Snow Falling Softly XX
Snow drifted around him. Spun and danced on its way down, whispering its music against his body as it landed. Each flake had its brief life of beauty against the black material, individual and alone. Then others joined it, piling up, becoming a uniform white that he brushed onto the ground. A ground covered by the masses of snowflakes, a field of white, surrounded by white, everything around him, all that he saw. Even his eyelashes, where flakes perched delicately, claimed the white.
As he brushed away that first clump of snow, he noticed that he alone changed the landscape. Black, everything on him was black. He tried to peel it off, he stood out, black against the snow, and they would find him. It stuck to him, a second skin trying to become his only skin. The panic threatened to overtake him, scream out of him in frustration as his labors continued to be fruitless. He gave up and went to bury himself in the snow, cover himself entirely and blend in, a pocket of safety. The boy went to his knees and began to dig with bare fingers. First they hurt, turned red, then went numb. He scrabbled and scraped but the snow refused to give up more than a few inches. Blind, whether by the snow or his fear, he ran.
Ten feet and he ran into the side of the house. Followed the wall until he came to the door. Stumbled inside and found his family. Found them on the floor of the living room, all in different positions of final repose. There was no blood on the floor or walls, no blood anywhere except around the wounds in their bodies. The fire crackled merrily in its hearth. It would either die on its own or rage out of control. He didn't care. His family were the lucky ones. They were already dead and nothing else could be taken from them.
The snow blew through the open front door, the wind nipping at the edges of the fire. Outside, they waited. A uniform of black and machine against the white, faces as pale as the snow they tread on, uniform in their being. Each of them starting unique then forced into a greater mass, one that transcended their individuality and made them one. He saw the red searching beam skitter across the door, the back wall, the splayed leg of his youngest sister, finally resting on his own face. He made contact with the eye next to the machinery of the beam, an eye that was once as human as his own.
"No," he said, his voice barely reaching above the volume of the cyborg feet crunching towards the house.
He became frantic, ran back towards the kitchen, snatched up the knife his grandmother had been using to cut up vegetables for the stew, before she had been thrown against the wall and had her neck broken. The knife clutched in hands pricked by needles of thawing, he ran back to the front room, back to a stream of drones pouring through the door.
"No," he said, his voice stronger than the thumps of heavy feet treading on the wooden floor.
Impassive, the Borg with the red beam with the familiar eyes told him, "Resistance is futile. You will service the Borg." He would be the last to enter the house, standing in the yard just outside the door. The boy pushed past the other drones, through their throngs, until he met the Borg outside. He would not go into the house. His hand had the feeling back, full of pain from the cold, it adjusted its grip on the handle. Then it found its mark, plunged into the chest of the Borg who had sought him out.
Drops of blood on the snow, bright red on the canvas of white.
The boy went to shout his joy, he had defeated him, but the body that collapsed in front of him stood out against the snow, against the canvas of Borg. The snow caught the body as the boy watched, a body dressed in the black and red uniform of a Starfleet officer. He'd killed him. No celebration, no joy would be forthcoming. The man once called Jean-Luc Picard lay in the snow. The sea of Borg surged forward and around the boy, cut off the view of his dead father. They moved to take him. "No," he said for the last time, his voice broken and cracked.
Andrew came awake suddenly, his eyes flicking open. He shivered, his body covered in clammy sweat, the sheet under him soaked. Slowly, he breathed in and out, brought his heartbeat under control, his breathing. Emotional control threatened to escape him as it had in his sleep. Throwing the covers aside, he slipped out of bed, paced the floor. Conal lifted his head from his dog bed in the corner. "I'm fine," Andrew told him. The dog put his head down, but kept his eyes open, as unbelieving as anyone else in his life. As unbelieving as his father seemed to be. His face burned with shame.
"Stay," he told Conal, then crept out of his room, over to the windows. Resting his forehead against the transparent aluminum, grateful for its slight cool, he remembered their conversation from only hours before. Looking at his father across the room, seeing those eyes full of life, so different from the nightmarish Borg, he knew he wanted his help. But the dreams he had, killing him again and again, the feel of the knife in his hands. Andrew lifted his head from the window, ran his fingers through his short cropped hair. That feeling, of being connected with the man he'd killed, the blade in the man's chest, the handle in his hand, was unspeakable. He shuddered, shook out his hand, trying to get the feeling to go away. The dreams set them apart from one another. He couldn't allow the man to be his father when he dreamed about killing him. The dreams had stopped for a long time, Andrew had thought them gone, himself redeemed. Then they had come back in the past few days, showing him that he wasn't worthy of the love extended by his father.
He saw it, in his eyes, had seen it last night. He'd almost broken, right then. Wanted to say, "Dad." But the words that came to mind reminded him of who he really was. You can't be loved. His mouth had replied with some crap line about not knowing what the comfortable answer would be. Picard had changed the subject and gone to leave and he was betrayed by his need for his father. Instead of pushing him away, he'd let him in, closer.
Andrew wanted to be like his sisters, accept him as his father, let him be a part of his life. Love him as he loved them. No, he already loved him, his father was a good man.
A good man you've killed over and over and over again.
Bright red drops on the snow. Witness to who he was, his patricide. Andrew cursed, glaring at the stars outside. He'd dreamed of this, of being on this ship, with Beverly as his mother. Now he had it and it hated him. It had been a wish, something that wasn't supposed to come true, that was the stuff of fairy tales and contrived stories of fate. Otherwise, people wouldn't know how to react when they found out they were some long lost son of a far away kingdom and they were really a prince and not who they thought they were. Or the son of a legendary Starfleet captain and a woman he'd always wanted to call Mom. Andrew cursed again, softly punching the transparent aluminum in front of him. It could have been his life if she hadn't taken it away from him. So many times he'd needed a parent, a mother, a father, someone he could talk to without reservation, who understood him and wouldn't hurt him. No matter how vulnerable he felt or how much of his true self he let them see.
Now he couldn't talk to either of them. His mother because he was too angry with her, she'd left him on purpose. His father because of what Andrew had done. That left his sisters, but they hated him too. Allie knew who he was now, he was sure of it. And he'd abandoned Gracie. Watching the two of them as they developed their relationship with their father, listening to them tell their mother they were changing their last name to Picard. They got to be Picards, they got to live their wish. He would be stuck as Andrew Howard, never being able to be Andrew Picard. Not being able to continue the direction his father had taken, away from the vineyard and into the stars, explorers.
Andrew moved away from the window, over to the terminal. He'd read all he could about Jean-Luc Picard, now the family history pulled at him. Something different from the Borg, to remind him of who the captain was. On the terminal, he called up immediate family. Robert Picard, older brother, Marie Picard, sister-in-law, Rene Picard, nephew. Then Andrew found his sisters, already entered in the database: Natalie Picard, daughter, Mary Grace Picard, daughter. Frowning, he punched past current family, going back farther. Veterans of World War II, French Army generals, vintners, astronomers, counts. The first Picards of La Barre, Madame de la Barre and Francois Picard. He looked at the family crest, granted to the first Picard count. The meanings of its contents were listed next to the graphic. The background of gold and blue meant generosity, truth, loyalty. The quartering of the shield's background stood for honor. Rampant lions of deathless courage. The staff crossing over the shield was from that first Picard, the first recognized to have faith and knowledge in his deeds. The stars signified that he was the first Picard to be granted a coat of arms.
He read as the rest of the night drifted by, following journeys of Picards who had chosen to leave the vineyards. One Sabine Picard had married a Spanish soldier by the name of Cristobal Maribona. Following the Spanish tradition of children receiving the surnames of both mother and father, their son was named Javier Maribona Picard. This Picard, referred to using his father's name Maribona by the Spaniards, had followed his father's path and entered the Spanish Army. From there, he was sent to the Americas and assigned to Juan de Onate's expedition.
Andrew breathed in sharply. Onate had been the officer responsible for the massacre of the Acoma rebels in New Mexico in 1599. To exact revenge for his brother's death at the hands of the Indians, Captain Vincente de Zalvidar was sent by Onate to deal with the villagers. Zalvidar's revenge had been monstrous: six hundred villagers killed, six hundred captured, seventy warriors were killed one by one by being thrown off a rock 150 feet above the canyon floor. Of the remaining captives, each male over twenty five had a foot cut off. All were sent into servitude of the Spaniards. And Javier Maribona Picard had been Zalvidar's lieutenant.
He viciously thumbed the terminal off. He felt revolted and comforted at the same time: at least I'm not the only one. The door to his mother's room opened and she walked out into the living area, already dressed for the day.
"Good morning," Beverly said.
Andrew nodded.
For a moment, it looked as if she was going to try and say more. Instead, she went into Gracie's room and woke her up. The little girl came out of her room rubbing her eyes, hair tousled from sleep. Allie didn't come out until Gracie had finished washing up. Noticing her brother, Allie made a rude gesture behind her back before heading to the lavatory. Andrew held in a sigh. She'd done that either because she did hate him or she was trying to get him to be his normal self. He wanted to be. He really did.
But he couldn't. Not talking to them through breakfast as they chatted. Today they were going to the ship's school. Gracie was beside herself with excitement, constantly wiggling in her chair, unable to contain her energy. Andrew wanted to tease her, be the big brother he normally was, but he kept his quiet. As they got up from the table, it was Gracie who filled the silence. Allie sidled up to him next to the door, their mother had already left. His sister whispered in his ear, "Love me or hate me, but please don't ignore me."
He stared at her, teeth clenched. His twin took Gracie's and and led her out the door. Allie wasn't fighting fair, bringing Nana into this. But then, neither was he.
Gracie didn't even look at him, not once. Andrew stood outside the door to their quarters, glaring at the two security officers assigned to guard him. He'd been wrong, his mother hadn't left yet, she waited outside the door, leaning against the wall across from it.
Waited till he made eye contact. "Be careful," she said.
He nodded, then started to the other 'lift. She caught him as he passed, put her hand on his shoulder. Andrew stopped, looked down at it, then back up at her. His hard eyes said it more harshly than any words. Don't touch me.
Beverly pulled her hand away. Then she bit her lip and walked quickly to the turbolift. He knew what that meant, his sisters did the same thing. Hell, he did. Bit their lip so they wouldn't cry. It was what he wanted, to have her hurt as much as he did. But all it did was make him feel worse, sharing the pain he had caused her in addition to his own.
"Aren't you supposed to be going to school?" one of the security officers asked.
"I suppose," he said and headed once again in the direction of the other turbolift for the deck. He'd studied the ship's schematics before he'd gone to bed the night before, wanting to figure out how to lose the security team and be left alone. There was a Jeffries tube hatch right outside the 'lift door. If the officers got distracted, he could jump into it and make his escape through the maze of tubes that provided access to the entire ship.
When they reached the 'lift, the officers made a mistake. The doors opened and they walked in before him. Andrew bolted off to the side and into the Jeffries tube. Shouts of dismay followed him. He took a quick left, another right, then went upwards. The shouts quieted to nothing. He stopped for a moment to gain his bearings. If he took the next tube to the left, it would connect him to a deck with a little used observation lounge. He took the left, then crawled slowly to the opening, listening for passers-by. Hearing nothing, he stuck his head out of the hatch and found himself hauled out of the tube by the strong arms of the Klingon security chief. When Worf adjusted his grip, Andrew shifted out of it, tried to bolt in the opposite direction, knowing he couldn't fight past a Klingon.
But Worf reached out and got him by the back of his shirt before he'd made even two steps. Andrew struggled and Worf ended up pinning him to the deck. Rage and frustration worked their way out of his brain and into his limbs as he tried to get out of the pin. Nothing worked. "I would ask that you stop struggling," Worf said, "As my duty is to keep you from harm and you might harm yourself if you do not stop."
He gave up. For now, he would have to do what was expected. He really needed to learn a martial art. "Okay," he said.
"You will not run if I allow you to stand up," Worf said.
Andrew wasn't sure if it was a question or a command. "Right," he said.
The Klingon let him go. Andrew turned around to face him, eyes hard.
Worf seemed to be studying him intensely, as if looking for something significant, but Andrew couldn't think of what it would be. "What?" Andrew said.
"You do have the heart of a warrior," Worf said.
"What?" Andrew asked. The Klingon's answer hadn't cleared anything up.
"You are your father's son," Worf said, nodding resolutely to himself. "A warrior's heart."
Andrew remembered Klingon culture. Honor, warriors, battle. He crossed his arms and stared back at the security chief. "As if it were a question," he said.
His comeback made Worf laugh, a sudden loud Klingon laugh. Andrew decided that he rather liked Worf.
"Yet you must go to school. I will escort you and remain with you for the rest of the day," Worf said.
Andrew didn't think he liked him quite that much. He was escorted down to the school deck, where Counselor Troi waited for him. "Hello, Andrew," she said.
He nodded. "Hello." Gave her nothing else. He knew what she was thinking, that he was entirely different than the boy she'd met a few days ago, and she wanted to speak with him about it. He didn't intend to. It would mean revealing who he really was.
"Your class hasn't started yet," she said. "You can go on in."
He held in another sigh and entered the room. Paid little attention as the teacher started droning about the subject, something Andrew couldn't recall. History of some sort. He heard the teacher mention something about Texas--it would be History of the Americas. Andrew decided it would be better not to pay attention. He'd learned enough about the history of the Americas early that morning. Then he heard the name Onate. "You have to be kidding me," Andrew muttered.
"You have something to share with us, Mr. Picard?" the teacher asked.
Andrew's head jerked involuntarily, startled. That wasn't his name, he hadn't changed it. Only his sisters had changed theirs. They must have assumed he had as well. All of them were listed as Picard's children, as well as Beverly's. The teacher's use of the captain's name made the other students pay more attention to him as well, all of them looking at him, studying him, all because he was the captain's son. He realized they were all waiting for an answer. "No," he said.
"Then let's keep quiet, shall we?" the teacher said. Andrew couldn't remember his name, Troi had told him yesterday. The man's salt and pepper hair flew in all directions, as if he hadn't bothered to brush it after getting out of bed this morning. As he lectured, he got excited about the material, and his speed picked up while color rose into his cheeks. At least he was enthusiastic about his subject.
As he studied his teacher, Andrew realized he'd asked him a question. The man watched him expectantly, as did the eyes of his classmates. "What?" Andrew asked.
"I simply wanted to know if you know what the three G's of the western expansion are."
He really didn't want to participate. So he didn't answer, hoping the teacher would move to someone else and leave him alone.
He didn't. "You look perplexed, Mr. Picard," the teacher said.
Andrew stopped himself from frowning. He did not look perplexed, he'd kept his face neutral.
"All right, I'll give you the first two," he said. "Gold, God, and what?"
Glory. "Girls," Andrew answered, drawing laughs from his classmates.
Except the answer drew ire from his teachers. "Glory, Mr. Picard, glory. And you may take your glory outside of my classroom until you can take this material seriously."
Andrew stared at him. He couldn't be serious.
"Out with you," the teacher said. "I do mean it. I will call security if I must."
That would be a short trip for Worf, he's right outside the door. Deciding it wasn't worth it, he shot a final look of defiance at the teacher, then shrugged and left the classroom. As expected, Worf was right outside the door. "Your class is not over," he said.
"It is for me," he said.
The door behind them opened again and the teacher walked out, carrying a PADD. He handed it to Worf. "Lieutenant, I'd like you to bring this boy and this report to his parents."
Worf nodded. "I will."
"Good." The teacher went back into the classroom.
Worf looked down at Andrew.
"What?" he asked.
"You should be respectful of your instructors," the Klingon said.
"I was until he started asking me questions," Andrew answered. "And I didn't want to answer any."
The lieutenant said nothing as he studied Andrew again. Then he said, "I will escort you to sickbay so that your mother may address this matter."
No way he was going to have his mother deal with this. "I'd rather you brought this to my father."
"That is impossible," Worf said. "He is down on the planet conducting negotiations. I do not know when he will be back aboard the ship. Therefore, I have no choice but to bring you to Sickbay."
Suddenly he felt like being back in the classroom.
Beverly Crusher looked up from her terminal to see Deanna Troi strolling towards her office, her face partially hidden by the caduceus frosted onto the glass of the window. Deanna stuck her head through the door. "Mind if I come in for a visit?" she asked.
"I'm with a patient," Beverly said.
"Oh?" said Deanna, looking around. "Certainly a well-hidden patient."
"Invisible," the doctor said, eyes on her terminal.
"If you're with an invisible patient," Deanna said, seating herself in one of the chairs in front of Beverly's desk, "Then I'm just the person you need."
Beverly sighed and looked up.
Deanna leaned forward, her luminous eyes looking intently into the doctor's. "Help me to understand," he said.
Crusher raised an eyebrow. "Understand what?"
"I can't tell if you're happy or you're sad. You keep going back and forth between the two. It's quite distracting. So help me to understand why you can't decide how to feel?"
Beverly dropped her head into her hands, elbows propped on the desk. "Andrew won't speak to me," she said. "And I think Jean-Luc proposed last night."
"When did this happen?" came Deanna's shocked question.
Crusher decided she'd tease her friend, that way she wouldn't have to deal with the seriousness of either issue. "Well, Andrew really hasn't said much to me since he came back to the house with the others during the storm."
Troi placed her hand on the doctor's forearm. Her eyes were serious. "We'll talk about him in a bit," she said. Then her face brightened. "You think he proposed?"
Beverly sat back and told her friend what had happened the night before. When she left him the second time, she hadn't been able to make it to the turbolift. But she hadn't been able to turn around and go back, either. She'd stood there, trapped by fear and love, each wrestling for the upper hand, to move her in one direction or the other. She hadn't expected him to come after her. After all, he never had before. Each time, he'd given her the space she requested, backing away once she managed to say the right thing to drive him off. Now he was breaking the pattern. First, he had stayed on Caldos and in the house that night, not beaming to the ship at the first opportunity. And then he had come after her, found her in the corridor, told her exactly what his heart was telling him. That was the speech she repeated to her friend, word for word.
Troi sat back, blinking. "He proposed to you," she said. She grinned. "I'm guessing you told him how you felt?"
"I haven't given him an answer, if that's what you mean," Beverly replied.
"That wasn't what I meant, but it was a question I was going to ask," said Deanna. "What's your answer going to be?"
"I don't know," Beverly said.
Deanna frowned.
The doctor knew she wanted an explanation. "I mean, I do know. I just don't know when I'm going to tell him. And I have to talk it over with my children and that means one of them has to be speaking to me." She wanted them to know, wanted them to be prepared for the next change in their lives. With Jean-Luc living with them, maybe he could reach Andrew better, given more opportunity. He'd stopped by her quarters, late last night, to tell her about Bok's latest threat, about the security detail, about where Andrew was at that moment. How he thought he'd made some progress, however small, in helping Andrew. So badly this morning she wanted to hug him, reassure herself of his presence, reassure him that he was loved. But he kept himself away from her with his silence, with the distance he put between them, not even wanting the slightest touch from her.
"I can try to talk with him," Deanna said. "As ship's counselor."
Beverly knew she meant Andrew and not Jean-Luc. "I don't think he'd give much up," she said.
Troi nodded her agreement. "Everything is barely under the surface. His control is very fragile--." She stopped at a tapping on the glass.
The doctor saw Worf standing outside and motioned him in. Behind him walked Andrew. Beverly frowned.
"Andrew's teacher instructed me to bring him here," Worf said, handing Beverly the PADD he'd carried. "I will wait outside."
Crusher nodded. Andrew didn't look at Deanna as he sat down in one of the other chairs. He also didn't make eye contact with Beverly. The doctor glanced over the PADD--he hadn't even lasted an hour in the classroom. Beyond that, he'd been late in the first place because he'd manage to ditch security by going through a Jeffries tube when they weren't looking, causing Worf to be assigned to him personally. She looked across the desk at him, studying him. He didn't look up. That was a change. Before, he would challenge her with a glare or stare right back. She looked at his hair, remembering how light it got during the summer, the sun taking out the red, the winter bringing it back. She missed him. Beverly missed the son she'd had only a few days ago, when he didn't know he was her son. He was there, lurking under this mask he'd constructed, caged. "Andrew," she said.
Her son's head snapped up, the challenge back in his gray eyes.
"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked.
Nothing, his face neutral.
She looked him in the eye and concentrated on what upset her. "You gave the Security officers the slip. What made you do that?"
Eyes like gunmetal.
Despite her growing frustration at being locked out of his thoughts, even locked out of his realm of acknowledgment of another living being, she kept her tone even, though intense. "Andrew, whether you like it or not, I'm your mother. Your safety is important to me. Your life is important to me."
For a moment, she saw the anger slip into his eyes, then he blinked it away. He said nothing.
"You're my son," she said, not looking away.
This time, fear crept through, ranged across his face, a wave to anyone who was watching for it, as Beverly was.
She wouldn't let go. This was too important. His determination at remaining closed off was putting his life in danger. Panic made his eyes flick away from hers, she sought them out and held them. "Andrew," she said. "Please let me be your mother."
Her son rose from his chair. "No," he said, as quiet as the rustle of turning the page of a book. "You chose to leave me. You chose it. The captain deserves to be my parent more than you do. He didn't chose not to be there. You made it that way."
Beverly had no answer for him. She knew he was right.
"Can I go now?" he asked, his voice like sandpaper.
Sandpaper drawn expertly across an open wound. Looking at his eyes, she saw her own hurt mirrored in them, but her throat had closed up, unable to deal with all she wanted to say. So she said nothing at all.
And he left.