
He considered disciplining the man, but decided against it. Sawliru took a deep breath and relaxed. He was beginning to treat his own men as Alkirg was treating him, and he knew that was wrong. They were doing the best they could under difficult circumstances. He didn’t need to make matters worse. He sighed, and devoutly wished for the days when the military was a straightforward, honorable profession, untainted by politics . . . say, a million years ago. The console beeped again.
“Force Commander, only one piece of debris was in evidence, apparently jettisoned. Confirmed: The alloy matches that of the objective’s construction.”
“Increase fleet scans of the area and double the recon search patterns in the region,” he ordered. “Sawliru out.”
Progress, at least. The objective was still out there, apparently in the center of the storm-tossed area. Hopefully it had been destroyed, or incapacitated, or turned to mercury like those two scouts. He felt helpless in a situation like this, but there was little he could do . . .
His console chirped again.
“Force Commander, recon team eleven reports sighting the objective, and team nine confirms. They request permission to give chase.”
“Negative!” Sawliru barked. “Tell them to report back to their commanders and await further instructions. Recall all recon teams. Have all ships begin battle formation six, and prepare for pursuit. The objective is not to escape. We will not have a repeat of Hevaride. Sawliru, out.”
He disconnected again, and ordered communications to connect this console to Alkirg’s cabin.
Finally, he had something to tell her.
Jared sat with Kurta and Maran in the cramped briefing room of the Freedom. Before them on the screen was the frozen image of Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the gargantuan ship that hung menacingly outside the viewport on the far wall. He looked at the ship and imagined the kind of destructive potential it represented. The Earthmen had been very careful to emphasize the peacefulness of their mission and downplay the military aspects of Starfleet—perhaps a little too careful. Hiding aggression behind a nonchalant face was the oldest trick in the book.
“An invitation to dinner?” he asked suspiciously. “No demand for our surrender, no hail of weapons fire, no curtly worded insistence on racial purity? Who are these people?”
“They are Starfleet officers,” supplied Maran, “who pride themselves on their reputation for friendly assistance and racial tolerance. The entire Federation was built on those precepts, as you well know. You read the history Data provided, just like everyone else. We are in their debt for their aid.”
“If they meant to strike at us, they had ample time before the discovery,” commented Kurta.
“Yes, they did,” he admitted. Which either meant that they were, indeed, in earnest, or that they were playing some deeper game—like exploring the defenses of his ship. He didn’t even like the fact that the cyborg, Geordi La Forge, had access to the ship’s plans—but Dren had insisted. The main weapons weren’t listed on the plans, anyway. They had been put together by the androids long after the Freedom had been built. “But then they did not know what we were. Perhaps I am used to seeing dangers that aren’t there. But my caution has saved us on more than one occasion. I won’t let that slip now, just because of what a book says.”
“Jared, this isn’t like home,” Maran said. “These people aren’t from Vemla. They have an android among them, as a ranking officer. They treat him as an equal.” She stressed the last word passionately.
“I know, I know, I met Mr. Data. He’s a somewhat crude design,” remarked Jared critically. In fact, the innocuous Starfleet android reminded him of an advanced model in some ways, but his obvious machinelike demeanor irritated Jared. Could not the Federation manage to produce a more streamlined, more subtle design than this?
“I spoke with him at length,” Kurta interjected, “and his exterior crudity is actually an advantage when dealing with his crewmates. His obviously artificial skin conceals a highly sophisticated interior. He is unique among them, a prototype. And despite his strangeness, he is treated by them as a partner, not a slave. Jared, this could be our chance!” she pleaded.
“Perhaps.” He sighed. “I want to be sure of our new-found friends, that’s all.” He was tired of debating. He far preferred action; Jared felt he had truly come into his own when he stepped onto the decks of the Freedom as captain and sole arbiter of what was to be. It was not in him to be a politician. He was not fond of talk, like Maran and Kurta—which is why he relied so heavily on each of them at times such as now. But he earnestly wanted his people to have a world of their own. He just wanted them to do it their own way, not as the pawns of some organic race.
“And what about this invitation?” Jared continued. “If we go, they will hound us with demands to make account of ourselves. They will insist on controlling us. We will have to start all over again. We will have to betray our pride to satisfy their preconceptions. We will—”
“—be in uniform and ready to transport at the designated time,” Kurta said firmly.
“Who’s the captain here?” Jared demanded.
“You are, and where the welfare of the ship is concerned, you make the decisions. However, you alone do not decide the course of our destiny. You put me in charge of long-term strategy—and this is an important strategic gathering. This could be our only chance to present our case without a dissenting voice in the background. You read their history—you know of their customs. And their reputation for open-mindedness and toleration. It is doubtful that they will clap us in irons as soon as we board the ship—not that they have any irons that could hold us. Think of it this way—we will see much more of their ship than they suspect, which will provide valuable intelligence in case direct action is called for. My husband, this is one engagement we have to win. It is as important as any battle you have ever fought.”
Jared shook his head. He had not risked his life hundreds of times, seen good friends die, risked the entire ship and all aboard, come through the most ferocious space storm he had ever known only to throw everything away by walking into a potential trap disguised as a dinner party. It was madness!
Jared looked back at the gleaming Federation ship. Its lines were smooth, dynamic, nearly organic compared to his own ship’s blocky manufactured look. Void take it, it was purely majestic! Sensor scans, what they could get, revealed over a thousand organic beings, and computers and gods knew what other kinds of advanced technology. The weaponry alone would be worth the trip. Jared loved the Freedom with every fiber of his being, and was proud as could be to be her captain, yet his command looked paltry beside the Enterprise. He wanted to see the vessel up close. Walk through its corridors and feel its might. Have the technology explained to him by those who knew it best. See its wonders, and hear the wondrous tales of its crew. With a ship like that, he could build an empire—or explore the galaxy and shake loose its wonders.
So be it, then. He would go on this outing to see that ship and test the mettle of its captain.
He smiled at Kurta. “Very well, you win. I will go and smile and shake hands and make idle chatter and hope we are not destroyed out of hand. Will that satisfy you?” he asked, only half sarcastically.
“Yes, it will. I have prepared a list of people to make up our side of the occasion . . .”
A sudden inspiration struck him. “You may choose who you like, but I want them in particular to see one of us . .
.”
The captain and Commander Riker, clad in dress uniforms, met the Vemlan party in the main transporter room. The aliens had never experienced transporters before, and Picard wanted to be on hand personally to soothe any anxiety they might have.
Five figures materialized on the pads in front of them. Picard recognized Jared and guessed that the woman to his immediate right was Kurta, the executive officer that Riker and Data had talked to. He also identified Maran, the librarian, and Dren, the Vemlan chief engineer from his crew’s descriptions. But next to Jared was a figure of mammoth proportions.
He stood a good foot taller than his companions. His shoulders stretched the fabric of his tan uniform to the limits, and seemed in danger of bursting it. The man—the android, Picard corrected himself—had a lantern jaw and a cauliflower ear, and black, limp, lifeless hair. He stood passive, unmoving, as if waiting for someone to turn him on.
Picard had to force himself not to react.
“Captain Picard,” called Jared evenly, but with enthusiasm, as he stepped down from the transporter platform. “What an efficient way to travel! It is far superior to our shuttles.”
“It’s almost like magic, being in one ship one second, and another the next. I am in awe of your technology,” Kurta said, smiling.
“Indeed,” Jared said. “I don’t believe you have met my crew.” He proceeded to introduce each of his officers ending by placing his hand on one of the massive arms of the giant. “This is Garan.”
The giant peered down at the two Starfleet officers and extended a massive hand in greeting.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Jean Luc-Picard,” the android said, slowly and very seriously. “I thank you for your gracious invitation.”
“My pleasure, Garan,” replied Picard. Garan looked around the room with vague interest, then returned to the eyes-front position in which he had beamed over. Picard couldn’t help but stare. Perhaps his reaction would have been different if the other Vemlans weren’t so physically identical to humans. In any case, Garan was simply the biggest, most massive humanoid Picard had ever met. Polite, though, he thought, noting Garan’s carefully spoken greeting.
As they all were, despite their mechanical nature. The ship’s short-range sensors were working—erratically—and he had ordered a scan of the Freedom. There were no life signs. Which just confirmed what they already knew.
“I suggest we adjourn to the banquet room,” Picard said, tearing his eyes away from Garan. He led the Freedom’s crew out of the transporter room into the corridor. Jared kept pace at his side.
“Captain, I heard about the unfortnnate accident in your engine room. I hope that your crewman wasn’t seriously hurt,” Picard said, concerned.
Jared’s smile faltered for a brief second, but he quickly recovered. “Deski is fine, Captain. I appreciate your concern. He will be back at work on the engines before we are finished with dinner.”
The holodeck had been decorated under Riker’s expert eye. He had chosen an ancient Grecian theme for the occasion, Picard noted approvingly, programming the computer to generate a multitude of holograms and furnishings to show off what many considered the high point of ancient Earth civilization. Doric columns, made of pure light, seemed to support the colorfully-frescoed ceilings above them, and huge torches lined every wall. Long, low couches of modern design and classical elegance flanked tables that were nothing more than slabs of pure marble. The tables were set with beautiful clay urns and brass goblets of wine, and a heavy wooden plate sat at each place. A mountain—Olympus? Picard wondered idly—was just visible between two columns that formed a gateway to a wide valley. Flocks of computerized sheep stood tended by a fictitious shepherd on the imaginary meadow outside. The sound of kitharas and lyres and flutes could be heard as if musicians stood on the other side of the tapestry that concealed the far wall. Hellenic sculpture stood at various places around the room, electronic copies of marble copies of human ideals of the gods.
It was quite impressive.
“Greco-Roman, isn’t it?” Maran asked, admiringly, as she entered the room. “Many of your greatest advances in art, philosophy, and science stem from this era, if I remember your records correctly.”
Picard smiled and nodded his head. “That’s correct. I hope you find it as stimulating as I do.”
His other officers—Data, La Forge, Crusher, even Counselor Troi—were already present and in place at the dining table, with the exception of Worf, who had requested permission to remain at his post. Picard would have liked him to be there, but until the Vemlans’ intentions could be discerned, he would not force the issue.
Wine had already been poured into the glasses next to each table setting. As everyone chose a seat, Picard lifted his glass, intending to offer a toast—but Jared beat him to it.
“I’d like to offer a few words of thanks for your help and your courtesy, Captain Picard—to you, and your crew.” Jared held out the goblet of wine in front of him. “In keeping with the theme of the evening, I offer a libation to whichever gods caused our paths to cross.” He spilled a few drops of wine to the floor, then raised his glass to his lips and drank. The others followed suit.
As he drank, Picard caught Riker’s eye, and saw his own expression mirrored there. The alien captain was clearly a man used to taking charge. It made Picard a little uncomfortable.
He finished drinking, and motioned for everyone to sit.
“Well said, Jared. Your familiarity with Earth culture is most impressive.”
“I have always been a quick study, Captain,” he said. “And of course, memory for us is . . . different.”
“Indeed,” Picard said, thinking of what it must be like to be able to learn a subject so quickly and completely. Surely one couldn’t help feeling slightly superior . . .
He looked down the table and saw Data locked in conversation with Maran, and was immediately ashamed of his thoughts.
Dinner played out like a chess match. Picard let his junior officers make subtle queries and idle chitchat while he tried to steer the course of the conversation as he would a ship. The Vemlans (with the exception of Garan, who answered each question with a simple yes or no) were all responsive and engaging, but there was more evasiveness and skillful sidestepping than Picard cared for.
“You seem to place a lot of status in the office of librarian,” Dr. Crusher said to Kurta. “Is this endemic in Vemla’s culture or a recent innovation?” she asked, meaning, of course, because they were androids.
“Only in the last few decades, Doctor,” Kurta said. “Our civilization finally realized the value of information and knowledge in a broad sense. Our libraries—and librarians—became highly prized assets.”
“What kind of planet are you interested in finding?” Picard asked Jared as the alien captain refilled his wine.
“Oh, any sort that will support abundant life,” the other captain replied.
“Abundant life?” Picard asked, questioningly.
“We look forward to studying the diversity of our adopted world,” he answered, pouring another glass.
“Commander Riker tells me that you have an excellent chef on the Freedom,” Geordi said, breaking open a loaf of thin, Grecian bread. “I’m sorry I missed that. Where did he learn to cook like that?”
“From a master chef on Vemla,” Dren replied. “Porupt is a quick study and graduated top of his class.”
It reminded Picard of the Mad Hatter’s tea party in some ways. Questions answered questions, and answers almost never completely satisfied the asker. He was impressed, he had to admit. The Vemlans responded to every query without giving away any vital information. It was obvious that Jared had instructed his crew well before they boarded the Enterprise. Just what Picard would do, he supposed, in a similar situation. Anything that looked too hot for a Vemlan to handle was relayed to Jared or Kurta, who came up with technically satisfactory yet maddeningly incomplete answers. Jared, in particular, impressed him. When it came
to comparisons between the two cultures, the alien captain strongly defended the merits of his people, despite their relatively primitive technology. Picard found that fact somewhat ironic, coming from an android.
Their guests’ mechanical nature was not overtly brought up by the crew of the Enterprise, but was hinted at subtly a number of times. The Vemlans neither confirmed nor denied the allegations, allowing the conversation to wind its way naturally away from the topic.
The meal itself was a masterpiece. Riker had enlisted the aide of a lieutenant in BioSci who had an expert hand with the compuchef machines, and had literally come up with a banquet for the ages. All the courses could be firmly documented as authentic Hellenic cuisine, mostly from recipes in Linear A, unearthed at the famous dig at Knossus in the mid twenty-first century. The fabulous archaeological find had produced an exact account of the coronation feast of Drantos, a popular Cretan monarch of the middle Bronze Age, and a number of select dishes had been prepared from the list for the ancient banquet. The lamb was, admittedly, synthesized, but no human palate could tell the difference from the genuine article, and if the androids could, they weren’t complaining. Grapes, pomegranates, and other fruits were passed from place to place, as fresh and cool as if they had been picked that morning. The wine, a nonalcoholic vintage, was dark red and full-bodied, an excellent complement to the meal.
As the wine came around to him once again, Picard poured half a glass and raised it in toast. “Let us all be thankful for our surviving the storm.” The rest of the party joined him, and he finished the cup. Then he stood. “Commander Data, perhaps you would escort our new friends on a tour of our vessel. And Captain Jared, I was wondering if you would care to join me in my quarters—I have some wine there from my family’s vineyards back on Earth I bring out for special occasions such as these.”
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