Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [37]
He reminded McAteer of someone: himself.
Shalay nodded, taking the compliment in stride. “It’s kind of you to say so, Admiral.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Commander. To be blunt, I hate to see an individual with your unlimited potential languishing as second officer on a third-rate ship.”
The Bolian smiled—warily, McAteer thought. “That’s blunt, all right.”
“How do you like serving on the New Orleans?”
Shalay shrugged his muscular shoulders. “It’s been a valuable experience. I benefited from every minute of it.”
He was politic, too. The admiral liked that.
“But you wouldn’t be adverse to making a change? Moving to another vessel where there was a greater chance of moving up?”
Shalay’s brow puckered. “A chance of moving up?”
McAteer smiled. “You were hoping to move right into a first officer’s slot. I understand. However, the post I’m thinking of is just as good as a first officer’s slot.”
“Begging the admiral’s pardon,” said the Bolian, “I don’t see how that could be the case.”
McAteer leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “On the vessel I have in mind, the captain and first officer leave something to be desired. My problem is I’m not present to document their inadequacies. But,” he added pointedly, “if I had someone who was . . .”
Shalay seemed to get it. “You want me to transfer to another ship as second officer. Then you want me to supply you with ammunition so you can sink that ship’s captain and first officer.”
“At which point,” the admiral said, “I will see to it that you move up to take their place.”
“As first officer? Or as captain?”
McAteer smiled. “Need you ask?”
Shalay’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve never received an offer like this.”
“And you never will again,” the admiral told him pointedly. “Not from me, at least.”
“So it’s take it or leave it.”
McAteer nodded. “That’s correct.”
Shalay pondered the quid pro quo. Finally, he said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
The admiral was pleased—he had been right about the Bolian. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
“Where am I going, anyway?”
McAteer saw no reason to keep it a secret. After all, Shalay had to give his captain the information.
“The name of the ship,” he said, “is the Stargazer.”
Picard stood outside the door to the Great Hall, in the gargantuan lobby where he and his officers had beamed down, and asked Simenon the question they all had on their minds.
“Do you think the Assemblage has been persuaded?”
His engineer shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re the Assemblage. They can do anything they like.”
His cousin, who bore a striking resemblance to Simenon but was rounder and softer looking, stood by himself in a fluted alcove. It was difficult to tell if he was praying or just thinking.
Greyhorse tilted his head in Ornitharen’s direction. “Your chances seemed good until he walked in.”
Simenon glanced in his cousin’s direction. “I can’t fault him for what he did. We had the same grandfather. He feels it’s his responsibility to help me.”
Joseph grunted. “Even if you don’t want his help?”
The engineer frowned. “Even then.”
Picard noticed that Simenon’s detractors were standing around as well, each with his own small contingent of supporters. In both cases, those who had spoken in the Great Hall were of the same stature as those who surrounded them.
The captain understood why. But then, once the hearing was over, Simenon had had a chance to enlighten them a bit in that regard.
“Hey,” said Joseph, “the door’s opening!”
Picard followed his security officer’s gesture and saw that the door to the Great Hall—a ponderous wooden affair on ancient metal hinges—was indeed swinging open. Apparently, the Assemblage of Elders had completed its deliberations.
But it hadn’t been more than a couple of minutes since the Assemblage had begun them. The captain wondered if that boded well or ill for Simenon’s cause.
A hulking bailiff in a black robe emerged from