Three - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
“Ejanix?” he whispered.
His mentor opened his eyes and saw him. “Yes?” he asked with gentle patience, sounding very much like Vigo’s instructor back on Pandril.
[210] The weapons officer shook his head. It didn’t seem fair. Ejanix had seen the error of his ways.
The older Pandrilite managed a semblance of a smile. “Imagine,” he said, “being killed ... by a mere Type-Two phaser. Talk about irony ...”
Then he coughed up blood, shuddered, and went limp. And Vigo knew that his friend was dead.
He knelt there on the floor for an indeterminate amount of time, doing his best to understand what had made his mentor change—and then change back. And he would have knelt there longer except he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Looking up at the face that went with it, he saw that it belonged to Sebring. The human looked sorry to interrupt.
“The security people say the engineers are okay,” Sebring noted, “but some of the rebels are still on the loose.”
Vigo nodded and dragged himself to his feet, his weapon still in his hand. “Come on,” he said, leaving his friend’s remains. “We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Eighteen
NIKOLAS SAT ON THE EDGE of his bed, knowing full well he was supposed to be on his way to engineering.
Simenon had asked for another pair of hands to help during their imminent battle with the Balduk, and Picard had tapped Nikolas for the assignment. When the captain sent someone somewhere, he expected them to go.
But the ensign couldn’t make himself follow Picard’s orders. He was too torn apart by the knowledge that once Gerda Idun set foot on Refsland’s transporter pad, he would never see her again.
With the morning, Nikolas had grudgingly done what Gerda Idun asked of him—he left her quarters, promising never to come back. At the time, he had deceived himself into thinking he might somehow be able to keep that promise.
But he couldn’t. He saw that now with crystal clarity. [212] Gerda Idun had gotten into him in a way no one else ever had.
It made all the sense in either universe for her to go home alone, and for him to stay where he was. But Nikolas no longer cared what made sense. All he cared about was being with Gerda Idun, now and always.
Planting his elbows on his knees, he ran his fingers through his hair. The captain had told him there might be a promotion in store for him—the kind that might ensure him a future in Starfleet, making fools of all those who had said Nikolas would never make it.
But if he failed to show up in engineering, he could kiss that future good-bye. Hell, he would be lucky if he wasn’t court-martialed for insubordination.
No one in his right mind would consider what he was considering—especially for a woman he had met only a few short days ago. No one in his right mind would throw away everything he had worked so hard for and make his way to Refsland’s transporter room.
But then, the ensign told himself with a tortured chuckle, no one had ever accused him of being in his right mind.
Picard’s forward viewscreen showed him just what he and his crew were up against—the same nine Balduk warships they had detected via sensors.
The Coordinator, a fully outfitted warship bristling with armaments. Its Satellites, considerably smaller but clearly decked out for battle as well. And the Independent, which had already proven herself a match for the Stargazer.
[213] A formidable array, to be sure. If anything went wrong, the Federation vessel would be cannon fodder.
But Picard had reviewed his strategy a dozen times. He was confident that it would work.
As for the purple bruise in the flesh of space that was the anomaly ... it was diminishing, just as Lieutenant Kastiigan had noted. But it appeared to the captain that there was enough left of it to suit their purposes.
“Picard to Transporter Room One,” he said.
“Refsland here,” came the reply. “We’re all here, sir—myself, Chief Simenon, Chief Joseph, and Lieutenant Asmund.”
It made sense for Simenon, who had made the alterations