“Assemblage of Elders,” Greyhorse interjected from his seat on the other side of the room.
“While this Assemblage,” Picard amended, “inflicts who-knows-what-sort of miseries on my chief engineer.”
Pug Joseph, who had steadfastly refused to sit since they were herded here, shook his head. “I still can’t believe those monsters in the black pajamas were Gnalish.”
“I know what you mean,” said Vigo, who sat beside the doctor with his massive arms folded across his chest. “I thought all Gnalish were small of stature like Mr. Simenon.”
“You learn something new every day,” Joseph remarked.
Suddenly, the door to the chamber creaked open. As the captain watched, he saw Simenon cross the threshold.
Picard sat up. “Where have you been?”
“Are you all right?” Joseph wanted to know.
“Of course I’m all right,” the Gnalish told him. “No one’s going to injure someone in my position.”
Vigo grunted. “What did they tell you?”
Simenon made a sound of disgust. “They didn’t tell me anything.”
Picard looked at him. “Then where have you been all this time?”
The engineer scowled. “I’ve been meditating. So has the Assemblage—so when we finally discuss your presence here, we can do it rationally and with all of our arguments clear in our heads.”
“And when will you make these arguments?” asked Greyhorse.
Simenon jerked his head in the direction of the open doorway. “That, I’m told, would be now.”
Ulelo was aware of the conversation taking place around him as he sat in the mess hall, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. He was too intent on what had taken place in his quarters a few short hours ago.
“Do you believe in Fate?” Emily Bender had asked.
He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t. He had stared at her, barely managing a protest.
“It was Rayfield,” said Paxton, Ulelo’s superior in the communications section. He placed such an emphasis on the name that it broke in on Ulelo’s reverie. “You know, the one with the gray ponytail.”
Dubinski, the officer in charge of engineering in Simenon’s absence, looked skeptical. “Wait a minute. I thought Takahiro was the one with the gray ponytail.”
Paxton shook his head. “Takahiro is the one with the short hair and the mole.”
“I thought that was Saturria,” remarked Refsland, the Stargazer’s senior transporter operator.
“No,” said Paxton. “Definitely Takahiro.”
Ulelo began to settle back into his thoughts. He could feel Emily Bender’s finger pressing gently on his lips. He could hear the huskiness in her voice as she moved closer to him.
“I had a crush on you back at the Academy,” she had told him. “A big crush.”
“So we’re headed for Oneo Madrin,” said Garner, one of Pug Joseph’s senior security officers.
“That’s right,” said Paxton.
Refsland grunted thoughtfully. “Both those suns are Sol-class, aren’t they?”
Paxton nodded appreciatively. “Good memory, Bill. With seventeen planets, none of them habitable.”
“Any idea what the distress call is about?” asked Urajel, Dubinski’s colleague in engineering.
Paxton shook his head. “None.”
“Command must be concerned,” said Refsland, “or it wouldn’t have asked us to investigate.”
“It’s a distress call,” Urajel told him with a typically Andorian lack of patience. “Of course they’re concerned.”
“It’ll probably turn out to be engine trouble,” said Dubinski.
Garner, who had served with Dubinski on another ship before this one, chuckled at the comment. “You always think it’s engine trouble.”
“It’s the most common cause of distress calls,” Dubinski told her. “You can look it up.”
“Never mind all that,” said Urajel. She looked around the table. “What are Simenon and the others up to on Gnala?”
Paxton smiled. “That’s the billion-credit question, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a diplomatic problem,” Refsland noted. “The captain wouldn’t have needed the doctor and Pug and Vigo along for that.”
“Then what?” asked Urajel. She turned to Ulelo. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Care to venture a guess?”
The comm officer shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
It was at least half a lie.
Ulelo had perused Ben Zoma’s correspondence with Tanya Tresh just as he had perused every other correspondence received on the Stargazer, so he knew exactly what Simenon was facing on Gnala. He just didn’t know what Picard and his officers had planned to do about it.
“I’ve got a hunch I know what they’re up to,” said Dubinski. And he went on to describe his theory.
As it turned out, he couldn’t have been farther from the truth. But Ulelo didn’t say so because it would have meant exposing himself as something other than what he seemed.
The others eventually discarded Dubinski’s hunch and offered a half dozen of their own. But by then, the comm officer wasn’t really listening to them anymore.
He had rediscovered the thread of his ruminations. He found himself remembering Emily Bender’s kiss, the soft insistence of it. He remembered too the smell of her as she pressed against him.
And he remembered the look on her face when he denied her what she wanted of him. It was a look of pain, of humiliation, of deep and abiding disappointment.
If she had posed a threat to Ulelo before, he had magnified it with the clumsiness of his response. He needed to do something before she placed his mission in jeopardy.
As his colleagues prattled on about Simenon and Gnala, he gradually came up with a plan.
Chapter Eleven
UNTIL HE BEAMED DOWN from the Stargazer, Simenon had only heard about his people’s ancient Northern Sanctum from his father and his uncles. He himself had never had occasion to set foot in the place. Now he found himself in the sanctum’s Great Hall, an imperious, torturously angular chamber with floors pitted by age and slanted windows ablaze with the glory of the setting sun.
The Assemblage of Elders sat in front of him on a raised stone bench, their High One occupying its center with three of his colleagues on either side. Some Gnalish found it daunting merely to stand in the presence of those august figures, and even more so when they were flanked by their gigantic guards.
But Simenon wasn’t here just to stand in their presence. He was here to fight for the future of his family.
Fortunately, he wasn’t alone in the effort. His comrades from the Stargazer were seated behind him on one of the stone shelves that hugged the perimeter of the chamber. It wasn’t as if they could say anything on his behalf, but he was grateful for the moral support.
Not that he would ever have confessed that to them.
There were several others in attendance as well, a few dozen Gnalish with personal stakes in the outcome of the proceedings. The law allowed them to observe and participate as long as the Assemblage had no objection to their doing so.
The High One, who was also the oldest and most loose-skinned of the councillors, got to his feet. Simenon could see the blue mark on the front of his robe.
“The Assemblage has meditated,” the High One announced. He eyed Simenon. “I trust you’ve done the same.”
The engineer nodded. “I have.”
“You have brought offworlders to engage in the ritual,” the High One noted, wasting no time in addressing the matter at hand. “However, the ritual is restricted to Gnalish.”
Here goes, thought Simenon. “Normally, that’s true. But as I’m sure you know, exceptions have been made in the past.”
The councillor frowned, stretching the sac of loose skin under his chin. “Only under the most extenuating circumstances.”
“These are extenuating circumstances as well,” Simenon said.
The High One
’s eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
“I have no brothers to take along on my journey. An accident claimed both their lives a few years ago.”
The councillor shrugged. “The law states that you may take first cousins in their place.”
“I have no first cousins either,” said Simenon. “My parents had no siblings who survived to adulthood.”
The High One didn’t have an answer for that. Sensing that he had gained an advantage, Simenon pressed on.
“As a result,” he said, “I have invited the assistance of some of my friends, all of whom are male and roughly my age and should therefore be admissible to the ritual.”
Another Gnalish, as tall and heavy and pale of skin as the black-garbed guards, rose from the midst of the onlookers. “I would like to speak,” he said in a deep, harsh voice.
The High One nodded. “You have leave.”
“I disagree with the one called Simenon. The laws governing the ritual are explicit.” His fiery eyes flashed with indignation as he glanced in the engineer’s direction. “It’s not enough for someone to be the right age and sex. He must also be a blood relative of the individual undertaking the journey.”
A second Gnalish got to his feet. He was considerably smaller than either Simenon or his fellow protester, and his skin had a light and dark pattern to it. He too asked to be recognized by the Assemblage and was granted the privilege.
“Kasaelek is right,” the diminutive one snapped. “The ritual is intended for Gnalish and their blood kin, not for strangers to our ways—and certainly not for the offspring of other worlds.”
Simenon smiled grimly. It was no secret why these two would have a problem with his choice of comrades. In their place, he might have objected with the same vehemence—and maybe even the same arguments.
“My competitors can hardly be considered unbiased judges,” he told the Assemblage, his voice ringing passionately throughout the chamber. “It’s in their interest to see me undertake the ritual on my own.”
“I merely seek justice,” countered the giant.
“We must honor our traditions,” the light and dark one insisted.
“Of course,” said Simenon, his eyes narrowing. “Especially when justice and tradition favor your causes.”
His rivals glowered at him. He glowered back, measure for measure.
“The fact remains,” Simenon went on, “that it’s in the Assemblage’s power to grant my request—to give me the help I need to compete on an even footing. Anything less would ensure my defeat.”
The High One looked pensive. “What you’re suggesting is unprecedented, Simenon. But you’re correct in your contention that all competitors should have an equal chance to win.”
“High One,” the giant spat, “this is—”
The councillor whirled and hissed, imposing silence on the speaker. “You will address us when you’re given permission to do so.”
The giant inclined his head in contrition. “Of course,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”
It was then that someone new entered the chamber through its only door. As Simenon was facing the Assemblage, he couldn’t turn to see who it was. It was only after the newcomer had sat down alongside the other Gnalish that the engineer caught a glimpse of him.
And cursed in the privacy of his mind.
“I would like to speak,” said the newcomer.
The High One nodded. “You may do so.”
Simenon sighed. He hadn’t prepared for this possibility, though in retrospect he realized he should have.
“I’m Lennil Ornitharen,” the newcomer told the Assemblage. “Phigus Simenon’s cousin. Despite his claim to the contrary, he doesn’t have to recruit offworlders to help him in the ritual. He has living kin on this world. He has me.”
The councillors muttered beneath their collective breath and exchanged meaningful glances. Only the High One withheld comment until he could present Simenon with the obvious question.
“Is it possible you have a cousin, after all?”
The engineer heaved a sigh. “Ornitharen is my cousin, yes. But he’s my second cousin. And believe me, I’m grateful for his offer of assistance, which—as you know—extends above and beyond the mandate of our customs and traditions.
“However, I decline to include him in my entourage, which the ritual laws limit to six companions—not as a matter of affection, but as a practical matter. I know from experience that Ornitharen isn’t made for physical exertion. He pales in comparison even with other Gnalish of my subspecies, whereas my human and Pandrilite friends are hardy examples of their kind.”
He regarded his cousin with an expression of regret. “I don’t have the luxury of worrying about his feelings, High One. I’ve got to think about survival—-not only my own, but that of my bloodline.”
Ornitharen began to protest the decision, but the High One stopped him. “Simenon is the generational leader of your clan. You lack the standing to argue with him.”
If the look on Ornitharen’s face was any indication, he wasn’t happy about the High One’s remark. Nonetheless, he managed to remain silent, bending to his cousin’s will.
Apparently satisfied with Ornitharen’s response—or rather, his lack of one—the High One told Simenon, “We of the Assemblage must weigh what we have heard here. We will let you know when we’ve come to a decision in this matter.”
The engineer would have preferred an answer then and there—but only if it was the right answer. As he had indicated to the Assemblage, the wrong one would ensure his defeat.
“I wait patiently,” he told the High One, “trusting in your wisdom.” As if he had a choice.
McAteer regarded the Bolian seated on the other side of the black plastic table. Like all Bolians, he had light blue skin and a ridge that ran from the nape of his neck to somewhere under his chin.
His name was Shalay. He was the second officer on the New Orleans, a starship that had once been a state of the-art prototype and was now far from it.
By human standards, the fellow was quite handsome, quite charming. No doubt, he did well with the ladies. And if the admiral’s reports were accurate, Shalay was prepared to make a career move.
“You know,” said McAteer, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Shalay. I’ve heard good things about you.”
Truthfully, Shalay’s file hadn’t contained anything spectacular. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as Garrett’s had been. However, the Bolian had demonstrated a talent for politics that had moved him briskly up the chain of command.
He reminded McAteer of someone: himself.
Shalay nodded, taking the compliment in stride. “It’s kind of you to say so, Admiral.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Commander. To be blunt, I hate to see an individual with your unlimited potential languishing as second officer on a third-rate ship.”
The Bolian smiled—warily, McAteer thought. “That’s blunt, all right.”
“How do you like serving on the New Orleans?”
Shalay shrugged his muscular shoulders. “It’s been a valuable experience. I benefited from every minute of it.”
He was politic, too. The admiral liked that.
“But you wouldn’t be adverse to making a change? Moving to another vessel where there was a greater chance of moving up?”
Shalay’s brow puckered. “A chance of moving up?”
McAteer smiled. “You were hoping to move right into a first officer’s slot. I understand. However, the post I’m thinking of is just as good as a first officer’s slot.”
“Begging the admiral’s pardon,” said the Bolian, “I don’t see how that could be the case.”
McAteer leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “On the vessel I have in mind, the captain and first officer leave something to be desired. My problem is I’m not present to document their inadequacies. But,” he added pointedly, “if I had someone who was . . .”
Shalay seemed to get it. “You want
me to transfer to another ship as second officer. Then you want me to supply you with ammunition so you can sink that ship’s captain and first officer.”
“At which point,” the admiral said, “I will see to it that you move up to take their place.”
“As first officer? Or as captain?”
McAteer smiled. “Need you ask?”
Shalay’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve never received an offer like this.”
“And you never will again,” the admiral told him pointedly. “Not from me, at least.”
“So it’s take it or leave it.”
McAteer nodded. “That’s correct.”
Shalay pondered the quid pro quo. Finally, he said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
The admiral was pleased—he had been right about the Bolian. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
“Where am I going, anyway?”
McAteer saw no reason to keep it a secret. After all, Shalay had to give his captain the information.
“The name of the ship,” he said, “is the Stargazer.”
Picard stood outside the door to the Great Hall, in the gargantuan lobby where he and his officers had beamed down, and asked Simenon the question they all had on their minds.
“Do you think the Assemblage has been persuaded?”
His engineer shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re the Assemblage. They can do anything they like.”
His cousin, who bore a striking resemblance to Simenon but was rounder and softer looking, stood by himself in a fluted alcove. It was difficult to tell if he was praying or just thinking.
Greyhorse tilted his head in Ornitharen’s direction. “Your chances seemed good until he walked in.”
Simenon glanced in his cousin’s direction. “I can’t fault him for what he did. We had the same grandfather. He feels it’s his responsibility to help me.”
Joseph grunted. “Even if you don’t want his help?”
The engineer frowned. “Even then.”
Picard noticed that Simenon’s detractors were standing around as well, each with his own small contingent of supporters. In both cases, those who had spoken in the Great Hall were of the same stature as those who surrounded them.
Progenitor Page 9
