Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [136]
Simenon was just where Wes had expected to find him. This time, however, he was dressed in regulation Starfleet attire—not the casual robe he’d been wearing when they last visited this program.
As Wesley approached, the Gnalish was picking up a stone from the pile. “Greetings,” he said without turning around. Then, pausing—as if savoring the moment for as long as he could—he pulled back and let fly.
The stone sailed effortlessly over the bright, placid water. It skipped once, twice, and then three more times in quick succession. Brushing his hands against each other, Simenon turned to his young companion.
“It’s like piloting a shuttle,” he said. “Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.”
The ensign smiled. “I guess you’re right.”
The professor trained his ruby eyes on him. “Come to polish your technique?”
Wesley shook his head. “To wish you luck.”
Simenon snorted. “What sort of luck will I need on Daa’V? One diplomatic mission is much like another.” His tail switched back and forth; his expression eased just a bit. “But thanks for the thought.”
“You know,” said Wesley, “I’m hoping to get to the Academy one day. As soon as possible, in fact.”
The Gnalish tilted his head as he regarded the human. “And?”
Wesley shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m looking forward to seeing you there.”
“I see.” He bent and picked up another rock, appraised it. “I should tell you—I’m not the most popular fellow in the place. Cadets see me and run the other way.”
“Then they’re not very bright,” the ensign told him. “I’ve already attended one of your classes.” He glanced at the pile of flat rocks at Simenon’s feet. “I wouldn’t mind at all taking another.”
The professor snorted again—more softly this time. “That’s what you say now. Just wait until exam time.”
Wesley laughed. And after a moment Simenon joined him.
Beverly Crusher smoothed out her dark blue and black dress uniform and considered herself in the mirror. She looked fine. But then, her appearance wasn’t the source of her dissatisfaction.
Her door mechanism beeped. The captain, no doubt. Right on time, as always.
“Come in,” she said, and left her bedroom to meet him in the apartment’s reception area.
Picard was idly taking in the furnishings when she emerged. He smiled at the sight of her.
“Very becoming,” he said. “Very becoming indeed. It has been some time since you’ve worn your dress uniform, Doctor.”
She smiled back. “Thank you. And yes, it has.”
He held his hands out, palms up. “All ready?”
Crusher nodded. “I guess so.”
The captain regarded her. “Is something wrong, Beverly?”
She sighed. “I just wish I’d had more time to prepare for this. Ever since Morgen asked me to be part of his escort, I’ve been studying Daa’Vit culture. But there’s still a great deal I don’t know.”
“And you are afraid you will do something to embarrass Captain Morgen—or even jeopardize his ascension to the throne.”
“Exactly,” Crusher said.
Picard shook his head. “No need to worry. Unlike you, I have had time to veritably immerse myself in Daa’Vit custom. And I can tell you there are no hidden traps to catch you by surprise.”
She looked at him. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Do you feel better now?”
“As a matter of fact,” she told him, “I do.” Taking a quick survey of her quarters, Crusher turned and headed for the door. The captain followed her out.
Once in the corridor, they headed for the nearest turbolift. There was a spring in Picard’s step that the doctor hadn’t noticed for days. She approved—and not just in her capacity as chief medical officer. It was good to see the man feeling so chipper after all that had come before.
Maybe his good spirits were contagious, she mused—because by the time they reached the lift, she felt pretty chipper herself.
“You know,” she said, surprising herself a little, “I was actually dreading seeing the people from the Stargazer.”
The captain shot her a glance. “Oh?”
“It’s true. I didn’t even want to come out of my quarters.”
He grunted. A moment later, the lift arrived and the doors opened. They stepped inside.