Intellivore - Diane Duane [28]
“Ŕ votre santé,” Picard said. He uncorked his bottle and swigged. Clif followed suit and then spluttered abruptly.
“Goodness,” he managed to say after a moment. “Sweeter than I expected. And stronger.”
“Officers’ rum doesn’t get watered,” Picard said with mild satisfaction. “Grog is for middies.”
” ‘Grog,’ ” Clif said reflectively. “Terrifying stuff. Do you serve snacks as well?”
“Salt beef. Hardtack. Or rather, ship’s biscuit. With weevils or without?”
Clif blinked. “Which is preferable?”
Picard leaned back. “You’ll hear aficionados arguing both sides of the case. Some favor the weevils for reasons of historical accuracy, others because they feel that a biscuit so bad it doesn’t have weevils can’t possibly have any nourishment left in it.”
“One question. What’s a weevil?”
Picard told him. Clif laughed uproariously; then the two of them sat quiet for a few minutes, watching the twilight.
Clif hiccupped, and hiccupped again. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Hic.”
Picard smiled and leaned back. “Hold your breath,” he said. “Or have some more rum. It’s just respiratory acidosis, so our ship’s surgeon tells me. A good dose of sugar, or more carbon dioxide, will increase the acidosis enough to put you right.”
Clif opted for the rum. After another drink, his eyes were watering slightly. “Sweet powers—hup—what do they make this stuff out of?”
“Sugar cane, I believe. A local plant. Fermented and then distilled a couple of times, or more. Helps it go down more smoothly.”
” ‘Goes down,’ hup, is a euphemism. I’m going to need to have my throat checked.”
“Oh, you’ll be all right, I think. See, they’ve stopped.”
“So they have. What a relief.”
“Surely hiccups aren’t very serious.”
“Not for you, maybe. But the symbiont pouch is right under the diaphragm. How would you like it if the bag you were stuffed into suddenly started being squeezed from all sides and shaken repeatedly?”
The air whistled. “Captain Picard?”
“Yes, Mr. Data.”
“Sir, I have managed to make contact with the second survey probe, and have pulled its data on the system to which the Boreal colonists are making their way.”
Picard blinked. If he didn’t know better, he would think he heard a note of urgency in the android’s normally placid voice.
The captains stood up together, bracing themselves against the swell, which was picking up as the evening inshore breeze began to rise. “Perhaps,” Clif said, “you’d make me a copy of this program. It looks like a nice place to visit.”
“It is,” Picard said, watching as the gun crew began preparing for another timed run. “Computer, end program, save, copy to the computers on Oraidhe, to the attention of Captain Clif.”
The holodeck computer chirped acquiescence. And it all went away—the violet sea, the wind, the albatross’s cry, the evening star in the royal blue sky, and young crossbow-toting Brand looking up at it thoughtfully as he leaned back against the mainmast. All gone in a breath, nothing left but dark walls and bright gridlines, and the scent of bougainvillea on some tropical breeze. Clif, who had been looking back at Brand, blinked as he vanished.
They went out into the corridor together. Clif said, “They don’t seem able to do anything about aromas, do they?”
Picard shook his head. “My chief engineer told me it has something to do with ‘short particularity’ in humanoid olfactory systems. He tried explaining, but I decided about that point there were some things that captains didn’t need to know.” He grinned. “The blowers will clear it out shortly. The extra system’s a blessing, especially after Mr. Worf staged one of his Klingon banquets.”
The turbolift doors closed.
Chapter Four
CLIF AND PICARD stood behind Data’s console and watched him call up the information from the sensor probe on the front viewscreen.
On the main viewscreen, an image sprang into being: first the primary of the star system and a dim spark well out from it,