“We still need to get across,” Ben Zoma said.
“Someone’s going to have to jump it,” Joseph added.
There was silence for a moment. Then someone said, “I think I can make it.”
The Gnalish looked around, eager to see who had spoken. So did everyone else in his party—with one exception.
That of the captain.
Chapter Eighteen
“YOU?” SIMENON SAID. He had already blurted it out before he realized how derogatory it sounded. But he hadn’t intended to disparage the captain. It was just that he hadn’t thought of Picard as the most likely candidate to negotiate the chasm.
Vigo, perhaps, with his Aklaash-like strides and his muscular physique. But not a normal-size human with a normal-size human’s strength and speed.
“I mean,” the engineer added quickly, “are you certain you want to risk it?”
The captain still looked as if his ego had been bruised. “Though you may not be aware of it, Mr. Simenon, I’ve always been a rather decent track-and-field man. With a little luck, I’ll be able to make the jump. Then, if someone can toss me the loose end of the bridge, I can make it fast again on the other side.”
Simenon frowned. He had seen Picard engage Captain Ruhalter in some sort of swordplay, even work out a bit on the pommel horse in the ship’s gymnasium—and he had certainly seemed proficient in those activities. But he had never seen the man perform a long jump.
And as much as he wanted to win the race, he didn’t want to do it at the cost of his captain’s life.
“I can’t ask you to do that for me,” he told Picard.
The captain’s eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he had managed to find some humor in their predicament. “I’m not doing it for you,” he said evenly. “I’m doing it for generations of brilliant but irascible Gnalish to come.”
Simenon looked to his other colleagues. No one was objecting to Picard’s proposal—not even Ben Zoma, who was supposed to protect his commanding officer at all times. In fact, the man was smiling as if in appreciation of the captain’s quip.
But Simenon didn’t find it funny. He didn’t find it funny in the least. It was his fault they were down here, his fault that they were placing life and limb in jeopardy. If Picard came up short in his jump and hurt himself—or worse, killed himself—that would be the Gnalish’s fault, too.
“Sir,” he said, meaning to talk the captain out of it. “If anything happened to you, I’d—”
“It won’t,” Picard told him unequivocally. He glanced at the chasm, then nodded. “I’ll make it.”
“But, sir—”
“Belay that,” the captain said. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Simenon. “That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
The engineer scowled. It didn’t seem he was being given much of a say in the matter.
“All right,” he said, yielding to his superior. “But for the gods’ sake, be careful.”
“I will be as careful as the situation permits,” the captain promised him. Then he turned to the crevasse again and focused his attention on the task ahead of him.
First, he approached the chasm and inspected the turf at its edge. It appeared to be as spongy as the rest of the forest floor, hardly optimum for takeoff. Nor would the spongy surface on the other side lend itself to an easy landing.
Simenon was glad that Picard was taking the time to prepare for his effort. It gave the Gnalish some confidence that his captain might actually survive it.
Next, Picard turned his back on the chasm and walked back into the depths of the forest, brushing aside the odd branch as he retraced the steps their team had taken to get here. By Simenon’s reckoning, the man was nearly thirty meters from the group before a tree trunk that had fallen across the trail prevented him from going any farther.
Turning around, the captain regarded the chasm again. He took a breath and let it out slowly. Then he said, “Would someone be so kind as to get those branches out of my way?”
Even with his side aching and his right arm all but useless, Simenon was able to pull a branch back and hold it there. Each of his comrades did the same thing, clearing all obstructions from Picard’s path.
Simenon saw the captain’s brow furrow. He half-expected Picard to finally yield to reason and admit that the feat was too much for him.
But as he was thinking this, he saw Picard lower his head and launch himself forward. Arms pumping, legs churning, he pelted past the Gnalish a good deal faster than Simenon would have ever predicted, the heels of his heavy-duty boots tearing up the spongy ground and throwing up bits of it in his wake.
The captain gained speed all the way to the near edge of the chasm, then sprang suddenly into the air. For a moment, he rose like a big, dark bird, arms and legs cycling ferociously. Then, as his momentum died, he began to lose altitude.
“Come on,” Simenon heard someone say.
Come on, he echoed silently.
For one heart-stopping fraction of a second, the engineer was sure that Picard would fall short of the other side. Then the captain tucked his legs beneath him and threw his arms forward, giving himself the added impetus that he needed.
Simenon cheered inwardly when he saw Picard’s heels hit the ground just past the sheer drop of the ravine. The captain had surprised him. He had done it.
But as Simenon watched, horrified, it became clear to him that there was something wrong. The captain was still in jeopardy after all.
He seemed to be struggling to keep his weight forward on the spongy, uncertain turf. And little by little, he was losing the battle. Before the Gnalish’s disbelieving eyes, Picard staggered back just half a step—but half a step was all it took to send him sliding toward the depths of the crevasse.
“No!” Simenon cried out.
And somehow, as if in response to his anguished cry, the captain stopped falling.
Apparently, he had latched onto something before he could be swallowed by the abyss. As pieces of turf and debris spiraled down into the crevasse and were lost to sight, the Gnalish saw that it was a protruding root that had saved Picard’s life.
“Hang on!” Ben Zoma shouted. “I’ll be right there!” And he darted back into the depths of the forest to get the same kind of running jump the captain had gotten.
“No, you won’t!” Picard bellowed back at his first officer. Then, still dangling from the errant root, he added in a voice full of forced calm, “Stay where you are, Number One. I can do this on my own.”
Ben Zoma didn’t look happy about it, but he returned to the brink of the crevasse. Then he stood there with Simenon and the others, watching as the captain swung a leg over the edge of the cliff and—finding a dependable handhold hidden under the lip of turf—laboriously wrestled himself to safety.
For several seconds, Picard lay on his back on the spongy ground, breathing deep draughts of air. It occurred to Simenon that he might have injured himself in his climb.
Just what we need, the Gnalish told himself.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Greyhorse called, obviously thinking the same thing.
“I’m... fine,” Picard called back, gasping between words. “Couldn’t ...be better.”
Slowly, he rolled over onto his belly, pushed himself up, and got to his feet. Then he pointed to the loose end of the bridge, which lay in a pile on Simenon’s side of the chasm.
“Toss it over,” Picard said.
Vigo, the strongest of them, was the one who tossed it. Even so, it took him three tries to reach the captain.
Picard secured the end of the bridge temporarily with a few of the heaviest rocks around. Then he found a big, dead tree trunk in the brush and rolled it on for good measure.
Unfortunately, what was left was no longer something one could walk all the way across. The line of the handrails converged with the bridge’s floor by the time they reached the captain’s side of the ravine, making it necessary for Simenon and the others to crawl across.
But at least t
here was something to crawl on. If not for the captain, there wouldn’t even have been that.
As before, Simenon figured he would be first to use the bridge. After all, he was the reason they were all out here. But before he could take a step onto the wooden planks, Ben Zoma stopped him.
“Let me,” he said.
The engineer’s first impulse was to protest. But when he thought about it, he had to admit that it made sense. If the bridge failed them again, Ben Zoma could save himself. It would be a lot more difficult for a Gnalish with bruised ribs and strained muscles in his arm.
Simenon held his breath as the first officer made his way across the span. But it actually swayed less than when it was whole, and Ben Zoma passed the halfway point without anything catastrophic happening. A couple of moments later, he reached out for Picard’s hand and joined the captain on the other side.
“Vigo’s next,” Picard said.
Again, a rational approach. The weapons officer was heavier than any of them, though Greyhorse ran a close second. If the bridge could hold Vigo’s weight, it could hold anyone’s.
Picard’s construction methods passed that test, too. As Vigo completed the crossing, the captain nodded approvingly. “Now the rest of you. One at a time, of course.”
Simenon wouldn’t have had it any other way. He went next, using his tail to support and steady himself in place of his right arm. Then came Joseph and a shaky-looking Greyhorse.
Once the doctor was across, Simenon was ready to get going again. But Joseph knelt by the end of the bridge and lingered there.
“What is it?” Picard asked him.
The security officer held up the end of one of the ropes where it stuck out from beneath a rock. “Take a look at this, sir.”
The captain came over to inspect the rope-end more closely. So did Simenon, his curiosity aroused.
“It’s not frayed,” Joseph pointed out to them. “It’s been cut.”
Simenon could see that the man was right in his assessment. The end of the rope had been neatly sliced.
Greyhorse frowned. “It looks like someone didn’t want us crossing this bridge.”
“Or winning the race,” Vigo added.
Picard turned to Simenon, his expression a stern one. “Who do you think it might have been?”
The Gnalish was at a loss. “I have no idea. “Kasaelek’s party, Banyohla’s... who knows?”
“These might tell us something,” said Joseph.
He had hunkered down next to a patch of dried mud—a rare patch, given the ubiquitousness of the spongy ground cover on which they had made most of their trek.
“What are they?” asked Vigo.
The group gathered around the security officer now. “Footprints,” he said. He looked up at Simenon. “And they’re recent, by the look of them.”
Simenon moved to the spot and placed his foot beside one of the prints. Then he shook his head. “Unfortunately,” he told Ben Zoma, “these are my size. They must have been left by the Mazzereht party that came through here last cycle.” A cycle was about the length of a Terran week.
“And a party of Mazzereht wouldn’t have sabotaged the bridge,” Greyhorse noted. He glanced at the engineer. “Would they?”
“Of course not,” Simenon said. He stared at the prints for a moment longer, then turned to the bridge and considered that as well. It had to be one of his competitors.
But which one?
“It’s a mystery,” Ben Zoma said.
Simenon nodded. “A mystery indeed.”
He turned to the trail ahead. It led through another dense expanse of crimson forest. And unless his competitors’ bridges had been sabotaged as well, they had obtained a healthy lead on him.
“Come on,” he said, fighting off his weariness and the ache in his side. “We’re losing time.”
Wu was about to contact Lt. Chiang and see how things were proceeding down in the shuttlebay when the door chime sounded.
“Come in,” she said.
The doors slid aside, revealing Lt. Kastiigan. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but if I could have just a moment?”
Wu shrugged. “Of course.”
Kastiigan threw out his chest. “I volunteer to accompany Ensign Paris and Ensign Jiterica on the shuttlecraft.”
The offer seemed a little out of place to the second officer. However, she understood the impulse that had spurred it—or thought she did.
“I’m impressed by your scientific curiosity,” she told Kastiigan. “But rest assured, the shuttle’s sensors will record all we need to know about the phenomenon.”
“It’s not scientific curiosity that propels me,” the Kandilkari explained. “It’s a desire to serve my commanding officer, no matter how perilous that service may be.”
Wu wondered if she were missing something. “Beyond making scientific observations, what kind of service did you have in mind?”
Kastiigan shrugged. “Nothing specific. But if you should think of some way I can be of assistance on the shuttle, I hope you’ll not hesitate to order me aboard.”
“Why would I hesitate?” the second officer asked, positive now that she was missing something.
“It has been my experience,” Kastiigan said, “that my commanding officers have placed an undue emphasis on my survival. I am only a single cog in a very large and sophisticated machine.”
Wu could hardly argue with the metaphor. However, she didn’t see what it had to do with the rescue mission.
“I promise I won’t place an undue emphasis on your survival,” she told the Kandilkari. “However, considering I can’t think of any reason to send you on that shuttle...”
“I’ll stay here,” he concluded correctly, though he looked rather grim about it. “I understand.”
“Good,” said Wu, though she wasn’t sure she understood.
“Thank you for your time,” Kastiigan told her.
“No problem,” she said.
And with that, the science officer departed.
Wu expelled a breath. Kastiigan was proving to be a most interesting fellow. She resolved to learn more about him—and she decided it might as well be now, since the only alternative was to sit and wait for Chiang to complete his work.
She had begun calling up Kastiigan’s personnel file when the door chime sounded again. What now? she wondered. Was Kastiigan going to insist that she place him on the shuttle?
“Come in,” Wu said.
As it turned out, it wasn’t the science officer seeking another audience. It was Ensign Paris. And he looked troubled somehow, distracted—a stark contrast to the confident young man the second officer had seen a few minutes earlier.
“May I speak with you?” the ensign asked.
Wu nodded. “Of course. Have a seat.”
Paris sat down in the chair opposite hers and looked at his hands for a moment. Then he met her gaze.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” he told her.
The commander knew they didn’t have much time—or rather, the people on the Belladonna didn’t. But she resisted the impulse to rush the ensign, sensing that whatever was bothering him had to come out at its own pace.
“Begin anywhere,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
WU WATCHED THE MUSCLES WORK in Paris’s temples. “Back at the Academy...” he said, “my very first semester, I had a class in Particle Physics. One day, our professor decided to spring a surprise test on us. I had barely read the first question on my monitor when my hands began to shake.
“They didn’t just tremble a little, Commander. They shook, as if I had some terrible neurological disorder.” The ensign winced as if in pain. “I was horrified.”
Wu had never experienced anything like what Paris was describing. However, she had no trouble imagining how uncomfortable it would have made him feel.
“I tried to hide my hands from the other cadets,” Paris continued, “in the hope that no one would see. And to my relief, no one did. But I needed
my fingers to tap out answers on my keyboard, so I couldn’t keep them hidden forever.”
He swallowed. “Taking that test was the worst kind of torture. But I got through it somehow, shakes and all. And I earned a passing grade, while half the other first-year students flunked.”
“So you came through,” Wu observed.
“Yes,” said Paris, “but that’s not the point. It was just an exam, and not even a particularly important one. It wasn’t as if my whole career was hanging in the balance.”
“In other words,” the commander translated, “you shouldn’t have reacted that way.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And if I were someone else, maybe I wouldn‘t have. But as I’ve been reminded all my life, I’m not just anybody.” The muscles worked in the ensign’s jaw. “I’m a Paris.”
Wu was beginning to understand the problem.
“In the years that followed,” he went on, “the same problem surfaced over and over again. Most of the time I was fine, as calm and controlled as anybody. But when I was under pressure, when I felt there was a chance I might fail, my hands shook and my stomach clenched and I had to struggle to conceal it.”
The ensign paused, his nostrils flaring with emotion. He seemed to be staring not at Wu but through her.
“But I always found a way to hide it,” he said softly, “because I was a Paris. Because I had a standard to live up to. Because I had inherited a reputation for courage and dedication and grace under fire.”
“Ensign,” said Wu, seeing how much it hurt him to talk about it, “you don’t have to—”
But Paris was like a dam that had finally burst. Obviously, he felt the need to get this out in the open. And if that’s what he needed, she was willing to listen.
“First,” he told her, smiling bitterly, “there was my grandfather, Daniel Paris. You may have heard of him at the Academy. He distinguished himself on the Potemkin and the Excalibur before he came back to Earth, where he was asked to assist Admiral Kirk during the admiral’s stint as head of Starfleet operations.”
In fact, Wu had heard of Daniel Paris—even before she had read the ensign’s personnel file.
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