It was probably not surprising that the captain passed a somewhat restless night.
He had finally composed a very carefully worded report and sent it off to Starfleet, anticipating correctly that the news it contained would require considerable digestion before any response was despatched to the Enterprise-D. It afforded him time to eat, and a period of supposed relaxation off-duty (which he actually spent in refreshing his knowledge of the circumstances of Lieutenant Reed's disappearance), but little respite from the continuous niggle of worry over their unexpected guest.
Data, being an android, did not experience worry. However, he did not require sleep either, and next morning it was obvious that overnight he had continued to study the mysterious 'phenomenon' towards which the planet was travelling.
"It is not, in fact, stationary as I first thought," he said at the morning briefing. "It appears to be travelling – but extremely slowly. Moreover, its size is not constant; it currently appears to be shrinking at a fairly steady rate. Obviously a period of prolonged study would be necessary to conclude whether this is cyclical or is part of some period of deterioration.
"I have not been able to determine much about its nature – it emits a form of low-level radiation, but what the effects of this would be on living matter is unknown. Presumably they would not be prejudicial to life, because my analysis suggests that, depending on the rate and pattern of shrinkage, the planet below us has passed through it during at least the last three hundred orbits. Its flora and fauna appear relatively standard for a Minshara-class world, and show no undue influence that could be traced to an annual bombardment of hostile radiation."
"And how much longer will the annual 'visits' last?" asked Will.
"That will depend, again, on the rate and pattern of the shrinkage, sir," Data replied. "But based on the current trend, if it continues, possibly another thirty or forty years."
"And then...?"
"I do not have enough information to be able to predict that, sir. Its current direction of travel is towards the sun, but whether that is influenced by gravity or by some other process, I would not care to speculate. At a guess, unless it somehow changes direction it will eventually be destroyed, if not by solar radiation then by the forces of heat and gravity when it enters the star's atmosphere."
The captain gazed out of the viewing port thoughtfully. The 'phenomenon' was not visible – it had no light source and no reflective surfaces – but presumably it was out there somewhere, blotting out stars that should have been visible. Data had mentioned earlier that it was of considerable size, a slowly undulating ribbon of some mysterious energy drifting gradually through space. What were its origins? What was its nature? They would probably never know, though the ship's science departments were already studying it in the effort to gain some understanding of it, and when the current business was concluded he intended to have Data navigate them to within whatever safe distance might best facilitate closer observation. The movement towards the sun (if it was influenced by gravity) would increase in speed as it neared the centre of the system, passing the orbit of the hot, lifeless inner planet as it went. As for what happened when it got there – that would depend on so many unknown factors, most of all on its own nature. It size and mass relative to the star drawing it in would not necessarily be the deciding factor in the question of which of them, if either, survived the encounter.
That event would, of course, decide the future of the planet the ship was currently orbiting. Should there be any catastrophic outcome, its survival would be doubtful; even if it escaped immediate destruction, which appeared rather unlikely, the annihilation of its star would mean the end of all higher forms of life on its surface. Deprived of light, it would be a barren shadow of its former self: truly, at last, the World of Lost Souls.
Doubtless all of the information that Enterprise could provide would be absorbed eagerly by the scientific community. If and when the eventual collision occurred, it would be the object of enormous interest (though extreme care would have to be taken not to attract the suspicious attention of the nearby Klingon Empire, of which Khitomer was an outpost). But in the meantime, there was time to study and speculate; and Jean-Luc wondered if it was entirely coincidental that the period of time during which the planet had been annually exposed to that unknown radiation corresponded with the extraordinary lengthening of an ordinary human being's life-span.
The 'Fountain of Youth'... well, not of youth exactly, but of a hugely increased life expectancy.
Was it possible?
The ship's voyage so far had taught him that space was full of incalculables; within the bounds of the laws of physics, it was fair to propose that 'nothing was impossible'. Indeed, it seemed that beings such the irrepressible Q experienced no restrictions at all, even by the theoretically immutable laws of existence. If, after due and thorough investigation, no other explanation that fitted the facts presented itself, then this idea of the phenomenon being able to extend life must be regarded as at least a contender for the truth.
But what the outcome might be if the theory was proven accurate...
Fortunately, that aspect did not come within the purview of a mere ship's captain. Picard shrugged mentally, and consigned it to the future and to the hands of those considerably further up the command hierarchy than himself.
His problem was in Sickbay, and after completing the morning briefing he left Will Riker in charge of the Bridge and Worf to the organisation of a landing party to investigate the wrecked shuttle far below.
Sickbay was still quiet. The bio-beds were unoccupied, however, and he felt a momentary twinge of disquiet until he was able to see that the 'den' had an occupant, sitting quietly cross-legged and looking out.
The medical staff had obviously been busy overnight. In place of the filthy and bedraggled scarecrow of the evening before, the man who sat there now was clean and dressed in a set of standard Sickbay coveralls. He was clean-shaven, his nails had been pared, and his hair had been cut short and given a simple style.
The transformation was astonishing.
It also brought up with unmistakable clarity his resemblance to his father. It was the watchful gaze of a tactical officer that noted all that went on, and studied the captain narrowly as Doctor Pulaski walked across the open area to greet him at the door.
"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he said, low-voiced. That, indeed, was an understatement; the previous evening it had seemed possible that their guest might die of sheer fright at his surroundings, whereas now he sat with seeming composure and waited to see what might come next.
The grooming had not robbed him of years, but it had certainly restored him to dignity. It seemed that he felt it so, and perhaps that in itself bolstered his confidence. Or maybe he had simply decided that the treatment he had received was sufficient indication that his captors/hosts intended him no harm.
"I've had some encouraging results from my research," Katherine responded. "Late last night Data told me he'd been able to access some old records from a rather dubious source that specifically mention the action of these chemicals on brain functions. I can't imagine why anyone would have targeted these in particular, they're not commonly found, but I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I've already started him on the basic treatment, with a few refinements the computer suggested. The results–." She gestured. "Well, see for yourself."
"'A rather dubious source'?" Jean-Luc glanced at her sharply.
"He didn't say anything more than that." A shrug. "But somebody definitely ran quite an intensive program over several years on ways to combat or reverse the effect that they have on the memory engrams in the human brain."
"So someone – presumably someone in Starfleet – was already aware of the effect this particular combination of substances has on the human intellect."
Katherine was in some ways infinitely more worldly-wise than Deanna Troi. Her eyes met his without evasion, sharing the short journey to an extremely unpleasant conclusion.
It was unlikely in the extreme that even in the attempt to evade the just punishment for his supposed crimes, Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato would have deliberately sought refuge on a world they knew would permanently warp their brain functions. A tactical officer of Reed's calibre would surely have chosen a safe refuge with care, especially if he had a junior officer under his protection – presumably a woman who cared enough for him to abandon her own career and follow him into lifelong exile, fleeing hunted into the shadows. He was no green cadet who might overlook the dangers for the sake of the offered sanctuary.
Someone – perhaps rather more than someone – had known of the risks. Reed, presumably, had not. Or else he had been given no choice.
The official report on his disappearance from the base on Proxima had deliberately used the term abducted. It had claimed that there had been evidence of a struggle in the supposedly secure room from which he had vanished. The media, naturally, had seen this as an attempt to cover up Starfleet's complicity in (if not responsibility for) his escape from trial and sentence.
But supposing that someone who was so strangely well-informed on the action of that unusual combination of chemicals on the human brain wished to dispose of two officers who were ... for want of a better word ... 'an embarrassment' to Starfleet. There was no need to resort to murder. They could be safely, humanely deposited on a world where there was virtually no danger of their being found – particularly with that warning beacon in orbit. And if by any unlucky chance they were eventually discovered, what would there be left to find? Two poor creatures who were far beyond recognising themselves as the people they had been, and who would probably have virtually no functioning memory of events before their transformation.
A media determined to make something out of nothing had made the maximum capital out of Lieutenant Reed's 'escape' from justice. The scandal had been so great that the man's father had made virtual prisoners of himself and his wife, living in total seclusion until their deaths. But during his 'leisure hours' the previous evening the captain had examined the newspaper articles as well as the official reports, and a recurring theme from those who had known the lieutenant well was his absolute and unswerving passion for justice, even when it applied to himself. Many flatly refused to believe that he had willingly and knowingly absented himself from trial and punishment, or even co-operated with any plan to rescue him from them. The only dissenting voice on that score came, sadly and strangely, from his captain, who had lost in Commander Tucker not only his ship's Chief Engineer but an old friend. Although silent during his lifetime, in obedience to the legal obligation not to prejudice any eventual trial that might come to pass, Archer had spoken out just before his own death, clearly believing that Reed had been guilty of deliberately evading trial for a capital crime.
Murder. Even then the word had not been uttered; failing evidence of the runaway's death, there was still the possibility, however remote it might be, that that long-evaded justice might still lay hand on him and call him to account. But the media had uttered it – nay, screamed it, often enough; Commander Tucker had died and Lieutenant Reed had been arrested, and on what other charge could he have been summoned back to Earth to face a Court Martial?
Right up until this point, Jean-Luc had implicitly believed that the account finally entered in Starfleet records – that Reed had engineered his own escape, faking the 'evidence of a struggle' – was the correct one. Nobody had been able to prove, one way or the other, whether he had later summoned Sato to join him in some place of safety, though the theory had been widely credited. Now, however, the picture had shifted in an extremely sinister manner. Suddenly that chorus of belief in the lieutenant's integrity was no longer so easy to dismiss.
"Good grief," he said slowly. A chill crept up his spine.
He was not among those who saw conspiracies in every shadow. The organisation he served was led – at least largely – by honourable men; he had always believed that and still did. But neither was he so naïve as to believe that all its personnel were strictly honourable, or that it had ever been incapable of actions that could unhesitatingly be described as criminal in pursuit of its aims. Now, in this moment of suddenly darkening realisation, it occurred to him to wonder: if his fledgling suspicions were correct, just how deep had run the roots of the corruption that must have been involved? How high up the chain of command had the decision been taken that Reed should not stand trial for his actions, and what could their reasons have been?
It had all happened over two hundred years ago. It was far too late for any of those involved to be held to account, and it was quite certain that whoever they had been, they would have taken great care to cover their tracks. He was also certain that modern-day Starfleet would see no point in raking up old scandals – an activity that could neither punish the guilty nor reward the innocent, but which could definitely stir up the whole fetid cloud of suspicion and rumour again. Nevertheless, his deep-seated sense of justice was offended. If an innocent man's life had been destroyed for the sake of preserving Starfleet's countenance, then even if those responsible were beyond being brought to book for that act, history should be set right. Because – no matter what Reed had actually done – by all the laws of criminal justice, until the evidence was heard and sentence pronounced by an appointed court, he was legally innocent of any crime.
In that moment a determination took hold that he would investigate those long-ago events through every avenue available to him. No matter that common sense warned that there might well be those even now who would wish the whole affair to remain dead and buried. "'When all its work is done, the lie shall rot,'" he murmured resolutely. Then, rousing himself from his brief abstraction, he addressed the current situation.
With a brief word to Katherine, he moved to stand in front of the den – not directly opposite it, nor too close, which might appear threatening or confrontational. Then he squatted to bring himself down to the occupant's eye-level, careless for the moment of his own captainly dignity.
"I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard," he said, speaking very slowly and clearly. "You are aboard my ship, the USS Enterprise. You are quite safe. No-one will harm you here."
Naturally he did not expect a response; the treatment had only just been started. Nevertheless, he was quite sure that he got a reaction to one word. When he had said 'Enterprise', there had been a perceptible sharpening in Son's attention, already carefully focused on him.
"'Enterprise'," he repeated. "Do you recognise that word?"
It took a little effort to recognise the word as Son pronounced it. 'Ent' was a snap of teeth, 'er' emerged as a growl, and 'prise' sounded as if he was chewing tough meat with his mouth open. But there was no doubt about it: he did indeed know the word, and recognised that an attempt at communication was being made.
"Did your par– did your moth-er say that word?"
The word was evidently complicated for him to pronounce. Once again it emerged with difficulty. "Mh-m-mhr-mhrthr. Ent-rprise." Then, unexpectedly, a third word that came on a long, modulated snarl: "Faarthr. Ent-rprise."
"Oh my god," said Katherine softly in the background.
Son looked around the room, a long, intense look. "Ent-rprise?"
"Yes. Enterprise." Jean-Luc nodded. It would be completely impossible, at least for the time being, to even attempt to convey the fact that this was a different ship, the inheritor of that proud name but a far larger and more sophisticated vessel than the one on which his parents had served. Maybe, depending on the extent of his recovery, it might eventually be necessary to try to explain the situation, but for the time being it would surely be a comfort to him to believe that he had, in a sense, come 'home'. If nothing else, it should allay the first and worst of his fears, that he was in the hands of people who wished him harm.
Doubtless there would be many questions Son would require answers for – nothing indicated that he was unintelligent, however unused he was to the complexities of human communication. His next attempt at speech suggested that he had already made a connection that agitated him. He pointed to the captain's communicator and then to his own chest and the mark tattooed on it. "S-S'har-S'harf'hee," he growled. "S'harf'hee –h'nt– Faarthr." Malignancy glinted in the grey as he lowered his head to glare from under his eyebrows. "No fin'!"
"Your father is alive?" exclaimed the captain incredulously.
The only answer was a snarl that did not attempt words. Son clearly suspected now that the ship had come in pursuit of his father, and was not going to co-operate. With a sudden movement that again belied his years, he retreated to the back of the den and resumed his defensive posture, glaring out across linked arms and crossed legs. It was obvious that he had said all he was going to – at least for the time being.
Pressing him at this juncture would undoubtedly do more harm than good. Jean-Luc made the effort to sound as convincingly reassuring as he possibly could as he told him that nobody here intended harm to him or to his family, but once that was said he rose to his feet and left his strange guest to think things over in peace for a while. He himself had a good many things to think over, though it was a working certainty that he would not be allowed much by way of peace in which to ruminate.
He and Katherine retreated across Sickbay for a low-voiced conference as to how to proceed. It now seemed more sensible than ever to have a member of Security on guard here; up till now Son had seemed more defensive than aggressive, but the perceived threat to his father (if indeed, by any staggering quirk of biology Reed was actually still living) could change that attitude considerably.
"I've put together something that I think will interest him," said the doctor quietly, holding out a PADD. On it, side by side, were photographs of Lieutenant Reed and Ensign Sato. "It also contains other photographs and some video clips of them, and recordings of their voices he can listen to – and that may stimulate both his memory and linguistic centres and help him rediscover how speech is formed. But if he thinks we've come here on a pursuit mission, our having this may seem too much like evidence of that."
"Call Miss Ishikawa and give this to her – out of his immediate line of sight." The captain was thinking rapidly. Apart from the shared racial characteristics and a definite prettiness, there was not really a great deal of resemblance between Ishikawa and Sato. Admittedly, if the ensign had survived to old age then that would have had an influence on her physical appearance, but the fact that Son had seen that resemblance (even, perhaps, actually believed Keiko to be his mother, though his lack of curiosity about her since suggested not) indicated that she might have died comparatively young. "He may well accept it from her as a friendly gesture, especially if he believes she gives it to him without our knowledge."
Pulaski nodded. "I'll keep you informed on how he takes it. And I'll send updates during the day – he's due for more medication this afternoon and later on this evening."
"I'd appreciate that, Doctor." With which he left Sickbay, carefully not giving any indication of interest in the eyes that watched suspiciously from cover until the doors closed behind him.