Son was already old and exhausted.
The stresses and strains of his 'kidnapping' had drained what little strength he had, and Doctor Pulaski had evidently noted the telltale droop of his head and the tremble of his arms as he put his hands back to the floor. Between them she and Keiko had persuaded him to lie down on one of the bio-beds, and the soft hiss of a hypospray sent him back to the oblivion in which his body could rest and recover.
Clearly there had been no time to explain to Miss Ishikawa the circumstances in which she must have found herself on entering Sickbay – presumably on some everyday errand. As the patient's eyes fluttered shut, she stepped back from him with an audible breath of relief.
"Thank you," said the captain quietly. "Since you appear to have inadvertently become involved, I believe you are owed as much of an explanation as we have."
He dismissed the security guard to wait outside for the time being. Then, warning that the theory was unproven and must be treated as strictly confidential, he outlined the facts that had come to light so far.
"I remember reading about it, years ago." Katherine looked down at her patient wonderingly. "I know it caused Starfleet a heck of a lot of trouble at the time."
"That's putting it mildly." Riker heaved a sigh, and looked at the captain. "I take it you'll be informing Starfleet immediately, sir? They'll be glad to have the answer to one mystery at last."
"I think there has been more than enough concealment of evidence regarding this particular case. I've certainly no intention of adding to it." But Jean-Luc was conscious of mixed feelings even as he spoke. It was inconceivable that the poor wretch they'd found down there would be held responsible in any degree for his father's sins, but he wondered with enormous pity what would become of him. It appeared that there were no relations living, but surely Starfleet would want him brought back to Earth; he was a human after all, the son of two Starfleet officers, and deserved care and dignity in his final years, however few or many they might be.
It was hard to avoid the suspicion, however, that for some this wish would not be entirely philanthropic. Without fully understanding his damaged condition, there would certainly be some members of the organisation who would believe he might have valuable information about his parents' presence here on Hir'vaQ II. Moreover, for the media his discovery would present the heaven-sent opportunity to rake up an old scandal. It was wholly probable that on both counts he would become the focus of attention he would find not just utterly incomprehensible but also completely unbearable.
His expression must have given away his doubts, for Will raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Thoughts, Captain?"
"There are – difficulties, Number One," he replied slowly.
"Where will he go? What will they do with him?" asked Keiko apprehensively, almost articulating his half-formed concern.
"He has to go back to Earth, of course." Katherine folded her arms. "I'll continue my research in the meantime. You never know – now it seems he does still possess some capacity to communicate, I may be able to find some way to help him."
"That would certainly be beneficial," the captain nodded. The prospect helped to remove some of the weight of anxiety; he could imagine all too well how terrifying it would be for the mentally-impaired old man to be simply transported away from the only world he had ever known and forcibly rehomed in a place with which he was utterly unfitted to deal. However much more comfortable he would be there, if they could not explain their actions to him he would inevitably regard it as alien and threatening; and he was so frail that it was not inconceivable that the sheer stress of the experience would be literally fatal. "In the meantime, until or unless he acquires more trust in us or a better ability to communicate, I must ask you, Keiko, if you would be willing to make yourself available to Doctor Pulaski if at any point she needs a 'go-between'."
"I'd be glad to help, sir. I – I can't help feeling sorry for him."
Jean-Luc understood that sentiment all too well. He did not return immediately to the Bridge, but parted from his XO and went instead to visit Counsellor Troi. Duty pointed him clearly in one direction, but it was not the first time that other considerations had caused conflict with his duty, and he had learned that the counsellor had a deft touch with allowing him to sort out the occasional tangle of thoughts in his head. Tangled thoughts led to unsound conclusions, and he wanted much more confidence that what he was contemplating was indeed the best way forward for all concerned.
The counsellor welcomed him cordially and offered him tea. He was glad enough to accept, and as he sat back and sipped the fragrant hot liquid he felt some of his anxiety lessening. His attractive hostess took a seat opposite him, her calm expression one that invited a confidential discussion if that was what he had come for.
It appeared that Deanna had not heard the old scandal. He gave her the bare facts of the case, as best he could recall them, and the evidence that now led to the inescapable conclusion that it was on this world that the missing officers from the NX-01 had found refuge – whatever the circumstances might have been which prompted them to choose it. Certainly it had been safe enough. They had not been found in their lifetimes. A very short while later and their son (or grandson, or great-grandson – he still had trouble accepting that extraordinary life-span) would not have been found alive either.
"But how wonderful for their families!" she said at once, having listened attentively but without comment to all he had to say. "To have the mystery finally solved!"
"That depends, of course, whether they have any close relations still living," he replied, taking another sip of his tea, which had cooled somewhat in the meantime. "If Data hadn't taken the initiative and searched Starfleet's archive records, we might still not have any idea who this individual is – or who his parents were." He glanced up and added soberly, "Also, of course, bear in mind the circumstances in which they disappeared. Any family members might feel that the attention this will attract will be most unwelcome, to say the least. I can imagine some feeling it would be far better if the knowledge was suppressed – exactly like the rest of the evidence in the 'Shuttlepod Mystery'." That title, he had now recalled, was how the incident had gone down in the media – an enduring stain on Starfleet's previously excellent public record.
Her smile was wry. "But as well as clearing up one mystery, you've found another. The ship that Worf found – the one that crashed. Do we have any identification of it? Might that have been the one they used to get here?"
"I asked Lieutenant Worf to gather as much information as he could about it. I'd imagine he's accessed all the scanner information and interrogated the databases by now; possibly he may feel the need for an away team to inspect the site. With protective clothing, of course – not to mention breathing apparatus." He sighed. "But the fact that the shuttle crashed suggests that if they were on it, they must have been very badly injured. From what the initial scans we saw indicated, I'd doubt if survival would have been possible. Perhaps an away team might be able to gather more information as to who might have been on board, or perhaps even where it came from."
"But that's not what's troubling you the most," she said shrewdly.
He set down the cup. On the low table before him stood a slender, fluted blue glass vase with a single lily-stem in it, and the contrast between the simplicity of the ornament and the complexity of the problem that had now been thrust into his hands was painful. But it gave him an image of the situation that helped to bring it into focus.
He touched the soft petals of the one white flower that had opened and was leaning over to admire its reflection in the polished surface of the table. "Imagine that the seed of this plant fell in a desert. The ground was stony, with hardly any soil. Hardly any rain fell. But somehow – somehow, by some miracle, some determination of life, the seed put out roots and somehow found enough sustenance not just to grow, but to flower.
"And then along comes a traveller – a botanist, perhaps – who recognises the flower. Who knows that the seed must have fallen here by the merest chance, and by all the recognised laws of botany should have shrivelled and died in the desert winds and the cold nights. But so beautiful and valiant a flower is wasted here in the desert, he thinks. It should be lifted out of the stony soil and transported to a greenhouse, where it can be fed and watered and cared for."
"But the desert was its home." Her voice was soft.
"Precisely." Lifting his cup and saucer again, he sat back in the chair and stared at them. "This poor man was born here and somehow managed to survive – if Data's analysis is correct, survive to an age that even on Earth, with all its modern technology, would be unthinkable for his species. Presumably, by all he knows, this world is his home. This is where his parents lived and died, where the only family life he remembers took place.
"Presumably he feels loneliness. But given his extremely limited experience of socialisation, could he actually endure life in a modern Human environment?"
"He might find significant compensation in having comfortable surroundings, being well cared for – given food and drink instead of having to find it for himself," she suggested. "And in the circumstances, he could be placed in a secure location where access to him is limited, so that he would not be overwhelmed by the pressure of having to deal with more than a few selected people."
"But for the scandal that surrounded his parents' disappearance – particularly his father's – that might be a viable option," he replied with a grimace. "But I fear that should a whisper of his existence get out, he might all too easily become the centre of a positive media 'circus'. Even within Starfleet itself there might be those who would refuse to believe he has no information on what happened. They would bring pressure to bear to have him subjected to questioning."
"Do we actually know he has no information? His parents might have talked to him about it while they were alive. They must have retained at least some rudimentary means of communication between themselves; after all, he clearly knows at least two words of English."
Jean-Luc acknowledged that possibility with a reluctant nod. "Of course, that's possible. But whether he could withstand such an inquisition – even if some means of communication were found – is a different matter."
"But surely he would have to be declared medically fit for questioning first," she protested.
Well. Technically that was true. But although it was obviously a concept that the half-Betazoid counsellor had trouble conceiving, the captain had experience of individuals whose quest for knowledge took very little account of the frailty of the source. There were still those to whom that old scandal was like a suppurating sore, and any chance of cauterising it would be something to be grasped at with scant regard for the cost. It was even possible – however remotely – that members of the dead Chief Engineer Tucker's family would seize on the unfortunate old man as being somehow responsible for the sins of his father (whatever these had actually been), and attempt to find him in the search for answers of their own. Of course, the passage of over two hundred years should theoretically have robbed the quest of much of its urgency, but Jean-Luc knew that close-knit families can sometimes be surprisingly dogged when it comes to the memory of crimes committed against their own. He had only to imagine his own brother Robert, who would have pursued any such offence against even a long-dead member of the Picard family with unsparing ferocity until the whole matter was resolved, up till (and quite probably including) the hour of his own death.
Deanna clearly perceived his doubt and trouble. Her lovely face was creased by a frown. "Perhaps that might be something to be dealt with at a later date," she suggested. "I take it you will be reporting to Starfleet. They may have insights of their own to offer."
Of that, there could hardly be any question. What those insights might be, however, very much depended on who received the report first. As soon as the information was sent out to HQ, and a response received, his own field of action would be restricted accordingly. That was a situation that he was somewhat reluctant to be placed in.
"I should report it as soon as possible," he said heavily. "I've been delaying it while we searched for more information, but at least the bare facts we have should be passed on. Then perhaps those further up in the hierarchy may have more time to consider their response and formulate a statement for release to the Press in due course." He couldn't help the uncomfortable, nagging feeling that he was 'passing the buck' to some extent, but this was a legal matter and as a Starfleet captain he was bound to respect the law, at least as far as reporting his discovery to the authorities.
She nodded soberly, looking at the flower. "In all honesty, Captain, I can't imagine any other response than an order for immediate transplantation."
"I fear you're probably right, Counsellor, though I intend to make every representation against it.
"But if that is the case – I just hope he survives it."."