CHAPTER FIVE

Luciano Mantovanni wasn’t as tall as Jean-Luc Picard would have thought.

He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Having himself been a labeled a "living legend," he was accustomed to the gamut of reactions from those who met him—everything from devout hero-worship, through intimidation, to outright resentment and hostility.

Almost everyone Picard met, though, for some reason seemed to think he should be taller; cut, perhaps, from a slightly more heroic mold than he actually was. At times, he found the preconception rather annoying.

It was humbling to realize that he too could fall so readily into such a mentality.

“Captain, it’s good to meet you,” he began, and rose to reach across his desk, clasping hands with his youthful counterpart.

“Thank you, sir,” Mantovanni responded quietly. He saw Picard’s gaze flick towards the bridge; and, anticipating the question, offered an explanation.

“I told your first officer I’d introduce myself.” At the older man’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “To tell the truth, I was hoping for once to avoid the ‘legendary captains size each other up’ stage, if you take my meaning. I’m sorry if I overstepped my authority.”

Picard, after a moment, withdrew his hand and tendered in its place a slight grin.

“Not at all, Captain. As a matter of fact, I know precisely what you mean.”

***

“I’m not sure I understand,” Troi’s smile was equal parts genuine, distracted, and puzzled. “You already possessed a doctorate in marine biology, and had accepted a instructor’s position at Wood’s Hole Oceanographic Institute, which as I understand it is the preeminent school of its kind in the Federation.

“Yet you walked away from that and joined Starfleet.”

Sera watched with seeming impassivity as one of Guinan’s omnipresent waiters returned with a disparate pair of orders—a double chocolate fudge brownie sundae, and a glass of lemon water.

“Correct,” was her only response. She sipped her drink, and regarded Troi with an unwavering gaze.

Hmm… like most Vulcans, she’s a real talker, Deanna noted wryly.

“Well, I was just wondering why.”

Sera set her glass down, and, for a moment, a flicker of something like irritation crossed her features. It was confirmed by the veritable wave of emotion that washed over Troi, and just as quickly subsided.

“It was necessary. The eldest in every generation of MacLeods... serves.

“Why do you require this information?”

Deanna put down her spoon, and set her body language carefully to project a conciliatory air. It took something of an effort. The tension level on the ship was rather high, what with knowledge of the fleetwide Yellow Alert, and the scuttlebutt guessing—correctly this time, though she didn’t yet know it—that the Romulans were involved.

“I don’t require it, Lieutenant. I was just curious. It’s an unusual circumstance, after all.”

As if on cue, Guinan herself had drifted over to the table, seemingly on one of her rounds of conviviality.

“How is everything here?”

“Ah, the bartender. I believe the term is ‘serendipity.’” At Troi’s questioning look, Sera continued, “This means I shall not have to repeat this again for the Enterprise’s other counselor.” Deanna and Guinan exchanged looks; the former one of chagrin, the latter, barely suppressed amusement.

“My father, Commodore Javan MacLeod, was a member of Starfleet when the Borg attacked the Federation. He commanded Task Force Seven, consisting of the Saratoga, the Hermes, and his flagship, the Musashi; all three were destroyed, and only the Saratoga had any survivors.

“When I learned he had fallen in battle, I immediately left my position at Woodshole—I’d only accepted it four days previously—and applied to Starfleet Academy. Since I had no degree requirements to fulfill, I was able to complete the requisite training in less than half the customary time.

“On behalf of the Starfleet Sciences Division, I studied the native reptillian predators on the water world of Argo for a year; I was, until just two weeks ago, helping to establish a colony on Amphitria II when I was abruptly reassigned.”

“You don’t sound pleased about being aboard the Enterprise,” Troi commented.

“Whether or not I am ‘pleased,’ as you term it, is immaterial. Logically, I assume that Starfleet felt my abilities in the general sciences were more valuable to them at this time than my skills as a marine biologist.”

“Nice try.” This from Guinan.

Sera raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t beg,” the El-Aurian advised, as she flopped down in the chair next to her. “It’s a terrible habit.

“You never answered the original question. Why did you join Starfleet?”

If anything, the eyebrow arched upward even further.

“There has always been a MacLeod in the service of his or her clan, country, planet or Federation. It is a tradition which reaches back before the foundation of the Kingdom of Scotland, to our Celtic and Pictish forbears.

“I am not one to break tradition,” she concluded, and rose. “If you will excuse me...”

Just then, Deanna’s communicator beeped.

“Data to Counselor Troi.”

“Troi here,” she answered crisply.

“There is a meeting of the senior staff around fifteen minutes from now, in the Observation Lounge.” The precision of his voice emphasized the adverb a little too strongly, making it stand out in the declaration.

Troi smiled. “Acknowledged.”

The android continued, though. “According to your schedule, you are currently engaged in preliminary processing with Lieutenant MacLeod. Please have her accompany you to the meeting.”

This time her response was a little hesitant. “Understood,” she replied, in a tone indicating that, actually, she didn’t.

She stood, and glanced across at the seemingly unconcerned Vulcan. “Well, Lieutenant, it seems as if you’re not excused.

“Let’s find out what’s going on.”

“Your security measures seem to be in excellent order, Lieutenant. My compliments.”

This rather matter-of-fact conclusion was the first unprompted statement Warrick had made in the hour he and Worf had been working ‘together,’ and it caught the Klingon flat-footed.

Their relationship hadn’t seemed to be getting off to a good start. At first, he had watched in silence as Warrick, referring on occasion to a PADD he held in his left hand, had begun to examine readouts from, and feed information into, the bridge tactical console. He had assumed it was a preliminary check, or a routine download of data that would take but a moment; and so he had waited.

After a few minutes had passed, though, and Warrick had remained silent, completely focused on the task, Worf had found himself ill at ease standing idle while his superior did all the work—at his duty station.

“Can I assist you, sir?” he finally asked.

Warrick didn’t even glance back at him.

“Hmmmm? Uh, no, Lieutenant. Stand fast.”

And so he had…

…as this continued for another twenty minutes.

He had glanced up once or twice from his limited perspective over Warrick’s shoulder, hoping to catch Commander Riker’s eye... and seen that the first officer hadn’t even noticed his discomfiture. He seemed oddly distracted, his undisguised gaze on the ready room door.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

Finally, fighting to keep what Geordi had once called the ‘ominous undercurrent’ out of his voice, he inquired, “May I ask what you are doing, Commander?”

Warrick’s answer was prompt.

“A number of things, actually: one, adding a number of tactical algorithms specifically designed for use against Romulan hostiles; two, entering a secondary console configuration, in the event it becomes necessary to man this post at any point during the mission; three, examining in detail the security chief’s applicable logs, evaluations, and mission debriefings.”

Finally, Warrick turned around, and glared at him.

“Was there a part of ‘stand fast’ you didn’t understand, Lieutenant?”

Worf could hardly avoid realizing that Warrick’s raised voice had finally garnered Riker’s notice… and, covertly, that of everyone else. His jaw tightened, and he promptly stiffened to attention.

“No, sir,” he replied firmly.

“Good. Then stand fast.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

For another interminable period, perhaps ten minutes, Worf had done just that, roiling in a mixture of anger and embarrassment while the remainder of the bridge crew studiously avoided looking in the direction of the tactical station.

It was then that Warrick had turned and complimented him.

He was momentarily befuddled, which was not an expression one normally saw on a Klingon face. Before he even thought to say, “Thank you,” the ready room door opened, and Captains Picard and Mantovanni emerged at last.

If a befuddled Worf was a rare sight, then a laughing Picard was downright startling.

“Exactly,” he was saying, in response to some unheard comment from his counterpart, as the pair made their way down into the center of the bridge; his expression had returned to its usual composure by the time he addressed a now half-smiling Riker.

“Number One, is the senior staff assembled?” he asked crisply. Riker paused, then grinned himself as the turbolift door opened to admit a group consisting of Troi, Crusher, LaForge and MacLeod.

“It is now, sir.”

Picard nodded briefly, and a hint of the smile returned. “Very well, then. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s adjourn to the observation lounge. Ensign Ro, lay in a course for...”

There was no disguising the pall that dropped over the bridge for the briefest of moments. To his credit, Picard made little of the faux pas, instead immediately amending his statement.

“Apologies, Ensign Page. Lay in a course for Selerria Four, in the Neutral Zone. Ahead warp five.”

There was nothing else to be said.

CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER SIX