A moment later, his image blinked off and was replaced by the Starfleet logo. Wu sank back in her chair, stunned.
She had given up on the possibility of ever receiving another promotion on the Crazy Horse. And suddenly, a promotion had fallen right into her lap.
The question was . . .did she dare pass it up?
Phigus Simenon stood in his quarters and contemplated the small white stone in his scaly hand.
The stone, which had come from his homeworld, had a series of black characters carved into its otherwise smooth surface. As Simenon wasn’t an expert in the area of ancient writings, he had no idea what the characters meant.
Nor did his father, to whom the stone had been given three long decades ago. But then, one didn’t have to understand the characters to appreciate their significance in the scheme of things.
Simenon glanced at the computer terminal on the opposite side of the room. He had known this day would come. Hell, how could he not know? But he had put the prospect from his mind, concentrating instead on his duties as a Starfleet engineer.
Now he had no choice. He had received the summons. He was compelled to answer it.
With a sigh, Simenon crossed the room, pulled out the chair in front of his terminal, and sat down. Then he placed the stone on the desk beside his keyboard and called up the message he had received from Gnala earlier in the day.
Typing out a return message, he had the terminal translate it into a language his people would understand—one that bore a vague resemblance to the characters on the stone.
Then he dispatched it to the communications queue for inclusion in the next subspace packet to that part of space, sat back in his chair, and absorbed the import of what he had done.
Carter Greyhorse, the Stargazer’s chief medical officer, blew on a spoonful of steaming hot corn chowder. “Yes, Pug,” he replied, “I remember your misgivings.”
“Well,” said Pug Joseph, the ship’s acting chief of security, “I think I’m getting past them. The way my people respond to me lately, I feel sometimes like I’m the permanent chief of security.”
Joseph was sitting across the table from Greyhorse, twirling his fork in a plateful of pasta. To that point, the doctor noticed, Joseph had been too talkative to actually place any of it into his mouth.
“That’s good,” said Greyhorse.
“I’m gaining confidence,” Joseph told him.
“I hear it in your voice.”
Joseph grinned. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?”
The physician took a mouthful of soup, savored its taste, and glanced across the mess hall. Right on schedule, Gerda Asmund was sitting down to eat with her sister Idun and a couple of other officers.
Greyhorse could have been one of them if he wished. But it would have been torture for him to share Gerda with others, to engage in conversations he didn’t care about when what he really wanted was to take her in his arms.
And she knew how he felt about her. He had told her himself, right there in one of the ship’s corridors less than a month earlier—just after she had lashed out at him in anger.
“You’re all I can think of,” the doctor had confessed, the bulkheads echoing with his pain. “All I want to think of. I can’t go on like this. If I haven’t got a chance, I need to hear you say it.”
That’s when Gerda had told him to meet her in the gym, where she would teach him “to fight like a warrior.” It wasn’t exactly an answer to his question. But then, in a way it was.
So Greyhorse met her in the gym as she suggested, and continued to meet her afterward at regular intervals. And little by little, despite his pronounced lack of athleticism, he was beginning to learn what she taught him.
But it wasn’t his thirst for learning that kept him coming back. It was the chance to touch her, however fleetingly—to smell her scent, to hear her voice, to feel her intoxicating presence.
In the gym, where they were alone. Where it was just the two of them, locked in a dance of violence and grace—at least on her part.
But Greyhorse didn’t sit with her in the mess hall. He sat with men like Joseph and listened to them go on about their personal trials while he kept his own very much to himself.
“So what’s going on with you?” Joseph asked.
The doctor turned back to him and shrugged. “The usual.”
Picard smiled politely at Wu as he regarded her across the sleek, black expanse of his ready room desk. “I believe I know why you asked to see me,” he said.
Wu smiled back. “Captain Rudolfini asked me to respond on a timely basis. I did that.”
“And what was your decision?” Picard asked, though he believed he already knew.
“I told him,” said Wu, “that I would accept the position of first officer aboard the Crazy Horse.”
The captain felt a sting of disappointment—no less sharp for his anticipation of it. “I see. As of when?”
“Your earliest convenience,” said his second officer.
Picard nodded. “I will ask Mr. Paxton to contact the Crazy Horse and arrange a meeting in accordance with our schedules. I don’t imagine it will take more than a week or two before we can get together.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Wu. She looked contrite for a moment. “I hope I haven’t given you cause to disapprove of me.”
“Disapprove?” he echoed.
“Yes, sir. For leaving so soon after I arrived.”
Picard shook his head from side to side. “Not at all, Commander. Opportunity knocked. You answered.”
Wu looked relieved. “Thank you for putting it that way, sir.”
“If there’s nothing else?” he said.
“Nothing,” she confirmed.
“Then you are dismissed, Commander.”
With a slight inclination of her head, Wu got up and left the captain’s ready room. As soon as the door closed behind her, Picard sat back in his chair and shook his head.
In fact, he thought, he did resent Wu’s coming and going in so short a time. He did disapprove of her behavior.
However, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything if he had stood in the way of her transfer. The Crazy Horse would have missed out on Rudolfini’s first choice of exec and the Stargazer would have been stuck with a disgruntled second officer.
It was too bad, Picard thought. He liked Wu. He had come to appreciate her dedication and efficiency, and she had even begun to overcome her tendency to be overzealous at times.
He tapped his communicator. “Picard to Commander Ben Zoma.”
“Ben Zoma here,” came the response.
“We’ve got a personnel matter to discuss, Gilaad.”
There was a pause on the other end. “The one you mentioned to me earlier?”
The captain frowned. “Yes. That one.”
“I’ll be right there,” his first officer promised. “Ben Zoma out.”
The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable. But then, Ben Zoma had come to value Wu’s contributions as well.
Picard swiveled in his chair to face his computer terminal. Tapping out a command, he called up Starfleet’s periodically updated list of qualified second-officer candidates.
Unfortunately, there was no one on the Stargazer whom the captain could name as Wu’s replacement. With so many of his officers having received battlefield promotions, command experience was in drastically short supply.
Funny, Picard thought. When Wu had been foisted on him by Admiral McAteer prior to their hunt for the White Wolf, he hadn’t looked forward to working with a stranger. Now he wasn’t looking forward to seeking out a candidate on his own.
Nonetheless, the captain reflected with a sense of resignation, that is precisely what I will have to do.
Chapter Four
GERDA ASMUND WAS RUNNING a long-range sensor diagnostic at navigation when she saw a fair-haired young man approach the helm console manned by her twin sister. Idun looked up at the fellow—an ensign she had never seen before�
��as he stopped beside her. “Yes?” she said, posing a challenge as much as a question.
“I’m your replacement,” the ensign told her.
Gerda glanced at the chronometer readout in the upper right-hand corner of her control panel. In fact, Idun’s shift was over, though Gerda’s still had two hours to go.
It was the captain who had decided to stagger the schedules of the helm and navigation officers. What’s more, it made perfect sense. The remaining officer could apprise the new one of any concerns that had arisen in the last couple of hours.
Nonetheless, Gerda hated to see anyone but her sister at the helm. Idun was a skilled pilot and a cool head in an emergency—and one never knew when a crisis might arise.
“So you are,” Idun told the ensign.
She got up and gave him her seat. Then, with a glance at her sister, she left the bridge. Knowing Idun, Gerda imagined she would be in the gym in a matter of minutes.
Turning her attention to the new helmsman, Gerda watched him go over his monitors to make sure everything was in order. The navigator felt a rush of indignation. Did he think that someone like Idun would leave a mess for him?
Ben Zoma, who had the center seat, glanced at the ensign. “Steady as she goes, Mr. Paris.”
The ensign nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Paris, Gerda repeated to herself.
So this was the new crewman she had heard about. The one whose Starfleet lineage went back to the Stone Age, or so it seemed. He didn’t look like much to Gerda.
But then, no human did.
Gerda had grown up among Klingons after the death of her natural parents. Her human parents. In the process, she had adopted a Klingon’s way of looking at things—a Klingon’s appreciation for the drama and spectacle of life.
Her Klingon father had been an impressive individual. He had carried himself with confidence, with dignity. One had but to look at him to know one was in the presence of a warrior.
Very few humans possessed that kind of bearing. Captain Ruhalter was one of them, though his spirit had gone to Sto-Vo-Kor. Captain Picard was another, at least at times.
And Greyhorse . . .
The navigator didn’t know what to make of him. He was often passive, willing to let others make his decisions for him. But he showed a certain promise, she was forced to concede.
Ensign Paris, on the other hand, looked to the navigator like any other human—fragile, timid, too focused on expediency to give any thought to matters like dignity and honor. If he had a warrior’s spirit, he concealed it well.
Abruptly, Paris’s fingers began crawling over his control console. Clearly, he was busy with something. But to Gerda’s knowledge, he hadn’t been given an order to make changes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Gerda pointed to the ensign’s console. “You did something to the thrusters. What was it?”
He shrugged. “I changed the timing.”
“Who told you to do that?”
Paris hesitated. “No one.”
“Then why did you do it?” the navigator asked.
“To make the ship more responsive,” he explained.
“Thruster timing is a delicate matter—one that requires special expertise. By tampering with it, you have likely made it necessary for someone to spend hours readjusting it.”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Paris conceded. “And if the thruster timing was all I’d worked on, it would be out of sync.”
Gerda scowled. “You worked on other flight functions as well?”
“Sure,” he said.
He tapped out a command and Gerda saw a graphic come up on her monitor. It showed her a bright yellow cross section of the Stargazer’s shield configuration.
Paris leaned over and pointed to the graphic. “By making complementary changes in thruster timing and shield geometry, I’ve picked up a tenth of a second of response time.”
The navigator made some quick calculations, which—to her great surprise—precisely supported the ensign’s contention. She looked at him with new respect.
“Of course,” the ensign said, “it’ll only make a difference if we find ourselves in a battle. And who knows when that will happen.”
In her short time on the Stargazer, Gerda had already taken part in her share. “Soon enough,” she assured him. She eyed his controls. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Back at the Academy,” said Paris.
“A professor taught it to you,” Gerda concluded.
“Professor Rehling,” he told her. “But he didn’t teach it to me. We came up with it together. In fact, the professor insisted that my name appear above his when the monograph comes out.”
“The monograph...?” Gerda echoed.
The ensign nodded. “They say it’ll be required reading for all Starfleet helm officers.”
“Impressive,” the navigator muttered.
And Gerda Asmund wasn’t easily impressed.
Vigo, the Stargazer’s Pandrilite weapons officer, had a bit of a problem on his hands.
His friend Charlie Kochman had introduced him to a clever diversion called sharash’di, having purchased it for Vigo from an Yridian merchant at a bazaar on Beta Nopterix. However, Kochman no longer seemed to wish to play the game.
In fact, he told Vigo he wished he had never bought it for him in the first place.
Of course, the weapons officer had challenged his friend to a sharash’di match a couple of times a day for the last several weeks. In retrospect, it was to this that he attributed Kochman’s growing disaffection with the game.
Vigo, on the other hand, never seemed to grow tired of it. Every time he played sharash’di it was as if he were playing for the first time, discovering new complexities and new delights.
So when Kochman’s interest in the game began to flag, Vigo found other opponents—among them the ill-fated Lt. Valderrama and Ulelo, the new man in communications. But the weapons officer was finding that none of these others wished to play him again, either. Valderrama, the only one who had seemed at all eager for a rematch, had changed her mind when Captain Picard stripped her of her responsibilities.
Hence, Vigo’s problem.
But a few hours earlier, while he was still at his post, the Stargazer had picked up a couple of new crewmen—a new science officer and a new ensign. To Vigo’s colleagues, the newcomers might have represented a great many things—expertise, reliability, new viewpoints to spice up mess hall banter.
To the Pandrilite, they represented only one thing: prospective sharash’di partners.
Which was why he had made it his business to get to this place as soon as his shift was over. The other newcomer was on the bridge according to the ship’s computer. But this one was in his quarters.
Pressing the metallic pad set into the bulkhead, Vigo stepped back and waited. Nol Kastiigan, he repeated to himself. Science officer first class. Formerly of the Antares.
A moment later, the duranium doors to Kastiigan’s quarters whispered open, revealing the science officer’s anteroom. But the science officer himself was not in evidence.
“I will be right there,” someone called in an oddly musical voice from the next room.
Kastiigan, Vigo thought.
“Don’t hurry on my account,” he advised the newcomer. Then he came in and looked around—and to his surprise, found himself wondering about what he was looking at.
The Pandrilite wasn’t sure what he had expected to see here, but he was pretty certain this wasn’t it.
“Thank your for your patience,” said Kastiigan as he entered the room, wearing a black-and-white tunic and loose-fitting pants that featured the same color scheme. “As it happens, you are my first visitor.”
Vigo nodded, still wondering. “I guess you haven’t had a chance to unpack,” he allowed.
His host looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Vigo indicated Kastiigan’s q
uarters with a sweep of his hand. “There’s nothing here.”
The newcomer followed his gesture, but seemed at a loss. “On the contrary,” he maintained, “there is quite a bit here. Chairs, computer, carpet . . .and that is in this room alone. In the next room, there is a bed, a set of drawers and a closet. And in the bathroom—”
“That’s not what I mean,” said the weapons officer. “Those things were here before you got here. They’re permanent furnishings. I’m talking about your things.”
Kastiigan seemed even more perplexed.
“You know,” Vigo elaborated, “the items you brought with you from your previous assignment. Standing sculptures, hanging artwork, images of your loved ones...”
The science officer smiled. “I did not bring any such items.”
Vigo looked at him askance. “You didn’t bring any mementos from your homeworld? Or from the planets you’ve visited? No parting gifts from friends or family?”
Kastiigan shook his head from side to side, indicating that he had done nothing of the sort.
It was a big galaxy, the weapons officer reminded himself. Different cultures had different customs. Still, he was curious as to the reasoning behind the Kandilkari’s behavior.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” Kastiigan explained, “such possessions would only be a burden to my crewmates after I perish.”
For a moment, Vigo thought he was kidding. “Are you planning on perishing sometime soon?”
“Oh, yes,” the newcomer responded cheerfully.
Vigo blanched. “You are?”
“Most definitely. As soon as possible. And when I do, I will consider it my great honor to give my life for my captain and my comrades—you included, Lieutenant.”
“Er . . . thanks,” said Vigo.
“You are quite welcome. Perhaps we will even have the opportunity to perish together.”
The Pandrilite managed a smile, albeit a weak one. “That would be . . .something to look forward to, wouldn’t it?”
“It would indeed,” said Kastiigan. “Now, what was it you wished to speak to me about?”
It wasn’t often that Vigo could say he didn’t have a yen to play sharash’di. This was one of those rare times.
Progenitor Page 3
