Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [33]
“Unfortunately,” said Picard, “I may have an explanation for the aliens’ superiority.” And uncomfortable as it was for him, he went on to describe Ulelo’s activities.
Vayishra’s eyes opened wide. “Do you know what you’re saying? The magnitude of it? This could be disastrous.”
“I am aware of that,” said Picard.
The other man looked vaguely accusatory. “I assume you’ve passed this on to Starfleet Command?”
“I have,” Picard confirmed. “I alerted them as soon as I learned of the aliens’ attacks.”
Vayishra looked up at him. “There were others?”
“The Cochise and the Gibraltar seem to have encountered the same aliens you did. They managed to send out distress calls, but that was the last we heard from them.”
“What about your shuttle? And the admiral?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.”
Vayishra scowled into the depths of his cup. “I hope they got off easier than the Antares.”
So did Picard. He had hoped for good news, but at least he hadn’t gotten any bad.
“It seems a miracle,” he said, “that none of your crewpeople was killed.”
Vayishra shook his head, a look of disgust taking over. “No. Not a miracle at all. If those aliens had wished to destroy us, they would have done it.”
Picard empathized with Vayishra’s pain. “Then what do you suppose they were after? Your cargo, perhaps?”
“We weren’t carrying anything out of the ordinary,” Vayishra told him. “And what we were carrying is still intact. The bastards didn’t so much as pry open a canister.”
“Your weapons, then?” Picard suggested. There was a large, thriving black market for Starfleet ordnance. “Or some component of your propulsion system?”
“They left all of that untouched. Not that there was much left of value when they got through with us.”
It was maddening. “So they crippled your ship, boarded it, and then left? There must be more to it.”
“I’m sure there is,” said Vayishra, with a hint of resentment in his voice.
Picard hadn’t meant to offend anyone. “My apologies,” he said. “I did not mean to imply that you were taking this lightly.”
“Believe me,” Vayishra continued, “it’s not as if I haven’t thought about this over and over again. It’s been on my mind every waking minute.”
“I believe you,” said Picard.
Vayishra looked at him with dark, haunted eyes, and went on as if his colleague hadn’t spoken. “But if there is a rational reason for what they did, I have yet to find it.”
Picard just nodded.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Greyhorse whispered.
Gerda’s expression, as she filled the entrance to his office, indicated that she disagreed. “You’re a physician,” she said, keeping her voice low enough so that no one elsewhere in sickbay could hear her. “You examined Ulelo. And you came to the conclusion that he was acting out a fantasy—which we now know was very real.”
“But I’m not a counselor,” Greyhorse complained. “I don’t have any training in psychodynamics—I told the captain that. He just refused to listen.”
“You were asked to rise to the occasion,” Gerda snapped, “and you failed. Miserably.”
Miserable was how the doctor felt—and not just because Gerda was reviling him. He had given the captain, and in a sense the entire fleet, a false sense of security—one that might eventually end up costing them the Federation.
No one could be sure that a warning would have saved the Antares or any of the other ships that were attacked, or that it would have put the fleet in a better position. But by the same token, no one could say otherwise.
It was a terrible feeling—like a knife in his gut, always twisting. But as deep as it cut, Gerda’s disapproval cut even deeper. She was a Klingon, after all, in every way but blood. She didn’t look kindly on failure, or those guilty of it.
“A warrior doesn’t make excuses,” said Gerda. “It only makes things worse.”
Greyhorse’s mouth clamped shut. But if he couldn’t explain what had happened, how could he regain her trust