Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [42]
“Not at all,” she confirmed.
Now it was his turn to scowl. “Look, Commander, we’re trying to get something accomplished here—something that may make the difference between finding that damned pirate and going home empty-handed. If my people aren’t complaining about working overtime to make that happen, why should Starfleet?”
It was as if Wu hadn’t heard a word he said. “To comply with the regulation,” she told him, “you’ll have to—”
Simenon held up a scaly hand. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. “I won’t have to do a thing, Commander. This is my section and I’ll run it any way I see fit—and if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with the captain and Commander Ben Zoma.”
Wu looked shocked by his declaration. Then her features screwed up into an expression of determination and she said, “Thanks for the advice, Chief. I think I’ll do just that.”
And she stalked off, presumably to find Picard or Ben Zoma.
Not that Simenon cared the least bit either way. Putting the incident aside, he took a look at the next monitor in line and muttered, “All right then . . . just where were we?”
Ben Zoma was about to get in touch with Commander Wu when Wu got in touch with him.
“I’ve just been to engineering,” she told him over the intercom system, her tone one of restrained indignation. “Did you know that Chief Simenon’s people are working double shifts down there?”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” the first officer admitted. “But it’s not unusual for them to do that.”
“Even in the absence of a yellow alert?” Wu asked. “Against explicit Starfleet regulations?”
It took him a moment to recall the sense of the regulation. “I see what you mean,” he said. “But to tell you the truth, Commander, we often put minor regulations aside when they interfere with the smooth operation of the ship.”
There was a pause. “Sir, regulations are designed to ensure the smooth operation of the ship.”
Ben Zoma frowned. “Where are you now, Commander?”
Another pause. “I’m on my way to sickbay.”
The first officer could just imagine what havoc the woman was bent on wreaking there.
He calculated the time it would take Wu to reach her quarters. Then he told her to meet him there in five minutes and terminated the link.
“Have you ever done this before?” Lieutenant Pierzynski asked.
It took a moment for the being in the gray-and-white containment suit to respond. “No.”
“It’s not difficult,” the security officer assured her.
The ghostly expression behind the faceplate didn’t change. “Perhaps you could demonstrate for me,” Ensign Jiterica said in a flat, metallic-sounding voice.
Pierzynski shrugged, trying to act natural despite the strangeness of his visitor. “Sure.”
Hunkering down on one knee, he swung open the metal plate that had been sitting flush with the bulkhead and exposed a compartment hardly bigger than his hand. Then he tapped a couple of square, colored studs inside the compartment and looked across the brig to the nearest of its eight cells.
It didn’t look any different as a result of his efforts. Not yet, at least. But it would.
Jiterica leaned over in her suit to get a better look inside the compartment. “You pressed the yellow button?” she asked. “And then the red one?”
“That’s right,” the security officer told her. “And in that order. Otherwise, the emitters won’t respond.”
“I see,” she said.
Pierzynski had been asked by Lieutenant Joseph to show Jiterica around the brig. It wasn’t the first time Pierzynski had briefed a brand-new ensign, though it was the first time time he had done so for someone in a containment suit.
He had heard about Jiterica’s problem in the shuttlebay. By then, probably everyone had heard. Unfortunate, he thought. But in a way, it had been for the best. Better to find out the ensign’s limitations during a drill than in a real emergency.
Anyway, nothing like that would happen in the brig. Commander Ben Zoma had given Joseph his word that there wouldn’t be any evac drills as long as Jiterica was stationed there.
Pierzynski got up and walked over to the