Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [189]
Pug Joseph watched the trio of colonists make their way past the brig, escorted by Ensign Montenegro. There were two men and a woman, all very human-looking, all dressed in the same green jumpsuit that Santana had worn.
And all curious enough to glance in the direction of the incarcerated mutineers as they walked by.
“He’s making a mistake, you know,” Werber announced with unconcealed disdain. “A big mistake.”
Joseph glanced at the deposed weapons chief, who had walked up to the inner edge of his cell’s translucent electromagnetic barrier. Werber’s eyes looked hard with hatred and resentment.
“I beg your pardon?” said the security officer.
“Your friend Picard,” the prisoner elaborated. “He’s making a mistake. That Santana woman couldn’t be trusted—we all know that now. And if her people are anything like her, they can’t be trusted either.”
Joseph frowned at Werber’s remark. Since Santana had played him for a fool, he had come to resent her as much as the prisoner did—maybe more. However, he wasn’t going to discuss his feelings with someone he was guarding. That was how he had gotten himself into trouble the last time.
From now on, the security officer promised himself, he was just going to do what was expected of him and leave the conversations to other people. “Whatever you say,” he said.
Werber swore under his breath. “You know I’m right. And you know if I were free, I’d do something about it.”
“But you’re not,” Joseph reminded him.
The prisoner paused for a moment. “You are,” he said at last. “Free, I mean. You could stop these people…maybe even stop Picard.”
“That would be mutiny,” the security officer noted.
Pernell, who occupied the cell next to Werber’s, laughed at the comment. Joseph frowned at him.
“Would it?” asked Werber. “Or would it be an act of heroism? You know what they say, Lieutenant…history is written by the victors.”
Joseph didn’t say anything in return. He just listened to the Magnians’ footfalls recede in the distance.
“Admit it,” said Werber. “Seeing those people gets under your skin the same way it gets under mine. We’ve been burned, both of us—and no matter what, we don’t want to get burned again.”
Still, the security officer didn’t answer him.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t find a kernel of truth in what Werber was saying. It was just that Pug Joseph wasn’t a mutineer.
At least, he didn’t think he was.
Picard looked around the chamber into which he had materialized. It was high—at least two stories tall—with pale orange walls, a vaulted ceiling, a white marble floor, and fluted blue columns.
It was also the location, buried deep in the heart of Magnia, from which the city’s half-dozen shield generators were operated.
In the center of the chamber was a steel-blue, hexagonal control device that was twice the second officer’s height. Each of its six sides featured an oval screen, a keypad, and a sleek attached chair.
Five of the chairs were occupied by Magnians. The sixth was occupied by an equally human-looking figure, though his loose-fitting black togs and unruly red hair marked him as Jomar.
Some of the colonists glanced at Picard, then went back to their work. However, the Kelvan seemed not to notice him. He was too busy tapping data into his keypad.
Picard approached him. “Jomar?”
At the sound of his voice, the Kelvan turned. His pale eyes acknowledged the second officer without emotion. “Commander.”
“I came down to see how you were doing,” said Picard. “Mr. Williamson informs me that your work is proceeding more slowly than expected.”
Jomar frowned ever so slightly. “It proceeds as it proceeds” was all the answer he seemed inclined to give. Then he returned his attention to his pale-green screen.
“Is there a problem?” asked the second officer. “Something I can help you with, perhaps?”
The Kelvan didn’t look away from his work this time. “There is no problem,” he stated.
Picard was far from satisfied with the