The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [171]
“Deck 8, section 4-alpha,” the computer responded promptly.
“And where is Lieutenant Gregory now?”
“Lieutenant Gregory is in his quarters.”
Setting his teeth, Worf carried the trunk to the nearest turbolift and instructed it, “Deck 8.” In moments, he was carrying the trunk along a curving corridor, his eyes scanning the tiny signage on the doors. When he found the right door, he thumbed the chime and folded his arms.
A blond human of less than thirty years of age appeared in the doorway, his uniform crumpled and open at the throat. Behind him, padds, books, and other bric-a-brac were scattered untidily around the floor between open bags and boxes.
“Lieutenant Gregory,” Worf said without preamble. He dumped the trunk into Gregory’s arms. “Is this your trunk?”
Gregory nodded eagerly. “Why, yes, it is, uh, Commander.” His eagerness stalled a little when he realized the rank of the big Klingon. He smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, sir. I thought I’d never see it again.”
“Then perhaps you should not have left it in the corridor.”
“But, sir, I didn’t.” Gregory waved his hands vaguely, a human propensity that always set Worf’s teeth on edge. “The last I saw that trunk was at Space Station McKinley. It didn’t make it over to the Enterprise with me, and I thought it had been lost in transit.”
“Did you report this transporter malfunction?”
“I called back to McKinley to ask why they didn’t send it with me. I’m still waiting to hear back from them.”
“Open it,” Worf ordered bluntly, “and confirm its contents. Is anything missing, or has anything been added to it?”
Gregory retreated into the cabin and put the trunk on a chair. “Uh, please, Commander, come in.” The invitation was unnecessary, as Worf was already watching over his shoulder. Gregory shuffled through the clothes and boots in the trunk. “Everything’s just as it should be, Commander.”
“Nothing is missing?”
“Not that I can tell. And there’s definitely nothing extra in here…” His voice trailed off in a way that suggested there was something he wasn’t sure whether to mention.
“If you have any more to say, do so now.”
“It’s probably nothing. I just thought there was a bit of a…a funny smell there for a minute. I thought I’d had all these things cleaned before I packed them, but maybe I missed something.” Worf refrained from commenting, but he could tell from the lieutenant’s expression that his own expression said all that needed to be said.
Picard had settled into his new seat on the bridge. It felt physically as comfortable as his old one, but he couldn’t help thinking that it didn’t. “Maneuvering thrusters,” he ordered, “three-quarters forward. Take us out.” The ensign at the helm was already executing the maneuver, as she acknowledged with, “Three-quarters, aye, sir.”
Tiny flares of heated gas flickered, shoving the great starship into forward motion. Effortlessly, like a brig whose sails have caught the wind at the harbor mouth, the Enterprise slid out from the grip of the orbital dock.
Although Earth orbit was always busy with traffic approaching or departing, Starfleet had made sure there was a wide corridor for the Enterprise. Their newly restored thoroughbred would be in no danger of running down smaller travelers in her path.
It had been reunited with its fellows. The reunion was a great joy and a great relief. It was good to be normal once more and with all the emotions and intelligence that it knew and deserved.
The reunion was also short, for there was much work to be done, and none of the fellow travelers were work shy. It had made its way to a storage area where there was a viewport. No parts of the drydock now obscured the view of Earth below. The ship was in free flight.
That meant it was time.
Worf had tried to put the trunk out of his mind, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow he could imagine Captain Riker following up on it. Or perhaps Data, in one of his Sherlock Holmes holodeck fantasies.