Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [39]
And she said, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
I knew it, Simenon thought, inwardly congratulating himself for his infallible insight into the nuances of human behavior. “And what favor is that?” he asked.
“I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you would take another stab at enhancing our sensor capabilities. I’ve gone over what you did and I think you can do better.”
Simenon straightened. “Better?”
“That’s right. A lot better. You’re one of the most experienced engineers in the fleet, and our sensor capabilities are going to be a key to this mission. We need more from you.”
“I see,” the Gnalish said.
“I’m glad,” Valderrama told him. She smiled. “Keep me informed, will you? I’ll be in the science section if you need me.”
And with that, she made her way back to the exit.
Simenon’s ruby eyes narrowed as he watched the doors slide closed behind Valderrama. Obviously, someone had told the woman how he felt about their earlier conversation. Either that, or her change of heart was a colossal coincidence.
And he didn’t take much stock in coincidence.
But Greyhorse was the only one with whom Simenon had discussed the matter, and the doctor wasn’t the type to get involved in other people’s business. He didn’t believe in making what he called “uninvited appearances” in his patients’ lives.
So who, then? Who had tipped Valderrama off? Someone who had overheard his conversation with the doctor. . . . Paxton, maybe? Or one of the nurses on duty at the time?
Not that I care, Simenon reflected.
In fact, he didn’t give a tribble’s furry hide under what circumstances Valderrama’s attitude had changed, or who might possibly have been responsible. All that mattered was that her attitude had changed—and that the science officer would be pulling her own weight from that point on.
With that happy prospect in mind, the engineer pulled down on the lapels of his lab coat, swiveled his chair around and returned his attention to his control console.
Jean-Luc Picard roused himself from his reverie, vaguely aware that someone had spoken to him as he sat in his center seat. He turned to his right and found himself staring at Lieutenant Iulus, one of the senior men in his engineering section.
Iulus had a padd in his hand. He offered it to the captain. “Those maintenance reports you asked for?”
“Yes,” said Picard, “of course.” Accepting the padd, he made a point of glancing at the data contained on its screen and nodded to Iulus. “Thank you.”
The engineer assured him that it was no trouble at all. Then he left the bridge, leaving the captain to wonder how long he had been adrift in his thoughts.
A minute? Several? He cursed himself softly.
He had been thinking about the White Wolf. About what sort of commander the man might be, what sort of tactical capabilities he might have at his disposal.
Picard doubted that the White Wolf’s vessel would be quite as well armed as the one in his dream. But certainly the pirate had to have some tricks up his sleeve to have remained free as long as he had.
It was unfortunate that Starfleet had given him so little to go on. Just a few snippets of other ships’ sensor data here and there, and more than half of it of questionable reliability.
The captain felt his hand clench into a fist. If only he knew one thing about his adversary for certain. If only the White Wolf were more than a ghost to him, haunting him, taunting and tantalizing him like a cosmic will-o’-the-wisp.
Picard sighed. He would go over the other captains’ logs once again. Then he would go over their charts of Beta Barritus. Perhaps there was something he missed, something that might prove of value when he confronted the pirate.
And he would confront him. The captain still had every confidence of that taking place.
Turning to Gerda, he asked, “How many hours until we reach Beta Barritus, Lieutenant?”
His navigator consulted her monitors. “Eighteen, sir. Unless you’d like to increase speed to warp nine—?”
Picard shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
It wasn’t the White