The Red King - Michael A. Martin [138]
“You know alcohol’s not allowed on the bridge, Bralik,” Vale said with a scowl, even as the Syrath got started distributing the glasses.
“Oh, snuff-beetle squeeze, Commander,” Bralik said, raising the bottle as though for inspection. “This is synthale, not Klingon warnog.” Cethente had frozen in mid-motion in a pose that made him look like some sort of garment rack—but not before he had placed glasses into the hands of Troi and Vale both. Troi looked toward the aft tactical station, to which Keru, Pazlar, and Ra-Havreii had retreated because there seemed to be so little room to stand anywhere else.
Troi sighed and shook her head as Bralik bulled ahead and began pouring the clear, sparkling liquid. Somehow I don’t think this is exactly what Will had in mind when he mentioned wanting a “quiet, dignified little dedication ceremony just for the bridge staff.”
The turbolift door opened once again. Dr. Ree stood in the threshold, his eyes nictitating rapidly in surprise at the crowd. “I think I’ll come back later,” he said. He took a single step backward and started to let the doors close in front of him. Bralik stepped into the aperture, which forced the doors back open. With her free hand, she grasped one of Ree’s forelimbs and drew him insistently onto the bridge, forcing everyone to move forward in order to make room.
Releasing the doctor, Bralik then emptied the bottle in her other hand and left it perched precariously on one of the railings. Troi reached out and grabbed it before it could get elbowed onto the deck, but the Ferengi appeared not to have noticed.
“So when is this party supposed to get under way?” Bralik said, consulting the small chronometer on her left wrist.
“Nobody planned a party!” Vale said. “This is the bridge!”
A door slid open, but this time the sound wasn’t coming from the turbolift. Troi turned toward the bridge’s forward section and saw Will and Tuvok stepping out of the captain’s ready room, almost in lockstep. Will was carrying a large, cloth-covered oblong object under his left arm. Tuvok wore a golden medallion that hung from a chain around his neck.
Will’s blue eyes twinkled with delight when he saw the crowd that had gathered. Turning to Vale, he said, “A party! Great idea, Chris.”
Vale’s mouth dropped open; it took a moment for her to gather her wits and muster a reply. “Thank you, Captain. Synthehol, sir. All part of the service. And we’ll be moving this little soiree to the crew lounge. Just as soon as you’re ready, of course.”
A smiling Bralik approached Vale, snatched the untouched champagne glass from her hands, and handed it to Will.
The captain grinned, raised the glass in a salute, then drained the small amount it contained in a single swallow. He handed the empty glass back to Bralik. “Drink ’em if you’ve got ’em, people. Computer, activate audiophile program Riker Zeta Four.”
The bridge suddenly came alive with the strains of Earth jazz. Troi recognized it as “Bessie’s Blues,” as performed by John Coltrane, one of Will’s favorite stylists from the Terran jazz age.
She cast an eye at Torvig, who craned his head toward Eviku. “Earth music. Doesn’t that tend to validate my bias hypothesis?”
“Don’t count your extra holodeck time before you’ve won it,” Eviku cautioned.
The crowd parted, allowing Will and Tuvok to approach the conspicuous bare spot that persisted on the aft bulkhead. Very carefully, Will set the plaque into its permanent place of honor on the wall, at just below eye level. The plaque’s covering of gold cloth remained in place.
Will beckoned Tuvok closer. “Mr. Tuvok, do the honors, if you please.”
Tuvok nodded, his face and emotional aura more somber than usual. “Thank you, Captain,” he said.
Moving with the grace and reverence of a soldier folding a flag that had shrouded a fallen comrade’s casket, Tuvok lifted and removed the cloth covering from the plaque, revealing the engraved bronze surface for all to see.
U.S.S. TITAN
LUNA CLASS
STARFLEET REGISTRY NCC-80102
UTOPIA PLANITIA FLEET