Enigma

by Michael Jan Friedman

  He didn’t feel much like company either, which was why he had chosen a seat by himself in the corner of the mess hall. However, a half-dozen crewmen suddenly descended on the table next to him, effectively dashing Kastiigan’s hope of solitude.

  “So,” said Urajel, more than loud enough for the science officer to overhear, “I guess we’re pretty sharp.”

  Kochman looked at her from across the table. “What are you talking about?”

  Urajel grunted. “An impostor sits among us day in and day out for weeks, and we don’t suspect a thing. Observant, aren’t we?”

  The others’ expressions turned a little sheepish. But then, Kastiigan noted silently, they had all spent a great deal of time with Ulelo. He had been part of their circle of friends.

  “How were we supposed to know he was someone else?” Pfeffer complained. “He didn’t have a sign on his back.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Urajel, “he seemed more human to me than the rest of you.”

  They all laughed at that.

  “If anybody else here is a hostile alien,” said Kochman, “this would be a good time to come clean. I don’t think I could take that happening a second time.”

  They laughed again.

  “Truthfully,” said Iulus, “it’s a little scary. To think that, all this time, the guy we thought was Ulelo…”

  They all knew how that ended.

  “But now we’ve got the real Ulelo,” Garner noted.

  “Yes,” said Pfeffer. She looked around the table, a question in her eyes. “I wonder what he’s like.”

  No one ventured a guess.

  Kastiigan sighed. It had never been more clear to him that his priorities were different from those of his comrades.

  He was glad that they had recovered Ulelo, and that none of his fellow officers had been killed in their confrontation with the D’prayl. After all, they seemed to place a rather high premium on survival.

  But for his part, Kastiigan was disappointed in the way things had turned out. Severely so.

  He had firmly believed that the conflict with the D’prayl would come to blows—and that he would end up risking his life somehow on behalf of his ship and his fleet. But that expectation had never come to fruition. The science officer had never been given the opportunity to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  And he was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

  Greyhorse normally didn’t like to take chances, but Gerda had left him little choice. Two days had gone by since she lashed him in sickbay over his misdiagnosis of Ulelo’s problem. Two entire days. It seemed like forever.

  He wasn’t surprised that she was shunning him, making him pay for his mistake. But he couldn’t allow it to go on any longer. He had decided that he would visit her in her quarters, no matter who saw it, and demand her forgiveness.

  Months ago, Greyhorse would have been more inclined to plead. But that was before he learned the ways of Klingon culture. A warrior didn’t ask for something—he insisted on it. And that was what the doctor would have to do now.

  He was so determined, so intent on his mission, that he almost didn’t see a couple of crewmen coming around a bend in the corridor. Sidestepping them to avoid a collision, he moved on without acknowledging their presence.

  But Greyhorse knew who they were. It was difficult to miss Ensign Jiterica, even with her more streamlined containment suit. And she was accompanied by her friend Ensign Paris.

  He had no time for them. No time for anyone but Gerda.

  After all, what did anyone but Greyhorse know about loving someone and having to conceal it all the time? What did anyone else know about intimacy with someone from an alien culture?

  With a few more strides, he reached Gerda’s door. Then he waited for the security mechanism to announce his presence.

  The doctor was about to ask the computer about Gerda’s whereabouts when her door finally slid open. She stood there just inside the threshold, looking at him, declining to ask him in.

  Greyhorse screwed up his courage. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “You will not—”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Gerda told him, interrupting him in the middle of his demand.

  Then, without any further ceremony, she stepped back and pressed the pad that would close the door again. Before Greyhorse knew it, he was standing in the corridor by himself.

  He felt a pang of loneliness, of regret, of self-loathing. With that as his only company, he made his way back to his quarters, defeated.

  Naturally, Ben Zoma was surprised when McAteer summoned him to his quarters.

  Not Picard. Not the senior staff. Just Ben Zoma.

  He couldn’t say no—not to a superior officer. And to be honest, he didn’t want to. Because if he declined the invitation, he would never discover what McAteer had on his mind.

  It couldn’t be to chastise him…could it?

  Ben Zoma and his friend had saved the fleet—and maybe a lot more than that, considering the impossibility of defending the Federation against the Ubarrak or the Cardassians without a complement of working starships. McAteer could hardly criticize them for that when everybody else was patting them on the back.

  Of course, Picard had briefly resisted Sesballa’s commands. But that seemed to have been forgotten.

  Then what was the admiral up to? Ben Zoma was burning with curiosity. Fortunately, he would find out soon enough.

  Stopping in front of McAteer’s quarters, he waited until the door slid aside for him. Then he walked in.

  McAteer was standing by the room’s only observation port. His expression was thoughtful, but that didn’t mean anything. For all Ben Zoma knew, the admiral might have been seething inside.

  The first officer stopped just inside the threshold. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “I did,” said McAteer, never turning from the observation port. “As you know, Commander, I haven’t been pleased with the way you and Picard have commanded the Stargazer.”

  Ben Zoma knew, all right. Everyone did. “You haven’t exactly kept it a secret, sir.”

  The admiral spared him a glance. “No, I don’t suppose I have. So as you can imagine, when the Antares failed to show up for our rendezvous and we were left to our own devices out there, I didn’t have a great deal of faith in your judgment—no more, really, than I had in your captain’s.”

  The first officer frowned at the slight. Why was the admiral telling him this?

  “Then,” said McAteer, “you saw an opportunity—a chance to help our forces against the enemy. Most officers would have missed it, and I feel compelled to include myself in that number. But you spotted it, and that’s to your credit.”

  Ben Zoma looked at his superior, certain that he had heard the last part incorrectly. Was it possible that McAteer had just thrown him a bone?

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “You heard me,” said the admiral. “You did yourself proud—and I’m not just talking about your plan to board the enemy’s supply vessel and stow away when they took on supplies, though that was certainly commendable in itself. I’m also talking about the patience you showed in that cargo container, and the way you carried yourself when you met Otholannin.”

  This is more than a bone, Ben Zoma realized. We’re getting into crow pie territory.

  “The approach I took,” said McAteer, “would have worked nine times out of ten, given the circumstances in which we found ourselves. However, you had the insight to recognize that this was that tenth time, and you acted accordingly.”

  It’s a dream, Ben Zoma told himself. A bizarre, waking dream. It was the only reasonable explanation.

  “Of course,” the admiral continued, “we still had a problem—how to defuse the situation before both sides went at it hammer and tongs. And you found a way to do that too.” He chuckled. “Your method was a little unorthdox, you have to admit, but your courage and ingenuity kept us from getting into a fight that might well have devastated us.”
/>   Ben Zoma didn’t know what to say.

  “Which,” McAteer added, “is why I’m recommending you for a commendation. Congratulations, Commander.” He crossed the room and, with a little smile on his face, extended his hand.

  Numbly, the first officer shook it. Then he stood there looking at the admiral.

  “Is there something you want to say?” asked McAteer.

  Ben Zoma didn’t want to break the spell. “Nothing, sir.”

  The admiral nodded. “Carry on then, Commander. Dismissed.”

  The first officer started for the exit—and then stopped in his tracks. “Actually,” he said, “there is one thing, sir.”

  “What’s that?” asked McAteer.

  “An apology, from me to you. Frankly, I thought you had made up your mind about Captain Picard and me. I thought you were so dead set on taking the Stargazer away from us that nothing we could say or do would make a dent. But I see now that I was wrong.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this. “I misjudged you, sir, and I want to tell you that to your face.”

  The admiral’s eyes narrowed. “I accept your apology, Commander, and I appreciate the courage it took to make it. Though given what I’ve seen of you, I’m not surprised.”

  Better and better, Ben Zoma mused. With luck like this, I ought to be at a dom-jot table.

  “However,” said McAteer, “it’s only you I’m commending. I haven’t changed my mind about Picard in the least. I still have every intention of taking the Stargazer away from him, considering he never should have been given command of her in the first place.”

  Ben Zoma felt the house of cards collapse in on itself. “But—”

  “In fact,” the admiral said in a conspiratorial tone, “when Picard is forced to step down, I had it in mind to make you his replacement. I don’t suppose that would be too bitter a pill, would it?”

  The first officer clamped his jaw shut until he had control of himself. When he finally spoke, it was in a measured way, with words that had been carefully chosen.

  “If that’s what you had in mind, sir, I wouldn’t bother making the offer. I’m not in the market for a captaincy—especially one that’s not vacant.”

  “But it will be,” said McAteer.

  “Will it?” asked Ben Zoma. “Is it a done deal? Or are you still planning to go through the formality of a hearing?”

  The admiral’s expression turned hard. “You know what I mean.”

  “I believe I do,” said the first officer, and he let his words hang in the air.

  “You know,” said McAteer, “I think I may have mentioned that commendation prematurely. I mean, there is a review process. Not everything we recommend comes to fruition.”

  Ben Zoma knew better. “No problem, Admiral. You sleep well, now. But then, why wouldn’t you?”

  And he left the room.

  But he had to confess that, for a moment at least, McAteer had had him going. He had him eating out of his hand with all that trash about courage and commendations.

  But the admiral didn’t admire what he had done. All he wanted to do was tempt Ben Zoma into betraying his friend—abandoning him in his hour of need. Then McAteer could say that even Picard’s first officer had lost confidence in him.

  How could I have been so stupid? he asked himself. How could I have thought that McAteer was anything but a sniveling, conniving son of a sand flea?

  He couldn’t wait to tell Picard about his conversation with the admiral. No doubt, his friend would find it amusing.

  Epilogue

  EVEN BEFORE NIKOLAS OPENED HIS EYES and got his bearings, he harbored a feeling that something was wrong. And the more alert he became, the more dead certain he was: Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  For one thing, he was stretched out in a bend of one of the corridors, his head pounding, his brow smarting as if it had been cut. When he touched his fingertips to the offended area, they came away with a thin smear of blood.

  He had gotten hurt. How?

  Nikolas coughed. There was smoke in the air—not thick enough to see very easily, but more than thick enough to choke on. Why is there smoke? he asked himself.

  Then it all came flooding back to him….

  The alarm, shrill and insistent, whipping his pulse into a frenzy as it rang through the cargo ship. The impacts that had thrown him off his feet and slammed him against the bulkheads. Then the glare of sparks, and the smell of smoke.

  And finally…nothing.

  The Iktoj’ni had been attacked, no doubt by the same people the captain had been warned about. And Nikolas had been knocked unconscious. That would explain the cut he had suffered.

  But he couldn’t feel any impacts, so the attack was obviously over. Or at least, no one was firing at them any longer.

  Then why hadn’t anyone come around to see if he was all right? Where were the emergency medical teams the captain had designated before they set out?

  And where was his friend Locklear? He had been right behind Nikolas when they started for the bridge, but there was no sign of him in the corridor.

  Nikolas listened, but all he could hear was the hum of the engines. No people sounds, not from medical teams or Locklear or anyone else.

  How hard had the ship been hit? he wondered. Were there so many casualties that they just hadn’t gotten to him yet? Or were the medical teams themselves among the victims?

  Scanning the corridor, Nikolas located an intercom grate on the bulkhead. All he had to do was contact the bridge and find out what was going on. Then he could lend a hand, do whatever the captain asked of him.

  Dragging himself to his feet, he realized that his head wasn’t the only part of him that had taken a beating. His arms and legs were stiff and bruised, and there was a sharp pain in his ribs every time he took a breath.

  But Nikolas could deal with it. Especially if some of the other crewmen were hurt worse.

  When he reached the intercom grate, he depressed its trio of red buttons in the proper series and opened a link to the bridge. “Captain,” he said, “this is Nikolas. What’s going on?”

  He didn’t get an answer. And a second try got the same result.

  All right, he thought, no problem. The intercom system must have been damaged. I just need to get to the bridge and speak to someone in person.

  Toward that end, he started limping along the curve of the corridor, heading for the nearest turbolift. But he hadn’t gone far before he noticed something strange.

  There was a liquid dripping down the bulkhead to his right—something shiny, reflecting the glow of the overhead lights. Moving closer to get a better look, Nikolas touched the stuff and rubbed it between his fingers.

  It felt like water, but there were tiny particles of something silver mixed into it. He glanced at the bulkhead again, and shook his head. Where would water be coming from?

  They did all their washing with sonics. And when they needed drinking water, they replicated it. So there wasn’t any water supply that could have sprung a leak.

  And yet, there was something watery running down the wall. Resolving to ask the captain about it, Nikolas resumed his journey to the turbolift.

  By the time he reached it, however, there was water dripping down both sides of the corridor, making slowly spreading puddles on the deck. And as he made his way into the lift compartment, he tracked in wet boot prints.

  Nikolas expected it would all be explained when he found the captain. If anyone knew the answer, it would be Rejjerin. With that assurance in mind, he programmed his destination into the compartment’s control panel and watched the doors close.

  Feeling the inertia he had come to associate with the Ik’tojni’s turbolift system, Nikolas relaxed. It was just a matter of seconds now before he reached the bridge.

  Or so he thought, until the turbolift came to an abrupt halt. Nikolas looked at the readout on the control panel and saw that it was blank, where it should have said BRIDGE.

  Funny, he reflected, and pu
nched in his destination again.

  But the lift still wouldn’t move. And as Nikolas tried to figure out why that would be, the doors to the compartment slid open and revealed the corridor beyond.

  But it wasn’t a ship’s corridor anymore—at least, not like any ship’s corridor Nikolas had ever seen. It was more like a subterranean passage, with orange-and-blue cones of hardened mineral drip rising from the floor and descending from the ceiling like teeth in the maw of some enormous predator.

  And in the midst of all those projections sat the damnedest thing: a little pond, reflecting some of the stalactites like a mirror. As if some rainwater had somehow seeped through the ceiling into the corridor and gathered at the floor’s lowest point.

  Nikolas swallowed, his throat painfully dry. Was he losing his mind? Had his brain been knocked around in his skull a little harder than he had believed?

  How else could he explain his surroundings? How else could he stack it up against what he knew of the universe and make it sound halfway reasonable?

  Then, incredibly, he noticed something even stranger than what he had seen already. The cavern’s stalactites and stalagmites weren’t just standing there….

  They were growing in front of his eyes!

  It wasn’t happening very quickly. In fact, he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been staring at the mineral deposits to begin with. But they were definitely growing, expanding both in length and base diameter.

  Suddenly, Nikolas heard something behind him. A scrape, he thought, like the sole of a boot scuffing the rough, uneven surface below his feet.

  Whirling, he saw that he wasn’t alone.

  The alien who stood peering at him from across the cavern didn’t belong to any species Nikolas knew. He was fleshy, but Nikolas had the feeling that there was a great deal of strength beneath that abundance of flesh. His mouth was a cruel gash in the lower half of his face, showing a few thick, blunt teeth, and the skin of his large, oblong skull was smooth except for a fringe of dark, oily-looking hair.

  But what really drew Nikolas’s attention were the alien’s eyes. They were glowing beneath his ledge of a brow—glowing with an eerie silver light.