Chapter Eight

“CAPTAIN, THERE IS AN AUDIO HAIL from the surface. It is Dr. Eardman.”

“On screen,” Picard snapped.

“Captain Picard, Lieutenant Commander Eardman reporting, sir.”

“Yes, Commander?” Picard replied coolly. He fought down a temptation to take her to task for not reporting sooner. It had been nearly forty-eight hours without contact since the beam-down. But then, there was probably a perfectly good explanation for the away team’s silence. And if not, there was plenty of time to reprimand both Eardman and Riker later. He hoped. Where in the world was Riker anyway? Before he had a chance to ask, Eardman continued breathlessly.

“My apologies for the delay, sir. We were required to leave our communicators down below. They were worried that the Tarn could track on them. Sir, I must keep this short, under one minute so it can’t be triangulated.”

“I see. Well, then, Lieutenant, shall we begin with Commander Riker. Where is he?”

“He’s, uh, not here—sir, may I suggest that you come down to the surface.”

Picard said nothing for a moment. Such a request, coming from a new officer on his staff, was highly irregular. So was the panic he heard in her voice. The captain took a deep breath and reminded himself that the young historian hadn’t had much starship duty.

“Your reasoning, Commander Eardmann?”

“Sir, Commander Riker is wounded, his condition is serious.”

Picard took a moment to compose himself. How bad was it?

“Give me the coordinates, Dr. Eardman, we’ll beam him directly to sickbay.”

“Sir, he is too far below and I’ve been ordered, um, I mean, well, asked not to do that.”

“And who is giving you these orders, Dr. Eardman?” Last I heard this officer was under my command, he reflected sardonically despite the seriousness of the situation. I really must have a talk with her once she’s back on board.

She hesitated, Picard sensed there was something more here and she wasn’t going to say it.

“Sir, Admiral Jord is paging.”

“On screen,” Picard announced, knowing that Eardman could clearly hear his command.

Obviously she was being reticent out of concern about the Tarn monitoring.

“Dr. Eardman, stand by, please,” Picard said, and nodded for Data to put Admiral Jord on while shutting off the commlink to Eardman.

“Monitoring our communications, Admiral?”

Jord grunted. “This creates a problem, Captain.”

“One of my crew is injured.”

“So I heard. Does that mean he was in combat? If so, Captain, this presents a very unpleasant scenario for me.”

“The orders to my personnel were strict. They were not to be engaged in any way whatsoever.”

“Yet one of them was injured. So it seems we must assume . . .”

“We must assume nothing, sir. Remember that the city where my first officer is located is currently under Tarn attack,” Picard replied sharply. “I want to go down there to find out what is going on, Admiral.”

He hesitated, hating the fact that he was forced to ask. “I know that you won’t have any objections. This mission is strictly to check on my personnel.”

“Interesting. Tell me, Captain, is it your policy to dash about looking for adventure instead of commanding from your own bridge?” Jord pressed, sidestepping the challenge in Picard’s voice. “I understand that you had one or two other starship commanders who were famous for doing that.”

Picard smiled despite himself. This fellow didn’t miss a trick. One of these days, when this blasted war was over, they would have to have a drink together under more pleasant circumstances. As long as it wasn’t Hammasi.

“Commander Riker is my second-in-command.” Picard paused. He knew he really didn’t owe Jord an explanation. Perhaps he was just trying to rationalize. After all, there was something to what the Tarn had said. Picard really could have sent someone else.

“Command Riker is also my friend,” he added quietly. It was Jord’s turn to pause.

“This is irregular, Captain.”

Picard smiled. It was an objection, but a half-hearted one. Just as the captain had thought—the Tarn admiral understood personal loyalty.

“What about this mission is not, sir,” Picard replied calmly.

“Indeed, sir. All right, Captain. Beam down, retrieve your wounded officer, and return.”

“I will also attempt to convey the continued wish for a cease-fire.”

Jord shook his head. “If you wish to appear as a beggar, that is your concern, not mine.”

Picard shifted uncomfortably.

“Our transporter is still down, Admiral.”

Jord chuckled. “So you want to use ours?”

“I was planning to use a shuttlecraft, but since you’ve made the offer, I will accept. I also wish to take our ship’s doctor.”

“Two now?” Jord was silent for a moment, as if debating whether he could haggle something out of this favor.

“Drop your shields. Hail me with your communicator when you are ready, Captain.”

“Thank you, Admiral.” Picard hesitated for an instant. “You know, of course, that allowing me to beam down with your system will provide you with the exact location of the Federation city, quite a tactical advantage.”

“We already gained that coordinate by tracking your lieutenant’s signal. The information has been filed if needed for later use.”

Picard said nothing as the image of Jord faded.

 

Picard and Crusher rematerialized in a shallow depression. Dry rock walls rising up in a bowl. Within seconds, sweat started to break out on Picard’s forehead, and he squinted while looking up at the boiling sun.

And then he heard the sound of metal clicking on metal. The sound was very old, from another time, yet he knew it immediately. It was the sound of a round being chambered into a gun.

“Don’t move.”

Picard cautiously looked over his shoulder and saw three forms rising up from the boulders, their camouflage so perfect that for an instant it had seemed as if the rocks had come alive.

“Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Federation starship Enterprise,” he announced softly while cautiously extending his arms out to show that he was unarmed.

“Just stay where you are.”

A soft whistle echoed and he waited, looking over at Crusher, who offered a wan smile.

“You know, Jean-Luc, ten minutes ago I was fast asleep and having a most delightful dream.”

“Sorry, Beverly.”

“Captain Picard.”

The woman’s voice was sharp. Picard looked up to the rim of the bowl and saw her. She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, maybe older.

Picard nodded.

Dr. Eardman appeared by her side.

“Captain Picard, I’m glad to see you,” Eardman announced.

Julia Murat whistled softly and the three sentries closed around Picard and Crusher, motioning for them to scramble up the side of the bowl. Reaching the rim, the soldiers paused for a second, sharply scanning the cliffs, and then motioned their guests forward at a run.

Seconds later, Picard was in a tunnel entrance. Julia Murat paused, holding her hand up. Picard stopped by her side and looked back. A distant thumping echoed. The sound was strange and he looked over at her.

“Air strike on entry point Delta Five. They’re airlifting more troops in.”

Without another word she motioned them forward into the tunnel, and Eardman fell in by Picard’s side.

“How’s Will?” Beverly asked Eardman.

“Not too bad, Doctor.”

“You said it was serious, Commander,” Picard said sternly.

“Sir, I wasn’t sure if we were being monitored. I felt it essential to get you down here but couldn’t explain why on an open channel.”

The captain frowned. That talk he was planning to have with Eardman would be even longer than he first anticipated.

As they circled down into the darkness, Eardman hurriedly recapped what Picard suspected was a heavily censored account of all that had transpired. He said nothing, taking it all in as they stepped around traps, pausing for a moment at an intersection of corridors where, from out of the darkness the distant thumping still echoed, sounding even stranger than before.

A platoon of assault troops rushed past them, laden down with bandoleers of ammunition, carrying heavy boxes marked GRENADES. Stretcher bearers came past in the opposite direction, carrying their shattered burdens. Murat looked over at Crusher, who watched them pass, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Primitive, aren’t we, Doctor?” Murat said coldly.

“I’d like to help.”

“Ah, but for your fine noninterference clause.”

Picard watched helplessly as Crusher chewed her lip. He could only imagine what she was restraining herself from telling Murat.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

Murat nodded. She pointed down a side corridor and detailed off the three soldiers who had accompanied them.

“Take Dr. Crusher here to Infirmary Seven.”

Crusher looked over at Picard, who nodded. The group departed, leaving Murat, Eardman, and Picard alone.

“I have another surprise for you, Captain,” Murat said.

Picard looked at Eardman, who smiled.

“Sir, it’s remarkable,” she announced.

“I’ve had quite enough surprises today, Commander Eardman,” he said pointedly. The smile quickly faded from the historian’s face.

“Temper, temper, Captain,” Murat said dryly. “You’d think that after two hundred years the menfolk would get a hold of themselves,” she whispered confidentially to Eardman, who looked as if she would like nothing better than to hide under a rock. Picard ignored the interaction. It was becoming clear that he would have to overlook quite a bit to function effectively among these stubborn people.

“Madam, if you have any authority here I must inform you of our intent. As captain of the Enter prise and a representative of Starfleet, I am conveying to you that Starfleet desires all hostile actions against the Tarn to cease immediately. If my away team has not conveyed this to you, or if there was a failure to understand my last communication to Lysander Murat, then let me repeat myself: Starfleet Command is ordering an immediate cease-fire.”

“Lysander is my son, Captain, and no, we did not fail to understand the order. We disregarded it. We are waging a defensive war. Should I tell my troops to open the barriers, bare their throats to the Tarn, and open the filters to let the gas come in to our children and elders?”

“No, of course not. But this lighting must stop. There are implications far beyond the immediate concerns here.”

“Ah yes, other implications. Is that the standard justification for abandoning one’s troops and selling off worlds, to satisfy the immediate concerns of those who don’t actually do the dying?”

“Captain, could you please see something first before we continue this conversation?” Eardman interrupted.

Picard shot her a quick glance. At her age he would never have questioned a superior this way—or would he? I would, he thought. I would and I did, when enough was at stake. The captain decided to trust his instincts. And young Dr. Eardman’s.

“Lead on then,” Picard replied.

Murat led the way back through the maze of corridors and into a room filled with murals celebrating the glory of battles won. Picard made no comment as he gazed upon the icons and frescoes, but when he saw the doorway, the image of Lucian Murat, and the way in which Murat opened the door and beckoned for him to enter, the captain had a sudden sense of what was to come and his pulse quickened. . . .

The man lying on the bed in the middle of the tiny room was old, infinitely old. His hair had turned from white to an aged sickly yellow. At their approach, the old man moved his head restlessly. Though his eyes were open, there was no sight: the twin orbs were opaque, the face scarred by a fire from long ago. And yet, in spite of the age, the scars, the skeletal features, Picard knew . . . and in that knowing his heart froze. He felt a profound shock in that instant. It was as if he had come face-to-face with a dream, a legend again made flesh.

“Captain Lucian Murat?” Picard whispered.

A man, dressed in dirt-stained battle fatigues and standing by the foot of the bed, turned and looked at Picard. There was a small girl by the soldier’s side. Still in shock, Picard noted that the man had the same Gallic nose, full lips, and high forehead.

“Captain Picard, my son Lysander,” Julia announced, “second-in-command of this Federation base.”

Lysander nodded an acknowledgment but Picard’s attention was still focused on the frail body in the bed. For an instant, he wondered if he had been mistaken. Perhaps the old man was in fact dead; but then he saw the gentle rising and falling of the chest.

Julia stepped up to the bed and knelt down, whispering something. The old man nodded. Julia stood back up and came to Picard’s side.

“He was resting,” she whispered. “Give him a moment.”

Picard nodded, still silenced by his own disbelief.

“Captain, there is much you do not know,” Julia whispered. “When the survivors of Verdun landed on this planet, their captain was with them, but his vision and health were shattered by the fire on the ship’s bridge. In spite of his injuries, it was Captain Murat who brought order out of chaos. It was he who had downloaded all the Verdun’s files into the last lifeboat that escaped, thereby giving his people the knowledge they needed to survive, rebuild, and prepare for the inevitable continuation of the conflict with the Tarn.

“As the years passed, his health faded. Our senior medical officer devised a plan. A stasis field was built, and our leader was thus saved. The illness devouring him is still there, but when needed, he could be awakened, for a day, or a week, to offer his guidance in times of crisis. When the Tarn used the bomb on us we woke him for that, and thus he was with us when your ship announced its presence.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Picard asked.

“Because I was not ready for you to know,” a voice, thin and reedy, whispered.

Picard looked over at the bed.

Julia went to the bedside and gently helped the ancient captain to sit up. His pale, ghostlike feet touched the stone floor, and then slowly he stood.

“Thank you, wife,” he whispered.

Picard looked at Julia and then Lysander with open surprise.

“Yes, Captain,” she announced, “I am the wife of Captain Lucian Murat, and Lysander is his only living son.”

“Your husband? How?”

She smiled, and there was the flicker in her eyes of a young girl revealing a secret. Lysander was clenching his jaw, willing himself to be silent, and the effect it had on his mother’s courage was evident. But apparently she had anticipated such a reaction. There was no purpose in going halfway.

“I am the commodore’s third wife. I was chosen when I was sixteen to be the Honored Mother.”

Picard hesitated. Lucian Murat was thirty-three when the Verdun was lost. That would make him nearly two hundred and forty years old. Granted, most of that time had been spent in statis, but the reality made Picard uncomfortable nonetheless. He looked at the waxy, corpselike man. What kind of marriage was this? How many days did they have together; how many nights? She was married to a legend of the past.

“Perhaps you should address your questions to me,” Lucian said quietly.

Embarrassed, Picard looked back at the sightless captain.

“Sir, no offense was intended.”

“Nor was it taken.”

“Lysander, status since this morning?” Lucian asked, abruptly shifting attention away from Picard as if he were simply another junior officer.

“Sir, we lost entry number seven less than an hour ago.”

“I smell the scent of battle, son. You were there.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good, that is where to lead from.”

“Sir, we’re being flanked through access ports seven and nine. Radial tunnel fifty-one is completely lost; by this evening they’ll be within several hundred meters of the main perimeter to this city. We should be prepared for nuclear mines. It would be foolish of them if they chose not to use them at this point. Sir, I suggest evacuation from the upper levels begin immediately.”

The elder Murat turned pale and tried to focus his useless eyes in the direction of Lysander, as if noting his presence.

“I will decide that, not you,” the old man replied. He cocked his head gently, assessing the atmosphere. “Ah, and I sense a youngster. How fares my granddaughter?”

“Your granddaughter prospers, as do your people,” the child responded demurely.

“Good. You are teaching her well, my son. Take heed, she will become greater than you one day. She has been blessed with a smoother tongue than her father.”

Lucian reached out with wavering hand and the child drew closer. He lightly brushed her cheek and smoothed back an errant wisp of hair, then withdrew his hand. Murat chuckled and then grew serious.

“So, now to our visitor.”

Picard drew himself to attention with a slight clicking of heels. Lucian turned his head in the direction of the sound.

“Captain Jean-Luc Picard, sir. Captain of the Enterprise 1701-D. It is an honor to meet you.”

The words were sincere and he struggled to keep the tone of hero worship out of them. Here was legend as flesh. What first-year cadet did not thrill to the stories of Lucian Murat as told in the Academy history classes? Who did not dream of sailing the seas and the stars as he once did?

Murat heard Picard’s introduction with the ease of one who needs no introduction. He seemed neither surprised nor excited. Instead, he laughed with comical resignation. “I see.”

Picard stepped forward. He nodded toward Eardman, catching his mistake quickly before adding, “My ship’s historian, Dr. Janice Eardman, has accompanied me.”

“I know her, I told her to fetch you.”

Picard stiffened slightly at the tone but said nothing.

“Well, I am sincerely glad that you have decided to join us. We shall have much to discuss, I imagine.”

Picard was taken aback at Murat’s reaction. If the roles had been reversed, if it had been he arising from the bed, his curiosity would be brimming with news of all that had transpired while he had languished at the twilight border of death. He sensed no such desire or tone from Murat. Picard had been expecting an onslaught of questions.

Instead, he felt a decided coolness from the man. Picard tried to shake the feeling, nearly convincing himself that it was in actuality his own sense of excitement at seeing the legend before him.

How long had it been since he began his study of the life of Murat? His endeavors, his failures, his philosophy toward exploration, toward survival. Every manual or novel he could find on the man he had read voraciously. The historian’s perspective intrigued him, as did fictionalized accounts of his last days, but what kept him captivated were old copies of ship’s logs and captain’s records. Picard had spent hours unraveling the accounts these journals held, piecing together events and situations that revealed the character of the man.

Now he stood in front of him. Oddly enough, he could think of nothing to ask him. He had always thought that if he were ever given the chance to meet the man, he would stumble forth with a hundred questions.

“Yes, I am sure that there will be much to talk over,” Picard replied, his tone neutral, not sure where to go next.

“You have seen my city by now.” It was a statement intended to assess rather than to question.

“My first officer and Dr. Eardman have seen more than I. However, what I have observed has been quite impressive. You have done a great deal with what you had.”

“Ah, the motivation has been formidable. I wonder if you understand how formidable.”

Again, the coolness of before. Picard had the feeling that he was being measured, sized up. There was the tension of power, who held it and who wanted it.

“And are you equally impressed with the management of my city? Lysander is a wise leader.”

Picard glanced at Lysander. His gaze was inscrutable; he was as unsure of the motive behind his father’s line of questioning as was Picard.

Picard replied cautiously: “Your son’s strategy is both inventive and skilled.”

“Inventive and skilled. . . . Yes, he is both of these. . . . But you did not mention heroic and admirable?”

There was an expectant pause.

“I am afraid you took that as a slight, sir. I meant nothing of the kind.”

“Of course not. You simply meant inventive and skilled rather than heroic and admirable.” He spoke crisply, his words mechanically optimistic.

Lucian Murat stood up and slowly stretched. Picard remembered seeing an old holotape of Lucian on the bridge of the Verdun shortly after the ship was launched. The young vibrant man pacing back and forth, talking, issuing orders, all the time pacing, hands clasped behind his back. How different a picture Picard now had before him.

“Are you aware of just how intense this struggle has been, Captain?”

“Yes.”

Lucian paused, sightless eyes fixed straight at Picard, who shifted uncomfortably at the pause, which signaled a desire for the old ritual.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught a glimpse of Eardman standing by his side, still at attention, her eyes wide with wonder.

“Actually, I was awoken not for your arrival, but just before that to be given the information that the Tarn have achieved fission and have used an atomic weapon. Then you arrived. There is much for me to consider here.”

He paused a moment and stepped closer to the voice of Picard. “A captain of the Enterprise,” he murmured to himself with head lowered in thought, then sharply, raising his head so that his milky eyes were but inches from Picard’s face: “What are your intentions, Captain?”

Here was the test; here was the reason behind the cool, almost abrasive front of hospitality. Picard noted the situation and chose to meet the attack with an equal measure of force.

“Sir, I think you already know that. By orders of Starfleet Command all Federation forces on this planet are to seek an immediate cease-fire with the Tarn.”

“Starfleet Command. Why, thank you, Captain Picard. The war is over. . . .” He turned quickly in the direction of his son with apparent shock. “Lysander, are my people still topside and fighting the Tarn?”

“Yes, sir.”

Picard watched Lysander. This was a soldier reporting to a superior, not a son to a father.

“Casualty report.”

“At least nine hundred dead, wounded, or missing in this latest assault.”

“Nearly a thousand lost today, Captain, and you say the war is over?” Murat replied, relief evident on his smiling face. “You see the absurdity of such a remark, Captain.” Murat began his pacing once again, this time with the confidence of one who has much to orchestrate.

“Sir, the continued battle on this planet has no bearing on the status of the war between the Federation and the Tarn. That war has long since been resolved,” Picard stated.

Murat smiled and without hesitation replied, “Well, then, you’re just in time to help us finish up our fight. And then, from here we can sally forth to other systems. I understand there are Tarn ships in orbit above us as well.”

“Yes, three ships,” Picard replied, limiting his response to that one single point.

“I’ve faced worse odds. I remember the power of a starship captain.”

For an instant, Picard felt as if the sightless eyes could see again, but what they saw was of another time.

“I remember it well,” he whispered. “Engage warp-drive engines, set a course at warp three.” His voice trailed off for a moment.

“Yes, the power. Do you have laser batteries, antimatter torpedoes, plasma bombs, and thermonuclear mines? Now, there was power. One spread of those torpedoes . . . what a sight it would be to see them launch, to acquire target and track down to impact. Preemptive strike, Picard, take them out now!”

Picard, looking over at Julia and Lysander, saw a look of awe in their eyes. Here was an old one speaking of the time before the fall, one who had transcended death itself. “For I am Lazarus, come back to tell thee all,” he thought.

“Finish them off up in orbit, then turn your batteries on the targets we’ll designate down here and we will end this fight in a day. They are open for the killing blow.”

“That, sir, I cannot do.”

Murat halted his repetitive pacing. “I’m afraid I heard you incorrectly, Captain. What you meant to say was that you simply need time to coordinate a strike, correct?”

Picard hesitated. The coldness of Murat’s words was deliberate.

Picard tried to imagine what Murat must be feeling. The entire universe was different in those early days of the Federation. The higher order of thinking was only just beginning to form. And then this war, this damnable, brutal war across the generations.

“Sir,” he began patiently. “The situation as it currently stands . . . I think you need to be fully briefed.”

“I am issuing an order, Captain,” Murat snapped. “I expect it to be obeyed.”

Picard looked over at Julia, but her face was a cipher, unreadable. Lysander, beside her, was looking at Picard in open surprise.

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private, Commodore,” the captain suggested quietly.

“In private! Oh that’s grand, Captain.”

Murat paused a moment, his eyes squinting slightly in concentration, his head tilted to the right. “It’s a pity the greatest ship in the universe is commanded by such a coward. I hope the crew doesn’t fall in line with the captain’s ideals. It could prove difficult when I remove you from command.”

Picard clenched his jaw, his teeth bearing down upon each other.

“What has become of the legend of our history books?”

“He was never offered the luxury of dying.” Murat turned, sightless eyes sweeping over the few gathered near him. “All of you, except for this captain, get out!” he shouted.

“Father, you have just awoken. Let me—”

“Leave me at once, boy,” Murat raged.

Lysander flinched at the reprimand. He was a strong man unaccustomed to such slights. Picard nodded to Eardman, who reluctantly left the room. Only Julia remained.

“My husband, perhaps I should stay.”

“Out. Now, dammit!”

She stiffened. There was a significant look in her eyes when she turned to walk past Picard, as if she wanted to convey that there was far more to this man than the rage. Picard shook his head, motioning for her to go.

As the door shut behind them, Lucian resumed his now familiar pacing across the width of the room. With wrists locked behind his back, one finger idly tapping the inside of his forearm, he appeared oblivious of the presence of Picard. His pacing grew more agitated as the silence continued. The idle tap of a finger became stabs of anger. Soon the whole hand was involved, pounding the arm as the man rhythmically mapped out a pattern on the floor. Still, he did not speak. His composition became rigid; he was the picture of a frail, futile man with nothing left but his anger.

“How dare you defy my orders,” he whispered, still pacing, refusing to look in the direction of Picard. “You know nothing! You understand nothing!” He spat the words as if they were distasteful to the tongue.

Picard studied the shaky old man’s broad shoulders, noting the concave bend, and struggled to find his hero in what had become a watercolor image of the past. The captain had known this man in earlier days, even if only through books. He understood Murat’s proud nature, his dismissive arrogance, his precision and perfectionism. He was a man few would care to call their friend but any would serve under, fight for, and, if necessary, unflinchingly die for. Brilliant men such as the commodore were rare, and their rarity added to their alienation. Yet for all the complexities of the man, Picard felt that the intricate nature could be chiseled down to an unstinting need and drive toward honor. And it was this force that had molded the hero into the aged, stooped man before him. His honor had been scoffed at. The Federation that had sculpted that honor had abandoned their hero. And the degeneration of a great man was the result.

“Commodore, you have done your duty. You have been remembered for your diligence and your devotion to your crewmen. But the time has come to end this. Sir, return with me. Leave this madness behind and come back home to the honors you deserve.”

“I did not create the madness, Captain.” Murat’s voice was quiet now, tired.

“No, sir, but it would be a breach of honor to perpetuate it.”

“Fool!” Murat shouted, his softened demeanor rattled by another onslaught of rage. “Damn your pity! I am a sightless old man but I see what you are. You think you are better than I, that you would have ceased the fighting, become the mediator, spared the thousands, and created a peaceful world. Fool! You would have done as I did. Your duty to the Federation would have required that. You have taken an oath to fight, until death if necessary, and that is what you would have done. You want to talk about honor? Well, young man, a person with honor does their duty until the end . . . as have I. No one told us the war was over, Captain. We are simply following our orders.”

Murat clenched his fist, the only act his limited strength afforded him. Then he seemed to uncoil, control returning. He drew closer.

“Picard,” he whispered, “think on this. We are you without the luxury of peace. So save me your pity, Captain. You don’t realize how depraved you would become if you were shoved into a pit of darkness and forced to live. Fate is the only thing that keeps you from stinking of me.”

Picard felt as if he had been dealt a visceral blow. Murat’s words cut into his very soul. “As I am so you shall be,” he thought, the realization frightening him as he gazed at the legend now consumed with rage.

Murat staggered slightly and moved to sit down. He waved his hand abstractly, saying, “Leave me now. If you have any of the respect for me that you claim, leave this old man to his frailties without the embarrassment of an audience.”

Picard hesitated. There was one more question.

“And from the darkness of our souls, is redemption not possible?”

Murat groaned softly, head bent. “Redemption is the elaboration of a bored mind. Only those who are wise reject it.”

Picard smiled gently and added, “Only those who understand that they are foolish embrace it.”

When Murat lifted his head he found himself alone in his chapel.