And his heart went out to it.
Cortin Zweller had red hair, boyish good looks, and a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Just the sight of him on the monitor in Picard’s quarters—courtesy of an unexpected subspace message—brought a smile to the captain’s face.
At Starfleet Academy, Zweller and Picard had been the closest of friends, guarding each other’s backs in one bit of ill-considered, late-night mischief after another. It was during one of their more raucous ventures that Picard had been stabbed through the heart by an angry Nausicaan.
Of course, both men had changed since then, gradually taking on the more sober mien expected of Starfleet officers. But of the two of them, Zweller had changed a good deal less than Picard had. He still played the occasional prank—though never on a superior officer.
“In case you were wondering,” the redhead said, “I like the Ajax just fine. I like being second officer. I even like the new dom-jot table they installed in the rec room.”
Dom-jot was the game of skill at which Zweller had excelled as a cadet. However, the captain noted inwardly, his friend had never been as good as he believed he was.
Picard was still chuckling at the thought when he saw Zweller’s demeanor change. The smile drained from the man’s face, and he leaned closer to the screen.
“The only part I don’t like,” Zweller said, “is hearing an old buddy is sailing into a trap.”
Picard frowned. His pursuit of the White Wolf appeared to have become common knowledge.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Zweller said. “That I’m talking about the White Wolf. But I’m not. I’m talking about McAteer.”
It took Picard a moment to realize that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. McAteer? What the devil was his friend talking about?
Zweller was already providing an explanation. “Turns out he was against Mehdi’s decision to make you captain of the Stargazer. In fact, he’s been against a great many of Mehdi’s decisions over the years. That’s why McAteer’s sending you on this mission, Jean-Luc—a mission he thinks you can’t possibly pull off. It’s to make you look bad, so he can make your benefactor Mehdi look bad as well.”
Picard leaned back in his chair. He had heard that such political games were played in the upper echelons of Starfleet, but he had never experienced any of them firsthand.
Welcome to starship command, he mused.
His friend went on. “If there’s any way out of the mission, grab it and hold on tight. That’s what I would do.” He quirked a smile, though it didn’t have its usual enthusiasm behind it. “Good luck, pal. You’re going to need it.”
As the Starfleet logo came up, replacing Zweller’s face, the captain touched a square on his keypad and erased the message. After all that his Academy chum had risked on his behalf, it wouldn’t do for Picard to leave the evidence intact.
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair. Obviously, it was too late for him to even think about backing out of the mission. If it was true that McAteer had set a trap for him, he was firmly and inextricably caught in it.
But what if he could prove them all wrong—the admiral and anyone else who thought the White Wolf was uncatchable? What if he could do what no one expected him to do, his friend Corey Zweller included?
Picard resolved to find out.
Chapter Six
PETER “PUG” JOSEPH FELT A PIT OPEN in his stomach as he stood in the Stargazer’s security section and considered his newest officer. “Is something wrong, sir?” Obal, a Binderian, looked down at his uniform and ran his hands over it, apparently thinking there might be something amiss in that department.
There was something amiss, all right. But it had nothing to do with the Binderian’s clothes.
Caught off-balance, the acting security chief shook his head. “No. Nothing at all. Carry on.”
Obal inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, sir.”
As Joseph watched his new officer waddle away, he shook his head ruefully. There weren’t any other Binderians in Starfleet, so he had never seen one before Obal arrived. Now that he had, he was appalled.
Obal resembled nothing so much as a plucked chicken. A beakless chicken to be sure, and one that had unusually big, front-facing eyes, but a chicken nonetheless.
In fact, he was the silliest thing Joseph had ever seen—and that wasn’t just an aesthetic judgment. It was, unfortunately, an observation with concrete, real-world implications.
With his obvious physical limitations, the Binderian would find it hard to get others to take him seriously. In Joseph’s mind, that cast doubts on Obal’s ability to serve as a security officer.
After all, security personnel needed to command respect. They needed to inspire confidence. And the Binderian, well, didn’t do either of those things particularly well.
Clearly, Joseph needed to do something about it. “Obal?” he said. “Could I have a word with you?”
Obal stopped in his tracks, turned to his superior again and replied, “Of course, sir. Right away.” Then he waddled back across the room to Joseph’s side.
The security chief took a moment to phrase his next remark. After all, he didn’t want to hurt Obal’s feelings. It wasn’t the Binderian’s fault he had been placed somewhere he didn’t belong.
“You know,” Joseph began, “the Stargazer is a big ship. A very big ship. It’s got a whole range of career opportunities for a bright, young fellow like yourself.”
Obal smiled at him. He didn’t seem to have any idea what the security chief was suggesting.
“What I mean is,” Joseph said, “there are lots of other sections where you could make a contribution.”
This time, the Binderian spoke up. “That’s good to know,” he said. But he didn’t say anything more.
Joseph tried again. “Sections that could profit immensely from your eagerness and your intelligence.”
Obal’s brow creased over the bridge of his nose. “You mean . . . you would like me to work in those sections? And apply my expertise to areas other than security?”
The security chief felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Yes! That’s exactly what I mean.”
The Binderian shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “I would be happy to do that, sir.”
“You would?” said Joseph. “I mean . . . I’m glad to hear that, Obal, very glad indeed. I’ll speak with the heads of the other sections the first chance I get.”
“Excellent,” Obal told him, clearly enthusiastic about the idea. “And when I return, I will be a better officer as a result.”
Joseph’s hopes fell. “When you . . . return?”
“Aye, sir. When I return to security.”
The chief frowned. “To security.”
“In fact, I will be happy to share what I’ve learned with my colleagues.” Obal’s brow creased again. “That is, unless you plan to lend them out to other sections as well.”
It wasn’t the response Joseph had been hoping for. Obviously, the subtle approach hadn’t gotten him anywhere, so he decided to meet the matter head on.
“Obal,” he said, “I was thinking you might want to transfer to another section permanently.”
The Binderian’s brow creased deeper than ever. Then, surprisingly, the smile returned to his face.
“Why would I want to do that?” he asked Joseph. “My heart is in security work. And I intend to do that work better than anyone who has ever worn the uniform.”
This time, Joseph sighed out loud. He could request the transfer himself, of course. But he wouldn’t do that until he had given Obal a chance to prove him wrong.
Not that the chief thought that would happen. “All right, then,” he told the Binderian. “Welcome aboard.”
“Lieutenant Simenon?”
Simenon looked up from his console in engineering to see who had called his name. There was only one person standing anywhere near him—a middle-aged, rather plump human with kind eyes and dark
hair graying at the temples.
She was smiling at him. Obviously, the engineer reflected, she didn’t know him very well.
“Yes?” he hissed.
“I’m Juanita Valderrama,” she said. “The new sciences chief. You asked me to come see you . . . ?”
It was true. Simenon had wanted to show her something. “Join me,” he said, beckoning the woman closer.
He tapped the keys on his console that would bring up the graphic he wanted. As Valderrama leaned over his shoulder, he pointed to the screen with a scaly finger.
“I’ve been working on amplifying our sensors with Beta Barritus in mind,” Simenon explained. “We’ll have better range, especially outside the visual spectrum. Here. Take a look for yourself.”
Valderrama examined the screen. It took her a couple of minutes to absorb it all, since she wasn’t an engineer by training.
When she was done, she turned to Simenon and said, “All right.”
He thought she was kidding. “You’re happy?”
“If you are,” Valderrama told him, smiling again.
Simenon considered her a moment longer. Then he said, “Fine. Thanks for your input.”
“Anytime,” Valderrama told him. “If there’s nothing else . . . ?”
“Nothing,” he assured her.
“Then I’ll be getting back to my section.”
“Fine,” he said.
So Valderrama made her way back across engineering and headed blithely for the exit.
Simenon shook his lizardlike head as he watched the doors close behind her. Cariello, Valderrama’s predecessor as sciences chief, would never have let him off the hook so easily. She would have thanked him for his efforts, of course—but then she would have demanded even more of him, whether he could deliver it or not.
That was how any good science officer would have handled it. But not Valderrama. She had simply accepted the limitations laid out for her on the screen and let it go at that.
Simenon frowned. He could tolerate a lot of things, but indifference wasn’t one of them. If Valderrama had been one of his engineers, she would have been on her way back to Starbase 32 already.
Starfleet was such a big place, he mused. Surely there had been a better science officer available somewhere.
Gilaad Ben Zoma gazed across the shiny black briefing room table at his new second officer.
Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Wu was a small, wiry woman with short, dark hair. If Ben Zoma hadn’t known her age, he would never have guessed that she was over thirty.
“I read your file,” he said. “Your record is impeccable.”
Her previous captain had called her “the kind of person who gets things done.” But then, Ben Zoma could see that in the cast of her eyes and the way she carried herself.
“Thank you,” Wu responded, neither discounting the praise nor wallowing in it.
“I can see why Captain Rudolfini wasn’t happy to see you leave the Crazy Horse.”
Wu’s mouth pulled up at the corners—as close, apparently, as she came to a smile. “But I assure you, he understood. There wasn’t any opportunity for advancement on the Crazy Horse. If I wanted to move up, I had no choice but to transfer.”
A common motivation. “At any rate,” said Ben Zoma, “I think you know why I called you here.”
“Of course,” she replied. “To brief me on the personalities of the people who will be reporting to me.”
“Exactly.” It was standard procedure. “Have you had a chance to read any of our personnel files?”
“I was just doing that when you called me.”
“And whom have you read about so far?”
Wu thought for a moment. “Phigus Simenon. Your chief engineer, if I recall correctly?”
“That’s right.”
“He seemed capable enough,” Wu remarked.
Ben Zoma smiled. “Simenon is more than capable, Commander. He’s brilliant—the absolute best at what he does. But he’s also as cranky as they come, so take that into account in your dealings with him.”
Wu nodded, her expression indicating that she was filing the information away. “I’ll do that.”
“Have you gotten to Carter Greyhorse, our chief medical officer?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Greyhorse is brilliant too, in his way.”
“And cranky?” Wu suggested wryly.
“Actually,” said Ben Zoma, “he’s anything but. Greyhorse is always the same, always on an even keel, whether he’s treating a splinter or third-degree radiation burns. He’d make a great poker player.”
Again, the second officer looked as if she were filing his remarks away. “Noted.”
Ben Zoma went on. “Idun Asmund, our helm officer?”
Wu’s brow puckered. “Asmund, yes . . . I was halfway through that file. But I don’t think the woman’s first name was Idun.”
“Her sister’s name is Gerda.”
The light of recognition went on in Wu’s eyes. “Yes . . . Gerda. She’s your navigator, I believe?”
“That she is,” Ben Zoma confirmed. “And you won’t find a more efficient officer in the fleet. Unless, of course, you bump into Idun, who happens to be her twin.”
“Efficiency is to be commended,” Wu said. “What else should I know about them?”
He smiled again. How should I put this?
“That they’re not afraid of anything—and I mean anything. That they’re perfectly loyal, dedicated to their work, and resourceful beyond any expectation. And that they were raised by Klingons.”
That brought Wu up short. “Klingons?”
“Klingons. It’s all in their files.”
“I can’t wait.”
Who else? “Vigo?”
Wu shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s our weapons officer. A Pandrilite. Knows what he’s doing inside and out. And he’s eager to please.”
“Sounds like we’ll get along fine.”
“I’m sure you will,” Ben Zoma told her. He asked himself whom he had left out. It took a moment, but it came to him. “Then there’s Pug Joseph, our security chief.”
Unexpectedly, Wu’s level of enthusiasm seemed to drop precipitously. “Ah, yes. Joseph.”
Ben Zoma looked at her. “Something wrong?”
Wu sighed. “A few months ago, I heard some bad things about the Stargazer’s security section.”
The first officer felt a rush of heat to his face. “Bad in what way?” he asked.
Wu shrugged. “Poor discipline, scheduling inefficiencies . . . generally, a lack of leadership.”
“You don’t say.”
Wu’s eyes brightened. “But don’t worry. I’m going to crack down on Lieutenant Joseph. By the time I’m done with him, his section will be the best in the fleet.”
Ben Zoma smiled halfheartedly. “I applaud your initiative, Commander. However, a few months ago, Pug Joseph wasn’t the security chief on this ship. I was.”
Wu’s eyes opened wide. “I’m . . . sorry, sir. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to offend you.”
The first officer nodded. “It’s all right. Really. But if I were you, I’d observe Mr. Joseph firsthand before making any judgments concerning his abilities.”
“Of course,” Wu responded crisply.
Ben Zoma went on with his list of command personnel. But as he did so, it occurred to him that Wu might not be quite the prize he had believed her to be.
Picard took a sip of his tea and gazed out the observation port of his ready room. The distant suns abeam of the Stargazer sped by him in long, straight lines of light.
Ben Zoma was sitting at the captain’s computer terminal, going over the reports they had received from their section heads. For once, he wasn’t smiling.
Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw his friend push himself away from the desk and swivel his chair in the captain’s direction. Picard turned to him.
“Finished?” he a
sked.
Ben Zoma nodded. “I see what you mean. Of our seven new crewmen, four seem to come with a bit of baggage. That’s not a very good average, Jean-Luc.”
Picard nodded. “An inescapable conclusion. And given what my friend Corey Zweller told me, I would not be surprised if it were more than a coincidence.”
“You think McAteer stuck us with them on purpose? To give us a few distractions while we’re hunting the White Wolf?”
“If you accept Corey’s premise, it is difficult to ignore the possibility entirely.”
Ben Zoma frowned. “I suppose.”
“On the other hand,” Picard said, “I’m not willing to give up on these crewmen just yet.”
“You think we can help them?”
“A couple of them, at least. Ensign Nikolas, for instance. He has been labeled a discipline problem—”
“To put it mildly,” Ben Zoma interjected.
“However,” the captain continued, “he reminds me of myself before the incident at Bonestell that cost me my heart. He’s young, brash, too full of himself to think about his future.”
“But maybe, if we exercise a little more patience than Nikolas is accustomed to . . . ?”
“He may turn out to be a diamond in the rough. Precisely.”
“Or,” said Ben Zoma, “he may turn out to be what he’s been labeled—a square peg in a very round hole.”
“Then all we’ve lost,” Picard countered, “is time and patience.”
Ben Zoma didn’t argue the point. Apparently, he had had enough of playing devil’s advocate.
“And while we’re at it,” Picard said, “perhaps we can help Lieutenant Valderrama as well. True, she’s been transferred twice in the last couple of years by disgruntled captains—”
“Who noted her exemplary service record but felt her level of dedication had eroded.”
“Yes. But what did they do to get her motivated again? Did they challenge her or simply accept her deficiencies? That is the question, Number One.”
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