Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [7]
“He may have,” Simenon snapped, “but I haven’t. Good-bye, Hans. Enjoy New Zealand.”
And with that, he cut the comm link.
Old friend indeed, the Gnalish thought feeling a single deep pang of remorse. Then, glad that it was almost time for his shift, he made his way to engineering.
Chapter Three
AS JEAN-LUC PICARD WALKED into the dimly lit briefing room, he had an entirely different attitude than the one with which he had gone to bed the night before.
Having slept on the problem, he had woken up certain that there was only one course of action open to him. Despite the disdain he saw in the faces of his fellow captains, despite their obvious disapproval, he would do his best to earn their respect.
He would comport himself with dignity. He would do what was asked of him quickly and efficiently, deploying every resource at his disposal. In short, he would be the best captain he could be.
But if he came up short in that regard, he wouldn’t fret over the outcome or let it distract him. He would simply accept the situation and move on.
He had a job to do, and a rather important job at that. If it bothered people that he had been chosen to do it, it was their problem—not his.
Scanning the room, Picard found himself searching the shadows for a friendly face. Captain Greenbriar’s was the only one that might have fit that description, but Greenbriar didn’t seem to have arrived yet.
Looks like I’m on my own, Picard thought.
He didn’t even have Ben Zoma for company. His friend had transported down to the base forty-five minutes earlier for a separate first officers’ briefing.
Picking out the nearest unoccupied chair, Picard deposited himself in it. He found himself shoulder to shoulder with a rail-thin Vulcan, who turned to glance at him with narrowed eyes.
Picard smiled as cordially as he could. “Good morning.”
The Vulcan didn’t say anything in reply. He just inclined his head in the smallest gesture possible, then returned his attention to the unmanned podium at the front of the room.
Somehow, Picard reflected, being snubbed by a Vulcan didn’t seem as objectionable as being snubbed by someone else. Maybe it was because they were so reserved to begin with.
Someday, he told himself, I would like to get to know a Vulcan better. Get inside his head, as it were.
Putting the thought aside, he looked around some more. The stream of captains passing through the open doorway was rapidly increasing in volume. No doubt, they were nearing the time when the briefing was scheduled to begin.
Greenbriar was among the last to walk in. He took a seat on the other side of the room, between an Andorian and a heavy-tusked Vobilite.
A moment later, a stocky man in an admiral’s uniform blew into the room, stopped behind the podium, and turned on a light that illuminated his face. He had lively eyes, a ruddy complexion, and a receding shock of pale-yellow hair.
“Good to see you all,” he said in a deep, resonant voice that required no microphone. “For those of you who haven’t run into me yet, I’m Admiral McAteer. I considered attending the cocktail party last night, but I decided you’d have a better time without the boss looking over your shoulders.”
A ripple of laughter made its way through the gathering.
Picard thought it strange that McAteer hadn’t attended his own event. On the other hand, he was relieved to know he wasn’t the only one who had been unable to find the man.
McAteer appeared to sober a bit. “I know you’re not used to meeting this way. Until now, you’ve all been pretty much on your own, operating independently except in the rare instance where two or three of you might need to coordinate your efforts.”
The rare instance indeed, Picard mused.
“I’m afraid,” said the admiral, “that such an approach is no longer viable. The galaxy is too big and our responsibilities too great for any of you to continue operating in a vacuum—no pun intended.”
Again, there was a ripple of laughter.
“From now on,” McAteer told them, “we’re going to get together like this periodically. That way, we