Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [6]
Picard moved quietly to the other side of LaForge and placed his hand on the young officer’s lounge. “When I want an editorial, I’ll ask for it, Lieutenant.”
LaForge stiffened. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
The captain imperiously guarded his own opinion. Though the huge new starship was supposedly on an exploratory mission, the Federation was dragging its feet in letting the Enterprise get on with it. The ship had yet to push into truly unexplored space, and Picard was annoyed by the giant gas planet turning on the room-sized viewscreen before him. All right, it was an anomaly. Yes, it was unique. Yes, it was large. But if the Federation Science Bureau wanted to study it, surely the planet wasn’t going anywhere. They needn’t take up an entire Galaxy-class ship to have a look at it.
“Mr. Riker, secure from yellow alert. Go to condition three.”
William Riker came to life up on the quarterdeck. “Condition three, aye, sir.” He started to look toward the tactical station, where the order would be funneled through, but at the last instant left it to the officer in charge, for his own gaze was fixed on Jean-Luc Picard.
The captain regarded his bridge and its people and their task with the stateliness of a bird on a bough. Not a bird of prey, though, this captain. This one could soar in any direction, whichever way duty demanded. Not a large man or even an imposing one-a task he left to his first officer-the captain was at times unobtrusive, the bird hiding in the foliage, watching, never seen until those great wings suddenly spread. Those around him knew this could happen at any moment, this sudden peeling off across the bridge panorama like a lean sky thing. Even in repose, his presence kept them alert.
I wish I could do that, Riker thought, a little wince crossing his broad features. He tried not to watch the captain while the captain was watching the bridge, but it was hypnotic. As usual, Riker’s back was hurting as he stood to starboard, too rigidly. He wished he could shake the habit of prancing, born of deep-seated little insecurities that nagged at him constantly as though to keep him in line. Later he always wished he hadn’t moved so punctiliously as he got from here to there. Horrible to risk the captain’s thinking he was being deliberately upstaged. Next selection: “First Officer on Parade.”
But worse … if the first officer appeared diffident. Wasn’t that worse? There was no middle ground, or at least Riker hadn’t found it. He wanted to be a bulwark, but not one the captain had to climb over.
It was tiring, pretending to be completely one with a commanding officer whom he simply didn’t know very well on a personal basis. Yet they faced the prospect of sharing the next few years at each other’s side. Could that be done on the plane of formality that had set itself up between them?
Riker tried to pace the bridge casually yet without appearing aimless. That was the tricky part. It actually hurt sometimes-his back, his legs, aching. Like now. If not done right, the movements became pompous and ambiguous. He would become victim to the plain fact that the first officer actually had conspicuously little to do on the bridge. He worried about that all the time. Good thing he generally had command of away teams; at least he had that to make him worthwhile.
Picard had it down. Quiet authority. Dependable not-quite presence. They could easily forget he was on the bridge at all. He would simply watch from his bough.
Riker forced himself to look away from the captain’s coin-relief profile before he was entirely mesmerized.
“Something wrong, Mr. Riker?”
Caught.
Riker turned and drew his mouth into a grin that must have looked forced-another mistake-and said, “Not at all, sir. Everything’s fine.” He felt his eyes squinting and didn’t want the grin to get out of hand, so he pursed his lips and pretended to be very interested in the tactical display.
Good-the captain was looking away. Relax, Riker. Down with one shoulder. Now the other. Good soldier.
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