CHAPTER NINE
Captain’s Log, Stardate 47952.5:
Even as the
While I feel the
mission specialists will be invaluable in coping with the crises ahead, the... ambiguities created by extra links in the chain of command are
difficult to resolve. Commander Warrick’s reputation
as a hard man is something of an understatement. He is from a school of
military philosophy generally unfamiliar to the more... conventionally trained Starfleet officer.
Captain
Mantovanni is another matter entirely.
“The
Picard glanced back, startled but pleased, as his
counterpart offered that without warning in the midst of their impromptu
strategy planning session.
“They
are, without a doubt, the finest collection of officers with whom I have ever
served,” he affirmed. He ordered his customary Earl Grey from the replicator,
and turned back to Mantovanni; who, after a moment’s consideration, requested,
“Hot cocoa, with a cinnamon stick, please.”
Picard brought his fellow captain the drink, with the
smallest of secret smiles, and then sat down across from him.
“Let
me guess.” Mantovanni cocked a sardonic eye at him, and essayed, “Is it, ‘I
can’t believe the tactical specialist likes cocoa’? or
‘Someone who’s so young shouldn’t emphasize it by drinking the same thing as my
four-year-old nephew’?
Picard smiled. “He’s fifteen, now, actually,” and then
conceded, “Good shot, though, Captain. I’ll admit to a little of each.”
Mantovanni
offered the slightest of grins as well, and then returned to his original
topic.
“Of
course, before I came aboard I read through the biographical and performance
dossiers on the entire senior staff, as well as certain key personnel with whom
I thought I might have contact. I was especially curious about one officer:
Will Riker.”
Picard’s smile faded slightly, as he sensed the
conversation again taking a serious turn. “Please, go on. I’m interested in
what particularly caught your eye.”
The
younger captain leaned back, and stated, “The same man’s been called, and I
quote: ‘An up-and-comer, a go getter, an excellent officer. If it wasn’t a
promotion to the flagship, I’d never let him go’ – Captain Robert DeSoto, USS. Hood;
‘Undoubtedly the best first officer in the fleet’ – Captain Jean-Luc Picard, USS Enterprise-D;
‘Difficult to work with and sorely lacking in military discipline’ – Captain
Edward Jellico, USS Cairo; and ‘A man
of wavering courage and inconsistent loyalties’ – Rear Admiral Eric Pressman,
Starfleet Intelligence.
“That’s
quite a disparity of opinion.”
Picard sighed deeply, and what was left of his smile turned
a bit grim. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the circumstances surrounding
Admiral Pressman’s resignation from Starfleet.”
“Officially,
no,” he responded. “Off the record, though, I’ve heard it had something to do
with deciding that the Head of Starfleet Security outranked the Federation
Council.”
“Something
of that sort,” Picard replied dryly. “It’s my opinion
his comments about Commander Riker should be examined in that light.”
Mantovanni
nodded. “Say no more.”
“The
second is a bit more difficult. Captain Jellico is a fine officer, but his
command style varies significantly from my own. If Will was unprepared for
that, I have to blame myself more than him. It’s a captain’s job, after all, to
groom a first officer for any situation that might arise.”
“True
enough. No captain plans for every contingency, though, no matter how
thorough—or in my case, paranoid—he is.
“However,
I know Edward Jellico. Let me give you my impression.” Mantovanni lowered his
voice, and then continued. “He’s a hell of a man, but he has a bug up his ass
the size of your warp core.”
Utilizing
a poker face that would have done Will Riker proud, the older captain answered,
“A bit... inelegant, but I shan’t dispute your assessment.” With that, he
allowed Mantovanni a slight smile.
Hours
later, alone in the ready room, Picard would recall
that particular image… and laugh almost until the tears came.
Will
Riker stood outside Deanna Troi’s quarters, and
considered whether or not to cancel their meeting. Crew evaluations could
certainly wait, and he was in no mood to discuss how he felt.
At
the precise moment he’d finally determined to leave, the door slid open.
Of course, he thought. So much for that idea.
Deanna
glanced up from her work, smiled warmly, and motioned him in to join her.
“Are
you ready for another crew evaluation?” he asked, with an attempt at lightness.
“Are
you?” she inquired in earnest response, as he dropped onto the couch across
from her. A long moment passed; she waited patiently while he rubbed at the
muscles in his neck.
“Not
really,” he finally admitted.
He looks positively uncomfortable, she
observed in amazement; she felt him try to compose himself, as if readying to
reveal what was bothering him so much. Despite herself, she leaned towards him
in anticipation and encouragement.
Then,
abruptly, he rose, and the moment passed.
“Actually,
I think I’m going to put these off until after the situation has passed. We’ll
reschedule in a few days. Thanks, Deanna.” She stood as he turned and
practically hurried towards the
door… or, rather, away from her.
“Will...?”
she called after him; but he didn’t even break stride as the door closed behind
him, and he was gone.
She
almost went after him, but the last impression she’d gotten—the only one she’d received with any
clarity—made up her mind not to do so. It was something she’d never expected
from her Imzadi—an
image of her and Worf, together, and a wordless
anguish that no counseling was going to resolve.
They
were both more concerned with Worf than each other.
And
they both knew it.
“I
am curious, Lieutenant. May I ask you what might be deemed a personal
question?”
Though
Sera MacLeod would have denied it had someone made the observation, she
possessed her mother’s ascendant brow in full measure, and used it with equal
facility.
Rather
than diverting attention from the calculations before her on the screen, she
nodded minutely; she was certain that the android would detect her consent,
even given in as minimal a fashion as she had just done.
A
moment later, she was proven correct.
“For
someone who, until just a few weeks ago, had spent their entire commissioned
career in the Marine Biology Branch of the Starfleet Sciences Division, you
have an unusual level of knowledge concerning particle physics, as well as what
seems a remarkable facility with starship systems and operations.”
MacLeod
continued to focus her attention on the screen; Data noted that the rate at
which she accessed the information was faster than any he had ever
seen—excepting his own and Lore's, of course.
She
finally replied, “Thank you. I find your performance to be satisfactory as
well.”
He
was momentarily taken aback, until he saw her smile slightly, push the Pause button on the panel, and glance up
at him.
“I
was not always a marine biologist,
Commander.”
“Ah.”
As
she turned back to their work, Data came to a pair of conclusions: The first
was that Lieutenant MacLeod was not particularly loquacious.
The
second was that her previous assignments were not, at this time, a matter for
discussion.
Will
Riker felt like the proverbial third nacelle.
He
strode away from Troi’s quarters with a fair
approximation of purpose, nodding once or twice in acknowledgment to various
officers and crew—none of whom saw what lay behind the impenetrable poker face.
He
found himself relieved by the short respite of solitude provided in the empty
turbolift.
“Bridge.”
Let’s see, he thought. Worf and Warrick are running battle simulation
drills and security exercises; Geordi and Mr. Barkley
are making Jellico’s modifications of three years ago seem like tinkering; Data
and the new officer... MacLeod, is it?... are reconfiguring the main sensor
array to give us a leg up on detecting cloaked vessels; Captains Picard and Mantovanni are holed up discussing things only
captains “need to know”...
And I’m doing
crew evaluations with Deanna.
Deanna...
He
determinedly pushed away that line of thought as he entered the bridge.
Data
and MacLeod were at one of the rear science stations, still immersed in their
task. The android looked up briefly; as always, ready to report on their
progress as soon as the first officer had given the least indication of concern
or interest.
Rather
than taking the center seat and doing just that, though, Riker turned towards
the ready room and rang the chime.
“Come.”
He
hesitated for a moment, then hardened his resolve.
Well, now that you’re here, you can’t just
make excuses like you did with Deanna, he reminded himself. So get in there.
He
entered.
They certainly make an interesting picture,
Riker thought, as the two captains turned to regard him.
Neither’s expression gave away
anything he didn’t choose to reveal.
Picard, as always, was the picture of senatorial
dignity—completely at ease, though, in a fashion Will had only rarely seen.
Mantovanni
was more difficult to read, but the impression Will got startled him: His mind
flashed back to one of the few substantive memories he had of his father from
over thirty years ago.
They
had gone on one of the few traditional father/son outings they’d ever
experienced—a trip to the zoo. Like most six-year-olds, Will had been
particularly enthused about the primate habitat.
“If
you really want to watch the chimps, pay attention to your schoolmates,” his
father had laughed.
Will
hadn’t seen any monkeys or apes that day. Instead, Kyle Riker had kept them in
the section focused on the galaxy’s great cats for over three hours. His son
had been both frightened and fascinated.
“Look
at him, Will,” his father had ordered, as they’d stood in front of a specially
constructed enclosure. Most of the other areas were designed to enhance the
perception of freedom and unity with the environment, while still keeping that
specific animal contained.
This one, by
contrast, was a relatively plain cube; a relatively plain cube, that is, with
transparent tritanium sides, and a type five shield
generator reinforcing the whole thing.
Will
Riker had looked.
The
cage’s white-maned occupant had looked back.
“Felis leo
ignis,” his dad had whispered. “Most people call
them Capellan power cats. I like their scientific name.
"Fire lions.”
“Number One?”
The
Ready Room stood out in stark contrast to his memories. Riker was chagrined to
realize that he’d zoned out in front of two command-level officers.
“Sorry, sir. I’m a little distracted.” He took a deep breath,
and attempted to gather his wits. “Since we’ll be entering the Neutral Zone in
about a half-hour, I thought it would be best to make this recommendation now.
“I
think we should separate the saucer section.” He saw Picard
and Mantovanni exchange glances, and wondered at it for a brief moment; but he
was committed to explicating his perspective.
“It
could easily reach either Starbase 17 or any number of Earth Outpost Stations
well before we cross the border into Romulan space.
If this gets nasty—as I think most of us believe it will—and the drive section
is destroyed or captured, we’ll have saved over 570 lives by doing this.”
Picard nodded. “That’s an excellent suggestion, Number One.
Perhaps we should...”
“No.”
Both
the commander of the Enterprise-D and
his first officer turned: Picard somewhat startled;
Riker shocked, and more than a little angry.
“Why not?” he demanded, glaring openly at the youthful
captain.
Mantovanni
wavered not at all. “Well, it might be tactically sound, and the best action
from a humanitarian standpoint, but it’s not strategically prudent.”
Then,
for the first time since he’d come aboard, Luciano Mantovanni showed some
emotion. With a voice like a storm on the horizon, he added, “I also suggest
you moderate your tone the next time you address me,
Commander. I haven’t served with you for seven years; I might get a negative
impression.”
Riker
slowly shook his head in almost amused disbelief, but before he could speak
again was cut off by Captain Picard.
“Will,
please relieve Mr. Data. I’m sure his attentions are better focused elsewhere
at this time.”
The
moment stretched, if not into insubordination, then to an uncomfortable length.
“Very
good, sir,” he responded at last. “Captain.”
This last was directed at Mantovanni, who nodded.
“Commander.”
As
the door closed behind his Number One, Jean-Luc Picard’s
expression evolved from neutral to a mixture of concern and chagrin. He looked
at Mantovanni as he gathered their empty cups for recycling, smiled slightly,
and shook his head.
“I
don’t know that Commander Riker just very much bolstered the case I made for
his being the best first officer in the fleet.”
Mantovanni,
surprisingly, came to Riker’s defense.
“He’s
in a difficult position, sir. Through no fault of his own, he’s temporarily out
of the loop; and the first real suggestion he makes, reasonable and
well-thought out as it was, is rejected rather off-handedly by the officer
who’s...” he hesitated.
“ ...sitting in what’s normally his place,” Picard finished. He had seen that immediately; he was just
a little surprised that his counterpart had, as well.
“I
probably could’ve handled it better,” Mantovanni continued, “but I got the
distinct impression that I’m not the only source of frustration in his life
right now.”
Picard frowned. He made it a point to avoid involving
himself in the personal affairs of his crew. He needed Will Riker sharp and
focused, though, and he wasn’t going to get that unless something was done.
The
decision made, Picard tapped his comm badge.
“Counselor
Troi, please report to my Ready Room immediately.”
Troi’s response was prompt.
“On my way, sir.”
As
the channel closed, Mantovanni stood.
“If
you don’t mind, sir, I’ll check in with Commander Warrick and Lieutenant Worf to assess their progress.”
“Of
course, Captain,” Picard agreed.
After
Mantovanni had left the Ready Room, Picard sat back
behind his desk.
How does that old saying go? he wondered to himself. Ah,
yes.
Too many chiefs, not enough
Indians.