Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [41]
Finally, DeMontreville grunted, leaned back in her seat, and said, “Damned Romulans.”
“Romulans?” the Bolian echoed.
The cold-blooded bastards hadn’t been seen in or near the Federation in almost thirty years, ever since they signed the Treaty of Algeron. And as far as Shalay could tell, no one missed them.
DeMontreville nodded. “Every so often, Command receives a report of a Romulan vessel in our space. They all turn out to be false alarms when they’re investigated, but we’re still apprised of them.”
“I see,” said Shalay.
His captain regarded him. “So how was your shore leave?”
“Fine,” he told her, leaving out the details. After all, his meeting with Admiral McAteer was supposed to be a secret.
DeMontreville looked at him askance. “I know that look, Shalay. You’ve got something on your mind.”
The second officer smiled. “You know me too well.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that there’s a position opening for a second officer on the Stargazer.”
An expression of disappointment crossed the captain’s face. But then, no commanding officer liked to lose a valued officer, and Shalay had done an exemplary job on the New Orleans.
“And you’d like to apply for it?” she said.
“I would,” he confirmed.
DeMontreville sighed. “I hate to lose you, Commander. But if that’s what you want, you’ve got my permission.”
Shalay smiled again. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Just remember, there are no guarantees. The Stargazer’s a new ship. I’m sure you’re not the only one eyeing that post.”
“No guarantees,” he acknowledged.
What DeMontreville didn’t know was that it wouldn’t be any contest. The Stargazer position was Shalay’s, hands down.
Admiral McAteer would make certain of that.
Picard hunkered down next to Greyhorse in the darkness of the sleeping chamber and shook the big man’s shoulder. “Doctor?”
Greyhorse looked up at him with eyes so wide they looked almost comical. “Is it time already?”
“It is,” the captain confirmed.
The doctor sat up. “All right,” he said firmly, as much to himself as to the captain. “I’m awake.”
That is a matter of opinion, Picard thought.
Simenon was standing by the door to the chamber already, a scowl on his face, his arms folded impatiently across his chest. Obviously, he was eager to get going, eager to get his ordeal under way.
However, the captain’s wrist chronometer told him they had almost three quarters of an hour before the ritual was scheduled to begin. Certainly, that was ample time for a quick bite and some last-minute mental preparation.
Clearly, Simenon could use some calming down. With that in mind, Picard started across the room to join him.
As he passed Ben Zoma and Joseph, he saw that they were just beginning to pull their clothes on. “Let’s go, gentlemen,” he told them. “We’ve got work to do.”
Ben Zoma grunted good-naturedly. “And here I was thinking we were on shore leave.”
“No such luck,” the captain told him.
Joseph stretched his arms out and groaned. “I feel like I just went to bed,” he complained to no one in particular.
“You did,” said Ben Zoma. “This time of year, the nights here are only five hours long.”
Joseph sighed. “Now you tell me.”
As Picard approached his engineer, he could more clearly see the nervousness in Simenon’s eyes. It was certainly understandable. If the future of the captain’s family were at stake, he would have been nervous as well.
The ritual, as Simenon had described it to them the night before, was really a foot race that took place in the wilderness surrounding the Northern Sanctum. Three teams started from the same point but were compelled to negotiate divergent courses.
However, the winners of the race didn’t get a trophy, as Picard had done when he came in first in the Academy marathon on Danula II. Instead, they won the right for one of their number to fertilize a cache of two dozen newly hatched eggs, the majority of which would then grow into a clutch of bouncing baby Gnalish.
Earlier in the evolutionary development of Simenon’s people, this competition had been a good deal more chaotic.