Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [2]
Goetz turned to the captain. “Sir, Nikolas has arrived safely on the Manitou.”
Picard nodded. “Proceed.”
This time, the transporter operator didn’t have much to do, as her opposite number on the Manitou was the one initiating the transport. Goetz’s only responsibility was to give the other ship’s operator the go-ahead, which she did with a tap on her console, and then monitor the procedure.
Seconds later, another column of golden light took shape on the platform. As Picard looked on, it became clear that there was someone forming inside it—someone obviously humanoid, who solidified as the splendor around him vanished.
He was blond, of medium build, and older than the captain by a couple of decades. Though he was wearing the same cranberry and black uniform, the insignia on it denoted a rank superior to Picard’s—that of the Starfleet admiral overseeing this sector of space.
McAteer, thought the captain, and not with any special fondness. But what he said was “Admiral. Welcome to the Stargazer.”
McAteer smiled as if he were happy to see Picard, but his smile wasn’t to be taken at face value. It was merely a tool that he used to disarm his adversaries.
“Picard,” he said as he stepped down from the platform.
Not Captain Picard. Just Picard, without the title. But then, McAteer had never seemed comfortable with the notion of someone Picard’s age commanding a starship.
“You’ve cut your hair,” the admiral observed.
“I did,” the captain confirmed. “A necessary part of my assignment on Oblivion.”
“Ah yes,” said McAteer. “Oblivion.” As if that single word were comment enough.
Picard’s mission there hadn’t been a complete success. He had, after all, failed to obtain strategic information that would have given the Federation a significant advantage over its adversaries in the sector.
However, he had flushed out a scheme to put the Federation at a significant disadvantage. Most superior officers would have taken that into consideration. But not McAteer.
“I trust your trip here was a comfortable one,” said the captain.
“It was,” the admiral confirmed. “But then, Captain Dorchester knows his way around.”
And I don’t, Picard couldn’t help adding silently. The implication was there whether McAteer said it out loud or not.
The captain indicated the exit. “Shall I have someone see you to your quarters?”
“Not just yet,” said McAteer. “Right now, I’d like to go over a few things in your ready room.”
Of course you would, thought Picard.
Carter Greyhorse, the Stargazer’s chief medical officer, appeared to be studying the red-on-black digital readout on the side of one of his biobeds. However, he was really thinking about Gerda Asmund. In point of fact, he was always thinking about Gerda Asmund.
And why not? She was his lover.
Greyhorse had never imagined he would be saying such a thing, not even to himself. But it was true. The fates had been kinder to him than he could ever have imagined. Lovely, fierce Gerda had miraculously seen fit to share his bed.
And not just his bed.
After all, Gerda had been raised as a Klingon. Her appetites were untidy, to say the least, and they had a way of manifesting themselves even when there was no bed available.
More than once in recent weeks, Greyhorse had found himself in a semipublic part of the ship, hastily covering up some newly inflicted wound—the livid result of Gerda’s passion. He was sporting two such wounds at that very moment, one half-healed and the other still fresh and bloody.
The doctor didn’t like the risks he and Gerda were taking, sometimes getting involved with each other while one or both of them were on duty. However, his lover seemed to thrive on risk. For her, it appeared to be an integral part of the experience.
He couldn’t deny her that thrill. Hell, he couldn’t deny her anything—not when Gerda might suddenly decide that Greyhorse was too much trouble and end their relationship, just like that. He didn’t know how he would go on living if she did that.
So he endured their trysts, no matter where or when they took place, and the scars that came