Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [18]
“What do you think?” asked Simenon, who was standing behind her in his lab coat, his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s…wonderful,” she said.
Before, the Nizhrak’s artificial voice had been tinny, unnatural. Even she had been able to hear that after a while. Now the speech sounds she made were virtually indistinguishable from those made by humanoid throats.
“Good,” said Simenon, who had designed and manufactured the new suit with the help of a replicator. “And I take it the forcefield is doing its job?”
“Perfectly,” she told him. Or at least, as well as the forcefield in her other suit.
“Try sitting,” he said.
Jiterica moved to her bed and sat down. It was a considerably less arduous task than it had been before. But then, her suit was nearly as flexible as living epidermis—or so Simenon had assured her.
She looked at herself in the mirror again. It might have been one of the Asmunds sitting there in the suit, or Urajel, or Commander Wu. That’s how well proportioned and at ease she looked.
Paris would be pleased when he returned.
But he would also be disturbed, as Jiterica was, by the situation surrounding Lieutenant Ulelo. News about him had spread through the Stargazer like a ripple of ionic wind on her homeworld, tearing at the bonds of trust and community that had been forged on the ship, making chaos of calm.
Fortunately, Ulelo’s actions had been identified as the product of an unbalanced mind, attempts to connect to someone or something that never existed. The Stargazer wasn’t in any danger.
However, it bothered Jiterica that Ulelo was something other than what he had seemed. Among her people, there was no such thing as subterfuge or deception, no possibility of treachery or betrayal.
Obviously, she reflected, I still have a lot to learn about humanoids.
Picard was standing by the single observation port in his ready room, taking in the beauty of the stars that were rushing past, when his weapons officer paid him an unexpected visit.
“Mister Vigo,” he said, as the Pandrilite’s impressive form was revealed on the threshold.
“Sir,” said Vigo.
Normally he was a cheerful soul, his spirits remarkably difficult to dampen. But not at the moment. His face was as stern as Picard had ever seen it.
“You appear to have something on your mind,” the captain observed.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said, “while you were dealing with Lieutenant Ulelo, and the implications of what he had done. But now that we know he’s harmless…”
“Yes?” said Picard.
Vigo’s nostrils flared. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About Ejanix. About the things he did…and said.”
Ejanix had been a Pandrilite, like Vigo. In fact, he had been Vigo’s mentor back on their homeworld.
In those days, Ejanix was known as a brilliant theoretician—brilliant enough to be invited to teach at Starfleet Academy, where he continued to distinguish himself. But his crowning achievements were to come on Wayland Prime, where Starfleet had established a think tank for weapons development.
His particular focus was on phaser technology—improving its range, its accuracy, its energy efficiency. It had seemed he was making progress on Wayland Prime, turning in the caliber of work everyone expected of him.
But he betrayed Starfleet and his colleagues by opening the installation to a band of Pandrilite terrorists, intending to help finance a revolution by selling Starfleet’s weapons research. And he would have succeeded had it not been for Vigo.
Eventually, Ejanix saw the error of his ways, and died heroically at the hands of his rebel allies. But that didn’t erase the fact of his treachery—not in Picard’s mind, and certainly not when it came to the official record.
“Go on,” said the captain.
Vigo’s gaze hardened. “I don’t condone his treachery, you understand. Not for a minute.”
The weapons officer fell into silence then. But Picard didn’t make a move to fill it. Clearly, Vigo had more to say.
“And yet,” he continued at last, “I feel it’s a mistake to dismiss what he told me about Pandril.”
The captain was intrigued.