“You didn’t like him,” she insisted, in a tone he had never heard her use before. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching. “So how can you help me mourn his death?”
Paris wasn’t often ruled by his emotions. But when he heard the pique in Jiterica’s voice, something stiffened inside him.
“Maybe I can’t,” he said.
Even before Paris saw the deepening of her dismay, he knew he had made a mistake. Jiterica wanted him to be supportive, to see Stave as she had seen him. She wanted him to say soothing things like He was a great guy and I wish I had known him better and I know you’re going to miss him.
And instead, he had closed himself off from her.
Come on, Paris told himself. This isn’t about you and Stave. It’s about Jiterica. And if you feel about her the way you say, you’ll put your jealousy aside and help her get past this.
“No,” he said, “that’s wrong. I can help. I…”
The ensign wanted to say the right things. He really did. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Yes?” said Jiterica.
Stave was dead. Whatever jealousy or resentment Paris had felt should have ended with the Magnian’s demise.
Should have. But when he looked at Jiterica and saw how badly Stave’s death was affecting her, he couldn’t help feeling jealous and resentful all over again.
After a while, she turned away from him. And he knew that this time, she wasn’t turning back.
“Sorry,” Paris mumbled.
Jiterica didn’t answer him.
It was clear that she didn’t want him there, so he told her he would see her later and left her quarters the way he had come in. As her door whispered closed behind him, Paris felt terrible.
He had let Jiterica down when she needed him. He had failed her. And he wasn’t sure she would ever forget it.
Stave was dead, unable to compete anymore for Jiterica’s affection. And yet somehow, even in absentia, he had won.
Captain’s Log, Supplemental. Nikolas was badly burned from his proximity to the lava. However, thanks to the skill of Doctor Greyhorse, Nikolas will not only survive, but will hardly have a scar to show for his ordeal.
Picard looked down at Nikolas, who was still asleep on a biobed in Greyhorse’s sickbay. The entire left side of the man’s face looked red and raw. But then, the skin there was newly regenerated, and therefore still tender.
The captain tried to imagine what had gone through Nikolas’s mind as he charged Brakmaktin. No doubt, he had seen terrible things in the Nuyyad’s company, the deaths of his crewmates on the Iktoj’ni not the least of them. But to sacrifice his life so readily, with such determination…
“Captain,” said a familiar voice.
Picard turned to Greyhorse, who had emerged from his office. “Shouldn’t we be quiet so your patient can rest?”
“He’s rested enough for one morning,” said the doctor. “It’s time for him to rejoin the ranks of the living.”
Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, he fished out a hypospray. Adjusting the formulation, he applied the device to Nikolas’s neck and released the contents.
Nothing happened at first. Then the patient’s eyelids began to flutter and he looked around.
For a moment, the look in his eyes was vacant, hollow. It was as if he were still bearing witness to an unnameable horror. Then his eyes focused on the captain’s face.
“Sir,” he said, making an attempt to sit up.
Picard gently pressed him back down again. “Don’t,” he said, “or the doctor will eject me from sickbay.”
Nikolas frowned a little, limited by the constraints of his new skin. “I don’t doubt it.”
“How are you feeling?” Picard asked.
“A lot better, sir.”
And yet, Picard thought, you still bear the scars of what you experienced—not on your face, perhaps, but elsewhere.
But what he said was, “You certainly look better. I am pleased to see you are making such exemplary progress.”
Nikolas gave Greyhorse a sidelong glance. “Thanks to the doctor.”
Picard glanced at Greyhorse too. “Yes, it is always good to acknowledge the efforts of one’s physician, especially when one has yet to leave sickbay.”
“Flattery,” said the doctor, “will avail you nothing.”
The captain smiled, but Nikolas did not. Either he was prevented from it by his injuries or he simply couldn’t find it in himself—it was difficult to say which.
“You know,” said Picard, “Lieutenant Obal’s been here every chance he gets. He must be a good friend.”
“The best,” Nikolas said, his eyes brightening a little at the mention of the Binderian.
“I need not tell you how pleased he was to see you again. But then we all were, myself included.”
Nikolas’s brow furrowed as much as it could under the circumstances. “I don’t suppose…”
Picard looked at him. “What?”
The younger man swallowed. “If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like to come back to the Stargazer.”
“Back?” asked the captain, surprised by the request.
“As a member of the crew, sir. I know I sort of burned that bridge behind me, but I thought…” His voice trailed off hopefully.
Picard considered the possibility for a moment. “It is not as if I have taken on anyone new in your place. And it would be a good deal more convenient for all concerned if we did not have to train someone from scratch.”
Nikolas almost looked happy. “Then…?”
“Welcome home,” said Picard. “Just do me a favor and stay awhile this time. Yes?”
Nikolas nodded. “Absolutely, sir.”
The captain patted him on the shoulder. Then, with a nod to Greyhorse, he left sickbay.
Imagine that, he thought. I have my ensign back.
Picard was pleased to have had the opportunity to give Nikolas his old job. He just didn’t know how long he would be privileged to keep his own.
Nol Kastiigan had considered ordering a hot dish from the replicator in the Stargazer’s mess hall. However, he decided to get something cold instead.
He had had enough heat to last him quite some time.
After a moment’s deliberation, Kastiigan settled on a marinated Mediterranean seafood platter to which Commander Ben Zoma had introduced him a few weeks earlier. He was already enjoying the tangy, sea-salty scent of it as he crossed the room and looked for a place to sit.
“Hey, Lieutenant!” someone called.
Looking around, Kastiigan saw Lieutenant Refsland beckoning to him. He was sitting with Iulus and Kochman, both of whom appeared eager for the science officer’s company.
Smiling to himself, Kastiigan joined them. “How are all of you this morning?” he asked.
“The question,” said Kochman, “is, how are you?”
“Any ill effects from that heat bomb?” asked Refsland.
“None,” Kastiigan was pleased to say.
They all agreed that that was good. They didn’t want him to experience any discomfort, considering he had saved the Stargazer, an Ubarrak world, and possibly the entire galaxy.
“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “I’m fine.”
He was about to dig into his seafood dish when he heard someone else call his name. Looking up, he saw that a number of other colleagues had gathered around him.
“You’re the man,” said Dubinksi, one of Simenon’s engineers.
“We’re proud of you,” added Cadwallader.
“Thank you,” he told them.
The science officer had become rather popular since his foray into Brakmaktin’s cavern. Everyone on the Stargazer seemed to have heard about it.
And everyone at Starfleet Command would hear of it too, if they hadn’t already. In Captain Picard’s report, he had recommended Kastiigan for a medal of valor.
If it was approved, it would be the first such honor accorded to a Kandilkari. His fami
ly would be happy to receive the news—especially his grandfather, who had encouraged him to join Starfleet in the first place.
“Lieutenant?” someone said.
Kastiigan turned again and saw that it was Nikolas standing beside him. And the ensign had healed, a small pink scar on his cheek the only remaining evidence of the terrible ordeal Brakmaktin had put him through.
“Yes?” said the science officer.
“I just wanted to say…well, good going down there. If not for you, I’d still be Brakmaktin’s whipping boy.”
Kastiigan smiled yet again. “You’re quite welcome.”
“If you ever need a hand,” said Nikolas, “just say the word, all right?”
The Kandilkari nodded. “I will do that.”
Nikolas clapped him on the shoulder, despite the difference in their ranks. Then he went to join his friend Obal on the replicator line.
Naturally, Kastiigan took pleasure from the accolades of his comrades. Anyone would have.
However, his biggest satisfaction came from the knowledge that he had finally done what he joined Starfleet to do—he had risked his life against a formidable enemy, in a situation where the odds seemed stacked against him.
As it happened, Kastiigan had survived the confrontation. But that was hardly his fault. The important thing was that he could have lost his life.
Besides, there would be other opportunities for him to show what he was made of. It was only a matter of time before one of them claimed his life, he thought optimistically, and took another forkful of his dinner.
Picard was just returning to the bridge when he heard Gerda’s voice ring from bulkhead to bulkhead.
“Commander,” she said, “the Ubarrak are breaking formation.”
Wu, who was ensconced in the center seat, got up and took a step toward the viewscreen—where Alartos’s warships were taking positions in close proximity to the Stargazer.
If the Ubarrak wished, they could catch the Federation vessel in a devastating crossfire. Picard and his crew wouldn’t stand a chance.
Wu took note of the captain’s presence. “Treachery?”
From what he had seen of Alartos, he didn’t think so.
“Shall I power weapons?” asked Gerda, her voice husky with the urge to do battle.
Trusting his instincts, Picard shook his head. “No.”
Then Paxton relieved the tension somewhat. “They’re hailing us,” he reported.
Picard eyed the viewscreen. “Respond.”
A moment later, Alartos’s face appeared. He looked as imperious as when the captain had first seen him.
“We have reached the limits of Ubarrak space,” he said. “You may continue from this point on your own.”
“Thank you,” said Picard.
They were well past the border accepted by the Federation. However, the captain didn’t think this was the time or place to make that point.
“I hope you know,” said Alartos, thrusting his chin out in a typically Ubarrak gesture of belligerence, “you haven’t won any favors from my people.”
Picard smiled. “I never expected any.”
As he had learned years earlier, the Ubarrak didn’t even have a word for gratitude. And if they had, Alartos wouldn’t have used it on a human—someone whose species was at odds with his own.
But the captain knew what he had done for Alartos’s people. He had saved them from a grotesque and terrifying fate, maybe even annihilation, and that was thanks enough for him.
The Ubarrak nodded, apparently satisfied with Picard’s response. “Good,” he rasped.
But there was something in his eyes that belied his last statement, something that told the human that he had indeed won something—a measure of respect, perhaps, if not from the Ubarrak in general, then at least from Alartos himself.
Then the commander’s image vanished from Picard’s viewscreen, to be replaced by that of his trio of ships. The message was crystal-clear: the Stargazer’s business here was finished. It was time to leave.
The captain glanced playfully at Idun. “Feisty,” he observed, “aren’t they?”
The helm officer returned only a hint of a smile. “They would not last ten minutes on Qo’noS.”
Picard wasn’t so certain about that, but he wasn’t inclined to disagree out loud. He would have plenty of chances to do that when he faced his tribunal.
And thanks to the choices he had made of late, McAteer had even more ammunition than before.
“Earth,” he told Idun. “Best speed.”
Chapter Eighteen
PICARD SAT ON A CHAIR in his quarters, alone.
He could have continued to have Serenity’s company, as he had whenever possible the last few days, and a part of him longed for it as much as ever. However, another part needed time to think, a chance to put matters into some kind of perspective.
Serenity had been kind enough to understand how he felt. And so had Ben Zoma, when he offered to stand vigil with his friend and Picard had gently declined.
A captain, after all, was ultimately an island, the poet John Donne notwithstanding. And Picard preferred to face his last hours as commanding officer of the Stargazer on his own.
He wasn’t going down with his ship, like the captains of old. As it happened, he was going down without it. But either way, it was time he came to grips with his prospects.
McAteer wouldn’t have called for a hearing if he didn’t think he could obtain the verdict he wanted. And with Admiral Caber sitting on the jury, Picard’s fate was sealed.
When he returned to the ship afterward, it wouldn’t be to give orders. It would be to clean out his quarters so his successor could move in. Someone more to McAteer’s liking, presumably.
So this would be his only time to measure his brief but eventful time in the center seat. To understand its place in his life. And of course, to say good-bye, at least in his mind.
It was a good crew Picard had commanded, a courageous crew that had done well under the most adverse of circumstances. He expected that they would do great things, together and individually, and that he would be proud of them in times to come.
As for the Stargazer…there was a reason ships had always been referred to as females. He would miss her as much as he missed any flesh-and-blood comrade, from the engines that had carried him so faithfully through the void to the proud plaque on her bridge—the one that said “To bring light into the darkness.”
Perhaps, the captain thought, we brought a little light, if not quite as much as I intended.
In any case, the Stargazer would go on. And so would her crew. Ships and crews always did.
But what about me?
It wasn’t a question Picard would have asked of anyone else—not even those closest to him, for fear of sounding self-indulgent. But here, in the privacy of his solitude, he could ask it.
For as long as he could remember, he had dreamed of captaining a starship. That had been his life. Of course, he hadn’t expected to have a command handed to him at the age of twenty-eight, but he had hoped he would receive one eventually.
And now that command would be taken away. What was a man supposed to do when his dreams were stripped from him? The captain didn’t know. But when his tribunal ruled against him, he would be compelled to find out.
Just then, he heard his door chime, announcing a caller. Not Serenity or Ben Zoma, certainly. Then who?
“Come,” he said.
When the doors slid open, they revealed Pug Joseph. The security chief seemed to hesitate for a moment before entering the room, as if he didn’t feel quite comfortable being there.
“Lieutenant,” said Picard, wondering what was wrong. “What can I do for you?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “Actually,” he said, “there’s something I’d like to do for you, sir.”
“Oh?” said the captain. He sat back in his chair. “And what might that be?”
Joseph opened his hand and held it out to Picard, showing him a glass s
phere about the size of a man’s fingernail. The light seemed to melt in its amber depths.
Picard looked at his visitor. “A marble?”
The security officer blushed. “Yes, sir. You see, it was my lucky charm when I was little, and it got me through some tough scrapes. So I brought it with me into space, and I carry it sometimes. I mean, on away missions and such.”
The captain smiled. “Are you…offering it to me?”
Joseph nodded. “I figure you’re going to need some kind of luck when we get back to Earth. In that…” He shrugged.
“Hearing,” Picard suggested.
“Yes. That hearing. I know it’s kind of stupid, but—”
Picard stopped him with a raised hand. “No,” he said, touched by the gesture. “It is not stupid at all.”
He took the marble and rolled it between his fingers, examining the buttery swirls of color trapped within it. It didn’t seem possible that it would stop Admiral McAteer.
But then, he reminded himself, it hadn’t seemed possible that anyone would stop Brakmaktin either.
Picard looked to the lieutenant again. “Who knows? Perhaps it will do for me what it has done for you.” And he slipped it into an inner pocket of his jacket.
Joseph nodded approvingly. “I hope so, sir.”
The captain sighed. So do I.
Picard reported early to the small, windowless courtroom where his case was scheduled to be heard, and took the seat that had been reserved for him.
It was one of only four in the front of the room. The other three, set aside for the admirals who would judge the captain and his record, faced him from behind a long table.
There were seats in the back of the room as well—an even dozen of them, arranged in two rows on either side of a central aisle. They would accommodate whatever spectators cared to attend the hearing, since—by agreement of all parties concerned—it was to be an open proceeding.
Picard sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Finally, he thought, it has come to this. He had been thinking about it for weeks, preparing himself for it, but the reality was weightier than anything he had imagined.
If the jury of three ruled against him, he would lose his command. It was that simple.
Maker Page 18