He looked up at Vigo again. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Deeply,” the Pandrilite observed. He sat down on the other side of a low-slung table, his knees coming almost to the level of Joseph’s shoulders. “Any particular reason for it?”
The security chief shrugged and lowered his voice. “I was just thinking about the new guy. Obal.”
Vigo’s brow wrinkled. “Obal?”
“The little guy. The Binderian.”
“Ah,” said Vigo. “That one.”
“I don’t think he’s going to work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” Joseph told him.
“You like him?”
“Sure. He’s as eager as they come. If he wasn’t so . . .”
The weapons officer shrugged. “So what?”
“So silly-looking. Then maybe I’d be more optimistic about his chances. But he looks like—”
“I know,” Vigo interjected, sparing his colleague the need to describe the Binderian’s appearance. “I have seen him. He is not your typical security officer.”
“That’s an understatement. I mean, if Commander Ben Zoma were still in charge of the section, maybe he could do something with Obal. But me, I’m new at this.”
The Pandrilite frowned. If anyone could sympathize with Joseph, it was he. They had both received their battlefield promotions a scant few weeks ago, when the Stargazer’s clash with a race called the Nuyyad had ripped several links from the chain of command.
Of course, the weapons section wasn’t very big, and its lone vacancy had been filled by a crewman from another part of the ship. So even Vigo wasn’t exactly in the same boat as Joseph.
“Listen,” the weapons officer said, “Commander Ben Zoma has faith in you or he wouldn’t have given you the job in the first place. You’re as qualified as anyone to help Obal.” Vigo paused for a moment. “That is, if he can be helped.”
It was a big if, Joseph told himself. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, right?”
“I’m saying it,” Vigo insisted, “because I believe it. Whatever the task, you are equal to it.”
Joseph felt a pang of gratitude. He nodded. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’ve still got to earn it.”
“And you will. Now if I were you, I would stop worrying and spend my free time doing something enjoyable—something like, say, a game of sharash’di.”
Joseph looked at him askance. “Sharash’di? You mean that game Charlie Kochman got for you?”
“Yes. I could set up a board right now.”
The security chief considered it for a moment, then dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “No, thanks. I don’t think I could concentrate on a game right now.”
Vigo seemed on the verge of arguing the point with him, then seemed to think better of it. “As you wish,” he said. “But remember what I said—you will be equal to the task, whatever it is.”
Then he moved off in the direction of Greyhorse, who had just entered the lounge. Idly, Joseph wondered what Vigo was so eager to talk to the doctor about.
Worry about that later, Joseph told himself. Right now, you’ve got to figure out what to do with Obal.
But what could he do? If he kicked the little guy out of security, he would be crushed. And he would know that it wasn’t just his lone indiscretion that had done him in, because every officer in the section made a mistake from time to time.
Joseph thought long and hard. He considered the problem from every angle he could think of. But despite Vigo’s words of encouragement, he still couldn’t come up with an answer.
“Mr. Simenon?”
The Gnalish looked away from his sleek, black control console and saw Lieutenant Valderrama approaching him. He knew the look on the science officer’s face, having seen it many times over the years since he came to Earth to attend Starfleet Academy.
She was about to ask a personal favor of him.
What’s more, he was uniquely capable of granting it. As the ship’s chief engineer, he could make a significant difference in the quality of people’s lives.
What was it? Simenon wondered. Had the lieutenant’s replicator gone on the blink? Or maybe her sonic shower? Had the automatic doors in her quarters gotten jammed?
Well, Valderrama would have to wait her turn in the repairs queue like everyone else. Her status as a fellow officer didn’t get her any privileges in his book.
“Listen,” Simenon said, “I’m busy right now. If—”
“This won’t take long,” the science officer assured him. He scowled, swiveled on his chair and gave Valderrama his full attention. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”
And she said, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
I knew it, Simenon thought, inwardly congratulating himself for his infallible insight into the nuances of human behavior. “And what favor is that?” he asked.
“I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you would take another stab at enhancing our sensor capabilities. I’ve gone over what you did and I think you can do better.”
Simenon straightened. “Better?”
“That’s right. A lot better. You’re one of the most experienced engineers in the fleet, and our sensor capabilities are going to be a key to this mission. We need more from you.”
“I see,” the Gnalish said.
“I’m glad,” Valderrama told him. She smiled. “Keep me informed, will you? I’ll be in the science section if you need me.”
And with that, she made her way back to the exit.
Simenon’s ruby eyes narrowed as he watched the doors slide closed behind Valderrama. Obviously, someone had told the woman how he felt about their earlier conversation. Either that, or her change of heart was a colossal coincidence.
And he didn’t take much stock in coincidence.
But Greyhorse was the only one with whom Simenon had discussed the matter, and the doctor wasn’t the type to get involved in other people’s business. He didn’t believe in making what he called “uninvited appearances” in his patients’ lives.
So who, then? Who had tipped Valderrama off? Someone who had overheard his conversation with the doctor. . . . Paxton, maybe? Or one of the nurses on duty at the time?
Not that I care, Simenon reflected.
In fact, he didn’t give a tribble’s furry hide under what circumstances Valderrama’s attitude had changed, or who might possibly have been responsible. All that mattered was that her attitude had changed—and that the science officer would be pulling her own weight from that point on.
With that happy prospect in mind, the engineer pulled down on the lapels of his lab coat, swiveled his chair around and returned his attention to his control console.
Jean-Luc Picard roused himself from his reverie, vaguely aware that someone had spoken to him as he sat in his center seat. He turned to his right and found himself staring at Lieutenant Iulus, one of the senior men in his engineering section.
Iulus had a padd in his hand. He offered it to the captain. “Those maintenance reports you asked for?”
“Yes,” said Picard, “of course.” Accepting the padd, he made a point of glancing at the data contained on its screen and nodded to Iulus. “Thank you.”
The engineer assured him that it was no trouble at all. Then he left the bridge, leaving the captain to wonder how long he had been adrift in his thoughts.
A minute? Several? He cursed himself softly.
He had been thinking about the White Wolf. About what sort of commander the man might be, what sort of tactical capabilities he might have at his disposal.
Picard doubted that the White Wolf’s vessel would be quite as well armed as the one in his dream. But certainly the pirate had to have some tricks up his sleeve to have remained free as long as he had.
It was unfortunate that Starfleet had given him so little to go on. Just a few snippets of other ships’ sensor data here and there, and
more than half of it of questionable reliability.
The captain felt his hand clench into a fist. If only he knew one thing about his adversary for certain. If only the White Wolf were more than a ghost to him, haunting him, taunting and tantalizing him like a cosmic will-o’-the-wisp.
Picard sighed. He would go over the other captains’ logs once again. Then he would go over their charts of Beta Barritus. Perhaps there was something he missed, something that might prove of value when he confronted the pirate.
And he would confront him. The captain still had every confidence of that taking place.
Turning to Gerda, he asked, “How many hours until we reach Beta Barritus, Lieutenant?”
His navigator consulted her monitors. “Eighteen, sir. Unless you’d like to increase speed to warp nine—?”
Picard shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
It wasn’t the White Wolf’s way to try to outrun his pursuers. Starfleet had established that, at least. The pirate would go to ground like a fox, and the Beta Barritus system was his favorite foxhole.
Besides, the captain didn’t want to exhaust his vessel’s resources by maintaining too high a rate of velocity for too long. That was why they were cruising at warp eight and no faster.
But he couldn’t wait to reach Beta Barritus.
Chapter Twelve
ADMIRAL MCATEER WATCHED the Pacific sun disappear behind a blood-red frond as he negotiated one of the many cunningly shaded paths in the expansive garden behind Starfleet Academy. The place had looked quite different when the admiral was a cadet. Stodgy, geometric, cut-and-dried. Each path had been nothing more than a way to get from one building to another.
Then he had left the Academy to serve on ships that crisscrossed the galaxy. His objective, at least in theory, was the study of stars and their attendant planets. But in reality, he had studied the men and women with whom he worked—their strengths, their failings, the reasons they did what they did. After all, his thinking had gone, if he was to become an effective leader he would need to become an expert on the people he would be leading.
And he would become a leader, McAteer had assured himself. Even then, he knew with grim certainty that he would rise through the ranks and guide Starfleet into a new era someday.
Finally, after many long years of dedication and achievement, after entire decades’ worth of care and planning and artful maneuvering, McAteer got what he had always envisioned. He stood on a height from which he could look out and see the end of his fated journey.
He was back on Earth, the planet of his birth. He was a Starfleet admiral, with all the trimmings. And most important, he was in a position to make his ideas about the fleet a reality.
One of the first things he noticed on his return was the Academy garden and how much it had changed. It boasted exotic plants, shrubs, and trees from dozens of alien worlds—vegetation that added life and scale and color to the place, lining each path and hiding long stretches of it from its neighbors.
It was a refreshment, an intrigue, a delight. One could walk for half an hour and not even come close to being bored.
McAteer had heard that the man responsible was someone named Boothby. A landscape architect, he had guessed, a highly trained professional who had touched this expanse with his genius and moved on.
The admiral admired the fellow for what he had accomplished—and fancied himself a like spirit. After all, what he was trying to do with Starfleet was very much what Boothby had done with this garden.
He had uprooted the old and introduced the new. He had pruned away whatever was holding him back and planted that which served his purposes. And if he had been forced to sacrifice some of the trees and hedges that had served here long and faithfully, his ruthlessness had gained him what nostalgia never could.
Soon, McAteer reflected, his garden would be free of useless undergrowth like Admiral Mehdi and unwanted weeds like that upstart Picard. It would only contain what he wanted it to contain, what he had handpicked and placed there personally.
He smiled just thinking about it. Picard had no chance to catch the White Wolf. None. He would look inept, inadequate—and even more so when the pirate was brought to justice.
And he would be brought to justice. The admiral had absolutely no doubt of it.
Noticing a stone bench just off the path, he availed himself of it. As McAteer sat, he found himself charmed by a most unusual scent—a mixture, it seemed to him, of butterscotch and vanilla. He traced it to a generous cascade of pale-blue blossoms that fell from a nearby branch almost to the ground.
He didn’t know the tree’s name. But the blossoms were so fragrant, so eminently pleasing, he longed to smell one close-up. Plucking a single, fat specimen from among its companions, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
Yes, McAteer thought, savoring the scent. Butterscotch and vanilla. He crushed it between his fingers to get more of the smell out. And maybe a trace of cinnamon as well.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” someone demanded.
The admiral looked around and saw a figure moving toward him, alternately drenched in sunlight and dipped in shadow. It was a man, much older than McAteer, judging by his thatch of white hair and the lines in his face. He wore black overalls and a pale-blue pullover, and there was a spray can in his hand.
“I beg your pardon?” the admiral said.
“I asked you what you thought you were doing,” the man snapped, his watery blue eyes fierce and warlike. “But if that was too subtle for you, how about this— keep your hands off the cotton-picking flowers.”
McAteer felt a spurt of anger. No—he reserved anger for enemies of equal strength. What he felt was indignation.
“Listen, old-timer, maybe your eyesight’s not what it used to be.” He held up his sleeve and pointed to it. “But if you can see these bars, you ought to have some idea to whom you’re speaking.”
The groundskeeper—for that’s obviously what he was—chuckled dryly beneath bushy eyebrows. “You’re an admiral. Big deal.”
McAteer felt the color drain from his face.
“I see guys like you come and go twenty times a day.” The older man moved past McAteer and inspected the branch that had yielded the flower. “And the vast majority of them know better than to pick blossoms off my darro tree.”
“I don’t think you understand,” the admiral told him, his tone clipped and imperious. But then, he wasn’t going to take that kind of talk from a mere gardener. “I could have you fired for speaking to me that way.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
The groundskeeper chortled as if McAteer had said something very funny. “Great. I could use a vacation. Haven’t had one in longer than I can remember.”
The nerve of him, McAteer thought, his teeth grinding together. The unmitigated gall.
He hadn’t become an admiral to have a—a civilian tell him where to get off. “I’ll be happy to oblige you, old-timer. Just give me your name and I assure you, you’ll have nothing more to do with this place.”
The old man sprayed a cloud of water at the injured branch, tilted his head to one side to see something McAteer couldn’t, then turned an amused expression on him.
“The name,” he said, “is Boothby.”
And he walked away.
The admiral stared at the old man, sputtering. Then, no longer feeling quite so appreciative of the Academy garden, he returned to his office by the straightest route possible.
Simenon was still wondering about Valderrama’s change of heart when he received a visit from Commander Wu.
“Don’t tell me,” he snapped in a preemptory tone. “You’ve spoken to Lieutenant Valderrama and you think I can do a better job of enhancing our sensor capabilities.”
The second officer looked confused for a second. But only for a second. Then she seemed to regain her composure.
“I trust you know what you’re doing here,” she said.
Simenon didn’t know what Wu was tal
king about, but he couldn’t resist making use of the straight line. “We had better hope so, hadn’t we? Otherwise, the warp core may blow at any time now.”
He chuckled at his little joke. Unfortunately for Wu, she didn’t see fit to join him.
“I’m not here about engineering expertise, Mr. Simenon. I’m here about violating Starfleet regulations.”
It was another straight line, even better than the first one. “You’re too late,” the Gnalish said, moving along a bank of monitors. “The mutiny was last mission.”
Again, he chuckled at his own jest. And again, the second officer appeared to be unamused.
“I mean it, Chief,” she said as she followed him. “You’re in violation of the regs.”
“Oh?” he said, wondering exactly where she was going with this. “And which reg am I violating?”
“The one that says engineers are prohibited from working a double shift unless there’s at least a yellow alert in effect. I count six men and women who are here for their second consecutive shift—and that’s not including you.”
Simenon looked at Wu, and saw by her frown that she was serious. “You’re not kidding,” he said, “are you?”
“Not at all,” she confirmed.
Now it was his turn to scowl. “Look, Commander, we’re trying to get something accomplished here—something that may make the difference between finding that damned pirate and going home empty-handed. If my people aren’t complaining about working overtime to make that happen, why should Starfleet?”
It was as if Wu hadn’t heard a word he said. “To comply with the regulation,” she told him, “you’ll have to—”
Simenon held up a scaly hand. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. “I won’t have to do a thing, Commander. This is my section and I’ll run it any way I see fit—and if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with the captain and Commander Ben Zoma.”
Wu looked shocked by his declaration. Then her features screwed up into an expression of determination and she said, “Thanks for the advice, Chief. I think I’ll do just that.”
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