Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [41]
Picard leered at him ever so briefly, then looked at Scott again. “You’re a lousy liar, Captain. You couldn’t stand to see an Enterprise built without your fingerprints on it. It’s not many men who get to leave their influence on six generations of ships and actually work on three of them.”
“May be the case, sir,” Scott said, “but the fact is we didn’t know this ship was going to be an Enterprise until after … eh …”
“That’s all right, Mr. Scott, I know my ship crashed.”
Scott’s eyes went from sparkling to sympathetic, and he got that organgrinder look again. “Sorry, sir.”
“So, just which strings did you have to pull to get this plum of an assignment?” Picard asked. “As if I didn’t know.”
“Oh, well, Captain Bateson and I are long-time friends, and I mean long-time friends, after all, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Scotty. You’re a captain too, and your commission date—”
Scott waved a hand. “Ah, don’t remind me how old I am. And I wouldn’t know how to call a ship’s captain anything other than ‘sir,’ give or take a few choice adjectives now and then.”
The famous engineer, a man brought forward through time by a quirk of science instead of nature—the transporter—seemed supremely at home here. Riker was glad about that. Montgomery Scott had been confused and out of place when he had first been rescued from transporter stasis, but apparently his talents hadn’t been buried by misfortune. He’d found his way. Riker admired him for his resilience, but found Scott’s ability to fit into this starship somehow annoying at a time when Riker and his captain were having trouble finding their own places.
He glanced at Picard. The captain wasn’t looking forward to the tour. His face was grim behind the forced smile, his eyes lightless, his posture stiff.
The engine-room panels parted again, and for an instant Riker thought they’d be offered a little distraction, but no such luck. The person who came in at the center of a clutch of ensigns was hardly to be any relief.
Morgan Bateson.
He hadn’t changed that much in these past three years. Hardly at all, in fact, Riker noticed. Still had the neat musketeer’s beard, not so different from Riker’s. Bateson’s sandy hair might’ve receded a finger’s width. The uniform was updated, which was a bit startling—somehow Riker had expected to see Bateson still wearing the black trousers and maroon jacket of Starfleet past.
Bateson had his eyes down at a padd he was just taking from a junior officer as he strode in and paused in the middle of the wide deck.
“—and make sure those tests are run under full radiation bombardment. Doesn’t do a bit of good to test under ideal conditions, since you’ll never fight in ideal conditions.”
“Aye, sir,” one of the ensigns said, and all the younger officers veered off in various directions, leaving Captain Bateson standing alone, checking off details on a PADD’s screen.
“Hm,” Bateson grunted, shook his head, then wrote something more.
The moment was surreal—no one said anything. Bateson didn’t notice them as he stood there in the middle of the engineering deck, writing. No one moved. Everyone expected someone else to move or speak. Montgomery Scott shifted once, and La Forge peered over his shoulder briefly at Picard, but that was all.
Just before bones started cracking, Bateson finished writing and stepped off toward the starboard side, then instantly noticed the crew off to port.
“Well—what’s this? Captain Picard! What a nice surprise!” Bateson plowed toward them with his hand extended and pumped Picard’s enthusiastically. “Beautiful, isn’t she? Quite a ship Starfleet’s got here. How long have you been aboard?”
“Less than five minutes, Captain,” Picard said. “She’s lovely.”
Bateson’s animated bearded face shifted instantly from joy to sympathy—how did he do that?
“I’m so very sorry about your starship,” he said. “A great adventure with a great ending, though. Your crew made a safe planetfall, at least.