The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [85]
“I quite understand, Presider Hek,” Picard said. “May I tell the council that you will order the Fleet to maintain, say, a million-kilometer distance from standard orbit at Nem Ma’ak Bratuna, as a sign of your good will? The second wave of your Fleet is quickly approaching that limit.”
Hek frowned darkly. “I’d like to see how the talks with the Lethanta go first,” he said. “Our ships will do them no harm, so long as the talks between us remain worthwhile. Is that all for now, Captain?”
“I think so,” Picard replied. “Thank you again, Presider Hek.”
“I will see you in ten hours, then. Out.” The screen returned to showing the view forward as Picard reseated himself. “Well,” he said to himself. “That was a rather remarkable performance, I must say. Of course, I don’t believe a word of it. Mr. Worf?” the captain asked over his shoulder. “What do you think?”
“He is stalling for time, Captain. He has made his decision. He intends to fight. He will fight us if need be.”
Picard nodded. “I agree. This stuff about him being the agent of his Congress is all so much blown smoke. Hek makes the decisions, not the Fleet Congress. So what’s going on here? Why is Hek stalling for time?”
“Sir,” Worf said, “if they maintain their present rate of deceleration, the main elements of the Krann attack force will arrive at standard orbit, Nem Ma’ak Bratuna, in ten hours. That is when you are supposed to meet next with Presider Hek—at his suggestion.”
Picard rubbed his eyes wearily. “Mr. Worf,” he said after a moment, “I want to speak with First Among Equals Kerajem.”
“Aye, sir.”
Troi and Wiggin entered a large room with scores of cubicles. Men and women of various ages walked briskly here and there. Everyone seemed to have something important to do, or at least they believed that they did. The buzz of activity was unrelenting.
“This is where I work,” the young Krann said with no little pride. “The design section.”
“My, it’s impressive,” Troi observed. “How long have you been assigned here?”
“Since I was an apprentice. I was assigned here by chance. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me. I love this work.”
“I can tell. And what exactly do you do?”
Wiggin shook his head and smiled. “I can’t say, really. Fleet security. You know. ‘Weapons designer’ will have to do.”
“I quite understand,” Troi said.
“Come this way,” Wiggin said. “I’ll show you my work area.” Together, Troi and Wiggin threaded their way between cubicles, almost every one of which housed a person sitting at a smallish desk, bent closely to his or her work. Some were drawing freehand on larger versions of the glass plate Troi had seen at the security entrance to Bay Fourteen, while others were working at computer terminals and other similar devices. Troi thought it was interesting that no one looked up as they passed.
“Everyone’s quite busy,” she said.
“Well, you know,” Wiggin said. “That big ship sitting out there. Quite a problem.”
Troi was all innocence. ” ‘Big ship’?”
“The aliens, I mean.” Wiggin waved a hand. “They’re supposed to be a big secret, but you’re a supervisor’s spouse, so you’ve been briefed. Right?”
Troi nodded. “Oh, certainly.”
“We don’t know a wasted thing about them, and that’s the problem. Here’s my cubicle.” As they entered, Wiggin pressed a button on the surface of his small desk and a terminal mounted on the shelf above it came to life. There was a chair in front of the terminal, and Wiggin sat down. “Have a seat while I check my messages. Won’t take long.”
There was a covered stool to the side of Wiggin’s desk, and Troi seated herself. She looked around. The cubicle was efficient but hardly sterile. There were pictures of young women taped here and there on the textured metal walls—some of Wiggin’s previous conquests, Troi supposed. Wiggin’s desk held not much more than a terminal and a thing that would do for a coffee mug until one came along. The place looked normal, lived in, comfortable. Troi wondered whose cubicle it really