THE VALIANT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Finally, the last remaining section erupted in a fit of expanding energy, painting the void with its glory. Then it faded, leaving an empty space where a Nuyyad presence had been.

  “Serves them right,” said Ben Zoma.

  Picard looked at his friend and wished he could disagree.

  Captain’s log, supplemental. We have returned to Magnia to drop off the colonists who aided us with our tactical enhancements. Fortunately, none of them have shown any lasting effects from their exposure to psilosynine. Though I had reason to distrust these people when I first met them, I now see that they are as trustworthy as anyone I know. They are also what the name of their ancestors’ ship proclaimed: valiant. In accordance with Shield Williamson’s request, I recommend that Guard Daniels be returned to the colony and that its existence henceforth be kept a Federation secret—for our good as well as that of the colonists. After all, there are those who might try to tap into the Magnians’ potential for their own ends. As for Jomar . . . I am grateful for his assistance in destroying the Nuyyad depot, which proved critical to our efforts. However, his arrogance, penchant for violence and insistence on implementing his plans over our objections mark him as someone the Federation should avoid in the future. And while it pains me to paint all Kelvans with the same brush, I find I must do exactly that—or fail in my service to the Federation. My recommendation is that we encourage the Kelvans to remain an insular society . . . indefinitely.

  Picard gazed at Serenity Santana, the sun of her world sinking through tall trees into a deep, red-orange miasma behind her.

  “Will you miss me?” she asked with a smile, the mountain wind lifting her raven hair.

  Torn between emotions, the second officer shrugged. “What can I say? I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

  “Then . . . you won’t miss me?”

  He couldn’t help chuckling a little at her cleverness. “I didn’t say that,” he told her.

  Abruptly, his combadge beeped. He tapped it in response. “Picard here.”

  “We’re ready to leave, sir,” said Ben Zoma. “If you’re ready to beam up . . .?”

  The second officer glanced at Santana again. “Give me a minute, Gilaad. Picard out.”

  “You know,” she said, “we Magnians like our privacy. But if you ever get the urge to visit us . . .”

  Picard nodded. “I’ll know where to find you.”

  “I hope so,” Santana told him, her eyes telling him she meant it with all her heart.

  Then she and the mountain and the sunset were gone, and he found himself standing on a transporter pad . . . feeling empty and terribly alone.

  Carter Greyhorse was on his way to the mess hall to secure some lunch when he saw Gerda Asmund turn into the corridor up ahead of him.

  He would never have planned to confront Gerda with his feelings about her in a million years. But something about the moment seemed to reek of opportunity.

  “Miss Asmund?” the doctor said, his heart pounding as he hastened to catch up with her.

  It was only after he had gotten within a couple of meters of her that the navigator cast a glance back over her shoulder. Her expression wasn’t an especially inviting one.

  “What do you want?” she asked, as blunt as any Klingon.

  “I . . .” Greyhorse stumbled over the words. “I’d like to talk with you sometime. Perhaps over a cup of coffee . . .?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” Gerda told him in a peremptory tone. “Leave me alone.” And she kept on going.

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm to hold her back. “Please. I really need to speak with—”

  Before he could finish what he was saying, Gerda lashed out at him with the heel of her boot. It was one of the moves he had seen her make in the gymnasium, one of the exercises he had watched in awe.

  Without thinking, the doctor reacted—and before the navigator’s foot could reach the side of his head, he caught it in his hand.

  Suddenly, Gerda’s attitude changed. She looked surprised at his quickness—but not just surprised. If he were compelled to describe her expression, he would have called it one of . . .

  Admiration.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. As she twisted, out of his grip, the woman’s lips pulled back and she lashed out again—this time, with her fist. It hit him hard in his solar plexus, driving the wind out of his lungs.

  As Greyhorse doubled over, she struck him in the chin with the heel of her hand. The blow drove his head up and back, sending him staggering into the bulkhead behind him.

  For a moment, he thought she would come at him again. But she didn’t. She just stood there in her martial stance, feet spread apart, hands raised in front of her, ready to dole out additional punishment if that was what she chose to do.

  “I didn’t mean to antagonize you,” he told her, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” Gerda snarled.

  The doctor took a step forward, knowing full well the risk he ran. But he didn’t care. He had had her on his mind too long. Once and for all, he had to tell her how he felt.

  “Just let me ex—”

  As before, she attacked him before he could speak, landing an openhanded pile driver to his mouth. But he kept his balance somehow. And when she followed with another openhanded as sault, he didn’t just block it with his forearm. He slugged her back.

  Either she hadn’t expected Greyhorse to retaliate or he just got lucky, because the blow caught her sharply in the side of the head. In fact, it sent her reeling, clutching at the bulkhead for support.

  He didn’t anticipate that she would remain that way for long, so he spoke up while he had the chance. “You’re all I can think of,” the doctor told her. “All I want to think of. I can’t go on like this. If I haven’t got a chance, I need to hear you say it.”

  Gerda’s eyes narrowed, giving her a vaguely wolflike expression. But she didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” he prodded miserably.

  “You fight like a child,” she told him, the disgust in her voice cutting him even more than the words.

  Greyhorse drew a deep breath. That was it, then. Gerda couldn’t make it any plainer than that.

  He turned and retreated down the corridor, starting to feel bruises where the woman had struck him. But before the doctor could get very far, Gerda spoke again.

  “Greyhorse.”

  He turned to look at her. There was something in the navigator’s eyes, he thought, and it wasn’t disdain or revulsion. It looked more like the admiration he had seen earlier.

  “Meet me in the gym tomorrow morning at eight,” she said. “Perhaps I can teach you to fight like a warrior.”

  The doctor had never been an emotional man. But he felt much joy then, such a rush of heady optimism, that he could barely find the voice to get out a response.

  “I’ll be there,” he promised her.

  Picard regarded the six officers whom he had summoned to the Stargazer’s observation lounge. Paxton, Cariello, Ben Zoma, Simenon, Greyhorse, and Vigo looked back at him from their places around the oval table.

  Michael Jan Friedman

  “I called you here,” he said, “because you have all had questions regarding the events of the last several days, during which time I have been forced to sometimes operate on a clandestine basis. I thought I would answer these questions all at once.”

  Then he proceeded to do just that. When he was done, not everyone was happy—Simenon least of all. But even the Gnalish understood the second officer’s need for secrecy at various times.

  Greyhorse, who had apparently bruised his chin during an accident in sickbay, didn’t fully grasp Werber’s contribution.

  “Chief Werber,” Picard explained, “was the one who predicted that the phaser junctions were likely to be tampered with next.”

  “But he didn’t know which junction?” the doctor asked.

  “That is correct,” said the second officer. �
�We only found that out when Vigo detected a problem in the line. And it wasn’t until we spoke to Jomar in sickbay that we understood his objective.”

  Greyhorse nodded. “I see.”

  Picard looked around the room. “If there are no further questions, I thank you for persevering in such trying circumstances . . . and commend you to your respective assignments.”

  He watched his command staff file out of the lounge, one by one. However, one of his officers declined to leave.

  “You have something on your mind,” Ben Zoma told him. “And it has nothing to do with flow regulators and distribution manifolds.”

  Picard nodded. “You’re right, Gilaad. You see, my mother taught me that one can learn from every experience. I am trying to puzzle out what I can learn from this one.”

  The other man shrugged. “Not to listen to your fellow officers all the time—especially if they’re as wrong as I was about attacking the depot?”

  The commander smiled. “Perhaps. Or rather,” he said, thinking out loud, “to draw on every resource available to you . . .”

  “Even if it means taking the advice of a sworn enemy as seriously as that of a friend.”

  Picard mulled it over. “That was certainly the way it worked out.”

  “You know,” said Ben Zoma, “I think your mother would have been proud of you right now.”

  “I hope so,” the second officer replied earnestly.

  “Captain Ruhalter would have been proud of you too.”

  Picard looked at him askance. “You think so?”

  His friend smiled. “Don’t you?”

  The second officer wanted to believe that Ruhalter would have approved of his performance. However, he wasn’t so sure that that would have been the case.

  And he was even less certain of what they would have to say about it at Starfleet headquarters.

  As the Stargazer hung motionless in space, her computer running yet another shield diagnostic, Gerda Asmund gazed at the immense, rose-colored expanse of the galactic barrier.

  Of course, she didn’t blame Commander Picard for wanting to be thorough. The navigator wasn’t eager to go through the phenomenon with a soft spot in their shields either.

  Beside her, her sister waited with the patience of a hunter for the order to engage engines and send them soaring through the barrier. Until recently, Idun had known everything about her.

  But she didn’t know about Carter Greyhorse.

  Life is funny, Gerda mused. Just when she discovered that battle was no longer enough for her, just when a hole had opened in her life, she found what she needed to fill it.

  “Everything checks out,” said Vigo, interrupting her reverie.

  Gerda liked the Pandrilite. He had been raw and unproven at the time of Werber’s mutiny, but no one could have done a better job at the weapons console than he had. In fact, he seemed to gain confidence with each passing day.

  Picard turned to Vigo. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Looking to the viewscreen, he said, “Helm . . . warp six.” Then, with a gesture that suggested forward motion, he added, “Engage.”

  And they sailed into the scarlet abyss of the barrier.

  Chapter 20

  Picard considered the pinched, dark-haired man in the admiral’s uniform seated across the desk from him.

  Admiral Mehdi was still studying the logs posted by the second officer in the wake of the Nuyyad’s ambush. He looked grim as he read from his monitor screen, his wrinkled brow creased down the middle.

  Finally, Mehdi looked up. “You had quite a struggle, I see.”

  Picard nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And a number of difficult choices to make.”

  Picard sighed. “Admiral,” he said, “I am not certain I provided you with a full explanation of—”

  Mehdi held a thin, almost spindly hand up for silence. “I can imagine what you’re about to say, Commander. However, I believe I already possess all the information I require.”

  The second officer bit his lip and sat back in his chair. “Of course, sir,” he replied.

  The admiral’s eyes seemed to reach into him. “To summarize, you pursued several rather unorthodox options. First, you advised Captain Ruhalter that Serenity Santana could be trusted . . . over the official protestations of First Officer Leach.”

  Picard swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Second,” said Mehdi, “you chose to take your vessel to the Magnians’ colony instead of the galactic barrier, even though—as some of your officers were quick to point out—there was no proof the place even existed, much less that it could give you the assistance you needed.”

  Picard didn’t like the way this was going. “That is correct, sir.”

  “And in so doing,” the admiral continued, “you jeopardized not only the lives of your crew, but your ability to warn the Federation about the Nuyyad. Is this also correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Then,” said Mehdi, “knowing that the Magnians had already led you into an ambush, you beamed a number of them up to the Stargazer and gave them access to strategic systems. In addition, you allowed their mental powers to be amplified through the use of a synthetic neurotransmitter, thereby inviting the possibility of an enclave of Gary Mitchells running amok aboard your vessel.”

  “I did,” Picard had to admit.

  “And, finally, you removed the safeguards from your phaser technology in order to take out a single enemy installation—once again, wagering your ship and crew on a long shot. Is this true?”

  Picard had only one answer. “It is, sir.”

  The admiral considered the younger man a moment longer. “In your estimate, Commander, are these the actions of a Starfleet second officer?”

  Picard sighed. “I’m not in a position to say, sir.”

  “Then let me tell you,” Mehdi remarked, “they’re not. They’re the actions of a Starfleet captain—and a damned remarkable one at that.”

  Picard wasn’t certain he had heard the older man correctly. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “What you did,” Mehdi told him, “what you accomplished against staggering odds . . . shows me that you’re more than ready to command. And since you’ve already won the admiration of the Stargazer’s crew, it stands to reason that you should remain with that vessel—as her captain.”

  Picard didn’t know what to say. “Sir—”

  Again, the admiral held up his hand. “You’re grateful. I know. But between the two of us, I can’t tolerate maudlin displays.”

  “Actually,” said Picard, “I was going to ask about Commander Leach.”

  Mehdi frowned. “Fortunately, Commander Leach will make a full recovery from his injuries. But I don’t believe he was ever qualified to serve as first officer on a starship. Command will find a posting for him that’s more in line with his abilities.”

  “I see,” said Picard.

  It was almost exactly what Ruhalter had said about Leach. In that respect, at least, Ruhalter and Mehdi thought much alike.

  “You’re a brilliant fellow,” the admiral informed him, “and a thoughtful commanding officer, who is obviously not afraid to take the unorthodox and even the unpopular path. I wish you, and those who serve under you, long and illustrious careers.”

  This time, Picard did want to thank the man. But to his chagrin, he didn’t get the chance.

  “Now get out of my office,” said Mehdi, “and start showing me I made the right choice.”

  Captain Jean-Luc Picard smiled. “Yes, sir,” he replied, and took his leave of the admiral.

  Hans Werber had to admit that the accommodations in the Starfleet brig were a little better than in the Stargazer’s. But that didn’t make him feel a whole lot better.

  Hearing the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside his cell, he looked up—and saw a familiar if unexpected face through the barrier.

  “Picard?” he said.

  “In the flesh,” said his visitor.

  “I didn’t think I
’d ever see you again,” Werber confessed.

  Picard regarded him. “You mean because you tried to stun me in my sleep and take over a vessel under my command?”

  “Well,” said the weapons officer, “yeah.”

  The other man smiled a taut smile. “I don’t believe I will forget that incident anytime soon. But neither will I forget that you helped me uncover Jomar’s clandestine activities—or that, in the end, you put your resentment aside and did what your duty demanded.”

  Werber shrugged. “You didn’t have to come here to tell me that.”

  “I also didn’t have to put in a word on your behalf with the judge advocate general,” said Picard. “Nonetheless, I did. Perhaps he’ll take it into account when he tries your case.”

  The weapons officer couldn’t believe it. “You did that for me? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I am not,” his visitor assured him. “I wanted the court to have all the facts in front of it.”

  Werber didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

  “We’ll see each other again,” Picard told him. Then he turned and started down the corridor.

  “Hey, Picard!” the prisoner called, getting to his feet and approaching the energy barrier.

  The other man stopped and looked back. “Yes?”

  “You know what?” said Werber. “I was wrong. You’re going to make a hell of a captain someday.”

  Picard nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

  Book Three

  Valiant

  Chapter 1

  Dennis Gardenhire checked his instruments. “Hold on,” he said. “It could be a rough ride.”

  Activating the reverse thrusters, the navigator felt them slow the escape pod’s descent. Then he made adjustments in the shape of their shields to minimize the stress of entry.

  Gardenhire had piloted a pod prototype a dozen times before the Valiant left Earth orbit, and gone through escape simulations a hundred times more. But penetrating the atmosphere of an alien world with shield generators that hadn’t been dependable for weeks and an inertial damper that hadn’t worked correctly from the beginning . . .