Dubinski looked perplexed. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
Simenon dismissed it all with a snap of his wrist. “You did fine, all of you. I was holding you to an unreasonable standard.” He eyed Urajel in particular. “And for your information, something had crawled up my hindquarters—a personal matter. It was astute of you to notice.”
Neither engineer seemed to know what to say to that. Taking unexpected pleasure in the looks on their faces, the Gnalish walked around them and resumed his trek to the transporter room.
If he wasn’t coming back to the Stargazer, he thought, he would at least leave here with his conscience in good shape.
Ensign Nikolas put his tray full of food down on the table in front of him and pulled up a chair.
“Man,” he said, “those replicator lines seem to get longer every day. Is the captain taking on new crewmen in secret or something?”
His friend Obal, who was sitting across the black plastic table from him, chuckled good-naturedly. “If he is, he is keeping it secret from me as well.”
Nikolas savored the smell of his salmon in béarnaise sauce. And who did he have to thank for it? His old roommate, Joe Caber. It was Caber who had advised him to trust the mess hall’s replicator and try some of the more challenging dishes.
Caber wasn’t all bad, the ensign told himself archly. Just mostly.
He wondered what Caber would have said if he knew Nikolas had convinced Idun Asmund to spar with him. More than likely, the guy’s jaw would have dropped—just as Obal’s was going to.
Nikolas was still thinking about his old roommate when his new one walked into the mess hall. Paris wasn’t alone, either. He was accompanied by Lt. Paxton and Lt. Pierzynski, the latter being the number two officer in Pug Joseph’s security section.
And Paris had only beamed aboard a couple of days ago. “Like I said,” he muttered, “the guy doesn’t waste any time.”
“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Obal, who wasn’t facing the entrance to the mess hall as Nikolas was.
“Paris. My roommate.”
“Ah,” said the Binderian. He swiveled in his chair and spotted the newcomer as he joined the end of the replicator line. “Ensign Paris is quite impressive.”
Nikolas wasn’t certain he had heard right. He looked at his friend questioningly. “Excuse me?”
“He’s quite impressive,” Obal repeated. He twirled some spaghetti around his fork. “Quite innovative.”
Nikolas looked at the Binderian as he deposited the cluster of spaghetti into his mouth. It wasn’t like his friend to use words like “impressive” and “innovative.”
“Why do you say that?” the ensign asked.
Obal shrugged. “I heard Gerda Asmund say so. And the captain as well. I have no reason to doubt their judgment.”
Nikolas frowned. “The captain said Paris was impressive?”
The Binderian nodded. “He did.”
“In what way?”
“In the way he participates in a sport called fencing,” Obal explained. “Apparently, he presented Captain Picard with a considerable challenge in that regard.”
“Did Paris beat him?” Nikolas asked.
“It was never made clear to me who won. Only that the competitors were more or less evenly matched.”
The ensign’s frown deepened. “The captain was probably being generous, that’s all. Gerda, too.”
Obal seemed to find the comment interesting. He cocked his head to one side. “Is this an example of what humans refer to as jealousy?”
Nikolas made a sound of disdain. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re normally generous with your praise for people, my friend. However, in Ensign Paris’s case, you are denigrating his accomplishments. This suggests that you are jealous of him.”
“Does it really?” asked Nikolas. He chuckled to show Obal how off base he was. “I’d only be jealous of Ensign Paris if he was sparring with Idun Asmund instead of me.”
The Binderian looked surprised. In fact, he looked exactly the way Nikolas had expected him to look. “Are you saying you convinced Lieutenant Asmund to meet you, after all?”
The ensign nodded. “It wasn’t even all that difficult.”
Obal made a face. “I’m not sure this is wise, my friend.”
“You’re concerned that someone might get hurt,” Nikolas speculated.
“Well,” said the security officer, “yes.”
The ensign dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “I already discussed that with Idun and it’s not going to happen, so don’t give it a second thought.”
Obal frowned. “You’re sure?”
Nikolas nodded. “Absolutely.”
He shot a glance in Paris’s direction. His roommate was describing what looked like a space battle to Paxton and Pierzynski, who watched him with rapt expressions.
Jealous indeed, Nikolas thought, and let his mind drift in the direction of his appointment with the beautiful Idun Asmund.
As Simenon approached the double doors of the transporter room, he was pretty certain that the captain would be waiting for him inside. Probably Ben Zoma as well.
After all, he was leaving them. And though they didn’t have any inkling of how permanent that departure might be, they had to know he wasn’t looking forward to what he was facing on Gnala and would therefore want to wish him luck.
The doors whispered apart for him as he came in range of an unseen sensor. They seemed a little sluggish, though. I should have someone check the trigger mechanism, Simenon reflected.
And then he remembered—more than likely, that would be someone else’s problem, not his.
The hard, unyielding nature of that reality stuck in his throat like a bone. Still, the engineer managed to swallow it back and enter the transporter room, his eyes trained on the floor so he wouldn’t have to face anyone until the last possible second.
Finally, when he believed he had almost reached the transporter pad, he looked up. After all, he had to say his good-byes.
But to his surprise, the hexagonal platform was already occupied. The captain and four of Simenon’s colleagues were standing on it in rugged civilian clothing.
It took the engineer a second to figure out what was going on. Once he had done that, he shook his head emphatically from side to side. “No, you don’t,” he rasped at them. “I’m going down to Gnala alone. This is none of your business.”
“Wrong on both counts,” Greyhorse told him flatly. “And that’s the advice of your physician.”
“We’re your friends,” Vigo said.
“Yes,” Picard chipped in. “And this is a time when you need your friends around you.”
“Come on,” Ben Zoma advised him. “Lighten up.” His expression turned arch. “That’s an order.”
Joseph didn’t say anything. He just smiled.
Simenon took a deep breath and let it out again. He had never been so touched in his entire life—not that he would ever say so. But what his friends were doing wasn’t right. They didn’t have any idea of what they were getting into.
“You’re all proud of yourselves,” he observed, “aren’t you? You think you’re going to save me from a grisly end. But all you’re going to do is get yourselves killed along with me.”
“Nice speech,” Greyhorse told him.
“Very nice,” said Picard. “Now get on the platform and let’s get this over with.”
“Fools,” Simenon spat.
“Careful,” said Ben Zoma. “We don’t like you that much.” But the Gnalish knew the human didn’t mean it.
Obviously, there was no dissuading them. Swearing under his breath, Simenon climbed onto the platform and took an empty spot. Then he turned to Refsland, the transporter operator on duty, and uttered a single word.
“Energize.”
Chapter Ten
ONCE, SHORTLY AFTER PICARD had been accepted at Starfleet Academy, someone had told him that a man in a transporter could actually fe
el his molecules being dismantled and zapped through space. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
There was no awareness of the process, no sensation associated with it. One moment, you were in one place. A moment later, you were somewhere else. It was that simple.
It’s so simple, in fact, that it often surprised those unaccustomed to transporter travel. After all, they expected some intermediary state, some time to prepare oneself for the change in environment, and they didn’t get even a fraction of a second in that regard.
Picard, on the other hand, had traveled by transporter more times than he could easily remember. But even a veteran of such travel could occasionally wish he had had a moment to prepare for what he was about to see.
He found himself wishing that now. Ben Zoma whistled softly. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Nor have I,” Picard confessed.
“It’s beautiful,” Vigo observed.
Joseph nodded. “You can say that again.” They were in an immense stone chamber, one that seemed to soar skyward with irresistible grace and power and majesty. And every inch of it, every twisting column and fluted wall, was the deep, scarlet color of human blood.
There were no energy-powered lights that the captain could discern, neither globes nor open flames. The only apparent source of illumination was a series of towering, splinter-thin windows that filtered the planet’s sunlight and cast it in long, elegant shafts on the smooth stone floor.
It took him a moment to realize that he and his away team weren’t alone in the place. At the far end of the chamber, a ceremonial gathering of some kind stood in a slash of light.
Shading his eyes from the glare of the windows, Picard was able to make out six elderly, white-robed Gnalish surrounded by at least a dozen towering individuals in loose-fitting black garments. The larger figures wore their hoods drawn low over their faces, so the captain couldn’t tell what they looked like underneath them. However, the image they brought to mind was that of a team of medieval executioners.
Impossible, Picard told himself. Gnala was a civilized world. Its government didn’t execute anyone, even for capital crimes. Then he noticed the long, deadly-looking blades that seemed to grow out of the larger figures’ black sleeves.
For a moment, neither the white-robed Gnalish nor their companions said a thing. They just stood there, eyeing the away team much as the away team was eyeing them.
Finally, one of the Gnalish whispered something to one of his colleagues, his voice too low for Picard to discern individual words. The whisper was returned, its echoes fading on the air. Finally, one of the white-robed figures made his way toward Simenon and his companions and extended a scaly finger in their direction.
His mouth twisting, he rasped a single word of accusation: “Offworlders!”
It sent the hooded ones rushing at the newcomers like a powerful black tide. Before the away team knew what was happening, it had been surrounded. The captain saw that their captors were every bit as big as Vigo.
And of course, they had those blades in their hands.
“Tell me Refsland got the coordinates wrong,” Ben Zoma whispered.
Joseph shook his head. “No such luck, Commander.”
“Don’t move,” Simenon told his comrades.
“Believe me,” said Greyhorse, “I hadn’t even considered it.”
Picard found himself wishing that they had brought phaser pistols. But Ben Zoma’s friend Tanya Tresh had been explicit about the need to leave such weapons behind.
“What now?” Joseph asked Simenon.
The engineer didn’t answer him. He just watched and waited.
Slowly and with great dignity, the Gnalish in the white robes advanced across the scarlet stones of the floor. And as they moved, they made hushed comments one to the other.
By the time they stopped in front of the away team, Picard could see that one of the Gnalish—the one who had pointed to them and initiated the stampede of black hoods—had a sickle-like blue mark on the front of his robe. The captain guessed that this one enjoyed a higher rank than the others.
The Gnalish with the blue mark regarded Simenon, ignoring the four humans and the Pandrilite. “Who are they?” he hissed imperiously, indicating Picard and the others with a sweep of his spindly hand. “And why in the name of Magdalassar have they come?”
Picard glanced at his first officer. He had an uneasy feeling that Ben Zoma’s friend Tanya hadn’t told them everything.
Elizabeth Wu felt awkward in Captain Picard’s chair.
She hadn’t expected to feel that way. After all, she had been in command of the Stargazer’s bridge at least once a day since the moment she beamed aboard.
So why the change?
In her heart, Wu knew the answer. To that point, she had felt like a legitimate part of the Stargazer’s crew. She had felt like she belonged there. Now she had one foot out the door, her return to the Crazy Horse imminent. It made her feel like an intruder, an interloper who had no right commanding these people.
Of course, she was the only qualified second officer present. In the absence of her superiors she had to command the Stargazer, and her subordinates had to obey her. But Wu didn’t feel right about it and she wouldn’t blame her officers if they didn’t feel right about it, either.
“Commander?” said Paxton, who had returned to the bridge only a few minutes earlier.
She turned to the comm officer. “Lieutenant?”
“I have a communication for you from Starfleet Command.”
Command? “Put it through.”
A moment later, the image of an admiral popped up on the viewscreen—a woman with long, gray hair gathered into a ponytail. She looked vaguely familiar to the second officer.
What was her name again? Reagan? Rayburn?
“This is Admiral Rayfield at Starbase Sixty-three,” the admiral said, putting an end to the commander’s speculation. She looked around the bridge. “Where’s Captain Picard?”
“The captain,” said Wu, “is on Gnala.”
“What’s he doing there?”
Wu frowned. She didn’t want to make Picard look like the kind of officer who abandoned his ship to take care of personal matters, no matter how well-intentioned.
“He’s pursuing a matter of some importance to the Gnalish,” she said finally. “First Officer Ben Zoma went with him. I’m Commander Wu. May I be of assistance?”
“I’d rather speak with Captain Picard,” the admiral insisted.
The second officer felt her spine stiffen. “Unfortunately,” she said truthfully, “any attempt on our part to contact the captain would be seen as a breach of Gnalish custom. And even if we were to ignore that consideration, it might take a while to get hold of him.”
Rayfield looked as if she were about to ask for details. After all, Wu’s responses to that point had been rather vague. In the end, however, the admiral seemed willing to accept the situation at face value.
“All right,” she said. “Commander Wu, you say?”
“That’s correct, Admiral.”
“An Andorian cargo vessel has relayed us a distress call from the Belladonna, a research vessel assigned to the Oneo Madrin system. Familiar with it?”
“I’ve heard of Oneo Madrin,” Wu told Rayfield. “Unfortunately, I’ve never seen it firsthand.”
Rayfield frowned. Obviously, it wasn’t the answer she had been hoping for. “It’s a binary system with an accretion bridge. You’ve seen those before, haven’t you?”
“I have,” the second officer assured her. “Twice, in fact. At Aescalapios and Wells-Parvat.”
The admiral seemed to take some comfort in that. “Good. Then you know how tricky they can be.”
“You think the Belladonna got too close?” Wu asked.
“It’s a reasonable assumption in the absence of any real data. The Belladonna’s distress call was garbled, to say the least.”
As would have been the case if the vessel’s comm system
had been damaged by unexpected radiation from the accretion bridge. And if her captain had called for help, communications probably wasn’t the only system that had been damaged.
But if the Belladonna’s shields were functioning, her crew had a fighting chance. They could still be alive—as long as a rescue effort was launched in time.
Apparently, that was where the Stargazer came in.
“You’re the closest Starfleet ship,” said Rayfield. “You know how that works.”
“I do,” Wu replied.
“Keep me posted,” said the admiral. “Rayfield out.”
As the admiral’s face vanished from the screen and was replaced by their view of Gnala, Wu turned to her helm officer.
“Lieutenant,” she said, “take us out of this system.”
“Aye,” Idun replied.
The commander was under orders not to contact Picard and the away team. The captain had been crystal clear on that point. But with luck, they would be back before Simenon’s ritual ordeal was over.
“Navigator,” Wu said, “chart a course for the Oneo Madrin system.” She watched Simenon’s planet slide unceremoniously off the starboard side of the viewscreen. “Best speed.”
“Charting,” said Gerda, who had begun tapping out commands at her console as soon as she heard the admiral’s orders.
Leaning back, the second officer took a deep breath. She would have ample opportunity to get comfortable in the captain’s chair. After all, she was going to be seeing a lot of it.
Picard took his right leg, which had been lying across his left one for too long, and planted it on the floor. Then he picked up his left leg and laid it across his right.
Ben Zoma was sitting next to him on a ledge built into the wall. “So,” he said, “how do you like your visit to Gnala so far?”
The captain frowned. “Just fine, Number One.” He indicated the small, high-ceilinged chamber in which they had spent the last two hours. “I was hoping I’d be incarcerated in a windowless chamber while this region’s Council of Elders—”
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