Star Trek: Pantheon (11 page)

“This is pretty impressive,” called Ben Zoma, who now seemed to be twenty meters away. “I’m going to pick up the pace.”

And pick up the pace he did. After a moment or two, he was sprinting—going all out. But it did not diminish the veracity of the illusion. From Worf’s point of view, Ben Zoma’s figure gradually dwindled.

“As I was saying,” the Klingon continued, “the diodes dictate what one sees. Not only by creating pure images, but by altering the way one perceives other elements. The electromagnetic fields, for instance. The converted-matter objects. And, of course,
other participants.”

Greyhorse grunted. “I see. The polarized interference patterns come together to act as a lens—making the moving participant appear farther away than he or she really is.”

“Precisely, Doctor.”

“And if we were to go running after him,” said Morgen, “the treadmill effect would come into play for us too. So we could never close the gap between us unless we put in a lot more effort.”

“Or he stopped and allowed us to catch up,” suggested Greyhorse.

Worf confirmed it: “That is the general idea, yes.”

By then, Ben Zoma must have tired of testing the holodeck’s capacity for illusion, because he had turned around and was running back. To his credit, he had yet to break a sweat. His breathing had barely even accelerated.

“I understand,” said Morgen, “that holodeck programs may be customized. Even created from scratch.”

This time, he was addressing Worf directly. There was no way the Klingon could help but meet his eyes.

Worf could feel the instinctive reaction rising within him. It took an effort to stifle it—to keep it from being obvious.

“That is true,” said the Klingon.

Morgen’s eyes, bright yellow, narrowed the slightest bit. “Have
you
created programs, Mr. Worf?”

Inwardly writhing under the Daa’Vit’s scrutiny, Worf nodded. “I have,” he confirmed.

Morgen seemed about to ask something else. But it never came out. For a fraction of a second longer, he regarded the Klingon. Then Ben Zoma had returned from his run.

“Whew,” he said, wiping his brow where a faint sheen of sweat had finally emerged. “Not a bad workout.” He turned to Greyhorse. “So? Satisfied?”

The doctor looked around, nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“Quite
satisfied.” He turned to Worf. “Thank you for your patience, Lieutenant.”

“It was my pleasure,” said the Klingon. He looked up at the sky again. “Save program.”

Abruptly, Ander’s Planet vanished, leaving in its place the stark yellow-on-black grid of the unadorned holodeck. The visitors took it in, seemingly as intrigued by the naked space as by the illusion. Worf allowed them some time to look around.

Then he indicated the door with a gesture. “This way, gentlemen.”

As he exited, he thought he could feel Morgen’s eyes boring into his back.

What was the question the Daa’Vit had been about to pose?

In the cavernous engine room of the
Enterprise,
Geordi and Simenon stood side by side, gazing up at the mighty matter-antimatter core. On the catwalk above them, engineering personnel went through their daily diagnostic routine.

The Gnalish grunted. “You know,” he said, “I’ve pictured this a thousand times in my head. Had to, in order to teach advanced propulsion at the Academy.” He grunted again. “But seeing it up close…for
real
—it’s so…”

“Impressive?” suggested Geordi.

“Disappointing,”
finished Simenon. He regarded the
Enterprise’
s chief engineer. “It doesn’t look a whole lot different from the engine core on the
Stargazer.
Bigger, sure. But when you come down to it, a warp drive is still a warp drive.”

Geordi took a second look at his engine room—the heart and soul of the ship, as far as he was concerned. “I guess,” he said, “that depends on your point of view.”

Just then, the turbolift doors slid apart and spewed out a familiar figure. Wesley crossed the deck as quickly as he could without actually running and came to a halt in front of the two engineers.

“You’re out of breath, Ensign,” observed Simenon.

“I’m…late…sir,” explained Wesley. He turned to Geordi. “Sorry. Commander Data…asked me to make a course change…at the last minute and—”

The engineering chief put a reassuring hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’m notified about such things, remember? Besides, Professor Simenon just arrived himself.”

The Gnalish looked at Wesley askance. “You’re not in a hurry to meet
me,
are you?” He leered at Geordi. “Now,
that
would be a refreshing change—a young person actually
hurrying
to bask in my presence.”

“Actually,” said the chief engineer, “Ensign Crusher here
was
excited about meeting you. Weren’t you, Wes?”

Wesley nodded. “I have an interest in warp engineering,” he said, having finally caught his breath. “And with all the work you’ve done in that field…”

Simenon dismissed the idea with a wave of his scaly hand. “Nothing at all, compared to those who went before me. My real talent was
hands-on
engineering.” He indicated Geordi with a tilt of his head. “What
this
young man does. What I
used
to do,” he sighed.

The ensign smiled tentatively. He looked at the Gnalish. “You’re kidding, sir—right? I mean, half the advances in the last ten years…”

Simenon snorted. “Overrated, I tell you.” He turned to Geordi. “Listen to me, Commander La Forge, and listen well. Someday you’re going to be faced with a choice like I had—a ‘promotion,’ they call it. For the good of the service.” He poked a finger in Geordi’s chest. “Don’t do it. Manacle yourself to a monitor. Stow away.
Name of Scaraf
—steal a ship if you have to. You hear me?”

Geordi smiled. “I hear you. But somehow I don’t think it’s quite as bad as you make it out to be.”

Simenon frowned. “No. You wouldn’t, I suppose. Not until you’ve been there.” He turned to Wesley. “And
you
—what do you
really
want from me?”

The ensign looked helpless for a moment. Then Simenon put him out of his misery. “You needn’t explain,” he said. “Even an old cog like myself can figure it out.” He seemed to inspect Wesley with fresh interest. “Crusher. As in
Jack
Crusher. Your father, I gather?”

The young man nodded. “Yessir.”

“You want to meet someone who served with him—yes? To learn a little more about him?”

Wesley nodded again. “Not that I’m not fascinated by your work,” he amended quickly, “because I am. But I guess that’s not
all
I’m interested in.”

The Gnalish snorted again. “I’d be surprised,” he confessed, “if it were any other way.” He eyed the ensign. “Then again, I may not be the best person to ask. Certainly, I served with your father—but he was closer with some of the others. Captain Picard, for instance. And Vigo—though he can’t help you much, having perished in that nasty business at Maxia Zeta.” He paused to think for a moment. “Of course, there’s Ben Zoma—he was your father’s immediate superior. Cadwallader, I recall, used to trade research monographs with him. And he seemed to joke a lot with Pug Joseph…”

A resigned sort of look had come over Wesley’s face. Geordi empathized with the young man’s disappointment. Apparently, he’d really been looking forward to this opportunity to pump Simenon for some information.

The Gnalish must have noticed the look too, however. Because he stopped dead in his tracks and did an about-face. “On the other hand,” he said, “I
do
remember a
few
things about your father. In fact, a particular incident comes to mind…”

Wesley smiled.

Without excusing himself, Geordi withdrew and headed for the nearest unoccupied workstation. He had a feeling that Simenon might be a little more open with the ensign if it was just the two of them.

Besides, he had
work
to do.

“Strange,” said Picard. “As I recall, Mr. Joseph was always quite punctual.”

Standing on the other side of the battle bridge, Asmund shrugged. “Something must have held him up.”

The captain frowned. “Apparently.” He looked at his former helm officer, and gestured to the captain’s chair. “Care for a seat?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Thank you.” She looked around. “Actually, this reminds me more of the
Stargazer
than anything else.”

Picard nodded, leaning back against one of the peripheral station consoles. “I have remarked on that myself, Idun. But then, that makes sense, doesn’t it? When we separate the battle section from the primary hull, speed and efficiency are at a premium—just as they would be in a deep-space exploration vessel.” He folded his arms across his chest. “There’s no room here for the sort of luxury we enjoy on the main bridge.”

Asmund went over to the conn position, leaned over the console, and looked at the empty viewscreen. “I like this better,” she said. “Without the luxuries.” She ran her fingers over the dormant control panels. “Yes. It feels more comfortable.”

Picard watched her. It seemed that she belonged here—much as Worf had seemed to belong here, on those occasions when it had been necessary for him to man the battle bridge.

“And when you separate,” said Asmund, “the battle section retains the full range of ship’s capabilities? Weapons, propulsion, everything?”

“That’s correct,” said the captain. “The battle section is equipped with both impulse and warp drive engines, a shield generator, two photon torpedo launchers, and a complete spread of phaser banks.”

“And the saucer section?”

“No warp drive. No photon torpedoes. But just about everything else.” Picard sighed. “I wonder what Vigo would have said about all this.”

Asmund looked back over her shoulder. “He would have wondered why you needed a primary hull in the first place.”

The captain nodded. “Or, for that matter, living quarters.” He smiled at his own joke.

Idun stared back at him, stony-faced as ever.

Picard looked at her. “Idun,” he said. “I don’t like to see you acting this way.”

“Which way is that?” she asked softly, turning back to the console.

“Like an outsider,” he said. “Apart from everyone else.”

She sighed. “Captain…I
am
apart from everyone else.”

He looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

Asmund stood up straight, returned his gaze. “You
know
why.”

He smiled gently. “Idun, that was twenty years ago. No one holds that against you.”

“That’s what Captain Mansfield told me when I received Morgen’s invitation. But he—you—you’re wrong. Both of you.”

“Morgen invited you to be part of his honor guard. Would he have done that if he intended to shun you?”

“Captain Mansfield said that too. But it’s not just Morgen. Back at the starbase, Greyhorse was…I don’t know.
Different.
Not the way he used to be. Even Simenon was…distant. Aloof.”

“Has it occurred to you that you haven’t seen them in almost a dozen years? That they may have changed? That
you
may have changed?”

Asmund frowned. “It…occurred to me, yes.”

“Nor are Simenon and Greyhorse our two most congenial former comrades. I would not use them as a barometer of how the rest of us feel about you.”

She nodded. “Perhaps not.” A pause. “With all due respect, Captain, I’d like to talk about something else.”

Picard regarded her. He knew that Asmund, like Worf, could not be pushed. She would obey an order, if it came to that. She would go through the motions—but inside she would resist that much harder.

“As you wish,” he said finally.

Just then the turbolift doors opened. Turning at the same time, they saw Joseph emerge from the lift.

He grinned sheepishly. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.” He looked from one of them to the other. “I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

The guided tour completed, Dr. Crusher sat down at her desk. She indicated the three cabins that comprised the ship’s medical facilities.

“Well,” she said, “that’s what the well-dressed sickbay is wearing these days. What do you think?”

Greyhorse nodded. He seated himself across from her. “Very impressive, Beverly. Not as impressive as your holodecks, but impressive nonetheless.” Picking up a tricorder lying on Crusher’s desk, he put it through its paces. “A far cry from what we had to put up with on the
Stargazer.
We were lucky if both biobeds were functional at the same time.”

She regarded him. “Tempted?”

He looked up from the tricorder. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know,” she said. “To ship out again?”

Greyhorse chuckled dryly. “Beverly, there is no sickbay in existence that could tempt me to do that. Don’t be deceived by the fact that I signed on with a deep-space exploration ship, where patient care was my first priority. I have always preferred things to people—which is why Starfleet Medical suits me so well. I would rather peer over my morning coffee at a computer monitor than have to deal with something that can talk back.”

Crusher looked at him askance. “You mean you don’t get even a little twinge now and then? A desire to push out the frontiers?”

“I
am
pushing out the frontiers. I would think you’d know that, considering you pushed them out
with
me for a year or so.” He shook his head. “Truth be told, I should have been an engineer—like my father and brothers.”

Now that she thought about it, Crusher remembered Greyhorse’s saying something about a course in engineering at the Academy—just before he switched over to the medical curriculum, to avoid becoming “just another Greyhorse family robot.”

“I don’t know what kind of engineer you’d have made,” she said. “But you’re a damned fine doctor.”

He put the tricorder down and met her gaze. “It is very kind of you to say so, Beverly.” His eyes narrowed mischievously. “And, I might add, very discerning as well. Now, if you don’t mind, could we take in some other part of your ship? I have this premonition that if I stay too long, I’m actually going to have to
treat
someone.”

Normally, the gymnasium was quiet at this time of day—which was one of the reasons Riker chose this hour to work out. He was a social enough being in every other aspect of his life, but he’d learned something long ago: If you came to the gym to shoot the bull, all you’d end up exercising was your mouth.

Unfortunately, the gym wasn’t as deserted as he would have preferred. As the doors to the room parted, he could hear the sound of heavy breathing, amplified by the echoing gym walls.

Entering, he saw that someone was on the horizontal bar—someone slender and female, her hair bound tightly behind her head, moving too quickly to be easily identified. For a moment Riker stood there, silently appreciating the grace with which each intricate maneuver was performed—not to mention the streamlined form that was doing the performing.

The gymnast, on the other hand, seemed not to have noticed his presence. Nor was that difficult to understand, given the concentration she must have had to apply.

This had to be someone new to the ship, he told himself. Nobody he knew was capable of
those
kinds of moves.

As he watched, the woman extended herself full-length, swung around the bar a couple of times, and then leapfrogged over it. The momentum she’d built up carried her almost half the length of the gym before she landed on a mat. A little stumble at the end marred what otherwise would have been a perfect routine.

Riker had already begun clapping before he realized whom he was clapping for. Then the gymnast turned around, a little startled—and he found himself staring at Tricia Cadwallader.

“Criminy!” she said, her hand resting on her breast. “You could have let me know you were there!”

He shrugged. “Sorry. I was too dazzled to think straight.”

Cadwallader blushed through her light sprinkling of freckles. “I wasn’t
that
good. You should have seen me back at the Academy.”

Riker tried not to gape at the way she filled out her cutout tank suit. What was it about Starfleet uniforms that made women look like boys? “If I told you,” he began, “that I can’t imagine you performing any more beautifully
anywhere
…it would probably sound like a line, wouldn’t it?”

She smiled as she thought about it. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you try it?”

He nodded. “All right—I will.” He approached her, taking her hand in his, and gazed into her deep green eyes. “I can’t imagine you looking any more beautiful anywhere—not at the Academy or anywhere else.” He hung on to her hand. It was soft and warm and just the slightest bit damp with perspiration. “How was that?”

Cadwallader’s smile became a smirk. “Pretty good—except you got some of the words wrong. The first time, you said ‘performing’—not ‘looking.’”

Riker feigned confusion. “Did I? I guess it just came out that way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now, that,” she said, taking her hand back with a flourish, “sounds like a line.” Crossing the room, she headed for the towel rack.

“Listen,” he called after her, “I wouldn’t have to resort to such ploys if you’d have dinner with me.” His voice echoed from wall to wall.

Cadwallader turned around. “Are you asking?”

Riker straightened. “I’m asking.”

She chuckled. “All right, then. But not tonight. I have a prior engagement.”

He watched her go to the rack and take down a towel. “Oh?”

“That’s right,” said Cadwallader, using the towel to dry her hair. “And so do you.”

Riker didn’t understand. It must have been evident in his expression, because she went on to explain.

“Captain Picard’s feast,” she said. “Hasn’t he told you about it?”

Riker shook his head. “No, I don’t believe he has.”

Cadwallader shrugged. “It’s at 1800 hours. I’m sure he wouldn’t assemble all his officers and leave you out.” She paused. “Would he?”

“I’ve been a little busy lately,” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “There’s probably a message waiting for me in my quarters.”

She toweled off some more. “Mmm. Probably. Unless, of course, he means for you to take charge of the bridge then.”

Riker couldn’t help but smile at the way she was baiting him. “I suppose that
is
a possibility.”

Slinging the towel over her shoulders, Cadwallader headed for the doors. As she passed him, she patted him on the shoulder in a comradely sort of way.

“It’s all right,” she said, tossing the remark at him offhandedly. “If you miss dinner tonight, you’ll just be that much hungrier tomorrow.”

Riker watched her go, his smile spreading. He had a feeling he’d be hungry tomorrow no matter
what.

“And that,” Simenon said, standing with Wesley in a corner of engineering, “is how your father and I held off a herd of charging thunalia on Beta Varius Four.” He smiled in his lizardlike way, remembering. “If either one of us had panicked and made for the caves, the other would have been trampled—or skewered on the beasts’ horns. And more than likely, both would have perished. But by standing back to back, we were able to keep them at bay with our phasers—at least until my transporter chief could beam us back up.” The Gnalish nodded proudly.

“What’s more, we collected the data we went down for, as well as the tissue samples from which new thunalia could be cloned. And, in fact,
were
cloned. If you visit the preserves on Morrison’s World, you’ll see any number of thunalia roaming the plains—even though Beta Varius Four is now devoid of complex life-forms.”

Wesley shook his head. “That’s great. That’s really great. Mom never mentioned that story.”

“Your mother may never have known about it,” Simenon pointed out. “We were all restricted as to the frequency and duration of our subspace messages. After all, there were hundreds of us aboard the
Stargazer
—all yearning for families and friends—and the subspace equipment was occasionally needed for other matters, mission communications not the least of them. As I recall, your father always had this…well,
interrupted
look on his face after a packet went out. As though, given the chance, he would have said a lot more.” He harumphed. “Besides, I’m sure he had more personal things to discuss than an encounter with a few dozen predators. Bazzid’s bones, we were risking our lives on a different planet each day.” He straightened, realizing he might have gotten a little carried away. “Or so it seemed,” he amended.

The ensign looked at him. He’d meant to say something about how terrific and how patient Simenon had been. But that’s not what came out. What he said was: “Tell me how my father died.”

That was the story he
really
wanted to hear—even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself earlier. That was the hole inside him that truly needed filling.

Simenon sobered a bit at the request. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. He shrugged. “Besides, you must already know what happened.”

“Only from my mom. And she didn’t have much to go on. Just the official report from Starfleet, and whatever Captain Picard told her when he came to the house.”

The Gnalish regarded him for a moment, his ruby eyes blinking. Wesley could plainly see the reticence in them. Nor was it difficult to understand.

It was one thing to have to dredge up the memory of a comrade’s death. But to have to share it with that comrade’s son…

“I’ll tell you what,” Simenon said finally. “Why don’t I regale you with that story on another occasion? I
do
have that tour to take, you know.” He smirked, abruptly himself again. “Though you’re welcome to come along. I wouldn’t mind hearing some more about all those contributions I’ve made to warp drive technology.”

Wes smiled back, putting his feelings aside for the time being. “You can count on me, sir.”

The Gnalish nodded. “Good. That’s what I like about you, Ensign Crusher. You’ve got a healthy respect for your elders.”