Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
“Not at all.” That part, at least, was true. “And I don’t remember any of the people you mentioned.”
Emily Bender seemed to weigh his claims for a while, her eyes searching his. Then she drew a breath and slowly let it out.
“Look,” she said, “if you don’t remember me, you don’t remember me. I guess that’s the way it is.”
“It’s frustrating,” Ulelo allowed. “For me more than anyone.”
“I’m sure it is. And lonely, I imagine.”
“That too.” Painfully so.
Emily Bender leaned forward in her chair. “So let me get this straight. When you asked me to leave your quarters...you weren’t giving me the brush-off after all?”
He started to answer in the affirmative—until he saw where his response might lead her. As before, he acknowledged the fact of her beauty, if only to himself. He tortured himself with the idea that he could bring some joy into his life, just by giving in to a woman who obviously wanted him as much as he wanted her.
A woman who was willing to accept him unconditionally, it seemed. Without reservations. Without questions.
Fortunately, Ulelo was still strong. He could still do what his duty—and his sanity—demanded of him.
“I wasn’t giving you the brush-off,” he conceded. “But please understand... I would feel awkward getting involved with you romantically, given the fact that you know me and I don’t—”
Emily Bender held up her hand. “Don’t. I can already hear what you’re going to say.”
Ulelo frowned. “And what’s that?”
“That you could use a friend.”
He hadn’t planned on saying that at all. However, he saw no way to deny it.
She considered him for a moment. Then, looking a little bitter, she shook her head. “If we can’t be what I’d like us to be . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully.
The comm officer was grateful that the matter had resolved itself without his having to engage in further maneuvers. “I understand,” he said softly. Then he added, “I guess I’ll be going.”
She didn’t stop him. In fact, she didn’t even turn her head to watch him go.
Picard and his colleagues had been jogging down their ritual trail for less than twenty minutes before Simenon slowed them to a walk.
The captain himself could have continued at a trot for another hour, if necessary. However, it was clear that at least one member of their party could not.
And that member was Greyhorse.
The doctor was breathing heavily even now, still feeling the effects of the quicker pace. But then, he was a big man, not exactly made for long-distance running, and to Picard’s knowledge he had never dedicated himself to a fitness regimen.
Of course, Greyhorse had prescribed such regimens for others. Why was it that physicians so seldom practiced what they preached?
Simenon glanced back at the doctor. Then he muttered something beneath his breath.
“What’s that?” asked Greyhorse.
Simenon shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that,” Greyhorse said. “You don’t mutter at someone that way and then not tell them what you’re thinking.”
The Gnalish rolled his eyes. “All right. I admit it. I was wishing that you were in better shape.”
The doctor frowned. “Really.”
“Really. And,” Simenon added, “while I was at it, I wished one of the Asmunds could have come in your place.”
Picard would have expected Greyhorse to react negatively to such a statement. But if his feelings were hurt, he didn’t show it.
Instead, he told Simenon, “Believe me, so do I.”
Clearly, the admission caught Simenon by surprise. “You know,” he said, “no one told you you had to come.”
Greyhorse chuckled derisively. “As usual, my friend, your gratitude knows no bounds.”
“Gentlemen,” said Picard, “I suggest we table this discussion for the time being. As you may have noticed, the Asmunds are not in evidence here, nor is there any possibility that they will arrive before the start of the ritual.”
“And as for the doctor’s conditioning,” Ben Zoma chimed in optimistically, “I expect him to catch his second wind any moment now.”
Simenon looked at Greyhorse. “Maybe you’re right.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Ben Zoma.
“But,” Simenon added as he forged ahead,