Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [66]
Nikolas frowned at the notion as he called up another graphic. “And you think that’s what’s going to happen? You think we’re going to leave here empty-handed?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t get it,” said Nikolas, forcing himself to concentrate on his work. “Aren’t you the guy who kept chipping at Red O’Reilly until you finally beat him? And now you’re willing to give up on the White Wolf halfway into the mission?”
“Red O’Reilly was known to lose a game here and there,” Caber told him, swiveling his chair to face his roommate’s. “The White Wolf has never lost. And believe me, when the day comes that he’s caught, it won’t be at the hands of a captain a couple of years older than we are.”
Nikolas could feel his blood rising into his face. He wasn’t a quitter, and he didn’t like talk of quitting. And besides, Caber was distracting him from what Nikolas still considered important.
“Listen,” he said, “let’s talk about this later, all right? After this shift is over.”
Caber made a sound of disdain. “This shift will never be over. Not as long as our captain thinks he can—”
“Ensign Caber?”
Nikolas knew who had spoken even before he turned and saw Obal waddling toward them. What’s more, the ensign had a pretty good idea of what the Binderian wanted.
Caber didn’t get up to acknowledge Obal’s superior rank. He just folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”
Obal frowned as he stopped in front of the big man, who looked down on the Binderian even though he was still seated. Obal looked as earnest as Nikolas had ever seen him.
“You do not appear to be approaching your assignment with the proper diligence,” he observed.
“Don’t I?” Caber responded.
The Binderian’s frown deepened. “If we are to succeed in our mission, we must all do our part.”
“Normally,” said Caber, “I’d agree with you. But I just don’t feel very motivated today.”
Puzzled, Obal tilted his head. “And why is that?”
Caber shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I feel funny taking orders from someone who looks like Thanksgiving dinner.”
Nikolas wasn’t sure if Obal knew what Thanksgiving was, much less what kind of meals were associated with it. However, he seemed to understand that he had been insulted. For a moment, he stared at Caber as if trying to decide what kind of charges to level against him.
And charges certainly seemed to be in order. Nikolas hadn’t witnessed this kind of arrogance, this kind of insubordination, since the day he entered Starfleet.
But to his surprise, Obal didn’t say anything about filing a report. He didn’t even tell Caber that he was out of line. He simply said, “Try to be more attentive to your duties, Ensign,” and walked back in the direction of his workstation.
Caber watched him go, a smile spreading across his face. Then he turned to Nikolas. “Came down on me pretty hard, didn’t he?”
Nikolas sighed. “Listen, Joe—”
“The guy rules with an iron hand,” Caber went on. He laughed. “I’ll sure think twice before pulling that again.”
“Joe,” said Nikolas, “that’s enough.”
His voice had an edge to it that even he hadn’t expected. Hearing it, Caber was brought up short. Then he grinned.
“Don’t worry,” he told Nikolas. “Our pal Obal’s not going to take offense. He hasn’t got a sensitive bone in his body. In fact, he hasn’t got a bone in his body, period.”
And Caber laughed again, making sure it was loud enough for Obal to hear him, even across the room.
But the Binderian didn’t do anything about it. He just settled into his seat and regarded his screen as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t been ridiculed in front of everyone present.
“Guess it’s time to get back to work,” Caber said, and swung around to face his monitor again. But the damage had been done, Nikolas reflected, and Caber knew it.
Nikolas shook his head. He didn’t know with whom he was more disgusted—Caber for the abuse he was heaping on his superior, or Obal for not fighting back.
Chapter Nineteen
PICARD SAT BACK IN HIS CENTER SEAT and eyed his forward viewscreen, with