Gauntlet

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Ben Zoma swore under his breath. For the moment, it seemed, the hunt for the White Wolf was on hold.

  The man called the White Wolf pushed his sensor screen away on its swivel and leaned back into his captain’s chair.

  “You’ve found them?” asked his second-in-command, the ruby-red light casting his blunt features into sharp relief.

  “I have,” the White Wolf told him. “They’ve survived the twisters in one piece.”

  Turgis’s expression was one of grudging respect. “Really.”

  “Yes. But they’ve stopped moving. Either they’ve lost impulse power or their sensors have finally failed them.”

  “Their sensors, most likely.”

  The White Wolf nodded judiciously. “Most likely.”

  He himself had had trouble in that area for a long time. And when he finally came up with a solution, it had been a product more of good fortune than of expertise.

  “They’ll linger there for a while,” Turgis speculated disdainfully, “then turn around and go home—and brag about how close they came to capturing us.”

  The White Wolf cast a sidelong look at him. “You think so? None of their colleagues have gotten even this far.”

  The Klingon sneered. “There’s a big difference between beating the twisters and beating us.”

  The pirate smiled. “There is indeed.”

  And they laughed, as they had before whenever the subject of their pursuers came up. But this time, the White Wolf couldn’t work himself up to Turgis’s level of enthusiasm.

  Their situation had changed. For the first time since they had begun lifting cargoes from Federation vessels, there was a chance they might have to defend themselves.

  Not that the pirate had any doubt as to the outcome of an all-out encounter—especially when he had an ace wearing a Starfleet uniform up his sleeve.

  Lieutenant Ulelo peered past the half-hidden form of Marion Sears, his repair-team partner, into the depths of a state-of-the-art subspace field generator.

  Sears reached back, open palm extended. “Hyperspanner,” she said, her voice muffled by its confinement.

  “Hyperspanner,” Ulelo repeated, and selected one from the assortment of handheld tools laid out in front of him. Then he laid it in his partner’s palm.

  “Thanks,” said Sears, and pulled the hyperspanner into the shadowy nether regions of the field generator.

  Ulelo had never had an opportunity like this on the Copernicus—a chance to inspect a key component in the deflector system at close range. And even if he’d had such an opportunity, it wouldn’t have been nearly as valuable. Field generators on Oberth-class ships were a full level of sophistication below the Stargazer’s.

  Sears made an unintelligible noise.

  “Did you say something?” Ulelo asked her.

  “No,” said the engineer. “I just banged my head is all.”

  Ulelo didn’t comment further. He just went on scrutinizing what he could see of the field generator, trying to file away everything he could about it.

  According to the specs he had pulled up shortly after his arrival on the ship, the Stargazer boasted eight of the devices in all. Two were located on deck 10, two more on deck 26, and one in each of the ship’s four warp nacelles.

  Each field generator consisted of a dozen graviton polarity sources feeding a pair of 500-millicochrane subspace field distortion amplifiers. At least, that’s the information Ulelo had gleaned from the pertinent computer file.

  When the magnetic vortices had battered the shields down to nothing, the engineering section was left with two tasks. The first was to repair and replace whatever power linkages had been damaged. The second was to reinitialize the field generators.

  Ulelo, who had received precious little training as an engineer, had been assigned to the generator initialization team. So had a number of other non-engineers—crewmen from sections as disparate as security and weapons and even sickbay—which was why this compartment was crawling with more uniformed personnel than it had seen since the Stargazer was commissioned.

  But then, this was where the captain had decided everyone was needed—here and in the other generator compartments or in the science section. Because they couldn’t complete their mission if they couldn’t find a way to navigate in the gases that surrounded them, and they didn’t dare move until they got their shields up.

  Of course, Ulelo had a mission of his own—one that was completely different from Captain Picard’s. And with that mission in mind, he dutifully resumed his studies.

  Jean-Luc Picard had never been a pacer.

  Certainly, he had been plagued by moments of impatience like anyone else. But he had almost always managed to find a way to channel his nervous energy into something useful.

  Or, if not useful, at least diverting.

  But now, with the fate of his ship and crew resting squarely on his inexperienced shoulders, he was forced to rely on others to be useful—and diversions held no appeal for him.

  And without realizing it, he had begun pacing from one end of his ready room to the other.

  The captain had just caught himself and resolved to discontinue the activity when he heard the sound of chimes outside his door. “Come,” he said, wondering who might be calling on him.

  It turned out to be Lieutenant Valderrama.

  “Sit,” he said. “Please.” He deposited himself in the chair behind his desk, glad for the interruption.

  Valderrama sat down as well. Then she smiled and said, “I think I may have come up with the solution to our problem.”

  It took a moment for Picard to process the information. “Our problem?” he repeated inanely. Then it sank in, making his heart beat against his ribs. “You mean our sensor problem?”

  “Actually,” said Valderrama, “I haven’t been able to come up with anything regarding the sensors.”

  The captain’s hopes fell precipitously. “I see. Then what have you come up with?”

  “A way to see in this gas soup, sir. But it doesn’t have anything to do with our sensors.”

  Picard looked at the science officer, making no attempt to conceal his confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “Sorry,” said the lieutenant. “What I mean is, there’s a data-gathering option we’ve overlooked. It’s a bit antiquated, I’ll admit, but I think it’s perfectly suited to this environment.”

  The captain leaned forward in his chair. “I would be interested in hearing more,” he told her.

  Valderrama went on to explain her theory in considerable detail. Partway through the process, Picard found himself smiling. It was a brilliant idea she had come up with, and one that wouldn’t be at all difficult to execute.

  “And that’s it,” she said finally.

  He nodded. “Let’s put it to the test.”

  Obviously pleased with the captain’s reaction, Valderrama said, “Aye, sir. Right away.”

  Picard looked up and addressed the intercom grid. “Captain Picard to Chief Simenon.”

  “Simenon here.”

  The captain glanced at his science officer. “Lieutenant Valderrama has suggested a novel alternative to our sensor scans. I would like you to assist her in implementing it.”

  “And what exactly is this novel approach?” the engineer wondered.

  Picard shrugged for the science officer’s benefit. “Why don’t I let her tell you herself? Picard out.”

  Valderrama took that as her cue to stand up. “Thank you, sir,” she told the captain.

  Picard knew what she meant, but he shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  He watched her depart, then sat back in his chair and experienced a surge of satisfaction. And why shouldn’t I? he asked himself. He had shown faith in someone, and that faith had been rewarded.

  Picard was proud of Juanita Valderrama. In fact, he was proud of them both.

  Ensign Nikolas rubbed his eyes, cursed softly to himself, and focused again on his monitor screen.
r />   He was studying the same sensor graphics as before. Except now, the areas in question were much smaller, much more proximate to the ship. And they weren’t changing, because the Stargazer hadn’t gone anywhere in the last few hours.

  Still, there were reasons to keep up their watch. They didn’t know enough about this system to predict what it might throw at them. And even if nature didn’t come after them with a vengeance, the White Wolf might not be so accommodating.

  “Tired?” asked Caber.

  Nikolas shrugged. “No more than anyone else.”

  He wasn’t sure anymore what to make of Caber. The guy couldn’t have been nicer to him or more supportive. In fact, Caber seemed to be that way with everyone.

  With one notable exception, Nikolas added silently.

  He glanced across the room and saw Obal hard at work, absorbed in whatever graphic was occupying his screen at the moment. Nikolas didn’t understand why Caber had it in for the Binderian. He had asked, but Caber didn’t seem inclined to offer an explanation.

  Maybe there was no explanation. Maybe it was just a matter of chemistry. But quite clearly, there was something about Obal that rubbed Caber the wrong way.

  Fortunately, Nikolas had exacted a promise from his roommate—no matter how Caber felt about the Binderian, he would leave the little guy alone. No more mocking, no more instigation.

  And until then, Caber had been as good as his word.

  “I could use a break,” he said.

  “A break?” Nikolas chuckled as he turned back to his screen. “While we’re sitting here without a stitch of protection? You like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

  “Come on,” Caber rejoined. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “The White Wolf’s not even thinking of coming after us.”

  “How do you know that?” Nikolas asked.

  “Because he knows this system and we don’t. All he’s got to do is stay where he is, nice and cozy in his hiding place, and we’ll eventually have to give up and go home.”

  Nikolas frowned at the notion as he called up another graphic. “And you think that’s what’s going to happen? You think we’re going to leave here empty-handed?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t get it,” said Nikolas, forcing himself to concentrate on his work. “Aren’t you the guy who kept chipping at Red O’Reilly until you finally beat him? And now you’re willing to give up on the White Wolf halfway into the mission?”

  “Red O’Reilly was known to lose a game here and there,” Caber told him, swiveling his chair to face his roommate’s. “The White Wolf has never lost. And believe me, when the day comes that he’s caught, it won’t be at the hands of a captain a couple of years older than we are.”

  Nikolas could feel his blood rising into his face. He wasn’t a quitter, and he didn’t like talk of quitting. And besides, Caber was distracting him from what Nikolas still considered important.

  “Listen,” he said, “let’s talk about this later, all right? After this shift is over.”

  Caber made a sound of disdain. “This shift will never be over. Not as long as our captain thinks he can—”

  “Ensign Caber?”

  Nikolas knew who had spoken even before he turned and saw Obal waddling toward them. What’s more, the ensign had a pretty good idea of what the Binderian wanted.

  Caber didn’t get up to acknowledge Obal’s superior rank. He just folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

  Obal frowned as he stopped in front of the big man, who looked down on the Binderian even though he was still seated. Obal looked as earnest as Nikolas had ever seen him.

  “You do not appear to be approaching your assignment with the proper diligence,” he observed.

  “Don’t I?” Caber responded.

  The Binderian’s frown deepened. “If we are to succeed in our mission, we must all do our part.”

  “Normally,” said Caber, “I’d agree with you. But I just don’t feel very motivated today.”

  Puzzled, Obal tilted his head. “And why is that?”

  Caber shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I feel funny taking orders from someone who looks like Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Nikolas wasn’t sure if Obal knew what Thanksgiving was, much less what kind of meals were associated with it. However, he seemed to understand that he had been insulted. For a moment, he stared at Caber as if trying to decide what kind of charges to level against him.

  And charges certainly seemed to be in order. Nikolas hadn’t witnessed this kind of arrogance, this kind of insubordination, since the day he entered Starfleet.

  But to his surprise, Obal didn’t say anything about filing a report. He didn’t even tell Caber that he was out of line. He simply said, “Try to be more attentive to your duties, Ensign,” and walked back in the direction of his workstation.

  Caber watched him go, a smile spreading across his face. Then he turned to Nikolas. “Came down on me pretty hard, didn’t he?”

  Nikolas sighed. “Listen, Joe—”

  “The guy rules with an iron hand,” Caber went on. He laughed. “I’ll sure think twice before pulling that again.”

  “Joe,” said Nikolas, “that’s enough.”

  His voice had an edge to it that even he hadn’t expected. Hearing it, Caber was brought up short. Then he grinned.

  “Don’t worry,” he told Nikolas. “Our pal Obal’s not going to take offense. He hasn’t got a sensitive bone in his body. In fact, he hasn’t got a bone in his body, period.”

  And Caber laughed again, making sure it was loud enough for Obal to hear him, even across the room.

  But the Binderian didn’t do anything about it. He just settled into his seat and regarded his screen as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t been ridiculed in front of everyone present.

  “Guess it’s time to get back to work,” Caber said, and swung around to face his monitor again. But the damage had been done, Nikolas reflected, and Caber knew it.

  Nikolas shook his head. He didn’t know with whom he was more disgusted—Caber for the abuse he was heaping on his superior, or Obal for not fighting back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PICARD SAT BACK IN HIS CENTER SEAT and eyed his forward viewscreen, with its deep, daunting vision of blushing plasma seas and their continually swirling currents. He could barely make out the glowering red orb of Beta Barritus in the center of it all. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” said Ben Zoma, who was standing in his usual place beside the captain.

  “And Lieutenant Valderrama?”

  “On her way.”

  Picard had deemed it fitting that Valderrama join them on the bridge at this juncture, as it was her brainchild that had set this effort in motion.

  Just as he thought that, the turbolift doors hissed open behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, the captain could see Valderrama come out onto the bridge. She was smiling, albeit a bit nervously.

  “Welcome,” Picard told her.

  She nodded as she took up a position beside him, on the opposite side from Ben Zoma. “Thank you, sir.”

  The captain glanced at Gerda. “Launch probe, Lieutenant.”

  The navigator ran her fingers over her controls. Then she turned to him and said, “Probe away, sir.”

  On the viewscreen, Picard could see the probe shoot through the nest of misty, wine-colored gases. It didn’t take long before it was gone—or at least, seemed to be gone, at this level of magnification.

  He turned to Lieutenant Valderrama. The science officer looked tense, hopeful, and perhaps more than a little proud of herself. But then, she deserved to feel that way after she had given them their best chance to locate their prey.

  Valderrama’s idea had been a wonderfully simple one. The plasma soup surrounding the star made it impossible to get any more useful information out of the ship’s active sensor systems.

  Sensor systems consisted of proton spectrometers, gravimetric distort
ion scanners, and gamma ray imagers. What Picard needed—and what Valderrama had prescribed—was a sensor technology that predated the Stargazer by hundreds of years.

  A technology called radar.

  Radar was just a matter of bouncing ultrahigh-frequency radio waves off a distant object. And as Valderrama had so astutely pointed out, certain frequencies of radio waves could make it through almost anything, including the veils of hydrogen gas that surrounded the star in this system.

  It was with this in mind that Simenon’s people had spent the last day or so working on the navigational deflector and lateral sensor arrays, rerigging them so that the former could emit radio waves, which the latter could then receive and analyze.

  And to enhance their prospects of success, the Gnalish had added a touch of his own. He had outfitted the probe they had just launched with radar capabilities as well.

  Programmed to follow a course parallel to the Stargazer’s, the probe would give them additional input from a remote source and, as a result, substantially better odds of finding what they were looking for. Nor was it likely to tip off the White Wolf with its presence, since it was flying parallel to the Stargazer and not ahead of her.

  For now, however, the probe would serve a different purpose. Its communication facilities temporarily deactivated, it would present Valderrama’s idea with its first test.

  “Activate radar assembly,” Picard said.

  “Activated,” Gerda told him.

  He looked forward again. “On screen.”

  Instantly, the image of the plasma sea gave way to a rigid green-on-black grid—the same one Gerda saw every day on her navigational console. Unfortunately, there was nothing remarkable to be seen on the grid. In fact, there was nothing at all.

  Radar, Picard knew, was ploddingly slow compared to the other sensor technologies at their disposal—technologies which had, for all their quickness, proved useless here.

  This might take a while, Picard told himself. Not that he minded. What they were doing here was important. No, he thought—critical.