Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [10]
Not that the first officer was so hungry for a view of the stars, which was so eminently available through the vessel’s forward observation port. In this case, it was purely a secondary consideration.
It was more a matter of his avoiding Admiral McAteer. By sitting next to the shuttle’s primary pilot—Ensign Paris, in this case—Ben Zoma could be certain he wouldn’t have to listen to the admiral for the entire trip.
Of course, Paris would eventually turn the helm over to someone else, and Ben Zoma would have to do the same with the shotgun seat. But for the first shift, at least, he knew he would be safe from McAteer’s commentary.
“Thanks,” he told Chang, the officer in charge of the ship’s shuttle deck.
“Don’t mention it,” said Chang, sticking his head in after Ben Zoma and taking a critical look around. “I just wish my people would be a little neater sometimes.”
The first officer inspected the interior of the shuttle. As far as he could tell, it was spotless. He turned to Chang and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
Chang looked deadly serious as he regarded Ben Zoma. Then, unexpectedly, he cracked a smile. “Commander, the Livingston is the one we always keep clean.”
Ben Zoma had to laugh. “And they say I never take anything seriously.”
“The problem,” said Chang, “is I take everything seriously. If I didn’t laugh about it, I’d go insane.”
“Pardon me, Lieutenant,” said an all-too-familiar voice, “I’d like to board.”
Chang cast a glance over his shoulder, then stepped back from the hatch. “Of course, sir.”
A moment later, McAteer slid into the Livingston. He was halfway inside before he noticed that Ben Zoma had preceded him.
“Well,” said the admiral, “we are punctual.”
“Yes sir, we are,” said Ben Zoma.
Fortunately, they didn’t have to prolong the conversation, because the rest of the crew arrived in the next few moments. In addition to Paris, it included Chen, Ramirez, Horombo, and Garner—all experienced security officers.
Not that Ben Zoma expected to need them. They were ferrying an admiral from one starship to another, not smuggling tribbles across the heart of the Klingon Empire. However, protocol called for the largest escort possible where such a high-ranking officer was involved, and unless McAteer said otherwise, they were all going to have to pile in.
Before they closed the hatch, Picard appeared. “Bon voyage,” he told McAteer, maintaining an air of cordiality. “And please, say hello to Captain Vayishra for me.”
If the admiral took note of the sarcasm, he gave no indication of it. “I’ll do that. Thank you for the hospitality, Picard. And,” he added, “good luck.”
His back to McAteer, Ben Zoma made a face. Good luck was the last thing the admiral wanted for Picard.
The captain took a last look around inside the shuttle, briefly meeting his first officer’s gaze. Then he nodded to Paris, who used his controls to swing the hatch closed.
Once Picard had withdrawn, the ensign activated the Livingston’s thrusters to lift the craft off the deck and bring her about. In a matter of seconds, he and Ben Zoma were facing in the direction of the bay doors. Then the doors parted, revealing the star-pricked blackness of the void.
A semipermeable, transparent barrier kept the air in the bay from rushing out. However, it wouldn’t keep the shuttle from doing so. Moving forward, the Livingston approached the barrier and the slice of space beyond it.
Then, as smoothly as a bird taking to the sky, the shuttle slid through the aperture. The vast sea of space opened before them, lonely and mysterious.
And they were off.
Chapter Four
DIKEMBE ULELO HAD A JOB to do.
With that idea firmly in mind, he approached the bridge’s communications console, where his superior, Lieutenant Paxton, was still compiling a report on message activity during his shift.
“You’re early,” Paxton said without looking up. “Of course, you’re always early.”
His tone, usually a good-natured one,