Chapter 52

Andile thumbed the control of the padd then shifted her gaze across the bay toward the distant mountain. Its outline, sharp, dark and pointed, stood in stark contrast against the brilliance of the slowly sinking afternoon sun, the details of the sheer rock face that looked onto the bay lost in the midnight blue shadow.

She followed the line of the rock face down to the water's edge, then followed the breaking surf as it traced the curved outline of the bay.

A caldera, she thought, turning her attention back to the topographical map. She ran a finger over the line that marked the edge of the bay, its roughly circular shape echoing the remnants of volcanoes that had blown out the contents of their magma chambers, then collapsed back in upon themselves – then frowned. It was supposition only, she told herself: there was no detail of the subsurface structure on this map. She sighed plaintively realizing that when the map had been drawn, the primary focus had been a few kilometers inland, not at the harbor.

On a planet with no active volcanism, neither Starfleet nor the Samarrassian archaeological committee would have bothered with a map at that level of detail.

She glanced back toward the valley, lost in the distance, then at the northern wall of the bay, wishing she could make out more of the geological detail lost beneath the verdant growth there.

Even so...

Shield volcano? she wondered. Most likely. Pyroclastic shield? Probably... well, possibly, she amended. The crumbling rock wall they had climbed on their ascent of the ridge could have been one layer of debris form an ancient explosion – but it could have also been the result of millennia of wind, rain, and sun breaking down the weaker layers into smaller and smaller pieces.

She stared again at the sheer mountain wall that faced her, aching to see the details, hoping that she could at least gain a tentative confirmation of her theory - then shook her head.

Tomorrow, then, she told herself; tomorrow we'll come back – early! – and then I can inspect that rock face - then turned her attention once more to the holographic display that shimmered before her.

She squinted; even in the shade of their makeshift tent, the glare of the afternoon sun was intense, making it difficult to make out the details of the projected image. Lifting herself to her knees, she moved closer to the display, then looked back to the padd.

Even without the geological survey, the numbers were right, she thought – but there could have been so many reasons for that: correlation, she remind herself, does not infer causation.

But if it weren't just correlation, she thought, staring at the padd; if it were causation...

She entered a series of numbers into the padd, then looked back at the image – only to have it suddenly disappear.

"This is a holiday," Picard reminded her gently, moving his finger from the remote control, then handing the device back to her, droplets of water spattering her hand as they fell from his arm. "No working today – remember? We sit on the beach and relax."

Andile gave him a withering glance. "Says the man who went for a quick afternoon 'dip' – with a specimen container," she countered, looking the man over.

He was worth looking over, she thought to herself: tanned and toned, skin glistening with the droplets of water that hadn't evaporated yet – and his work shorts, worn in lieu of swim trunks, clung to that fit body with delicious possessiveness.

He met her eyes, studying her with equally frank appreciation – then smiled at her accusation. "Mea culpa," he agreed.

She grinned back, then patted the blanket beside her. "So," she continued as he took a place beside her on the blanket, "any luck?"

Picard placed the small container on the ground beside him and shook his head. "Nothing that resembled the shells we found – though there's ample sea life in the bay. Fish – or something resembling fish. Some sort of crustacean. Kelp or its kind – and something similar to plankton. If this world was denuded of all native life – assuming there was any - when it was terraformed, it's reasonable to presume that a diversity of lifeforms were transplanted in order to create an ecosystem that would support the peoples who were brought here."

"So we could analyze a sample of some of the other creatures and look for a similarity between the nucleotide bases of these here and aquatic life back on Vulcan," she suggested hopefully, "assuming you're still working on the assumption that this predates the Sundering," she added.

"I am – but I don't think there's anything in the databases we brought that would permit that comparison... nor," he added ruefully, "would my limited fishing skills make it possible."

She patted his arm consolingly. "Well, we hardly came out here with fishing in mind, " she reminded him, glancing at the makeshift net they had cobbled together from the supplies they had brought with them for the day's excursion. "If you want to give it another go the next time we come out here, we should be able to figure out something better from the equipment back at the camp."

Next time? he thought to himself. "I thought you were tired of eating rations," he reminded her.

"I was – and I am – but..." Her voice trailed off.

"But?" he echoed – then sensed a strange upwelling of sadness in his companion. "Dee?"

"I... I just don't want to kill the fish," she admitted. "I was wading in the shallows a little while ago, and I could see them flitting about, shining silver and gold, just going about, doing their fishy business..." She shook her head, then forced a smile. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he said softly, then followed her gaze across the bay at the mountain that stood there. His voice dropped. "I understand."

He did understand, she thought to herself. "But... I could be wrong. Oh, hell, I probably am wrong," she added dismissively.

"You may be," he agreed, then reached for her hand, interlacing his fingers in hers. "But I think that your idea – that this bay has suffered from tsunami-like waves, triggered by landslides from that mountain face – is correct. It would explain the repeated layering of shells and other sea-borne debris that we found. But there's nothing to suggest that one of those waves killed the people who lived here," he told her gently.

"Something killed them," she answered.

"Yes, something did. Disease, a change in climate, a population that grew too quickly to be supported by the agriculture – or grew too slowly... " He sighed. "At least we know they survived long enough to send some of their people to new locations. Femishar's pottery shards prove that – even if we can't find a trace of the people. I'm hoping that if we can find more traces of that expansion, we may be able to get some idea of how long they were on this planet."

"Then you're planning on coming back?" she asked quietly.

He nodded solemnly. "I am. I think my time in Starfleet is at an end; I never wanted to command a desk, Dee – and the more I do here, the more I realize how much I miss exploration. Coming here, trying to solve the riddle that was this planet... This is why I joined Starfleet," he said, his enthusiasm illuminating his face, "to explore. If I can no longer do so there, then maybe I can do so here."

She studied him – then raised her hand to his face, caressing his cheek.

He smiled at the touch, but a quizzical expression crossed his face. "What's that for?"

"I missed that look."

"Which look?"

Andile laughed softly. "That look. The look you had when you came around the corner of the marathon; that look that said you knew the universe was full of infinite questions – and you wanted to find the answers. It's a good look for you, Jean-Luc," she added quietly, her finger running down the angle of his jaw, "and I've missed it."

He chuckled softly as a thought crossed his mind.

"What?" she asked, curious.

"Just a thought - about youth... and age. Admiral Necheyev will probably be relieved if I tell her I'm leaving: she's been trying to ease me out of the Admiralty for the last year, but she's been too diplomatic to just tell me I'm too old."

"The terms diplomatic and Alayna Necheyev don't usually go together," Andile said.

Picard gave an acknowledging sigh. "Where Starfleet personnel are concerned, no – but we've come to an understanding over the years. Mutual respect for who we are and what we've achieved – even if we'll never consider one another friends. But..."

"But what, Jean-Luc?" she asked, seeing the amusement in his eyes.

"But... Not booting me out on the grounds of my age is less because of respect than it is a matter of self-preservation," he replied. "She's two years my senior, and if she sets a precedent by removing me because of my age, there's nothing to stop anyone from removing her on the same grounds," he grinned.

"Hmpf," she murmured. "Age. I've got shoes older than you."

He chuckled. "No, you don't."

She looked at him. "Pardon?"

"I said, 'no, you don't.' Have shoes that are older than me," he furthered.

"How would you know?"

Picard gave her a puzzled look – then shook his head. "Because... I have all of your things – what few there were," he added. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

The smile faded from his face as he turned to her. "Dee... When you died... when Starfleet recorded your death," he amended, "your estate went to Data."

She nodded. "I know. That's what we arranged – back on the Enterprise, when we were planning... " Her voice cracked. "When we were planning my death... If... When I got back with Data..." She looked away, unable to continue.

Picard tightened his hand on hers. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Me, too," she said, looking back at him. "It didn't work out the way we thought it would, did it? Not for any of us. Data died... and you and Beverly... even these people here," she murmured. "Ah, we're all such fools, Jean-Luc, all of us."

"Not fools, Dee. Foolish, perhaps, sometimes – but that's part of our humanity."

"Data wasn't human," she pointed out.

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to him. "There were times, Dee, when I thought he was the most human of all of us."

She pressed her head against his chest, nodding slowly.

"After you... left... though, I thought he came to an even greater understanding of who he was – and who he wanted to be," Picard continued. "When we found B-4, I think he began to think, not in terms of his own humanity or his mortality, but in the idea of a continuation of the life circle: that what he was, and what he did, did not end with himself, but would carry on to future generations... including you," he added. "He wrote a will, to ensure that B-4 would be watched over – and to make sure that the things you had left him would be there when you returned. I was the beneficiary – so to speak - of the will: B-4's care was left to me, along with everything Data possessed – which included everything you had left behind." Sensing her growing sorrow, he added, with a forced levity, "Your estate, however, did not include any shoes – of any age."

Despite herself, Andile chuckled. "No, I guess it didn't."

She fell silent again, listening to the soft beat of his heart, echoing the same sound within her chest, and thinking.

Picard placed his chin on the top of her head, securing her more tightly in his grip, nestling her in the security of his embrace as he felt her thoughts roil about in her mind.

"Is that why I fell in love with him?" she asked at long last. "Because, out of all of the people I have met, he was the only one who could be here as long as I was? Because he wouldn't die, and leave me alone?"

He sighed. "Oh, Dee," he murmured. "I don't think it works that way. We love who we love for reasons the transcend logic and understanding: the ways of the heart don't always follow the ways of our minds. And perhaps that is how it should be: love - glorious, overwhelming, beyond reason and ken – and then, in time, soft and sweet, nurturing and fulfilling. We don't have to understand the whys, but rather celebrate simply that it is."

He reached to her face, turning the tear streaked visage up to face him – and smiled kindly. "That's what the people who lived here – whoever they were, and whatever happened to them – did. They celebrated life, and love, and the joy of simply being here. If, in the end, that is all we ever learn of them, then perhaps that lesson is the only one that matters."

"If that's supposed to be a less-than-subtle remark on my lifestyle, Jean-Luc," she answered, "it missed the mark. I envy these people the lives they led – but their concerns, their worries, were worlds away from ours. From mine. They weren't trying to save a planetful of children who had been left to die."

"No they weren't," he agreed. "We may never know every challenge they faced – but what we've found has clearly shown that they faced them together. With family, with friends, with their community," he said quietly.

"Meaning...?"

"You're not alone," he reminded her gently. "No matter how you may feel, you're not alone. And you don't have to fight you battles alone. Let me help you. I may not be the man I once was at Starfleet – but I still have friends there and throughout the Federation, people who owe me more than a few favors. With their assistance, we may be able to get the children off Cardassia and to somewhere safe – and plan a life for them," he added. "Rescuing them is only half the battle, Dee; once they are physically safe, you still need to think about feeding them, shelters, education, training – where they will live when they grow up, what they will do... It's a job for a thousand people – more – not for one woman, regardless of how remarkable she is."

She opened her mouth to protest – then slowly closed it. "I... I can't."

"You can – and you have to," he said. "Dee, I know how important this is to you – but it isn't something you can do alone. You simply can't save them all – and by insisting on going it by yourself, you're condemning the thousands that you can't get off Cardassia. Together – with all the help I can muster – we may be able to change that. We can save more – maybe all of them. And isn't that what this is all about? Saving them? Or is it about sacrificing your life in the pursuit of an outwardly noble, but ultimately hopeless, cause?"

Outraged, she jerked herself free of his grasp, pulling away and glaring at him. "I that what you think I'm doing?"

"Isn't it?" he countered firmly, his tone carefully controlled. "If you had truly wanted to save those children, why didn't you stay with Tiron? He had the resources that would have made their rescue a matter of weeks or months – but instead you left him, abandoned what he could have given you, and spent the last four years rescuing how many? A few dozen? And you almost died twice in the process," he reminded her.

"You think that I subconsciously wanted them to die?" she gaped.

"Not them."

She froze. "You think _I_ wanted to die?" she pressed angrily.

He reached for her arm, but she pulled away, glaring at him – and he let out a long sigh. "Dee... Data died. The man you loved, the man you though would be with you forever – was gone. For most people, that's tragedy enough – but everyone you knew and loved, the people who could have been there to support you in your grief, to let you know you were not alone – we were inaccessible, on the other side of the quadrant – and there was no way for you to come to us, or for us to come to you.

"But we were there – in thought, if not in body. We did – and do – love you – and we will be there for you. Killing yourself – by getting caught on Cardassia, or choosing the wrong captain for your ship, or by trying to save everyone on your own... it helps no one – and it hurts us all."

He met her angry gaze, adding softly, "It hurts me, Dee."

She stared at him, her outrage overwhelming her other feelings – then looked away, her face pinched with pain. "I'm sorry," she finally managed. "I didn't mean to hurt you – or anyone..."

"Except yourself."

She shook her head. "No. I mean... no."

He nodded understandingly. "Andile are forbidden to suicide," he reminded her.

"Yes – but... no." She shook her head. "Don't try to psychoanalyze me, Picard," she said, shaking a finger at him, trying to force a smile to her face. "It's been tried by the best – and they failed miserably."

"I'm not trying to analyze you," he said with a smile. "I'm just helping you realize what you're doing. And if you are sincere about wanting to help all the Chiemma on Cardassia find a new home and a new life, then you're going to have to accept help. Not just Tiron's help to get those thirty children to wherever you've got the others – but help from a hundred – or a thousand – others, to get those children to safety – and to give them the life you know they deserve.

"And I will be one of those people, Dee," he said quietly. "We will save them. But you can't do it on your own."

She nodded, but turned away from him –then rose to her feet, leaving the tent, walking toward the bay.

He watched her for a time then turned away, leaving her to her own thoughts.

He understood. There had been a time – not so long ago – when he had clung to the thought that he would spend the rest of his life in Starfleet, moving from captaincy to the admiralty, working to help fulfill the goals of the organization that had been so important to him throughout his life.

But those goals, those ideals that Starfleet had once espoused so fervently, had been changed, turned because of the war, politics, desperate need – and private greed.

Everything I once believed in so dearly, he thought to himself – all gone.

He looked at the figure moving slowly along the beach. I understand, he told her silently. I understand when everything that you've held to for so long is ripped from you – when you're left adrift with no anchor.

But it's not the end; it's a beginning. It's the chance to move past what we once were – and learn what we can become. New opportunities. New possibilities.

It's freedom, Dee; for the first time in so long, we're both free.

"That smells good."

Startled, Picard looked up from the small fire he was tending. "I didn't hear you coming," he admitted, standing up as she approached.

"I noticed," Andile answered, drawing close to the fire then settling down in the soft sand. "You're getting pretty good at hiding your thoughts."

"I prefer to think of it as a matter of keeping them to myself," he answered.

She pulled back, not sure if there was a reproach in his words. "I'm sorry..."

He shook his head instantly, seeing the hurt in her face. "I didn't mean it that way," he said gently. "I enjoy my privacy - but you must as well. And my lack of mental self-control..."

She chuckled. "Your self-control is exceptional, Jean-Luc. When you don't want me to hear you, I can't. Well," she added, "not very well. And if I'm not listening, I can't hear a thing. It's no different than it was when we first met."

He reddened, unable to stop the memory of his first thought at encountering the woman during the Academy marathon. "Which was probably for the best," he murmured.

It was her turn to blush. "Uh... yes," she agreed, looking away in embarrassment. "Uh... that smells good," she hastily added.

He glanced down at the fire, then hurriedly moved to the pan that rested on a small stack of rocks at the center of the flames. Taking a stick that rested near the flames, he gave the mixture a stir then used the stick to turn over two small packages resting at one side of the fire. "I thought you'd be hungry when you got back. If you came back," he added. "And don't worry – I didn't catch any fish while you were gone. Though I did find some of those sea plums that you liked, as well as some of the onion grass - but everything else is from the supplies we brought."

She gave a shake of her head. "A moment of maudlin sentimentality. What are a few fish in the grand scheme of things? But... thank you. But in any case, you knew I'd be back," she chided him. "It's a big planet, Jean-Luc, but without a few more resources – and a more diverse food supply – it's not a place to try to live alone."

"I thought you might just have returned to the base site," he explained. "I wasn't sure you'd want to talk with me."

"I didn't," she replied. "You made me think about some things that I didn't want to think about – and you pointed out some truths that I've preferred not to face. And that I'm still not ready to face. Not fully."

He nodded then resumed his place by the fire again, carefully finding a place not too close to the woman. He gave the contents of the pan another stir then placed the stick by the fire.

They sat in silence for a while, Andile staring out at the distant horizon while Picard stared into the flames.

"I was andile for most of my life – then that was taken from me," she said at long last. "Then I was a bridge officer – and that was taken as well. Then I thought I was the rescuer of the Chiemma... and now I can't be that either. So who am I?

"Not Hahndeela, not Andile, not Tironbyaj, not Komianda, not Garave, not Data's wife or lover, not your second in command... I'm lost, Jean-Luc. I'm lost," she whispered.

He said nothing but moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her, drawing her close. For a moment, she resisted the embrace, then leaned into his arms, nestling against his body. "What do I do?" she asked quietly.

His hand moved to her head, cradling it against his chest, then tilted it back until their eyes met. "You... explore. Savor the freedom – the luxury - of not being committed to something that someone else has imposed on your life. Try... everything. Find yourself... but don't be in a hurry."

He drew her close once more, kissing the top of his head, then pulled back, smiling at her. "You, my dear, have an advantage that most of us do not: you have time. Time to try... everything. See what's out there – and listen to whatever calls to you. Live, Dee."

She nodded, forcing a smile to her face – but the gesture was not enough to stop the tears that were welling in her eyes. "Live... but alone."

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly. "Sometimes. But that's true for everyone. Anyone who lives only with another – be it a friend, a lover, a mate – loses a part of himself – or herself – in the process. We all have to be ourselves first. You've never really had that chance, Dee."

"And now I don't have the choice," she replied bitterly.

"You always have a choice," he countered. "No one is going to stop you – but know that if you choose to explore – to find yourself, to indulge in the glorious wonders of exploring who you are – you will always have friends – family," he added softly, "who will be there for you."

"Family?" she asked. "We're family?"

He nodded.

Her face wrinkled in confusion, then she looked back at him. "So does this mean that the last few weeks have been... incest?"

He looked at her – then began to laugh.

Clouds, low, dark, and heavy, rested on the edge of the horizon, obscuring the first tinges of the beckoning sunrise.

"Storm?" she asked quietly, staring at the dark line.

Picard raised his head from their makeshift bed, then lay back. "Not today. But the rainy season is coming. A few more weeks..."

"And then we have to leave," she finished.

He nodded sleepily, then pulled the thin blanket over their bodies, adjusting his arm to pull her closer to him, then closed his eyes once more.

They had talked long into the night, the need for sleeping yielding to their need to talk until the faint vestiges of light in the distance had begun to illuminate the sky, and fatigue had taken its toll.

Even so, he could feel the thoughts roiling in her mind, hundreds of questions unasked – and thousands of answers as yet unfound.

He opened his eyes, looking down at her, as she lay across his chest, her hair fanning out over her back – and smiled to himself.

She chuckled as the thought reverberated in her mind. "And here I was, thinking you liked my ass best. I should have realized you had a hair fetish."

"I'm fascinated by the things I can never have," he countered.

"Love what you've got, Picard; having hair is a pain. It's always needing to be washed brushed, it gets in my way..."

He gave a soft laugh, then tightened his grasp, kissing her gently, then laying back once more, has hand gently caressing her back.

"We'll save them," he said assured her. "When we're done here, we'll go back – and we'll save them."

"But without me," she said.

"I'll find a way to get you there; Czymszczak can't be everywhere, all the time."

She shook her head. "We can't take that risk, Jean-Luc; if this turns into a Federation mission, my presence will endanger them. And you're right; I can't put my ego ahead of their needs."

"We'll figure it out," he assured her.

"And then...?"

"And then... when the children are safe, we come back here."

He felt the question – the surprise – in her thoughts, and raised himself up on one elbow, meeting her gaze.

"We?"

"I can't give you forever, Dee," he said quietly, "but I can give you what time I have left. Come back here with me; help me explore this place. Share this time with me," he added softly. "I love you."

"No," she said instantly, horrified. "You don't. It's just... this place, the loneliness..."

"Your brilliance, your enthusiasm, your energy... " he countered.

"The sex..." she interjected.

He chuckled. "Yes, the sex. But that doesn't invalidate how I feel. It may not be the passion I felt for you when I first saw you, but it is genuine. Genuine enough for me to want to spend my life – however long or short it may be – with you."

"But..."she began, then stopped.

But what? she asked herself. But I can't? Because why? Because I have to save the Chiemma? I can't do that. I can't save them myself – and if I'm there when Jean-Luc starts working to get them to safety, I'll only put them at risk.

Because I love Data? I did – but that man is gone. The man that Geordi built is... someone else. He may have every quality Data had, even his personality – but he is a different person, and he deserves the chance to find himself – just as I do.

Because Jean-Luc loves Beverly?

Now that was a good reason, she thought. He does. He always has. And yet, after all these years, she still isn't here with him – and he isn't with her.

Idiots.

Wonderful, loving, generous idiots.

As am I, she thought.

She let out a long breath before looking at the man beside her, his eyes closed, his chest rising in long, slow movements.

He was asleep.

She smiled, relieved; when he woke, he would forget this conversation, forget what he had said, forget that he had asked the question – and never know her answer.

And for once, she could allow herself the sheer indulgence of being honest. Completely honest – with him, and with herself. Nothing would ever come of it, of course: this was nothing more than two lovers talking over the fantasies borne of loneliness and pain, shared in the small hours when hearts spoke openly and honestly – and that only those hours would hear.

Morning would erase the words, the thoughts, the deeds.

But for now, for this moment...

"Yes," she whispered, too softly for him to be able to hear her. "When the children are safe, and when you come back here... I'll come back here with you. I... I love you, Jean-Luc."

Content, relieved, she settled in against him, closing her eyes, and letting sleep claim her.

He smiled.