THE VALIANT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Idun glanced at her, her lip curled in amusement. “Another three such shifts and we’ll have reached the Nuyyad supply depot. That promises to be far from uneventful.”

  Gerda nodded. “True.”

  “And,” her sister added, “we haven’t exactly been idle for the last week and a half. We were hoping for just one battle, remember? And so far, we’ve gotten three of them.”

  “I know,” said Gerda. “Still . . .”

  “What?” asked Idun.

  “I don’t know,” the navigator told her. “It still feels to me as if something is missing.”

  “Something?” her sister echoed.

  Gerda shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just not as satisfying as I thought it would be . . . as I wanted it to be.”

  Idun rolled her eyes. “Some saber bears aren’t happy until they’ve eaten the entire targ.”

  Gerda looked at her. “You think I’m a glutton?”

  “Honestly?” her sister asked. “Yes.”

  Gerda knew Idun was seldom wrong about her. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe I ought to be grateful for what I’ve got.”

  And yet, she couldn’t help feeling there should be more.

  * * *

  Pug Joseph stood at the entrance to sickbay’s triage area and watched Greyhorse press a hypospray containing psilosynine against Serenity Santana’s naked arm.

  As far as the security officer was concerned, it was insanity. If Santana was the saboteur and wanted to see the Stargazer destroyed, why give her yet another tool to accomplish that?

  But then, he told himself, if they didn’t subject Santana to the same tests as the other Magnians on board, she might catch on to their suspicions about her. And Commander Picard didn’t want that.

  Besides, there were precautions in place. For one thing, Greyhorse was introducing his synthetic neurotransmitter gradually, bit by tiny bit. For another, Joseph and a half dozen of his fellow security officers were on hand in case anything went awry.

  Santana stole a glance at him. She knew he was here, of course. And she knew also that he still didn’t trust her, no matter what she had done in the most recent battle.

  It made him the perfect choice to keep an eye on her. After all, Joseph’s feelings of mistrust had begun with the ambush the woman had led them to, not the discoveries of sabotage. So even if she got close enough to reach into his mind, he wouldn’t be giving anything away.

  Eventually, he reflected, she would slip up. She would try to rig another command junction when she thought no one was looking. And when she did, he would be there to catch her.

  That is, if anyone still could.

  As Gilaad Ben Zoma entered the Stargazer’s spare and economical engineering section, he saw the unmistakable figure of Jomar standing in front of a sleek, black diagnostic console.

  The Kelvan had spent much of the last two days at the console, checking and rechecking for flaws in his vidrion injectors. Ben Zoma knew that because he had monitored Jomar’s computer activities from security.

  The Kelvan hadn’t given even a hint that he meant to damage anything or obstruct any aspect of the ship’s operations. He had simply run the same program, over and over, as if he were searching for something.

  Ben Zoma wanted to know what it was. And since he couldn’t ask that question of his computer screen, he had come down to engineering to get an answer from the horse’s mouth.

  Taking up a position at the console to Jomar’s right, the human went through the motions of initiating a diagnostic of his own. Then he turned to the Kelvan, as if he were just trying to be friendly.

  “It must be hard,” he said.

  Jomar glanced back at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  Ben Zoma smiled. “You know . . . having made your contribution already. All you can do is mark time until we reach the depot.”

  The Kelvan returned his attention to his screen. “Inactivity is not as distasteful to my species as it is to yours—so even if I were marking time, it would not be a problem. However, I am not merely keeping myself busy. I am seeking the source of the shield lapse we suffered during our most recent encounter with the Nuyyad.”

  “That’s right,” said Ben Zoma. “There was a lapse, wasn’t there?”

  Jomar turned to him again and scrutinized him with his unblinking, pale-blue eyes. “Let us be honest with each other, shall we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Despite your casual reference to the recent shield failure,” the Kelvan continued, “I believe it was of grave concern to you and Commander Picard. The fact that you have not asked my advice in the matter, nor made any public efforts to keep it from happening again, tells me that you may suspect me of having caused it.”

  Ben Zoma laughed. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”

  “Do I?” asked Jomar. “Because I also imagine that the only reason you came to engineering is to see if I will say something incriminating. If that is the case, let me put your mind to rest—I did not tamper with your shields. Your time would be better spent spying on Serenity Santana and her fellow colonists. If there was indeed an incident of tampering, it is they you should hold accountable.”

  “Do you have any proof that they did anything?” asked Ben Zoma.

  “Gathering proof is not my job,” said Jomar. “It is yours.” Then he went back to his diagnostic program.

  The officer looked at the Kelvan a moment longer. Then he turned back to his own console, where he continued to run a diagnostic of his own.

  Well, he thought, that could have gone better.

  Carter Greyhorse sat back in his chair and tapped his combadge. “Commander Picard,” he said, “this is Dr. Greyhorse.”

  “I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” said Picard, his voice filling the physician’s office. “Have you got something to report?”

  “I do,” Greyhorse told him. “I’ve completed my clinical work and I’ve come to a conclusion.”

  “Which is?” asked the second officer.

  “That, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason not to give the Magnians full doses of the synthetic psilosynine.”

  “They’ve shown no personality aberrations?”

  “None that I have noticed. No erratic increases or reductions in their telekinetic or telepathic abilities either. In fact, nothing at all that we need to be concerned about.”

  “But their abilities can be amplified?” asked Picard.

  “Significantly,” said the doctor. “By fifty to seventy percent, depending on the individual. Enough, I imagine, to make a difference in the effectiveness of our enhanced tractor beam.”

  “To say the least,” the second officer agreed. “Tell me . . . if you began administering full doses to the Magnians now, how long would it be before they took affect?”

  “Two to three hours—again, depending on the individual.”

  “We will arrive at our target in approximately thirty-six hours,” said Picard. “Plan accordingly.”

  “I will,” Greyhorse assured him.

  “Picard out.”

  His conversation with the second officer completed, the doctor got up from his desk to check on his last remaining patient. By-passing the triage area, which was occupied wall to wall by Magnians, he proceeded to his sickbay’s small critical care facility.

  There, he saw Commander Leach.

  The first officer was laid out on a biobed, a metallic blanket covering him from the neck down, a stasis field preventing his condition from deteriorating. But even with all that, Leach looked deathly pale, an unavoidable consequence of his coma.

  Greyhorse used the control padd on the side of the first officer’s bed to check his vital signs. They were stable, which was about all the doctor could hope for at the moment.

  If and when they reached a Federation starbase, there were things that could be done for Leach—procedures that would give the man an opportunity for a full recovery. But on the Stargazer, with its limi
ted equipment, Greyhorse had done all he possibly could.

  More satisfying was his work with the colonists. His efforts there would give Picard and his tactical people an advantage—the edge they needed to achieve a victory, perhaps.

  I should be pleased, the doctor thought.

  Unfortunately, his accomplishment hadn’t obtained the thing he wanted most—Gerda Asmund’s attention. He had seen her on two occasions over the last couple of days, once in a corridor and once in the lounge, and she hadn’t even acknowledged his presence.

  She must have known about his work. It had to be the talk of everyone on the ship. But it hadn’t fazed her.

  In that respect, at least, Greyhorse’s victory seemed a hollow one.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Vigo was sitting at the computer terminal in his quarters, running yet another time-consuming scan of the ship’s myriad command junctions, when he heard his name called over the intercom system.

  The voice was Commander Picard’s. Having heard it every few hours for the last couple of days, the Pandrilite would quite likely have recognized it in his sleep.

  “Aye, sir?” said Vigo.

  “Anything?” asked Picard.

  “Nothing at all,” the weapons officer told him. “I haven’t seen even a hint of impropriety.”

  The commander sighed audibly. “I wish I could say that no news is good news, Lieutenant. But in this instance, that is not the case.”

  “I’ll keep at it, sir,” Vigo promised. What else could he say?

  “I have no doubt of it,” said Picard. “And, of course, if anything does come up—”

  “I’ll contact you immediately,” the Pandrilite told him.

  There was a pause. “Someday,” the commander said, “you and I will have more pleasant matters to talk about. But if it’s all right with you, Lieutenant, we won’t talk quite as often.”

  Vigo smiled. “I’ll be sure to remind you, sir.”

  For the second time in seventy-two hours, Jean-Luc Picard found himself approaching the ship’s brig.

  This time, it was Lieutenant Garner who was standing inside the open doorway, keeping an eye on the mutineers. And she wasn’t the least bit surprised by the second officer’s appearance, because it was she who had communicated with him at Hans Werber’s request.

  As before, the weapons chief was sitting on his cot. When he saw that Picard had arrived, he stood up. His expression was more thoughtful than belligerent for a change.

  “Leave us, please,” said the second officer.

  Garner did as she was instructed. Then Picard touched the bulkhead controls and saw to it that he and Werber had some privacy.

  “Here I am,” said the commander. “Have you thought of something?”

  Werber nodded. “I think so.”

  Picard expected him to say Santana was the guilty party, and attempt to lay out some proof of it. But he didn’t. In fact, the weapons officer was no longer quite so sure that the colonist was involved.

  “Then who’s the saboteur?” asked the commander.

  “I don’t know,” said the prisoner. “But I know how to find him.” And he went on to elaborate.

  Picard considered the information. “I appreciate your help,” he said at last. “If it leads us to the saboteur—”

  The mutineer preempted him with a gesture. “Don’t make me any promises, Commander. Just get the sonuvabitch.”

  Picard nodded. “I will certainly try.”

  Chapter 17

  Greyhorse pressed the hypospray against Armor Brentano’s arm and released a full dose of psilosynine into the man’s system.

  The Magnian looked at him. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” the medical officer confirmed.

  “When will I start feeling different?” Brentano asked.

  “In the next two to three hours,” said Greyhorse. “And you will continue to feel that way for anywhere from four to five hours.”

  “So we’re not far from the depot?” the colonist concluded.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, Greyhorse removed a metal disk about the size of his fingernail. Positioning it between thumb and forefinger, he placed it against Brentano’s temple—where it remained.

  “What’s this?” his patient wanted to know.

  “A monitoring device,” he said. “If your brain waves start to change, I want to know about it.”

  “So you can shut me down?” asked Brentano.

  “Exactly right,” said the medical officer. “For the sake of everyone on this ship—you included.”

  “What if I snap and rip it off?” he asked, smiling.

  Greyhorse didn’t feel compelled to smile back. “Then I’ll know it and the result will be the same.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Brentano promised him.

  I assure you, the doctor added silently, at least one of us will.

  Gerda Asmund had hoped that her mood would improve. However, it had gotten worse with each passing day.

  Finally, as the Stargazer came within sensor range of her target, the navigator found herself looking forward to the battle ahead. However, the prospect wasn’t the blood-roiling elixir it should have been.

  What’s more, her sister knew it. Idun had been watching her like a mother s’tarahk ever since their talk in the turbolift, trying her best to gain some insight into Gerda’s feelings.

  But how could Idun understand her lack of enthusiasm when Gerda herself didn’t understand it?

  Abruptly, she was drawn out of her reverie by a beeping sound—a sensor alarm she had set earlier. Looking down at her monitor, she saw that visual information was available on the depot.

  Her sister, who had heard the alarm as well, turned to her. Idun, at least, was eager to engage the enemy, and had been for some time. Gerda could see it in her eyes.

  The navigator glanced back over her shoulder at Commander Picard, who was discussing something with Lieutenant Ben Zoma in front of the captain’s chair. “We’re in visual range of the depot,” she announced.

  Picard regarded her. “On screen,” he said.

  Working at her controls, Gerda complied.

  Pug Joseph was standing just inside the entrance to the engineering support room on Deck 26, watching Serenity Santana and her fellow colonists gather in an approximate semicircle and exert their influence on the Stargazer’s dorsal tractor node.

  Not that the security officer could actually see the Magnians doing anything. After all, they were working solely with the power of their minds, their collective energy amplified by the neurotransmitter Dr. Greyhorse had concocted for them.

  The only visible evidence of the colonists’ efforts was the flock of triangular, palm-sized devices they had attached to the tractor node days earlier. The things were humming softly to themselves and throbbing with a bright yellow light.

  They had hummed and throbbed the same way during the second battle for Magnia. At least, that was how Joseph remembered it. It frustrated him that the Magnians’ activities were so foreign to him, so alien, and therefore so difficult to monitor.

  How was he supposed to keep an eye on Santana if he couldn’t tell what she was really doing? How did he know she was gearing up for the battle ahead and not plotting with her friends to cripple the ship?

  The answer, of course, was he didn’t.

  Suddenly, Santana turned away from the tractor node and looked back over her shoulder at him. The expression on her face—one of anxiety—made the security officer wonder what the woman was up to.

  Pug, he heard in his head, something’s wrong. We can sense someone tampering with a command junction.

  Joseph looked at her, wary of a trick. “Who’s doing it?” he asked.

  Santana didn’t answer right away. Then she made a single word materialize in his brain: Jomar.

  The security officer walked over to the nearest console and tapped into the Stargazer’s internal sensor net. However, t
here was no indication of any tampering. There wasn’t anyone in the Jefferies tubes at all. And Jomar, apparently, was in his quarters.

  He turned back to Santana, wondering what she was trying to pull this time. “No one is anywhere near a command junction.”

  She left the semicircle and came over to him. Gazing at the monitor, she saw what he had seen—in other words, nothing.

  “He’s there,” Santana insisted. She looked up at Joseph. “Dammit, I can feel him.”

  Reacting to the woman’s display of emotion, he put his hand on the phaser pistol dangling at his hip. “I’ll have someone check Jomar’s quarters. In the meantime, you can—”

  “No!” she snapped, her dark eyes filled with dread—or so it seemed. “By then, it’ll be too late!”

  The security officer drew his phaser, leery of what Santana could do with the doctor’s neurotransmitter flowing in her veins. “Move back,” he told her. “Do it.”

  She looked at his weapon, then at him again. “You don’t understand,” she told him.

  “Don’t I?” he asked.

  Then something happened—Joseph wasn’t sure what. He seemed to lose control of his limbs, his body becoming a heavy and unresponsive mass of flesh. The phaser fell from his limp, paralyzed hand and hit the deck.

  And a moment later, the security officer joined it, his mind spiraling down into darkness.

  As Picard watched, Gerda Asmund manipulated her controls. A moment later, the viewscreen filled with the image he had been waiting for.

  And what an image it was.

  In the second officer’s imagination, the depot had been an impressive thing—a large, sprawling facility surrounded by powerful-looking, diamond-shaped warships. It had been equipped with a multitude of cargo hatches and docking ports, everything it needed to facilitate the transfer of food and material goods.

  Its reality was even more impressive—and a good deal more daunting. The depot looked more like a fortress than a supply facility, and more like the crown of an ancient king than either, with its circular configuration of diamond-shaped towers and its circlet of weapons ports and its flawless, almost luminescent surfaces.