Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [33]
He clambered down from the platform and took her hand. She felt tiny beside him—she’d forgotten about that.
“Beverly. So good to see you.” Greyhorse’s voice was as dry as ever, but she knew him better than to be offended. Deep down, he was a warm, even affectionate person.
“Good to see you,” she told him.
The captain was exchanging pleasantries with the others. After a moment or two, he turned to Crusher and touched her arm.
“Dr. Beverly Crusher, my chief medical officer…this is Commander Idun Asmund of the Charleston.”
The blond woman had a small Starfleet-issue pack slung over one shoulder—a little unusual; ship’s stores could reproduce any personal effect a passenger desired. But then, some effects were more personal than others.
Asmund extended her hand and they shook. She had quite a grip.
“And this,” said Picard, indicating the third member of the party, “is Lieutenant Commander Phigus Simenon, once my chief engineer and currently an instructor at Starfleet Academy.”
“And not dead yet,” said the Gnalish, “contrary to popular belief—and the fervent hopes of my students.” He smiled, his bright-red serpentine eyes slitting even more than usual as he extended his hands palms downward. His stooped posture made it necessary for him to crane his neck to look up at her—a gesture that would have been awkward, not to mention painful, for a human. Of course, Simenon was decidedly not human.
Crusher returned the greeting as best she could, extending her hands in the same manner. The Gnalish seemed to approve.
“Not only beautiful,” he told the captain, “but respectful as well.”
“I’ve been to your world,” explained the doctor, taking the compliment in stride. “It was part of my training in xenobiology.”
“I gathered as much,” said Simenon.
“No doubt,” said Picard, “you’ll want to join the others. They’re in our Ten-Forward lounge.” He looked at Crusher. “In fact, one might say they’re commandeering the lounge, and have done so for the last two days.”
Greyhorse grunted. “Sounds about right,” he remarked.
“To the lounge, then,” said the Gnalish. “But only on one condition.”
The captain became mock-serious. “And that is?”
“That afterward you take me to your engineering section. And leave me there with someone who knows a driver coil from a magnetic accelerator.”
Picard nodded gravely. “I think we have someone like that. I’ll see what I can do.”
The Gnalish harumphed. “You mock me, Captain.” He appealed to Crusher. “Imagine—ridiculing someone of my advanced years.”
The doctor found herself smiling. Perhaps Wesley wasn’t entirely wrong.
Both Simenon and Asmund had heard her last name, but neither had made the least mention of Jack. And Simenon seemed like the kind of person she’d like to know better.
She still wasn’t about to invite them to her room for a party. Or, for that matter, join them in Ten-Forward. Not yet. But she made a promise to herself—and to Wes—that she’d be a little less of a hermit.
At tactical, Worf noted the intercom activity a fraction of a second before they heard the voice on the bridge.
“Lieutenant?”
It was O’Brien down in Transporter Room One.
Data sat up just a little bit straighter in the captain’s chair. “Yes, Chief?”
O’Brien frowned. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s probably nothing, but…well, one of our guests—Commander Asmund—brought aboard some rather unusual cargo.”
“Can you be more specific?” asked the android.
A pause. “Some kind of knives, sir. I can’t tell you much more about them, except…I think they’ve got a sort of ceremonial look to them.” Another pause. “I would’ve said something to the captain himself when he was here, but Commander Asmund does have top-security clearance, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.”
Worf grunted. Ceremonial knives? That was unusual.
Data rose and started to circumnavigate the command center. “Please make your scan available to the tactical station,” he told O’Brien.
“Aye, sir,” came the response.
A fraction of a second later, the image appeared on one of Worf’s monitors. And a fraction of a second after