Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [5]
“Mr. Bush,” the famous Vulcan replied. “The honor is mine. The Bozeman has earned a strong reputation keeping the integrity of the Fries-Posnikoff Sector.”
Well, that wasn’t a cold voice at all! Bush felt his stomach uncrumple at the cracking of an old rumor.
In fact, Spock was encouragingly pliant. Not stiff at all, he was rather relaxed and pacific. His Gothic features, a series of brackets and sharp angles, came together less harshly than Bush had expected. His sharply trimmed black hair had lost the gloss of youth, yet Spook carried now an accessibility that youth could not muster. Bush watched him and wondered if the legends had exaggerated. Like anyone else, execs tended to size each other up.
That queasy feeling … happened every time somebody new came on board. Strange resentment of the intrusion … quick thoughts of how to prove he knew more than these two ever would, and how to hang onto the bond with officers who had died. The ship hadn’t lost anyone in over a year. This recent violation lay and burned.
Now these two skinnies were here, eager to take the places of lost friends. As the faces of his dead shipmates rolled unbidden before Bush’s eyes, Captain Spock began speaking firmly, but quietly.
“My condolences, gentlemen, on the loss of your science officer and your tactical lieutenant. I’m privileged to introduce your new second officer, Lieutenant Michael Dennis, and Science Specialist John Wolfe.”
“Hello, boys.” Bateson stuck out a hand, and Tall and Taller knocked knuckles trying to take it.
Bush let out a nervous huff. Bateson cast him a brief sympathetic look, then replaced it with a gentle smile.
Not understanding, the two lieutenants were too new to smile, and Spock, well …
“Sorry,” Bush uttered. He put out a hand to the stately officer. “Captain Spock, I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life. Grew up clinging with all my toes to your adventures and the admiral’s.”
“Space adventures?” Bateson needled. “Way out on those New England docks? With all those sea tales to feed on? Shame on you.”
“Oh, you bet, sir. Us Downeasters are always fishing for a good story floating in the foam. Doesn’t matter what kind of ship it happens on.”
“Foam?” Spock asked.
“Bush is a Gloucester boy, Captain Spock.” Bateson gave Bush a familar squeeze on the shoulder. “Long seafaring heritage. He can trace his family tree all the way back to the original Virginia colony. Had an ancestor in the British Navy on his father’s side, a first mate, wasn’t he, Gabe?”
“In the Napoleonic Wars,” Bush confirmed. He turned away and gathered brass shot glasses from the upper deck where he’d tucked them behind a strut of the red bridge rail. Next, the thermal decanter—and he began pouring and handing out rum tots.
“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” Spock offered graciously, then took a tot. “Captain, I do not mean to be impolite, but the Enterprise is overdue in Benecia Sector.”
“Of course,” Bateson said. “What’s the latest word on that?”
“Several Klingon heavy cruisers have been seen massing just beyond the Neutral Zone, along with at least two dozen birds-of-prey. They have yet to make their intentions known or to communicate in any way.”
Taking a sip of his rum so the others would feel free to do the same, Bateson shook his head. “If they’d concentrate as much on improving their own territory as they do on taking ours, we’d have two strong neighboring civilizations. They can’t seem to get that through their knobby skulls.”
Spock’s black brows launched. “Not lately. Farewell, gentlemen.”
He slugged his rum tot like a proper tar, nodded approval, and handed the empty cup back to Bush.
“Best luck, sir,” Bush called, pleased for even the smallest chance to toss something into the meeting. “And the best to Admiral Kirk.”
“I shall pass that along.” Nodding with personable warmth Bush would never have expected, Spock offered the new officers an encouraging look, then left the bridge without fanfare.
“Don’t like Klingons, sir?” Lieutenant