Gauntlet

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Ben Zoma smiled. “And she’s one of the easier ones. What do you think of Ensign Jiterica?”

  The captain shrugged. “Apparently she was of rather limited utility in her previous assignment. Of course, we’ll try to work with her. Given her people’s status vis-à-vis the Federation, we don’t have the option of doing otherwise.”

  “But you’re not optimistic?”

  Picard sighed. “Not terribly, no.”

  Given Jiterica’s unusual anatomy, it was remarkable that she had come even this far. Living in the confines of that specially designed suit day in and day out, operating in an environment so different from her natural state . . .

  It had to be hell.

  But Picard wouldn’t allow himself to mistake courage for potential. Unlike Nikolas and Valderrama, Jiterica showed no promise of fitting in on a Federation starship—not in the near term. Not ever.

  “And Obal?” asked Ben Zoma. “From what Pug tells me, he’s not especially suited to a position in security.”

  “That would be my judgment as well,” the captain said. “Perhaps if Obal were encouraged to pursue a different sort of career . . . say, in the sciences section . . .”

  “Pug’s already tried encouraging him to do that. It seems he’s got his heart set on being a security officer.”

  Picard took another sip of tea and savored it. Like Jiterica, Obal possessed a reach that drastically exceeded his grasp. “I will concede that there is a lot to be said for determination. But if I were Pug, I would try again.”

  Ben Zoma nodded. “I’ll pass that on.”

  “Fortunately,” the captain said, “there are the other three—Wu, Caber, and Ulelo. If McAteer had anything underhand in mind with regard to them, we have yet to see it.”

  A troubled look came over his first officer. “Actually . . .”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  Ben Zoma dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Nothing serious. It’s just that Wu strikes me as a little . . . how can I put it?” He frowned for a moment, then said, “Overly enthusiastic.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Picard told him.

  “It isn’t,” Ben Zoma agreed. “Forget I mentioned it. I’m probably just looking for problems where there aren’t any.”

  The captain smiled wryly. “As if we did not have an ample supply of problems already.”

  “You know,” his first officer said, “if Jiterica and the others don’t pan out, you can take McAteer up on his suggestion.”

  “To transfer anyone with whom I’m unhappy?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Picard thought about it. “I could do that,” he agreed. “But I am not going to think about that for the moment. As far as I am concerned, a transfer is a last resort.”

  Because Ben Zoma was his friend, he knew better than to give the captain an argument on that count.

  Chapter Seven

  NIKOLAS SET HIS TRAY DOWN on the metal rack in front of the replicator opening and said, “Tuna casserole.” A moment later, the replicator went to work, transforming a small quantity of undifferentiated raw material to the parameters specified in a digitally stored molecular pattern matrix. The result was a black casserole dish full of something hot and steaming. Nikolas took it out, placed it on his tray, and looked around for an empty table.

  Then he noticed Caber, who was in line behind him, looking at the casserole. Judging by the expression on Caber’s face, he considered Nikolas’s choice a less than desirable one.

  But then, there were more than seven hundred fifty preset options on the Stargazer’s replicator menu, and a great deal more if one wanted to take the time to custom-program them. Tuna casserole was hardly the most exotic selection available.

  “You sure you want to order that?” Caber asked.

  “I know,” Nikolas said. “You’re surprised. Tuna casserole’s for middle-aged guys in stellar cartography.”

  “Actually,” Caber began, “I—”

  “Best piece of advice I ever got,” Nikolas explained, “was from an engineer on an Academy training ship. He told me replicators aren’t all alike, and the worst of them are on Constellation-class deep-space explorers like this one. The best approach when you find yourself on one of these things is to start simple and work your way up—and what’s simpler than a tuna casserole?”

  “True,” said Caber, “but—”

  “If you’re done discussing the finer points of replicator cuisine,” said a blond woman waiting her turn behind them, “the rest of us would like to eat.”

  Nikolas frowned. “Come on,” he told Caber. “I wouldn’t want anyone to starve to death on my account.”

  Caber didn’t address the woman, but neither did he seem inclined to rush. Turning to the replicator, he said, “Salmon steak. Medium rare. In béarnaise sauce.”

  Nikolas didn’t get it. After he had given Caber the inside poop, he figured his roommate would go the tuna casserole route too. But something as tricky as salmon steak with béarnaise sauce? That was the exact opposite of what Nikolas would have recommended.

  He saw the plate materialize in the replicator slot, its centerpiece a moist chunk of pinkish meat drenched in brown and translucent sauce. It looked good, all right—but thanks to that engineer on the Copernicus, Nikolas knew better.

  There was only one explanation that he could think of. Despite appearances, Caber had allowed the woman in back of them to get him flustered. Obviously, he wasn’t as self-possessed as he looked.

  Nikolas found himself taking comfort in the observation. He knew he shouldn’t, but he did.

  “There’s an empty table over there,” Caber said, pointing to it with his chin.

  “Sounds good,” Nikolas told him. It was only after they sat down that he leaned toward his roommate and said, “You shouldn’t have let that woman get you flummoxed.”

  Caber looked at him. “Flummoxed?”

  Then, to Nikolas’s surprise, Caber laughed. It was a deep, heartfelt laugh, the kind that said he hadn’t been bothered by the woman at all—that, in fact, the whole idea was rather ludicrous.

  “But,” Nikolas asked, “if you weren’t bothered by her, how did you end up ordering a salmon steak? Didn’t you hear what I said about replicators on the Constellation class?”

  “Sure,” said Caber. “And I’d heard the same thing. But I checked the Stargazer’s specs before I came aboard, and it’s been equipped with a different replicator system than the other Constellation-class ships. A more advanced system. It can handle a lot more than”—he glanced at Nikolas’s plate with obvious sympathy—“the simple dishes.”

  Nikolas felt as if he had shot himself in the foot with a phaser rifle. The worst of it was that his roommate had tried to disabuse him of his error, but he hadn’t listened.

  “You don’t say,” he got out.

  Caber shrugged. “It’s only one meal. You can order the salmon for dinner if you like.”

  True, Nikolas thought. But I’ll still feel like a fool.

  Here he’d been thinking he had a leg up on Caber—an arena, no matter how small or insignificant, in which he could outshine the guy. I should have known better, he told himself.

  Prodding halfheartedly at his casserole, Nikolas watched Caber dig into his salmon and lift a juicy-looking forkful into his mouth. “How is it?” he asked.

  Caber nodded as he chewed. “Not bad,” he said after he had swallowed and wiped his mouth with his Starfleet-issue cloth napkin. “I mean it’s not the quality of the fish you get in Nova Scotia, but I’ve had a whole lot worse.”

  Nikolas knew of two places with the name Nova Scotia. Having never been to either one of them, he figured he had better ask. “Nova Scotia on Earth or on Dalarte Prime?”

  Caber started to laugh. Then he seemed to realize it wasn’t a joke. “There aren’t any salmon on Dalarte Prime,” he said gently. “The closest thing to it is called a second-sunset fish, and most people find it a bit too salty for their tast
e.”

  “Nova Scotia on Earth, then,” Nikolas said, wishing he hadn’t paraded his ignorance quite so successfully. So he hadn’t traveled as much as the admiral’s son, big deal. “What were you doing there anyway?”

  “Ice-surfing,” Caber told him, and a look of sublime contentment came over his features. “It’s a passion with me. Ever try it?”

  “Once,” Nikolas replied.

  To get a girl, he added silently. It was always to get a girl. But in the process, he had discovered that ice-surfing wasn’t for him.

  “Didn’t love it?” Caber asked, taking note of his roommate’s lack of enthusiasm.

  “Not really,” Nikolas said. “I mean, it was fun and all, and it never got as cold as they said it would, but it didn’t make my toes curl. I like a sport where you’re going head to head with someone, pitting your skills against someone else’s.”

  “Winners and losers,” Caber said, boiling it all down.

  It sounded to Nikolas as if his roommate disapproved of the concept. But then, he reflected, an admiral’s son might have a more “enlightened” view of such matters.

  “So what do you play?” Caber asked.

  “A lot of things,” Nikolas said, steadfastly unashamed of his preference for competition. “Soccer, basketball, handball—”

  “Handball?” Caber echoed, interrupting him.

  Nikolas nodded, ready for what he figured would be a polite but condescending remark. “That’s right.”

  His roommate’s eyes narrowed. “Single wall?”

  “It’s the only kind,” Nikolas said, eyeing Caber suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you play?” He did his best to keep his incredulity out of his voice, but it came out anyway.

  “Sure do,” Caber told him. “Hell, I’ve been playing since I was nine or ten.”

  “But—” Nikolas was at a loss.

  “What?” Caber prodded.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always thought of single-wall handball as a street game.”

  Caber chuckled, his blue eyes gleaming. “And what makes you think I didn’t grow up on the streets?”

  Nikolas framed his answer carefully. After all, he didn’t want to offend the guy. “Your father’s an admiral. I figured an admiral’s kid would spend a lot of time on starbases.”

  “He’s an admiral now,” Caber noted. “But when he was moving up through the ranks, I lived with my mother. In a place called Brooklyn.”

  Nikolas laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. We had a place in Brooklyn Heights. The nearest courts were a few blocks away.”

  “I had a cousin in Brooklyn,” Nikolas said. “Tommy Tsouratakis. He lived in Canarsie.”

  Caber leaned forward, his salmon seemingly forgotten for the moment. “I know Canarsie.”

  “I went to visit Tommy once,” Nikolas recalled. It had been . . . what? Six years ago? Seven? “He wasn’t into handball himself, but he took me to the courts near his house.”

  “Then,” said Caber, “you had to see a guy named Red O’Reilly.”

  “Yes!” Nikolas was tickled by the coincidence. “You know Red O’Reilly? He was king of the hill, the guy to beat.”

  “Did you play him?” Caber asked.

  “Once. He wiped the court with me. I scored two points, maybe three if I was lucky. I was just glad he didn’t shut me out.”

  Caber’s eyes lost their focus. “O’Reilly wiped the court with me too, the first half-dozen times I played him. But I kept trying, kept challenging him. After a while, I got to understand his game better. His strengths. His weaknesses, few as they were.” His mouth pulled up at the corners. “And once, just once, I squeaked by him.”

  Nikolas couldn’t believe it. “You beat Red O’Reilly?”

  “Fifteen-thirteen,” Caber recollected. “On a completely accidental lefthanded killer. Rolled off the wall so perfectly he couldn’t have returned it in a million years.”

  Nikolas shared in the other man’s vision for a moment, savoring it as if it were he who had made the shot. Then he said with absolute earnestness, “I’m impressed.”

  Caber made a dismissive sound deep in his throat. “Don’t be. I never came close to beating him again.”

  But he didn’t have to, Nikolas thought. He had already accomplished the impossible—scaled Everest, won the Academy Marathon. He had conquered Red O’Reilly.

  “Small world,” Nikolas remarked.

  “Yeah,” Caber said. “Very small.”

  As he said it, Lieutenant Commander Wu approached them on her way to the mess hall’s only exit. Every bit as new to the Stargazer as Nikolas or Caber, she didn’t look right or left as she passed the other diners. But then, she obviously wasn’t expecting any greetings.

  Nonetheless, she got one—from Caber. “Afternoon,” he said.

  Wu stopped and looked surprised. “To you too,” she responded, her pleasure evident in her expression. She seemed to make note of Caber’s face. Then she resumed her progress.

  Nikolas looked at his roommate, more envious than ever. It would never have occurred to him to say anything to a command officer unless he absolutely had to.

  “Now I’m really impressed,” he confessed.

  “With what?” Caber wondered. Then he seemed to understand. “That I said hello to Commander Wu?”

  “Not just that you did it,” Nikolas told him. “That you sounded so earnest about it.”

  “You can too.”

  Nikolas shook his head. “Coming from me, it would sound like mockery. I’m the wild child, remember? I don’t mix well with command types.”

  “But you could,” Caber insisted. “All you’ve got to do is make an adjustment in the way you look at them.”

  Nikolas looked at him askance. “An adjustment . . . ?”

  “That’s right. I mean, what’s the difference between them and us, when you come right down to it? A couple of bars on their sleeves? A little bridge time we haven’t accumulated yet?”

  “The power to make us scour plasma conduits the rest of our lives?” Nikolas added.

  Caber waved the notion away. “I’m telling you, they’re the same kind of people we are—no better and no worse. All you’ve got to do is keep that in mind.”

  Nikolas frowned. “Easier said than done. For me at least.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” his roommate said. He looked around, as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping on his conversation. Then he lowered his voice and went on. “I’ll share a little technique I’ve found useful, if you promise to keep it to yourself.”

  Nikolas considered the offer. “Mum’s the word.”

  “A couple of years ago,” Caber began, “I was on Betazed for the wedding of a high-ranking Betazoid official. He knew my father pretty well, so he invited my whole family to the celebration. But rather than pull my mother away from work and my sisters out of school, my dad decided to just bring me.”

  A picture was starting to form in Nikolas’s mind. “On Betazed? But don’t they—?”

  “That’s right,” Caber said. “They have naked wedding ceremonies. The bride, the groom, the guests, the guy who pronounces them soul mates for life . . . everyone. And in this case, there were also a few admirals and their staffs.”

  Nikolas tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “Their staffs? You mean . . . their attachés?”

  There was absolutely no one more stuck-up or supercilious than an admiral’s attaché. They were always so straightlaced, so proper. So the idea of one of them standing there naked . . .

  His smile turned into a laugh.

  “Exactly,” Caber said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “They looked ridiculous. Stripped of their dignity, quite literally. And that’s what gave me the idea for my technique.”

  Nikolas was beginning to understand what his roommate was getting at. “You think of people without their clothes?”

  “Stark naked,” Caber confirmed, “wearing nothing but what they were born with. B
elieve me, it makes it a lot easier to deal with the muckety-mucks of the world. It’s hard to feel intimidated by somebody when they’re standing there without a stitch.”

  Nikolas found it hard to disagree.

  “Go ahead,” Caber said. “Give it a shot.”

  Nikolas looked at him. “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  Nikolas frowned. Then he took in the mess hall at a glance, seeking a likely subject. Suddenly, one presented itself.

  As the individual in question walked by, Nikolas got up from his seat and said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Chief Engineer Simenon looked up at him through slitted, ruby eyes, his scaly nostrils flaring. “Really.”

  Naked, Nikolas thought.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight. However, it had the desired effect. Whatever he might have found daunting about Simenon dematerialized along with his lab coat.

  “Yes, sir,” Nikolas assured him.

  The Gnalish tilted his head as he regarded the ensign. “Whatever you say,” he harrumphed. Then he trundled past, his tail impatiently switching back and forth behind him.

  Nikolas sat down again in front of his casserole. “Not the friendliest individual I’ve ever met.”

  Caber didn’t answer right away. When Nikolas turned to him to see why, he caught a glimpse of something hard in his roommate’s eyes, something like disapproval but stronger.

  Then the moment passed, and Caber turned to him with a smile on his face. “I’ve seen friendlier. But you’ve proven my point. You said hello to a high-ranking officer. You addressed him civilly, without even a hint of sarcasm. And you got him to speak to you civilly as well.”

  “If you can call that being civil,” Nikolas quipped.

  Caber glanced at the exit through which the engineer had departed. “That was Simenon,” he said, “by all accounts the grumpiest, most mean-spirited officer on the ship. If you’re going to offend someone, it’s going to be him. And yet he left here without so much as a complaint. I’d say that constitutes success.”

  Nikolas saw the man’s point. The technique had worked. And if Nikolas could approach Simenon, he could approach anyone—even the captain.