Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [27]
“Perfect,” the admiral said out loud. “My compliments to the bartender.” His words of praise echoed in the room for a moment, then faded to nothing.
He didn’t normally drink by himself, especially when he was on a starship far from home. On the other hand, he seldom found himself in such a good mood.
Finding someone to undermine Picard hadn’t been as simple as he had expected it would be. He had begun to realize that after he failed to enlist the services of Rachel Garrett.
After that, McAteer had felt the need to be careful. Very careful.
Any other strategy would invite the possibility of yet another second officer turning down his offer, and in that case he would be asking for trouble. The admiral was confident that Garrett, at least, wouldn’t say anything about their discussion. But someone with less control or common sense might flap his jaws at the wrong time and expose McAteer’s vendetta.
If it became common knowledge that he was after someone for personal reasons, it would be a difficult matter to explain away. He could ill afford that kind of embarrassment at this critical juncture in his Starfleet career.
So the admiral had resolved that his next attempt would be a successful one. That meant meant putting a lot more work into the winnowing-out process. A lot more research.
More than once, he had come close to his goal—or thought he had. But time after time, there had been something about the candidate that forced McAteer to rule him or her out.
Some weren’t ambitious enough. Some were too ambitious. Some were too righteous while others couldn’t be trusted, and still others simply lacked what it took to command a starship.
At one point, the admiral thought he had found his man in the person of Donald Varley, second officer on the Invincible. Varley had started out as a fast-tracker just like Picard, a fellow who would inevitably be placed in command of a starship.
Then he had slipped off the fast track by offending a superior officer. Judging from what McAteer had read of the incident, it wasn’t really Varley’s fault. Nonetheless, it had gone against him.
The experience appeared to make Varley a little more cynical—and a great deal more practical. McAteer got the impression that the fellow would compromise a few ethics if it meant obtaining the captaincy he had always wanted.
In the admiral’s mind, Varley had been perfect—perhaps even more perfect than Rachel Garrett.
He had been all set to approach Varley with his offer. Then he had discovered one more tidbit of information—that Varley and Picard had become the best of friends in their last year at the Academy.
So much for perfect.
But McAteer hadn’t given up. He had continued to rifle through personnel file after personnel file—and finally, his work had paid off. He found a candidate he believed would not only embrace his plan but act discreetly in carrying it out.
Then and only then had he made arrangements to meet the fellow at a mutually convenient starbase—the one he was headed for now, Samarian Sunset well in hand.
“It’s only a matter of time now,” the admiral told himself gleefully. “Only a matter of time.”
And if his assessment wasn’t greeted with encouragement, neither was it met with skepticism. But then, that was the way it went when one conversed in an empty room.
Chapter Nine
IN HIS SMALL BUT NEATLY KEPT OFFICE in sickbay, Carter Greyhorse considered what he was about to do. Then he tapped his combadge and said, “Greyhorse to Gerda Asmund.”
The navigator’s response came a moment later—from her quarters, according to the ship’s computer. “Asmund here. What is it, Doctor?”
She still called him that—Doctor instead of Carter or even Greyhorse. Even in the aftermath of their most exhausting lessons, when they were both standing there on the gym floor with their chests heaving and their faces flushed and the musky scent of Gerda’s sweat like perfume in his nostrils . . . even then, it was Doctor.