Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [30]
“He’s quite impressive,” Obal repeated. He twirled some spaghetti around his fork. “Quite innovative.”
Nikolas looked at the Binderian as he deposited the cluster of spaghetti into his mouth. It wasn’t like his friend to use words like “impressive” and “innovative.”
“Why do you say that?” the ensign asked.
Obal shrugged. “I heard Gerda Asmund say so. And the captain as well. I have no reason to doubt their judgment.”
Nikolas frowned. “The captain said Paris was impressive?”
The Binderian nodded. “He did.”
“In what way?”
“In the way he participates in a sport called fencing,” Obal explained. “Apparently, he presented Captain Picard with a considerable challenge in that regard.”
“Did Paris beat him?” Nikolas asked.
“It was never made clear to me who won. Only that the competitors were more or less evenly matched.”
The ensign’s frown deepened. “The captain was probably being generous, that’s all. Gerda, too.”
Obal seemed to find the comment interesting. He cocked his head to one side. “Is this an example of what humans refer to as jealousy?”
Nikolas made a sound of disdain. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re normally generous with your praise for people, my friend. However, in Ensign Paris’s case, you are denigrating his accomplishments. This suggests that you are jealous of him.”
“Does it really?” asked Nikolas. He chuckled to show Obal how off base he was. “I’d only be jealous of Ensign Paris if he was sparring with Idun Asmund instead of me.”
The Binderian looked surprised. In fact, he looked exactly the way Nikolas had expected him to look. “Are you saying you convinced Lieutenant Asmund to meet you, after all?”
The ensign nodded. “It wasn’t even all that difficult.”
Obal made a face. “I’m not sure this is wise, my friend.”
“You’re concerned that someone might get hurt,” Nikolas speculated.
“Well,” said the security officer, “yes.”
The ensign dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “I already discussed that with Idun and it’s not going to happen, so don’t give it a second thought.”
Obal frowned. “You’re sure?”
Nikolas nodded. “Absolutely.”
He shot a glance in Paris’s direction. His roommate was describing what looked like a space battle to Paxton and Pierzynski, who watched him with rapt expressions.
Jealous indeed, Nikolas thought, and let his mind drift in the direction of his appointment with the beautiful Idun Asmund.
As Simenon approached the double doors of the transporter room, he was pretty certain that the captain would be waiting for him inside. Probably Ben Zoma as well.
After all, he was leaving them. And though they didn’t have any inkling of how permanent that departure might be, they had to know he wasn’t looking forward to what he was facing on Gnala and would therefore want to wish him luck.
The doors whispered apart for him as he came in range of an unseen sensor. They seemed a little sluggish, though. I should have someone check the trigger mechanism, Simenon reflected.
And then he remembered—more than likely, that would be someone else’s problem, not his.
The hard, unyielding nature of that reality stuck in his throat like a bone. Still, the engineer managed to swallow it back and enter the transporter room, his eyes trained on the floor so he wouldn’t have to face anyone until the last possible second.
Finally, when he believed he had almost reached the transporter pad, he looked up. After all, he had to say his good-byes.
But to his surprise, the hexagonal platform was already occupied. The captain and four of Simenon’s colleagues were standing on it in rugged civilian clothing.
It took the engineer a second to figure out what was going on. Once he had done that, he shook his head emphatically from side to side. “No, you don’t,” he rasped at them. “I’m going down to Gnala alone. This is none of your business.”
“Wrong on both counts,” Greyhorse told him flatly. “And that’s the advice of your physician.”
“We’re your friends,” Vigo said.
“Yes,” Picard chipped in. “And this is a time when you need your friends around you.”
“Come on,” Ben