Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [47]
“Serpent worms,” explained Riker. “I’ve had occasion to try them myself. They are quite…filling.” He couldn’t help but grimace a little at the memory.
“You don’t appear to have enjoyed them, Commander,” observed Cadwallader.
“It is,” said Worf, “an acquired taste. Much like chicken.”
“Chicken,” Simenon remarked, “doesn’t try to eat you as you are eating it.”
Ben Zoma grunted. “Vigo used to love something called sturrd. It looked like a mound of sand with pieces of ground glass thrown in for good measure. And he would down it with half a gallon of maple syrup.”
“It was not maple syrup,” argued Joseph. “It only looked like maple syrup.”
“Vigo,” said Data, who had been taking in the conversation with equanimity. “He was one of your colleagues on the Stargazer—one who did not survive the battle at Maxia Zeta.”
“That’s right,” said Greyhorse. “Unfortunately. Vigo was our weapons officer.”
Morgen nodded. “And not just any weapons officer. He was the finest Starfleet has ever seen.”
“I didn’t know Starfleet had weapons officers,” said Troi.
“Only the deep-space explorers,” Picard expanded. “It was an experiment, really. A separation of the ship’s defense functions from its security functions. But don’t let the terminology deceive you—Vigo did a lot more than look after the weapons systems.”
“That’s right,” said Ben Zoma. He turned to Dr. Crusher. “He also used to thrash your husband regularly at sharash’di.”
Beverly smiled. “I think I remember Jack telling me about that. Though as I recall, it wasn’t just Jack he beat. It was you too. And a few others.”
Ben Zoma laughed. “Now that you mention it, I guess I was one of the victims.”
“And I as well,” said Cadwallader.
“But Jack was Vigo’s regular partner,” recalled Joseph. “I think they used to play every chance they got. As if Jack couldn’t accept defeat—couldn’t accept the fact that there was something he couldn’t do.”
“Not that there was any shame in losing to Vigo,” Cadwallader interjected. “He was uncanny. A master.”
“Vigo lost only once,” said Ben Zoma. He seemed to concentrate for a moment, then shook his head. “Though for the life of me, I can’t remember who beat him.”
“It was Gerda,” said Asmund. “Gerda beat him.”
Suddenly, there was silence in the room.
Asmund turned to Data before he could ask. “My twin sister,” she explained. “The one who tried to kill Morgen.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw Geordi exchange glances with Simenon. For once, the Gnalish had nothing clever to say.
Picard cleared his throat. The best thing, he decided, was to take the remark in stride. To act as if it were just part of the conversation, and not a complete bombshell.
But before he could open his mouth, Morgen beat him to it.
“What’s that expression you humans have? ‘Water under the bridge’?” He shrugged—a rather awkward gesture for a Daa’Vit. “As far as I’m concerned, the incident is forgotten.” He looked at Asmund. “And forgiven.”
The captain breathed a silent sigh of relief. Everyone at the table seemed to loosen up a little.
Everyone except Asmund. “I haven’t forgotten it,” she told Morgen. She looked around the table. “Sorry. I hadn’t intended to put a damper on things.” She got up. “Excuse me.”
“Idun,” Picard called.
She seemed not to hear him as she walked out of the room.
Ten-Forward was open around the clock. It had to be. The ship’s officers and crew got off duty at various odd hours, depending on their section and individual responsibilities, and nearly everyone felt the urge to unwind in the lounge at one time or another.
And whenever anyone stopped in for a drink and some conversation, Guinan seemed to be there—standing at her usual place behind the bar, mixing drinks and distributing advice in small doses. Of course, that was only an appearance. Guinan slept like everybody else.
Well, perhaps not exactly like everybody else. But she slept. So it was unusual that she should have been around during the pre-“dawn” shift when Pug Joseph swaggered into the lounge.
He