Chapter Two

“YOU KNOW, I HAD AN ANCESTOR who died in the Tarn conflicts,” Geordi announced with a touch of pride in his voice. “Was an ensign aboard the old Constitution.”

Picard acted as though he were ignoring the conversation and was instead engrossed in a game of chess with a young cadet who had been assigned to the Enterprise for the summer session away from the Academy. He could tell that the boy was thrilled beyond words that the captain would actually challenge him to a match. Picard would never admit it, of course, but he was simply looking for a convenient place in Ten-Forward to sit and keep an eye on Karish.

“Many of my circle died with great glory as well,” came the hissing reply. “My circle holds their names in honor. . . .”

“That’s check again, sir.”

“Hmm?” Picard looked back down at the board, and then at the cadet, who seemed to be proud of his latest maneuver, which had forked Picard’s king and one of his rooks.

“Good move, Midshipman,” Picard said absently, moving his king out of harm’s way.

“Sir, do you really want to do that?”

Picard looked into his opponent’s eyes. He could sense that the boy was trying to be polite—was, in fact, a bit nervous that he was so thoroughly trouncing his captain. Picard smiled and looked back at the board.

“Ah, I see. Move there and you have me in mate next turn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well . . .” He fumbled for a second trying to remember the name. “Well, Forsyth, rules aboard this ship are: You let go of the piece, you’ve moved it.”

“All right, sir,” Forsyth replied while taking the rook that would place Picard in mate.

The boy looked up at him nervously and Picard laughed.

“Mr. Forsyth, I’m not Napoleon.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, just an old family story. I had an ancestor who fought in the Battle of Trafalgar. He claimed that he once beat Napoleon at chess and that it was months before the Emperor forgave him. My compliments on your game. It shows you have a quick mind, Forsyth.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Picard felt a slight tinge of irritation. It bothered him at times how easily he was able to maneuver some of the youngsters new to the Fleet. They came fresh from the Academy with the exuberance of children, so eager to ingratiate themselves into the way of life on board the Enterprise. The captain marveled at how a smile, a simple compliment, was enough to send them grinning into the path of death without a moment’s hesitation. The line between duty and idealized notions of sacrifice was rarely understood by the first-year officer.

“. . . and I tell you that incident was provoked by your Federation!”

Picard shifted his attention away from Forsyth and back to the conversation going on behind him.

“I can understand how you might see it that way,” Geordi replied, trying to sound diplomatic, yet scarcely disguising the touch of annoyance in his voice. “But the record shows that the Constitution was fired on without warning. Two hundred crew members died.”

“Your ship, this Constitate or whatever, was coming as a reinforcement and had to be stopped.” “We were answering a distress call, which later turned out to be a false alarm, put out by one of your ships . . .”

“. . . Another game, sir?”

“Ah, no thank you, Mr. Forsyth, losing two in a row is enough for tonight. Thank you for your time.”

Picard stirred as if getting up to retire and Forsyth, not used to the rules of informality which existed in Ten-Forward, sprang to his feet, snapping to attention, drawing bemused smiles from many at other tables, at least those who were not listening in on the debate between Karish and La Forge.

As Picard stood up he scanned the room. Riker was nowhere to be found; he could imagine why but was slightly annoyed nevertheless. There was, after all, the duty of keeping an eye on Karish rather than on attractive historians. Troi was not in the room either, but he did see Data, who was looking at him from across the room. All it took was a subtle motion of the eyes and Data was rising from his seat and making his way toward Picard.

Picard turned and, as if feigning surprise, looked straight at Karish.

“Commander Karish, I hope you are enjoying the hospitality of our lounge?” Picard said,

Karish stopped in midsentence and looked up.

“They do not serve Hammasi.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that.”

“It is a rather potent brew of the Tarn,” Data interjected, coming up to Picard’s side. “One of the ingredients is fermented blood of a creature rather similar to a tiger on Earth.”

“Well, Mr. Data. Perhaps you can share your knowledge with Guinan, and we’ll see if we can come up with a reasonable facsimile of this Hammasi. And while you’re at it”—he paused—“since I was talking about the Emperor, a bit of that special Napoleon brandy for myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, sir. I think I shall try that as well.”

Picard moved to a chair between Geordi and Karish and casually sat down as Karish continued the conversation, addressing the newest member of the group.

“I was just instructing one of your junior officers as to the true history of the War of Federation Aggression,” Karish announced.

“I see. You’re speaking of the Constitution incident.”

“Our defense against that ship.”

Picard shifted his gaze to Geordi.

“You know, this is all rather interesting,” Picard began, adopting an almost professorial tone, “especially in light of the wreckage we’ve just found. Verdun was a proud ship, her captain famous in our history.”

“As is Qiva in ours, though we do not hold the same view of your Captain Murat, a butcher of hundreds who could not defend themselves.”

“Old history can be troubling, but it can also be learned from. Wouldn’t you agree, Geordi?”

“Yes, sir.” Picard could sense that Geordi most definitely did not agree, at least as far as their difficult guest was concerned.

“For example: Geordi, I think you had an ancestor who died fighting the Tarn?”

“On the Constitution,” Geordi said coldly.

Picard looked back at Karish. “You see, Commander Karish, there’s more to Lieutenant Commander La Forge’s family history than his family’s service on the Constitution. At one time his ancestors were slaves in a place on Earth called America.”

Karish looked at Geordi, and Picard could sense that Karish was confused. To the Tarn, the admission of a family line of slaves was something to be ashamed of.

Picard looked back at Geordi. “I remember you telling me about it once, Geordi, how your family escaped and one of them fought in the American Civil War.”

“The Twenty-Eighth United States Colored Troops out of Indiana,” Geordi replied with a touch of defiance in his voice. “He carried the regimental flag and lost his arm at the Battle of the Crater, July 30, 1864.”

“Slaves?” Karish interjected, a note of disdain in his voice.

“Yes, Commander Karish. You will see in your time with us that both Commander Riker and Lieutenant Commander La Forge had ancestors who fought in that war to extinguish slavery. Both of them are proud of their family histories. Their ancestors fought for future generations and their freedom.”

“And I take it that I should learn a profound lesson from this?” Karish replied coolly.

“I hope the Hammasi meets with your approval.”

Picard looked up gratefully at Data, who was offering a gilded horn to Karish. Karish took the horn and tentatively sniffed it. A faint whiff of the drink drifted over to Picard, who steeled himself not to react. Gagging, he determined, would not be the most diplomatic of responses. Will still relished telling stories about the various Klingon dishes he had sampled while serving aboard the I.K.S. Pagh, and Picard was forever grateful that his first officer had drawn that assignment rather than himself. The thought crossed his mind that in some cultures it was an act of friendship, and also proof you weren’t poisoning your guest, to take the first sip from the other person’s cup. Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case with the Tarn, as Karish raised the horn, closed his eyes, and with a ceremonial flourish let several drops of the drink fall on the floor before putting the horn to his lips. He took a tentative sip, paused, and then actually drank more.

For the first time Jean-Luc sensed that Karish was genuinely surprised.

Smiling, Picard took the brandy snifter offered by Data and motioned for him to sit down on the other side of the table. Picard raised his glass and let the drink swirl around, coating the sides. Data studiously imitated him. Karish watched the two. Picard raised his glass in a salute, then took a sip, Data doing likewise.

“I understand you are a machine,” Karish said, looking at Data.

“Some could define me that way.”

“Yet you consume food, drink?”

“I process food and liquids for energy the same way that humans do. Also, for the experience of tasting them. I take it that the Hammasi was satisfactory?”

“Where did you learn the secret? Who told you?”

Data smiled. “I am interested in cooking and culinary traditions. Our food-replication system can be programmed to create any molecular pattern, so once I knew the formula, the rest was quite simple. I came across the recipe some years back. The recipe is most interesting, particularly the step during which the bartender must allow the blood to congeal under the sun, drain the remaining liquid, then mix it with fermented milk from a Yaktu. One wonders who thought of it first and why.”

If he didn’t know better Picard would have said that Data was expressing a certain sarcasm as to who could be sadistic enough to create such a drink.

“It is the next step, though, that truly captivated my attention,” Data continued.

“Actually, Data,” Picard interrupted hurriedly, more interested in the previous conversation than in the finer details of Tarn cuisine, “we were talking about a fascinating historical point . . . how descendants of former enemies transcend the past.”

“You are the descendant of slaves?” Karish asked again, looking straight at La Forge.

“Yes.” Picard smiled inwardly, knowing that Geordi was tempted to add a few more comments.

“Riker is a descendant of those who owned you?”

“My ancestors, not me.”

Karish sat back for a moment while draining off the rest of his drink.

“Killing him would be a redeeming point of honor for you.”

Geordi looked at him, incredulous, and actually laughed.

“Will Riker’s one of my closest friends.”

“Then you are without honor.”

“How is that?” Picard asked hurriedly, leaning forward so as to block Geordi’s view of Karish.

“When a circle has been defeated it is without honor until it has fought to redeem itself. It is simply part of a circle, and does not carry the standard of the circle with it. If it is ever defeated a second time, it is cast out forever.”

“It is an interesting point of Tarn culture,” Data interjected. “Similar in some ways to the traditions of the Klingon warrior code.”

“They were worthy enemies,” Karish replied. “We enjoyed fighting them.”

“And if Lieutenant Worf were here,” Picard replied, “he’d tell you he is still proud of his family, his culture, and his own honor. We once fought bitterly, we came to the brink of war on a galactic level more than once, and yet now we’ve found a way to live together.

“Maybe those two ships over there are a case in point,” Picard continued. “We can see in them a reminder of what both the Tarn and we of the Federation value: honor, self-sacrifice, and what in my native language we called la gloire. . . . But it’s also the past, Commander Karish, the past. You might call Captain Murat a butcher—”

“He was.”

“—and I dare say from your perspective he was. But there is another side of him. He was one of the very first generation of starship commanders, a fellow classmate of Christopher Pike, Akiko Torunaga, and the Vulcan Kadish. He explored more than a hundred worlds, contacted and established treaties with eight societies, and, might I add as a Frenchman, bears an illustrious name from our history.”

“And yet—” Karish began.

“And yes, Commander Karish. From the perspective of history we might say he was wrong according to how your society sees him.”

Picard pointed toward the window and to the flashing beacon marking the position of Verdun. “That’s history. I’ve received orders, which your government has agreed to, to spend an extra three days in this system, documenting the wreckage, retrieving both for your side and ours historical artifacts that we both might treasure. So let’s just look at our conflict as history, Commander, and not the present.”

“Does your Guinan now know how to make Hammasi?”

Caught by surprise, Picard looked over at Data.

“She has the ingredients now.”

“I shall have another, then retire,” Karish announced. He stood up and left the three. Picard was slightly annoyed at how Karish had so abruptly killed the conversation rather than continue to explore the point. Karish approached the bar and placed his order. Picard could not help but admire Guinan and how she took the order without the slightest sign of distress.

“He certainly is a hard case,” Geordi said.

“That he is,” Picard replied. “Paranoia seems to be part of the psychological makeup of the Tarn. It’s hardwired into their system. The world they evolved on was a carnivorous nightmare; they were the smaller species, hunted nearly to extinction by a species which had gained what we would consider a classical period technology. They came back, wrested control of the planet away from their foes, and then turned on each other when there was nothing left to fight. They learned to trust absolutely no one but their own particular clan, which they call a circle.”

“How they gained space without self-destructing is fascinating,” Data interjected. “There are only four other recorded cases of societies still at war with themselves who at the same time achieved the power of interplanetary flight without then using the power to destroy themselves.”

“Us, for example, Mr. Data?”

“Of course, Captain.”

Picard looked out the window.

“You know, personally I’m fascinated with Murat, though I wouldn’t admit that in front of our guest.”

He looked back to the bar. Karish drained a horn of Hammasi and then, after putting the empty container down, he walked out. Guinan gingerly took the horn.

“Nationalistic feelings, Captain?” Data asked.

“Well, I do have to admit there is a bit of Gallic pride there. The first Murat of fame was one of Napoleon’s most capable marshals and his descendant one of the finest starship captains ever. When I was at the Academy I remember attending a lecture by one of the Vulcan officers who had served under Murat. It was amazing: even from a Vulcan you could almost sense a note of pride in being associated with a legend.” Smiling wistfully, Picard said, “I dreamed of being another Murat, of having a ship and, as Masefield said, ‘a star to steer her by.’ ” He chuckled softly, and then his features hardened as he looked back out the bay window.

“If the behavior of our guest is any indicator, I fear that there might be some who will cite the discovery of the Verdun and the Rashasa as proof that our two societies will not get along.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Geordi said, then paused. “At least on our side.”

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you with the example I offered,” Picard replied.

As Karish cleared the door Will came into the room and, spotting the group, came over to them.

“Ah, Will. It’s nice of you to join us,” Picard offered with just a hint of irony in his voice.

“Captain, Data, Geordi,” Will responded while pulling up a chair in the back section of Ten-Forward. “Have I missed anything interesting?”

“Not unless you consider a conversation with a rude lizard interesting,” Geordi mumbled.

Riker raised his eyebrow and contained a smirk. The engineer was a good friend, but he was hardly skilled in the art of diplomatic speech.

“Mr. La Forge refers, of course, to our Tarn guest. The two of them were discussing the early skirmishes between the Tarn and the Federation.”

“Hmm. I see he’s made a good impression on you, Geordi?”

“Sure. In fact, I’m going to talk to Guinan about that drink of his. Hammasi, was it? You know . . . might as well do my part to cross cultural barriers. Anyhow, I want to check in with Eddies and run another diagnostic on the transporter.”

Geordi rose and nodded good night to the two officers. While he made his way across the room, the two heard his frustrated reply: “Maybe I can jam the replicator system; that stuff was awful.”

The seated men exchanged a grin.

“Sounds like I missed the party.”

“I’m sure you were enjoyably detained elsewhere.”

Riker looked at his captain in curiosity before feigning shocked disappointment. “Of course not, sir.” Then, with a sheepish smile, “Actually, I couldn’t find the good doctor. You know, this is an awfully big ship and if someone wants to avoid someone, it’s rather easy.”

Picard chuckled and shook his head. The question was who was avoiding whom, but he felt it best not to bring that point up. Will could have, of course, asked the computer to locate her, but shipboard etiquette didn’t allow that sort of thing.

“Ah, then I wasn’t too far off the mark, I see.”

“No, but getting back to the Tarn . . .” Will attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere.

He received a chuckle in return, though it was short-lived. Picard’s good humor drained from his face as a look of concern slowly took its place.

“Captain?”

“I’m a bit more concerned about this evening’s conversation than our friend Mr. La Forge, I’m afraid.”

“The discussion of past fighting?”

“More particularly the Verdun and its fate. The legends of warfare between the Tarn and the Federation will continue to ignite the passions of extremists on both sides. And legends carry little power to dissuade the concentrated effort to restore peace. In fact, in this case, I’m afraid that renewed interest in old war stories might actually interfere with the peace process. The discovery of the Verdun and the Rashasa is of incalculable historical value, but it may cause problems as well. . . .” Riker raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Picard continued. “The establishment of the No-Entry Zone was in many ways a wise decision on behalf of the leaders on both sides. Frankly, the Tarn knew we could beat them in a standup fight, and we fortunately weren’t interested in a fight, so we agreed to cordon off a couple of hundred thousand cubic parsecs of space as a buffer zone between us. It effectively closed the discussion as to who was at fault.”

“Probably both sides,” Riker interjected.

“True. But the zone left that undetermined. It afforded a cease-fire, saving the lives of many. The hatred and discord were appeased for the time being. Peace, though shaky and untried, resulted.”

“And the downside?”

“Legends without historical accuracy are sleeping mines. Provide a few artifacts, evidence of foul play or slaughter, and the mines are irretrievably armed.”

“And you think that the mystery of the Verdun will produce such an outcome?”

“Would you gamble on a mine?”

“Captain Picard.” Worf’s voice interrupted the conversation.

Picard tapped his comm badge.

“Picard here.”

“Captain, could you please come to the bridge at once.”

“On my way.”

As he stood up, Riker’s comm badge beeped; then Data’s beeped as well. The three looked at each other; if Worf was paging all of them, something was up.

“Gentlemen?” Picard said, and the three headed out of the lounge.

As Picard stepped onto the bridge he could immediately sense the tension in the room.

“Captain,” Worf reported. “We just picked this up a few minutes ago. I think you should see the replay of it.”

Worf motioned to a viewing screen. It was a magnification showing the glowing rim of the system’s sun, the lone planet Torgu-Va barely visible in the shimmering corona.

A spark of light erupted on the surface of the planet.

“Automatic sensors detected it, sir, and triggered an alarm.”

Riker leaned over to look at the information, reading it off: “Detonation, atomic weapon, thirty-kiloton range.” Surprised, he looked up at Picard.

“Helm, take us out of this position so we can get a better view of the planet. Put us on a heading over the northern pole of the sun. I want a clear view of that planet as quickly as possible.”

The helm responded in seconds and the image began to shift.

“Data, could we have an interference readout from the sun’s corona?”

Data was already at his station reviewing the information.

“Negative, sir. It is interesting that our instruments picked it up at all from that range with the sun nearly eclipsing the planet. I am starting to get a better view now. Sir, there was definitely a detonation on the planet’s surface. The shock wave is still spreading out through the atmosphere.”

“Range to the planet?”

“Four hundred and twenty-three million kilometers, sir.”

Picard went over to his captain’s chair and sat down, impatient with the time it would take to get a clearer view of the planet.

“What about our first sweep of the planet as we came into the system?” He asked the question in general, but his gaze was fixed on Data. “There’s something down there; how come we didn’t pick it up earlier?”

“Sir, we did a standard sweep, and nothing was detected on the surface, or in orbit above the planet. No signs of sentient life. Then we focused in on the wreck, sir, with the sun all but eclipsing our view so we could not monitor more closely.”

“So, who’s there?”

Even as he asked the question Picard had an uneasy feeling.

“I don’t think we need a full alert yet, but I want our weapons and shields ready now,” he said.

“Suggestions?”

The room was silent.

“Two hundred years ago, when the treaty was signed, this entire region was known to be devoid of sentient life,” Data said. “Therefore, whatever is down there has arrived since.”

“How would they have gotten past the monitoring systems that we and the Tarn set up along the borders?” Riker asked.

Even before the first officer had finished his question, Data turned away, his attention rigidly fixed on his display.

“Sir, now that we are clearing the interference from the sun, I am starting to pick up something.” He hesitated. “Sir, it is in old-style sublight signals. The wave is distorted, but it is coming from the planet’s surface.”

“Patch it in,” Picard replied.

The forward viewscreen filled with a static display of flickering streaks of light. The audio was indistinguishable, filled with cracks and hissing.

“Filter it, Data.”

“I already am, sir. The frequency is prone to interference from solar activity. It will be another couple of minutes until we clear the sun.”

The wavy static on the screen continued to shift. Picard could sense now that there was something in the interference, and then, in a startling instant, a blurred image appeared on the screen and the static died away. Shocked, Picard stood up.

“Delta Three, Delta Three . . .” The image faded, a feminine voice disappearing back into static.

Picard looked over at Riker.

“She was wearing a Federation uniform,” Picard said.

“A uniform I’ve only seen in museums,” Will replied.

The image suddenly came back into focus. The woman was looking straight at the screen, wide-eyed, her face blistered. Behind her was chaos, people shouting, cursing, all of them speaking Federation Standard, but in a style, a tone, that seemed somehow arcane.

“Alpha One, this is Delta Three. Repeat, we have just sustained a nuclear attack. They have the bomb, repeat, they have the bomb!”

“Get Lieutenant Eardman on the bridge right now,” Picard snapped.

He felt as if he were looking at a film from hundreds of years past. The personnel, in what he thought must be some sort of bunker, were all wearing Starfleet uniforms, several of them the old Fleet-issue blues, others in the uniform of the old Starfleet Ground Attack Marines. The image flickered and died.

As Eardman came through the door she slowed, obviously wondering why she had been summoned.

“Play it back,” Picard ordered, and the image of the woman reappeared on the screen.

“The missing personnel,” she announced, her voice soft with disbelief as she came up to Picard’s side.

“What’s that?”

“The bodies of seven hundred people from the Verdun were missing. We thought that they must have been destroyed in the fight. That woman’s wearing a standard-issue uniform from when the Verdun was in service. Somehow, survivors must have gotten down to the planet’s surface.”

“Are you saying that’s them?”

“Well, sir . . . their descendants.”

“Wearing uniforms?”

“I know it sounds strange, sir, but there are numerous historical examples of cultures in isolation rigidly clinging to old traditions.”

“But who are they fighting?” Picard asked.

“Sir, I have a clean image coming in now,” Data interjected, and the recording snapped off, simultaneously replaced with a live feed.

The interior of the bunker was on fire. Picard watched in silence, concealing his horror. They were dying, and dying horribly. The woman was still looking at the screen, the fear and rage in her eyes evident. Picard wondered who she was talking to and admired her strength, her courage, to stay at her station, even as the fires erupted around her.

“This is Delta Three. We’re finished! The Tarn have the bomb, repeat, the damn Tarn have the bomb. Long live the Federation. Avenge . . .” The image snapped off.

“The signal is gone,” Data announced, his voice echoing in the silence that enveloped the bridge.

“The Tarn have the bomb?” Picard asked, looking over at Janice.

“Sir, I think the descendants of the Verdun and the Rashasa are still fighting their war.”

Picard looked back at the blank screen.

“Get Commander Karish to the bridge immediately.”