Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [66]
He grunted. “With the nacelle assembly ripped away,
we were able to stagger away on impulse. So in the end, your father and Pug accomplished everything they set out to do. The only problem was one of them didn’t live to see it.”
Wesley found he had an ache in the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it away, found that he couldn’t. The Gnalish’s eyes narrowed. “Are you all right, Ensign?”
Wes nodded. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice huskier than he would have liked. “I’m fine. Really.” He bent for another rock, trying to take his mind off his feelings. “Let me see if I can repeat that last performance.”
After a moment, he heard Simenon grunt. “Of course.” A pause. “The trick is to be consistent. There, that’s a good one-the one to your—”
Abruptly, a voice came out of nowhere. “Wesley?” The ensign looked up at the holodeck’s intercom grid, hidden in the illusion of scarlet treetops. Oh, no. How long had he been here? It seemed like only a few minutes, but Geordi’s tone suggested it had been much longer.
Wesley steeled himself. “Yes, Commander?” “What the devil is going on up there? When I sent you after Professor Simenon, I didn’t expect the two of you to disappear.” The Gnalish snorted derisively and shook his head. Wesley tried to ignore him. “Sorry, sir. I guess I, um … just lost track of time.”
“Lost track of-damn it, Wes! Did you forget what kind of mess we’re all in? Maybe Professor Simenon has the option of fiddling while Rome burns—but you don’t, not as long as you’re wearing that uniform. Understood?”
The ensign grimaced. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simenon pick up another rock. “Aye, Commander.” “Then get down here on the double. You can tell me in person what you found so enthralling that you-was
“Geordi was interrupted by a high-pitched yelp that made Wesley whirl in alarm. His first thought was that the Gnalish had fallen into the water and was drowning. Of course, that was unlikely given his reptilian anatomy comb that didn’t come to mind until moments later.
In any case, Simenon wasn’t in any trouble, aquatic or otherwise. He was just standing there with a strange expression on his face. A wide-eyed, open-mouthed sort of expression. “Wes? Is everything all right?” Geordi asked. The ensign looked at Simenon. “I think so,” he replied. He tilted his head to get the Gnalish’s attention. “It is all right-isn’t it, Professor?”
Suddenly, Simenon’s features broadened into a smile. “You’re damned right it’s all right,” he said. He looked up. “Mr. La Forge-make some tea. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Wesley regarded him. “Make some tea?” he echoed. “I like tea,” said the Gnalish. “Who do you think introduced your captain to Earl Grey?” He hurried past the ensign on his way to the holodeck exit, Wesley fell in after him. “But-that sound you made–” Simenon dismissed it. “I always make that sound,” he shot back over his shoulder, “when I’m about to save the ship.”
As Riker entered the turbolift, leaving sickbay behind, he knew that the place where Cadwallader had been attacked would yield no physical evidence of what had
taken place there. The curving stretch of corridor had already been restored, the phaser-scarred sections of bulkhead replaced, and the bloodstains leeched from the floor covering. But he still wanted to see it again for himself. He had the feeling that if he stood there long enough, if he gave sufficient thought to the details imparted by Morgen and Dr. Crusher, he would find an angle that Worf’s security teams had overlooked. At worst, he would feel as if he were making a contribution. The idea that there was a killer aboard had certainly concerned him before-but Cadwallader’s close call brought the problem closer to home. Now it was personal.
“Deck seventeen,” he said. Though he couldn’t feel it, the turbolift started to move.
A moment or two later the doors opened. He stepped out. And