Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [56]
Ben Zoma shrugged. “Not much we can do, sir. We could put the stuff somewhere else, but if the aliens shallow-scan the container they won’t find what they’re looking for.”
The admiral looked like he was on the verge of supporting that option, even with its obvious drawback. Then he seemed to feel the scrutiny of the away team.
“Very well,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll do it your way, Mister Ben Zoma.”
The first officer met McAteer’s glare. “Make yourselves at home, then. We’ll be here awhile.”
A few hours, in fact. At least, that was what the aliens’ pickup schedule had indicated.
It might have been more comfortable for everyone if they propped their backs up against the walls of the container. However, no one wanted to get closer to the foodstuff than was absolutely necessary, so they all clustered in the middle.
Then they waited, thinking their own private thoughts, their features sculpted by the glow of Chen’s lonely palmlight. And soon, they would have to give that up as well.
Ben Zoma felt as if he had climbed a beanstalk to a colossal castle and was waiting in a cheese larder for the giant to come home. Of course, he couldn’t imagine any cheese larder smelling as bad as the stuff around him.
But considering the magnitude of what was at stake, he would have endured a lot worse.
Picard had no sooner emerged from his ready room onto the Stargazer’s bridge than he was called over by Gerda Asmund.
“What is it?” he asked, joining her at her console.
She pointed. “I think you should take a look at this, sir.”
The screen the navigator showed him was black with red dots on it, tracking the aliens’ progress through the sector. The captain didn’t have to study it for long to understand why Gerda found it intriguing.
“You see what I mean?” she asked.
Picard nodded. “I do.”
The armada had come within a light-year of several different Federation member worlds, all of them blessed with abundant populations and natural resources. But the aliens hadn’t seen fit to attack them—hadn’t even slowed down to get a better look at what they were passing up.
For no reason Picard could fathom, the invaders were interested only in the Stargazer and her sister ships—even though they had already caught and released half a dozen of them. It was bizarre—beyond bizarre. And yet, there it was, a pattern that was documented and undeniable.
The captain glanced at Gerda. “I don’t suppose you would care to venture an explanation.”
She shook her head. “Not without more to go on.”
Picard grunted. “That makes two of us.”
Still puzzling over what he had seen, he deposited himself in his center seat and regarded his viewscreen. There was nothing remarkable on it at the moment. But in time, there would be.
Their mysterious enemy would fill it with its armada, cutting like a dagger through Federation space. And it would be up to Picard and others like him to turn the dagger away.
He would have accepted the challenge more eagerly if he thought he and his fellow captains had an even chance. But this was one battle he didn’t think they could win.
Four hours had passed in the container, and the aliens still hadn’t come for it. What’s more, the smell inside it hadn’t gotten any better.
Ben Zoma decided his team needed a distraction. Certainly, he did.
“So,” he said, “who’s got an Academy story?”
At first, everyone just stared at him. Then Horombo chuckled to himself and said, “I do, I guess.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Ben Zoma.
McAteer looked at him as if he disapproved of the idea. However, he didn’t actually come out and put the kibosh on it.
“Well,” said Horombo, “you all know Boothby, right?”
There was a murmur of confirmation. Boothby was the groundskeeper at the Academy, a very popular figure with the cadets.
But not with McAteer, apparently. He had a queer look in his eye, as if the mention of Boothby brought back a memory he would rather have forgotten.
“About ten years back,” said Horombo, “when I was attending the Academy, Boothby planted a Vulcan tuula bush. It was dark red, with slim, pointed leaves.