Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [19]
They were back in the center of the strip, the captain noticed, right where they had started. As if in mutual recognition of that fact, the combatants paused for a moment.
“Well played,” Picard said, his breath coming hard.
Paris inclined his head. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Especially that last counter. Brilliant, I thought.”
“You’re too kind,” said the ensign. “Shall we have another go at it?”
“I’d like that,” Picard replied sincerely.
And they went at each other again.
As Admiral Arlen McAteer gazed out the observation port of the modest and all-but-empty officer’s lounge at Starbase 37, he was reminded of how little he had enjoyed living on starbases.
Unfortunately, he had been forced to do so at various times in his career—including an eighteen-month stint shortly after graduation at Starbase 68. He had worked there as the attaché of Admiral Bailey, a man with an unsightly paunch, thick white hair, and an equally white mustache.
Bailey, as McAteer recalled, hadn’t tried any new approaches to the management of his sector. He hadn’t made adjustments in personnel and their responsibilities. All he had done, it seemed, was let matters follow their natural course.
Early on, McAteer decided that Bailey wasn’t very impressive, either as a man or as an admiral. He figured he could do better—a lot better. It was while he was working at Starbase 68 that McAteer decided he would become an admiral himself one day.
He had reached that objective precisely according to plan. Of course, the admiral still felt compelled now and then to leave Starfleet Headquarters on Earth and visit a starbase, but that was an inescapable part of his job.
And sometimes it wasn’t McAteer’s job at all but he did it anyway, for reasons that might be considered more personal than professional. This was one of those times.
His thoughts were interrupted by the hiss of the lounge doors and the sight of a woman in officer’s garb. It’s her, the admiral thought, recognizing the woman from her file picture.
Her name was Rachel Garrett. She was the second officer on the Federation starship Excelsior.
McAteer decided that Garrett’s file image hadn’t done her justice. She’s a damned impressive-looking woman, he reflected. Part of him wondered if she had dinner plans.
But then, he could have more easily obtained a dinner date back on Earth, if that was all he was after. He had traveled all the way to this base for a much more important reason, and one that precluded any kind of romantic liaison.
“Admiral,” said Garrett as she approached him.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering the woman his hand.
She took it. “Likewise, sir.”
“Something to drink?” McAteer asked.
Garrett shook her head. “No. Nothing, thanks.”
“Please,” he said, “sit down.”
He indicated a chair across a low table from his. The commander took it and gave him her attention.
McAteer smiled at her, doing his best impression of a doting uncle. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Commander. I’ve heard good things about you.”
She looked pleased to hear it. “Thank you, sir.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nasty business with the Orazwari last month.”
Garrett nodded soberly. “It was. I suppose my captain told you all about it.”
“I read his report. He said he had no choice but to leave his landing party behind until he could regroup and determine what he was up against. He also said the party wouldn’t have survived without the courage of its ranking officer.”
Garrett shrugged. “I was in charge, sir. I did what anyone would have done in my place.”
“As I recall,” said McAteer, “you did a bit more than that. When you saw that the Orazwari were getting close to your hiding place, you led them in another direction single-handedly—risking your own life so that the crewmen in your care could survive.”
“Most of them were wounded,” she explained. “They weren’t in any shape to lead the Orazwari away.”
“Nonetheless,” said the admiral, “a remarkable effort. And all the more remarkable when one considers the fact that you survived.”
“I was lucky,