He had no trouble understanding why.
“For the last two years,” McAteer said, “the White Wolf and his crew have raided Federation cargo ships left and right. And every time we’ve sent a Starfleet vessel after him, he’s managed to elude us by hiding in one of the odd features of Beta Barritus—which, as you’ll note, is rather a unique system by anyone’s reckoning.”
As he finished his sentence, he manipulated the controls before him and created a hologram to one side of the podium. It was a computerized representation of the Beta Barritus system—a sun surrounded by a thick layer of gases and who knew what else.
But then, Beta Barritus was a Lazarus star—one that had burned out and somehow resurrected itself. It couldn’t help but present an unusual set of problems to anyone seeking to plumb its depths.
Which was why the White Wolf, a man reputedly named for the color of his hair as well as his resourcefulness, had picked Beta Barritus as his favorite hiding place.
“Until this point in time,” the admiral told the assembled captains, “the apprehension of the White Wolf has been a low priority for us. That changes as of this moment.”
Picard wondered why that might be. McAteer didn’t take long to satisfy his curiosity.
“His latest attack on a defenseless transport vessel took place less than a week ago. It netted him a cargo of exotic flora from Elekiwi Prime.” The admiral scowled. “I think you all know how difficult it is to extract anything from that world—and how valuable such cargo can be to our research people at Starfleet Medical.”
Picard nodded. Elekiwi Prime was a dying world, increasingly beleaguered by volcanic eruptions and resulting clouds of carbon dioxide. A team of scientists had risked their lives to obtain the flora samples in question, knowing that plant life wouldn’t survive conditions on the planet much longer.
“Someone has to go after the White Wolf and attempt to recover the cargo,” McAteer said, his voice steely with resolve. “But even if recovery is no longer possible, I want to end the menace of this pirate once and for all.”
He had barely finished his sentence when half a dozen hands went up. Volunteers, Picard thought. No doubt they included the captains who had been thwarted by the White Wolf in the past. If he were one of them, he too would have wished to settle the score.
Picard studied the hologram of the White Wolf’s hiding place. Beta Barritus appeared to be a complex system indeed. It presented the kind of obstacles Picard had heard about, even read about, but had never personally encountered.
If the captains who had hunted the White Wolf were any judges, the man was impossible to find, much less apprehend. And if his colleagues wanted the assignment that badly, he would do his best not to stand in their way.
“I appreciate your eagerness,” McAteer told them. “I understand how important it is to you to bring the White Wolf to justice. But I think we need a new approach to the problem.”
A new approach? Picard repeated inwardly. He wondered what the admiral had in mind.
He was still wondering when McAteer turned to him and smiled like a fox noticing an unguarded henhouse. “Captain Picard,” he said, “I’m giving you this job.”
Picard turned red in the face. Me? he thought.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one inclined to question McAteer’s choice, if the stares and the muttered comments that followed were any indication. Obviously, his fellow captains were wondering why McAteer might tap a man who had been a mere second officer a month earlier over a wide assortment of seasoned veterans.
The White Wolf had beaten the best the fleet had to offer. How was a green apple going to do what those other captains couldn’t?
Picard would have liked to hear what the admiral had to say in that regard. But McAteer wasn’t offering any explanations at the moment. He was just standing there, staring at his youngest captain as if awaiting the man’s response.
Picard gave the only one he could. “I hope to prove myself worthy of your confidence.”
The admiral nodded. “I’ve no doubt of it.”
Then he went on to dole out the other assignments. In each case, he discussed the difficulties of the mission and what Starfleet stood to gain by it. But Picard barely heard him. He was still trying to figure out what he had done to deserve the White Wolf.
Mollie Katz had served as a Starfleet transporter operator for more than thirty years, first on a series of space-spanning starships named Phoenix and Exeter and Yorktown, and now here at Starbase 32. In the course of her long career, she had met with more than her share of unusual transports.
But never anything like this.
The customized gray-and-white containment suit and matching helmet had been Katz’s first clue. The second had been the ghostly visage visible through the helmet’s transparent faceplate.
But even as the figure stepped up onto the transporter platform, Katz hadn’t imagined the challenges with which she would be presented—challenges she was even now trying to meet as she made careful adjustments to her control settings.
Three humans stood to one side of the transporter operator, all of them Starfleet personnel, alternately watching Katz work at her console and gazing at the figure on the platform. They seemed curious, no more than that.
But it had to be a lonely thing for the being inside the containment suit. It had to be hard to endure the scrutiny of others when you were so different from them, so different from anyone within a radius of several light-years.
At last Katz felt certain that her settings were what they should be. Programming in the requisite destination coordinates, she obtained a lock on the place. Then she activated the targeting scanners and verified range and relative motion, which, fortunately for her subject, were both minimal.
Checking the diagnostics monitor in the upper left quadrant of her panel, she saw that the system was functioning well within acceptable parameters. So far so good, the operator told herself.
Normally this would have been the point at which the transporter’s molecular imaging scanners came on-line. However, Katz had already been using the scanners for the last several minutes to get an idea of what she was dealing with.
She directed the primary energizing coils to generate an annular confinement beam, which would be used in a little while. Then, with painstaking care, she encouraged the phase transition coils to convert the subject into a subatomically debonded matter stream.
This was the tricky part, the part she would at other times have left to the computer but felt compelled in this instance to carry out on her own. It wasn’t that she thought she could be more exact than an electronic device. It was that if something went wrong, she had more faith in her own ability to correct it.
Come on, she thought, watching the debonded matter migrate to the system’s pattern buffer. Get in there, and I mean now.
Up on the platform, the subject would be vanishing in a sparkling column of light—containment suit and all. But the transporter operator didn’t have the luxury of watching the spectacle. She was too intent on her instruments, too busy with the minutiae of the matter storage process to allow herself even the slightest distraction.
Almost done, she thought. Almost there. Seventy-five percent, to be more precise. Eighty. Eighty-five . . .
A bead of perspiration trickled down her forehead, but she ignored it and continued to monitor the matter stream, hands on her controls in case she had to abort the process or take some other emergency measure.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Katz saw the blinking green stud that verified the subject’s safe arrival in the system’s pattern buffer. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and gave herself permission to relax for a moment.
But only for a moment.
Then she bent to her task again and projected the annular confinement beam from the starbase’s emitter array to the target coordinates. It was within the dimensions of this beam that the subject’s debonded matter would travel.
Next, the o
perator transmitted the matter from the buffer to the emitter. Once there, it was ready to make the journey across the void of empty space.
Here goes, she thought.
And she sent the accumulated matter streaming along the confinement beam to its destination.
Katz was certain that she had done everything right. Still, she found herself staring at her instrument panel, willing it to tell her that the process would end as it was supposed to—with the subject’s safe arrival and rematerialization.
Because under the most perfect conditions, one never knew—and these conditions were far from perfect.
The seconds ticked by, more of them than Katz had expected. Her teeth had begun to grind together by the time she saw the words she was hoping for: transport successful.
In the privacy of her mind, the operator patted herself on the back. That hadn’t been easy. In fact, she wouldn’t complain if that was the last such transport she was called on to make.
At last, she wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand and reset her instruments to more conventional levels. Then, turning to the trio standing next to her, she said, “Next.”
As they stepped up onto the platform, Katz wished the being in the containment suit good luck. She would need it.
* * *
It wasn’t until after McAteer had turned up the lights and adjourned the meeting that Picard had a chance to buttonhole him. It wasn’t difficult to do so. In fact, the admiral seemed to have been expecting the captain’s approach.
“You’re wondering why I asked you to go after our friend the White Wolf,” McAteer concluded.
“I am,” Picard confirmed.
“I don’t blame you,” the admiral said. “In your position, I’d be wondering the same thing.”
He took the captain’s arm and guided him to an observation port at the far end of the room. Apparently, he wanted to conduct their conversation where others wouldn’t overhear it.
“I picked you for the mission,” McAteer told him, “because conventional methods haven’t worked with the White Wolf. Your predecessor, Captain Ruhalter, was known for his resourcefulness, his ability to think on his feet. I’m betting that those qualities rubbed off on you.”
In fact, Picard didn’t think of himself as particularly resourceful. However, he refrained from saying so.
“I’ll try not to let you down,” he said.
The admiral chuckled. “Modesty. I like that. Then it’ll look even better when you nail the bastard.”
It wasn’t modesty that had compelled the captain to frame his response that way. It was a sense of proportion. But he didn’t tell McAteer that either.
“If you say so,” he told the admiral.
Chapter Four
AS PICARD MATERIALIZED on the Stargazer’s transporter platform alongside his first officer, he noted that it was Lieutenant Refsland manning the facility’s transporter console. Refsland was his section chief, the most experienced of his several transporter operators. Picard always felt a little more secure in Refsland’s hands.
Normally the man greeted him with a smile and a single word of greeting: “Captain.” But not this time, Picard noticed. This time, Refsland appeared to have something on his mind.
“Something wrong?” the captain asked.
“I’m not sure, sir,” Refsland told him.
“Not sure?” Picard echoed.
Refsland shrugged. “About half an hour ago, we received the new crewmen, sir. Seven of them, to be exact.”
The captain found himself making a face. New crewmen? What new crewmen? “I haven’t authorized any additions to the crew,” he informed the transporter chief.
Refsland sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Picard glanced at Ben Zoma. “Gilaad?”
“Don’t look at me,” his friend said. “I didn’t authorize any new additions either.”
Certainly, Picard thought, there were berths to be filled after the casualties inflicted on them by the Nuyyad, and replacements to be arranged for officers who had subsequently left the ship. He and Ben Zoma had even considered some candidates, though they hadn’t made any final decisions yet.
“Actually, sir,” said an uncomfortable-looking Refsland, “the orders came from Admiral McAteer. He said you wouldn’t object.”
Picard scowled. “McAteer said that?”
“Aye, sir. He said you wouldn’t want to be bothered. Otherwise, we would have contacted you immediately.”
The captain had no doubt of it. The officers he had left in charge were both loyal and efficient. They wouldn’t have accepted the transport if it hadn’t come from a higher authority.
Placing his hand on his first officer’s shoulder, Picard said, “You take care of our new crewmen. I think I need to have a word with our friend the admiral.”
Then, doing his best to contain his anger, he made his way to his ready room.
Lieutenant Kochman stared at his friend Vigo across the sharash’di board. “Another one?”
Vigo reset the board, as oblivious to the look of discomfort on his friend’s face as he was to everything else in the ship’s lounge. “You go first and fourth this time.”
Kochman sighed. “That’s very nice of you, but . . .”
Vigo looked up. “Yes?”
The navigator held his hands up in an appeal for reason. “We’ve been playing for four hours straight, pal. I need a break.”
Vigo blinked. “Three and a half, actually.”
Kochman shot him a look.
“But,” Vigo added, “that’s very nearly four.”
“I go on duty in an hour,” Kochman continued. “I need to eat, wash up, grab a clean uniform . . .”
“As you should,” Vigo said reasonably. “And now that you mention it, I have things to do as well. The last thing I want is to spend all my time playing a game.”
But his expression said otherwise.
Kochman frowned. Little had he known what a monster he was creating when he gave his pal the sharash’di board for his birthday. Or for that matter, he added silently, what a genius.
Vigo had the same kind of knack for sharash’di that he did for weapons technology. He didn’t just grasp the subject, he bonded with it—brain and muscle and bone. He lived it.
“You know,” Kochman said, “you don’t have to stop on my account. If you want, you can go on playing.”
The weapons officer seemed to understand his friend’s meaning. “You’re suggesting I play with someone else?”
Kochman shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
Vigo took in the room at a glance. “I suppose I could,” he said after a while. “I would just have to teach them the game.” He smiled, enthused again. “But if I could learn it, they can too.”
Kochman doubted that anyone would embrace sharash’di as much as the weapons officer had. However, someone might at least give him a run for his money.
“This is what I’m saying,” he told Vigo.
The Pandrilite nodded. “I think I’ll follow your advice.”
“Good,” said Kochman, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”
And with that, he made good his escape.
Picard took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to proceed. Then, opting not to get his communications officer involved, he established a comm link with McAteer’s office. After a second or two, the admiral’s assistant appeared on the screen.
“I’d like to speak with Admiral McAteer,” the captain said.
The assistant, a young man with a blond crew cut and a ruddy complexion, promised to tell McAteer that there was a call for him. Seeing the Starfleet logo come up on his screen, Picard had no choice but to wait.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. But McAteer looked vaguely annoyed as he appeared on the screen, as if Picard had interrupted something important.
“Is there something I can do for you, Captain?”
Ind
eed there is, Picard thought. “You can help me understand something, Admiral. I’ve just been informed that several new crewmen have beamed aboard the Stargazer.”
McAteer shrugged. “As I understood it, you had several openings, owing to casualties in the course of your last mission.”
It was true. Seven crewmen, including Captain Ruhalter, had died in their clash with the Nuyyad.
Also, they had lost their weapons officer, who had led a mutiny against then–Acting Captain Picard and been incarcerated as a result. And just before the Stargazer reached Starbase 32, Sciences Chief Angela Cariello had decided to leave the fleet to join her husband at an agricultural colony, and Security Chief Ang had accepted a position on the Sutherland.
“Nonetheless,” Picard said, “it is highly irregular for a captain to have crewmen handed to him by a superior officer. As you know, sir, the normal procedure is for a commanding officer to review applications at his leisure before making any personnel decisions.”
The admiral frowned at the remark. “I’m well aware of Starfleet procedures, Captain.”
“Then you won’t be surprised to learn that Commander Ben Zoma and I are already focusing on at least one candidate—a fellow who comes from a long-standing Starfleet tradition. His grandfather was an admiral, his aunt is on her way to becoming one, and his elder brother is currently serving with distinction on the Exeter.”
McAteer looked as if he was going to cut Picard’s comments short. However, the captain didn’t give him the opportunity.
“He has also posted dazzling grades at the Academy, been described by his professors as driven, bright, and capable, and served as captain of the parisses squares team that beat a squad of Academy alumni just prior to graduation.”
The admiral knew who he was, of course. Picard could tell by the look in his eyes.
“Frankly, sir,” he continued, “I cannot imagine anyone more qualified to join the crew of the Stargazer.”
McAteer’s eyes narrowed. “Sign him on, then, Captain. Sign on anyone you want. Get rid of anyone you don’t want. But do it after you catch the White Wolf. For the time being, I’d say you need all the help you can get—and that includes those seven new crewmen who have beamed aboard your starship.”
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