They had found Lore a shirt.
Picard, cloaked in his white-noise blanket, watched what was to him a bizarre dumb-show going on just across the corridor. He was careful not to show too much interest: he had a suspicion that the Intractans would not be averse to blocking his view of the android's cell if they thought he was capable of lip-reading or otherwise communicating with Lore.
So the captain sat on his couch by the window, sipped his herb tea and read a few of the latest Intractan news bulletins on a local data padd, occasionally glancing up to keep an eye on proceedings. Lore, it seemed, was remarkably calm given the circumstances. He paced a little, the burns and damage on his pale body standing out sharply in the unforgiving cell light. He watched the comings and goings of the Intractans outside. And what's more, Picard suspected, Lore was keeping an eye on him, too.
Too many suspicions. Not enough facts. Enough time spent in this situation, and I'm going to become as suspicious as the Intracta.
An Intractan guard arrived after about an hour with a folded piece of deep-dyed royal blue cloth, that when passed through under careful supervision proved to be a button-down shirt. Lore unfolded it and examined it with what seemed exaggerated care, until Picard realised he was checking for bugs.
Well, there's no point in doing that. Everything that goes on here is monitored or supervised anyway.
But Lore obviously hadn't remained at liberty for so long without being extremely cautious. At length, he seemed satisfied and shrugged the shirt on over his head, not bothering to undo it first.
It struck Picard that it was the little things like that which really marked Lore out as different to his brother. Data was meticulous, couldn't even unwrap a gift without removing every last piece of tape first. Data would have had every button on that shirt carefully unfastened then refastened - quickly, of course, and not a hair out of place.
Lore's hair had suffered from having a shirt dragged over it, and he looked more dishevelled now he was dressed than he had before with all the scorch marks showing. He returned to pacing, and Picard returned to his tea and the news that Intractan ladieswear was currently the highest-grossing business on the planet, for the second month running. This was apparently attributed to the recent installation of an off-world entertainment system which featured alien women dressed in styles previously unseen on Tractusaria -
He looked up, reacting to a sudden movement glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. in the cell opposite, Lore was on the floor, apparently having stumbled or staggered. He had his back to Picard: one pale hand clasped at his lower spine, his right leg splayed out for balance.
So, thought Picard, perhaps you're more badly hurt than you realised.
He felt not the slightest pang of sympathy, and only gave the smallest amount of consideration as to whether or not this made him a bad person: he did, however, manage to stop short of thinking that Lore probably deserved it.
"Excuse me. Excuse me."
Data was relentless in his pursuit of gaining an audience with an Intractan senior official. After his discovery that the Intractans were using such a specific piece of equipment, he had spent some time checking the legal definitions and prisoner requirements that were provided to each visiting ship. He did not, of course, have any of his equipment with him - no tricorder, no communicator and no phaser, these having been confiscated upon arrival - but they hadn't been able to confiscate his memory banks. He had the entire transcript at his disposal, and he'd cross-checked twice to be sure.
There was no rule that prisoners were forbidden to request general information about any aspect of their stay on Tractusaria. He was allowed to request a local data padd which would supply him with precisely and only the information he was allowed to see.
It wasn't much, but it was a place to start, and Data, with his usual voracious capacity for investigation, was determined to make that start.
"Excuse me," he said, politely, as an Intractan guard finally responded to his repeated requests. "I would like to request a local data padd in accordance with prisoner amenities regulation 231.4, section C…"
Another twenty minutes had passed. Lore hadn't got back on his feet: he sat, head turned, presenting that long profile to Picard and apparently flicking idly at a loose shred of his boot sole. Picard, unable to interest himself in the latest Intractan economic forecasts, found himself wondering if Lore hadn't got back up because he didn't want to or because he couldn't, and then found himself distinctly hoping it was the latter.
The assault on the pregnant woman was preying on his mind.
There are some crimes which can be excusable. One may steal to feed a starving family, one may kill to defend oneself in an attack. But somewhere deep in the psyche of all those species which bear young is that knowledge that children are sacred: they are untouchable. Crimes against children, babies and those in the process of bearing them - these are the inexcusable crimes. In prison, it is always the child abusers and the child murderers who are vilified even by the armed robbers and the parricides.
Picard found himself staring at that inhuman, pallid face. Is it because Lore is an android, incapable of bearing or siring children - is this why he could do such a thing?
Lore looked up, sharply: the Intractans were back in force, four engineers and three guards. They lowered the force field, stepping inside the cell, and with simple efficiency one guard shot a targeted beam directly into Lore's forehead.
The android crumpled immediately, not in the neat, board-straight manner Picard had seen when Data had collapsed in the past, but all in a heap like any human under heavy stun.
He felt his own muscles twitch, almost ready to react to Lore's predicament as he would have to an assault on Data, but the care with which the engineers were now lifting Lore, placing him face down on a rapidly constructed folding table, pulling up the shirt to gently examine the areas of damage - it was obvious that the beam had purely been the equivalent of an anaesthetic before surgery.
Picard felt secure enough now to come forward to the force field and watch the procedure. After all, Lore was now in no position to communicate, and it was fascinating, watching strips of synthetic skin peeled back, regenerated, the circuits underneath carefully cleaned and almost microscopic pieces replaced.
The engineers worked in consummate efficient silence, until they reached the worst scorch, the one Picard suspected Lore had been clutching at when he lost his balance earlier. They conferred. One opened the gash wider and pointed out something that seemed to cause consternation.
Eventually, without seeming to reach a decision, the engineers lifted Lore from the table, folded it back up, and filed out along with two of the guards: the third guard remained. Barely five minutes later, an Intractan medic turned up, and Picard watched in bemusement as the deep scorch was taped up with bandages just as if Lore had been a human patient.
It was an odd choice, but perhaps repairing Lore hadn't been as easy as they'd hoped. Picard was pretty sure he'd seen some antistatic strips going into that bandage. Presumably they were just making sure the damage stayed clean until they could try again.
He continued to watch, not really sure why, until Lore began to stir like a groggy cadet after his first night out at the Academy and sat up, frowning. His yellow eyes gave Picard an accusing look, clearly laying the blame for this latest indignity firmly at the captain's door.