OXFORD UNIVERSITY, 24 APRIL 2370

Dr. Sharima Patel was a Professor of Genetic Anthropology at Oxford University, in the United Kingdom of Great Britain (now a Department of the European Alliance, which was itself a subdivision of the United Earth Government, itself a subdivision of the United Federation of Planets). A diminutive but attractive woman of Indian ancestry with olive skin coupled with dark brown hair and eyes, she had worked for many years in association with Professor Richard Galen, one of the Federation’s foremost archaeologists. When Galen had become convinced that some sort of message was imprinted in the DNA of many species around the galaxy, she had disagreed and they had parted ways. Galen had gone off gallivanting around the galaxy on what Patel saw as a wild goose chase, while she had chosen to remain here, conducting her own research on genetic samples taken from bones recovered from archaeological digs both on Earth and on other planets.

Right now, she was sitting at her desk, poring over data on her computer terminal. She was in the midst of a project in which DNA samples from ancient bones were being compared to samples retained in a massive Federation database, in order to determine if there were any living relatives who might be located. Once such a match was located, the genealogy of the living relative would then be traced, providing a picture of the movement of populations over time.

Patel looked up from her computer screen to a small box, tied up with string, which had arrived at her office that very morning from the Burke Museum at the University of Washington, in the United States of America. She picked it up and, using a pair of laser scissors, cut the string. Carefully removing the brown paper which wrapped the box itself, she set the box down and lifted off the lid. Looking inside, she saw a skull, brown with age.

“Kennewick Man,” she said softly to herself. “Nearly 10,000 years old.” She smiled, taking off her old-fashioned wire-rimmed eye-glasses (she was one of the unlucky few who were allergic to Retinax, the standard treatment for myopia and hyperopia, and her doctor recommended against ocular implants for such a relatively minor condition) and cleaning them with a tissue. “This should be fascinating!”

The action of cleaning her antique spectacles made her think of another advance in technology which she was about to use in processing the sample from the ancient skull. In the old days, in order to obtain a DNA sample from a bone, it was necessary to actually destroy part of the sample. Now, hand-held scanners were capable to detecting DNA in old bones, and reading the genetic code contained therein, without the need to destroy a priceless artifact. She picked up her tricorder and listened as it softly beeped and whirred while performing the scan. Then she set the tricorder into a slot in her desktop, where it downloaded the results into a database on her computer.

“Computer,” she said. “Was a complete DNA sample recovered from the specimen?

“Working,” the stern-sounding male voice of her computer said. Patel sighed. Genetic Anthropologists, especially ones who had disagreed with such a prestigious personality as Richard Galen…and been proven wrong to boot…didn’t get the most modern equipment available. Her computer was an old duotronic model which had been cutting-edge technology in the mid 23rd century, but was seriously outdated now. But it did what she needed it to do. That was all that was important. After a moment, the computer replied, “Affirmative. A complete sample was recovered.”

“Computer,” she said, “compare the sample DNA just loaded with the samples in the Federation DNA Databank. Please analyze the results for familial links of any kind.”

“Working,” the computer voice said. “Matches found.”

“Display them on my screen, please,” Patel said.

A long list of names, most of them of people here on Earth but also many living on other planets, appeared on her screen. She smiled again. She had known that a 10,000 year old specimen was likely to have many, many descendants here, in the 24th century. But her eye was immediately drawn to one name, which the computer had highlighted in red. The message, “EXACT MATCH,” flashed on and off in bright yellow letters beneath it.

“Exact match!,” Patel said. “Why, that’s virtually impossible!” She looked closer at the name which was highlighted in red, and her mouth dropped open. “No! It can’t be!” It couldn’t be, but it was.

“Computer,” she said quickly. “Please connect me with the Federation Communications Net. I need to transmit a subspace message.”


U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, STARDATE 47699.7

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sat in the Ready-Room of the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, reviewing personnel reports, when his com-badge beeped. The voice of his Number One, Commander William Riker, quickly followed.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Captain,” Riker said, “But a subspace message, marked personal, just came in for you. Would you like it transferred to your Ready Room?’

“It’s not an interruption, Number One,” Picard said. He smiled. “Actually I’m glad for the diversion. Personnel reports are dry reading at best. By all means, send it through.”

He heard Riker laughing softly through the com-badge. Riker well knew just how dry the personnel reports were...after all, Riker had written most of them. “Yes, Sir,” Riker said. A moment later, the face of Dr. Sharima Patel appeared on the Captain’s computer screen.

“Sharima!,” Picard said. “It’s been…what…ten years now? It's so good to hear from you again!” Picard and Patel had both studied under Dr. Richard Galen, and had been considered by Galen to be his best and brightest pupils. Indeed, he’d had more than a passing romantic interest in the lovely, exotic young woman with the charming British accent. They'd had a brief, but torrid affair. But it hadn't lasted. When Picard had gone off to join Starfleet, Patel had stayed with Galen, and had assisted him in many of his greatest discoveries. Picard had been saddened when he had heard of the acrimonious rupture between Patel and Galen, both of whom he considered dear friends. With Galen’s death the year before at the moment of his crowning achievement, he knew that Patel had found herself shunned by many in the archaeological and anthropological communities. Nevertheless, she continued to work, and Picard had read, with great interest, some of her papers which had appeared in various journals since Galen’s death.

“Captain Picard,” Patel said, smiling, “It’s been far too long.”

“You need not be so formal. Jean-Luc will do,” Picard said, smiling in return. “How can I help you today?”

“Jean-Luc,” Patel replied, “I’ve made the most fascinating discovery, and the amazing thing is that it concerns you. Can you get away to visit me here on Earth? I think this is something you will want to see, and I want you to have that chance before I go to publication with it.”

“Hmmm,” Picard said, grinning. “Well, I do have YEARS of shore leave accumulated, and our present mission is not anything which absolutely requires my presence here. We’ll be putting into Starbase 24 for repairs in two days. I can catch a transport to Earth from there, and be with you in a week. Will that work?”

“Wonderful!,” Patel said. “I will see you in a week, then. It’s been good to speak with you again, Jean-Luc.”

“And with you as well, Sharima,” Picard said. Patel’s image disappeared from his screen.

Picard sat back in his chair, then stood up. Walking over to his replicator, he said, “Tea, Earl Gray, hot.” A cup of steaming, aromatic tea materialized for him, and he picked it up. Taking a sip, he carried it back over to his desk, sat down and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

I wonder what Sharima has found that she thinks is so important for me to see in person, he mused silently. She’s not usually so secretive. He took another sip of his tea.

“Well,” he said to himself, “I suppose we’ll see in a week.”


OXFORD UNIVERSITY, 1 MAY 2370

On a warm spring afternoon, Captain Jean-Luc Picard strolled on the ancient grounds of Oxford University, headed for the office of Dr. Patel. He looked about at the buildings, many of them hundreds of years old, and the beautiful gardens of ancient trees and lovely flowers. You can almost feel the antiquity of this place, Picard thought to himself. It made him almost, but not quite, wish that he had heeded Dr. Galen’s urging to forsake Starfleet in favor of a rich, fulfilling career as an archaeologist.

Finally, he approached the Ashmolean Museum, where Dr. Patel’s offices were located. Going inside, he walked through the ancient halls, filled with even more ancient artifacts from every part of the Earth and beyond. Finally, he arrived in front of Dr. Patel’s door. He rang the chime.

“Who is there, please,” he heard Patel’s voice say through the intercom speaker next to the door.

“Jean-Luc Picard,” the Captain said. “May I come in?”

The door, an ancient one of heavy, dark wood, suddenly opened, and Sharima Patel stood before him. Picard had forgotten just how attractive she was. He couldn’t help noticing her well-built, voluptuous body, her pert, upturned nose and full, red lips, and the sparkle in her deep, black eyes.

“Sharima!,” he said. “Why, you’ve hardly changed in all these years! It’s so good to see you again!”

Patel blushed. “Jean-Luc Picard,” she said sternly, “You are a liar and a scoundrel.” Then she grinned broadly. “But a sweet one!,” she said as she gave him a warm hug, which he avidly returned. “Please, come inside,” she said.

Patel offered him a chair in front of her desk, and sat down in her own seat behind it.

“So, Sharima,” Picard said. “What is it that I had to come all the way to Earth to see?”

Patel smiled, turned to a shelf behind her, and picked up a plain, cardboard hat box. She placed it on her desk, lifted the lid, and took out the skull of Kennewick Man.

“Are you familiar with this?,” she asked.

“No,” Picard said, peering at it intently. Then, looking up at Patel, he asked, “Should I be?”

Patel put the skull carefully back into the box, replaced the lid, and set it back on the shelf.

“That was the skull of Kennewick Man,” she said. “It dates to approximately ten thousand years ago, and was found in the State of Washington, in the United States some 400 years ago. The interesting thing is, DNA analysis indicates that it belongs right here.” She reached over and tapped Picard gently on the forehead.

“I don’t understand,” Picard said, looking mystified.

“I recently obtained a DNA sample from the skull you just saw,” Patel said. “The DNA is an identical match to your own, Jean-Luc. According to my computer, YOU are Kennewick Man.”

“But, but,” Picard spluttered, “That can’t be possible! Surely there’s got to be another explanation.”

Patel nodded. “I’m sure there is. However, I’ve ruled out computer error, the most likely one. The sample is ten thousand years old, so I suppose that in all that time, someone else with your identical DNA makeup might have been born. But the chances of that are…well, virtually impossible.” She smiled. “So you see, we have a mystery here.”

“Indeed!,” Picard said. “Well, I have at least several weeks that I can spend here with you, unless Starfleet Command decides otherwise. Let’s see if we can find a solution to that mystery.”

“I had hoped you would say that, Jean-Luc,” Patel said with a smile.

She really does have a lovely smile, doesn’t she, Picard thought to himself.

“Hmmm,“ Picard said, “Solving a mystery in the company of a beautiful lady. Sounds like a wonderful way to spend my shore leave.”

Sharima smiled again and took his hand. “You are a despicable cad, Jean-Luc. But I’m glad you’re here.”

U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, STARDATE 47724.1

Upon his return from Earth, Captain Jean-Luc Picard once again found himself in his Ready Room, preparing for the next mission assigned by Starfleet Command, which would take the ENTERPRISE to an outpost on the Cardassian border. He had been staring at the mission briefing reports for some time, but he couldn’t get his mind focused on them. The mystery which Sharima Patel had revealed to him, and which, despite three weeks of fruitless research, they had been unable to resolve, still intruded into his thoughts.

Sharima herself also intruded into his thoughts. The three weeks they had spent together had been very pleasant ones indeed. He smiled as he recalled the moment when, as they were huddled together closely reviewing some new data, she had looked up into his eyes and then kissed him. He had kissed her back, ardently. And then, that night, he had checked out of his hotel room and spent the rest of his shore leave…or at least those portions of it when the two of them weren’t working together at her office at Oxford…at her home, and in her bed. His spine tingled slightly and he shuddered with delight at the memory. But women had always been a distraction he could ill afford, and despite deep regrets, he had bid her farewell and returned to the ENTERPRISE alone.

But the unsolved mystery still intrigued him. “How could it be that my DNA matches that recovered from the skull of a man who died ten millennia ago?,” he asked, speaking to no-one in particular. “There must be an explanation.”

“You rang?,” said a disembodied voice, all too familiar, which seemingly came from all around him. And then, there was a brilliant flash of white light which caused Picard to cover his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself looking on the arrogant, smirking visage of Q.

Q, a member of a nearly omnipotent race of beings of great power, beings who controlled time and space as easily as humans breathed, had visited the crew of the ENTERPRISE several times before. His appearances always presaged danger. Picard was decidedly NOT glad to see him. Today he was dressed as Sherlock Holmes, complete with deerstalker cap, ivory tobacco pipe, and a ridiculously large magnifying glass.

Picard tapped his com-badge. “Intruder Alert! Security to my Ready Room!”

Q took a drag from his pipe, then coughed loudly. Holding the pipe at arm’s length like someone holding a deadly snake, he exclaimed, “Tobacco! How did you humans ever get hooked on such a vile substance?” Then he looked at Picard. “Your communicator won’t work, I’m afraid.”

“Q!,” Picard thundered. “What is the meaning of this?”

Q tossed the pipe into the air, and with a flash, it disappeared. Folding his hands behind him, he said, “You should know. You summoned me.”

“I did no such thing,” Picard said sternly.

“Oh, but you did,” Q said patiently. “You asked for an explanation of Dr. Patel’s mystery. And so, here I am.”

“You?”, Picard said.

“Moi,” Q said, smirking. “Let me explain.” He raised his hand. Before Picard could speak, he snapped his fingers, and to Picard’s chagrin, his Ready Room disappeared. He was ill prepared for what he saw next.


SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST, THE YEAR 7,510 B.C.E.

When sight returned to Picard, he found himself standing in the midst of a primeval forest. Huge trees, the trunks of many of which measured as much as ten feet in diameter, stretched as far as the eye could see. Overhead, the dense forest canopy all but hid the sun. It was somewhat chilly, and wisps of mist hung about in the air like ghosts. Picard shivered, folding his arms in an effort to get warm. To make matters even worse, Q was still there, sitting on a nearby rock with a bemused look on his face.

“Q!,” he demanded. “Where have you taken me! I have no time for your ridiculous games!”

“Ah, we have all the time in the world...all the time in the universe,” Q said, laughing. “And, Mon Capitan, my games are most certainly not ridiculous. They always have a purpose.”

“What purpose could possibly be served by bringing me here?,” Picard fumed.

Q laughed again. "Why, to show you the answer to the mystery, of course!” He stood up, and advanced until his face was mere inches away from Picard's. “And to teach you a much-needed lesson."

"I need no lesson from you!," Picard hissed.

Q withdrew a couple of steps, then held his magnifying glass up, his face appearing distorted like the reflection in a fun-house mirror, as he peered at Picard like an insect through the glass. "Oh, but you do. Humanity is a savage, barbarous race," he said, matter-of-factly. "You think of yourselves as such an evolved species. So arrogant! So self-assured! And you, most of all!” Then he tossed the magnifying glass into the air, and it too, disappeared, this time in a puff of smoke. “Well,” he said, placing his hands on his hips, “we are going to see just how evolved you really are. This place is the northwestern part of the United States of America. It is ten thousand years in the past, give or take a century or two. This is the hunting grounds of a tribe of natives, very, very aggressive natives. Let us see your evolved conflict resolution skills at work, shall we?"

Q snapped his fingers, and a phaser appeared in Picard's hand.

“Ta, ta!,” Q said, snapping his fingers again. And with that, he was gone.

Just at that moment, Picard heard shouts behind him. He turned to see a group of Paleo-Indian hunters pointing at him and talking among themselves. All were armed with throwing spears and atlatls, and several of them held these ready in a highly threatening manner.

Picard remembered the phaser in his hand, and slowly, ever so slowly, he put the phaser away, slipping it into a pocket in his tunic. He knew his com-badge would translate for him, so he spoke. "My name is Jean Luc Picard," he said. "I mean you no harm." He held his hand up, palm outward, in a gesture of non-aggression.

The hunters heard the stranger speak, and to their amazement they understood him. But then, he held up his hand in a gesture which, in their tribal culture, conveyed one of the most deadly insults imaginable. They shrieked with rage, and rushed at the stranger, blood in their eyes. One of them, a man named Umash, placed a throwing spear into the nock of his atlatl throwing stick. Snapping it forward, he grinned with pleasure as he saw the sharp, serrated, gray stone point slam into the stranger's right shoulder.

Picard gasped as the ancient weapon bit deep into his flesh, stumbling backward into a tree. He reached for the phaser, but found that it had been knocked loose by the jolt of the impact and had fallen from his pocket, burying itself in some nearby bushes. The savages were getting very close now, and Picard, seeing that discretion was, in this case, the better part of valor, turned and ran for his life.

Fortunately, Picard was in excellent condition for a man his age, and had undergone the most rigorous Starfleet survival training. He had run marathons ever since his Starfleet Academy days, and still did so when the opportunity afforded, and usually finished in the top third of the contestants. As he ran for his life, dodging right and left through the trees to avoid the spears thrown by the pursuing tribesmen, he managed to gradually outdistance his pursuers. He heard their shouts falling farther and farther behind as he ran.

Strangely, he did not feel the pain of his wound. He knew that would not last...right now he was benefiting from an adrenalin rush brought on by fear and exertion. But he knew if he didn't do something about the spear lodged in his shoulder, he was as good as dead. The loss of blood would kill him, if the pursuing savages did not. He looked desperately for someplace to hide, to stop and rest and tend his wounds.

Suddenly, he stumbled and fell into a sinkhole, a small cavern underneath the ground. He gasped in pain as he tumbled in, and again when he hit the bottom, and tears rolled down his cheeks, but he bit his lip and kept from shouting the profanities which hovered on the tip of his tongue. I've got to keep quiet, he thought. If I cry out, they'll find me. The entrance of the cavern was well screened by brush and bushes, and he heard his pursuers pass by outside, still shouting. As he listened, their voices receded into the distance. It seemed he was safe, for the moment.

He painfully tugged at the spear, but couldn't dislodge the point. “Merde!,” he grunted.

Giving up on that idea, he looked around the cavern floor and found a sharp stone nearby. He used it to slowly, painfully saw away at the wooden shaft of the spear, just below where it connected with the stone spearhead. Then, when it was weakened sufficiently, he broke it off, leaving the point in the wound. Taking off his uniform tunic, he tore strips from it which he used to construct a rude bandage to staunch the flow of blood. By the time he was done, he was feeling very weak from the loss of blood. He tried to stand up, and promptly passed out.

After...how long?...he awakened. “How long was I unconscious?,” he asked himself groggily. His wound throbbed, and when he looked at his bandage, it was soaked with blood. Worse still, when he unwrapped it, the wound was swollen and red, a clear sign of infection. He wrapped it with more strips from his tunic.

“I've got to get out of this cavern,” he muttered softly. The opening through which he had fallen was a good eight to ten feet above his head. But there was a tangled network of vines which hung down. He grabbed onto these and tugged, hard. “Seems solid enough,” he said. “But can I do this with a spear in my shoulder?” He sighed. “I guess there's only one way to find out.”

He grabbed the vines firmly, and slowly, painfully, hand over hand, began to pull himself up. He winced in agony every time he pulled with his right arm, but he managed to hold on. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he reached the opening and pulled himself up onto the forest floor.

In the distance he could hear shouting, and he knew the natives were still looking for him. In his weakened state, he knew it was just a matter of time before they found him. He could only guess at the kind of death they'd give him then, and he had no desire to verify his guesses by direct experiment.

“I'd better get moving,” he muttered. “If I can get out of their territory, perhaps I can find another, less aggressive tribe who will help me.”

He made his way slowly through the forest for several hours, and then suddenly, the trees gave way and he found himself on the steep banks of a swiftly moving river. As he stood, looking across at the other side, suddenly he heard shouts behind him. Turning, he saw the hunters coming, baying for his blood. He started to run, scrambling down the steep bank toward the river. But then, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He gasped at the agony of it. Then, the world went black, and he knew no more.

Then, to his amazement, he found himself floating above his own body as it slid down the steep riverbank, a spear still lodged between his shoulder blades. He saw his corpse roll off a ledge overhanging the rushing water, and fall in. It floated downstream, and came to rest on the shore about a mile away. A large Grizzley Bear found it, dragged it into the woods, and began to rip it apart, eating it as Picard watched with a mixture of fascination and horror.

“Is this death?,” he asked numbly.

Then he heard Q's voice. “Yes, Jean-Luc. This is death.” Then, once again, everything went black.


U.S.S. ENTERPRISE, STARDATE 47724.1

When sight returned to Jean-Luc Picard's eyes, he found that he and Q were back aboard the ENTERPRISE, in his Ready Room. He was, as he had been before being transported to ancient North America, seated behind his desk. A quick glance at the chronometer on his computer told him that no time had passed in the interim.

Q, who was now dressed in the uniform of a Starfleet Admiral, a costume he often assumed when dealing with Picard, looked on him with a bemused expression. He has this need to express his superiority, even in such ludicrous ways, Picard thought to himself.

“So what was this?,” Picard said irritably. “Another test of humanity's mettle? To see if I would stand by Federation values, or react just as savagely as the tribesmen of ancient North America? Or were you simply bored? Is this just fun and games for you?”

Q shook his head, pursing his lips, then smiled. "Don't be cross with me, Jean Luc,” he said. “As I have said, my games always have a purpose.”

Picard fumed. “What purpose could any of this possibly have served?”

“I worry about you sometimes, Jean-Luc,” Q said. Seeing Picard's incredulous expression, he continued. “Oh yes, I really do. Your first instinct, in any conflict situation, is to attempt to reason with your foe. But you're about to go into a difficult negotiation with the Cardassians, a notoriously UNREASONABLE people. So I thought I'd give you a lesson. People are more often than not irrational, Jean-Luc, and they don't always listen to reason. Remember, as my former protege James Kirk did, that a fully charged phaser is sometimes a more potent tool of diplomacy than the universal translator."

"Wait," Picard said, dumbfounded. "Are you speaking of Captain James T. Kirk? THE Captain James T. Kirk? You're saying Kirk was YOUR protege?"

Q laughed. "But of course. You don't think he got out of the Klingon prison on Rure Penthe by himself, do you?" And with that, he waved his right hand and disappeared, leaving Picard shaking his head in wonderment.


OXFORD UNIVERSITY, 22 MAY 2370

Sharima Patel was working in her office, in the Ashmolean Museum of Oxford University, when her computer flashed the message, “Incoming Subspace Message” on her screen.

“Computer, accept communication,” she said. The datafile she had been working on vanished from the screen, to be replaced by the smiling face of Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

“Jean-Luc!,” she said. “This is a surprise!”

“Sharima,” Picard said. “It's good to see you again. I have news regarding the mystery we attempted to solve together. I have the answer.”

“Really?,” Patel exclaimed.

“Yes,” Picard said. “It turns out that the skull of Kennewick Man is, in fact, my own skull.”

“But how can that be?,” Patel said, smiling. “You seem to still be using it.”

“Are you familiar with the entity called Q?,” Picard asked.

“The Q entity?,” Patel repeated. “I've heard about some of your encounters with it. Is Q involved in this somehow?” Picard explained the events of his most recent encounter with Q.

“I saw myself die," he concluded, "and my corpse dismembered by a bear. After Q returned me to my office and then left, I noticed that there was still mud clinging to my boots, evidently from the riverbank where I was killed. I thought it odd that Q would allow that to be transported back with me...after all, no other evidence that I had even left my Ready Room still existed...so I had that mud analyzed. Although the computer was not able to place it precisely, the chemical and geological composition of that mud prove it came from somewhere within less than one kilometer of the spot where, some ten thousand years later, the remains of Kennewick Man were found.”

“So you ARE Kennewick Man,” Patel said, shaking her head.

"It would seem so," Picard replied.

Patel laughed. “Quite a few anthropological theories about the origins of Native Americans have been based on the study of those remains. Looks like some revisions are in order.”

“I should say so,” Picard said, laughing in turn.

“Well,” Patel said, “given this news, the Burke Museum probably won't want the skull back. It's worthless as a historical piece.” Then she grinned mischieviously. “I wonder if they'll let me keep it?”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?,” Picard asked.

"Well,” she said, “you're going off again to explore the galaxy, and leaving me here all alone. This way, at least I'll always have PART of you with me, no matter where you are.”

They both laughed long and merrily.

 

RETURN TO HOMEPAGE

 

Copyright 2011 by Robert Perkins.  All Rights Reserved.  Last Updated 26 March 2011.