Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [77]
But for his part, Kastiigan was disappointed in the way things had turned out. Severely so.
He had firmly believed that the conflict with the D’prayl would come to blows—and that he would end up risking his life somehow on behalf of his ship and his fleet. But that expectation had never come to fruition. The science officer had never been given the opportunity to make the ultimate sacrifice.
And he was beginning to wonder if he ever would.
Greyhorse normally didn’t like to take chances, but Gerda had left him little choice. Two days had gone by since she lashed him in sickbay over his misdiagnosis of Ulelo’s problem. Two entire days. It seemed like forever.
He wasn’t surprised that she was shunning him, making him pay for his mistake. But he couldn’t allow it to go on any longer. He had decided that he would visit her in her quarters, no matter who saw it, and demand her forgiveness.
Months ago, Greyhorse would have been more inclined to plead. But that was before he learned the ways of Klingon culture. A warrior didn’t ask for something—he insisted on it. And that was what the doctor would have to do now.
He was so determined, so intent on his mission, that he almost didn’t see a couple of crewmen coming around a bend in the corridor. Sidestepping them to avoid a collision, he moved on without acknowledging their presence.
But Greyhorse knew who they were. It was difficult to miss Ensign Jiterica, even with her more streamlined containment suit. And she was accompanied by her friend Ensign Paris.
He had no time for them. No time for anyone but Gerda.
After all, what did anyone but Greyhorse know about loving someone and having to conceal it all the time? What did anyone else know about intimacy with someone from an alien culture?
With a few more strides, he reached Gerda’s door. Then he waited for the security mechanism to announce his presence.
The doctor was about to ask the computer about Gerda’s whereabouts when her door finally slid open. She stood there just inside the threshold, looking at him, declining to ask him in.
Greyhorse screwed up his courage. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “You will not—”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Gerda told him, interrupting him in the middle of his demand.
Then, without any further ceremony, she stepped back and pressed the pad that would close the door again. Before Greyhorse knew it, he was standing in the corridor by himself.
He felt a pang of loneliness, of regret, of self-loathing. With that as his only company, he made his way back to his quarters, defeated.
Naturally, Ben Zoma was surprised when McAteer summoned him to his quarters.
Not Picard. Not the senior staff. Just Ben Zoma.
He couldn’t say no—not to a superior officer. And to be honest, he didn’t want to. Because if he declined the invitation, he would never discover what McAteer had on his mind.
It couldn’t be to chastise him…could it?
Ben Zoma and his friend had saved the fleet—and maybe a lot more than that, considering the impossibility of defending the Federation against the Ubarrak or the Cardassians without a complement of working starships. McAteer could hardly criticize them for that when everybody else was patting them on the back.
Of course, Picard had briefly resisted Sesballa’s commands. But that seemed to have been forgotten.
Then what was the admiral up to? Ben Zoma was burning with curiosity. Fortunately, he would find out soon enough.
Stopping in front of McAteer’s quarters, he waited until the door slid aside for him. Then he walked in.
McAteer was standing by the room’s only observation port. His expression was thoughtful, but that didn’t mean anything. For all Ben Zoma knew, the admiral might have been seething inside.
The first officer stopped just inside the threshold. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“I did,” said McAteer, never turning from the observation port. “As you know, Commander, I haven’t been pleased with the way