Picard shifted in his seat. “Then—”
Greyhorse held up a peremptory hand, disregarding the difference in their ranks. “I also conducted a test that wasn’t strictly medical. I asked Ulelo some yes-or-no questions—and monitored his nervous system when he answered.”
“A lie-detector test,” Wu noted.
“Precisely,” said Greyhorse. “I began by asking Ulelo about the Klingons, since they came up in the course of your conversation with him. Without hesitation, he identified the Klingons as our enemies. And yet, when I asked him about the Klingons a few minutes later, he said just as unhesitatingly that they were our allies.”
The doctor turned to Picard. “Like Commander Wu, I found myself wondering if Ulelo was up to something. But his readouts showed that he wasn’t lying. At the time he made those statements, he actually believed them.”
“So his problem is a psychological one,” Picard concluded.
“Evidently,” said Greyhorse. “The funny thing is that Ulelo is absolutely lucid in most respects, especially those that pertain to his work as a communications officer. But when it comes to other parts of his life, he seems lost.”
He shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “I wasn’t trained to be a counselor. However, I would say Ulelo is schizophrenic—out of touch with certain aspects of our reality.”
The captain looked at him, taking a moment to absorb the implications, which were considerable. “If that is so, then his periodic data transmissions…?”
“Were harmless,” said the medical officer. “Exercises in fantasy, sent to no one. Or rather, no one who exists outside the precincts of Ulelo’s mind.”
“Harmless,” Picard repeated.
“If you ask me,” said Greyhorse, “yes.”
Picard nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.” He turned to Wu. “I will make arrangements to get the lieutenant to an appropriate facility for more complete diagnosis and treatment. But while he is on the Stargazer, I would like him kept in the brig—just in case.”
Wu agreed that that would be the wisest course of action, Greyhorse’s observations notwithstanding. Then the captain adjourned the meeting.
After Picard watched his officers depart, Greyhorse more eagerly than Wu, he sat in his desk chair for a moment. After all that, he told himself.
For Ulelo’s treachery to be identified as a symptom of a damaged psyche…it was shocking. Almost as shocking, in fact, as finding out about the lieutenant’s transgression in the first place.
And yet, it was rather a relief, wasn’t it? They would all breathe easier knowing that Ulelo’s confederates were waking dreams, and nothing more.
Ensign Jiterica surveyed her new appearance in the mirror that hung from her closet door.
Until now, she hadn’t made much use of either the closet or the reflective surface. But then, her only garment had been her containment suit, one specially retrofitted with her unusual set of needs in mind.
Jiterica’s species, the Nizhrak’a, had evolved in the atmosphere of a gas giant in the Sonada Sin system. Had she still been there, she could have expanded to her full volume and flowed naturally from wind to fierce, ragged wind. But on a starship, made for beings much more dense and compact than herself, she had to operate in a severely condensed form.
Hence, the stiff, bulky suit that Jiterica had endured almost every moment of every day. It had been perhaps the most difficult part of her adjustment to life on the Stargazer, and that was saying something.
But she hadn’t imagined that she had any alternative. She could either wear the suit or surrender any hope of functioning as an officer in Starfleet.
Until now.
The suit Jiterica had just put on was considerably more streamlined and lightweight than the other one, and considerably easier to manipulate. It made her look more like the other crewmen on board—the female crewmen in particular.
“What do you think?” asked Simenon, who was standing behind her in his lab coat, his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s…wonderful,” she said.
Before, the Nizhrak’s artificial voice had been tinny, unnatural. Even she had been able to hear that after a while. Now the speech sounds she made were virtually indistinguishable from those made by humanoid throats.
“Good,” said Simenon, who had designed and manufactured the new suit with the help of a replicator. “And I take it the forcefield is doing its job?”
“Perfectly,” she told him. Or at least, as well as the forcefield in her other suit.
“Try sitting,” he said.
Jiterica moved to her bed and sat down. It was a considerably less arduous task than it had been before. But then, her suit was nearly as flexible as living epidermis—or so Simenon had assured her.
She looked at herself in the mirror again. It might have been one of the Asmunds sitting there in the suit, or Urajel, or Commander Wu. That’s how well proportioned and at ease she looked.
Paris would be pleased when he returned.
But he would also be disturbed, as Jiterica was, by the situation surrounding Lieutenant Ulelo. News about him had spread through the Stargazer like a ripple of ionic wind on her homeworld, tearing at the bonds of trust and community that had been forged on the ship, making chaos of calm.
Fortunately, Ulelo’s actions had been identified as the product of an unbalanced mind, attempts to connect to someone or something that never existed. The Stargazer wasn’t in any danger.
However, it bothered Jiterica that Ulelo was something other than what he had seemed. Among her people, there was no such thing as subterfuge or deception, no possibility of treachery or betrayal.
Obviously, she reflected, I still have a lot to learn about humanoids.
Picard was standing by the single observation port in his ready room, taking in the beauty of the stars that were rushing past, when his weapons officer paid him an unexpected visit.
“Mister Vigo,” he said, as the Pandrilite’s impressive form was revealed on the threshold.
“Sir,” said Vigo.
Normally he was a cheerful soul, his spirits remarkably difficult to dampen. But not at the moment. His face was as stern as Picard had ever seen it.
“You appear to have something on your mind,” the captain observed.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said, “while you were dealing with Lieutenant Ulelo, and the implications of what he had done. But now that we know he’s harmless…”
“Yes?” said Picard.
Vigo’s nostrils flared. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About Ejanix. About the things he did…and said.”
Ejanix had been a Pandrilite, like Vigo. In fact, he had been Vigo’s mentor back on their homeworld.
In those days, Ejanix was known as a brilliant theoretician—brilliant enough to be invited to teach at Starfleet Academy, where he continued to distinguish himself. But his crowning achievements were to come on Wayland Prime, where Starfleet had established a think tank for weapons development.
His particular focus was on phaser technology—improving its range, its accuracy, its energy efficiency. It had seemed he was making progress on Wayland Prime, turning in the caliber of work everyone expected of him.
But he betrayed Starfleet and his colleagues by opening the installation to a band of Pandrilite terrorists, intending to help finance a revolution by selling Starfleet’s weapons research. And he would have succeeded had it not been for Vigo.
Eventually, Ejanix saw the error of his ways, and died heroically at the hands of his rebel allies. But that didn’t erase the fact of his treachery—not in Picard’s mind, and certainly not when it came to the official record.
“Go on,” said the captain.
Vigo’s gaze hardened. “I don’t condone his treachery, you understand. Not for a minute.”
The weapons officer fell into silence then. But Picard didn’t make a move to fill it. Clearly, Vigo had more to say.
“And yet,” he continued at last, “I
feel it’s a mistake to dismiss what he told me about Pandril.”
The captain was intrigued. “And what, exactly, did he tell you about Pandril?”
Vigo heaved a sigh—an extravagant gesture, given his massive size and physique. “He said that Pandrilite society is out of balance—that the Lesser Castes are oppressed by the Elevated Castes, to which my family belongs. And that our governing council, when presented with evidence of this imbalance, looks the other way.”
Picard hadn’t heard any of this before. Obviously, Vigo had been keeping it to himself—and letting it fester like an untreated wound. “Is that why Ejanix decided to betray Starfleet?”
“Yes,” said Vigo. “He felt there was no way within the system to obtain justice for the Lesser Castes.”
“However,” the captain noted, “that may only have been Ejanix’s perception. The truth may be a different matter entirely.”
The lieutenant looked contemplative for a moment. “Ejanix told me that I had been away from Pandril for too long, or I would have seen the Lesser Castes’ oppression for myself. He suggested that I rectify the oversight.”
Picard wasn’t happy to hear that. “Rectify it how?” he asked. “By giving up your position on the Stargazer and returning to Pandril? What are we talking about?”
“A leave of absence.” Vigo looked at his superior beseechingly. “An indefinite leave of absence.”
“I see,” said the captain. He leaned back in his chair to ponder the idea. “And what if you find that the situation on Pandril is as Ejanix said?”
“Then those in the upper castes should be made aware of it—preferably by a member of their own caste. And if I must be the one to tell them, I accept that responsibility.”
Picard frowned. It was clear that Vigo had given the matter a good deal of thought, and that his decision hadn’t been an easy one.
He didn’t like the idea of losing his senior weapons officer—especially when the sector was so unsettled. However, if anyone had earned his understanding, it was Vigo.
“I will grant you such a leave,” the captain said, “if that is what you really want.”
“It is,” said Vigo. “But,” he was quick to add, “I don’t want to leave you understaffed.”
Picard smiled. “It is not as if I will not miss your expertise, Lieutenant. However, we do have other experienced weapons officers. I am certain that we will get by, if returning to Pandril is that important to you.”
Vigo nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“You are welcome,” said Picard.
He had long ago made it a policy never to stand in the way of his crew. If Vigo had a personal mission to carry out, the captain would do everything in his power to facilitate it.
He just hoped he wouldn’t have occasion to regret it.
Ben Zoma had been counting the hours until his shuttle got within transporter range of the Antares and he could say good-bye to the erstwhile Arlen McAteer.
The first officer had met men inclined toward criticism before, but he had never met anyone inclined toward so much criticism. It seemed that whatever minute detail Ben Zoma or his security officers took care of, there was a better way to handle it—and McAteer was generous enough to share it with them.
Ben Zoma had a hard time believing it was completely a matter of duty. It seemed to him that McAteer was practicing for the moment when he would put Picard in front of a competency hearing—a proceeding in which the admiral would not only present the case for Picard’s demotion, but also rule on it.
But that was the way of it in such hearings. Expediency ruled. If justice was served, it was strictly a coincidence.
Ben Zoma glanced for what might have been the thousandth time at the chronometer set into the shuttle’s helm console. One hour and ten minutes until they could drop off McAteer and head for home.
Normally, he wouldn’t have been in any hurry to contact their rendezvous partner. But in this case, he couldn’t wait. “Hail the Antares,” he told Garner, who was now riding shotgun.
“Aye, sir,” she said.
The admiral turned to Ramirez, the lovely, dark-haired security officer who had wound up next to him, and said, “Too bad you won’t have the opportunity to spend some time with Captain Vayishra. I think you’d learn a few things.”
Feeling the sting of implied criticism, Ben Zoma leaned forward from his seat in the rear. “I’ve learned quite a bit from Captain Picard, sir.”
McAteer cast a steely glance in Ben Zoma’s direction. “I’m sure you have, Commander.”
But the admiral wasn’t saying whether what Ben Zoma had learned was good or bad. His teeth grinding together, the first officer toyed with the notion of a response—until he saw the expression of surprise on Garner’s face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Garner turned to look back at him. “I’m afraid there’s no answer, sir.”
“No answer?” McAteer echoed. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”
Garner nodded. “I am, sir.”
Ben Zoma frowned. The Antares should have been well within communications range by now. If she wasn’t, there was no way she was going to make the rendezvous in time.
Of course, starships experienced communications glitches from time to time—and for all kinds of reasons, ranging from the mechanical to the celestial. Sometimes the problem was as simple as a crossed circuit.
It was inconvenient, but it happened. No reason to be concerned, Ben Zoma reflected.
“Keep trying,” he told Garner.
The lieutenant assured him that she would do that.
Chapter Six
THOUGH CAPTAIN DENTON GREENBRIAR sat in front of the seemingly infinite river of suns displayed on his bridge’s forward viewscreen, his mind was on none of them.
Or rather, it was on a sun not yet shown on the screen—the one that warmed the fertile, mineral-rich world known as Mizar II. Thanks to their ample resources, the Mizarians had been assaulted by one species after the other over the last few hundred years. On two occasions, it had been the Ubarrak. And yet the Mizarians had never made the slightest move to defend themselves, much less to seek assistance from others.
From time to time, the Federation had offered to intervene. But the Mizarians had always sent them away. They seemed to believe that as bad as the situation was for them, any demonstration of backbone would only invite something worse.
The Federation hadn’t always been good at taking a hint. But eventually, it stopped offering.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, the Federation Council had received a surprise communication from Mizar II—or more specifically, from a new government that seemed to have more gumption than its predecessors. For the first time, the Mizarians were making inquiries about Federation membership.
Someone would have to ferry an ambassador to Mizar II to answer the Mizarians’ questions. The job pulled Greenbriar and his ship, the Cochise, off the Ubarrak border, where they had been stationed for the last several months.
At the moment, the ambassador in question—a gray-haired Vulcan by the name of Surat—was meditating in his quarters, having left instructions for Greenbriar to rouse him when the Cochise dropped out of warp. But that wouldn’t happen for a few more hours, so Surat would be very much at peace when he arrived.
The captain settled back in his seat. He didn’t particularly like this part of his job—moving dignitaries around the Federation—but he had long ago accepted it.
Besides, with politics in the sector coming to a boil, he and his crew would be called on to fight before too long. It was inevitable. The time would come when he would look back fondly on moments like these, and wish he had enjoyed them while he had the chance.
Greenbriar turned to his helm officer, Hohauser. “How are we doing, Lieutenant?”
Other ships had detected subspace anomalies in this part of space, so they had taken the Cochise around them. But dealing with such phenomena was an imprecise business at best.
&nbs
p; “So far, so good,” reported Hohauser from his place behind the helm console.
The captain considered asking for more information, but decided against it. Hohauser was an old hand at this, having served under Greenbriar even before they launched the Cochise. His other bridge officers were veterans as well. If they thought he needed to know something, they would tell him.
That was the secret of his reputation as a model captain. He surrounded himself with the right people and did his best not to get in their way.
Just as Greenbriar thought that, he saw Cangelosi—his navigation officer—tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He knew what that meant. She did it whenever she had come across something unexpected.
The captain leaned forward. “What is it?”
“I’ve got something on sensors,” said Cangelosi, a slender, dark-haired woman. She manipulated her controls. “It’s a vessel, sir.”
“On screen,” said Greenbriar.
A moment later, he got a chance to see the ship in question. It was a short, thick cylinder with two wide, flat pieces projecting from either side of it. The captain had never seen anything even remotely like it.
“Any idea whose that is?” he asked Hohauser.
“There’s no match in our files, sir.”
Greenbriar considered the vessel. Then he turned to Moy, his com officer. “Hail her, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir,” said Moy, bending to the task with characteristic alacrity. But a moment later, he looked up. “No response.”
“She just changed course,” Cangelosi reported. She glanced at the captain. “She’s heading right for us, sir.”
Greenbriar absorbed the information. Now, he asked himself, why would an unidentified vessel in Federation space refuse to answer hails and then adopt an intercept course? Why indeed…unless she was spoiling for a fight?
His instincts told him that he would be trading torpedo volleys before he knew it—even if he didn’t have the slightest idea why. Then again, not every species in the universe adhered to the idea that violence required an explanation. Some of them just showed up with their weapon ports firing.
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