Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [11]
Refsland was his section chief, the most experienced of his several transporter operators. Picard always felt a little more secure in Refsland’s hands.
Normally the man greeted him with a smile and a single word of greeting: “Captain.” But not this time, Picard noticed. This time, Refsland appeared to have something on his mind.
“Something wrong?” the captain asked.
“I’m not sure, sir,” Refsland told him.
“Not sure?” Picard echoed.
Refsland shrugged. “About half an hour ago, we received the new crewmen, sir. Seven of them, to be exact.”
The captain found himself making a face. New crewmen? What new crewmen? “I haven’t authorized any additions to the crew,” he informed the transporter chief.
Refsland sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Picard glanced at Ben Zoma. “Gilaad?”
“Don’t look at me,” his friend said. “I didn’t authorize any new additions either.”
Certainly, Picard thought, there were berths to be filled after the casualties inflicted on them by the Nuyyad, and replacements to be arranged for officers who had subsequently left the ship. He and Ben Zoma had even considered some candidates, though they hadn’t made any final decisions yet.
“Actually, sir,” said an uncomfortable-looking Refsland, “the orders came from Admiral McAteer. He said you wouldn’t object.”
Picard scowled. “McAteer said that?”
“Aye, sir. He said you wouldn’t want to be bothered. Otherwise, we would have contacted you immediately.”
The captain had no doubt of it. The officers he had left in charge were both loyal and efficient. They wouldn’t have accepted the transport if it hadn’t come from a higher authority.
Placing his hand on his first officer’s shoulder, Picard said, “You take care of our new crewmen. I think I need to have a word with our friend the admiral.”
Then, doing his best to contain his anger, he made his way to his ready room.
Lieutenant Kochman stared at his friend Vigo across the sharash’di board. “Another one?”
Vigo reset the board, as oblivious to the look of discomfort on his friend’s face as he was to everything else in the ship’s lounge. “You go first and fourth this time.”
Kochman sighed. “That’s very nice of you, but . . .”
Vigo looked up. “Yes?”
The navigator held his hands up in an appeal for reason. “We’ve been playing for four hours straight, pal. I need a break.”
Vigo blinked. “Three and a half, actually.”
Kochman shot him a look.
“But,” Vigo added, “that’s very nearly four.”
“I go on duty in an hour,” Kochman continued. “I need to eat, wash up, grab a clean uniform . . .”
“As you should,” Vigo said reasonably. “And now that you mention it, I have things to do as well. The last thing I want is to spend all my time playing a game.”
But his expression said otherwise.
Kochman frowned. Little had he known what a monster he was creating when he gave his pal the sharash’di board for his birthday. Or for that matter, he added silently, what a genius.
Vigo had the same kind of knack for sharash’di that he did for weapons technology. He didn’t just grasp the subject, he bonded with it—brain and muscle and bone. He lived it.
“You know,” Kochman said, “you don’t have to stop on my account. If you want, you can go on playing.”
The weapons officer seemed to understand his friend’s meaning. “You’re suggesting I play with someone else?”
Kochman shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
Vigo took in the room at a glance. “I suppose I could,” he said after a while. “I would just have to teach them the game.” He smiled, enthused again. “But if I could learn it, they can too.”
Kochman doubted that anyone would embrace sharash’di as much as the weapons officer had. However, someone might at least give him a run for his money.
“This is what I’m saying,” he told Vigo.
The Pandrilite nodded. “I think I’ll follow your advice.”
“Good,” said Kochman, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”
And with that, he made good his escape.
Picard took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to proceed.