The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [11]
“I’m not the best-versed person in literature, Data,” Riker cautioned. “The captain is much better read than I am.”
Riker and Data left the turbolift and started slowly up the corridor together. “I do not need advice on selecting reading material, sir,” Data said. “The writing in question is my own.”
“Oh,” Will said. Hearing the lack of enthusiasm in his own voice, he amended heartily, “Well, it’s an honor to have a budding author in our midst. What did you want me to do?”
The android handed Riker a piece of paper. “Simply read this and render me your truthful opinion.”
The Enterprise’s second-in-command leaned against the bulkhead as he slowly read the handwritten scene. He rubbed thoughtfully at his jaw as he searched for words, then said finally, “Well, without having read the entire thing, I can’t be too definitive …”
“I would be pleased to give you as much as I have written so far,” offered Data quickly.
Riker cleared his throat, searching for words. “Uh … Data … I’m extremely flattered, of course. But things are a little busy right now, with this unknown menace in Sector 3SR-5-42. You understand …”
“Of course, Commander,” the android said equably. “However, you still have not given me your initial reaction to my scene.”
“Oh … well. Yes, of course. I found it very interesting, Data. Your use of language was extremely … distinctive.” With a surge of honesty, Riker added, “But that kind of love scene … well, that’s not really the style of thing I usually select for my own reading. I enjoy a more … overtly masculine style of storytelling, I guess you’d say.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Riverton is one of my favorites. And of course Hemingway. A Farewell to Arms and For Whom the Bell Tolls—he was definitely a master. Great stuff.”
“I … see,” Data said. “Thank you, Commander. You have given me much to consider. Perhaps some rewriting …”
Riker clapped the android on the shoulder. “Keep at it, Data,” he said in a hearty man-to-man voice. “All great authors learn the value of rewriting, I’m sure.”
The commander headed down the corridor toward engineering, feeling a nagging prickle of guilt and a surge of pity. I couldn’t say it was bad, he told himself. That would have crushed him. Riker sighed, remembering the first time he’d ever met Data. Poor Pinocchio …
“Message coming in from Starfleet Command, Captain Picard,” said Ensign Whitedeer.
“Thank you, Ensign,” Picard said. “I will receive it in my ready room.”
Rising to his feet, he strode across the bridge and entered his own private sanctum. Picard stood before his ready room window for a second, his slim, elegant body outlined against the blackness and the starstreaks. The captain was bald, with a prominent, high-bridged nose and penetrating hazel eyes. He had a rather imperious face, one that would not have looked out of place on a Roman emperor, but the haughtiness was softened by a suggestion of humor around the eyes and mouth.
But at the moment, the captain was feeling anything but humorous. Seating himself at his computer link, he instructed Whitedeer to relay the message.
The captain’s mouth tightened as he scanned. The Marco Polo, a Federation-registered trading vessel, had entered Sector 3SR-5-42 yesterday and had been expected to dock at Thonolan Four’s space station six hours ago.
But now the ship was definitely overdue, and the subspace transmitters at Thonolan Four reported that they had lost contact with the freighter—apparently contact had simply ceased. There had been no previous indication from the trader that anything was out of the ordinary.
Now the Enterprise was ordered to search for and rescue the Marco Polo as well. Jean-Luc Picard gazed across his private sanctum and allowed himself a deep sigh. In his years in space he’d developed certain … instincts … that he seldom acknowledged openly. Generally, he made all his decisions by reasoned thought, but there was that one-in-a-hundred situation where reason proved inadequate and one had to rely on human intuition.
Picard experienced a sudden sense of foreboding