Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [220]
Carter Greyhorse was on his way to the mess hall to secure some lunch when he saw Gerda Asmund turn into the corridor up ahead of him.
He would never have planned to confront Gerda with his feelings about her in a million years. But something about the moment seemed to reek of opportunity.
“Miss Asmund?” the doctor said, his heart pounding as he hastened to catch up with her.
It was only after he had gotten within a couple of meters of her that the navigator cast a glance back over her shoulder. Her expression wasn’t an especially inviting one.
“What do you want?” she asked, as blunt as any Klingon.
“I…” Greyhorse stumbled over the words. “I’d like to talk with you sometime. Perhaps over a cup of coffee…?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” Gerda told him in a peremptory tone. “Leave me alone.” And she kept on going.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm to hold her back. “Please. I really need to speak with—”
Before he could finish what he was saying, Gerda lashed out at him with the heel of her boot. It was one of the moves he had seen her make in the gymnasium, one of the exercises he had watched in awe.
Without thinking, the doctor reacted—and before the navigator’s foot could reach the side of his head, he caught it in his hand.
Suddenly, Gerda’s attitude changed. She looked surprised at his quickness—but not just surprised. If he were compelled to describe her expression, he would have called it one of…
Admiration.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. As she twisted, out of his grip, the woman’s lips pulled back and she lashed out again—this time, with her fist. It hit him hard in his solar plexus, driving the wind out of his lungs.
As Greyhorse doubled over, she struck him in the chin with the heel of her hand. The blow drove his head up and back, sending him staggering into the bulkhead behind him.
For a moment, he thought she would come at him again. But she didn’t. She just stood there in her martial stance, feet spread apart, hands raised in front of her, ready to dole out additional punishment if that was what she chose to do.
“I didn’t mean to antagonize you,” he told her, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.
“I told you to leave me alone,” Gerda snarled.
The doctor took a step forward, knowing full well the risk he ran. But he didn’t care. He had had her on his mind too long. Once and for all, he had to tell her how he felt.
“Just let me ex—”
As before, she attacked him before he could speak, landing an openhanded pile driver to his mouth. But he kept his balance somehow. And when she followed with another openhanded assault, he didn’t just block it with his forearm. He slugged her back.
Either she hadn’t expected Greyhorse to retaliate or he just got lucky, because the blow caught her sharply in the side of the head. In fact, it sent her reeling, clutching at the bulkhead for support.
He didn’t anticipate that she would remain that way for long, so he spoke up while he had the chance. “You’re all I can think of,” the doctor told her. “All I want to think of. I can’t go on like this. If I haven’t got a chance, I need to hear you say it.”
Gerda’s eyes narrowed, giving her a vaguely wolflike expression. But she didn’t say anything.
“Well?” he prodded miserably.
“You fight like a child,” she told him, the disgust in her voice cutting him even more than the words.
Greyhorse drew a deep breath. That was it, then. Gerda couldn’t make it any plainer than that.
He turned and retreated down the corridor, starting to feel bruises where the woman had struck him. But before the doctor could get very far, Gerda spoke again.
“Greyhorse.”
He turned to look at her. There was something in the navigator’s eyes, he thought, and it wasn’t disdain or revulsion. It looked more like the admiration he had seen earlier.
“Meet me in the gym tomorrow morning at eight,” she said. “Perhaps I can teach you to fight like a warrior.”
The doctor had never been an emotional man. But he felt such