“No,” said Jiterica. “I can manage it.”
It took her a while, but she finally released the latch and pushed back her helmet. The act exposed her ghostly head, which tilted ever so slightly as she returned Paris’s gaze. For a heartbeat or two, Jiterica remained in her vaguely humanoid shape, even without the help of the suit’s built-in containment field. Then her features twisted away like smoke in a strong breeze, and the suit dropped precipitously to the floor.
But there was a cloud looming over it, a gradually expanding complex of shifting, sparkling particles, which was no less the essence of Jiterica than what had been squeezed into the suit. If anything, the cloud was more her, because she was allowing herself to revert to her natural state—that of a low-density being whose species had evolved in the chaotic upper atmosphere of a high-gravity gas giant.
As Paris watched, spellbound, Jiterica grew to fill the confines of her quarters—and they truly were confines, because she could have easily filled a larger space. But compared with the compression she had endured in her suit, the chance to fill even a modest compartment had to seem like a great relief.
As Jiterica encompassed Paris, taking him inside herself, he could feel her alien touch—first on the exposed skin of his face, neck, and hands, and then all over his body. It reached him right through the fabric of his clothes, cold and sharp as any needle, as if he were standing naked in a shower of ice shards.
Then he heard Jiterica speak to him, not in the suit’s mechanical voice but in a language without sound. And it wasn’t a mouth she was speaking with, but every energy-charged molecule of her body.
Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to hear every word, every sensation, every sentiment. He breathed her in, exhaled, and breathed her in again.
Like fairy dust, Paris thought. Like a deeply intoxicating liqueur, except it was alive and intelligent and basking in an array of unheard-of emotions.
Beautiful, exquisite emotions. The kind he hadn’t imagined he would ever know.
But it wasn’t just the intoxication, or the novelty, or the sense of joining that Paris loved. It was the fact that Jiterica was part of it. With some other Nizhrak the experience might still have been an appealing one, but it was Jiterica who took his breath away.
It was bliss, complete and utter bliss. And somehow, Paris knew that Jiterica felt the same way.
For what seemed like a long time, he drifted on the electric pleasure of her currents, immersed and immersing, embracing and embraced. Then, with a pang of deep regret, Paris felt Jiterica stir as if to withdraw.
Don’t, he thought.
But she gave him the sense that she needed to—that they both needed to. So Paris opened his eyes and watched her go.
He was still in touch with her, if not quite as intimately as before, when she began to force herself back into her containment suit. He had known that it was difficult for her to compress, but he had never appreciated how difficult.
First, Jiterica filled up the suit’s arms and legs, so she would have use of them. Then, with what seemed like an intense effort, she used the gloves to pull her helmet back into place.
As before, Paris was moved to help her, but he could tell that she wanted to do this herself. She had worked hard to gain whatever modicum of dexterity she possessed, and she was determined to put it to use.
Finally, Jiterica closed the helmet latches and turned to him. But her face hadn’t quite coalesced yet. It was still crude, lacking in definition.
Then she took care of that detail as well. Her features clarified, sharpened, became familiar to him.
Only then did Paris ask the question that had been nagging at him: “Why did we need to stop?”
Jiterica smiled. “It’s time,” she said in her artificial voice, “for our next shift.”
“No…” said Paris.
He couldn’t believe it. They had just completed their last shift when they met in Jiterica’s quarters. Was it possible that they had been there for sixteen hours?
He had barely considered the possibility when he felt the encroaching emptiness in his belly, and the thirst, and an unusual stiffness in his legs. And by those signs, he knew that Jiterica wasn’t kidding.
Sixteen hours, the ensign thought, as he smiled back at her. Amazing.
Gilaad Ben Zoma, first officer of the Stargazer and incidentally Jean-Luc Picard’s best friend, had been trying for the last minute or so to concentrate his attention on the oval-shaped data-display device in his hand.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. And that wasn’t likely to change while Admiral McAteer and the captain were holed up in Picard’s ready room.
“They’ve been in there a long time,” observed Elizabeth Wu, the ship’s highly efficient second officer, who had handed Ben Zoma the data-display device in the first place.
He nodded. “They certainly have. I guess they’ve got something…complicated to talk about.”
“Think it’s a mission?” Wu asked.
Ben Zoma smiled a little. “More than that. Starfleet admirals—even those as intrusive as McAteer—don’t come out this far just to give an order. Something’s up.”
Wu frowned. “Something we’re not going to like, I take it?”
The first officer stared at the ready-room door as if he could see through it. “I don’t doubt it.”
Picard had kept his mouth shut for a good long time, but he could keep it shut no longer—which was why he had petitioned his superior for permission to speak freely, unfettered by the restricting bonds of Starfleet protocol.
On the other side of the captain’s desk, McAteer’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. But he didn’t take long to consider the request. “Granted.”
Picard plunged ahead. “There is a tempest brewing in this sector, Admiral. You know that as well as anyone.”
McAteer didn’t disagree.
“In your place,” Picard continued, “I would be deploying the entirety of my resources to address the situation at hand. And yet, with the notable exception of my assignment on Oblivion, in which my involvement was mandated by parties other than yourself, you have consistently relegated the Stargazer to peripheral activities. While other Constellation-class vessels serve as escorts through disputed territory or conduct border patrols, my vessel carries out scientific surveys—and frivolous ones at that.”
The captain leaned forward in his chair. “My crew is ready, willing, and able to handle any crisis that may arise, be it diplomatic or military in nature. We are eager to make the same sort of contributions as any other ship in the fleet—to do the same work and assume the same risks—and we would be grateful if you recognized that fact.”
McAteer smiled through Picard’s diatribe, apparently without resentment. Then, taking his time, he answered the captain’s challenge.
“You say that your crew is equal to any task I may decide to impose upon it. That may be so,” said McAteer. “However, to be perfectly blunt, its commanding officer appears not to be equal to any task.”
Picard felt as if he had been slapped across the face.
“That,” the admiral continued, in an even, almost benevolent-sounding tone, “is the reason I’ve been reluctant to put the Stargazer in the thick of the action—because your personal performance hasn’t earned my confidence.”
The captain bit his lip to keep from saying something he would certainly regret. If McAteer wasn’t confident in him, it wasn’t his fault. He had done everything the man had asked of him, and a good deal more.
His only mistake had been his choice of birthdate. In the admiral’s estimate, Picard was too young to be a captain, too inexperienced, too green.
“And that,” said McAteer, looking as if he were allowing himself to be dragged into unplanned but all-too-necessary territory, “is also why I have scheduled a hearing to judge your competence as a Starfleet captain.”
Picard felt his cheeks suffuse with blood. “My competence?” he echoed, giving the wor
d an ironic spin. “And in what respect have I been incompetent?”
Without a second’s hesitation, the admiral reeled off a list of instances. Bad decisions, he called them, constructed on the uncertain ground of bad judgment.
And they all had to do with the Nuyyad, the conqueror species with whom the Stargazer had clashed on the other side of the galactic barrier. Picard had barely taken the reins of command at the time, assuming the place of his dead captain as the enemy slashed away at the Stargazer.
But there was no mention of mitigating circumstances, no nod to the novelty of the situation. All McAteer cared to talk about were the specific moves Picard had made.
Taken out of context, each one made the captain sound more careless and devoid of judgment than the one before it. But every one of them had been made for a good reason.
Picard said so.
“Those who serve with you disagree,” said the admiral.
Picard was skeptical about that claim, to say the least. He couldn’t imagine that Ben Zoma or Wu had ever spoken to McAteer behind his back. Then who…?
The admiral’s smile deepened. “Former colleagues, to be precise. Commander Leach, for instance—Commander Ben Zoma’s predecessor as first officer of the Stargazer. He provided me with some rather valuable insights into your activities as the Stargazer’s second officer. Then there was Ensign Joe Caber—”
The captain couldn’t help but interrupt. “Ensign Caber was not Starfleet material, as my report on the reason for his transfer clearly indicated.”
“I read it,” said McAteer. “You said he was guilty of bigotry toward one of your other crewmen.”
“Bigotry that quickly accelerated into unwarranted violence.”
“So you said in your report,” the admiral noted. “But Ensign Caber had a different take on his stay here.”
Why am I not surprised? Caber, the son of a highly regarded Starfleet admiral, had suggested as he left the Stargazer that the matter of his dismissal would not be resolved to Picard’s satisfaction.
“As you might expect,” said McAteer, “Ensign Caber’s father has taken a personal interest in your actions. He has asked to be one of the admirals who hear the charges against you.”
Perfect, thought the captain.
Clearly, McAteer had gone to a great deal of trouble to build and fortify his position. He wasn’t going to stop at anything to see Picard relieved of his command.
The admiral sighed audibly. “I hope you know I don’t like doing this. I don’t enjoy raking people over the coals.”
Again, Picard bit his lip. Thanks to one of his friends in Starfleet, he knew that McAteer was lying. He had it in for Picard ever since Admiral Mehdi placed the twenty-eight-year old in command of the Stargazer.
“Of course,” the admiral added in a repulsively avuncular way, “you could simply step down. That would save everyone a lot of trouble—you in particular.”
Picard felt his teeth grind together. You would like me to think so, wouldn’t you?
“I appreciate the offer,” he forced himself to say, “but frankly, I do not intend to give up my command without a fight.” He speared McAteer with his gaze. “I ask you—what self-respecting captain would?”
The admiral’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “As you wish, Picard.” He got up and straightened his jacket. “If you happen to change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Indeed,” said the captain.
Chapter Three
BEN ZOMA HAD SELDOM seen his friend Picard look so red-faced with subdued anger. He couldn’t see the captain’s hands, but he imagined that Picard’s knuckles were white as they grasped the rests of his desk chair. Obviously, he had been set off by something the admiral had told him.
“So,” the first officer opened as he sat down in the chair McAteer had occupied, “what did our friend the admiral have to say that couldn’t have been said at a much greater distance and a good deal more succinctly?”
Picard told him.
Ben Zoma usually made light of the captain’s concerns. He didn’t make light of this one. “The bastard.”
“I shouldn’t have been surprised,” said Picard. “He has never made a secret of his disdain for me.”
Ben Zoma frowned. “You just didn’t know when he would pull the rug out. It was something we always figured would happen someday—just not today.”
Picard shook his head, no doubt wondering how he had come to this pass. “Perhaps my father was right when he advised me to remain on Earth and run the family vineyard. I understand that last year’s vintage, the thirty-two, was the best we ever produced.”
The first officer, too, had a father who had opposed his choice to serve in Starfleet. If anyone understood the captain’s situation, it was he.
“Don’t worry,” he said, searching for something comforting to say. “You’ll get through this.”
“And if I lose the Stargazer?” the captain asked, introducing an unwelcome dose of reality. “If McAteer pries me away from her?”
Ben Zoma felt his friend’s pain, and wished it were his instead. “That’s beyond your control at this point.”
Picard sat back in his seat, looking defeated already. “I was hoping you would assure me to the contrary, Gilaad.”
Ben Zoma smiled, but there wasn’t any mirth in it. “Believe me, I wish I could.”
Lieutenant Obal pushed around the green and orange food on his plate, only vaguely aware of the buzz of conversation around him. In the few months he had served on the Stargazer, he had spent some eminently enjoyable moments in the mess hall.
This wasn’t one of them.
“It’s disappointing,” Obal’s companion said unexpectedly.
Roused from his melancholy, the security officer looked across the table at Kastiigan, the ship’s science officer. A Kandilkari, Kastiigan had a long and striated face, with distinctive purple jowls hanging loosely from his jaw.
“What is?” Obal asked.
“Several weeks have passed since I arrived on this vessel,” said Kastiigan, “and in that time, various officers have been exposed to considerable danger. But I have not been one of them.”
Obal looked at him, more than a little surprised. “You wish to be placed in danger?”
The science officer nodded. “Very much so. I am a senior officer on this starship. I should be assuming as much of the risk as any other senior officer.”
The Binderian tilted his head. “That is…an unusual way of looking at it.”
Kastiigan didn’t appear to have heard him. He seemed too intent on his own thoughts. “I have made it clear to Captain Picard that I would like to be placed in jeopardy, but for some reason he seems unwilling to do so.”
“Perhaps he values your services too much to contemplate losing you,” Obal suggested.
The Kandilkari shook his head. “If that’s so, he has given me no indication of it.”
“Also,” the security officer observed, “science officers aren’t often exposed to perilous conditions. At least, not as often as other personnel.”
It was true. Science officers weren’t sent on the ship’s most dangerous missions because their skill sets weren’t often needed. When science officers were injured or killed on away assignments, it was because their vessel had encountered something unexpected—and ultimately harmful.
“Then perhaps I made a mistake when I became a science officer,” Kastiigan concluded. He didn’t sound very happy.
Of course, Obal wasn’t very happy these days either. But it had nothing to do with how often the captain had placed him in the line of fire.
Ensign Nikolas had been his best friend on the ship. Now that Nikolas had resigned from the fleet and left the Stargazer, life would never again be the same for Obal.
Paris and some of the other crewmen had already made attempts to fill the breach, and Obal greatly appreciated their kindness. But none of them was Nikolas.
Naturally, the Binderian didn’t mention any of
that to Lieutenant Kastiigan. Considering the depth of the science officer’s anxiety, it seemed rude to Obal to mention his own.
So he just listened to Kastiigan, and nodded sympathetically, and kept his feelings about Nikolas to himself.
Just a few minutes longer, Picard assured himself, as he watched Admiral McAteer spoon the last bloodred dollop of cherries jubilee into his mouth.
It had been a most wearisome day.
The morning had been filled with section meetings, which McAteer had—of course—insisted on attending. First engineering, then sciences, then security, all the way down the line.
Each section head had been grilled up, down, and sideways until the admiral was satisfied with the answers he received, and then grilled some more. It had been neither pretty nor productive, in the captain’s estimate.
But all along, Picard had known that his section heads weren’t McAteer’s targets. The admiral’s only real target was the captain himself; whatever “problems” McAteer found on the Stargazer, they would be pinned on Picard and Picard alone.
The afternoon had been even worse. McAteer had taken Picard, Ben Zoma, and Wu down to the observation lounge, and conducted a review of virtually every decision the command staff had made in the last couple of weeks—in other words, since the last subspace data packet received by Starfleet Command.
Neither the captain nor his officers had uttered a word of protest. They had answered all the admiral’s questions as if they had some sort of merit, following McAteer through exacting analyses of what were patently procedural minutiae.
Finally, they had sat down to dinner with the admiral—just Picard, Ben Zoma, and Greyhorse, because the other senior officers had work to do—and listened to him describe the high points of his career. There were a great many, apparently.
And through it all, Picard had felt compelled to pretend he wasn’t offended by McAteer—by the admiral’s opinion of him, by the admiral’s very presence here. He had been forced to act as if McAteer were welcome.
A most wearisome day indeed. And the captain expected more of the same the following morning.
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