Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [14]
Nikolas chuckled. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Obal shrugged his bony shoulders. “I suppose not.” The ensign wasn’t all that surprised. As humanoid development went, Obal’s people were pretty far off the beaten track. Nonetheless, he did his best to explain.
“You see, buddy, by human standards, the Asmund twins are hot. I mean really hot.”
Obal looked just as perplexed as before. “Hot?”
Nikolas sighed. “They’re... how can I put it? Extremely desirable mating partners. Get it?”
A light went on in the Binderian’s eyes. “Ah,” he said knowingly. “Hot. Of course.”
Nikolas pointed to his friend’s chest. “And you got to get sweaty with her. You know what that makes you? The envy of every human male on board—me included.”
Obal shrugged again. “If you say so. But, you understand, we didn’t engage in any mating practices. We merely fought.”
It was the human’s turn to be perplexed. “You mean you...sparred with her? With Idun Asmund?”
The security officer nodded. “It was her idea, actually. She said she had heard of my prowess as a hand-to-hand combatant and wished to see if the stories were true. As it turned out, it was an exhilarating experience for both of us.”
Nikolas smiled. After all, he had seen Obal in action. His friend was as fast as lightning and twice as devastating.
“Then you must have pulled your punches, my friend. Otherwise, the lieutenant wouldn’t have walked out under her own power.”
Obal let a smile of his own leak out. “I suppose I did pull my punches a little.”
It had to be more than just a little, Nikolas mused. But what he said was, “That’s what I thought.” Then an idea came to him—a brillant, absolutely inspired idea. “Say, do you think you could set up a sparring session for me?”
The Binderian looked at him. “With Lieutenant Asmund?”
“Yup. With Lieutenant Asmund.”
Obal thought about it. “You’re sure you’d like that?”
“I know I would. It would give me a chance to get to know her a little better—and there are few things I would rather do in life than get to know Idun Asmund.”
Obal seemed to understand. “All right. I’ll try.”
“That’s the spirit,” Nikolas told him. “And if she agrees, I’ll treat you to dinner.”
His friend eyed him suspiciously. “But dinner is available to all crewmen free of charge.”
“Picky, picky,” said Nikolas, already dreaming about his sparring session with the statuesque helm officer.
Unexpectedly, Obal made a face. “Wait a second...”
“What is it?” the ensign asked.
“Shouldn’t you be on the bridge? I distinctly recall your saying that you had a training session scheduled with Commander Wu.”
Nikolas felt the blood drain from his face. “Gotta go,” he blurted and sprinted down the corridor, hoping he could catch a turbolift before it was too late.
Picard sat down behind his desk and watched Ben Zoma fill the chair on the other side of it. But their chief engineer remained on his feet, pacing back and forth across the captain’s ready room with his hands clasped behind his back.
Picard had seen Simenon agitated before, but seldom like this. It worried him.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked Simenon.
The Gnalish shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” Suddenly, he stopped and looked directly at Picard. “I need a leave of absence. For personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons?” Ben Zoma echoed.
Simenon hesitated, his ruby eyes blinking. “Yes,” he said finally.
It was clear that he didn’t wish to go into any detail regarding his request. However, the captain felt compelled to make sure his officer was all right.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
Again, Simenon hesitated, as if that were a difficult question to answer. Then he said, “Everything is fine.”
Picard frowned. “You’re not ill, are you?”
The engineer looked at him askance. “Why do you ask?”
The captain smiled. “Isn’t it obvious? You seem to have something on your mind.”
“That’s for sure,” Ben Zoma chimed in. “Come on, Simenon. You’re among friends. What’s going on?”
Leave it to Ben Zoma to cut to the chase, Picard reflected.