Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [162]
Picard frowned, hating to be pinned down this way. “Based on that,” he said, “I’m inclined to believe she can be trusted.”
Leach didn’t seem surprised. “It’s clear,” he pointed out, “that Commander Picard is quite taken with Ms. Santana. I don’t think he’s thinking as clearly as he should be.”
“Perhaps not,” the captain conceded.
Leach looked pleased with himself.
But the second officer felt betrayed. He was thinking as incisively as ever, he assured himself. If Ruhalter disagreed with his conclusion, that was one thing. But to question his clarity…
Suddenly, a mischievous smile broke out on the captain’s face. “Then again, Number One, Commander Picard may be right on target.”
Leach’s mouth fell open. “Sir…?”
“You see,” said Ruhalter, “I agree with Picard one hundred percent. I too think Ms. Santana can be trusted—and like you, Mr. Leach, I formed my opinion the moment I met her.”
The second officer understood. “You went with your instincts.”
“Yes,” said the captain, his eyes twinkling. “As always.”
“But, sir,” Leach began, “if you had already made your decision—”
“Why did I ask for your opinions? Simple, Commander. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed something.”
The first officer looked as if he had been slapped in the face. “I have to protest, sir. If necessary, through official means.”
Ruhalter seemed unperturbed by the remark. “That’s your option, Mr. Leach—as always. But I hope you’ll refrain from exercising it until after we’ve completed our mission.”
“By then,” Leach said coldly, “it may be too late.”
“We’ll see,” the captain rejoined. “In any case, Santana has given us two sets of coordinates. One describes the location of her colony. The other will lead us to a Nuyyad supply depot.”
“We’re going to head for the depot,” Picard guessed.
“Absolutely right,” Ruhalter confirmed. “Why waste time? If there’s a threat, let’s see it.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Leach suggested.
“Then we’ll see that too,” said the captain. “Though my instincts tell me that won’t happen.”
The first officer’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything more.
“Thank you for your input,” Ruhalter told them. “Both of you. Computer, return us to the bridge.”
Again, the turbolift began to move.
Pug Joseph closed his eyes and concentrated. “Okay,” he said. “See if you can picture this.”
Santana answered from the other side of the translucent barrier. “Protruding brow ridge, bony forehead, a preference for facial hair. Strong, by the look of him. And fierce.”
Opening his eyes, the security officer smiled at the woman’s skill. “He’s called a Klingon.”
“Friend?” Santana guessed.
“Friend now,” Joseph told her.
“But not always?”
“Until fifty years ago,” he said, “the Klingons were almost constantly at war with us. Then we signed a nonaggression treaty with them.”
“Got it,” she responded. “Who’s next?”
Again, the security officer closed his eyes and conjured an image. “How about this one?”
“Let’s see,” said Santana. “Aristocratic bearing, pointed ears, painfully precise haircut. If not for the subtle ridges above the eyes, I’d be tempted to say he’s Vulcan.”
Joseph laughed softly. “Very good. He’s called a Romulan. And his people are an offshoot of the Vulcan species.”
“Enemy?” she suggested.
“I’ll say. We haven’t seen them in more than twenty years, but people still worry about them.”
“Give me another one,” Santana told him.
“All right,” he said, picturing someone else. “Here’s one.”
“Hmmm. Mottled red skin, long jaw tusks like an elephant’s, spiny scalp projections instead of hair.”
Joseph opened his eyes and shook his head in admiration. “A Vobilite.”
“An enemy?”
“A friend. In fact, the Vobilites were one of the first species to support the idea of a United Federation of Planets. I served with one of them on my previous assignment.”
Santana nodded. “Now it’s my turn.”
The security officer felt a chill climb his spine. “I didn’t know you could project your thoughts.”
She smiled. “I can