Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
What is Paxton doing? he wondered, filled with a strange mixture of fear and curiosity. But he didn’t dare glance in his superior’s direction a second time.
Maybe he’s not doing anything, Ulelo thought, and liked the sound of it. Maybe he just happened to be looking at me for a moment. Maybe he still has no idea what I’ve been up to.
Then he heard Paxton’s voice, calm but firm: “Get up and step away from the console, Ulelo.”
Ulelo turned to his superior again—he had to, having been addressed—and saw that Paxton was almost on top of him. He did his best to feign surprise: “Sir?”
“Step away from the console,” Paxton repeated, a little more forcefully this time. His gaze was uncharacteristically hard and unyielding.
Ulelo’s mind raced, seeking a way for him to wriggle off the hook. But he couldn’t think of one.
Just then, the turbolift doors slid open and a couple of security officers stepped out. One was Joseph, the acting head of the section. The other was Pfeffer, one of the friends to whom Emily Bender had intoduced Ulelo.
Pfeffer’s expression was unmistakably one of regret. Obviously, she knew what she had come for.
It was only then that Ulelo realized the extent to which he must have incriminated himself.
Paxton hadn’t sent for the security officers. They had been waiting in the lift. So Paxton’s suspicions weren’t brand-new. He had known about Ulelo for some time.
A trap, Ulelo reflected.
“Come with us,” said Joseph.
“Don’t make it harder than it has to be,” said Pfeffer, her eyes beseeching him to cooperate.
The other officers on the bridge had turned to them, wondering what in blazes was going on. Ulelo thought about protesting his innocence, stalling for some time.
But there was nothing to be gained by it. Without another word, he got up from his station and allowed his colleagues to escort him to the brig.
“Well,” said Lieutenant Bender, as she set her tray down on the rectangular mess-hall table, “I hope I ordered the right thing, because I can’t see worth a damn.”
She had been studying alien microbes under a high-powered microviewer for the last several hours. If she hadn’t officially gone blind, she had certainly come close enough.
Bender’s friends at the table, Kochman and Vandermeer, glanced uncertainly at the food on her tray. Then they turned to each other, looks of grave concern on their faces.
“Should we tell her?” asked Kochman, one of the Stargazer’s junior navigation officers.
Vandermeer, a transporter operator, shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe she likes heart of targ.”
“Heart of targ…?” Bender echoed, pulling her chair out and depositing herself in its accommodating plastiform curve. What in blazes was heart of targ?
“A Klingon dish,” Vandermeer explained. “Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never seen it myself.”
“Until now, you mean,” said Kochman, tilting his head meaningfully toward Bender’s plate.
Vandermeer raised her hand to her mouth, obviously to conceal a smile. “Of course. Until now.”
“Actually,” said Bender, happy to go along with the gag no matter how lame it was, “I’ve always been curious about Klingon cuisine. It’s probably time I gave it a try.”
And with that, she dug her fork into her pile of chicken cacciatore. Raising a piece of dusky meat covered with tomato tatters to the level of her eyes, she peered at it for a moment. Then she opened her mouth and slipped it inside.
“Mmm,” she said, purposely speaking with her mouth full as she rounded up another forkful, “tastes just like chicken.”
Bender had expected to get at least a chuckle from that, but none was forthcoming. Looking up, she saw that neither Kochman nor Vandermeer was even looking at her anymore. They were quite clearly looking past her.
The com officer cast a glance back over her shoulder to see what was more interesting than a mouthful of chicken cacciatore. What she saw was the advancing figure of Pug Joseph, the ship’s acting security chief. Judging by the clouded expression on his face, Joseph hadn’t come to the mess hall