Then he saw it—a bright red dot in the upper left quadrant of the grid. It flashed at the captain triumphantly, bringing a smile to his face. Nor was his smile the only one.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the White Wolf. It was just the probe. But if they could find a probe, Valderrama had reasoned, finding the pirate would be just a matter of time.
“Congratulations,” Picard told the science officer. “It appears that your theory has panned out.”
Valderrama’s sense of accomplishment was evident in her voice as well as her expression. “Thank you, sir,” she told him. “I’m pleased I could make a contribution.”
So am I, the captain reflected.
Phigus Simenon hated the idea of what he was about to do. He absolutely hated it.
Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult for him to locate Valderrama. She was standing right there in the science section, her hand on a junior officer’s shoulder, lending him encouragement, it seemed, as she pointed something out on his sensor screen.
No doubt she was telling him what to expect of her radar arrangement—the one she had thought of when Simenon himself had despaired of devising any further sensor innovations. The one that would more than likely guide them to the White Wolf.
And that, of course, was what he had come to speak to her about.
Noticing his approach, Valderrama said, “Mr. Simenon. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The engineer winced at her congenial tone. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him, was she?
“I came,” he said, “to . . .” It was difficult for him to get the word out—as difficult as he had imagined it would be.
Valderrama’s brow creased, but she remained patient. He would have felt better if she had nudged him a little, or maybe even folded her arms and tapped her foot.
But of course, she didn’t do that. She was too nice, too much like someone’s mother to provoke him that way.
Simenon took a breath and started again. “I came to—” With an effort, he finally squeezed the word out: “—apologize.” He paused. “That is, for what I said about you.”
Valderrama didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. There was that consolation, at least.
“You mean,” she replied, “about my . . . apparent lack of interest in enhancing the sensors?”
Simenon nodded. “Yes. That.”
“It’s all right,” the science officer told him. “As it happens, you were correct. I was being lax in the performance of my duties. But I’m not going to be lax anymore, I assure you.”
“Good. Then . . . you accept my apology?” he asked, hoping she would say yes so he could end this debacle.
“I do,” she said.
Simenon breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. I’ll be in engineering if you need me.” And he began to retreat toward the exit.
But he hadn’t gotten very far before Valderrama called after him. Stopping dead in his tracks, the engineer wondered what further torment he would have to endure.
But all she said was, “How are the repairs going?”
“We’re almost done,” he told her. “Shields should be back to full strength within the hour.”
The science officer smiled. “That’s good news.”
“So it is,” Simenon mumbled. Then he made his way out of the science section before Valderrama could think of some other way to prolong his agony.
Nikolas wasn’t sure at what point he realized that he had responded to the intercom greeting.
But he had responded to it. The ensign knew that in a distant, instinctive sort of way. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been a feminine voice in his room speaking to him as if there had already been an exchange of salutations.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” the voice said. “I know you’ve been working long hours.”
Nikolas sat up with an effort, shook off the warm, welcome weight of sleep, and tried to remember where he was and who in blazes was talking to him.
Stargazer, his mind said, sifting through its haze for the pertinent facts. Commander Wu.
“Ensign?” said the second officer.
“Yes, Commander,” Nikolas responded a little shakily. He ran his fingers through his hair and suppressed a yawn. “Here. And no—you haven’t disturbed me at all.”
“I just wanted to assure you that your contribution has not gone unnoticed. In fact,” Wu told him, “it’s been brought to my attention more than once.”
“It has?” the ensign said. Despite his attempt to speak clearly, he slurred the words a bit.
“Indeed,” Wu replied. “Mr. Joseph informed me that you were the first to detect the vortex belt down in the security section.”
That was me, all right, Nikolas thought.
“However,” the second officer continued, “it was Ensign Caber who filed a report providing the full details of your diligence. Given the dedication you’ve shown, the seriousness with which you seem to have undertaken your assignment, I’m not surprised you were able to get wind of the vortices well before any of your colleagues.”
“Ensign Caber said that?” Nikolas wondered.
“I know,” Wu said. “It’s rather unusual for an ensign to file an unsolicited personnel report, especially when it involves a crewman of equal rank. However, Mr. Caber seems possessed of a rather extraordinary sense of fairness.”
And an extraordinary hostility toward a certain Binderian, Nikolas added inwardly. But all he said was, “Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. “I’ve gone over your personnel file, Ensign, and I couldn’t help noticing the strikes against you. The disciplinary action for fighting, in particular.”
Nikolas felt a rush of warmth in his cheeks. “That wasn’t my fault, Commander. I was just defending myself.”
“Unfortunately,” said Wu, “your captain saw it otherwise. Hence the disciplinary action, which didn’t exactly ensure you of a successful career path.”
The ensign frowned. There was nothing to be gained by arguing the point, especially with someone who had begun their conversation on a positive note.
“No, sir.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Nikolas, people change. They improve. They put their pasts behind them. And from what I’ve seen of your efforts so far on the Stargazer, you’ve done all those things.”
Nikolas smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Keep up the good work,” Wu advised him. “Don’t lose focus. And get some sleep, Ensign. You’ll need it.”
Nikolas stifled a groan. “I’ll do that, Commander.”
“Wu out.”
Their exchange over, the ensign finally had a chance to take stock of himself. He looked down and saw that he had gone to bed still dressed in his uniform.
And his roommate, who was possessed of that “rather extraordinary sense of fairness”? There was no sign of him. Obviously, Caber hadn’t been as tired as Nikolas was.
The ensign felt the urge to yawn again, and this time he gave into it. Funny, he thought. This was the last problem he had expected to have on the Stargazer—being woken out of a dead sleep by the second officer, who just couldn’t wait to praise his devotion to duty.
Maybe Caber was right, he told himself as he slumped back against his bed and closed his eyes. Maybe he could prove those Academy guys wrong after all.
That is, if he didn’t screw things up by returning to his old tricks. But he wouldn’t do that, he vowed. He would be as patient and cooperative as anyone who had ever served on a Starfleet vessel.
Lieutenant Nikolas, he thought. Captain Nikolas. He smiled at the prospect as he drifted off.
Picard was on his way to the bridge when the doors to his turbolift compartment opened and admitted Lieutenant Valderrama.
He smiled. “Lieutenant.”
She smiled back. “Sir.” As the doors closed again, she said, “I understand the shields have been restored.”
“Very nearly,” the captain told her. “Enough for us to get under way again, so we
can finish what we have begun.”
Valderrama nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
“But we would still be in a hole if not for your brainstorm.” He favored the lieutenant with a look of admiration. “Using radar in this day and age—it was an inspired idea, to say the least.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Valderrama.
It seemed to Picard that she was somewhat less enthusiastic than he had seen her on the bridge. But then, the novelty of her discovery and its success were probably beginning to wear off.
It occurred to him to ask Valderrama about his other project in her section. “Incidentally,” he said in a softer voice, “how is Ensign Jiterica faring?”
The lieutenant didn’t answer right away. “Unfortunately,” she replied with obvious reluctance, “Ensign Jiterica could be doing better, sir. She seems listless, uninterested in the challenges we’re tackling . . . even withdrawn at times. If I may be allowed to venture an opinion . . . ?”
“By all means.”
“I don’t think we’re doing her a favor by continuing to try to make her fit in.”
Valderrama sounded understandably sympathetic. She had been considered a misfit herself for the last few years.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Picard said. “I was hoping her situation would improve—for the Federation’s sake as well as her own. Nonetheless, I appreciate your candor.”
“I’d prefer to have been candid about good news,” the science officer told him.
The captain smiled wistfully to himself. “Perhaps next time, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
“I’ll do that,” Valderrama promised him.
By then, they had reached her destination—deck 6, which housed the ship’s science section. The doors opened and the lieutenant departed, leaving Picard with something to think about.
In his head, he began to compose an advisory to Starfleet Command. It would contain a recommendation that Ensign Jiterica be given her unconditional discharge.
Under the circumstances, Picard reflected, it was the only humane choice open to him.
Idun Asmund heard the hiss of the turbolift doors as they parted to admit someone. The captain, she thought without turning. He had said he was on his way.
“Helm,” said Picard, confirming her suspicion. He took his seat behind her. “Activate impulse drive.”
“Aye, sir,” Idun responded. Her long, slender fingers tapped the requisite studs on her control console. “Ready.”
There was a pause, as if the captain was savoring this moment. And no doubt he was. “Full impulse,” he said finally.
“Full impulse,” she confirmed.
“Engage,” Picard ordered, his voice the crack of a whip. Idun sent them hurtling through the gases and ion clouds of Beta Barritus, depending on a kind of sensor operation she had never heard of before this mission. Not that it mattered that she was unfamiliar with this thing called radar.
If it got them closer to their prey, Idun Asmund was all for it.
The White Wolf frowned as he peered at his personal sensor screen, where a single blue dot was drifting slowly across a white grid. “They’re moving again,” he announced. “Obviously, whatever problems they had have been solved.”
His second-in-command’s thick brows met over the bridge of his nose as he considered the news. Then, with a curt backhanded gesture, he dismissed the threat posed by their pursuer.
“I’m glad they’re moving,” the Klingon snarled. “I’m tired of hiding here like a mewling p’takh.”
The White Wolf shook his head slowly as he studied his screen. “There are no cowards on this ship, Turgis. If there were, I would’ve gotten rid of them a long time ago.”
The Klingon rumbled on as if he hadn’t heard his captain’s comment. “My heart yearns for battle—for blood! It’s been too long since I raised my hand against an enemy!”
The White Wolf saw others on the bridge turn to Turgis, wary of the edge in his voice. On the other hand, he mused, some of them probably felt the same way.
“We’re not operating a warship,” he insisted—and not for the Klingon’s benefit alone. “We’re privateers. Our victory comes in not getting caught.”
A sound of disgust tore from Turgis’s throat. “That’s no victory! That’s mere survival!”
The White Wolf’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at his second-in-command. “What are you saying? That you’ve had enough of this life? Of what we do here?”
It put the Klingon on the spot. But then, that was exactly what the pirate had meant to do.
“Well?” he asked.
Turgis turned red in the face, but he contained his fury—just as the White Wolf had expected he would. He hadn’t shared a bridge with the Klingon all this time without getting to know him a little.
As Turgis stalked off to drown his defiance in a bottle of bloodwine, the pirate turned to the others. “What are you looking at?” he asked them. “The hunt’s on again—and we’ve still got work to do.”
One by one they went back to their business. And a moment later, so did the man known as the White Wolf, for he had played a poker game or two in his day.
And he knew that a hidden ace wasn’t always a guarantee of victory.
Chapter Twenty
CHIEF COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER MARTIN PAXTON wasn’t a stickler about much, but he did have a thing about punctuality. So when his relief had yet to show up a full ten minutes after Paxton’s shift had ended, it bugged him. And it bugged him even more that the tardy officer was Ulelo.
He had taken Ulelo off the graveyard shift sooner than any other comm chief would have. He had treated the new guy with warmth and respect. In Ulelo’s place, Paxton would have made damned sure he didn’t bite the hand that fed him.
Finally, the comm chief had had enough. Tapping his insignia, he said, “Paxton to Ulelo.”
There was no answer.
Again he said, “Paxton to Ulelo.”
Still no response.
“Computer,” he said, “locate Mr. Ulelo.”
The computer’s soft, feminine voice informed him that “Mr. Ulelo is in the shuttlebay.”
The comm chief frowned. “Paxton to Ch—”
“Mr. Paxton?” someone said over the comm link. But it didn’t sound like Ulelo.
“This is Paxton,” he said. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Andarko, sir. Technician first class. I’m speaking into Mr. Ulelo’s communicator.”
“And why isn’t Mr. Ulelo speaking into his communicator?” Paxton inquired, figuring it was a reasonable question.
“He took off his tunic to work on one of the shuttles with Lieutenant Chiang,” said Andarko. “But when I heard a voice coming from his communicator, I came over to see what was going on.”
“I see,” said Paxton.
Had he spoken directly into the intercom grid, Ulelo’s name would have rung throughout the shuttlebay. But, not wanting to embarrass Ulelo any more than was necessary, he had chosen to use the more private method of communicator-to-communicator, so Andarko was the only one who had ended up hearing him.
“Would you be so kind,” Paxton asked the technician, “as to get Mr. Ulelo for me? I need to speak with him right away.”
“Actually,” Andarko said, “he’s right here, sir.”
A moment later, the comm chief heard a voice that he recognized as Ulelo’s. “Sir?”
“Mr. Ulelo,” Paxton said evenly, “are you aware of the fact that you were supposed to report to the bridge almost fifteen minutes ago?”
“Actually,” a third voice chimed in, “it’s my fault Ulelo’s late.”
It took Paxton a moment to place it. “Chiang?”
“That’s right,” the shuttle chief confirmed. “And I’ll take the blame for Mr. Ulelo’s tardiness. You see, he asked for a look at the newer shuttles. And while we were going over them, he found a comm problem with the type-eight. I asked if he could stay awhile and fix it, and, unfortunately, we both lost track of th
e time.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Ulelo.
“Same here,” Chiang added. “I didn’t mean to keep your man that long.”
Under the circumstances, Paxton could hardly be angry. It wasn’t as if Ulelo had been goofing off. He had been working—just not where he was scheduled to be working.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” said the comm chief. “Just tell me when to expect him.”
“Immediately,” Ulelo assured him. “I’m done with the shuttle. Mr. Chiang shouldn’t have any more problems with it from here on.”
“I wouldn’t even have known it had a problem,” the shuttle chief remarked, “if Ulelo here hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Then it’s a good thing he was there,” Paxton said. “See you later, Chiang. Paxton out.”
With a private chuckle, he turned his attention back to his comm console. Chiang was lucky Ulelo was so curious by nature. In fact, they were all lucky.
Considering the dangerous nature of their mission, the last thing they needed was a shuttle malfunction.
* * *
As Gilaad Ben Zoma entered his captain’s ready room, he saw a figure standing on the other side of the room, gazing out the observation port. For just a moment, he could have sworn that the figure was that of the late Daithan Ruhalter.
But of course, it wasn’t. It was that of Jean-Luc Picard.
Strange, the first officer thought. Picard wasn’t as tall as Ruhalter or as broad, and Ruhalter’s hair had been gray where Picard’s was still brown. And yet, for just a moment, Picard had put him in mind of their former captain.
It was something about Picard’s bearing, Ben Zoma decided. Something about the set of his shoulders. Ruhalter had been a confident man, a confident captain. It seemed to Ben Zoma that his friend was becoming a confident captain as well.
And why not? They had already accomplished what no one else could. They had gotten through the debris field and the vortex belt, and now—thanks to Valderrama—they had come up with a way to see in a place where standard sensors were of no use to them.
With a little luck, they would accomplish one more task—the one they had come here for. They would catch the infamous, elusive White Wolf.
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