Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [173]
“This is Commander Picard,” he said. “I would like the following personnel to meet me in the main lounge.” And he reeled off a list of names, which included all of the surviving senior officers.
A staff meeting, Idun mused. The commander was going to address the men and women working under him, just as Captain Ruhalter had addressed them when he was still alive.
Picard hadn’t yet deposited himself in the captain’s chair, the helm officer noted. He hadn’t yet seized the reins that had been turned over to him by default.
But at least he had made a start.
Picard surveyed the personnel seated around the lounge’s black, oval table, their faces turned to him with varying degrees of expectation.
There were eight of them there—Jomar, Ben Zoma, Simenon, Greyhorse, Cariello, Werber, Paxton, and Picard himself. Eight of them who would attempt to survive in an unknown part of space and salvage what they could from the embers of disaster.
Normally, Captain Ruhalter would have conducted this meeting, wringing the best out of each of them and making them more than the sum of their parts. But Captain Ruhalter, unbelievable as it seemed, was dead—and Commander Leach was in a coma from which he might never emerge. For better or worse, it was Picard’s meeting to conduct…Picard’s ship and crew to command.
The second officer hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t imagined himself ensconced in a center seat until years later, when he would have had a good deal more experience under his belt. But the situation was what it was, and he was determined to do what it demanded of him.
“I called you here for two reasons,” he began. “One is to announce that, effective immediately, Lieutenant Ben Zoma will assume the post of acting second-incommand. At the same time, Lieutenant Ang will take over Mr. Ben Zoma’s duties in the security section.”
There were nods around the table, though not from Werber, Simenon, or Jomar. No surprise there, Picard thought. Ben Zoma had never been a favorite of Commander Leach or his friends.
“The second reason for this meeting,” the commander said, “is the difficult set of circumstances in which we find ourselves. As you all know, we have taken heavy damage to our primary systems. Still, it remains our duty to survive…and to warn the Federation that the Nuyyad are every inch the threat of which we were warned.”
No one seemed inclined to argue the point. However, he did receive some wary looks—predictably, from Leach’s camp.
“There are two options open to us,” Picard went on. “Two choices. We can make a run for the galactic barrier in our diminished condition and hope we don’t run into the Nuyyad again. Or, as an alternative, we can try to find Serenity Santana’s colony and seek replacement parts there.”
“Her colony?” Werber echoed, a look of disgust and disbelief crossing his face. “Are you insane, Picard?”
The second officer felt a spurt of anger. He swallowed it back. “You will address me as you would have addressed Captain Ruhalter,” he said in a clipped tone, “or I will find a weapons officer who can.”
Werber went dark with anger. “You want the respect accorded a commanding officer? Then exercise the judgment of a commanding officer. That Santana woman led us into a trap, Commander. She almost destroyed us. I wouldn’t trust anything she told us.”
Picard glared at the weapons officer. “Despite appearances, we do not know for certain that Ms. Santana engaged in any treachery.”
Werber looked at him wide-eyed. “Are you blind? She led us to the slaughter like a fat, little lamb. She—”
The second officer tapped the Starfleet insignia on his chest. “Security,” he said, “this is Commander Picard. I would like an officer posted outside the lounge immediately.”
“Right away, sir,” came the response.
The weapons chief drew in a breath, then let it out. Clearly, he didn’t relish the idea of being led away by a security officer. “What I meant to say,” he amended with an effort, “is that, under the circumstances, it would be imprudent