Chapter Eleven

NORMALLY CARTER GREYHORSE MINDED his own business. But every so often—as in the case at hand—he was compelled by duty to diverge from that policy.

“I’m fine,” Picard said once the doors to his ready room had closed, giving him and the doctor some privacy.

“You don’t look fine,” Greyhorse told him. “You look like you’ve had something big and insistent running through your brain. Something with heavy spiked boots.”

“Am I that transparent, Doctor?”

“I’ve seen viewports that are less so.”

The captain frowned. Then he walked over to his observation port and stared at it. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Nightmares?” the doctor suggested.

Picard turned to look at him, an echo of pain and confusion in his eyes. “A nightmare. Just one.”

“It must have been a good one.”

The captain’s chuckle had a distinct lack of merriment in it. “It was. We had found the White Wolf and engaged him in battle. But we didn’t fare very well.”

“We lost him?”

“We lost everything,” Picard told him.

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Greyhorse had a feeling there was more to it, but he didn’t force the issue. He just said, “Obviously, you’re concerned about how we’ll do when we find the White Wolf—particularly since we’re operating with a new captain, a new first officer, and a new second officer.”

“And that’s not cause for worry?” Picard asked.

The doctor shrugged. “I’m not qualified to answer that question. What I am qualified to tell you is that such dreams are perfectly normal for men with command-level responsibilities—even when they’re not about to face some legendary pirate.”

“That’s comforting.” The captain smiled a little sheepishly. “I appreciate your putting the matter in perspective.”

“It’s my job,” the doctor said.

“Nonetheless,” Picard insisted.

Greyhorse did his best to ignore the expression of gratitude. Emotions tended to make him uncomfortable, and gratitude was perhaps the worst in that regard.

“If you have any more trouble sleeping,” he said, “let me know and I’ll prescribe something. Outside of that, just try to relax. I don’t need to tell you that your getting all worked up won’t increase our chances of success.”

Picard nodded. “I’ll try to remember that.”

As he left the room, Greyhorse wasn’t sure that he had actually accomplished anything, or that the captain would sleep any more soundly from that point on. But at least he had made the attempt.

Juanita Valderrama was examining the sensor profile of an asteroid belt on the outskirts of a nearby solar system when Lieutenant Paxton appeared in her office.

“Got a minute?” he asked her.

Valderrama swiveled away from her monitor to face him. “Of course. Please . . . have a seat.”

Paxton came in and allowed the door to close behind him. Then he sat down in the seat next to hers. If his expression was any indication, it wasn’t anything trivial he wanted to talk about.

It was something rather serious.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t normally tell tales out of school. But in this case, I think it would benefit everyone concerned.”

Valderrama regarded him for a moment, wondering what he was talking about. Then she said, “Go on.”

“Just a little while ago,” Paxton told her, “I overheard Chief Simenon talking to someone. It doesn’t matter whom, really. He was saying that he’d had a meeting with you in engineering.”

The science officer nodded. “That’s right.”

“You were talking about the sensors?”

“Yes. Mr. Simenon told me that he had enhanced them with Beta Barritus in mind. I thanked him.”

Paxton smiled benignly. “But unless I’m mistaken, you didn’t encourage him to do any better.”

Valderrama’s brow creased above the bridge of her nose. “He’s the chief engineer. I didn’t think—”

She stopped herself in midsentence. Judging by Paxton’s expression, he believed he had made his point.

“I didn’t think,” Valderrama sighed.

“You see what I’m getting at, right?”

The lieutenant nodded. “I should have pushed him to do better.”

It’s what she would have done when she was younger and new to the fleet. But over the years, she had somehow stopped caring so much. She had developed some bad habits.

Habits she was about to break.

This was Valderrama’s last chance to prove she still had what it took. The captain had placed his faith in her. It was up to her not to let him down.

“Thanks,” she told Paxton. “I appreciate your going out on a limb for me like this.”

He shrugged. “You’ll do the same for me one day. Just keep it under your hat, all right? Or no one will trust me when I tell them they’ve got a secure channel.”

Valderrama smiled. “My lips are sealed.”

And they would be.

Pug Joseph was lost in thought—so much so that his colleague seemed to appear out of nowhere.

This would likely have startled him even if his colleague hadn’t been more than seven feet tall and as blue as the sky on a summer day. “Geez,” Joseph blurted, recoiling in his seat, “did you have to sneak up on me like that?”

Vigo, the Stargazer’s senior weapons officer, favored him with a broad and well-meaning grin. “I didn’t sneak up on you. At least, that wasn’t my intention.”

Joseph blew out a breath and looked around the lounge. None of the dozen or so crewmen present seemed to have noticed his jumpiness. Or if they had, they weren’t making it obvious to him.

He looked up at Vigo again. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Deeply,” the Pandrilite observed. He sat down on the other side of a low-slung table, his knees coming almost to the level of Joseph’s shoulders. “Any particular reason for it?”

The security chief shrugged and lowered his voice. “I was just thinking about the new guy. Obal.”

Vigo’s brow wrinkled. “Obal?”

“The little guy. The Binderian.”

“Ah,” said Vigo. “That one.”

“I don’t think he’s going to work out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not half as sorry as I am,” Joseph told him.

“You like him?”

“Sure. He’s as eager as they come. If he wasn’t so . . .”

The weapons officer shrugged. “So what?”

“So silly-looking. Then maybe I’d be more optimistic about his chances. But he looks like—”

“I know,” Vigo interjected, sparing his colleague the need to describe the Binderian’s appearance. “I have seen him. He is not your typical security officer.”

“That’s an understatement. I mean, if Commander Ben Zoma were still in charge of the section, maybe he could do something with Obal. But me, I’m new at this.”

The Pandrilite frowned. If anyone could sympathize with Joseph, it was he. They had both received their battlefield promotions a scant few weeks ago, when the Stargazer’s clash with a race called the Nuyyad had ripped several links from the chain of command.

Of course, the weapons section wasn’t very big, and its lone vacancy had been filled by a crewman from another part of the ship. So even Vigo wasn’t exactly in the same boat as Joseph.

“Listen,” the weapons officer said, “Commander Ben Zoma has faith in you or he wouldn’t have given you the job in the first place. You’re as qualified as anyone to help Obal.” Vigo paused for a moment. “That is, if he can be helped.”

It was a big if, Joseph told himself. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, right?”

“I’m saying it,” Vigo insisted, “because I believe it. Whatever the task, you are equal to it.”

Joseph felt a pang of gratitude. He nodded. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’ve still got to earn it.”

“And you will. Now if I were you, I would stop worrying and spend my free time doing something enjoyable—something like, say, a game of sharash’di.”

Joseph looked at him askance. “Sharash’di? You mean that game Charlie Kochman got for you?”

“Yes. I could set up a board right now.”

The security chief considered it for a moment, then dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “No, thanks. I don’t think I could concentrate on a game right now.”

Vigo seemed on the verge of arguing the point with him, then seemed to think better of it. “As you wish,” he said. “But remember what I said—you will be equal to the task, whatever it is.”

Then he moved off in the direction of Greyhorse, who had just entered the lounge. Idly, Joseph wondered what Vigo was so eager to talk to the doctor about.

Worry about that later, Joseph told himself. Right now, you’ve got to figure out what to do with Obal.

But what could he do? If he kicked the little guy out of security, he would be crushed. And he would know that it wasn’t just his lone indiscretion that had done him in, because every officer in the section made a mistake from time to time.

Joseph thought long and hard. He considered the problem from every angle he could think of. But despite Vigo’s words of encouragement, he still couldn’t come up with an answer.

“Mr. Simenon?”

The Gnalish looked away from his sleek, black control console and saw Lieutenant Valderrama approaching him. He knew the look on the science officer’s face, having seen it many times over the years since he came to Earth to attend Starfleet Academy.

She was about to ask a personal favor of him.

What’s more, he was uniquely capable of granting it. As the ship’s chief engineer, he could make a significant difference in the quality of people’s lives.

What was it? Simenon wondered. Had the lieutenant’s replicator gone on the blink? Or maybe her sonic shower? Had the automatic doors in her quarters gotten jammed?

Well, Valderrama would have to wait her turn in the repairs queue like everyone else. Her status as a fellow officer didn’t get her any privileges in his book.

“Listen,” Simenon said, “I’m busy right now. If—”

“This won’t take long,” the science officer assured him. He scowled, swiveled on his chair and gave Valderrama his full attention. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

And she said, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

I knew it, Simenon thought, inwardly congratulating himself for his infallible insight into the nuances of human behavior. “And what favor is that?” he asked.

“I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you would take another stab at enhancing our sensor capabilities. I’ve gone over what you did and I think you can do better.”

Simenon straightened. “Better?”

“That’s right. A lot better. You’re one of the most experienced engineers in the fleet, and our sensor capabilities are going to be a key to this mission. We need more from you.”

“I see,” the Gnalish said.

“I’m glad,” Valderrama told him. She smiled. “Keep me informed, will you? I’ll be in the science section if you need me.”

And with that, she made her way back to the exit.

Simenon’s ruby eyes narrowed as he watched the doors slide closed behind Valderrama. Obviously, someone had told the woman how he felt about their earlier conversation. Either that, or her change of heart was a colossal coincidence.

And he didn’t take much stock in coincidence.

But Greyhorse was the only one with whom Simenon had discussed the matter, and the doctor wasn’t the type to get involved in other people’s business. He didn’t believe in making what he called “uninvited appearances” in his patients’ lives.

So who, then? Who had tipped Valderrama off? Someone who had overheard his conversation with the doctor. . . . Paxton, maybe? Or one of the nurses on duty at the time?

Not that I care, Simenon reflected.

In fact, he didn’t give a tribble’s furry hide under what circumstances Valderrama’s attitude had changed, or who might possibly have been responsible. All that mattered was that her attitude had changed—and that the science officer would be pulling her own weight from that point on.

With that happy prospect in mind, the engineer pulled down on the lapels of his lab coat, swiveled his chair around and returned his attention to his control console.

Jean-Luc Picard roused himself from his reverie, vaguely aware that someone had spoken to him as he sat in his center seat. He turned to his right and found himself staring at Lieutenant Iulus, one of the senior men in his engineering section.

Iulus had a padd in his hand. He offered it to the captain. “Those maintenance reports you asked for?”

“Yes,” said Picard, “of course.” Accepting the padd, he made a point of glancing at the data contained on its screen and nodded to Iulus. “Thank you.”

The engineer assured him that it was no trouble at all. Then he left the bridge, leaving the captain to wonder how long he had been adrift in his thoughts.

A minute? Several? He cursed himself softly.

He had been thinking about the White Wolf. About what sort of commander the man might be, what sort of tactical capabilities he might have at his disposal.

Picard doubted that the White Wolf’s vessel would be quite as well armed as the one in his dream. But certainly the pirate had to have some tricks up his sleeve to have remained free as long as he had.

It was unfortunate that Starfleet had given him so little to go on. Just a few snippets of other ships’ sensor data here and there, and more than half of it of questionable reliability.

The captain felt his hand clench into a fist. If only he knew one thing about his adversary for certain. If only the White Wolf were more than a ghost to him, haunting him, taunting and tantalizing him like a cosmic will-o’-the-wisp.

Picard sighed. He would go over the other captains’ logs once again. Then he would go over their charts of Beta Barritus. Perhaps there was something he missed, something that might prove of value when he confronted the pirate.

And he would confront him. The captain still had every confidence of that taking place.

Turning to Gerda, he asked, “How many hours until we reach Beta Barritus, Lieutenant?”

His navigator consulted her monitors. “Eighteen, sir. Unless you’d like to increase speed to warp nine—?”

Picard shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

It wasn’t the White Wolf’s way to try to outrun his pursuers. Starfleet had established that, at least. The pirate would go to ground like a fox, and the Beta Barritus system was his favorite foxhole.

Besides, the captain didn’t want to exhaust his vessel’s resources by maintaining too high a rate of velocity for too long. That was why they were cruising at warp eight and no faster.

But he couldn’t wait to reach Beta Barritus.