Author's notes: Another old story, which I'm posting here to bridge the gap between Ship of Fools and its successor novel that'll follow when I've determined how much revising it'll need.
Have fun.
Star Trek is the property of Paramount. This is a work of fan fiction, written solely for the pleasure of it. I am not making money here, and don't intend to.
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THE LEGACY
In his ready room aboard the Ambassador-class USS Griffin, Captain Giacomo Grimaldi was staring at his private monitor. Staring at it and frowning.
Jellico, he thought. I really believe it'll have to be Jellico.
He sighed. If anybody had told me a year ago that I'd pick the Cairo as the best place to send one of my most promising junior officers –
The door alarm chirped before he could continue his musings. "Yes," he called, clearing the screen at the same time.
The door swished open, revealing the massive form of yet another of his private headaches. "Captain." The basso profundo voice was carefully neutral, but at the same time it somehow managed to convey a very distinct sense of disapproval. Grimaldi nodded.
"Yes, come in, Ensign. What's the matter?"
"We discovered and repaired the damage to the replicators, sir. Commander Hargrave wished you to be informed of this."
"Excellent," said Grimaldi, brightening. Trivial as it might be, the slightly tarry taste of a number of foodstuffs including the honey he liked, and his favorite mature Sangiovese wine, had annoyed him. It had annoyed almost everybody else as well, but even so it was thoughtful of Hargrave to have him informed. "Good work, Mr. Worf. By the way, who found the damage?"
"I did... sir." Worf was looking slightly offended as he said it. Grimaldi grinned. Worf had resented being put on the repair team, of course; the captain recalled a growled aside to the effect that complaining about the taste of food, and wasting time fixing it, was not the Klingon way.
"Well done," he replied heartily. "Oh, and by the way, I want you to accompany the research team we're sending down to Sigma Syanis. Report to Lieutenant Ruiz as soon as you're finished."
"Yes, Captain." Worf was straightening a little as he said it. Grimaldi nodded. "That's all, then. Dismissed."
As soon as the door had shut behind the Klingon he retrieved the information he had cleared from his screen. It was a list of ships and captains. Grimaldi sighed. Jellico, he thought again, shaking his head.
He would be retiring in about a year now. The fact in itself didn't bother him too much. He had had his career, a good one; he wasn't as young as he had been, he would be in and out of Starfleet Academy, giving the occasional lecture, keeping up with things and enjoying a little peace and quiet for a change. His wife had found them a house back on Earth. He was looking forward to seeing more of Sophy than he had these past ten or twelve years. It would be all right.
But there were some things he had to see to before that. Some of his people who needed looking after, for example, who might not find their place without a little help.
Margaret Abaquesne, for one. It had taken him some time to get used to her – her provocative ways, the auburn curls dancing about her shoulders, the uncomfortably speculative look of those fierce blue eyes. The uniform did nothing to hide her spectacular figure. Neither did her manner of wearing it. The sway of her hips as she brushed past you was one thing you didn't easily forget. For all that, she was a good officer – surprisingly so. Grimaldi suspected that a considerable percentage of the unattached male crew on his ship had had some intimate encounter with Lieutenant j.g. Abaquesne. To be able to command respect under those circumstances indicated a towering personality if nothing else. And she got the job done – without leaving a lingering bitterness behind. She might well make a command officer, some day.
Still, it was about time someone drummed a little self-discipline into Lieutenant Abaquesne. And Jellico of the Cairo might just be the man to do it. The atmosphere aboard the Griffin was too friendly, too relaxed. Grimaldi, sure of his crew's respect and loyalty, had never felt the need to be intimidating, and he wasn't going to start now.
Then there was Savage. A small, quiet man, Savage; if it hadn't been for some odd combination of circumstances Grimaldi might never have noticed him. Nobody ever noticed Savage, despite the fact that he was one of the most brilliant exobiologists the captain had encountered in his fifty years of service. And he might still be a lieutenant today, Grimaldi thought. If he could at all pull it off he would see to it that Savage received his third gold pip before his captain left. He hadn't decided on a ship for him yet. The Hood, possibly – Robert looks after his people. I just wonder –
"Bridge to captain," a voice said over the intercom. "Sir, we're just slipping into the Syanis system. Reducing speed now."
"Thank you, Martin. I'll be right there." He cleared the screen once again and rose, catching a quick look at himself in the window behind his desk. Lose some weight, Giacomo. On the whole he wasn't too displeased with his looks. He stood six foot two, with good shoulders and a massive head of iron-gray hair. But that uniform was merciless on the figure, and he had put on a pound or three recently. You're a vain old dog, he told himself without rancor as he strode out onto the bridge. "Report."
"Nothing to report yet, sir." Ensign Martin Rangeus turned in the Conn chair to grin at his captain. "We'll be in standard orbit in about two hours."
"Fine." Grimaldi dropped into his chair, stretching his legs. "Commander Ruiz," he said over his shoulder, "assemble your team."
"Aye, sir." He heard her low musical voice addressing the intercom. "Ensign Simale, report to briefing room four. Crewmen Gulian, T'Perya, Calvin, report – "
Grimaldi slipped back into his musings. He had a good crew. Most of them would be just fine. Hargrave would end up behind a desk at some stage. Gundolph would probably go back to designing engines instead of running them. Cha'ano would make a fine XO some day – at least that was what Sophy had told him, and her instincts had been uncannily correct before. I'll have to ask her what she thinks would be right for Savage. Rangeus, Sovik – no problem there. But there was something going on behind his back by the aft stations now. Some difference of opinions.
"Sir," said Worf, his deep voice reduced to something like a snarl by the effort it took him to speak softly, "I assumed my function among the away team would be protective. I am not qualified for... this."
"That's why you've been picked." Luisa Ruiz's voice was birdlike by comparison, matching her build and general appearance. "We won't need protection on this trip, Mr. Worf. The civilization down there has been dead these eleven thousand years. This particular continent never carried sentient life at all."
"There may be unknown dangers."
"There's an unknown flora, and you're supposed to know how to handle a sample kit. Get yourself a specimen container and join us in the briefing room. We're beaming down at fourteen-twenty."
"You are not taking any security?"
Ruiz's voice rose a little. „There'll be Kwame, and besides it's none of your business. Move, Ensign."
The captain could hear Worf grumbling all the way to the turbolift door. He also heard Ruiz's exasperated sigh. Keep trying, girl. He'll get it, eventually. He'd been wondering if the Yamato might be a good place for Worf. He wouldn't stand out so much on a huge ship like that, he might find it easier to be himself. But for all his admirable qualities Donald Varley had a cynical strain, and he wasn't the most patient of commanders. Worf's captain would need a lot of patience, and Grimaldi wasn't sure if Worf could handle cynicism. He sighed. A pity. It would have been just the thing in some respects. In fact, it might be an alternative option for Abaquesne – Varley would make short work of her eternal posing.
Grimaldi sighed again. I don't really want to send any of them away. Savage had been such a shy, self-effacing presence when he had come aboard five years ago. And look at him now. His latest article about his findings in the Bruhl system (Grimaldi hadn't understood half of it, and didn't pretend to) had opened up a whole new vista in the field – they said. And Worf some eight months ago, freshly transferred over from the Sagittarius – belligerent, arrogant, snarlingly suspicious and bristlingly defensive, the epithet troublemaker always hovering about him; in fact Grimaldi suspected that the only reason he hadn't been officially labeled one was that everybody felt they had to make extra concessions to a Klingon.
The only Klingon in Starfleet, for a number of years to come – Grimaldi kept an eye on the Academy entries. A pity in a way. He had no doubt that some of them would make great officers given the right circumstances. Which led him right back to where he had started.
Not for the first time Grimaldi put the Worf problem off. There was Szygorski to provide for, prickly little devil, and Hxiréa, and he was still wondering about Abaquesne. Sigma Syanis was looking tempting on the main viewer – a cloud-streaked world of emeralds and deep blues. He might go down there himself tomorrow, go for a walk, pick a few twigs and flowers for Sophy. In the end he took himself off to his ready room to look through some reports and polish one of his own, and he was still there when the away team returned several hours later. Ruiz was glowing when she made her appearance.
"Success, Commander?" he asked, grinning broadly in anticipation.
"Yes, sir." She drew a deep breath. "But it was almost too much at once. It's a lovely world, I don't think anybody will get permission to colonize it anytime soon."
Grimaldi raised an expectant eyebrow, and she continued readily: "Sir, the flora – the whole life down there – most things are unlike anything I've ever seen. The tricorders just gave up on us a number of times. There is a kind of lavender-colored moss covering the ground for miles in places, almost like heather, but much softer, with small white flowers... only it's neither moss nor heather, of course. It'll take years to get an idea of this place." She paused for breath. By now Grimaldi knew for sure that he was going to beam down there tomorrow.
"There is a creature living among those plants – I don't really know how to describe it. It's a little like a lizard and a little like a flying fox, about two inches long. They kept jumping up and leaping away almost from under our feet. Soft, gray, delicate little creatures, I was terrified of accidentally crushing one. – You might want to see it for yourself, sir," she added shrewdly.
"Yes, I've been thinking about it," agreed Grimaldi. "So, no incidents, no problems?"
"Well, no. But I really have to tell you about Ensign Worf."
"Ciel clemente," sighed Grimaldi. "What was it this time?"
"Don't worry, sir. He wasn't too happy about the assignment, of course, and I asked him to collect a few specimens of lichen for me – he didn't like that either. He and Simale spent most of the afternoon crawling around on a slope. One of them set off a minor landslide, and Worf grabbed Simale and held on to a tree. Frankly, sir, with the amount of rubble coming down that slope I don't think Simale would have survived. As it is, they are unharmed, both of them, and it put Worf into a much better mood."
"And no doubt confirmed his opinion that collecting samples is beneath his dignity," Grimaldi added grimly, unreasonably pleased at the same time.
"He is actually very conscientious, sir, he just makes it very clear that he thinks I'm wasting his talents."
"Go on wasting them. Make him analyze water samples next time. That young man is way too high and mighty for his own good." He was smiling in spite of himself as he said it, and of course Ruiz spotted the smile immediately under Grimaldi's thick gray mustache.
"I'll find something to do for him, sir. And now I'll better go down to the lab. I assume you're coming too tomorrow?"
"Quite possibly," said Grimaldi. The moment she had left he rose and got himself a cup of coffee; then he leaned back until his chair creaked, hands linked behind his head, and thought.
He had to find something for Worf. He might be exasperating as hell in his ways, with his picking and choosing and that way he had of making his opinions known whether they were wanted or not, and his captain might have been tempted to ban the word honor within the confines of his bridge and ready room, but damn it all, what an officer he might turn out in the right hands. He was still thinking about it when he went down to his quarters a little later, sitting down behind his desk and calling up his list of captains for the umpteenth time.
Oh, he had done good work he knew. But Worf's next captain would have the making of him. And that captain wouldn't be Hargrave, although Grimaldi thought highly of his second-in-command. They would offer his current XO command of the Griffin, of course. Hargrave was a good officer, and the promotion would be well-deserved; Grimaldi had no doubts that he was leaving his ship in good hands. But somehow he and Worf had never got along. Incompatible personalities, quite simply; they just didn't like each other. And while Worf no doubt needed a firm hand Grimaldi was sure it wasn't Hargrave's kind of firmness.
Then there was Chisato Kuniomi, a dear friend of his as well as one of the most highly regarded captains in the fleet – a tiny woman, some five feet two, commanding the huge Nebula-class Firebrand. Again, it was a large ship, and a tightly-run ship. And her crew adored Chisato. But Worf might not be ready for that kind of thing. A little more distance. A little more emphasis on rank and seniority, just a little; there was a very real danger that Worf would mistake family feeling for slack reins, try to take advantage, and end up being humiliated. Grimaldi sighed. Again.
The Hood he had already dismissed. Another good friend, Robert De Soto, but too easygoing for Worf. Yes, the longer he considered it, the better he liked the idea of sending Savage there. Lorca and the Kyushu – no, damn it all, Lorca was a fine officer, but he needed someone more inspiring. A little more scope and vision. Maxwell of the Phoenix? Grimaldi paused. Easygoing too, but an old fighter. Worf would recognize that immediately, possibly latch right on to it. Oh, no. No way. You'd like it, but believe it or not, it's the last thing you need. And now he had reached the end of his list of options again. Oh, there were many fine captains out there. T'Lana of the Kepler, for example– but who'd want to send Worf to a science vessel with a Vulcan commander? Jellico? he thought, just to consider every option. And immediately answered the question himself. No. That'd turn him into a rank-worshipping bully. And knowing the man he'd probably congratulate himself because he's made a Klingon into a proper Starfleet officer. Grimaldi shuddered. In a way it was frightening to consider how easily the wrong commander could ruin a young officer. And this was getting pretty damn frustrating.
He got up, walked over to the replicator, and snapped: „Computer. A Barolo. And a few grissini, while I'm at it." It would be suppertime soon, and as usual on Wednesdays and Saturdays he'd dine with his command crew. At least the wine smelled all right. Grimaldi lifted the glass, studied the color of its contents, took the grissini and returned to his desk. Doggedly.
Right. Molto bene. Again. The Hood for Savage; he'd have to speak with Robert. The Sloane for Szygorski – they'd argue all the time, of course, but eventually they'd love each other. The Cairo, or possibly the Yamato, for Abaquesne. Some minor problems he could deal with later. Grimaldi frowned at the monitor, crunching on a grissini stick. He'd just have to look further afield for Worf. Damn it all, there had to be a captain for him out there.
Perhaps he'd gone about this the wrong way. Perhaps he should have started with the captain instead of Worf. If he looked for sheer, raw Starfleet class among his many friends and acquaintances the list might look a little different.
Right. But eliminate the just-fine-officers. There had to be a little bit of aura. Some vestige of nobility. Just pick the outstanding ones from the list this time.
Gromyk. Picard. Maxwell. Kuniomi. Starnok. Halderna. Two or three others.
Well, he'd decided against Maxwell and Kuniomi. Gromyk was headed for the Admiralty they said – and besides she was barely four years younger than he was. Pointless. Starnok was austerity incarnate, a stern taskmaster even for a Vulcan. Picard – well, he somehow just hadn't occurred to him in conjunction with Worf. Yes, the man had a dazzling service record. And a reputation for being an inspiring commander. But then nobody seemed to know what Picard would do next. He didn't even have a ship right now. And besides...
No. Worf would walk right over him. Grimaldi could just about imagine Worf's reactions on being presented with a captain he could break in two between his bare hands. Might just as well give him to Chisato. No. Forget it.
On the other hand...
A light hand, a strong will, a sense of humor and an unshakable integrity – for Worf, damn him, smelt out feeble compromises a light-year away. But Picard didn't have a ship. What was he doing hanging round without a ship, anyway? It was a goddamn shame. The man belonged in space. Grimaldi frowned, unexpectedly intrigued.
Worf would get the shock of his life. Good. And then he would try to walk right over his new captain. And come up against... well, Picard.
Fantasies. A pity, actually. So, what about Halderna of the Lexington? He had a hell of a temper to be sure, but Worf would respect that if it was backed by real personality. It was just...
There were the makings of something extraordinary in Worf. He couldn't tell quite what, but Grimaldi hadn't commanded starships for well over twenty-five years without developing an eye for people. And Halderna... Halderna was overpowering, autocratic, with a bit of the warrior king thrown in, and something in Grimaldi's mind said: No. No. Don't give Worf a hero who flattens everything for light-years around. Give him a challenge, and room to breathe. Someone who'll make him, damn it, look after him and find that potential, it would be such a shame to waste it...
But he had just decided against too much family feeling, hadn't he?
The computer chittered to life. „It is nineteen-twenty," it announced. With a certain relief Grimaldi cleared the screen and finished the last of his wine. Suppertime. And unless he was much mistaken it was Ruiz' turn to select the menu, which she did exceedingly well. This should be enjoyable. He could think about the transfers later.
But when he returned to his quarters after an excellent and extended meal and chat he wasn't really in the mood to tackle the problem again. He'd record a message for Sophy instead – must be a full week since his last letter.
There was a little green light flashing in a corner of the screen. The computer had flagged something for him. Some message that had arrived during the dinner. He called it up.
Some piece of Starfleet news. Could be anything. This one...
He paused as one name and then another caught his attention. Wait a moment. What was that?
It was just a brief, dry little paragraph. Grimaldi read it again, his breath catching in his throat. Stardate 40848. Captain Jean-Luc Picard has accepted command of the USS Enterprise, shortly to be commissioned at Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards.
The Enterprise. Picard. Picard would be commanding the new flagship of the Federation. Ti saluto, Grimaldi thought, feeling a strange mixture of elation and something like churning pain welling up inside him. Odd that after all those years the notion of a new flagship and everything that went with it could still give him a turn. God, he'd be blinking away tears if he waited another moment. I'll make sure I'm still wearing this uniform when he takes command, he thought, swallowing.
So you're officially Starfleet's finest captain now, my friend. That quiet, cool, proud, delicate man and the gleaming wonder of the new Galaxy-class ships. Grimaldi swallowed again. Talk of aloof. Hell, she could have been made for you. You'll be completely insufferable now. But damn you, I'm delighted for you – they got it right this time.
He'd drink a toast with the rest of them tomorrow on the bridge. A toast to the captain of Starfleet's flagship.
- - - - -
The next morning saw the captain of the Griffin happily beaming down to Sigma Syanis with Ruiz's away team. Grimaldi spent a very pleasant couple of hours wandering around by himself, spotting a wonderful, almost black creature that looked rather like an impossibly elongated marten but appeared to have at least three pairs of legs, and seeing for himself the meadows of ankle-deep lavender moss. Once he sat down on a rock, content to listen to the breeze and look around, and finally he picked a few stalks of the lavender stuff, and some pale green flowers, and a few other things that caught his fancy, and returned to the ship.
Ross at the laboratory took the bouquet and promised to have it preserved before the flowers would begin to wilt, and Grimaldi made for his ready room with a spring to his step. He even found himself whistling the opening bars of Bella figlia dell'amore when he called up the unfinished work.
Naturally, the first thing to come up was his list of captains.
"Go to hell," Grimaldi said cheerfully. Worf was down on the planet with the rest of the away team, of course – he remembered seeing that nail to his coffin aiming his tricorder at a few tussocks, radiating disapproval. So, what about Kitamura of the Monitor? His samurai ethics ought to appeal to Worf, and he had the serenity and –
And then enlightenment came, and Grimaldi almost thumped his desk as it surged through him. Why hadn't he seen it at once? Why?
The Enterprise. Of course. Gran Dio, thought Grimaldi, watching in awe as things fell into place one by one. Promote Worf to lieutenant j.g. and let Picard take care of him. Tell him he'd serve on the flagship, under one of the finest officers Grimaldi had ever known. It would sound just right to Worf. And they were bound to look for people, good people, to staff her with.
The only Klingon in Starfleet serving on Starfleet's flagship. There was a certain drama to it which pleased Grimaldi, and besides Starfleet Command would love the symbolism of it. And Picard would agree, of course. It was perfect – perfect.
A large ship, and a new ship, and a crew who would do their damnedest to be the finest crew in the fleet. Worf would have to work for it. But if Grimaldi knew anything about it his talent and determination and infernal sense of honor would be appreciated. And Picard's fierce loyalty wouldn't be shaken by little things like an oversized ego, an uncompromising attitude and a somewhat idiosyncratic view of the universe.
Given the status of the ship, and her captain, Worf would have his brushes with interstellar diplomacy, which would be a good thing. It might even teach him that there were other ways of solving problems besides hand-to-hand combat. Grimaldi knew perfectly well that Worf kept volunteering for risky assignments in the hopes of dying heroically, as soon as possible. Preferably in full view of his captain. I've never met anybody with a death wish like that who was perfectly sane at the same time. And at that age too, he mused. Klingons.
Don't even think it, young man. Starfleet has invested heavily in you. I'll make damn sure Starfleet gets something back from you before you manage to kill yourself. Picard will see to that, at least.
They'd drive each other up the wall first, though. Which was fine with Grimaldi. In fact he didn't mind the idea of causing that notorious calm reserve to be shaken up a little.
For he did have a score to settle with Picard. Admittedly, it was an old score – ten years at least. In the most elegant way imaginable he'd finally get back at Picard for saddling him with that assignment from hell – by saddling Picard with Lieutenant Worf. If ever two people deserved each other, thought Grimaldi, gleefully.
It had all appeared simple enough back then. Vrta was a system consisting of a binary star and eleven planets, three of them inhabited by a race that had developed interplanetary travel two hundred years ago, and now was mining the system's less hospitable planets for raw materials. They had applied for, and been granted, Federation membership shortly before. The assignment had been to ferry Admiral Podmore-Smythe and his staff to the Vrta system for a tour of the planets; the only thing left to be decided was who should take the group – Grimaldi or Picard. Admiral Richthofen had asked both of them over to discuss the issue.
And Picard had been sitting there, his strong square hands clasped on the table in front of him, hazel eyes alive with innocent interest under that ever-expanding forehead, all obligingness and sweetness and light – and only later had Grimaldi realized just how elegantly he had been manoeuvered into accepting the assignment himself.
For Admiral Podmore-Smythe had soon turned out to be nothing less than a scourge. An incessant talker with an inexhaustible store of anecdotes and jovial jokes, he had immediately taken to Grimaldi (who suspected that the admiral took readily to just about anybody), and had hardly left his side during the journey. He was charmed with the Griffin, charmed with her crew, charmed with the job ahead of him. He had, as he told an unsurprised Grimaldi at great length, traveled with Picard on a similar occasion the year before, and naturally he was charmed with Picard too. Captain Grimaldi, at this stage, was not. Instead he was contemplating revenge, and the fact that no occasion had presented itself for a number of years had dulled but not eliminated that desire.
Oh, he was sincerely fond of Picard. But nevertheless...
Drawing a deep breath, he swiveled his desk terminal towards himself. "Computer," he said, "establish a subspace link to Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Present whereabouts unknown," he added.
Chitterchitter. Chitter. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard is currently at Starbase 73. Establishing subspace link."
Grimaldi leaned forward, expectantly. He hadn't talked to Picard in over a year. And he really, really wanted to congratulate him on his new command.
"Your call has been rerouted," announced the computer. "Captain Picard is currently unavailable. Do you wish to leave a message?"
"What the –" Grimaldi leaned back in his chair, indignantly. "What do you mean, he's unavailable?" The moment he said it, the answer struck him. Of course. That message had gone out to every Tom, Dick and Harry in the Fleet. Every ship's captain, every starbase commander, every retired admiral. And now they were lining up to get rid of their congratulations, recommendations, inquiries after posts... Grimaldi stared at his monitor in disgust. "Cut it short, idiots," he growled.
"Standing by," said the computer. "Do you wish to leave a message?"
"Damn you," he muttered. "Yes, actually, I do." He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "See here, Jean-Luc, if you don't want to be bothered I won't bother you. But I have someone here whom I'd like to entrust to you and no one else. Someone truly unique. Just call me back at your convenience. Grimaldi out."
He scowled at the blank screen. Wish that lot would give it a rest. Of course, he could speak with Picard about Worf any time. Perhaps he would even find something still better for him. But then he didn't think he would. No way. It felt so right. He wanted to see it settled.
"Computer," he snapped, heaving himself out of his chair and turning towards the replicator. It was well past lunchtime. "A cold snack. Pickled artichokes, grilled peppers and tomatoes. And some cold meat. Water and a glass of Frascati."
The food restored his temper. He saved the last drop of wine for later, and reached for Ruiz's preliminary report. Pleasant reading, that much he knew in advance.
The chitter of the computer interrupted him about half an hour later. „Incoming message from Starbase 73," it announced. Grimaldi hastily pushed his padd and glass away. "Yes. Put it through." Could it be – ?
It was. Picard was looking a little tired, and possibly a trace – startled. Must have been a shock, thought Grimaldi, trying not to grin like a fool for the sheer pleasure of it. "Hello, my friend."
"It's good to see you, Giacomo."
"Let's get it out of the way, shall we? Congratulations on your new command. I'm happy for you, and for Starfleet as well. Make that delighted. All the best and God's blessing on top of it."
Picard smiled, briefly. "Thank you."
"I wasn't expecting your call so soon. I bet half the Fleet's been calling."
"They have. I have been trying to sort through the calls that sounded as if there was more to them than – well, the usual." Picard was looking faintly amused now. By now Grimaldi was grinning despite his best efforts.
"So, how does it feel?"
"I think I'm getting used to the idea." Aha, thought Grimaldi. But I'll bet you spent a sleepless night because of it. Picard's next words confirmed his suspicion. "Was there – that is, what was it you wanted to discuss?"
Afterwards, Captain Grimaldi leaned back in his chair, and linked his hands behind his head. He even went so far as to put his booted feet up on his desk. Hell, this was a good day. There was a heady feeling about it. He was looking forward to the announcements he would be making later. What a life.
His glance slid over the familiar lines of his ready room, and as usual came to rest on the bronze griffin that adorned the small table by the door – a genuine antique, late nineteenth-century Italian work. He had discovered it in an odd little shop on Starbase 18, had fallen in love with it and paid a lot of money for it, even after ten minutes of determined haggling; it had been just a few months after he had been given the Griffin, and it had seemed such a good omen then. He had had it evaluated, fearing to the last moment that he had fallen for a fake after all, some replicated crap – and of course he hadn't. The thing was clawing the air, shrieking. Grimaldi loved it. It had brought him luck all right; to the end of his days it would remind him just how lucky he was.
Right now it made him wonder if his decision to retire at seventy-one hadn't been a little premature. He hadn't felt so good for quite some time.
He was feeling a little lightheaded as well. He had always liked making decisions. What the hell. While he was at it he might as well make some more.
Quite suddenly Captain Grimaldi lifted his feet off the desk, and reached for his monitor again. "All department heads, all members of beta shift bridge crew," he said, distinctly. "This is the captain. I'd like you to be on the bridge a little before the beginning of beta shift, say fifteen minutes. Grimaldi out." And then: "Computer, establish a subspace link to Admiral Kovalov at Starfleet Headquarters."
He could hear them gathering outside on the bridge a little before the time he had set, chatting expectantly among each other. Grimaldi took his time, counting the seconds. Fifteen minutes he had said; he wasn't going to spoil the effect by turning up too early. He had even set his monitor to count down to seventeen-forty-five. And when the number started to flash silently he waited for another thirty seconds before he got to his feet, straightened his shoulders, took a quick look at his reflection in the window, and made for the door.
The silence that fell when the ready room door swished open was gratifying. Grimaldi gave the assembled crowd a curt nod and strode over to the replicator. „Computer. Champagne for twenty-six."
He heard the chitter and whirr of the device when he turned back to his officers. "Right. As you may have guessed, I have an announcement to make." He looked at them grimly, creating an impressive pause. "Two announcements, actually. The first is this. I've decided to postpone my retirement for a year or two. Starfleet Command approves, and my wife is willing to reconcile herself to the fact, so that is settled. I expect you to bear with it."
They were surprised, but not as much as he had expected them to be. It took only a second or so before the first grins were beginning to appear. Then Malvern of Tactical said soberly: "I think we can live with that, sir." Someone giggled. Someone groaned. Then all hell broke loose. They actually whistled and cheered, and little Ruiz ran over to him, grabbed his arm and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. More cheering, and Grimaldi swallowed hard and turned to look at his first officer, to steady himself. If there was one man who wouldn't be too happy about this –
But Hargrave was taking it well enough it seemed – no, damn it, now he was beginning to grin as well. A little wryly perhaps, but grinning nonetheless. And giving him a thumbs-up when he caught his eye. Grimaldi's mood went straight through the ceiling.
"And that's what the champagne is for, sir?" asked Ensign Rangeus off to his left. Grimaldi turned quickly, quelling the impertinent imp with a look.
"No. It's not. Quiet, please, and take your glasses."
When the shuffling had subsided he said: "I received a communication from Starfleet last night, concerning our new flagship." He paused to clear his throat. "It said Captain Jean-Luc Picard has accepted command of the USS Enterprise. It's my personal and heartfelt conviction that they couldn't have made a better choice. Gentlemen, I am proposing a toast to Captain Picard of the Federation flagship Enterprise."
A few sharp breaths and a long, low whistle, and a general murmur as the toast was drunk. "Damn fine officer," Malvern said matter-of-factly, and "'Bout time they made up their minds," Gundolph of Engineering added cryptically, and Grimaldi found himself swallowing once again, and at the same time he felt like laughing aloud. Then the chatting resumed, more excited than before. Hargrave came over to shake Grimaldi's hand, and CMO Rienberg joined them to ask if the captain knew Picard personally, and before long the meeting had broken up into animated little groups, forming and re-forming as comments were traded. Looking around, Grimaldi spotted Worf standing with his back to the conn chair, arms crossed, listening as Ruiz was evidently telling some anecdote or other to a group including Savage and Rangeus. Just now there was an interruption as Rangeus collected the empty glasses and carried them over to the replicator, to join a few others who had gathered there for refills. "Excuse me, I'll be right back," he said, quickly making his way over to the group.
"Mr. Worf," he said quietly, interposing himself for a brief moment between the Klingon and the others, "I'd like to see you in my ready room in about half an hour."
- - - - - - - - -
(The End)