STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JEAN-LUC PICARD

by David A. Goodman

  “Vous êtes une femme très attirante.” I was sitting with a young woman near a large elm tree on the academy grounds. I prefer not to say her name, as I have not seen her since those days and am unsure how she felt about what went on between us.

  “What did you say?”

  “That you’re a very attractive female…”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “It’s the truth. Here, I’ll put it in writing,” I said. I took out my pocketknife and carved in the tree. When I was done, she looked at it curiously.

  “ ‘A.F.’ aren’t my initials…” she said.

  “It stands for ‘Attractive Female,’ ” I said. She laughed and I was moving in to kiss her when we were interrupted.

  “What the hell are you doing?” We looked over to see an elderly man in work boots and overalls, wielding pruning shears rather threateningly. It was the groundskeeper, who I’d occasionally noticed since I’d arrived, but had given no mind to.

  “I’m sorry…” I said, stumbling to my feet. My confident masculinity quickly evaporated.

  “Don’t apologize to me,” he said. “Apologize to the tree.”

  “You… want me to apologize…” I said. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could hear my companion quietly giggling at my embarrassment.

  “What did that poor elm tree ever do to you?” the groundskeeper said. “Nothing! And you take a knife to it. It’s a living thing!” He stood there glaring at me. After a long moment, I turned to the tree.

  “I’m sorry…” I said, then turned back to him. “Will that do?”

  “It will not. I need help with weeding,” the groundskeeper said. “You’ll report to me here every morning at six o’clock for the next two months.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t know why…”

  “Defacing the academy is grounds for expulsion,” he said. He turned and walked off. I sat back down.

  “Do you think he’d really get me expelled?”

  “I wouldn’t mess with Boothby,” she said, which is how I learned his name.

  For the next two months I met Boothby on the academy grounds every morning and helped him with weeding, pruning, and general maintenance. He didn’t talk to me at all except to give me instructions. My childhood on the vineyard made this more natural work for me than it might have been for others, but I didn’t enjoy it. And between this and my new romantic adventure with “A.F.,” my studies faltered and I actually failed organic chemistry. But that, as it turned out, was the least of my concerns.

  One afternoon I received word to report to Professor Galen in his office. It was a cramped room, filled with artifacts from his expeditions. Galen sat at his desk.

  “Mr. Picard,” Professor Galen said. “The dig on Dinasia has been approved. We leave in two weeks.”

  “That’s wonderful, Professor,” I said. I had been dreading this moment since my return from Morikin VII; my recent adventures had muted my desire to be an archaeologist, but I hadn’t had the courage to talk to the professor about it.

  “You will have to tender your resignation to the academy immediately,” he said. I was very conflicted. Professor Galen was very important to me. I decided at that moment that I wouldn’t disappoint him.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  * * *

  The next morning I joined Boothby again, this time helping plant a new row of mophead hydrangeas.

  “You failed organic chemistry?” Boothby said. This shocked me. It was the first time he’d spoken to me about something personal. I had no idea how he’d found out.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m leaving the academy.”

  “To spend the rest of your life digging in the dirt,” Boothby said. He was showing an almost supernatural clairvoyance.

  “How did you know…”

  “People talk,” he said. “They don’t seem to notice I’m listening. Or maybe they don’t care.”

  “Archaeology is important work,” I said. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime…”

  “Keep saying it,” Boothby said. “You may convince yourself.”His comments were making me face something I didn’t want to face. And I lashed out.

  “Look, I don’t need career advice from a gardener.”

  Boothby didn’t respond. I should’ve been thanking this man for understanding me better than I knew myself, but I was too immature, and worked in petulant silence for the rest of the morning. Then, after planting the last of the hydrangeas, he turned to me.

  “You’re finished,” Boothby said. “Your debt to the garden is paid.” And he went about the rest of his work. It would be years before I apologized to Boothby, and thanked him for putting me on the right path.

  I walked the academy grounds the rest of the day, lost in thought, eventually finding myself at Galen’s classroom. He had just finished up a lecture, and there were a few artifacts on his desk. He picked one up and handed it to me.

  “Mr. Picard,” he said, “can you tell me what this is?” He enjoyed testing me, probably partially because he knew I enjoyed it. I examined the artifact, a stick carved out of stone.

  “The images are from Gorlan mythology,” I said. “This is a Gorlan prayer stick.”

  “The ancient Gorlans believed these prayer sticks had the power to grant the owner whatever they desired,” Galen said. “I usually would dismiss such superstition, but I acquired this one shortly before my Dinasian dig was approved…”

  “I’m not going.” I blurted it out. It was tactless and a little cruel.

  “What?”

  “I’ve decided to stay at the academy,” I said. Galen nodded, then slowly packed up the artifacts into his bag.

  “You must decide what’s best for you,” he said. “If you change your mind, a career in archaeology will always be there.” He shook my hand and left the room. I stood there alone, muddled. I had expected him to be angry with me, but he wasn’t, or at least didn’t seem to be. Looking back, I now know he’d protected my feelings by covering his own. Like a father would.

  * * *

  “And so, Class of 2327, today you are fully-fledged ensigns,” announced the president of the Federation. We sat in our dress uniforms, wearing caps for the first time during our enrollment. We were out on the main lawn, a rapt audience for the elderly statesman. The graduating class at the academy didn’t always receive an address from the Federation president, except if the current office holder was a Starfleet veteran, as Nyota Uhura was.

  “Four short years ago,” she said, “you assembled here from all parts of the Galaxy, from all walks of life. Each of you knew what the service meant, or you wouldn’t have volunteered. Each of you knew the Federation needs to be cherished and protected, and that sometimes our way of life may require the sacrifice of life itself. From here on, your education must continue in the more demanding school of actual service. Wearing the gold pin of Starfleet, you go out into space to face the great challenges of our final frontier. Your fellow citizens share my confidence that you will serve Starfleet and the Federation with honor and distinction. Good luck.”

  We stood up and cheered, throwing our caps in the air, continuing a tradition that went back to the early years of the academy when caps were part of the dress uniform. There was backslapping and hugging—we were a joyous crowd. The tumult died down as we broke up to look for loved ones in the crowd.

  I found my mother. She gave me a warm embrace.

  “It was difficult for your father and brother to get away,” she said, responding to a question I didn’t ask. I knew that spring was a challenging time of year at home. In the vineyard a time of vigilance for diseases among the grapes, and at the winery removing yeasts and perhaps returning wines to barrels for a second fermentation. But my mother worked just as hard as her husband and son, and she managed to get away.

  I’d seen very little of my family and even less of the vineyard since starting at the academy, but my mother wouldn’t let me go easily. She made as many trips as she could to
San Francisco, and I could tell that the stress of the chasm between me and the other men in my family weighed heavily upon her. But, where my father was concerned, I couldn’t consider softening the resolve of my animosity.

  “It’s all right, Maman,” I said. “Let’s go get some lunch.” As we headed off, an officer intercepted us. I immediately stood at attention.

  “At ease, Ensign,” Captain Hanson said.

  “Captain Hanson, may I introduce my mother,” I said. “Yvette Picard.”

  “A pleasure, madam,” he said as he took my mother’s hand.

  “You are Jean-Luc’s new commanding officer,” she said. I had told my mother when Captain Hanson had chosen me for a flight controller position on the U.S.S. New Orleans. This wasn’t just a new ship, it was the first of a new class of ship; this would be the third time Hanson would take out the first ship in a new class. I had tried to explain to her why earning a spot with someone considered such an important captain was prestigious, but I could tell she didn’t fully understand.

  “You should be very proud of your son,” Hanson said. “He has already accomplished a great deal.” It was a very paternal gesture, though Hanson was only about fifteen years older than I was. He then turned to me. “See you at Starbase Earhart, Ensign.” He shook my hand and smiled, then turned to leave.

  “He seems very fond of you, Jean-Luc,” my mother said. I had always been so nervous around him I don’t think I could see that objectively, but it made sense. When I look back on my academy years, the time I spent there was looking for fathers. I hungered for mentors, and found them in both expected and unexpected places. Hanson had been a surprise, showing interest in my career from the moment I won the marathon. Of course, this was all an attempt to fill a hole in my life left by my upbringing.

  “Why don’t we go home for lunch, Jean-Luc?” my mother said. I had transporter privileges, so we could beam to La Barre. We could be back at the vineyard in less than an hour. I looked at her and smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d prefer to eat here.”

  1 EDITOR’S NOTE: The phrase refers to a lyric in an archaic song, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” written by Johnny Marks. It remains a mystery as to whether Hanson was familiar with the song,

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WE GOTTA GET EVEN,” Corey said.

  Marta, Corey, and I were in my room at Starbase Earhart. It was late, and we’d just come back from an evening at the Bonestell Recreation Center. It had been almost a month since graduation. The three of us, still happily joined at the hip, would all be leaving on our separate missions from this starbase. During our time off, Corey had engaged in games of chance, and I had indulged in some more superficial romantic entanglements that I still regret. In fact, earlier that evening a woman I had successfully pursued the night before discovered that I had a date with her roommate for this evening. My cheek still stung from her slap.

  “What did you have in mind?” Marta said. She and I had witnessed Corey losing a game of dom-jot1 to a Nausicaan, which had cost him several slips of gold-pressed latinum. This surprised all of us as Corey was well-practiced at the game, and the Nausicaan’s victory had been suspiciously quick.

  “Well, we can do to him what he did to us,” Corey said. “Cheat.” Corey had earlier conjectured to us that the Nausicaan had some kind of magnetic device in his belt that allowed him to control the metal ball’s path on the table. “Only this time, we rig the table so his device will backfire on him.”

  “I know just the thing,” I said. My confidence at taking down Nausicaans was still fresh in my mind from my experience back at Morikin. I wasn’t really worried about getting caught; in fact, I think I was looking forward to it.

  It was a last hurrah for the three of us. We’d spent four years together, and now our respective careers would separate us. We were looking to cause some trouble, and in retrospect it was juvenile, and very dangerous.

  But we went ahead.

  Late that night, when the recreation center was closed, Corey, Marta, and I snuck in. While Marta dealt with the security systems, Corey and I adjusted the electrical setup that controlled the bumpers on the table to create interference that would block any nearby magnetic device. We got out of there without being detected.

  The next evening, we went to the recreation center. I had arranged a date with an older woman who worked as a receptionist in the personnel office. I think she could tell that my mind wasn’t on her when I noticed that the Nausicaan had returned with two friends; she soon left me, saying she had to get up early. This was disappointing, but wouldn’t be the worst moment of the evening.

  “Play dom-jot, human,” the Nausicaan said to Corey. “Give you a better chance.” Corey happily obliged. Less than thirty seconds into the game, the Nausicaan threw down his cue in frustration; whatever device he’d been using was no longer working.

  “Human cheat!”

  “I’m cheating?” Corey said. “I don’t think so. But if you want to forfeit the game…”

  “I do not forfeit to a human,” the Nausicaan said. “Humans have no guramba.” The three of us stood toe-to-toe with the Nausicaans, who towered over us.

  “What did you say?” I said, stepping up to the Nausicaan, flanked by Marta and Corey.

  “Humans have no guramba,” he said. I actually had no idea what the Nausicaan had said, since the universal translators wouldn’t translate “guramba,” but I assumed from context that it was particularly insulting.2

  “That’s what I thought you said.” I hit the Nausicaan in the chest, and suddenly the three of us were involved in a melee. I was the only one with experience fighting a Nausicaan, and relied on my previous encounter, which served me well; I had taken out my first opponent with a blow to the chest and neck, and turned to help with the one who was wrestling with Marta. As I did, I felt a sharp pain in my back. It forced me to my knees.

  I looked down. A serrated blade, covered with blood, protruded from my chest. I wasn’t feeling any pain, and the last thing I remembered was the sound of laughing. My own.

  * * *

  “Ensign?” The voice was distant and unfamiliar. I was in a deep sleep, but was confused. I didn’t remember going to bed. I didn’t remember anything. I opened my eyes, and it was difficult to focus. There was a doctor, a Vulcan woman, standing over me.

  “How are you feeling?” the Vulcan doctor said.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. Hearing my voice, I realized my mouth was covered by a respirator. “How long…”

  “You have been unconscious for three point seven nine weeks,” the doctor said, with the usual Vulcan bedside manner. Almost a month?

  “The damage to your original organ was too extensive,” the Vulcan doctor said. “You were placed in suspended animation until a doctor of sufficient skill and experience could arrive here to perform the necessary surgery.” It was clear that the Vulcan was talking about herself. I was so annoyed at her arrogance that I almost missed the meat of what she was saying.

  “Original organ? You mean… my heart?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “It has been substituted with an artificial mechanism. It will last many years without having to be replaced.” It was too much to take in; I had a mechanical heart?

  “When can I get out of here?” I said. I wanted to make a big show that I was ready to leave, but I didn’t even have the strength to lift my head off the pillow.

  “You will need at least two point four more weeks of observation and physical therapy,” the doctor said.

  “But my ship…” I said, already knowing the answer.

  “You have been temporarily reassigned,” the doctor said. “To this hospital bed. You will rest now.” She left the room. I lay there thinking about what I had done. That fight had changed everything. No doubt Hanson, leaving on a deep space mission, wasn’t waiting months for a relief flight controller to get out of the hospital. What had I done? Had I shattered my whole life trying to cheat a Nausicaan in
a game of dom-jot? I felt such a fool. Tears fell from my eyes as I drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  Within a few days, I had mostly recovered, and was able to review several messages that were left for me. The first was from Corey.

  “The doctors assure me you’re going to be fine, Johnny. I hope so,” Corey said. He was bruised and bandaged, having recorded the message shortly after the bar fight. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around; the Ajax is leaving. Right after you got stabbed, the security boys showed up and stunned the Nausicaans. They got arrested, and were extradited back to their homeworld. Starfleet security had some questions for me and Marta, but they didn’t dig too deep about what exactly happened, which I guess is good.” That was something of a relief, since I don’t think Starfleet would’ve looked kindly on three officers riggings a domjot table to cheat someone, even if it was a Nausicaan. I looked at Corey on my viewscreen: his usual bravado was gone. I could see he was very remorseful. “I’ll check in as often as I can to see how you’re doing, but the Ajax is headed out to the Romulan Neutral Zone, and Captain Narth is pretty strict about using subspace for personal communications. Sorry I… sorry I got you into all this. Take care of yourself.” Corey signed off.

  Marta’s message was much more emotional. She had obviously been crying before she made it.

  “The Kyushu is leaving today, and I don’t want to go,” Marta said. “It’s very difficult leaving while you’re unconscious. The doctors say you’ll be all right… I just wish I could stay.” She broke down again. “I should’ve stopped you guys,” she said. “It was so stupid…” She wiped her eyes, and composed herself. “I love you, Jean-Luc. Please be well…” She signed off. Jean-Luc. She hadn’t called me that in years. I watched it again, and regretted that Marta and I never took the time to explore how we felt about each other. Perhaps one day.

  I also got a short written message from Captain Hanson, wishing me a speedy recovery. I couldn’t help but interpret it as disappointment in my rash actions. I promised myself I would never be so foolhardy again.