Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [68]
“Congratulations,” Picard told the science officer. “It appears that your theory has panned out.”
Valderrama’s sense of accomplishment was evident in her voice as well as her expression. “Thank you, sir,” she told him. “I’m pleased I could make a contribution.”
So am I, the captain reflected.
Phigus Simenon hated the idea of what he was about to do. He absolutely hated it.
Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult for him to locate Valderrama. She was standing right there in the science section, her hand on a junior officer’s shoulder, lending him encouragement, it seemed, as she pointed something out on his sensor screen.
No doubt she was telling him what to expect of her radar arrangement—the one she had thought of when Simenon himself had despaired of devising any further sensor innovations. The one that would more than likely guide them to the White Wolf.
And that, of course, was what he had come to speak to her about.
Noticing his approach, Valderrama said, “Mr. Simenon. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The engineer winced at her congenial tone. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him, was she?
“I came,” he said, “to . . .” It was difficult for him to get the word out—as difficult as he had imagined it would be.
Valderrama’s brow creased, but she remained patient. He would have felt better if she had nudged him a little, or maybe even folded her arms and tapped her foot.
But of course, she didn’t do that. She was too nice, too much like someone’s mother to provoke him that way.
Simenon took a breath and started again. “I came to—” With an effort, he finally squeezed the word out: “—apologize.” He paused. “That is, for what I said about you.”
Valderrama didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. There was that consolation, at least.
“You mean,” she replied, “about my . . . apparent lack of interest in enhancing the sensors?”
Simenon nodded. “Yes. That.”
“It’s all right,” the science officer told him. “As it happens, you were correct. I was being lax in the performance of my duties. But I’m not going to be lax anymore, I assure you.”
“Good. Then . . . you accept my apology?” he asked, hoping she would say yes so he could end this debacle.
“I do,” she said.
Simenon breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. I’ll be in engineering if you need me.” And he began to retreat toward the exit.
But he hadn’t gotten very far before Valderrama called after him. Stopping dead in his tracks, the engineer wondered what further torment he would have to endure.
But all she said was, “How are the repairs going?”
“We’re almost done,” he told her. “Shields should be back to full strength within the hour.”
The science officer smiled. “That’s good news.”
“So it is,” Simenon mumbled. Then he made his way out of the science section before Valderrama could think of some other way to prolong his agony.
Nikolas wasn’t sure at what point he realized that he had responded to the intercom greeting.
But he had responded to it. The ensign knew that in a distant, instinctive sort of way. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been a feminine voice in his room speaking to him as if there had already been an exchange of salutations.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” the voice said. “I know you’ve been working long hours.”
Nikolas sat up with an effort, shook off the warm, welcome weight of sleep, and tried to remember where he was and who in blazes was talking to him.
Stargazer, his mind said, sifting through its haze for the pertinent facts. Commander Wu.
“Ensign?” said the second officer.
“Yes, Commander,” Nikolas responded a little shakily. He ran his fingers through his hair and suppressed a yawn. “Here. And no—you haven’t disturbed me at all.”
“I just wanted to assure you that your contribution has not gone unnoticed. In fact,” Wu told him, “it’s been brought to my attention more than once.”
“It has?” the ensign said. Despite his attempt to speak clearly, he slurred the words a bit.
“Indeed,” Wu replied. “Mr. Joseph informed me that you were the first to detect the vortex belt down in the security section.”