THE VALIANT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  On the other hand, a Klingon wouldn’t have hesitated to sit down. In fact, Idun reflected with a secret smile, a Klingon might have put a dagger in his superior to secure such an opportunity.

  The helm officer frowned, regaining her composure. She was a Starfleet officer, she reminded herself. She had sworn allegiance to the Federation and the ideals it held dear.

  But she had been raised as a Klingon, and part of her still thought as Klingons did—which was why she couldn’t find solace in a leader who shied from leadership.

  No matter the reason.

  For the next hour or so, Picard continued to haunt the bridge, checking on this console or that one, stealing glances at the viewscreen every now and then. Then, apparently satisfied that the ship’s most critical needs had been met, he tapped his communicator badge.

  “This is Commander Picard,” he said. “I would like the following personnel to meet me in the main lounge.” And he reeled off a list of names, which included all of the surviving senior officers.

  A staff meeting, Idun mused. The commander was going to address the men and women working under him, just as Captain Ruhalter had addressed them when he was still alive.

  Picard hadn’t yet deposited himself in the captain’s chair, the helm officer noted. He hadn’t yet seized the reins that had been turned over to him by default.

  But at least he had made a start.

  * * *

  Picard surveyed the personnel seated around the lounge’s black, oval table, their faces turned to him with varying degrees of expectation.

  There were eight of them there—Jomar, Ben Zoma, Simenon, Greyhorse, Cariello, Werber, Paxton, and Picard himself. Eight of them who would attempt to survive in an unknown part of space and salvage what they could from the embers of disaster.

  Normally, Captain Ruhalter would have conducted this meeting, wringing the best out of each of them and making them more than the sum of their parts. But Captain Ruhalter, unbelievable as it seemed, was dead—and Commander Leach was in a coma from which he might never emerge. For better or worse, it was Picard’s meeting to conduct . . . Picard’s ship and crew to command.

  The second officer hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t imagined himself ensconced in a center seat until years later, when he would have had a good deal more experience under his belt. But the situation was what it was, and he was determined to do what it demanded of him.

  “I called you here for two reasons,” he began. “One is to announce that, effective immediately, Lieutenant Ben Zoma will assume the post of acting second-in-command. At the same time, Lieutenant Ang will take over Mr. Ben Zoma’s duties in the security section.”

  There were nods around the table, though not from Werber, Simenon, or Jomar. No surprise there, Picard thought. Ben Zoma had never been a favorite of Commander Leach or his friends.

  “The second reason for this meeting,” the commander said, “is the difficult set of circumstances in which we find ourselves. As you all know, we have taken heavy damage to our primary systems. Still, it remains our duty to survive . . . and to warn the Federation that the Nuyyad are every inch the threat of which we were warned.”

  No one seemed inclined to argue the point. However, he did receive some wary looks—predictably, from Leach’s camp.

  “There are two options open to us,” Picard went on. “Two choices. We can make a run for the galactic barrier in our diminished condition and hope we don’t run into the Nuyyad again. Or, as an alternative, we can try to find Serenity Santana’s colony and seek replacement parts there.”

  “Her colony?” Werber echoed, a look of disgust and disbelief crossing his face. “Are you insane, Picard?”

  The second officer felt a spurt of anger. He swallowed it back. “You will address me as you would have addressed Captain Ruhalter,” he said in a clipped tone, “or I will find a weapons officer who can.”

  Werber went dark with anger. “You want the respect accorded a commanding officer? Then exercise the judgment of a commanding officer. That Santana woman led us into a trap, Commander. She almost destroyed us. I wouldn’t trust anything she told us.”

  Picard glared at the weapons officer. “Despite appearances, we do not know for certain that Ms. Santana engaged in any treachery.”

  Werber looked at him wide-eyed. “Are you blind? She led us to the slaughter like a fat, little lamb. She—”

  The second officer tapped the Starfleet insignia on his chest. “Security,” he said, “this is Commander Picard. I would like an officer posted outside the lounge immediately.”

  “Right away, sir,” came the response.

  The weapons chief drew in a breath, then let it out. Clearly, he didn’t relish the idea of being led away by a security officer. “What I meant to say,” he amended with an effort, “is that, under the circumstances, it would be imprudent to believe anything Santana told us.”

  “I agree,” said Jomar, albeit without emotion. “Who knows? There may never have been any Valiant survivors in the first place. And even if this colony exists, Santana might not have divulged its true coordinates.”

  Werber looked at him. “Hang on a second. You mean to say you’ve never heard of this colony?”

  “Never,” the Kelvan confirmed.

  The weapons chief seemed confused. “But aren’t you from this side of the galactic barrier?”

  “I am,” Jomar told him. “However, space is as enormous here as it is in your galaxy, and I only became familiar with a small portion of it before I emigrated to Nalogen Four.”

  It was Paxton who dragged the discussion back on track. “Even if Santana’s colony exists,” he said, “and even if she gave us the right coordinates, her people may not be all that glad to see us.”

  “True,” Jomar remarked without inflection. “Especially if we’re right in our assumption that Santana led us into a trap.”

  “Plus,” Simenon hissed, “our technologies may be incompatible—in which case their parts would be useless to us, even assuming they’re generous enough to give them away.”

  “Then you’re in favor of trying to reach the barrier instead,” said Picard. “Is that correct?”

  “It is,” the engineer agreed.

  “Unfortunately,” Ben Zoma said, “heading for the barrier may put us in an even worse bind.”

  “How so?” asked Cariello.

  “For one thing,” the acting executive officer noted, “it’s just what the Nuyyad would expect us to do—retreat and regroup. For another thing, our shields are in no shape to protect us from the barrier’s energies. We would only be creating the kind of supermen that nearly destroyed the Enterprise and the Valiant.”

  They were good points, Picard reflected—especially the one about crossing the barrier without shields. Judging from their expressions, his officers agreed with him. Even Werber seemed a trifle less certain of himself than he had been before.

  But in the final analysis, it was Picard’s decision. He took a moment to mull what he had heard to that point.

  “Well?” Jomar asked of him, making no effort to disguise his impatience. “What do you plan to do, Commander?”

  The second officer frowned. “Like some of you, I prefer the idea of returning to the galactic barrier.”

  Werber nodded. “Now you’re talking.”

  “However,” Picard added, “I do not wish to create any additional threats to the Federation—nor do I relish the prospect of destroying my vessel in order to negate such threats. And as Commander Ben Zoma points out, retreating through the barrier without sufficient shielding could create some prodigious threats indeed.”

  Werber paled as he realized where Picard’s comments were leading him. “Oh no. You’re not—”

  “I am,” Picard insisted, his posture unyielding. “I am going to try to find the colony Ms. Santana described, in the hope that it will equip us to eventually make it through the barrier unscathed.”

  He eyed each of his companions in turn, gauging their react
ions. They didn’t all look happy about his decision.

  “If we’re to come through this crisis intact,” Picard said, “and warn the Federation about the Nuyyad, I will need the help and cooperation of everyone aboard this vessel.” He glanced at Werber. “Without exception.”

  The lounge fell silent. It wasn’t exactly the vote of confidence he had been hoping for.

  “I respectfully request that you reconsider,” Werber said, his tone anything but respectful.

  “So do I,” Simenon rasped.

  “You are leading us into disaster,” Jomar added bluntly, undeterred by any need to observe Starfleet protocol.

  Picard smiled a grim smile. Clearly, his stint as commanding officer would not be an easy one. “My decision stands. You are dismissed.” He looked around the room. “All of you.”

  One by one, his officers and the Kelvan left the room. Ben Zoma was the last to depart. Finally, the second officer was alone.

  “Navigation,” he said out loud, activating the intercom system. “This is Commander Picard.”

  “Asmund here,” came the response.

  Picard licked his lips. “Chart a course for Ms. Santana’s colony. I believe you have the coordinates.”

  “I do, sir,” Asmund confirmed. If she was surprised, it wasn’t reflected in her voice. “Course set.”

  “Helm,” said the second officer, “best speed. Engage.”

  “Acknowledged,” Idun Asmund replied.

  Picard leaned back in his chair in the otherwise empty lounge. The die was cast, he told himself. Now he would see if he had made the right choice . . . or the wrong one.

  Chapter 9

  Hans Werber had traveled each and every corridor of the Stargazer at one time or another. But he had never before traveled one so quietly or with such serious intent.

  Werber wasn’t alone, either. He was followed by three other officers—Chen and Ramirez of his weapons section and Pernell of engineering. And all four of them were armed with phaser pistols that Werber had lifted with the help of his security clearance.

  The weapons chief knew they didn’t have much time. Pausing at an intersection, he peeked into the perpendicular passageway to make sure it was empty. Then he made a left turn, his fellow conspirators in tow.

  Their objective was the third set of doors on the right. As soon as he arrived there, Werber removed a small tool from his tunic and inserted the end of it into an aperture in the bulkhead.

  A moment later, the doors slid apart, granting him access to a suite. Leaving Pernell to close the doors again, Werber and the others moved into the darkness within.

  Reluctant to warn the suite’s occupant, the weapons chief decided not to turn on the lights. Instead, his phaser held in front of him, he advanced to the sleeping quarters at the apartment’s far end.

  So far, he reflected, everything had gone smoothly. But their job wasn’t over yet. Far from it.

  The door to the bedroom was open. Taking a deep, slow breath, Werber made his way inside. Then he trained his weapon on the vague outline of the bed and reached for the light padd on the wall.

  As he turned up the illumination, he fired his phaser. Its lurid, red beam slammed into the bedcovers with enough force to stun an ox—or in this case, the misguided commanding officer of a starship.

  But as Werber’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that something was wrong. Picard’s bed was empty . . . except for a small, bronze object of some kind. He took a closer look—

  —and saw that it was a combadge.

  Suddenly, the weapons chief realized what he had stumbled into. His throat constricting, his blood pounding in his temples, he whirled and launched himself back through the doorway. But by then, the dimly lit anteroom was rife with ruby-red phaser bolts.

  Before Werber could do anything about it, one of the beams caught Chen in the chest and drove him into the wall behind him. Then a second shaft slugged Ramirez in the jaw, spinning him around.

  As Ramirez collapsed alongside Chen, Werber fired at one of the several cranberry-colored tunics in the room. What’s more, he thought he hit one. But as he tried to squeeze off a second shot, he felt something kick him in the wrist and saw his weapon go flying out of his hand.

  Cradling his injured wrist, Werber saw who had disarmed him. It was Picard, a phaser in his hand. And there were three other figures behind him—Pug Joseph and two of his fellow security officers.

  “Picard to Ben Zoma,” said the second officer, making use of the ship’s intercom system since his combadge was elsewhere.

  “Ben Zoma here,” came the answer. “We’ve discovered a few rats in my quarters, but they won’t bother us again. And you?”

  “We’ve taken care of Werber,” Picard replied soberly.

  The weapons chief scowled at the byplay. “This wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d made the right decision,” he spat.

  Picard didn’t argue the point. Instead, he gestured with his phaser, indicating the corridor outside. “Take these mutineers to the brig,” he told the security officers. “If they require medical attention, Dr. Greyhorse can see them there.”

  “Aye, sir,” Joseph replied.

  Rather than wait to be manhandled, Werber put his head down and made his way to the turbolift.

  Picard wasn’t sure how many times the chimes sounded outside his quarters before he woke enough to acknowledge them.

  Glancing at the chronometer that sat alongside his bed, he saw that it was almost time for him to get up anyway. And if it had been any other morning, he wouldn’t have minded doing so in the least.

  However, he had been up the better part of the night laying in wait for Werber and his compatriots. And even after the second officer had sprung his trap, he had had trouble sleeping.

  It was understandable, he told himself. Armed mutinies had a way of unsettling one.

  Swinging his legs out of bed, Picard got to his feet and pulled a robe on. Just in case his visitor was a tardy mutineer, he picked up the phaser he had acquired and tucked it into the palm of his hand. Then he made his way to the next room.

  “Come,” he said.

  The sliding doors whooshed open, revealing the lizardlike form of Phigus Simenon standing in the corridor outside. The Gnalish’s eyes were slitted and even more fiery than usual.

  “Are you crazy?” he demanded of Picard, gesticulating as he entered the room. “Have you lost your mind entirely?”

  Perhaps it was his weariness. Perhaps it was the undeniable frustration in Simenon’s voice. Either way, the second officer wasn’t inclined to take umbrage at the way he was being addressed.

  “I would have to say ‘no’ to both questions,” he answered drily. “Why do you ask?”

  “Why do I ask?” the engineer echoed. “Could it have something to do with the way you’ve treated Werber and half a dozen other officers—throwing them in the brig just for disagreeing with your decisions?” He waddled up to Picard and glowered at him nose-to-snout. “While you’re at it, Commander, why don’t you throw me in the brig as well?”

  The second officer waved away the notion. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I didn’t have Mr. Werber and his friends incarcerated because they disagreed with me. I had them incarcerated because they invaded my quarters with phasers in their hands and mutiny on their minds.”

  Simenon looked at him askance. “Mutiny . . .?” he rasped.

  “Indeed,” Picard confirmed. “And it would have succeeded had it not been for Lieutenant Vigo in the weapons section, who overheard Werber and two of his fellow officers making plans to neutralize me.”

  The Gnalish gaped at him, then shook his head. “You’re lying.”

  “I assure you,” said the second officer, “I am not. Werber led an attempt at mutiny last night. If you have any doubts, you can ask one of the security officers who helped capture the conspirators.”

  In all the weeks Picard had spent on the Stargazer, he had never seen Phigus Simenon at a loss for words . . . un
til that very moment. The engineer looked positively deflated.

  “You know,” Simenon grated after a while, “it’s not in my nature to admit that I’m wrong.”

  “So I gather,” said the second officer.

  “That fact notwithstanding,” the Gnalish continued, “it seems I may have misjudged you.”

  “Actually,” Picard said generously, “I may have misjudged you as well.”

  Simenon’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  “Frankly,” the second officer told him, “I expected to find you among the mutineers. In their forefront, in fact. I would say we’re both capable of jumping to conclusions.”

  The engineer snorted. “Apparently.”

  Picard considered Simenon. He and the Gnalish hadn’t ever spoken at length before, especially about personal matters. But now that they had, the second officer found himself liking the fellow.

  “I think I’ll slink off now,” said Simenon. “I’ve got some friends in the brig who’ll no doubt need cheering up.” He hesitated. “That is, if it’s all right with my commanding officer.”

  Picard nodded. “Go ahead. Just one request.”

  “What’s that?” asked the Gnalish.

  “Don’t slip any of the prisoners a phaser. I don’t think the guards I’ve posted would appreciate it.”

  Simenon chuckled. “You have my word.” Then, dragging his scaly tail behind him, he left Picard’s quarters.

  The second officer watched his doors slide closed behind the engineer. Then he returned to his bedroom and put down his phaser.

  Someone had once told him that something good comes out of even the worst circumstances. If he had established even a small bond of trust with Simenon, perhaps there was an upside to the mutiny attempt after all.

  In all the months he had spent on the Stargazer, Lieutenant Vigo had never visited the captain’s ready room.

  He had seen plenty of other officers entering and leaving the place from his vantage point at the bridge’s weapons console. Sometimes, he had even gotten a glimpse of what it looked like inside. It was just that he himself had never been summoned there.