Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [152]
For a heartbeat, Picard was lost in the dark, sorcerous pools of Santana’s eyes. Then he swallowed and pulled himself back out again.
“An…intriguing notion,” he replied.
She seemed on the verge of saying something in response. But instead, she picked up her glass and sipped her drink. By the time she put it down again, the second officer had regained his composure.
“I hate to say it,” the commander began, “but—”
“I know,” Santana said, saving him the trouble. “It’s time I was returning to the brig.”
He nodded soberly. “Yes. After all, I have a shift starting on the bridge. But I enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we—”
“Could have another one some time? Here in the mess hall?” The woman shrugged. “Why not?”
Picard couldn’t help feeling there was more to say. However, he didn’t want to make this any more personal than it had to be. When it came to Serenity Santana, he was simply doing his duty. He was following the orders his captain had laid out for him.
He didn’t dare consider the possibility of falling in love with the woman.
Without another word, the second officer got up and gestured to the doorway. Santana rose as well and preceded him out into the corridor. Then she allowed Pug Joseph to accompany her back to the brig.
Picard watched them go for a moment. Heaving a sigh, he turned and headed for the bridge.
Carter Greyhorse was sitting behind his desk, studying the results of the examinations he had already conducted, when he spied Gerda Asmund through one of his office’s transparent walls.
The last time the doctor had seen the woman, she had been wearing a tight-fitting exercise garment, her lips pulled back from her teeth, her skin tantalizingly moist with perspiration. Now, she was dressed in the cranberry tunic and black trousers of Starfleet, looking like anyone else in the Stargazer’s crew.
No, Greyhorse corrected himself quickly and emphatically…not like anyone else. Not at all. Even in her standard-issue uniform, with her spun-gold hair woven into an austere bun, Gerda Asmund was a most attractive woman.
A most exciting woman.
But she was there to see him as a physician, not someone with whom she might share a love interest. He forced himself to remember that. Taking a deep breath, he assumed his most professional demeanor.
Unaware of Greyhorse’s inner turmoil, the blond woman came to a stop at the entrance to his office. “Lieutenant Asmund,” she said in a husky but eminently feminine voice, “reporting as requested.”
The doctor smiled—not an activity at which he had had a lot of practice—and gestured for his patient to take a seat on the other side of his desk. She complied without comment.
Her eyes were so blue it almost hurt to look at them. He tried his best not to notice. “Thank you for coming,” he told her. “Do you have any questions about why you’re here?”
She shrugged. “You need to test my extrasensory perception quotient before we penetrate the barrier. It’s straightforward enough.” She frowned. “Though, as you must know, I’ve been tested before.”
Greyhorse tapped his key pad and brought up Gerda’s medical file. It took no time at all to locate the results of her last ESP test, which showed she had no talent in that area whatsoever.
“Let’s see,” he said. “ESPer quotient…oh-one-one. Aperception quotient…two over twenty-five. As you say, you’ve been tested before.” He looked up from his monitor. “However, things can change, and Starfleet regulations are rather specific in this regard.”
The woman nodded. “Of course. Let’s just do what we have to.”
The doctor pretended to review other parts of her file, though he had come to know them pretty much by heart. “You’re the primary navigator,” he noted, “and have been since the ship left Utopia Planitia some seven months ago.”
“That’s correct,” she said.
“Prior to that,” he observed, “you served on the da Gama, and before that you graduated from the Academy with honors.”
“Correct again,” Gerda told him.
Greyhorse looked up at her. “It also says here that you were raised in a…Klingon household?”
“Yes,” the navigator said matter-of-factly,