Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [21]
“And while we’re at it,” Picard said, “perhaps we can help Lieutenant Valderrama as well. True, she’s been transferred twice in the last couple of years by disgruntled captains—”
“Who noted her exemplary service record but felt her level of dedication had eroded.”
“Yes. But what did they do to get her motivated again? Did they challenge her or simply accept her deficiencies? That is the question, Number One.”
Ben Zoma smiled. “And she’s one of the easier ones. What do you think of Ensign Jiterica?”
The captain shrugged. “Apparently she was of rather limited utility in her previous assignment. Of course, we’ll try to work with her. Given her people’s status vis-à-vis the Federation, we don’t have the option of doing otherwise.”
“But you’re not optimistic?”
Picard sighed. “Not terribly, no.”
Given Jiterica’s unusual anatomy, it was remarkable that she had come even this far. Living in the confines of that specially designed suit day in and day out, operating in an environment so different from her natural state . . .
It had to be hell.
But Picard wouldn’t allow himself to mistake courage for potential. Unlike Nikolas and Valderrama, Jiterica showed no promise of fitting in on a Federation starship—not in the near term. Not ever.
“And Obal?” asked Ben Zoma. “From what Pug tells me, he’s not especially suited to a position in security.”
“That would be my judgment as well,” the captain said. “Perhaps if Obal were encouraged to pursue a different sort of career . . . say, in the sciences section . . .”
“Pug’s already tried encouraging him to do that. It seems he’s got his heart set on being a security officer.”
Picard took another sip of tea and savored it. Like Jiterica, Obal possessed a reach that drastically exceeded his grasp. “I will concede that there is a lot to be said for determination. But if I were Pug, I would try again.”
Ben Zoma nodded. “I’ll pass that on.”
“Fortunately,” the captain said, “there are the other three—Wu, Caber, and Ulelo. If McAteer had anything underhand in mind with regard to them, we have yet to see it.”
A troubled look came over his first officer. “Actually . . .”
“Don’t tell me—”
Ben Zoma dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Nothing serious. It’s just that Wu strikes me as a little . . . how can I put it?” He frowned for a moment, then said, “Overly enthusiastic.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Picard told him.
“It isn’t,” Ben Zoma agreed. “Forget I mentioned it. I’m probably just looking for problems where there aren’t any.”
The captain smiled wryly. “As if we did not have an ample supply of problems already.”
“You know,” his first officer said, “if Jiterica and the others don’t pan out, you can take McAteer up on his suggestion.”
“To transfer anyone with whom I’m unhappy?”
“That’s what he said.”
Picard thought about it. “I could do that,” he agreed. “But I am not going to think about that for the moment. As far as I am concerned, a transfer is a last resort.”
Because Ben Zoma was his friend, he knew better than to give the captain an argument on that count.
Chapter Seven
NIKOLAS SET HIS TRAY DOWN on the metal rack in front of the replicator opening and said, “Tuna casserole.”
A moment later, the replicator went to work, transforming a small quantity of undifferentiated raw material to the parameters specified in a digitally stored molecular pattern matrix. The result was a black casserole dish full of something hot and steaming. Nikolas took it out, placed it on his tray, and looked around for an empty table.
Then he noticed Caber, who was in line behind him, looking at the casserole. Judging by the expression on Caber’s face, he considered Nikolas’s choice a less than desirable one.
But then, there were more than seven hundred fifty preset options on the Stargazer’s replicator menu, and a great deal more if one wanted to take the time to custom-program them. Tuna casserole was hardly the most exotic selection available.
“You sure you want to order that?” Caber asked.