Chapter 36
Jean-Luc looked down at the pool of water cupped in his hands, studying the shimmering and distorted reflection of his face - then took a generous mouthful of the water, swished it around in his mouth, spat it on the ground, then rubbed the remaining handful over his face.
So much for washing up, he thought, let alone for shaving, he added, rubbing a hand over the damp stubble on his face, disliking the disheveled look he was developing, but knowing there was no option. There simply was not enough extra water available to waste on washing, shaving or even on brushing his teeth.
Then again, he'd been on enough digs - and enough away missions that had gone wrong - to know that the morning ablutions he usually enjoyed were a luxury he could live without - but it still amazed him that they had somehow managed to go from an overabundance of standing water to having to carefully ration what they had - and in less than one day.
Not that he objected, Picard added silently; their divergence from the river and swamps of the rainforest for the climb to a higher elevation had meant they would lose their source for fresh water - but only for a day, he knew equally well. A few more hours of travel would bring them to another source of fresh, clean water – providing, of course, that they could reach it, he conceded - then hastily chased the worried thought from his mind.
He glanced at his companion, concerned that she might have caught the errant thought - but judging from the blissful expression on her face, her thoughts were anywhere but on his.
Instead, Andile sat delightfully unaware on the massive rock outcropping that had served as their bed the previous evening, both blankets wrapped around her, cocooned in the silvery metallic fabric as she ran a finger along the inner edge of the food container, then raised the red stained finger to her mouth, licked off the residue - then smiled at her partner.
"I love you, Jean-Luc," she murmured contentedly.
For a moment the comment startled him - then he smiled back, understanding the source of the remark. "I take it, then, that you found the raspberry cobbler?" he answered, noting the red streak of fruit paste that adorned one cheek.
"Both of them," she grinned, holding up the second empty food container – then feigned a look of concern. "You didn't want any, did you?"
"I wouldn't dream of depriving you," he replied lightly
"Mmmm," she purred. "Raspberries _and_ a warm bed. What more could a girl ask for?"
"Perhaps something softer?" he suggested - though he had to admit that the smooth, weather-worn rock that had baked in the intense rays of the sun all day had provided them with a source of gentle and continuous heat all night long, keeping the startling cool night air at bay - and, he added with a contented smile of his own, giving them a way to dry out their rain and mud soaked clothes. By the time they had been ready to sleep, enough of their clothes had dried to the point where they could form a reasonable mattress beneath them. In the grand scheme of things, it was not a comfortable bed - but it was dry and warm, and for the first time since they had arrived on the planet, they had both gotten a good night's rest.
Better yet, with their clothes, bedding and supplies now far dryer than they had been since their arrival, the weight of their packs would be considerably less, making today's journey easier - if no less treacherous, he added.
But the same warmth that had dried their clothes and kept them comfortable all night long bespoke an intensity of the sunlight at this altitude, he reminded himself.
The Samarrasian sun was a G-class star, not unlike Earth's sun, and Samarrassia IV stood at approximately the same distance from that sphere as the Earth stood from its sun – but the ozone layer that protected the inhabitants of Earth from the intense radiation of their sun was thinner on this world; even a relatively short exposure could give them both dangerous – or even fatal - sunburns.
In the depths of the rain forest, of course, there had been no such worries; the trees had granted the archaeologists more than adequate protection from the sun's direct rays, if not its equally intense heat. Here, however, almost three kilometers higher on the northern side of the plateau and without the lush vegetation of the lower altitudes, they would receive the full impact of both: the heat – and the potentially lethal radiation.
Dr. Ogawa had provided them with the requisite creams and sprays to protect their skin, they were wearing long-sleeved shirts as well as full-length trousers – but even so, it was taking a chance. Adequate protection against the radiation – but not against the other effects of the sun. Judging from the amount of heat this outcropping had retained, it had been exposed to the sun throughout most of the previous day, he realized – and the rock walls that lined the next few kilometers were facing a similar exposure. Delay much longer and this passage will turn into an oven, slowly baking as the stone begins to radiate its heat back out at us.
We need to be moving, he decided.
Whether she heard his thoughts or simply had noticed his looking at the sun and the adjacent stone-walled path, Andile gave a sigh of resignation, slipped the empty food containers into her bag, then slowly unfolded herself from her comfortable bed.
Five minutes later, all of their gear and clothes had been reorganized and stowed back into the packs – except, Picard noted, for two of Andile's shirts.
"I would think one shirt should be adequate," he commented lightly, trying not to reveal his curiosity.
"It is," she agreed. "For me. The other is for you," she said, proffering the clothing.
He looked at the shirt, now thoroughly perplexed – then gingerly accepted it.
Smiling, Andile took the other shirt, opened it and placed it on her head, then drew the sleeves back and tied them behind her head. "You're going to need to cover your head, my dear Admiral."
Picard frowned as he looked at the shirt in his hands – then smiled, remembering having done something similar once before – although misadventure had turned out rather badly for him, he recollected.
Not an omen of things to come, he thought silently – then gave his companion a second questioning look. "I do have my own shirts," he reminded her.
"Mine smell better," she explained.
He gave the filthy fabric a tentative sniff – then reflexively wrinkled his nose. "I doubt that."
She smiled. "Picard, my shirts stink – but yours reek. Take my word; I was downwind of you most of yesterday. Next clean water we find, I'm throwing you – and these clothes - in. After I fill my canteen," she added, taking a judicious sip from her bottle then giving it a shake to gauge how much – or rather, how little – was left.
Securing the closure, she clung it over her shoulder, adjusted the makeshift headgear, then looked at him expectantly. "Ready to go?"
"I wasn't the one dawdling over breakfast," he reminded her.
"No, you were the one who was harassing me about not eating enough," she countered. "Now, when I finally do get my fill of something, you complaining about me slowing you down," she said, reaching for one of the two back packs.
Despite carrying the now dry – and therefore lighter – bundle of clothing, the balance of the gear remained as heavy as before – and despite the night's respite, they were both still nearing a point of physical exhaustion. Giving a grunt of effort, she hefted the bag to her shoulder – then felt the weight suddenly shift, threatening to take her over as it started to fall to the opposite side.
A profanity on her lips in preparation to greet the impending fall to the hard surface of the rocks, she found herself silence, instead, when the pack quickly righted itself – then became lighter.
Glancing behind her, she smiled sheepishly at Picard, who was holding up the errant carrier, supporting it until she could slide her other arm into the carrier strap.
"Thanks," she murmured. "I think it got heavier since last night."
"It's lighter – but we're both getting tired," he reminded her. "Once we reach the next water source, I think we should stop and make camp for the day; we both need the rest – and if this map is correct, we'll have less than a day's journey from there to the site of the anomaly," he added. "Another good night's rest and a decent meal should make tomorrow's journey all the easier – and after all, that's when the real fun will begin," he reminded her.
"Providing that there's anything there to find," she reminded him.
Picard considered that point for a moment, then gave a brief shrug. "If there's nothing there, then Professor Femishar's argument about his site might be considered more seriously." Taking the shirt Andile had given him in hand, he tied it around his head, much as she had done, letting the body of the shirt drape over the back of his neck, protecting it from the sun, then began to lift the remaining pack to his shoulders.
He grinned as he felt her – unnecessary - assistance in lifting the pack, then secured the clasps across his chest, adjusted the straps to shift the weight slightly, then watched her do the same.
Andile tightened one strap – then looked at Picard pensively. "You do know that if we don't find anything, Femishar will use your theory to discredit you, don't you?" she asked him worriedly.
"It's possible," he admitted.
"Possible?" she countered. "He'll make you a laughingstock!"
He gave her a searching look. "And...?"
"And? And?!" she answered, stunned by his attitude – then shook her head. "Don't give me that, Picard," she told him. "I know you! I know your ego – I know how important it is to you to maintain your image... the thought that people would be laughing at you... that you would let them laugh..."
Picard affixed her with a sober gaze, then glanced at the upward trail before them. "We need to be going, Dee," he said quietly, dismissing her concerns.
He turned away, leaving her to gape after him in astounded disbelief – then heard the sound of her boots scurrying to catch up to him.
For a time they walked in silence, the narrowing passage making conversation difficult – and the rapidly increasing incline and the growing heat making any task beyond placing one foot in front of the other all but impossible.
Breathing hard, then panting, then gasping for breath with each step they took, the path seemed interminable. At least, Andile thought, the path was relatively smooth, with no loose gravel or small stones underfoot to make their footing more treacherous than it already was.
_That's because the rainstorms have washed them away,_ Picard told her silently.
_Our good luck,_ she replied.
_For the moment, yes,_ he agreed. _Except that if you look at these rocks, you'll note they've fractured under the effects of the sun and the elements,_ he said.
Andile studied the boulders on either side of them, nothing the fractures and clefts – then realizing their path was nothing more than another of those clefts, worn wide by the effects of the elements.
_Shit,_ she muttered to herself. _So we should expect to have the ground littered with shards from the big rocks, shouldn't we?_ she replied.
She felt, rather than heard, his silent assent.
_And since there aren't any stones underfoot, then this area has had a relatively recent rainstorm,_ she surmised.
Another sensation or agreement.
_One that was strong enough to wash the entire area clear._
_There's no top soil or plants to hold the rain water in check,_ he offered.
_So when the rain comes down these paths – this path – there's nothing to slow it down; it takes everything with it,_ she concluded.
_Including us if we're unfortunate enough to be here when it starts to rain,_ he agreed.
_Thank the gods it's not the rainy season,_ she reminded him.
_It not the rainy season in the rainforest, Dee,_ he pointed out. _But we're almost seventy kilometers away from the camp, three kilometers higher – and climbing up the side of a plateau; the climate here was never analyzed – and the fact that there are no rocks underfoot is highly suggestive of frequent storms in this area._
"In other words," she gasped aloud, "we should get our butts in gear."
She felt his smile. "We should make haste," he agreed, "although the tricorder indicates that there were no storm fronts moving into this area."
"There wouldn't need to be a storm front," she said. "Warm moist air moving up from the rain forest could simply condense out at this elevation."
He nodded. "It could – and it probably will. However, if it does so, it will come up from behind us, so we should be able to stay ahead of the brunt of the rain – if it manifests itself."
"And if we can't?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Then I needn't worry about being made into an object of derision. In any case, let's not delay any longer than necessary."
"Meaning shut up and haul ass," she agreed.
"Graciously phrased," Picard replied.
Despite herself and her worry over their position in the rock cleft, Andile allowed herself a grin – which quickly faded as the climb quickly grew steeper.
An hour – longer? Andile wondered – they came to a small ledge, barely wide enough for the two of them to stand, where the two walls of the trail narrowed to a point where not even she could worm through.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Now... we go up," Picard said, and began to wriggle out of the straps of his pack.
Dropping the bag onto his feet, he pulled out a length of climbing rope and two harnesses. Separating the two, he handed one to the diminutive woman, instructing her, "Put this on."
She looked at the harness – then glared at him. "The gods damn you, Picard – you knew about this! You knew we were going to have to climb!"
"It... was a possibility that I had considered," he admitted.
"And you didn't tell me? You bastard!" she snarled.
"Would you have come with if I had old you?" he answered.
"Fuck, no!"
He gave a half shrug, as though her answer proved his point. "Which is why I didn't tell you," he explained. "Now you have the choice of going back down – with less than a half day's ration of water – then following the riverbank, trying to find a place where you can ford it, then trekking the remaining thirty kilometers. Through the mud. Without rations," he added.
"Bastard!" she growled – then looked back, as though seriously considering the alternative – then looked forward again - and shuddered. "You really want me to go up there," she whispered.
"You said you could climb."
"I can – but that doesn't mean I like it!" she protested – then looked away, unwilling to allow Picard to see the panic on her face.
He didn't need to see it to know she was terrified, however; he knew that she had fallen from her parents' airship as a child, and had almost died as a result – and that her mother had perished when she tried to save her only child. He knew that her father had never forgiven her for that; that he had grown careless as a result and died shortly thereafter, leaving her orphaned and at the mercy of her people's religious beliefs – beliefs hat had made her the emotional and physical scapegoat for their fears and anger.
Exiled, she had lived alone for years, returning only when necessity required – and in doing so, had fallen once more, this time breaking so many bones that she had nearly died again.
Except she didn't die – indeed, she couldn't died, she had come to understand; in time, her bones had healed, and she had climbed free of her temporary prison – and back into the hellish world her people had made for her.
She had survived – but her fear of heights had never left her; even on the Enterprise, she had never willingly walked on the catwalks of the upper levels of the warp core – not without holding tightly to the railings and slowly edging her way along the metal flooring.
He felt for her – but there were times when one had to work past one's fears, he reminded her wordlessly.
Like now.
She met his eyes, then shook her head. "Please, Jean-Luc, don't make me do this," she whispered at him.
"There isn't a viable option, Dee," he replied gently. "We go up – or we try to make it by going around the mountain."
"You can climb," she countered. "I'll go around; I'll meet you there..."
He shook his head in response. "No. Whatever we decide, we'll do it together. Either we go up – together – or we go back to the camp. Together," he concluded firmly.
"But if we go back, Femishar will make a joke out of you," she protested. "He'll ridicule you, make you look like an idiot with pretensions of archaeologic grandeur!"
"And...?" Picard replied.
"And?!" she snapped back in protect. "And... You're Jean-Luc Picard, the pride of Starfleet! You defeated the Borg, the Remans! You've been on more first contact missions than any other captain in the history of Starfleet! You are the hero of the Federation!" she reminded him angrily. "You can't let him do that to you!"
Picard looked at her with sober eyes – then shook his head slowly. "Dee..." he began – then stopped, sighed, and shook his head once.
"Perhaps I was those things... once. But that was some time ago. Now... Now, I am an old man, promoted to the Admiralty only because it was the most politically astute way to ease me out of the limelight. Whatever political clout I might once have held is long gone; indeed, I suspect that there are those who see me as nothing more than a doddering old fool, promoted into a role where I can change nothing, do nothing – except wait to retire, or to die. If Femishar tries to make a fool out of me, I suspect he'll find that my comrades are already laughing," he said quietly.
She stared at him, shocked into momentary silence by the revelation. "Jean-Luc..." she began at long last – but he stopped her with a raised hand.
"So it doesn't truly matter if we go back, forward – or around. This expedition... This was my thought of how to enjoy one last exploration while I could. And if I find something... all the better. But if I don't... then I don't. To be honest," he added softly, "I find it no longer matters.
"What does matter," he continued, "if being able to enjoy a holiday, away from Starfleet and the concerns of the Federation's politics – and with a friend."
Andile stared at her friend for a long time. "I didn't know it was that bad," she said at last.
Picard smiled. "I fear I made a mistake that I was warned against a long time ago – that I should never step down from the center chair until I wanted to go."
"So why did you?" she asked, curiously.
"I wasn't given the choice. Step down – or retire. Time and Thaddeus Czymszczak wait for no man," he informed her. "I thought the promotion the better choice; in retrospect, I think it wasn't.
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "You're planning to retire, aren't you? And this was to be your last hurrah?"
He smiled. "I had entertained that possibility. But as I said..."
"Yes, yes, now you're just happy to take a long holiday with a friend. Gods, Picard, it's fucking amazing that you didn't go into the diplomatic core, the way you can trowel it on," she informed him.
"I have no idea what you mean," he replied innocently.
"Of course you don't," she sighed – then looked up at the rock face. "How far?"
"Not far; only a few hundred meters."
"A few hundred meters," she echoed – then looked back at him. "You promise that there's water up there?" she pressed him.
"I promise," he said - then smiled reassuringly as she looked up at the steep climb before them. "Don't worry," he continued. "I'll take the lead. That way I can help you if you can't make it," he added.
She gave him an indignant glare. " 'Can't make it' my ass. If you're expecting me to rise to that bait, you are sadly mistaken," she informed him – then quickly took the harness from him.
"You're going to have to take off your pack," he said. "The mass and the change in the center of gravity will throw off your balance. We can tie them to the end of the rope, then haul them to each resting spot as we climb."
She nodded, shedding the pack, then stepping into the harness.
A few minutes later, the two faced each other, each visually checking the integrity of the other's harness.
"I hate these," she grumbled as Picard tightened one of the shoulder straps of her harness.
"They are Starfleet's most recent version," he protested.
"As may be – but these harnesses always reminded me of a kinky sex apparatus," she complained. "Straps over the breasts, under the breasts, outlining the crotch..."
He stared at her for a long moment, then finally murmured, "I... uh... hadn't considered that."
"Well doesn't it?!" she asked, extending her arms out to her sides, spreading her legs as far apart as the small ledge would permit, displaying herself.
"Um... yes... well, uh," he managed hoarsely before hastily turning away.
"Perverts," she muttered to herself.
Picard hoped that she was referring to the harness designers, and not to the thoughts that were unwittingly filling his mind.
Thoughts that would not facilitate the climb ahead of them both, he reminded himself. Forcing his thoughts to still themselves, chasing the images he should never have considered from his mind, he quickly regained his composure and began securing the packs to the end of the rope.
The task took longer than it should have, in part because he was not willing to lose the packs because of a slipshod knot – and in part because possibilities he had never before contemplated were now refusing to leave his mind.
Damn you, he cursed silently – though he wasn't sure whom he was cursing: himself, his mind, Dee – or his own body. If his fingers couldn't manage to tie these knots, how the devil was he going to climb this rock face?
You'll climb it, he reminded himself, for the same reason that she will climb it; because there isn't any other option. Drawing a long, slow breath, he willed himself to relax – then slowly managed to secure both packs to the end of the line.
Finally, his composure back in place, he turned to face his companion, holding out the other end of the rope. "I'll take the lead," he began, reaching to thread the rope through her harness - but she instantly interrupted him.
"I'll take the lead," she countered, taking the rope and threading it through his harness. "I'm smaller, and if I manage to lose my footing, there's a chance you might be able to stop me before I pull you down. If you take the lead and fall, we're both going down," she pointed out.
"I'd advise that neither of us fall," he offered.
"Goodness me," she said dourly. "I had never considered _that_ option. I guess that's why they made you the admiral, Admiral."
Picard held back the smile that threatened. "Indeed," he replied with utter sobriety. "You'd be surprised how far a good grasp of the basics will take you in Starfleet," he replied with an equally dry tone.
"Indeed," she answered. "And speaking of basics, I don't suppose that bag of yours contains climbing gloves?" she asked.
As if having foreseen her request, he held out a petite pair of the hand coverings, then eased his own hands into the far larger pair he had brought for himself – and felt a renewed sense of adventure growing within him.
Picard had always enjoyed the sport – and the art – of climbing, although he had always felt that practicing on the holodecks was never quite the same as climbing in real life. Knowing there was no possibility of real injury, the thrill was somewhat muted; the need for precision and deliberate care in the selection of which rock or crevice to reach for was diminished; given time, it was possible to become sloppy and careless.
Putting on these gloves, however, he knew that while they would enhance his ability to hold onto even the most jagged of rocks and stones, they could do nothing to assist him in hauling himself up the rock face; from here forward, every inch, every step, every hold depended on his mind and his body – and not on a computer program.
He felt a sense of excitement growing in his soul, felt his senses sharpen, felt his awareness grow – and then felt the very soft and pliant body of Andile press tightly against him.
" 'Scuse," she said, pressing herself to him as she worked her way past him on the narrow ledge – then looked up, studying the way before them.
"Fuck," she muttered – then leapt up, reaching for the first handhold.
He watched as she climbed the first fifteen feet – then reached for the same first handhold, and began to work his way up the cliff.
The angle of the rock face was fairly steep, but the fractured rock face offered enough projections and crevices for them to be able to work their way up at a slow but steady rate, with only a few missed steps. Stopping every ten meters or so, Picard would haul their gear up to the next ledge, then slowly begin to follow her again.
After less than an hour, he felt the temperature change, felt the air begin to grow damp – and for a long moment, he feared that the theoretical storm they had imagined had manifested itself – and Andile's hoarse cry only served to exacerbate that fear.
He called out to her – but after the long walk through the oven-like crevasse and the subsequent climb, his parched throat was capable only of a indecipherable growl that wouldn't carry the ten meters to where Andile was now positioned.
_What's wrong? What is it?!_ he called out worriedly.
_I reached the top,_ she answered, her thoughts a blend of relief and exhaustion. _Just give me a sec and..._
He looked up, watching as the distant figure patiently secured her place, then carefully worked her way up and over the top ridge.
Five minutes later, he succeeded in reaching the same position – and found himself facing an outstretched hand, and a face that was split by an enormous grin.
"Well? Are you just going to hang there all day?"
Picard studied her for a moment, then freed one hand from its rocky embrace and reached up to take her outstretched one.
Pulled by his eager companion, he quickly scrambled over the cliff edge and onto the lip of the wide plateau, then fell back onto the hard ground that covered the area, panting heavily as a cool breeze wafted over him.
"It's got to be ten degrees cooler up here," she panted, still trying to catch her breath, then added, "here," and pressed her canteen into his hands.
The water was warm, metallic, flat – the last dregs of the water that they had collected the day before – yet it tasted as sweet as anything he could remember.
He swallowed it greedily – then pulled back, looking at his companion with an expression of concern. "That was the last of your water," he said.
Andile nodded. "First order of business is to find that source you mentioned."
"You didn't see anything up here?" he replied, surprised. "No springs – no pools from the rain?" he asked – then glanced around the plateau.
No, he realized, more than a little shocked, there was no standing or running water up here. No pools of rain water – and little vegetation to hold onto it, even if there had been.
"You weren't expecting this, were you?" she said.
"No. The geologic survey indicated that this rock a volcanic uprising, highly porous in nature..."
"Which it probably is," she agreed. "I've sent this same type of rock in Hawai'i on Earth, the mid-ocean ridge islands of Kenthar, the Isles of Gashet... Usually they've absorbed rain water for millennia, and it pools out everywhere."
"Except here," Picard pointed out.
"Except here," she agreed – then sat up, and reached for the line that still hung over the edge of the plateau.
"What are you doing?" he asked, slowly sitting up.
"Getting our gear," Andile answered, beginning to pull on the rope. "You promised me water if I climbed this fucking mountain. I climbed it; now it's your turn to deliver on your end of the agreement – and you can't do it if with our gear hanging two hundred meters below us," she pointed out.
He eased his way next to her, braced his feet against a small rock outcropping and began to pull on the line.
"It's not two hundred meters," he pointed out a moment later. "Fifty at most."
"Feels like two hundred," she answered.
"You're just tired."
"I'm just thirsty!" she objected.
He nodded, silently conceding his responsibility for their current predicament – then murmured, "At this elevation..."
"There's still some significant rain fall," she concluded for him.
"Enough to cause a similar level of ground erosion as we faced on the opposite side."
"At this elevation – the top of the rain clouds cross the mountain ridge. However..."
"The worst of the rain is left on the other side. As we descend..."
"The effect will diminish. We should see some standing pools..."
"If the geologic survey was correct, we should see springs," he concluded. "Possibly even thermal pools," he added.
She gave him a caustic glance. "Surely you're not suggesting I need a bath."
"I would never be so indelicate," he agreed. "I merely meant we could wash out our clothing," he demurred.
"Of course," she replied – then gave a grunt as the first of the packs cleared the ridge.
With a grunt of effort, they tugged at the rope a second time – and the last of the packs reached the summit.
For a moment, the two sat in the blazing heat of the sun – then slowly, wearily, then rose to their feet.
Within minutes, the climbing harnesses and the ropes has been repacked, and the bas returned to the backs – and Andile looked up at Picard. "Lay on, McDuff," she said.
Taken aback, he looked down at her. "You've been reading," he commented.
"Trying to acquaint myself with the culture of my ancestors," she admitted.
"Shakespeare was born after you were," he pointed out. "Technically speaking, you're his ancestor."
"Thank you for that reminder, Picard," she replied acerbically. "It's one thing to feel ancient – quite another to be reminded that you are."
"You're not ancient," he replied.
"At last guess, I was somewhere between ten and thirty millennia old," she reminded him. "I think that by anybody's standards, that's ancient."
He reached out, turned her to face him – and studied her intently.
Andile was many things, he thought as he looked at her – but the words 'ancient' was never one he would have thought of as describing her. Beautiful, however - yes; beautiful described her quite well.
Her eyes, brown as chocolate, deep as the pools of Rigel, aged by time and loss and experience – but shining so brightly with excitement and the potential that life offered; her nose a little too long, a little too narrow to fit her otherwise delicate frame – but still so uniquely, so deliciously hers; her mouth small, but her lips full, pale pink from being chapped by the day's sun; her cheeks sharply angled – too sharply to be classically beautiful, but slowly filling out as time – and a few servings of raspberry cobbler, he smiled to himself – helped her to regain the curves they had once held; her hair... oh, her hair, he thought. The beautiful long tresses of raven black that hung to her shoulders in long, graceful curls...
Perhaps, of course, there would be those who couldn't see the beauty in this woman; there would be those who would only see in her the horrors that the Starfleet surgeons had left after their countless attempts to rebuild the face that had been destroyed by the Cardassians – but the loss would be theirs, Picard thought as he studied his friend.
She was many things, he thought – but ancient? Never.
He stared into her eyes, allowing himself to be drawn closer to her – then pulled back.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"Your hair," he replied.
"My hair," she said.
"It's grown," he said.
She pulled back, raised a hand to her shoulder, gathered the ends of the tresses, looked at them – and smiled. "Another gift of my bizarre genetic make-up; my hair grows like crazy when I've had enough to eat. It drove Tiron crazy; he's insist I get my hair cut like a proper Romulan – then he'd insist I ate – also like a proper Romulan, which meant stuffing myself silly – and of course my hair would have outgrown the cut in a matter of days. He wound up hiring a full time barber to live on his estate just so we wouldn't have to run the risk of leaving the compound so often," she explained.
Picard stared at her for a moment. "Run the risk of leaving the compound?" he echoed, then added, "Explain."
Andile looked at him for a moment, realizing she had revealed more information than she wanted to share – then sighed.
"Tiron survived the coup. There were those who didn't accept that he just happened to be off-world at the time of the Reman rebellion..."
"You were on the Ba'ku homeworld," he clarified.
"I... took a turn for the worse shortly after we returned to his estate," she admitted. "There weren't many physicians on Romulus who understood human physiology – let alone who could treat it – and I couldn't return to the Federation for help. So Tiron made a medical mercy request of the Federation, to take his ailing granddaughter to the Ba'ku world to see if the metaphasic radiation would assist in the natural healing process. Tiron was the Emperor's new favorite, so of course everyone wanted to make nice with him – and off we went. We were there for three months, Jean-Luc; when we came home, everything had changed. The Praetor and the Senate had been killed, one wing of the military was in power, fighting against the other wing, the Emperor was fighting battles of his own..."
And Data was dead, she added to herself.
"There were those who said that the timing of his departure and return were more than coincidental – that they had been planned in advance – and because I was an off-worlder, my involvement was presumed."
"But the Federation helped the Romulans defeat the Remans," he protested.
"Romulus is not a world governed by reason," she countered. "Fear and suspicion rule the day there. I was an alien – and therefore, I was suspect. I became a liability to Tiron," she said softly. "My presence threatened his political future, threatened his life. Assassins broke into his estate, tried to kill him, kill me... they killed some of his staff – people who had been loyal to him and his family for generations..." She lowered her head, shaking it slowly. "He took me there to save me, Jean-Luc; now I was dooming him. I had to leave... We argued over it, of course – but in the end, I couldn't stay – not when it meant his life.
"But," she continued, "I kept the persona of a Romulan. After all, I was one – and I couldn't be a human any more. But that meant keeping the short hair as well, cutting it every chance I had – but it's been three weeks since I last had a pair of scissors – and see what's happened to it now," she protested.
He smiled sadly. "I'm hardly in a position to empathize with your hair woes," he pointed out.
Taking his face in her hands, she tilted it forward, planted a soft kiss on the top, then tilted it back so she could look into his eyes.
"False modesty does not become you, Jean-Luc," she said firmly. "You – with or without hair – are one of the most attractive men in the Federation – and outside of it – and you know it. Half the crew would have jumped into your bed without a moment's hesitation if you had even hinted that you wanted to 'make it so'... but you didn't, and they respected – and loved – you enough to not push the issue."
He studied her for a long moment – then smiled mischievously. "And which half of the crew were you a member of?" he teased.
"The half that didn't protest when Dixon Hill kissed her," she reminded him.
They studied one another for a long time, questions that neither dared voice roiling behind thoughts neither dared imagine. Finally, Picard finally spoke.
"We should be moving," he said quietly. "If we're correct in our suppositions – and that tree line suggests we might be – we should find some water somewhere down this slope," he said, gesturing toward the north and the line of green that hinted at the vegetation ahead.
"To drink, perhaps to bathe..." she paraphrased.
Despite himself, Picard chuckled – then reached out for his friend's hand.
Five minutes later there was no sign that any one – human or otherwise – had ever occupied the top of the plateau – only a faint trail of dust, marked by the footsteps of the trespassers – and the fainter sounds of two voices talking and laughing.
pulling the last of the packs up the rock face, secured the packs well away from the edge of the cliff, then slowly stood up.
The view was magnificent indeed; the small plateau that the topographic survey had shown was covered with deciduous trees – or something like them - soft grasses, a thin underbrush of small plants interspersed in a thick layer of leaves that had fallen from the tress over the years – and pools of water that reaffirmed his belief that this area received regular rain falls.
The air was rich with the scent of the slowly degrading leaves, the feel of moisture heavy in the air – and soft breezes that cooled his parched skin, sensations that stirred long-forgotten memories of the deep forests near his home in LaBarre.
And speaking of Andile... he glanced around the plateau, looking for his companion – and beginning to grow worried when he couldn't find her.
"Dee?"
_Dee!_ he added wordlessly.