Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [8]
Wu’s heart began to pound—and her heart never pounded, not even in the midst of a space battle.
“When you left the Crazy Horse, you said it was because you had nowhere to go. T’lar and Omalayak had locked down the first and second officers’ slots and it seemed they would stay there for the long haul. Well, guess what?”
They’re leaving, Wu thought wildly.
“They’re leaving,” Rudolfini said. “T’lar accepted a captaincy on the Resilient and she’s taking Omalayak along as her first officer. Looks to me like I’ve got not one but two slots open. That is, if I can find someone capable of filling them.”
Wu couldn’t believe it.
“I had Mecir in mind for the second officer’s post. If anyone deserves it, she does. But I don’t have anyone qualified to be an exec, and I’d sure hate to have to look outside the family. . . .”
Wu knew exactly where he was going with this. He was going to ask what she had dreamed about for years.
“So what do you say, Elizabeth? I know you just got used to being a second officer, but they say it’s easier to be a Number One than a Number Two. And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have standing beside me on the bridge of the Crazy Horse.”
Wu drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Get back to me as soon as you can, all right? Rudolfini out.”
A moment later, his image blinked off and was replaced by the Starfleet logo. Wu sank back in her chair, stunned.
She had given up on the possibility of ever receiving another promotion on the Crazy Horse. And suddenly, a promotion had fallen right into her lap.
The question was . . .did she dare pass it up?
Phigus Simenon stood in his quarters and contemplated the small white stone in his scaly hand.
The stone, which had come from his homeworld, had a series of black characters carved into its otherwise smooth surface. As Simenon wasn’t an expert in the area of ancient writings, he had no idea what the characters meant.
Nor did his father, to whom the stone had been given three long decades ago. But then, one didn’t have to understand the characters to appreciate their significance in the scheme of things.
Simenon glanced at the computer terminal on the opposite side of the room. He had known this day would come. Hell, how could he not know? But he had put the prospect from his mind, concentrating instead on his duties as a Starfleet engineer.
Now he had no choice. He had received the summons. He was compelled to answer it.
With a sigh, Simenon crossed the room, pulled out the chair in front of his terminal, and sat down. Then he placed the stone on the desk beside his keyboard and called up the message he had received from Gnala earlier in the day.
Typing out a return message, he had the terminal translate it into a language his people would understand—one that bore a vague resemblance to the characters on the stone.
Then he dispatched it to the communications queue for inclusion in the next subspace packet to that part of space, sat back in his chair, and absorbed the import of what he had done.
Carter Greyhorse, the Stargazer’s chief medical officer, blew on a spoonful of steaming hot corn chowder. “Yes, Pug,” he replied, “I remember your misgivings.”
“Well,” said Pug Joseph, the ship’s acting chief of security, “I think I’m getting past them. The way my people respond to me lately, I feel sometimes like I’m the permanent chief of security.”
Joseph was sitting across the table from Greyhorse, twirling his fork in a plateful of pasta. To that point, the doctor noticed, Joseph had been too talkative to actually place any of it into his mouth.
“That’s good,” said Greyhorse.
“I’m gaining confidence,” Joseph told him.
“I hear it in your voice.”
Joseph grinned. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?”
The physician took a mouthful of soup, savored its taste, and glanced across the mess hall. Right on schedule, Gerda Asmund was sitting down to eat with her sister Idun and a couple of other officers.