Three - Michael Jan Friedman [64]
“And make them our pawns instead of the Coordinator’s,” said Picard. He nodded, envisioning the possibilities. “Make it so, Number One.”
Ben Zoma looked at him. “Make it so ... I like the sound of that.”
The captain sighed. “If it pleases you, I’ll make it a permanent part of my repertoire. Now go.”
Chapter Sixteen
PICARD WAS REVIEWING their battle plan for perhaps the seventh or eighth time when he heard the sound of chimes. Turning to his ready room door, he said, “Come in.”
As the door slid aside, Gerda Idun walked in. She was perturbed by something, if the captain was any judge of such things.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“You’ve been very kind to me,” Gerda Idun said. “Kinder than I would ever have imagined.”
“It was nothing,” Picard said.
She shook her head. “It wasn’t nothing. You’ve gone out on a long and very uncertain limb for someone you don’t know—and at one time, didn’t even trust. But I can’t ask you to go out on it any further.”
Picard leaned back in his plastiform chair. “What are [193] you saying? That we need not place ourselves in any more danger for the sake of your transport?”
Gerda Idun nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. It’s what I have to say, if I’m to live with myself.”
He regarded her. “That’s gallant of you, Lieutenant. And much appreciated. However, you deserve a chance to return home.”
She pulled out the chair on the other side of his desk and placed her hands on the polished, black surface. Had anyone entered the room at that moment, they would have thought she was pleading with him for her life.
But it was just the opposite. Gerda Idun was asking him to help her give it up.
“There are a great many people on this ship,” she said. “They all have homes to return to just as I do—and people in those homes who will miss them if they fail to come back. I can’t ask your entire crew to risk its lives so the needs of a single person can be accommodated.”
The captain considered the woman’s words for a moment. “It is true,” he conceded finally, “that you cannot ask them to assume that risk.” He paused. “But I can.”
Gerda Idun looked annoyed—a strange thing indeed, under the circumstances. “Why?” she asked. “Because you’re their commanding officer?”
“That is correct,” said Picard. “But not just because I am their commanding officer. I can ask them to do this because they trust me, and because they know I would not ask them to do anything I would not do myself.”
Gerda Idun shook her head. “Please, it’s not fair to—”
He held up a hand for silence. “It is eminently fair. You talk about not being able to live with yourself. How [194] will my crew feel if they do not at least make an attempt to send you home? How easy will it be for them to live with themselves?”
Her nostrils flared. “They don’t have any obligation to me. I’m not part of your Starfleet ... or your Federation. I’m a stranger to them.”
“Perhaps,” said Picard. “But can you honestly tell me you would shy away from danger if the tables were reversed—if it were one of my people in your universe, and you had the power to return him or her to us?”
His ready room was never really silent, what with the gentle drone of the engines and the soft whisper of the ventilation system. But it had never been quieter than at that moment.
Gerda Idun sighed. “It’s times like these,” she said, “when I wish I were a better liar.”
The captain smiled. “Rest assured, I would not send my ship and crew on a suicide mission. I sincerely believe we can do this and still emerge in one piece.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you will speak kindly of us when you return to your proper universe. That will be all the thanks we require.” He indicated his monitor with a tilt of his head. “Now, if you will excuse me, we have work to do—all of us.”
Gerda Idun nodded. “Of course.” And without another word, she left the room.
A most remarkable woman, Picard mused. Then he turned back to his monitor and reviewed their battle plan all over again.