Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [138]
Ruhalter used his fencing blade the way he commanded his crew. He was aggressive, improvisational, inclined to go with his instincts first and last. Also, he was a devout believer in the philosophy that the best defense is a good offense.
It was an approach that had garnered the man his share of prestigious medals and left more than one hostile species cursing his name. Years earlier, before the landmark Treaty of Algeron, Ruhalter had even gotten the best of the crafty Romulans.
However, Picard was no pushover either. Though his style was to rely on skill, discipline, and a carefully considered game plan, he was so surgically precise that few opponents could prevail against him.
Ruhalter continued to advance against the younger man, relentless in his onslaught. His sword darted like a living thing, a steel predator hungry for a taste of its prey.
Picard had no chance to go on the offensive, no opportunity to drive his opponent back in the other direction. It was all he could do to keep Ruhalter’s point away from himself—but he did that admirably well.
And he knew his adversary couldn’t keep up his intensity forever. Eventually, Ruhalter would have to falter. If I bide my time, Picard told himself, I’ll find the opening I need.
Then, suddenly, there it was…the opening.
In an attempt to lunge in under Picard’s guard, Ruhalter had failed to extend his lead leg quite far enough. As a result, he had dropped his upper body. Off-balance, he was eminently vulnerable.
Picard moved his opponent’s point out of the way, encountering little resistance. With practiced efficiency, he leaned forward into a forceful but economical counterthrust.
Too late, he saw his error. Ruhalter hadn’t made a mistake after all. His overex-tension had been an act, a ruse designed to draw Picard into a subtle trap…and it had worked.
Thwarting the younger man’s attack with the polished dome of his guard, Ruhalter came at Picard with a roundhouse right. Before Picard could retreat and erect a new defense, Ruhalter’s point was pushing against the ribs beneath his left arm.
“Alas!” the older man barked, making no effort to mask his exuberance.
The best fencing masters in Europe would have been ashamed of him, Picard thought. On the other hand, it was devilishly difficult to deal with someone who was so unpredictable.
“Your point,” Picard conceded drily.
Careful not to forget his manners, he swung his blade up to his mask in a gesture of respect. Then he settled back into an en garde position. Ruhalter, who was smiling behind his mask, did the same.
“You know,” he remarked good-naturedly, “you look a little sluggish this morning, Jean-Luc.”
“Only in comparison to my opponent,” Picard told him. Though that will change, he added, resolving to win the next point.
He succeeded in that objective. However, Ruhalter came back and won the next two in succession. In the end, Picard’s determination notwithstanding, he lost the match 5-3.
Ruhalter removed his mask, revealing his rugged features and thick, gray hair. “Thanks for the workout,” he said.
Picard removed his mask as well. “Thank you, sir,” he responded, ever the good sport.
“You know,” Ruhalter told him in a paternal way, “you need to trust your instincts more, Commander. A man who ignores his instincts is defeated before he starts.”
Tucking his mask under his sword arm, Picard managed a smile. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, sir.”
He would, too. After all, Ruhalter was more than his captain. He was also the twenty-eight-year-old Picard’s mentor—a man the second officer greatly admired, despite the differences in their personalities.
“Perhaps you would care for a rematch,” Picard suggested.
Before the captain could answer, a voice echoed throughout the gym: “Leach to Captain Ruhalter.”
The captain looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the intercom grid inside it. “Yes, Mr. Leach?”
Stephen Leach was Ruhalter’s first officer. He had been left