Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [44]
She toweled off some more. “Mmm. Probably. Unless, of course, he means for you to take charge of the bridge then.”
Riker couldn’t help but smile at the way she was baiting him. “I suppose that is a possibility.”
Slinging the towel over her shoulders, Cadwallader headed for the doors. As she passed him, she patted him on the shoulder in a comradely sort of way.
“It’s all right,” she said, tossing the remark at him offhandedly. “If you miss dinner tonight, you’ll just be that much hungrier tomorrow.”
Riker watched her go, his smile spreading. He had a feeling he’d be hungry tomorrow no matter what.
“And that,” Simenon said, standing with Wesley in a corner of engineering, “is how your father and I held off a herd of charging thunalia on Beta Varius Four.” He smiled in his lizardlike way, remembering. “If either one of us had panicked and made for the caves, the other would have been trampled—or skewered on the beasts’ horns. And more than likely, both would have perished. But by standing back to back, we were able to keep them at bay with our phasers—at least until my transporter chief could beam us back up.” The Gnalish nodded proudly.
“What’s more, we collected the data we went down for, as well as the tissue samples from which new thunalia could be cloned. And, in fact, were cloned. If you visit the preserves on Morrison’s World, you’ll see any number of thunalia roaming the plains—even though Beta Varius Four is now devoid of complex life-forms.”
Wesley shook his head. “That’s great. That’s really great. Mom never mentioned that story.”
“Your mother may never have known about it,” Simenon pointed out. “We were all restricted as to the frequency and duration of our subspace messages. After all, there were hundreds of us aboard the Stargazer—all yearning for families and friends—and the subspace equipment was occasionally needed for other matters, mission communications not the least of them. As I recall, your father always had this…well, interrupted look on his face after a packet went out. As though, given the chance, he would have said a lot more.” He harumphed. “Besides, I’m sure he had more personal things to discuss than an encounter with a few dozen predators. Bazzid’s bones, we were risking our lives on a different planet each day.” He straightened, realizing he might have gotten a little carried away. “Or so it seemed,” he amended.
The ensign looked at him. He’d meant to say something about how terrific and how patient Simenon had been. But that’s not what came out. What he said was: “Tell me how my father died.”
That was the story he really wanted to hear—even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself earlier. That was the hole inside him that truly needed filling.
Simenon sobered a bit at the request. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. He shrugged. “Besides, you must already know what happened.”
“Only from my mom. And she didn’t have much to go on. Just the official report from Starfleet, and whatever Captain Picard told her when he came to the house.”
The Gnalish regarded him for a moment, his ruby eyes blinking. Wesley could plainly see the reticence in them. Nor was it difficult to understand.
It was one thing to have to dredge up the memory of a comrade’s death. But to have to share it with that comrade’s son…
“I’ll tell you what,” Simenon said finally. “Why don’t I regale you with that story on another occasion? I do have that tour to take, you know.” He smirked, abruptly himself again. “Though you’re welcome to come along. I wouldn’t mind hearing some more about all those contributions I’ve made to warp drive technology.”
Wes smiled back, putting his feelings aside for the time being. “You can count on me, sir.”
The Gnalish nodded. “Good. That’s what I like about you, Ensign Crusher. You’ve got a healthy respect for your elders.”
The door beeped. Worf turned at the sound.
He did not often entertain guests in his quarters. His preference for solitude was well known, not only among his friends but throughout the entire crew. After