Stargazer Three

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Actually,” said Vigo, stopping Riyyen in his tracks, “there is something. Can you tell me where to find Ejanix?”

  “Certainly,” said the engineer. “He’d be in his lab.” He tilted his head—an expression of curiosity in his species. “Have you and Ejanix met before?”

  “We have,” the Pandrilite told him. “In fact, we were pretty close friends for a while.”

  Riyyen’s brow raised. “That’s strange. He didn’t mention anything.” He shrugged. “In any case, just follow me. I’ll take you to him.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Vigo said.

  The engineer led him along a single long corridor, then turned down a second corridor. Ejanix’s laboratory was the first door on the right.

  “I’ll leave you two to reminisce,” said Riyyen, who obviously had some work of his own to attend to. Then he retreated along the same corridor.

  Vigo eyed the closed door of Ejanix’s lab. It seemed unlikely that his friend had failed to mention him. Maybe Riyyen just hadn’t received the information.

  Yes, he thought, that must be it.

  Touching the metal plate beside the door, Vigo waited for a response. It was slow in coming—so much so that he began to wonder if Riyyen hadn’t led him to an empty lab by mistake.

  Then, just as Vigo was about to give up, the door slid open and revealed the room beyond it—a small, bright enclosure full of computer consoles and monitor screens. It wasn’t until the weapons officer stepped inside that he saw a large, black-garbed figure huddled over one of the consoles, staring at the screen on top of it.

  There was no question that it was Ejanix. Even if it weren’t for the fact of the engineer’s size, Vigo would still have recognized him.

  Either Ejanix hadn’t heard him come in or he was in the middle of some important calculation, because he didn’t so much as turn his head to acknowledge his friend’s presence. And Vigo, reluctant to interrupt Ejanix’s work, didn’t say anything either. He just stood there, waiting.

  Finally, Ejanix spoke to him. But he didn’t turn away from his monitor screen. “You’re here,” he said.

  Just that. Nothing more.

  “If you’re busy,” Vigo told him, “I can come back later.”

  “I am busy,” said Ejanix. “Too busy to play host. But Starfleet Command insisted that I do so, and I never argue with Starfleet Command.”

  He sounded…bitter, Vigo thought. And as far as he could remember, Ejanix had never sounded bitter.

  Then, unexpectedly, the engineer swiveled in his chair and faced the weapons officer. But he wasn’t the Ejanix whom Vigo had known back on Earth. This Ejanix was on edge, nervous-looking, bereft of all the considerable warmth and enthusiasm he had shown in the past.

  “Is everything all right?” Vigo asked.

  His mentor frowned. “Frankly, it’s far from all right. It’s too soon for me to be talking about the Type Nine. I haven’t finished testing it yet. I haven’t put it through its paces. And instead of doing that, I’ll be entertaining you and your counterparts from the Essex and the New Orleans.”

  Vigo didn’t know what to say. What he finally settled for was “If I had known that a demonstration was premature, I would have turned down the invitation.”

  Ejanix harrumphed. “You didn’t have a choice in the matter. Don’t you know that yet? When Starfleet Command tells you to go somewhere, you go.”

  There was silence between them for a moment. It was an uncomfortable silence, too.

  Vigo was the one who finally broke it. “I’m told the other weapons officers won’t be here for approximately an hour. Why don’t I leave you alone until then, so you can take some time to compose yourself?”

  Ejanix looked away from him, as if even the sight of him made the engineer uncomfortable. “That’s kind of you,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “At dinner,” Vigo suggested.

  “Yes,” said Ejanix. “At dinner.” But he didn’t exactly sound as if he were looking forward to it.

  Carter Greyhorse took his duties as chief medical officer quite seriously—most of the time.

  At this particular moment, however, he was engaged in the sort of activity not envisioned by the architects of the Stargazer’s sickbay. One of his colleagues, with whom he happened to be fiercely and hopelessly in love, was pinning him against the bulkhead behind his desk—her lips pulled back from her perfect, white teeth, her fingernails etching lines of hot, fiery pain in his face, neck, and chest.

  And to that point, Greyhorse had loved every second of it.

  “What if someone walks in?” he asked softly, as Gerda gnawed on his lower lip.

  “Then I’ll hear them,” she assured him. “I was trained as a warrior, remember?”

  The doctor took comfort in the knowledge that Gerda didn’t want their affair made public any more than he did. Relationships between officers were frowned on in Starfleet. If Captain Picard found out about them, he would be forced to recommend a transfer for one of them.

  Hence, the need for secrecy—even from Gerda’s sister, Idun, with whom she shared every other detail of her life. It was a need that ruled their lusts most of the time. But their schedules had kept them apart of late, and Gerda always found it difficult to be denied.

  Almost as much as Greyhorse himself did.

  Still, it made him nervous to carry on like this in his office, with its transparent walls. But he didn’t dare let Gerda know how nervous. After all, she was a warrior, as she had said, and she expected no less of her lover.

  If the doctor appeared too worried, Gerda would interpret it as weakness. And nothing put a damper on a Klingon-style love affair like a perception of weakness in the male.

  “Tell me,” the navigator said in a husky whisper, “have you ever had a fantasy about me and my sister?”

  He looked at her, surprised. “A fantasy?”

  “You know…a sexual fantasy.”

  Greyhorse hadn’t had any such thing. But even if he had, he would never have admitted it to Gerda.

  “Of course not,” he said.

  She made a sound of triumph. “I didn’t think you had. So Idun was wrong. All humans are not alike.”

  The satisfaction Gerda derived from this conclusion seemed to further ignite her ardor. Her nails dug deeper into Greyhorse’s flesh, under his jacket where a couple of scratches wouldn’t be noticed. Her lips pulled back even further and her breath came a little faster.

  “I have to be on the bridge in a few minutes,” she said. “But if I didn’t…” She let her voice trail off suggestively.

  Suddenly, Ben Zoma’s voice flooded Greyhorse’s office, turning the doctor’s blood to ice. It was only after he looked around and saw that the first officer himself wasn’t anywhere in evidence that Greyhorse realized the voice had issued from the intercom system.

  “Yes…?” he managed in response.

  “The captain would like to see the senior staff in the briefing room,” said Ben Zoma. “Ten minutes.”

  The doctor forced himself to breathe. “I’ll be there,” he assured the first officer.

  “Good. Ben Zoma out.”

  Greyhorse looked at Gerda. Despite her warrior’s poise, she too looked to have been startled by the intercom message. It gave him some satisfaction that he wasn’t the only one.

  “Looks like you’ll have to leave sooner than you thought,” he told her.

  “So it does,” she said.

  “Gerda?” said Ben Zoma, his voice ringing through sickbay a second time.

  Her gaze hardened as she once more became the dutiful navigator. “Aye, sir?”

  “The captain wants to see the senior staff in the briefing room. Ten minutes.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Gerda.

  “Thanks. Ben Zoma out.”

  Greyhorse let out a breath. “I suppose we should leave sickbay separately. We don’t want to give anyone any ideas.”

  Gerda nodded. “I’ll go first. The captain will expec
t me to be there early.”

  “As usual,” said the doctor.

  His lover kissed him hard on the mouth. Then, without another word, she turned and left his office.

  Greyhorse watched her stride across sickbay and heaved a sigh. His heart was still pounding from the shock of hearing Ben Zoma’s voice, but Gerda looked as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Her gait was that of a woman of confidence. A warrior, as she had said moments earlier. And the doctor? He was different from her. He was just a man.

  And not a very brave man at that.

  Chapter Three

  PICARD LOOKED AROUND the briefing room table and scanned the faces of his officers, whom he had just apprised of their mission to Mara Zenaya.

  “Any questions?” he asked.

  “Just one,” asked Paxton, the communications chief. “What do we do if the Balduk show up?”

  Picard had given that some thought. “If they show up,” he said, “we attempt to discuss the matter with them. With luck, we’ll be able to negotiate a reasonable outcome.”

  Knowing the Balduk as they did, his officers looked skeptical. The captain didn’t blame them.

  “But if negotiations fail,” he continued, “we will not fight them. We will withdraw.”

  He didn’t like the notion of retreat any better than his officers did. However, it didn’t make sense to risk the lives of his crew for the sake of nonessential research, and research was the only thing at stake there.

  There weren’t any colonies to protect in that part of space, or claims to assert. Just the anomaly.

  “Which makes it all the more important,” said Ben Zoma, “to gather our data quickly and efficiently. That way, we know we won’t walk away empty-handed.”

  There were nods around the table. Clearly, Ben Zoma’s comment had infused them with a sense of resolve.

  “If there is nothing else,” said Picard, “you are dismissed. But keep me posted on your preparations.”

  Again, there were nods. And on that decidedly positive note, the meeting ended.

  Vigo arrived at the mess hall at precisely the time posted on the installation’s computer net. But as he looked around at the half-dozen round, black plastic tables in the room, he saw that some of them were already occupied.

  In fact, he counted almost twenty individuals, both male and female, representing nearly as many species. He couldn’t help noticing that Ejanix wasn’t among them.

  On the other hand, the other two weapons officers seemed to have arrived. Vigo could tell because they were the only ones in the room—besides him, of course—who were wearing standard-issue Starfleet uniforms.

  One of the weapons officers was a human, a lanky fellow with a square jaw and a receding hairline. The other was a Vobilite, as evidenced by his mottled red skin and the curved tusks that protruded from either side of his mouth.

  Vigo had barely made the observation when he found Riyyen beside him with a tray in his hands. “I see you found your way,” said the engineer. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to your fellow ship officers.”

  Vigo allowed the Dedderac to escort him across the room. As he did so, the weapons officers looked up at them.

  Indicating the newcomers with a sweep of his black-and-white striped hand, Riyyen said, “Lieutenant Vigo of the Stargazer, this is Lieutenant Sebring of the Essex and Lieutenant Runj of the New Orleans.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Sebring, getting up and extending his hand. “How’s life on the Stargazer?”

  “Fine,” said Vigo, engaging in the handclasp so highly valued by humans.

  “Do you mind if we sit down?” asked Riyyen, as polite as any other Dedderac of Vigo’s acquaintance.

  “Not at all,” said Runj, his words slurred by the impediment posed by his tusks.

  The Pandrilite decided he could wait to get his food. It wasn’t often that he got the chance to speak with other chief weapons officers.

  “So,” said Sebring, shooting Vigo a conspiratorial smile, “what’s the deal with that twenty-eight-year-old captain? I forget his name.”

  “His name is Picard,” said Vigo.

  “That’s right, Picard. Are you okay with him?”

  The Pandrilite sighed. “I am quite pleased. Whatever his age, he is the finest officer I have ever known.”

  “High praise,” Runj observed.

  “Of which he is eminently deserving,” Vigo said.

  “Well,” said Sebring, “it’s good to hear all that scuttlebutt about him is unfounded. Have you had a chance to see the Type Nine yet?”

  “Not yet,” Vigo told him.

  “I can’t wait,” said Sebring. He turned to Riyyen. “Any idea when we’ll get our demonstration?”

  “It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning,” said the Dedderac. “I can’t say what time exactly.”

  “Funny,” said Sebring, grinning as he looked around the mess hall. “You engineers are pretty precise when it comes to dinnertime. I’m surprised you don’t know exactly when the demonstration is.”

  Riyyen smiled politely. “I might, Lieutenant, if I were the engineer in charge of the Type Nine project.” He glanced apologetically at Vigo. “The one who is in charge of it tends to be a bit eccentric lately, not to mention significantly less interested in mealtimes than the rest of us.”

  The Pandrilite had already experienced Ejanix’s new-found eccentricity, so the information didn’t catch him off guard. Nonetheless, he found it disturbing.

  Ejanix had always been a gregarious individual, if not especially adept at social encounters. Vigo would have guessed his mentor to be among the first to report for dinner. And yet, Riyyen seemed to have observed otherwise.

  Clearly, Ejanix had changed in the time he had spent on Wayland Prime. Vigo just wished he knew why.

  Wutor Qiyuntor had shamed both himself and the blood that ran through his Balduk veins.

  First, more than a year earlier, he had lost a large portion of the land his ancestors had left him—all the fertile, productive, and profitable terrain west of the Sjadjok River. There were those who said it was not his fault—that the arbiter had been bribed by Clan Osyelodth to rule in their favor, or that it was Wutor’s father whose mismanagement had opened the door to Osyelodth’s claim.

  But Wutor hadn’t embraced the excuses offered to him. As far as he was concerned, the loss was his—along with the humiliation that accompanied it.

  Then, a mere few months ago, he had made a critical error—and in an infinitely more serious arena than the land arbiter’s court. Wutor had been serving as commander of the Ssakojhin, a High Order war vessel with an unblemished tradition of victory, when an alien shippack violated a new Balduk boundary.

  The Ssakojhin and her subordinate vessels were sent to turn back the aliens. However, they were more powerful than the overseers of the High Order had imagined.

  Wutor’s battle with the invaders had barely gotten under way when he lost the first of his subordinate vessels. Two more followed in short order, and the Ssakojhin suffered near-crippling damage trying to preserve the rest.

  It was only because reinforcements appeared that Wutor and his crew survived, and that the aliens were finally driven off. Had his rescuers shown up even a few minutes later, the Ssakojhin and the remainder of her pack would have been destroyed.

  For his failure, Wutor was removed from the Ssakojhin and assigned to a Middle Order vessel, the Ekhonarid. Again, his supporters said the failure wasn’t his fault. They claimed that the overseers of the High Order were to blame, for it was they who had underestimated the force needed to repel the invaders.

  But Wutor hadn’t embraced those excuses either. He had accepted his demotion without complaint, resolving to redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors.

  Of course, it was unlikely that he would get an opportunity to do so. Middle Order ships were seldom dispatched against enemy vessels. They were more often used as rescue or repair vehicles, their mission to preserve the effectiveness of
High Order ships and their crews.

  It was a bitter brew for Wutor to swallow. After all, he had been one of the Prime One’s shining stars once. He had been highly regarded in both clan council and war circle.

  He sighed now as he stood in the commander’s brace on the bridge of the Ekhonarid and contemplated how far he had fallen, and how fast. And if he wasn’t careful, he knew, he could plummet the rest of the way.

  “Commander,” said his chief mechanic, a female named Tsioveth, “the plasma conduits on the weapons deck are ready to crack. We need new ones.”

  Wutor looked at her, unimpressed by the scowl on her face. “We need a great many things.”

  And if he were still in command of the Ssakojhin, he would have gotten them. That was the way of things in the High Order. Then again, if he were still on the Ssakojhin he wouldn’t have needed new plasma conduits.

  Tsioveth spat. “Then I will not be responsible for the crew in the weapons enclosure. If they are steam-cooked like desert tortoises in the Prime One’s cooking hole, so be it.”

  For the hundredth time since he took command of the Ekhonarid, Wutor grabbed the mechanic by the arm and drew her close to him—close enough to smell her most recent meal.

  “You will be responsible,” he snarled. “Now get back to the weapons deck and do everything in your power to keep those conduits from leaking.”

  It was a little game they played, he and Tsioveth. She refused to be held accountable for the ship’s deficiencies, and he denied her the right to do so. Unfortunate, to be sure, but that was how it was in the Middle Order.

  With a curl of her lip, the mechanic pulled her arm from Wutor’s grasp. Then she slunk off the bridge into one of the descent compartments.

  The commander glanced at his pilot, Jeglen, who had witnessed the exchange with Tsioveth. Apparently, Jeglen knew better than to comment on it. That was good.

  After all, Wutor didn’t want to have to get rid of him and look for another pilot. Experienced ones like Jeglen were too hard to come by, especially when the Ekhonarid was all that could be offered them.

  Then again, there was such a thing as too much experience. No one was a better example of that than Potrepo, the Ekhonarid’s aged weaponer. Even at an advanced age, he was still eager to fight—but to his superior’s chagrin, his accuracy didn’t always match his enthusiasm.