Chapter Thirteen

JITERICA WAS SITTING on a biobed and peering at Greyhorse through the transparent faceplate of her containment suit. “Interference?” she repeated quizzically.

“That’s right,” said the doctor. He turned to Simenon, who had apparently assisted in the ensign’s recovery. “Perhaps my colleague here would care to explain?”

The Gnalish shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It’s simple, really. Your suit is laced with a containment field—something like the barriers we generate in the brig to keep prisoners incarcerated. In your suit, though, the field is engineered to a rather exacting standard. In the brig, there’s no need for such precision, so the fields there tend to bleed a bit.”

Jiterica was beginning to understand. “When Lieutenant Pierzynski activated the barrier, it bled beyond its visible parameters . . . and interacted with the field in my suit.”

“With the result that your containment field went down,” Simenon told her. “At least, until we could figure out what had happened and drag you away from the barrier.”

“But while you were without the assistance of the field,” Greyhorse noted, “it was left entirely up to you to maintain your molecular density and keep your suit from exploding. That must have been quite a burden on your physiology.”

It was indeed, Jiterica reflected. Of course, she had contained herself for short periods of time before—when she beamed up to the Stargazer, for instance. But in this case, the lapse in her containment field had been unexpected.

“Had there been more insulation in your suit,” said Greyhorse, “this might have been avoided. But as it was . . .” He frowned.

“Needless to say,” Simenon assured her, “this sort of thing won’t happen a second time.”

The ensign didn’t doubt that he was right. But there were so many other things that could happen . . .

“And,” said the doctor, “you can leave sickbay whenever you feel rested enough. With your suit functioning again, there’s no reason to keep you here.”

Jiterica slid off the biobed less than gracefully. “Then I will be going. Thank you,” she said, “both of you.”

And she made her way out into the corridor, beset by more doubts and uncertainties than ever before.

Ben Zoma was already standing at the entrance to Wu’s quarters when the second officer showed up.

“Commander,” she said, looking more than a little leery.

Ben Zoma acknowledged her with a nod of his head. Then he waited while she tapped the metal plate set into the bulkhead, opening her quarters to them.

As he might have expected, the place was impeccably if minimally furnished and unutterably neat. Following Wu inside, he took a seat and waited for her to do the same.

“Well,” said Wu, with admirable efficiency, “here we are. What is it you wanted to speak to me about, sir?”

Ben Zoma chose his words carefully. “I take it the captain of your previous ship was a precise observer of regulations?”

She nodded. “Of course. Captain Rudolfini was an excellent officer.”

Obviously, Wu wasn’t going to make it easy for him—not that he had expected her to. “At the risk of being considered a bad officer,” he said, “I have to tell you that we do things differently here on the Stargazer. We don’t always adhere strictly to regulations, especially when they bump heads with common sense.”

The second officer didn’t say anything. She just sat there and listened to him.

“And as far as I can tell,” Ben Zoma continued, “we’re not unusual in that respect. Most captains will overlook minor violations if they don’t interfere with overall efficiency—especially when they’re seen in the context of a difficult mission.”

Wu just looked at him.

“Therefore,” he told her, “I would appreciate it if you let up on Simenon and Idun and whoever else among your subordinates may have been guilty of a minor infraction. Of course, if you see something seriously wrong, don’t hesitate to correct it. But it’s got to be more than a failure to requalify or the odd double shift.”

Ben Zoma expected an argument from his second officer. To his surprise, he didn’t get one.

“I’ll obey your orders,” Wu told him evenly, “if that’s what they are. But I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that I sincerely and wholeheartedly disagree with them.”

He sighed. He had been right about Wu, it seemed—she was going to be trouble after all.

Jiterica dutifully moved her containment suit along the corridor in the direction of her quarters. However, the suit wasn’t the heaviest burden she had to carry with her.

When Lieutenant Simenon mentioned the similarity between the field in the ensign’s suit and the barriers employed in the brig, he had only meant that they drew on the same technology. But Jiterica had come to the conclusion that the similarity extended well beyond that.

After all, her containment field was a means of incarceration as well, in that it kept her from assuming the form nature had intended for her. And there were other prisons into which she had blithely and willingly placed herself.

The Stargazer, for instance, in that it carried her far from the milieu into which she had been born. And the vows she had made as a member of Starfleet, for they kept her from living a life in which she could find meaning.

To this point, she had managed to fool herself. Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, she had convinced herself that she might thrive in Starfleet—that she might even manage to become a viable officer someday. But her experiences on the Stargazer had finally put an end to that notion.

First, there was the embarrassment in the shuttlebay, where she had placed others in peril by virtue of her very existence. True, it was only theoretical peril, but the next time it might be real.

Then she had suffered an even greater embarrassment by nearly exploding her containment suit in the brig. As Simenon had indicated, the situation wasn’t likely to come up a second time, but how many other venues on the ship would prove inimical to her survival?

What further humiliation would she have to endure before she accepted the inevitable—before she resigned herself to the grim reality of her prospects on the Stargazer?

Just as Jiterica thought this, she saw someone round the bend in the corridor ahead of her. It was a human, older than most on the ship—a female with a greater body mass than the statistical average, her hair worn loose about her shoulders.

Jiterica didn’t remember meeting the woman. However, it was clear that she was a lieutenant, because there was a spool-shaped device pinned onto the right shoulder and left sleeve of her uniform. It was also clear that she worked in the science section, because those same devices were at least partly gray in color.

A full lieutenant in the science section, Jiterica thought. That would be Lieutenant Valderrama. The woman had beamed up to the ship with the group that came after the Nizhrak’s.

As Valderrama approached her, Jiterica could make out the expression on the lieutenant’s face. It began with curiosity, reconfigured itself almost immediately into a mask of restraint, then evolved gradually into the inevitable look of pity.

Finally, Valderrama nodded. Jiterica inclined her helmeted head in response. Then the lieutenant was past her—mercifully so—and the Nizhrak was alone in the corridor again.

Valderrama was right to pity her, Jiterica thought. All her fellow crewmen were right to do so. She was, despite her best efforts, a pitiful excuse for a Starfleet ensign.

But they wouldn’t need to pity her much longer. In the morning she would tell the captain that she was quitting the fleet and ask to be returned to her homeworld.

Jiterica wouldn’t find any relief in that meeting—neither then nor later. No doubt, she would regret what had happened here and on the Manitou for a very long time.

But in light of all her failures, a quick departure was the only reasonable option open to her.

In the short time that Nikolas had known Joe Caber, his opinion had changed a hundred percent.

Not his opinion of Caber—that hadn’t changed one iota. Nikolas still saw his roommate as the perfect Starfleet ensign, well on his way to becoming the perfect Starfleet skipper.

What had changed was the way Nikolas saw himself.

When he walked into his quarters the day before, he had already resigned himself to his fate. He was going to be a loose cannon, a thorn in the side of his superiors the rest of his Starfleet career—however long it might be allowed to last.

Now Nikolas believed there might be a different fate in store for him, one that involved some success in his chosen profession. He could even see himself becoming an officer someday.

And why? Because of Joe Caber.

Because the guy had encouraged him to look beyond his limitations. Because he had shown Nikolas that they had more in common than the ensign might ever have believed.

He might never be Joe Caber, admiral’s son. But if he tried, if he managed to put aside his resentments and his insecurities, he might become someone almost as good.

“Hey,” said Caber, “you going to hang there all day?”

Nikolas smiled despite the increasing strain on his arms and shoulders and regripped the horizontal bar one hand at a time. “Just until I feel comfortable,” he grunted.

“You sure you’ve done this before?” Caber gibed in a good-natured tone of voice.

In fact, Nikolas was hardly an expert on the horizontal bar. But he didn’t want to admit that in front of his roommate—especially after he had boasted about his gymnastic skills all the way here.

“Just step back,” he said, “and try not to gasp in awe.”

Then Nikolas began swinging back and forth, all the while maintaining his hold on the chalk-covered titanium bar above him. Ignoring the pain it cost him, he swung higher and higher, until his hips were well above the bar on his backswing.

Finally, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he drove forward one last time. At the apex of his swing, he let go of the bar and threw himself backward into a tightly tucked somersault.

That was the easy part, he told himself. The hard part would be sticking the landing.

As fast as the room was spinning around him, Nikolas had no real idea what he was doing. All he could do was take a stab at it and hope for the best. With that approach in mind, he released his grip at what seemed like the appropriate time.

And somehow, as if by magic, managed to land on his feet.

There was an almost overwhelming moment of vertigo, when Nikolas had the feeling that he was standing more or less upright but couldn’t be certain of it. Then the dizziness passed, and he realized that he had stuck the landing.

Stuck it perfectly, in fact.

“Nice job,” Caber told him.

Nikolas grinned. “All in a day’s work.”

Then it was his roommate’s turn. He eyed the bar, rolled a bar of chalk between his hands and put it down beside the apparatus. Then he leaped up, grasped the bar, and kicked forward into a swing.

In no time, Caber was swinging as high as Nikolas had. Then higher. And he was doing it with only one hand, first the right and then the left, never both at the same time.

In a burst of energy, he swung completely around the bar, cutting a perfect circle through the air—once, twice, and a third time. Finally, without warning, he released the bar and tucked himself into a rapidly spinning somersault.

But it wasn’t the single flip that Nikolas had done. It was a double, with a twist for good measure. And when Caber landed, it was with flawless grace and balance.

Nikolas whistled involuntarily. And here he thought he had impressed his roommate with his relatively rudimentary performance. The guy was amazing. Absolutely amazing.

“Nice job yourself,” Nikolas told him.

But Caber didn’t answer. He was staring over Nikolas’s shoulder, his face frozen in an expression of disbelief. His curiosity piqued, Nikolas turned and saw what had caught his friend’s attention.

It was the Binderian—the one who had beamed up to the Stargazer in Nikolas’s group. The ensign hadn’t seen him since, but he had heard that the guy was in security.

What was his name again? Obert? Obizz? No, Nikolas thought, remembering at last. Obal.

When he last saw the little guy, it was in the transporter room. They had beamed up together, along with the new science officer.

At the time, Nikolas had noted how strange-looking the Binderian was, how awkward he seemed in his Starfleet uniform. Almost comical, the ensign had thought at the time.

Now Obal was wearing Starfleet-issue black gym shorts a couple of sizes too long for him and a blue tank top that accentuated his bony shoulders and arms, and he looked even more ridiculous than he had in the transporter room.

As Nikolas watched, the Binderian went over to the weight area and picked up a couple of barbells—the lightest pair on hand, perhaps three kilograms apiece. With an effort, he brought them to shoulder height. Then, taking a deep breath between clenched teeth, he began to push them toward the ceiling.

With each push, Obal grunted. No—it was less a grunt than a wheeze, Nikolas decided. And to add to the effect, Obal’s face, which was already a bright pink, turned a lush crimson.

Nikolas was sorely tempted to laugh out loud—it was that funny-looking. But he knew it would hurt the Binderian’s feelings, so he managed to refrain.

Then he heard laughter after all. It seemed to fill the gym. And it came from Caber.

“Boy,” he said, “that’s got to be the most pitiful excuse for a body I’ve ever seen.”

Nikolas looked at him. It wasn’t like his roommate to be so critical, even in jest.

Obal, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind the remark. He just smiled as Caber was smiling and went back to his lifting.

“Come to think of it,” Caber went on, “I’m not even sure that is a body. Bodies have muscles, don’t they? I’ve baited hooks with physiques more muscular than that.”

Still the Binderian seemed not to take offense. He continued his exercises without a hint of animosity, without the least sign that he was bothered by Caber’s comments.

But Nikolas was bothered by them.

It wasn’t that he thought Caber was trying to hurt Obal’s feelings. Anyone who knew the admiral’s son knew he wasn’t capable of that. He was just playing around.

But the remarks still felt wrong to Nikolas. Unsporting somehow, like hunting flies with a phaser rifle.

“Hey,” he said, meaning to distract his friend, “all this exercise is getting me hungry. What do you say we hit the mess hall and pump some fried chicken?”

But Caber didn’t even look at him. He was still too enthralled by the sight of the Binderian.

“I wonder what he looked like before he started working out.” Caber snickered. “Must’ve been hard to see him at all.”

“Or some ribs,” said Nikolas, pushing upstream with his suggestion. “I sure could go for some nice barbecued ribs. You are the guy who’s always hungry, right?”

It was then that Caber finally seemed to notice him. “Yeah,” he replied after a moment. “Ribs. That sounds good to me too.”

Nikolas indicated the doorway with a tilt of his head. “So what are we waiting for?”

Caber glanced at Obal as if he were going to shoot one more comment in the Binderian’s direction. But in the end, all he did was grin and shake his head and lead the way across the gym.

Nikolas followed him, relieved that the incident was over. But before he and his roommate could reach the exit, Obal piped up.

“Have a pleasant day,” he said, his voice high-pitched and tremulous and nearly as silly as his appearance.

Nikolas sighed. “You too.”

But Caber didn’t say anything in return. He just broke out into another wave of laughter, filling the corridor outside the gym with it as he and Nikolas made their way to their quarters.