Immortal Coil - Jeffrey Lang [32]
“Oh, very graceful,” she laughed, and began looking around for a towel. Data saw it first and used it to wipe up the spilled sauce. “Like my mother,” he said, “I, too, prefer cleaning to cooking.”
“As I said,” Rhea replied, “you are a rare treasure, sir.”
“I am also an accomplished dancer,” Data replied, “so I should find it simple to follow your mother’s advice.”
“Really?” Rhea asked. “Accomplished?”
“Yes,” he said sincerely. “I have received instruction from one of the finest dancers in Starfleet.”
Rhea stared at him for a moment as if considering a challenge, then reached over and turned off both burners and put a lid on the sauce pot. “Accomplished,” she repeated. “Hmm. All right—prove it.”
Chapter Eleven
PICARD SAT AT THE END of the bar in a small alcove that had come to be known as “the Captain’s Nook.” He pretended not to know that the crew called it that and, in return, the crew pretended not to notice him when he sat there. No one sat in the stool next to his unless every other seat in the lounge was taken and that almost never happened because Picard only visited it during off-peak hours. It was one of the ways, he knew, that he had changed since taking command of the EnterpriseD more than a decade ago. Then, he would never have allowed himself to socialize with the crew, not even to the extent of sitting in a quiet lounge and reading, but he had learned a few things since those days. Isolation would not make him a better captain. Truth be told, he found the gentle background hum of hushed conversations very soothing.
Off in the corner, someone—Ensign Ubango—was assaying a difficult classical piece. She stopped periodically cally to run through a few particularly troublesome bars, then resumed.
From behind him, Picard heard Will Riker ask, “Bach?”
“Tchaikovsky,” Picard said. He had often wondered if Riker really didn’t know anything about classical music or merely enjoyed giving his captain the opportunity to correct him. “Have a seat, Will.” Riker pulled out the stool next to Picard’s, then flagged down the bartender who smiled and set about pouring him a single malt whiskey. Since coming aboard the Enterprise-E, Picard and Riker had made it a habit to meet once or twice a week in the lounge to discuss whatever matters either of them decided were important, but felt, for one reason or another, shouldn’t make it into the official logs. In essence, this meant gossip, but gossip of a particular caliber. Picard had learned long ago that in any community as complex as the Enterprise, gossip was one of life’s essential fluids. He never underestimated the importance of whatever unofficial information was being traded about the ship and relied on Riker to collect it for him.
Predictably, most of the gossip was about the escalating hostilities with the ongoing Dominion conflict and the possibilities of a treaty with the Romulans. Though many of the crew of the EnterpriseD had rotated into new posts while its Sovereign-class successor was being commissioned, there were still enough old hands around who remembered encounters with the Romulans and their gigantic D’deridex-class warbirds. Having them as allies would certainly change the balance of power, but how long could the Federation actually trust them? And, of course, how long could Romulans and Klingons work shoulder to shoulder before old animosities resurfaced?
Riker pointed at the padd Picard had set down on the bar and asked, “What’s that? Looks