The Battle of Betazed - Charlotte Douglas [91]
“It is,” Ben Zoma agreed.
Picard felt his cheeks turn hot. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m not sure what I find more uncomfortable—the cold shoulder or the company of flatterers.”
Greenbriar laughed. “That’s the last bit of flattery you’ll get from me, Captain. I promise.”
And with that, he left to refill his glass.
Ben Zoma turned to Picard. “That was refreshing.”
“Unfortunately,” the captain replied, “it’s not likely to happen again this evening.”
“What do you say we find something else to do?”
Picard frowned. It was a tempting suggestion. He said as much. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I feel obliged to stick it out here a while longer.”
“Your duty as a captain?” Ben Zoma asked.
Picard nodded. “Something like that, yes.”
So they stayed. But, as he had predicted, no one else came near them the rest of the evening.
Not even Admiral McAteer. In fact, Picard couldn’t find the man the entire evening.
Carter Greyhorse, chief medical officer on the Stargazer, watched Gerda Asmund advance on him in her tight-fitting black garb. The navigation officer’s left hand extended toward him while her right remained close to her chest, her slender fingers curled into nasty-looking claws.
“Kave’ragh!” she snarled suddenly, and her beautiful features contorted into a mask of primal aggression.
Then her right hand lashed out like an angry viper, her knuckles a blur as they headed for the center of his face. Greyhorse flinched, certain that Gerda had finally miscalculated and was about to deal him a devastating, perhaps even lethal blow. But as always, her attack fell short of its target by an inch.
Looking past Gerda’s knuckles into her merciless, ice-blue eyes, Greyhorse swallowed. He didn’t want to contemplate the force with which she would have driven her flattened fist into his mouth. Enough, surely, to cave in his front teeth. Enough to make him choke and sputter on his own blood.
But she had exercised restraint and pulled her punch. After all, it wasn’t a battle in which they were engaged, or even a sparring session. It was just a lesson.
“Kave’ragh?” he repeated, doing his best not to completely mangle the Klingon pronunciation.
“Kave’ragh,” Gerda repeated, having no trouble with the pronunciation. But then, she had been speaking the Klingon tongue from a rather early age.
The navigator stayed where she was for a moment, allowing Greyhorse to study her posture. Then she took a slow step back and retracted her fist, as if reloading a medieval crossbow.
“Now you,” Gerda told him.
Greyhorse bent his knees and drew his hands into the proper position. Then he curled his fingers under at the first knuckle, exactly as she had taught him.
Gerda’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t criticize him. It was a good sign. During their first few lessons, she had done nothing but criticize him—his balance, his coordination, even his desire to improve.
To be sure, Greyhorse wasn’t the most athletic individual and never had been. When the other kids had chosen sides to play parisses squares, he had invariably been the last to be picked.
But he was big. And strong. Gerda seemed to know how to tap the power he possessed but had never made use of.
“Kave’ragh!” he bellowed, trying his best to duplicate his teacher’s effort.
She spoiled his attack with an open-handed blow to the side of his wrist. It sent his fist wide of her face, where it couldn’t do any harm. But at least he didn’t stumble, as he had in their first few sessions. Maintaining his balance, he pulled back and reloaded.
“Kave’ragh!” he snapped again, determined to get past Gerda’s defenses.
This time she hit the inside of his wrist and redirected the force of his attack upward, leaving the right side of his body woefully unguarded. Before he could move to cover the deficiency, Gerda drove her knuckles into his ribs.
Hard.
The pain made him recoil and cry out. Seeing this, Gerda shot him a look of disdain.
“Next time,” she told him, “you’ll do better.”
He would too. And not because she had