7. Let Us Sit Upon the Ground

Picard's head was spinning. Normally he seldom drank genuine alcohol, but he had been unable to refuse the many cups of crudely-fermented grain spirits that had been pressed on him. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, and tried to focus. In front of him was a large bonfire, roaring in the centre of a circle of people. A carcass of venison was slung over the flames, sending out a rich smell of roasting meat. It was already missing a hind leg, part of which lay on a wooden platter in front of Picard. Around him people were laughing and talking and eating and drinking, some more ostentatiously than others. He noticed more than a few couples who were more interested in each other than the party, and smiled. This could be a scene from his Academy days, from some of the campouts on the wilderness survival training course. Humans were the same everywhere. However the clothing was different. Even his was: he had asked Ayla if she could provide him and Data with local clothing, so they would blend in more, and Picard was now wearing a soft leather tunic with raised braiding made from leather strips stitched on it in winding patterns, and a pair of leather trousers that felt rather heavy and cumbersome compared to his uniform, which he was wearing underneath it, but were remarkably warm. He and Data had also been given jackets made of small pieces of fur sewn together in contrasting patterns, the fur side in. He fingered the soft leather, impressed with both the artistry and level of skill involved, both of which were far beyond anything he had been expecting.

"Jean-Luc, tell us of your Journey."

Picard looked up to see Joharran smiling down at him, and holding out a cup of the fermented drink they called 'barma'. Marthona, the co-leader of the Ninth Cave, was also with him.

"There really isn't that much to tell, you know," Picard said, wondering what he could in fact say. "This is the first encounter we've had since leaving."

"How long have you been travelling?"

Picard thought quickly. "About three weeks," he said, trying to estimate the rough amount of time it would take to walk from the Bay of Biscay to central France.

"Pardon – what is a 'week'?" Marthona asked.

Picard swore to himself. It was tricky trying to keep knowledge from them when he did not know exactly what they knew or did not know.

"My people divide the moon's phases into four periods we call 'weeks'," he explained, hoping he hadn't irrevocably changed the future development of concepts of time. He was hopeful that at any rate they were far enough in the past for any serious mistakes to be undone: cultural evolution followed a fairly standard path, barring accidents such as the great extinctions caused by meteorite impacts, and in numerous civilisations across the galaxy it was found that by and large concepts did not arise or survive in a vacuum: there had to be supporting ideas to permit them to flourish. While it was obvious that telling them in great detail how a warp drive worked would not have any impact on their culture, as they lacked the technological base on which to build, even telling them the truth about the sun and the stars would be unlikely to have any long-lasting impact, as their own social structure was far too rigid to allow such radical change. However that was only valid if the contact was brief and not repeated: extensive contact over a long period of time was another matter entirely.

"I see," Marthona said. "But nearly an entire moon, and you saw no-one?"

"Not no one," Picard said quickly, wondering how populated France was at this time. "But no group nearly as large as yours."

"I don't think there are any," Joharran said proudly. He looked around the hundred or so people that were eating and drinking, and thought of the many more that lived in the caves and hollows up and down the river. This was one of the richest and most fertile areas he had heard about, ideal for hunting and fishing and gathering, close to many migration routes, and sheltered from the worst of the winter storms by the steep valley walls. He couldn't imagine a better place to live, and was sure that was why the Mother had chosen to allow his people to find it, many generations ago.

"Did you meet a people called the Kalamaii?" Marthona asked.

Picard shook his head.

"A pity. I once travelled that way and made friends with a young girl called Taluria there. It would be nice to know how she is doing."

"I'm afraid I cannot help you." Picard looked at her crestfallen face and found himself wondering what it would be like to never hear from a friend again. In his time, no matter how far from Earth he was, subspace radio could reach him in a matter of hours at most. He was never alone, even at the edges of known space, separated from the nearest Federation outpost by thousands of light-years. But here, across distances the Enterprise could cover in less than the blink of an eye, communication was limited to that most fundamental of all speeds, the human walking pace. These people faced what was, in its own way, a vaster gulf than that between the worlds of the 24th century. It was a humbling thought.

Just then there was a booming thump, and he looked up, startled. Two men had dragged out a hollow log with a long opening down the middle, and began beating on it rhythmically. Their pace quickened, and soon climaxed with a tremendous dual thump that echoed and re-echoed off the cliffs. As if by some signal, the gathering grew quiet. Zelandoni, Marthona, and Joharran rose, and gathered before Picard and Data.

Marthona spoke first. "In the name of the Mother, we are honoured to welcome here to the Ninth Cave two travellers from distant lands. We offer them the shelter of stone, the warmth of fire, and the friendship of the hearth, and hope they will freely accept them all."

Picard bowed, but before he could reply, Zelandoni took over.

"Doni, in the name of the Ninth Cave we ask you to accept these two travellers and watch over them. In their name, we offer you this blade, that symbolises the antagonism of two peoples, and request that you show us your will."

With that, Zelandoni threw the slim flint blade she had been holding up onto the hard stone ground, where it shattered into pieces, showing the refusal by the Earth Mother to allow conflict and discord between the two groups of people.

"Now, as leader of the Ninth Cave, I offer you the tongue of the deer," Joharran said, motioning to Picard and Data to step forward. He held out a delicately-carved wooden bowl, on which something dark and wet glistened in the firelight. Picard tried to keep his expression neutral as he realised it was the raw tongue of the deer that was barbequing nearby. Joharran looked at him, and nodded. Picard took a deep breath, cleared his mind of thought, and picked up the tongue. It was heavier than he expected, cool and wet in his hands. Focusing his attention on the man in front of him, he took a big bite. His mouth was full of blood and raw meat, and he felt as if he were about to be sick, but with an effort he rapidly chewed the tender meat and swallowed. Beside him, Data took a delicate bite and returned the rest of the tongue to the plate. Although he was an android and did not require food, he was able to hold small amounts in an internal chamber, which helped him fit in at social gatherings. However his capacity was limited, and the food had to be brought back up later before it went bad, so he avoided eating and drinking as much as possible.

As Data put the meat back, there was a round of applause, and someone started banging the drum again. Through the flickering flames Picard could see Ayla looking at him, her expression unreadable. He smiled, and was pleased to see her smile back before she turned to Jondalar.

"I have never been offered raw tongue before, captain," Data said quietly. "How did you find it?"

"Not as bad as I feared, Mr Data," Picard admitted. "It was rather like steak tartare, or sashimi. However it was a bit bloody for my tastes."

He turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the rather ugly man who had been offering everyone barma all evening. Brukeval, or Laramar, or whatever his name was. The man grinned, showing badly-damaged teeth, and proffered the bag of alcohol. Picard held out his cup, made from a bison horn cut off and fitted with a wooden base, and it was soon filled to the brim with the pungent liquid.

"Good drinking, stranger," the man said. "Mine's the best barma in the region – drink up."

Picard took a swig, and as the fiery liquid burned his throat he hoped that Data had some good remedies for hangovers. As he lowered his cup he felt another tap, and found himself facing a young woman carrying a plate of fish. She broke off the head off one, and offered it to Picard.

"Thank you, uh, miss…"

"My name is Folara," the young woman smiled. "Welcome to the Ninth Cave. How long are you staying?"

"Uh, not long, Folara," Picard said. "We're really just here to visit the cave of Doni's Deep."

Folara's face darkened. "That place is dangerous. Sometimes people go in there, and never come out."

"They get lost?"

"Yes, but not their bodies. Their minds. They go in, and we find them lying there, wide awake, but they make no sound, they cannot hear us. Please, be careful if you go in there," she begged.

"I'll be all right," Picard assured her. "Zelandoni will be with me."

"Take Ayla as well," Folara said in a quiet voice, looking around. "Don't go in there without Ayla."

"Why is that?"

"She knows the spirit realm – she has been there, she has seen it," Folara said. "She knows it better than Zelandoni, and she can protect you."

Folara looked around again, and hurried off. Picard looked after her, puzzled by her remarks. He was not inclined to dismiss her warnings offhand: he had seen and heard too much in his career in Starfleet. The universe, he often reminded himself, was not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine. Was there something about that cave that caused this, and this was why it was considered such a sacred and deadly place? Well, he would hopefully find out before too long. He resolved to have a talk with Ayla sooner rather than later, however, to see what he could learn beforehand.

Ayla watched the short stranger talking to Folara, and then stand quietly and move out of the circle after her friend had hurried away. She couldn't hear what they had said, and knew it was none of her business. But she felt responsible towards Picard, since it was she who had brought him to the Ninth Cave. Standing up, she headed over to him. He was looking up at the night sky, the stars shining in the black velvet night. He seemed to be seeking something out, but she couldn't imagine what. The mysteries of Those Who Serve were deep and complex, and she didn't presume to imagine she knew more than a smattering of lore. She stood near him, waiting patiently until he acknowledged her.

"Ayla, good evening," Picard said after a few moments. "I'm sorry, I was just looking up at the stars."

"You looked as if you were looking for something, Jean-Luc," Ayla said. "What is it you seek?"

"Understanding," Picard said slowly, his mind not as clear as he would have liked. "As always. Who we are, what our role in the cosmos is, where we are going…."

"The questions of Those Who Serve," Ayla said softly. "Do you know the answers?"

"No," Picard said sadly. "Not to all of them, and only slightly in the ones I do know. I am but a dabbler in such things."

"Perhaps the hearth-fires of the ancestors are only the beacons on the way to that knowledge, rather than the answers themselves," Ayla said, looking up at the arch of heaven, studded with the tiny fires of the past.

"Sorry, the hearth-fires?"

"Is that not what your people believe? That the stars are the hearth-fires of the ancestors?"

"Not exactly, no," Picard said. "But... you could say we believe that in a way they are our ancestors, just more remote than we can imagine."

"I should enjoy talking with you about the stars," Ayla said, looking at Picard strangely. For some reason, she suddenly felt as if he himself was from the stars, as if they were his home. She blinked, and the feeling was gone.

"I should too, Ayla," Picard said. "But right now I feel far too drunk to talk about anything coherently. Let alone astrophysics and cosmology."

"What shall we talk about then?" Ayla was confused by his words, but let them pass.

"Let us…sit upon the ground…and tell sad stories of the death of kings; how some have been deposed; some slain in war; some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; some poison'd by their wives; some sleeping kill'd…." Picard said cryptically. He looked at the tall woman beside him, and laughed. "An old legend from a famous story-teller, full of sound and fury, signifying…nothing. None of which have ever happened yet anyway."

"I do not understand," Ayla said, confused.

"No, nor do I. Nor do I…."

"Captain, you are tired," Data interjected, joining them. "Perhaps you should rest."

"Good idea, Mr Data," Picard said, rubbing his temples. "That barma stuff is almost as bad as Romulan ale. But not as blue."

"Here, take these," Data said when they were out of the light. He gave the Captain two small pills.

"Excellent, Mr Data. Let's hope this won't happen every night," Picard said, and swallowed the pills. His head began to clear, the world returning to normal focus.


Commanding Officer's Log, Supplemental. We are about to fire up the newly-enhanced warp drive. Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge are down on the main engineering deck, in case anything goes wrong, but I do not think it will. The Kozinsky Equations have been tested in numerous simulations and have not failed for the last ten versions. I have full faith in the engineering genius of Dr Brahms and Commander La Forge's intimate knowledge of the Enterprise's systems.

Riker shut off the log, and settled back into the captain's chair.

"Main viewer on," he ordered. The large screen switched to a view of the spidery encircling arms of the Utopia Planitia shipyard dry docks, with the red and barren face of Mars far below.

"Ahead one-quarter impulse," he ordered. Without the slightest shudder, the huge vessel slowly began to gather speed.

"We are clear of the dock, commander," said the conn officer.

"Full impulse until we get past areostationary," Riker ordered. An almost imperceptible hum was the only sign of the added power. There was no change in the starfield, and nor would there be: the maximum speed of the impulse drive was well below light speed.

"Areostationary cleared sir."

"Course three-five-two mark seven," he ordered.

"Course plotted and laid in, sir."

"Warp one, engage," Riker said, sitting back in the chair as the low hum built up and the starfield blurred and distorted into the familiar streaks of light caused by Cherenkov radiation – the mysterious glow emitted when super-relativistic particles moving faster than the local speed of light were forced to slow down when they escaped the warp shell. As the particles crossed the warp field, they were repeatedly accelerated to faster-than-light velocities and then slowed to normal speeds; part of the visual manifestation of Einsteinian space in subspace.

"Warp one sir," announced the conn.

"Keep increasing until warp nine," Riker ordered.

The streaks of light lengthened, and the humming increased in pitch as the massively powerful engines of Starfleet's flagship gathered their energies. Riker looked at the hypnotic lights on the screen, hoping that this time the warp core would behave itself: it was only a few months since the previous attempt at enhancing the warp core with interphase technology had led to the crew being invaded and attacked by unusual interphasic beings. It was an episode Riker preferred to forget, and he hoped that this time there would be no weird beings caught up in the warp field.

"Warp nine, sir," announced the conn.

"Right, take her up to warp nine-point-nine over ten minutes," Riker ordered. The warp speed scale was based upon the amount of power required to transition from one warp plateau to another, and became an asymptotic curve as it approached Warp Factor Ten, the theoretical limit that represented infinite speed. Warp 9.9 was about a third faster than warp 9.6, and, if all went well, the Enterprise's new maximum sustainable speed.

Riker's nervousness grew as the ship's speed increased. The hum was now definitely audible, and he could feel it through his seat. He kept an eye on the chronometer and warp factor indicator on his armrests as the minutes ticked by.

"Relax, Will," Troi said calmly. "Geordi and Leah know what they're doing."

"Yes, but I don't know what they're doing," Riker said, "and that's what worries me. The last time we tried anything Kozinsky came up with we were thrown halfway across the universe, remember?"

"That was years ago, Will. His work since then has been meticulous and even a little bit conservative. There's nothing to worry about."

"Except getting the ship back thirty thousand years to rescue the captain and Data," Riker said.

"Of course. We will. I know you care deeply for both of them, Will," Troi said.

"We all do, Deanna," Riker replied. "We all do. And we'll get them back."

"Warp nine-point-nine, sir," conn announced.

"Geordi, how are the engines doing?" Riker called out as the computer automatically relayed his message to the engineering room.

"Singing like a canary, commander! Music to my ears!" Geordi's enthusiasm was palpable even on the bridge, and for the first time Riker allowed himself to relax a little.

"Commander, we should return to impulse drive, so I can run a few tests," came Brahms' voice.

"Very well. Signal all stop," Riker ordered.

"Engines answering all stop, sir," conn replied as the warp field vanished and the stars resumed their familiar shapes.

"How long will it take to run those tests?" Riker asked.

"Not more than a few hours," La Forge replied. "But we need to wait until the engines are cold first."

"How long will that take?"

"We'll get onto it in the morning, commander, if that's acceptable."

"Fair enough." Riker rubbed his beard. "Right, schedule whatever tests you need for the morning, and don't wake me unless the ship explodes. I'm off to bed."


That night Picard lay on a bed of cured furs, looking up at the rough rock roof of the cave, soot-blackened with age, and lit dimly by the flickering embers of a dozen hearth-fires. He could hear the sounds of people around him echoing off the abri roof: quiet conversations, the occasional clunk or thump of something being moved, the crackle and hiss of fires, and the low breathing of sleeping people. His mind was racing with the events of the day, trying to sort them out, to make some sense of them. Tomorrow he and Data must go to the shuttle wreckage, which was not far away apparently. Hopefully there would be something salvageable, though he doubted it. Falling from several kilometres up would have caused severe damage. He only hoped the dilithium chamber was not cracked or damaged too badly in the crash, or else it might begin leaking anti-matter. He knew that under normal circumstances you could drop a shuttle directly on the Earth from the orbit of the moon and its anti-matter containment pods would hold, but passing through a serious chronowave distortion did strange things to the fields that held in the vast power of the anti-matter engines. Time was a strange beast, Picard reflected. The normal laws of cause and effect did not apply in Time-Space, the chronometric equivalent to normal Space-Time. Events could precede causes, but not necessarily, or only sometimes. And trying to tame its unimaginable energies was an immensely complex business. He only hoped that Riker and the others were able to get to a time insertion point as close to his as possible. He was acutely aware that they could be years out – either way. At least once they found the signature of the shuttle they'd be able to find Data and him very easily. That was some comfort to him as he lay under the cold stone of the remote past.

.


NOTES:

Details of the clothing are based on Inuit clothing patterns, especially those from the mummies dating back over 500 years that were found in the 1980s with their clothing intact. The hollow log is based on a Polynesian drum I saw in a museum. Hollowed out from the top, with a long slit. The blade ritual is made up, but seems like it could work. I've generally taken a few liberties with the Ninth Cave feast/introduction scene, adding a bit more of a spiritual aspect, and the tongue is pinched straight from "Dances with Wolves" but used differently. I have no idea what raw tongue tastes like, and hopefully never will. I can't even stand cooked tongue.

Picard's musings about the strangeness of the universe are based on JBS Haldane's famous quote about "…the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."

After Picard gazes at the stars, he quotes Shakespeare's Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2. I thought it fitting for a Shakespearean actor.

You can't have a geostationary orbit around Mars. "Geo" means "Earth," after all. The correct terms is "areostationary," from Ares of course.

Cherenkov radiation is a real thing, and some fan speculation has it that the streaks are similar radiation spikes, as they very clearly are not actual stars.

The reference to an episode Riker would like to forget regarding "interphasic beings" is a reference to the episode Phantasms (7x06).