Gauntlet

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Jiterica felt feeble and embarrassed. Had she been back in the roiling chaos of her homeworld, she would simply have altered her form and ridden one of the storm winds away from peril. Here, in this place of rigidly enforced geometric boundaries, she was forced to depend on a fellow crewman for assistance.

  Little by little, Chiang pulled her in the direction of safety, the heels of her bulky white suit scraping on the floor. But the lieutenant wasn’t moving quickly enough. According to the evacuation protocols Jiterica had studied, they had only twenty seconds to reach the exit before a duranium barrier descended from the ceiling and sealed off the shuttlebay.

  Twelve seconds had already gone by, and they hadn’t even cleared the last of the shuttlepods. At this rate, they wouldn’t make it. They wouldn’t even come close.

  “Go,” she told Chiang over the sound of the klaxon. “Leave me.”

  “I can’t,” he gasped into her audio sensors, his voice ragged with effort. “You’re part of my crew . . . my responsibility . . .”

  Just then, the ensign saw another crewman appear on her right and grab her by the arm. A moment later, someone else appeared to grab her by the other one. Pooling their strength with Chiang’s, they dragged her with greater speed over the shuttle deck.

  But it wasn’t going to be enough, the ensign told herself. As the ceiling rushed past her, its details framed in her faceplate, she counted down the seconds in her mind.

  Seven seconds. Six. Five . . .

  “Leave me,” she pleaded a second time.

  This time, Chiang didn’t respond. Looking back at the man, Jiterica saw the rictus of strain on his face and realized he was struggling too hard to get an answer out.

  Behind her, a heavy metal barrier started to descend from its slot in the ceiling. Once it closed, there would be no getting it open again. Whoever remained on the wrong side of it would be trapped.

  Four, Jiterica thought. Three. Two . . .

  The barrier was directly above, looming larger as it came down at her. At the last possible moment, she felt a jerk on her suit and saw herself shoot backward. When the sheet of metal hit the deck and locked into place, the bulky white feet of her suit were just inside it.

  One.

  She was safe, she realized. They were all safe.

  Chiang and the others propped the ensign on her feet again. They were in the compartment that mediated between the shuttlebay and the corridor outside it, and one of Jiterica’s colleagues was checking conditions in the ship on a computer terminal built into the bulkhead.

  “Everything seems to be normal,” the man said. “Power levels, hull integrity, air pressure . . .”

  “Then why did we evacuate?” the Bolian asked.

  That’s when they heard the voice fill their compartment. “That was a drill, folks. I’m happy to say you passed.”

  It was difficult for Jiterica to discern one voice on the ship from another, but it seemed to her that it was Commander Ben Zoma speaking. One of the technicians alongside her, a Carpathian female, confirmed the speaker’s identity.

  “Ben Zoma,” she said in an exasperated tone.

  “Carry on,” the first officer told them.

  Then the duranium barrier began to slide up again, retreating into its slot in the ceiling. In the process, it showed them an undamaged and uncompromised shuttlebay, as clean and orderly as they had left it.

  Jiterica turned to Chiang. He was the officer in charge of this section, and yet it seemed to her that he hadn’t known about the drill. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to get her on the safe side of the barrier.

  The ensign hadn’t had time to read much about drill protocol at Starfleet headquarters. She had been too busy learning more essential information, like how to walk and how to speak. However, now that she thought about it, it made sense that at least some drills would come as surprises even to the heads of the sections involved.

  Perhaps there were drills that would even come as surprises to Commander Ben Zoma.

  But it wasn’t the propriety of the drill that gave Jiterica cause for concern. It was her reaction to it. Or more accurately, her inability to react to it.

  If they had faced a real emergency instead of a false one, she would have been a burden to her colleagues. They would have been forced to risk their own lives to save hers.

  Chiang wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “All right, everyone,” he said, his voice echoing with something less than its usual resonance. He was still a little out of breath. “Let’s get back to work.”

  As the others returned to their tasks, Jiterica approached him. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. I wish to speak with you.”

  Chiang frowned as he turned and regarded her. “Funny, Ensign . . . I was just going to tell you the same thing.”

  * * *

  Greyhorse was sitting in his office, mulling what he had heard about Jiterica’s misadventure in the shuttlebay, when he saw Phigus Simenon crossing the sickbay and coming his way.

  The engineer’s scaly tail switched back and forth as he walked, making him look even more driven than usual—and his “usual” was already enough to bowl most people over. Obviously, he had something on his mind.

  “What can I do for you?” Greyhorse asked.

  He and Simenon had gotten to know each other rather well over the last few weeks. They were alike in many ways. For one thing, neither of them was exactly steeped in the social graces.

  “You can pronounce Urajel fit for duty,” the Gnalish told him, depositing himself in a chair opposite the doctor’s. His ruby eyes were narrowed and demanding.

  Urajel was an Andorian engineer who had broken her arm in one of their encounters with the Nuyyad. The limb had healed perfectly, but Greyhorse had wanted to give it a few more days to make sure. Those extra days were now over.

  “You want her?” he said. “You’ve got her.”

  No doubt, Simenon had expected more of a fight. Little by little, the muscles around his eyes relaxed. But his tail didn’t stop switching. Apparently, Urajel’s situation wasn’t the only thing that had been bothering the engineer.

  “You look troubled,” Greyhorse observed dryly.

  “I am,” Simenon told him.

  The doctor knew he would regret asking, but he asked anyway. “Any particular reason for your discontent?”

  “You know the new sciences chief? Valderrama?”

  “Of course I do,” Greyhorse responded. “I gave the woman a physical.”

  “So what do you think of her?”

  Greyhorse looked at him askance. “Is this a trick question?”

  The engineer scowled. “What do you think of her?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I hadn’t given her much thought. She seems efficient enough, I suppose.”

  Simenon harrumphed, obviously not happy with that answer. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I’d say so. Yesterday I showed Valderrama some sensor enhancements in anticipation of our encounter with Beta Barritus. What do you think she said?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Greyhorse replied. “I’m a doctor, not an engineer.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Greyhorse rolled his eyes. “She thanked you for what you’d done and said she expected you to do better.”

  Simenon pointed to him triumphantly. “That’s what you’d expect, right? For her to goad me into enhancing the sensors even more? That’s what a science officer does.”

  Greyhorse frowned. “Am I to understand that Valderrama fell short in this regard?”

  “She sure as hell fell short. All she did was smile and thank me for all my hard work, and go about her business. It was as if she didn’t care how well the sensors worked.”

  “And this bothers you?”

  Simenon’s lips pulled back, exposing rows of small, sharp teeth. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Why should it?” Greyhorse inquired casually. “Your people are pr
obably working on the sensors even as we speak, regardless of Valderrama’s reaction.”

  The Gnalish snorted. “Not probably.”

  The doctor held his hands up, palms facing the ceiling. “So why should I be bothered?”

  “Because,” Simenon said, “I’m not going to be there to pick up her slack all the time. That’s why.”

  As the Gnalish’s remark hung in the air, Greyhorse heard the shuffle of feet in the central exam area beyond his office door. Though he couldn’t catch a glimpse of anyone from where he was sitting, he could venture a guess as to the newcomer’s identity. Lieutenant Paxton was scheduled to come in for a routine physical.

  “Paxton?” he called out.

  “Right here,” came the comm officer’s response.

  The doctor regarded Simenon and shrugged his massive shoulders. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

  The engineer nodded his lizardlike head. “Mine too.” And he left without saying another word.

  As soon as Simenon was gone, Greyhorse got up from behind his desk and went out into the central exam area. Paxton was sitting on a biobed, waiting for him.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” the comm officer said.

  “Not at all,” the doctor replied.

  Then, putting everything else aside—Jiterica’s problem as well as Simenon’s—he focused on the matter at hand. After all, even a routine exam deserved his undivided attention.

  And sickbay, Greyhorse resolved, would continue to be a model of order and efficiency on the Stargazer—even if some of the ship’s other sections were not.

  Idun Asmund sat cross-legged on the floor of her quarters. Wisps of sharply scented smoke escaped from a small iron receptacle in front of her, a receptacle blackened by use and time, in which she had set fire to a tiny chunk of s’naiah wood.

  “Uroph, son of Warrokh,” she intoned.

  And she added, in her thoughts, batlh Daqawlu’taH, meaning “you will be remembered with honor” in the Klingon tongue.

  For more than a thousand years, the warriors of Clan Warrokh had recited the names of their known ancestors before taking their evening meal. It was a tradition that had been passed down from father to son and mother to daughter.

  “Weyto,” she said, “son of Uroph.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  The list was nearly a hundred names long, but Idun never forgot any of them. To do so would have brought dishonor both to her and to the mother who taught her to remember.

  “Ukray’k, daughter of Weyto.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  They were the blood of her adopted father and mother, not her own. Still, she considered them her forebears, just as her father and mother considered her their offspring—with all the rights and privileges accorded progeny under Klingon law.

  “Jitakh, son of Ukray’k.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  In Gerda’s quarters, which were next to Idun’s, her sister would be reciting the same litany of names. But then, Gerda had been raised in the same strict Klingon household, provided with the same exhaustive Klingon education.

  “Hojeen, son of Jitakh.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  When she and Gerda were young and newly adopted, their family had spoken the names together, their father’s deep, resonant voice a counterpoint to their high-pitched, childish ones. Idun could almost hear him now, giving an edge and a life to their heritage that she could never quite manage.

  “Qerresh, son of Hojeen.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, full of pride and approval. Idun and her sister were truer warriors than many who had been born Klingon.

  “Royyebh, daughter of Qerresh.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  “Dobrukh, son of Royyebh.”

  Batlh Daqawlu’taH.

  “Rejjakh, son of—”

  It was then that Idun heard something.

  A chime. It alerted the helm officer to the fact that someone was seeking entrance to her quarters—and spoiling the sanctity of her meditation.

  Idun frowned and opened her eyes. Her crewmates knew that she wished to be left alone at this time of day. If they were interrupting her, it had to be an emergency of some kind.

  Rising to her feet, she said, “Enter.”

  The doors slid apart with an exhalation of air, revealing the small, wiry figure of Commander Wu. She was standing in the corridor with a data padd in her hand and a polite smile on her face.

  Clearly, Idun thought, she had been wrong about the possibility of an emergency. It was just a matter of a new crewmate who was unaware of her meditation schedule.

  “Commander Wu,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “May I come in?” Wu asked.

  Idun shrugged. “Of course.”

  The second officer entered Idun’s quarters and looked around for a moment—first at the wood-burning artifact and the smoke issuing from it, then at everything else. There were chairs available, a couple of them designed specifically for human comfort, but Wu declined to make use of any of them.

  Perhaps she was simply waiting for an invitation, Idun thought. “Would you like to sit down?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” Wu replied. “This won’t take long.”

  There was something in her tone that told Idun she wasn’t going to like what her guest had to say. As it turned out, her suspicion was an accurate one.

  “According to ship’s records,” Wu said, “you’re nearly a week late in taking the requalification exam for helm duty.”

  At first Idun thought the second officer was making a joke—paving the way for what she had really come to say. Then she realized that Wu was absolutely serious.

  The helm officer conceded the point. “That is correct. I am a bit late in requalifying.”

  It was something every officer was required to do in his or her area of specialization. But it wasn’t a regulation that was strictly enforced—at least, not in Idun’s experience.

  She said so.

  Wu seemed unimpressed. “Maybe that was true of your previous assignments. Maybe it was even true here on the Stargazer. But under my supervision, things will be different. Breaches of Starfleet regulations will not be tolerated.”

  It was so ludicrous that Idun was tempted to laugh. “We are in the middle of a hunt for a dangerous adversary. I can requalify as soon as it’s over.”

  It seemed like an eminently reasonable course of action. Apparently Wu thought otherwise.

  “My officers don’t make their own rules,” she said. “They comply with regulations. You’ll either requalify immediately or you’ll be removed from your post.”

  Idun couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt a spurt of anger jump into her throat.

  Somehow she managed to suppress it. Then she said, “That decision may not be in the best interests of this mission or this crew,” pointing out what seemed to her to be the truth.

  Again Wu appeared to see the matter in a different light. “Until further notice,” she announced, “you’re relieved of your responsibilities at the helm.”

  And without another word, she turned and left Idun’s quarters, the sliding doors hissing closed in her wake.

  For a moment, Idun was left speechless. Then she swore volubly and vividly in the Klingon tongue, filling her quarters with curses that threatened to blister the duranium bulkheads, and contacted Wu’s superior via the Stargazer’s intercom system.

  Chapter Ten

  BEN ZOMA HAD JUST ARRIVED on the bridge to take over for Picard when he received Idun Asmund’s impassioned call. Her voice, normally so clipped and efficient, seethed with barely restrained anger and indignation—so much so that it attracted the attention of everyone present. Picard was no exception.

  Ben Zoma frowned. Then he asked the helm officer to hold off for a moment and moved to the captain’s side.

  “A problem?” Picard asked.

  He was beginn
ing to look a little tense. A little grim. And Ben Zoma had no trouble understanding why that would be.

  They were getting closer to Beta Barritus, closer to the White Wolf—and closer to McAteer’s “trap,” as Corey Zweller had described it. Picard was determined to buck the odds, to accomplish what a dozen other captains before him couldn’t and turn the tables on the admiral.

  But what if Picard didn’t manage to complete his mission? What if he fell short and, in the process, showed everyone that Admiral Mehdi’s faith in him had been misplaced?

  The captain had been studying chart after chart of Beta Barritus, incomplete as they were. He had pored over every research paper he could find that dealt with the dynamics of Lazarus stars.

  But what if that wasn’t enough?

  Then McAteer would have succeeded in his gambit—and Picard would never forgive himself for it.

  Hence the beleaguered expression, the first officer reflected. In his friend’s place, Ben Zoma would no doubt have looked a little beleaguered as well.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” he told Picard.

  “I trust you are right,” the captain said, easing himself out of his center seat. “But if you should require my assistance after all, you will find me in my quarters.”

  Ben Zoma nodded. “I won’t. But thanks.”

  That seemed to satisfy Picard. Leaving his friend to deal with Idun’s problem, he headed for his quarters and a much-needed rest.

  Ben Zoma waited until the captain had left the bridge. Then he entered the captain’s ready room, took a seat behind the black plastic desk, and said, “Ben Zoma to Lieutenant Idun Asmund.”

  Instantly the story spilled out of her, punctuated with denunciation and invective. It took the first officer a while to amass all the details and put them in what seemed like the proper order.

  Then he said, “Let me get this straight, Lieutenant. Commander Wu relieved you of your duties as helm officer because you hadn’t taken your requalification test?”

  “That is correct,” Idun responded, her voice trembling with fury she dared not release.