Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [38]
Vigo’s brow wrinkled. “Obal?”
“The little guy. The Binderian.”
“Ah,” said Vigo. “That one.”
“I don’t think he’s going to work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” Joseph told him.
“You like him?”
“Sure. He’s as eager as they come. If he wasn’t so . . .”
The weapons officer shrugged. “So what?”
“So silly-looking. Then maybe I’d be more optimistic about his chances. But he looks like—”
“I know,” Vigo interjected, sparing his colleague the need to describe the Binderian’s appearance. “I have seen him. He is not your typical security officer.”
“That’s an understatement. I mean, if Commander Ben Zoma were still in charge of the section, maybe he could do something with Obal. But me, I’m new at this.”
The Pandrilite frowned. If anyone could sympathize with Joseph, it was he. They had both received their battlefield promotions a scant few weeks ago, when the Stargazer’s clash with a race called the Nuyyad had ripped several links from the chain of command.
Of course, the weapons section wasn’t very big, and its lone vacancy had been filled by a crewman from another part of the ship. So even Vigo wasn’t exactly in the same boat as Joseph.
“Listen,” the weapons officer said, “Commander Ben Zoma has faith in you or he wouldn’t have given you the job in the first place. You’re as qualified as anyone to help Obal.” Vigo paused for a moment. “That is, if he can be helped.”
It was a big if, Joseph told himself. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, right?”
“I’m saying it,” Vigo insisted, “because I believe it. Whatever the task, you are equal to it.”
Joseph felt a pang of gratitude. He nodded. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’ve still got to earn it.”
“And you will. Now if I were you, I would stop worrying and spend my free time doing something enjoyable—something like, say, a game of sharash’di.”
Joseph looked at him askance. “Sharash’di? You mean that game Charlie Kochman got for you?”
“Yes. I could set up a board right now.”
The security chief considered it for a moment, then dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “No, thanks. I don’t think I could concentrate on a game right now.”
Vigo seemed on the verge of arguing the point with him, then seemed to think better of it. “As you wish,” he said. “But remember what I said—you will be equal to the task, whatever it is.”
Then he moved off in the direction of Greyhorse, who had just entered the lounge. Idly, Joseph wondered what Vigo was so eager to talk to the doctor about.
Worry about that later, Joseph told himself. Right now, you’ve got to figure out what to do with Obal.
But what could he do? If he kicked the little guy out of security, he would be crushed. And he would know that it wasn’t just his lone indiscretion that had done him in, because every officer in the section made a mistake from time to time.
Joseph thought long and hard. He considered the problem from every angle he could think of. But despite Vigo’s words of encouragement, he still couldn’t come up with an answer.
“Mr. Simenon?”
The Gnalish looked away from his sleek, black control console and saw Lieutenant Valderrama approaching him. He knew the look on the science officer’s face, having seen it many times over the years since he came to Earth to attend Starfleet Academy.
She was about to ask a personal favor of him.
What’s more, he was uniquely capable of granting it. As the ship’s chief engineer, he could make a significant difference in the quality of people’s lives.
What was it? Simenon wondered. Had the lieutenant’s replicator gone on the blink? Or maybe her sonic shower? Had the automatic doors in her quarters gotten jammed?
Well, Valderrama would have to wait her turn in the repairs queue like everyone else. Her status as a fellow officer didn’t get her any privileges in his book.
“Listen,” Simenon said, “I’m busy right now. If—”
“This won’t take long,” the science officer assured him. He scowled, swiveled on his chair and gave Valderrama