Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [29]
It wasn’t long before the dark man was directly behind Picard and Morgen, a mischievous gleam in his eye. He paused there, savoring the moment. Finally, he spoke. “Damn. I’d heard the two of you had aged, but the stories didn’t say just how much.”
As recognition set in, Picard declined to turn around immediately. He looked at Morgen. “Just remember,” he said, “it was you who invited him.”
The Daa’Vit nodded. “In a moment of insanity,” he said, straightfaced. “One that I am already beginning to regret.”
“Liar,” said Ben Zoma as they got up to face him. “You’ve missed me like crazy—both of you have.”
He took their hands—first Picard’s, then Morgen’s. Riker found himself smiling.
“You haven’t changed,” observed Captain Picard. “Still the same old Gilaad Ben Zoma.”
“I can attest to that,” said one of the other newcomers, stepping up alongside the dark man. A lieutenant commander, Riker noted, though she didn’t look old enough to have come that far. Her freckles and tousled strawberry-blond hair gave her a girlish sort of appeal—but not the air of authority one generally associated with high rank. “That is, I could attest to it,” she amended with a hint of an Australian accent, “if not for the fact that Captain Ben Zoma is my commanding officer.”
“Cadwallader,” said Picard. He took her hand. “Still keeping this madman in line, I trust?”
She nodded. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”
“Don’t make it sound like you do it alone,” said the third arrival. A stocky, almost squarish man, he evidenced a slight limp as he came closer. “Security is something of an adventure on the Lexington—to say the least.”
Riker tried to imagine the Enterprise officers talking about their captain that way. And to his face! But then, he knew from experience that not all ships were run the same way—and when formality was suspended to a degree, it didn’t necessarily mean that the crew was any less efficient. It was just a matter of each captain’s individual style and preference.
Apparently, however, Ben Zoma wasn’t quite as liberal as first appearances indicated—because he stifled his companions with a glance. Then, turning back to his fellow captains, he said: “Don’t listen to Commander Cadwallader—or Mr. Joseph. They’ve never had it so good in their lives.”
Joseph—the stocky man—looked skeptical. The woman just smiled. And not a bad smile at that, Riker mused.
“I am glad you could come,” Morgen said. “All of you.”
“You couldn’t have kept us away with phaser cannons,” said Joseph.
“Please,” said Picard, “pull up a chair, won’t you? And I will try to forget that you bullied your way aboard behind my back.”
Once they were all seated, Picard made the introductions. “Commander Riker here is my first officer. Troi is our ship’s counselor.”
“Something we could have used on the Stargazer,” Ben Zoma pointed out. He smiled at Troi. “Of course, someone of your beauty would be welcome anywhere.”
The Betazoid took the compliment in stride. She smiled back.
“Captain Ben Zoma,” Picard continued, “besides being one of the galaxy’s great flatterers, was my first exec. We served together for twenty years, if you can bring yourselves to believe that.”
The dark man shook his head. “I can scarcely believe it myself.”
Picard indicated the woman who had come in with Ben Zoma. “Tricia Cadwallader. The best damned communications officer a captain ever had—back in the days when there were such things as communications officers. Today she’s the second officer of the Lexington.”
Riker nodded by way of a greeting. It caught her eye, and for a moment she lingered on his gaze. Then she turned to Troi.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Likewise,” the ship’s counselor replied.
“And last—but certainly not least—” Picard resumed, “Security Chief Peter Joseph—though we all know him as Pug.”
The reasoning behind the nickname was self-evident. Joseph resembled nothing so much as a bulldog.
“The genuine article,” the security chief quipped.