Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
Vigo nodded, still wondering. “I guess you haven’t had a chance to unpack,” he allowed.
His host looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Vigo indicated Kastiigan’s quarters with a sweep of his hand. “There’s nothing here.”
The newcomer followed his gesture, but seemed at a loss. “On the contrary,” he maintained, “there is quite a bit here. Chairs, computer, carpet . . .and that is in this room alone. In the next room, there is a bed, a set of drawers and a closet. And in the bathroom—”
“That’s not what I mean,” said the weapons officer. “Those things were here before you got here. They’re permanent furnishings. I’m talking about your things.”
Kastiigan seemed even more perplexed.
“You know,” Vigo elaborated, “the items you brought with you from your previous assignment. Standing sculptures, hanging artwork, images of your loved ones...”
The science officer smiled. “I did not bring any such items.”
Vigo looked at him askance. “You didn’t bring any mementos from your homeworld? Or from the planets you’ve visited? No parting gifts from friends or family?”
Kastiigan shook his head from side to side, indicating that he had done nothing of the sort.
It was a big galaxy, the weapons officer reminded himself. Different cultures had different customs. Still, he was curious as to the reasoning behind the Kandilkari’s behavior.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” Kastiigan explained, “such possessions would only be a burden to my crewmates after I perish.”
For a moment, Vigo thought he was kidding. “Are you planning on perishing sometime soon?”
“Oh, yes,” the newcomer responded cheerfully.
Vigo blanched. “You are?”
“Most definitely. As soon as possible. And when I do, I will consider it my great honor to give my life for my captain and my comrades—you included, Lieutenant.”
“Er . . . thanks,” said Vigo.
“You are quite welcome. Perhaps we will even have the opportunity to perish together.”
The Pandrilite managed a smile, albeit a weak one. “That would be . . .something to look forward to, wouldn’t it?”
“It would indeed,” said Kastiigan. “Now, what was it you wished to speak to me about?”
It wasn’t often that Vigo could say he didn’t have a yen to play sharash’di. This was one of those rare times.
“Nothing,” he assured the Kandilkari. “Really. I just wanted to...welcome you aboard.”
Kastiigan inclined his head. “You are kind to do so. Would you care to stay and join me in meditation?”
Vigo had never been one for meditation. He said so.
“I understand,” the science officer told him. “For some, the manner of one’s death is a personal matter.”
“Right,” said Vigo, jumping on the excuse with both feet. “It’s personal. Very personal. So if you don’t mind, I’ll go back to my quarters and meditate on my own.”
“May you find fulfillment in your meditation.”
“You, too,” the weapons officer told him. Then he backed out of Kastiigan’s quarters and made his way down the corridor as quickly as he was able.
Phigus Simenon took a deep breath, waited for the turbolift doors to open, and headed directly for Picard’s ready room.
He knew the captain was there because the ship’s computer had told him so. Still, he glanced at the bridge’s center seat to make sure the situation hadn’t changed.
Picard wasn’t there, but Commander Wu was. And in Simenon’s experience, Wu was the sort of individual who wanted to know everything that was going on.
Everything. Without exception.
Seeing Wu’s head turn in his direction, Simenon looked away again. The last thing he wanted to do was engage the second officer in conversation. He just wanted to take care of what he had come to the bridge for and beat a hasty retreat.
But Wu didn’t seem inclined to let him do that. Rising from her seat, she intercepted the engineer and asked, “Can I help you?”
She couldn’t. Only Picard or Commander Ben Zoma could do that. “No,” Simenon told her emphatically.
He must have surprised Wu with