“I’ve had a . . .bad experience,” Vigo said.
“Bad in what way?”
Vigo frowned. It was an awkward expression for him. A smile would have felt much more natural.
“I just spoke with Lieutenant Kastiigan in his quarters. Apparently, he intends to die.”
Joseph stared at his friend. “I hate to tell you, buddy, but I don’t think any of us has a choice in the matter.”
“No,” said Vigo, struggling to explain. “He doesn’t expect to die. He intends to die.”
The security officer looked strained as he tried to figure out the difference. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
The Pandrilite heaved a sigh. “I don’t suppose I’m explaining this very well.”
“Why don’t we try it again? You spoke with Kastiigan, right? And he told you...?” Joseph held his hands out, palms up, indicating that it was Vigo’s turn to speak.
“He told me that he wanted to die. He wanted to give his life for his captain and comrades.”
Joseph shrugged. “People say those kinds of things.”
“And he wanted to do it as soon as possible.”
Finally, the security officer began to show signs of concern. “As soon as possible? You mean he’s in a hurry?”
“So it would seem.”
Joseph grunted. “Are you saying Kastiigan is . . . suicidal?”
Vigo shook his hairless, blue head. “I don’t think so. I just think he’s got a warped sense of duty.”
Joseph looked at him with a hint of suspicion in his expression. “Then why are you so shaken up?”
The weapons officer frowned again. “On Pandril, we don’t speak of . . .the sort of event Kastiigan is contemplating. It’s considered bad luck. Tempting fate, a human would say.”
The security chief seemed to see the entire picture now. “He’s giving you the heebie-jeebies.”
“That would be another way of putting it.”
“So what are you going to do? Try to avoid Kastiigan?”
“As much as I can,” Vigo told him.
“It’s a big ship,” Joseph said, “but it’s not that big. You’re going to run into him sooner or later.”
“I thought you might suggest a way for me to avoid doing so.”
The security officer considered the question for a while. Then he said, “You could find out what shift he’s working and work a different one. But that’s not going to work all the time.”
“I know,” said Vigo, who had already discarded that option on his own. “As the senior weapons officer, I have to be available when the captain wants me to be available.”
Joseph gave it some more thought. “Well,” he said finally, “you could try talking to him. You could let him know that all his talk of dying is disturbing you.”
That had occurred to Vigo as well. He had rejected it because he was a Pandrilite—because his people weren’t the kind to impose their values on others. But maybe it was time to break with tradition.
“Perhaps I will do that,” he told Joseph. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” said the security officer, “I’m glad to help. Let me know how it goes, will you?”
Vigo agreed that he would do that.
As Dikembe Ulelo waited for a turbolift on Deck 10, his hands locked behind his back, he considered the contents of the subspace mail he had read to that point.
Commander Wu had been offered a position on another vessel. Lt. Iulus’s sister had given birth to a girl. And Ensign Montenegro’s father had survived a serious illness.
None of this news succeeded in moving the comm officer to any great degree. However, he filed it all away in his mind, knowing he might need to draw on it sometime.
“Dikembe?” someone said, intruding on his thoughts.
Ulelo turned and saw a woman approaching him. A crewman in the science section, judging by her uniform.
But she didn’t look at all familiar to him. And judging by the pucker in the woman’s brow, she wasn’t entirely certain that he looked familiar to her.
Ulelo’s first impulse was to leave the vicinity. To escape. But how could he do that? The Stargazer wasn’t so big a place that he could lose himself once he had been identified.
Eventually, the woman would find him. Better to face her now, the comm officer told himself, than have to explain his abrupt departure at some later date.
The woman’s expression of uncertainty became a smile as she came closer. “It is you,” she said.
“Yes,” Ulelo responded, not knowing what else to say.
“What are you doing here on the Stargazer?” she asked. “I thought you were still working for Lovejoy on the Copernicus.”
The comm officer frowned. Lovejoy was his former captain, the Copernicus his previous assignment.
The woman tilted her head playfully as she regarded him. “What’s the matter?” she said. “Cat got your tongue?”
His frown deepened. Apparently, she had met him prior to his coming to the Stargazer. It was evident from her tone and choice of references. But he still didn’t have a clue as to who she was.
Before he could consider the wisdom of saying so, it came out. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know who you are.”
The woman’s smile faded a bit. “Since when did you become such a joker, Dikembe?”
Ulelo had no choice but to remain steadfast in his position. “I’m not joking. If we’ve met before, I don’t recall it.”
The woman’s smile faded the rest of the way. “Stop it. We spent hours together at the Academy. You, me, Angela, Ragnar . . .”
He didn’t remember Angela or Ragnar either. “I’m sorry.”
She held her hands out in an appeal for reason. “It’s Emily, Dikembe. Emily Bender.”
Ulelo just shrugged.
Her gaze went cold. “Right. Whatever you say.” And with that, she turned and began to walk away.
But the woman didn’t get far before she stopped and looked at him again. This time, her expression was one of unconcealed resentment. Clearly, he had caused her some discomfort.
“I don’t know why you’re pretending not to know me,” she said, “but it’s rude. Damned rude.”
Then she walked away.
Chapter Six
“MIND YOU,” SAID PICARD, “I didn’t bring you aboard for this reason alone. But I would be lying if I told you I haven’t been looking forward to this moment.” Ensign Paris inclined his head slightly. “That’s high praise, sir. I’ll do my best to prove worthy of it.”
With that, he slipped on his fencing mask, raised his sword vertically in a gesture of respect, and dropped into an en garde position.
Picard smiled approvingly. If Paris was even half as good a fencer as his personnel file had indicated, this was going to be a most enjoyable bout indeed.
And it would have the added benefit of taking Picard’s mind off other matters—the sort that hadn’t even occurred to him before Admiral Mehdi made him a captain.
Personnel matters, for instance. Caber and Valderrama might be history, gone if not quite forgotten. But Picard was plagued more and more by the looming prospect of Commander Wu’s departure.
The woman had just begun to feel at home here, it seemed to him. She had just begun to accept the way her superiors conducted themselves on the Stargazer.
And what does Rudolfini do? He reels her back to the Crazy Horse like a prize fish.
Then there was Simenon. Though Picard had promised not to pry into the engineer’s personal affairs, he wished he knew more about Simenon’s reasons for visiting his homeworld.
But there was nothing he could do in either case, Wu’s or Simenon’s. They weren’t children, after all. They had the right to make their own decisions, just as he did.
And right now, he chose to test his new ensign’s mettle.
The captain slipped on his own mask and returned Paris’s salute. Then he lowered himself into a crouch and extended his blade, savoring what was to come.
>
He wasn’t disappointed. The ensign’s initial attack was a flurry of high and low angles that drove Picard back almost to the limit of the strip. But before he could be driven off it, the captain launched a counterattack. Inspired by his opponent’s speed and aggressiveness, he matched it lunge for lunge.
And Paris warded off each thrust. In fact, he almost turned the last one into a point with a deadly-quick riposte.
Again, Picard smiled. This was nothing like fencing with Lt. Pierzynski. Nothing at all.
Paris launched another assault, probing what he must have perceived as the captain’s weaknesses. His point darted at Picard’s lead shoulder, then his lead hip, then his shoulder again.
But the captain parried each move and answered it with a thrust of his own. It gave the ensign pause, forced him to think about what he would try next.
And in that moment, Picard struck.
His attack wasn’t just quick, it was devilishly precise—a long, low lunge of which his fencing instructors back in France would have been proud. As Paris retreated in desperation, the captain’s point came at his chest like an angry viper.
But just when Picard thought he had won the touch, the ensign flung his bell-shaped guard in the way. It deflected the captain’s weapon just enough to keep it from grazing his opponent.
Picard swore softly to himself and tried it again. This time, his attack was more explosive than precise. But as before, Paris managed to deflect it enough to save himself.
The captain was tempted to make the attempt a third time since Paris seemed to be off-balance. But the ensign recovered more quickly than Picard would have thought possible and nearly caught him off guard with a lunge of his own.
They were back in the center of the strip, the captain noticed, right where they had started. As if in mutual recognition of that fact, the combatants paused for a moment.
“Well played,” Picard said, his breath coming hard.
Paris inclined his head. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Especially that last counter. Brilliant, I thought.”
“You’re too kind,” said the ensign. “Shall we have another go at it?”
“I’d like that,” Picard replied sincerely.
And they went at each other again.
As Admiral Arlen McAteer gazed out the observation port of the modest and all-but-empty officer’s lounge at Starbase 37, he was reminded of how little he had enjoyed living on starbases.
Unfortunately, he had been forced to do so at various times in his career—including an eighteen-month stint shortly after graduation at Starbase 68. He had worked there as the attaché of Admiral Bailey, a man with an unsightly paunch, thick white hair, and an equally white mustache.
Bailey, as McAteer recalled, hadn’t tried any new approaches to the management of his sector. He hadn’t made adjustments in personnel and their responsibilities. All he had done, it seemed, was let matters follow their natural course.
Early on, McAteer decided that Bailey wasn’t very impressive, either as a man or as an admiral. He figured he could do better—a lot better. It was while he was working at Starbase 68 that McAteer decided he would become an admiral himself one day.
He had reached that objective precisely according to plan. Of course, the admiral still felt compelled now and then to leave Starfleet Headquarters on Earth and visit a starbase, but that was an inescapable part of his job.
And sometimes it wasn’t McAteer’s job at all but he did it anyway, for reasons that might be considered more personal than professional. This was one of those times.
His thoughts were interrupted by the hiss of the lounge doors and the sight of a woman in officer’s garb. It’s her, the admiral thought, recognizing the woman from her file picture.
Her name was Rachel Garrett. She was the second officer on the Federation starship Excelsior.
McAteer decided that Garrett’s file image hadn’t done her justice. She’s a damned impressive-looking woman, he reflected. Part of him wondered if she had dinner plans.
But then, he could have more easily obtained a dinner date back on Earth, if that was all he was after. He had traveled all the way to this base for a much more important reason, and one that precluded any kind of romantic liaison.
“Admiral,” said Garrett as she approached him.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering the woman his hand.
She took it. “Likewise, sir.”
“Something to drink?” McAteer asked.
Garrett shook her head. “No. Nothing, thanks.”
“Please,” he said, “sit down.”
He indicated a chair across a low table from his. The commander took it and gave him her attention.
McAteer smiled at her, doing his best impression of a doting uncle. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Commander. I’ve heard good things about you.”
She looked pleased to hear it. “Thank you, sir.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nasty business with the Orazwari last month.”
Garrett nodded soberly. “It was. I suppose my captain told you all about it.”
“I read his report. He said he had no choice but to leave his landing party behind until he could regroup and determine what he was up against. He also said the party wouldn’t have survived without the courage of its ranking officer.”
Garrett shrugged. “I was in charge, sir. I did what anyone would have done in my place.”
“As I recall,” said McAteer, “you did a bit more than that. When you saw that the Orazwari were getting close to your hiding place, you led them in another direction single-handedly—risking your own life so that the crewmen in your care could survive.”
“Most of them were wounded,” she explained. “They weren’t in any shape to lead the Orazwari away.”
“Nonetheless,” said the admiral, “a remarkable effort. And all the more remarkable when one considers the fact that you survived.”
“I was lucky, sir.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” he told Garrett, “and unless I’m mistaken, neither do you.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded his monitor screen, which the commander couldn’t see. “After all, this isn’t the first time you’ve demonstrated remarkable courage or inventiveness. In fact, you’ve pretty much made a habit of it.”
Garrett didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.
“You know,” said McAteer, approaching the real reason he had arranged to see her, “a woman with your extraordinary abilities should be moving up the chain of command. But I see that you’ve been a second officer for some time now.”
His guest shrugged. “I like it on the Excelsior. It’s a wonderful ship with a wonderful captain.”
“So I understand,” the admiral told her. “And I don’t doubt that he values your services. But your fleet would benefit more if you were to make a change.”
Garrett looked at him askance. “Such as?”
“Second officer on another ship.”
Her brow creased ever so slightly. “I don’t understand, sir. I’m already a second officer.”
“Of course you are,” said McAteer. “But on the Excelsior, there aren’t any opportunities for advancement. Whereas, if you were to make a lateral move to another ship... you might find such opportunities materializing before you know it.”
Garrett looked at him. “Is this a hypothetical question? Or did you have a ship in mind?”
“I have a ship in mind, all right. But for the moment, I prefer to conduct our conversation as if we were speaking hypothetically.”
“I see,” the commander said.
“So what would you do,” the admiral asked, “if I were to say that I could arrange a berth for you on another vessel... where you would be the recipient of a captaincy in a short amount of time?”
Garrett looked tempted—just as he had predicted. “A captaincy,” she said. “That would be quite a move.”
“Are you saying you don’t deserve it? Or that
you’re not eminently capable of commanding a starship?”
“I’m saying it would be most unusual, sir. In fact, this entire conversation strikes me as most unusual. I find myself asking why a Starfleet admiral would go to the trouble of meeting me out here in the hinterlands, much less making the kind of assurances you’re making.” She paused. “Hypothetical or otherwise.”
McAteer smiled again. “You’re a shrewd woman, Commander. But then, that doesn’t surprise me in the least. If you were any less shrewd, I might be speaking with someone else.”
“Obviously,” said Garrett, “you want something. What is it?”
He continued smiling. “All I want is to help you help yourself—by supplying me with information on the officers with whom you’ll share your new ship. When we’ve accumulated enough of it, I’ll have them disciplined and stripped of their ranks. And you will move in to fill the breach created by their absence.”
“And if I don’t find anything objectionable?”
“You will,” he told her. “Believe me.”
Garrett seemed to consider the admiral’s offer for a moment. Then she frowned. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
McAteer held his arms out in an expression of magnanimity. “By all means, Commander.”
His guest leaned forward. “I’ll be blunt, Admiral. I want to move up in the world as much as anyone in the fleet—but not at the expense of other qualified officers.”
“They’re not qualified,” he interjected.
Garrett chuckled. “Why don’t I believe that?”
“You need to trust me,” McAteer said.
“Sorry,” she replied. “I don’t. And just for the record, Admiral, I don’t ever plan on allowing myself to be used as a political pawn—yours or anyone else’s.”
McAteer had the distinct impression that his offer had been spurned. Imagine that, he thought.
“I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I sweetened the pot?” he said.
Garrett smiled stubbornly. “There’s nothing sweet enough in this galaxy to make me your puppet, Admiral.”
McAteer scowled. Obviously, this conversation wasn’t going anywhere. There was just one thing left to do.
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