Three - Michael Jan Friedman [0]
to Captain Picard
“Sir,” said the operator, “a crewman just arrived on my transporter pad.”
The captain glanced at Ben Zoma, who shrugged his shoulders. Obviously he didn’t know any more about it than Picard did.
“I didn’t order any transports,” the captain noted. An even more disturbing question came to mind. “Exactly where did she beam here from, Mr. Refsland? There aren’t any vessels registering on our sensors.”
“That’s not clear, sir,” Refsland replied. “My instruments tell me she came from the direction of the anomaly. But that doesn’t seem possible.”
“And who is it?”
A pause. “I’m not certain,” said Refsland.
“I hope this isn’t a joke, Mr. Refsland, because I’m not in the mood.”
“I recognize her,” said the transporter operator. “I just don’t know which Lieutenant Asmund it is.”
As if on cue, both Idun and Gerda turned to look at the captain. Now he was certain that it was a joke.
“Mr. Refsland,” he said slowly, “both Lieutenant Asmunds are here with me on the bridge.”
Based upon Star Trek:
The Next Generation®
created by Gene Roddenberry
POCKET BOOKS
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Contents
In Memoriam
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the e-Book
In Memoriam
My friend Adam died two years ago on September 11, 2001, a victim of the attack on the World Trade Center. He worked for Cantor Fitzgerald on what was the 101st floor of Tower One.
Adam was a bull, a physically powerful man who could easily have bench-pressed me if he had wished. His strength was evident in his racquetball game, which few people knew as well as I did, since I had played him on and off for nearly twenty years. His serves were rockets, his volleys laser shots. And it was his style to go full tilt after every ball in play, no matter how remote his chances of hitting it, no matter what kind of toll it took on his body.
If he lost a point, it would get him mad. And if I told him it was a good effort, it would only get him madder. “It wasn’t a good effort,” he would tell me. “It sucked. Now shut up and serve.” It was his way of firing himself up, rallying his resources.
Adam lived his whole life that way—full tilt, take no prisoners. As his wife, Fern, would tell you, he wasn’t reserved by nature