Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [89]
“Be right there,” the doctor muttered, and began making his way from bedroom to the anteroom that stood outside it.
The door chimed again.
“For the love of heaven,” he sighed, “what is so urgent? I said I’d be right there.”
The door had chimed a third time before Greyhorse made it to the center of the anteroom. Taking a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and stood up straight.
Then he said, “Come in.”
That’s when the doors parted and revealed the last person Greyhorse had expected to see there.
“I heard about your adventure on Gnala,” Gerda said. She walked in and the doors hissed closed behind her. “It appears you acquitted yourself rather well.”
Greyhorse had a feeling the navigator had only heard part of the story. Quite clearly, his comrades hadn’t told her how he held the team back by lagging behind.
“I made a contribution or two,” he allowed modestly.
Gerda didn’t respond. She just stood there, eyeing him with an intensity he had never seen in her before.
“So... you’ve come to congratulate me?” he asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the way she was looking at him.
The navigator’s lip curled. “More than that, Carter Greyhorse. Judging by what you accomplished on Simenon’s behalf, I believe you’re ready to attempt a new level of confrontation.”
Greyhorse swallowed back his nervousness and looked at her askance. “I beg your pardon?”
Gerda came closer. And as she did so, she raised her hands in a kave’ragh posture, elbows up and knuckles extended, her right hand coiled and poised to strike.
“A warrior does not beg,” she told him, her voice suddenly seething with emotion. “A warrior takes.”
“This is going to be good,” said Nikolas as he made his way to the ship’s gym.
“Are you certain that you wish to go ahead with this?” asked Obal, who was doing his best to keep up with the human’s longer strides.
Nikolas grinned incredulously at his friend. “Am I certain? Do Vulcans have pointed ears?”
The Binderian made a face as he bounded along. “It is only that I am concerned about the possibility of injuries.”
The ensign waved away the idea. “I’ll take it easy on her, I promise. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is hurt her.”
Then they had arrived at the gym. Nikolas pressed the pad set into the bulkhead and watched the doors slide apart in front of him, revealing a single figure waiting for him in the gym.
A single, very lovely figure.
“Ensign Nikolas,” said Idun, by way of acknowledgement. She glanced at his companion. “Lieutenant Obal.”
“Lieutenant Asmund,” the Binderian said, though it sounded to Nikolas more like a sigh.
Nikolas’s original date with the curvaceous helm officer had been postponed because of the Belladonna crisis, which had required her continual presence on the bridge. But Idun hadn’t been the least bit reluctant to reschedule.
“Thanks for walking me over,” the ensign told his friend, keeping his gaze locked on his sparring partner. “I can take it from here.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Obal asked.
Nikolas nodded. “Never been more sure in my life.”
“All right,” the Binderian told him. “I will see you...” He hesitated for a moment. “Later.”
“Later,” the ensign agreed.
He waited until Obal had departed and the doors to the gym had slid together again. Then he rubbed his hands together in friendly anticipation and approached his partner.
“Have you had a chance to warm up?” Nikolas asked.
“I have,” Idun acknowledged. “You?”
“It’ll take just a moment,” he said.
Usually, the ensign warmed up slowly, not wanting to invite injury. But this time, he rushed it a bit. After all, he didn’t want Idun to change her mind.
“All right,” he said. “Ready.”
Idun nodded. “Good.”
She began to circle him, her hands curled like claws. She held her left hand forward and the right back near her chin.
“Interesting stance,” Nikolas observed.
“It’s Klingon,” she told him.
He smiled. “Really.”
“Really,” said Idun.
Then she came at him, shooting her right hand at his face. Nikolas moved his head to one side and avoided the blow without any trouble. Then he returned it with one of his