Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [31]
“Without question,” said Worf. “But,” he continued in a softer yet more emotionally charged tone, “there are more important things than one’s rank.”
Geordi couldn’t argue with that. Beverly wasn’t just another reported missing-in-action. She was his friend, his comrade, someone in whom he had confided things he would have told no one else. She had given him strength when he needed it, stood by him through his greatest trials.
Hell-she had saved his life.
What if she’s really dead? asked a voice inside him.
No, he insisted stubbornly. The captain hadn’t believed it and neither would he. Beverly might have been gentle and caring, but she was tougher than most people might believe.
Not dead, he told himself firmly. Alive. But clearly, operating in perilous conditions, or the report wouldn’t have gone out in the first place. And if that’s so, the captain may need a hand getting her back.
Geordi looked around. There was still the question of the retrofit, which had a long way to go. “I’d hate to leave the rehab crew by itself.”
Worf rolled his eyes. “Do you think everything would grind to a halt without you?”
The engineer started to protest that it might.
“The truth is,” Worf said peremptorily, “you could be gone for days before anyone realized it.”
“Maybe not days…”
“You understand my point.”
Geordi realized he couldn’t argue that either. The retrofit could go on without him. All he had to do was leave someone in charge to answer any questions that came up.
“Well?” said Worf.
Geordi whistled softly. It was a crazy idea, no doubt about it. Maybe the craziest he had ever considered.
But for Beverly, he would do it.
“I’m in,” he said. “But first, we’ve got to find out where the captain went.”
The Klingon nodded. “Any ideas?”
Geordi had a few of them. After a couple of decades in Starfleet, a lot of people owed him favors. It seemed like a good time to cash in on them.
4
AS PICARD’S SHUTTLE SOARED OVER A SURF-WREATHED beach, he got a better look at the lush expanse of forest that stretched beyond it. Nestled within the greenery was a low, clay-colored compound.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it,” his pilot confirmed.
She headed for the compound, found an open patch of relatively level ground, and gently set their craft down on the grass. Then she turned to the captain and said, “Go ahead, sir.”
It would have been quicker and easier for Picard to simply beam down from Pug Joseph’s cargo vessel. But like many high-security installations in the Federation, the penal settlement was protected by a transparent but highly active energy field that made site-to-site transport impossible.
Picard moved aft through the shuttle, pressed the hatch control on the bulkhead, and watched the door slide open. It admitted a warm, pine-scented breeze and an unexpectedly raucous chorus of bird cries. Stepping outside, the captain shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun and looked around.
A stocky, dark-haired officer was walking out to greet him, the buildings behind her barely visible through the trees. Her smile was so big she seemed to squint.
“Good to meet you,” the officer said when she got close enough to be heard over the birdsong. She extended her hand. “I’m Monica Esperanza.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Picard.
“Please,” said Esperanza, “follow me.”
The captain allowed her to lead him up a path that meandered among the trees. It was cool there, shaded as it was from the sun, and the fragrance of pine was even stronger.
“How is Doctor Greyhorse?” Picard asked.
“Eager to see you,” said Esperanza.
“Yes,” said Picard, “I imagine he would be. But that is not what I am wondering about.”
The woman turned to him. “You want to know if it’s wise for him to participate in a mission of this magnitude. Or for that matter, any mission at all.”
The captain nodded. “That is correct.”
“Well,” said Esperanza, “I’m the one who cleared Doctor Greyhorse for Admiral Edrich, so that should tell you something.