Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [3]
“Doctor?” said his patient, interrupting Greyhorse’s thoughts.
He looked down at Ulelo, one of the com officers who reported to Lieutenant Paxton. “Yes?”
“Have you got everything you needed?”
Greyhorse nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. You can go.”
He should have scrutinized Ulelo’s bioscan, just to be certain there was nothing wrong with the man. However, a cursory look hadn’t given him any reason for concern, and he would take a closer look at the scan later on.
Besides, Ulelo hadn’t had any complaints. It was just a routine checkup, mandated by Starfleet regulations.
“Thank you,” said the com officer.
“No problem,” said Greyhorse.
Swiveling himself around and removing himself from the biobed, Ulelo crossed sickbay and headed for the exit. By the time the doctor heard the clatter of Ulelo’s footfalls in the corridor outside, he wasn’t thinking about the com officer anymore.
He was thinking about Gerda again.
Chapter Two
PICARD REGARDED ADMIRAL MCATEER across the shiny black surface of his desk. The admiral, who was scanning the captain’s ready room for the first time, looked faintly disapproving.
“Is that a dictionary?” asked McAteer, referring to a hardbound book lying on a side table next to a bulkhead.
“No,” said Picard, “though I can understand how you might have come to that conclusion. It is an illustrated volume of the complete works of William Shakespeare.”
McAteer made a face. “Shakespeare, eh?”
“Yes,” said the captain. “I gather you are not especially fond of the man’s work.”
“I saw a production of Henry the Fifth back in San Francisco,” the admiral explained. “I didn’t love it.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Picard remarked.
“Not as sorry as I was,” said McAteer, clearly not above chuckling at his own quip.
The captain chuckled too, if only to be polite.
For a moment, silence gathered between Picard and his guest like storm clouds on a hot summer evening. It emphasized that, despite their small talk about Shakespeare, they were not even remotely bound by bonds of friendship.
Finally, McAteer spoke again. “As you may have guessed,” he said, “I’ve got an assignment for you.”
Had those words come from anyone else in an admiral’s uniform, Picard would have been intrigued by them. But this was McAteer, a man who had repeatedly demonstrated an inclination to give the Stargazer the least important missions in the fleet.
“An assignment?” the captain echoed.
“Yes.” McAteer leaned back in his chair. “I take it you’re familiar with the Delta Campara system?”
Picard felt the muscles in his jaw ripple, but he otherwise contained his emotions. “I am.”
Delta Campara was a Cepheid variable star, a rather large and unstable body given to violent bursts of energy at irregular and therefore unexpected intervals. Picard had seen a few such stars in the course of his Academy missions, though none as big or volatile as Delta Campara.
“I’d like you to take a look at it,” said the admiral, “and see what kinds of changes it’s undergone since the Excelsior surveyed it a quarter of a century ago.”
Picard frowned. Under different circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded the idea of a survey. He was as intrigued by stellar phenomena as any captain in the fleet.
But there were more pressing concerns in the sector than a star that had been scanned just twenty-five years earlier. More and more, there were controversies arising from the Ubarrak and the Cardassians. And as always, it seemed the Stargazer was being left out of them.
“Should be interesting,” said McAteer.
It would have been politic to agree. Instead Picard said, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Are you sure?” Ensign Cole Paris asked.
“I am,” said Jiterica, using the tinny, artificial voice granted her by her specially designed containment suit.
Paris looked into her eyes—or rather, the illusion of eyes that Jiterica had created for herself behind her helmet’s transparent faceplate. She looked back at him unflinchingly, without even