Star Trek - Unification Part 13

The remembrance that by tomorrow she would be unemployed hit her with full force again. The thrill of meeting the Klingon had temporarily driven that depressing thought away, but it returned with grinding impact. What the rune was she going to do? She couldn't even get off this runey little planet. And there weren't any more jobs for four-armed keyboard players; she'd been lucky to find this one.

Amarie sighed and tried to concentrate on making sure Omag was happy with her playing. His tip might have to last her for quite a while.

Riker transported to the surface alone, trying not to feel qualms about leaving Gretchen behind on the Enterprise. Her summary rejection of his dinner invitation had stung, and he reflected that this was exactly the kind of unpleasantness he had wanted to avoid. He vowed from this point to keep their relationship on purely neutral ground.

But he had to admit that he had been deeply affected by the vulnerability he had seen exposed in her. Her need to achieve, to be the best, was a desperate and driving force, which, if derailed, left her defenseless.

It was a failing she would have to correct if she were going to make it in Starfleet. Needy people are suscep-tible people, and such people-particularly in security-make mistakes. Mistakes in Gretchen's branch of service could be life threatening, to herself and to others.

He shook off these dark musings as he entered the hideaway and heard the strains of "Melor Famagal" still playing. There were few patrons in the place, as usual; ahead he saw Worf seated near Amarie, who was managing to make the fourth time through the melody sound varied and fresh.

Riker's eyes roamed the room and easily found the fat Ferengi, Omag. He was seated at a table with two gorgeous women, stuffing food into his mouth at a prodigious rate, washing it down with what looked like champagne.

Worf caught Riker's eye and stood, walking casually toward him. The two men glanced toward Omag, who was now pounding the table with his shoe.

"Where is the waiter?" he was squealing, and bits of food fell out of his mouth as he did so. "Is there no waiter in this sorry place?"

Riker and Worf made their way to the table. Riker leaned down toward the fat little man and asked seriously, "Is there a problem?"

"Yes," snapped Omag. "I need more napkins." He turned away and slurped more champagne.

"Use your sleeve," said Riker quietly.

This produced the antic.i.p.ated effect. Omag turned to him in shocked surprise, eyes wide. "What did you say?" he asked incredulously, as bits of food dangled from his mouth.

Riker found him disgusting. He glanced toward one of the lithe young women who were sipping drinks and pretending to ignore this little encounter. "Or use her sleeve, I don't care."

Omag's squinty eyes narrowed further. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Commander William Riker, the U.S.S. Enterprise."

"Am I supposed to stand up and salute?" Omag looked at the women and laughed heartily. They joined suit.

"We're investigating the disappearance of a Vulcan ship-"

"You've got the wrong Ferengi. I never trade in Vulcan ships." "We know you were involved," persisted Riker. Omag stuffed something long and oily into his mouth and chewed for a moment before responding. "Who would want a Vulcan ship? Vulcans are paci-fists. I deal in warships." A drizzle of oil squirted from his mouth and he wiped it with his hand. "Can somebody get me a napkin?!" he yelled.

n.o.body did. "Who would want a Vulcan ship?" asked Riker, not letting him wriggle away.

"Hypothetically speaking?" Omag's eyes were wide in mock seriousness.

"Hypothetically speaking."

"I never learned to speak hypothetical." Omag tilted back his head and howled with laughter, spray-ing bits of matter over the table as he did. The women followed suit, laughing merrily.

Riker had had enough. He picked up the edge of the table and tilted it so that all the food and drink slid down and descended on top of the Ferengi and his women. They erupted in shrill shrieks of rage and dismay, leaping to their feet and brushing ineffectual-ly at their sodden clothes.

Riker heard the music stop behind them. He moved toward the startled Ferengi, now looking ridiculous with food dumped all over him. "Are you crazy?" the man screeched. Riker grabbed him by his lapels and raised him off his feet. It was an effort to do so, but his adrenaline was pumping. He could sense Worf at his back, watching for any move from the patrons.

"Let me explain what's going to happen if you don't tell me about that Vulcan ship," he began, in a calm voice. "Your pa.s.sage rights through this sector will be revoked. But more than that, I'll be very unhappy."

The Ferengi, his feet dangling inches over the ground, looked at him with a mixture of loathing and fear. "I delivered it to a Barolian freighter," he gasped.

"At what coordinates?"

"I don't remember."

Riker tightened his grip and the squat little man wheezed desperately. "Ow, watch it... you're stretching my neck.. 2' "Coordinates?"

"At Galorndon Core. Near the Neutral Zone. That's all I know. I swear it." His face was turning a strange purplish color.

Riker threw him back into his seat, directly on top of a creamy tart, which squished as the fat man landed on it.

"Enjoy your dinner," said Riker pleasantly. He turned to smile at Amarie, and as he and Worf started to leave, he picked up a napkin from a nearby table. He flung it toward Omag, and it landed on the wretched little man's lap. Riker was pleased to see that even Worf grinned at that.

Amarie stared at the scene of mayhem in dismay. The two Starfleet officers were gone, having left be-hind a powerful Ferengi ship dealer who was now sitting in the middle of his own dinner. The two concubines had disappeared, cleaning themselves up, she supposed. But what distressed her was the realization that this was not a night when Omag was going to leave a sizeable tip. He'd been roughed up, humili-ated, and doused with food and drinkmhe probably couldn't wait to get out of there and he wasn't going to feel like throwing money around when he did.

As she looked over at him, she found herself feeling sorry for the runey little toad. He looked pathetic, daubing at himself with a napkin. The waiters had finally reappeared and were doing their best to clean up the food, and Shem hovered and clucked uselessly. The table and floor looked like a giant baby had just eaten dinner there, slopping food everywhere.

Without conscious thought, Amarie rose and went to Omag, took the napkin from his hand, and began wiping his head for him with one hand, his shirt with another; another patted his shoulder. "Too bad, Omag," she crooned. "Don't let it get you down." She tenderly wiped the folds of his huge ears.

"I'll hire guards. I'll go after them.. 2' he was sputtering in his rage and distress.

"Pumply, they're long gone from here. They got business to do and they're already on their way. Besides, you don't want to waste your time on petty little runes like them. You could buy and sell them a thousand times over."

Omag frowned, reflecting on this. "It is true," he p.r.o.nounced.

"You just settle down and forget about them. The evening is young and I haven't even got warmed up with 'Melor Famagal.' We'll get you set up at a new table and order some champagne. You ever try the fried Caldor eel? No? Oh, pumply, you haven't lived..."

She continued clucking over him, gently leading him to another table, all four hands brushing food from his clothes, seating him, and tucking a fresh napkin in his neck. "There," she cooed. "Pretend you just walked in the door and sat down and told me to play your song. Okay?"

Omag was undone by her tender ministrations. His eyes actually seemed moist as he stared up at her. "Amarie," he snuffied, "you are a good woman."

She laughed her horsey laugh; it felt good to laugh again. "You better believe it, Omag." She leaned down to him and whispered in one giant ear, "and I got more bounce to me than those skinny little girls you bring in here all the time."

Omag smiled and nodded, his eyes twinkling once more. "You play me 'Melor Famagal' about fifty or sixty times, I'll be myself again. And then"-he stretched up to her and she leaned down to hear- "we will have late dinner together. Just you and me. I think I would like to get to know you better."

Amarie gave him a squeeze and a smile, then made her way back to the keyboard. She felt a joyousness in her heart that she realized hadn't been there in a long, long time. She was eager to get her hands on the keys. That cute little rune was going to hear "Melor Famagal" like he had never heard it before.

Amarie knew that somehow, everything was going to work out just fine.

Chapter Seventeen.

DEANNA TROI WAS AWARE of uncomfortable feelings between Will Riker and Ensign Gretchen Naylor. They were sitting in the conference lounge, being briefed by Will on the events at Qualor Two.

There was nothing overt that happened between Will and the pretty young ensign, but Troi's empathic senses were fully engaged by something potent and puzzling that she sensed, particularly from Gretchen. She noted that Will seemed to avoid looking at her, sweeping his eyes by her as he recounted the events of the previous night and the information he had garnered from Omag, a Ferengi ship dealer.

"He claimed to have delivered the ship to a Barolian freighter near Galorndon Core. And you know what that place brings to mind."

The rocky shoals of Galorndon Core had figured prominently in another adventure they'd had with the Romulans, a few years ago. Troi could remember well the tension that had been created on the Enterprise when they had found a downed Romulan craft on that bleak, storm-ridden planet and had faced down the Romulan captain, Tomalak, who claimed that the incursion into Federation s.p.a.ce was accidental and insignificant.

They were sure that it wasn't, that the Romulans had their eyes on that prize location near the border of the Neutral Zone, but nothing was ever proven either way. And henceforth, the name of Galorndon Core had always conjured to them the image of Romulans.

"I think we should get this information to Captain Picard. It might somehow be related to his mission." This was Ensign Naylor speaking, carefully addressing the room and no one person in it.

"Agreed, Ensign," said Riker, also not looking at her. Troi found this strange, indeed. What was going on? Were these two having a romance-one that was going badly?

She found it hard to believe. She and Will had learned years ago that, if they were to serve on the Enterprise together, they had to sacrifice their own prior relationship. There was no place on a starship for such emotional entanglements. Surely Will had learned that lesson well enough not to repeat it. But there was definitely something going on between him and the beautiful ensign.

"Commander Data was going to work on a piggyback communication process in order to get transmissions out of the Neutral Zone," Riker was saying. "If he's successful, we can apprise them of our findings."

"Of course, we could go to Galorndon Core. See what's going on there." That from Ensign Naylor, again stated to no one in particular.

"Captain Picard expects us to be at Qualor. That piggyback transmission would never find us at Galorndon Core. We'll wait."

"Aye, sir," replied Naylot quietly, but Troi again felt a surge of-something-from the young woman. Not love, not romance ... a longing for something was as close as Troi could get to it.

Troi's job on the ship was to help keep emotional harmony among the crew. It was a job with which she was feeling vaguely dissatisfied these days, but she took pride in doing it well and she wasn't about to let it slip. If she sensed something unusual going on with any of the crew, it was appropriate for her to figure out what it was and deal with it.

When Will dismissed the group, Troi made her way toward Naylot. "Ensign," she said in a friendly way, "I'd love to have tea with you sometime soon."

The younger woman looked taken aback for a brief moment, but then returned the smile. "I'd like that," she said, and what Troi picked up from her now, overwhelmingly, was relief. "Why not now?"

"... and there's never a time when I leave anything undone until the next day. If there's work on my desk, I do it before I go to my quarters."

Troi nodded and sipped at her tea. Gretchen Naylot was pouring herself out to Troi unabashedly; what Troi was hearing was a tale of a bright, motivated young woman who had set her sights on Starfleet and who never looked back in her single-minded drive to get there. Only once she had, she couldn't turn herself off.

Ensign Naylor was inflicting a lot of self-made stress on herself in her need to be the best and the brightest. Troi wondered if her family, when she was growing up, ever loved and praised her just because she was herself-or only because she was an exceptional student. Troi felt certain it was the latter.

Gretchen's feeling of self-worth was all bound up in her achievements. If she sensed that she was faltering at all, if she felt rejected, as she had felt by Will Riker when he wouldn't include her on an away team, it was an a.s.sault on her entire ident.i.ty. That could be troublesome, for no one got through life without quite a few failures, rejections, and missteps. No one of them could be given such importance that it rocked the core of one's very being.

Troi sensed that this was basically a stable, intelligent woman whose focus was just a little obsessive. She needed something to draw her out of her preoccupation with success.

"Ensign, have you considered a hobby?" Troi was surprised when Gretchen burst out laughing, until the young woman explained that Commander Riker had suggested the very same thing. This made Troi smile.

"He was talking about playing something called a stand-up ba.s.s. Have you ever heard of it?" Troi smiled again. Will was always trying to get people to play musical instruments. He loved music so much he believed everyone else would get the same pleasure from it he did. "Yes, I have. It's an ancient instrument."

"I just don't think that's anything that would hold my interestY "Can you think of something that would?"

To Naylot's credit, she honestly struggled with the question. Troi had no doubt that she was searching within herself, trying to find an elusive something that might pull her out of her single-minded concern with achievement.

But eventually she shrugged. "Not really." She looked down at her hands for a moment and then asked, "What's wrong with my just wanting to do a really good job as a security officer?"

"There's nothing wrong with that," replied Troi. "But if thaVs all there is... then, ironically, you might not be as good a security officer as someone who has outside interests."

The young ensign nodded. She understood; she wasn't resistant. She simply didn't know of anything else that interested her except work.

"When you were a little girl," Troi suggested, "was there anything you enjoyed doing? Anything besides studying?"

Gretchen sat quietly, searching her mind, genuinely trying to recollect her childhood. "I was so lucky. My family gave me everything, sacrificed for me, let me have the time I needed to study. I owe them so much."

Troi studied Gretchen intently. Her heart went out to this resolute young woman, beset with overwhelming feelings of responsibility. Her whole family had given their lives to see her succeed-how could she let them down? She carried this burden with her every minute; she had to be the best, or it would invalidate all the sacrifice her family had endured.

"Your brother and sister... did you ever just- play with them? Children's games, that kind of thing?"

Ensign Naylor smiled. "Sometimes. Not a lot. There were always ch.o.r.es, and of course there was-"

She stopped and looked down, as though stricken.

"There was what?" Troi asked gently.

"Ch.o.r.es," repeated Gretchen, "all the time-we had acres of herbs, and of course there's a lot of work in natural herbs, weeding, weeds are awful since chemicals were outlawed, and everybody had to pitch in-"

"Gretchen," interrupted Troi, "what are you trying not to talk about?"

The green eyes stared at her. Troi saw deep-seated pain in that look; she knew she had tapped into something. Gretchen tried to laugh, but it came out in a strangled cackle. "What do you mean?"

"There was something else in your life, something you have trouble talking about..."

Ensign Naylor rose abruptly, paced the room, worked to control herself, and finally turned back to Troi. She seemed composed once more. "I guess you're talking about Casey." Troi's head tilted. "Casey?"

"My brother. Baby brother. You probably read about him in my biographical profile."

"I haven't read your profile, Gretchen. I do that only if there's a problem."

"I see." Naylor looked as though she wished she hadn't brought it up. "Tell me about Casey." "He was sick. He died before he was two." "Sick with what?"

The young woman hesitated. "I-don't know. My folks never talked about it much. It was hard on them." "And how about you?" "Pardon?"

"It must have been hard on you, too. How old were you when he died?"

A brief hesitation. "I was twelve."

"It must have been awful for you."