Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
Valderrama sounded understandably sympathetic. She had been considered a misfit herself for the last few years.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Picard said. “I was hoping her situation would improve—for the Federation’s sake as well as her own. Nonetheless, I appreciate your candor.”
“I’d prefer to have been candid about good news,” the science officer told him.
The captain smiled wistfully to himself. “Perhaps next time, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
“I’ll do that,” Valderrama promised him.
By then, they had reached her destination—deck 6, which housed the ship’s science section. The doors opened and the lieutenant departed, leaving Picard with something to think about.
In his head, he began to compose an advisory to Starfleet Command. It would contain a recommendation that Ensign Jiterica be given her unconditional discharge.
Under the circumstances, Picard reflected, it was the only humane choice open to him.
Idun Asmund heard the hiss of the turbolift doors as they parted to admit someone. The captain, she thought without turning. He had said he was on his way.
“Helm,” said Picard, confirming her suspicion. He took his seat behind her. “Activate impulse drive.”
“Aye, sir,” Idun responded. Her long, slender fingers tapped the requisite studs on her control console. “Ready.”
There was a pause, as if the captain was savoring this moment. And no doubt he was. “Full impulse,” he said finally.
“Full impulse,” she confirmed.
“Engage,” Picard ordered, his voice the crack of a whip. Idun sent them hurtling through the gases and ion clouds of Beta Barritus, depending on a kind of sensor operation she had never heard of before this mission. Not that it mattered that she was unfamiliar with this thing called radar.
If it got them closer to their prey, Idun Asmund was all for it.
The White Wolf frowned as he peered at his personal sensor screen, where a single blue dot was drifting slowly across a white grid. “They’re moving again,” he announced. “Obviously, whatever problems they had have been solved.”
His second-in-command’s thick brows met over the bridge of his nose as he considered the news. Then, with a curt backhanded gesture, he dismissed the threat posed by their pursuer.
“I’m glad they’re moving,” the Klingon snarled. “I’m tired of hiding here like a mewling p’takh.”
The White Wolf shook his head slowly as he studied his screen. “There are no cowards on this ship, Turgis. If there were, I would’ve gotten rid of them a long time ago.”
The Klingon rumbled on as if he hadn’t heard his captain’s comment. “My heart yearns for battle—for blood! It’s been too long since I raised my hand against an enemy!”
The White Wolf saw others on the bridge turn to Turgis, wary of the edge in his voice. On the other hand, he mused, some of them probably felt the same way.
“We’re not operating a warship,” he insisted—and not for the Klingon’s benefit alone. “We’re privateers. Our victory comes in not getting caught.”
A sound of disgust tore from Turgis’s throat. “That’s no victory! That’s mere survival!”
The White Wolf’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at his second-in-command. “What are you saying? That you’ve had enough of this life? Of what we do here?”
It put the Klingon on the spot. But then, that was exactly what the pirate had meant to do.
“Well?” he asked.
Turgis turned red in the face, but he contained his fury—just as the White Wolf had expected he would. He hadn’t shared a bridge with the Klingon all this time without getting to know him a little.
As Turgis stalked off to drown his defiance in a bottle of bloodwine, the pirate turned to the others. “What are you looking at?” he asked them. “The hunt’s on again—and we’ve still got work to do.”
One by one they went back to their business. And a moment later, so did the man known as the White Wolf, for he had played a poker game or two in his day.
And he knew that a hidden ace wasn’t always a guarantee of victory.
Chapter Twenty
CHIEF COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER MARTIN PAXTON wasn