Chapter 2: The Former Captain
Author's note: Yes. I know that eleven years happened between postings from the STARGAZER to the ENTERPRISE for Picard according to canon (sic!). And in this story it is barely a year. However, when I wrote this, the time gap had not really been established in the book time lines. And this is an A/U novel after all...
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Merde.
Admiral Winston Holt Wiley wanted to see him.
Now.
Barely glancing at the crewman, 2nd class, that had delivered this imperative from the admiral in person, Jean-Luc Picard placed his half-empty mug on the bar table. There was a slight clink; the liquid inside the mug sloshed about the crazed sides. It was a mud-murky drink that this Bonnestal café near Starbase Earhart inaccurately described as English Breakfast tea. The clink was the only indication of Captain Picard's disapprobation to the admiral's command.
The former captain of the Stargazer stood, with an almost negligible motion of his fingers toward the entrance to the restaurant; his single sign of acknowledgment of the admiral's command. Picard pulled his invisible mantle of reputation about him, tugged at his red tunic's lapel closure to ensure its proper regulation position, and turned to face them all - all of the other patrons of the café. He withstood the gauntlet of accusatory stares from his fellow officers. Years of uncompromising discipline lent strength to his parade-worthy stride, as he marched out of the café, with his gaze focused on only the Starfleet Command Center building across the plaza. As he had for many months past, he ignored them all, reminding himself that he had been exonerated by the court martial judges. No other opinions mattered.
But, Jean-Luc Picard was only human. He couldn't help but speculate about the remnants of his Starfleet career. He had once been a starship captain; now he was a captain who had lost his starship.
He'd been peremptorily summoned to meet with the Fleet Admiral of Starfleet. He did not need to be an energetic participant in the games of Starfleet politics in order to recognize his precarious status. Jean-Luc knew that there were a number of admirals that had wanted him to be court-martialed, or, as the very least, demoted. And certainly his acquittal had not changed that sentiment. Jean-Luc Picard tried to envision himself as the captain of a supply barge - and rejected that thought. He knew in his heart that his ego would not permit himself to accept the indignity of a position that was not approximately equal to that of Captain of the Stargazer.
A shaft of pain struck his heart at the thought of his lost ship…
The Stargazer…
He should have done more… been braver… been smarter…
Entering command headquarters, he presented himself to Admiral Winston Holt Wiley's personal assistant, Ensign Montgomery. After the ensign duly allowed Picard to sit and wait for the appropriate senior-officer-to-junior-officer period of intimidation, Picard was escorted into Admiral Wiley's inner office.
Undaunted, Picard entered, ready to meet the admiral head-on. But that was not this admiral's way. The office was empty. The next thing that Picard noted was that a small table had been set for a formal luncheon for two. Crystal glinted from candlelight. He had considered several aspects to this meeting with Wiley. Sharing a meal had not been one of them. He began to relax until the thought occurred that this could be the admiral's civilized way of drop-kicking him out the door of journeying through the stars and into the mire of bureaucracy.
He comforted himself with the thought that at least tar and feathers were no longer an official option.
After the appropriate intimidation minutes had passed for the head of the Admiralty was known for enjoying such things, Winston Holt Wiley entered, resplendent in a uniform of his own design. A wiry man with an energetic intensity that belied his appellation of elder statesman of the admiralty, he was one of the few Starfleet officials over whom Captain Picard could tower.
"Jean-Luc!" The admiral's smile was congenial, welcoming, and revealing nothing.
Picard shook the admiral's hand, hiding his surprise at the strength of this old man's grip. "Admiral, you are well, I trust."
"Well enough to take a shore leave on Rigel II and maybe even let some of those fancy fanny dancers catch me!" Thinking that he detected a slight disapproving look to Picard's gaze, the admiral added," You should have tried Rigel II sometimes, Jean-Luc, instead of all of those dusty old Ikonian caves on god-forsaken planets through which you like to traipse. Some of the other admirals might've had second thoughts about the kind of man you are if you had preferred juicy revelry to dry dust."
Having nothing to say to this, Picard simply followed where the admiral led.
The admiral sat behind his desk.
Antique. Louis XIV style. Overdressed in bronze d'ore ormolu with masks of le Roi-Soleil on every festoon. Satinwood, kingswood and fruitwood floral inlays covered virtually every square centimeter of the wood surface. Like the man it represented, the desk was ostentatious, rare, deeply intricate and the center of attention.
The desk in the center of this opulent office was the exact opposite of Picard's own personal taste. Yet, glancing about the room, Picard had to admire the office and the man. For Winston Holt Wiley had guided Starfleet through the worst of times and survived. He was entitled to the ostentation if he so wished.
Picard sat on the bergere chair in front of the desk.
Silence passed.
A lesser man would have fidgeted. Picard merely observed the crystal antique paperweights positioned about the desk, mentally trying to identify the age of each one, and which were by Clichy, Baccarat or Saint Louis. He suspected that Wiley would only collect original 19th century paperweight rather than the newer reproductions.
As the silent moments passed, Wiley flushed in annoyance. He barked, "Well, ask!"
Picard took a steadying breath before answering. Then he spoke with the deference due to the admiral and his accomplishments. "Now that the court martial trial is over, have I a position?"
"Where would you like to be posted?" Wiley countered, displaying whitened teeth in a grimace that could pass for a smile.
"A ship, if possible." Picard smiled too - giving away nothing.
Two could play this game.
"There are a few available. Though none are of equal status to the Stargazer." Wiley enjoyed toying with his officers; one of the privileges that he considered due to him because of his rank. And toying with Picard was a rare treat, indeed.
Picard winced. "I know, Sir." But he was not one to be timid. "I hear that the Lord Nelson will become available since Captain Monroe is retiring. The Lord Nelson is not the Stargazer, but still, I'd be a good captain for her."
Admiral Winston Holt Wiley's smile tightened. "I've always admired some of your personality traits, Jean-Luc. Your knowing when to be fearless is one of them."
Picard tried to ignore the impression that the admiral wasn't just being polite. His tonal inflection indicated otherwise.
"Thank you, Admiral." Picard's smile was courteous.
Wiley's smile turned into something more than mere politeness. "You'll owe me more than thanks Captain, when you learn of your next assignment." He took a few deep breaths watching the captain not squirm, before he added, "You see, I've decided to assign you to my personal staff and office, back on Earth." He was having fun torturing this captain. Wiley continued. "You'll have your own office, personnel and every accoutrement that such an important position necessitates." The admiral pretended to ignore the momentary look of dismay that crossed over Picard's visage. "I'd even promote you - make you a Commodore," he added, just for fun.
But Picard's emotionless mask slipped back into place. He'd no longer rise to the admiral's baiting.
"I see," Picard finally stated.
Wiley's grin was too-knowing. "I'm sure that you do." Wiley stretched, savoring the moment, then asked, non-committally, "By the way, Jean-Luc, do you remember your freshman year at the Academy? You made quite an impression on all of us on the academic review board. Especially Nechayev."
"Of course, Sir." Picard remembered his run-ins with Nechayev. His polite smile did not alter, even as he recollected the first time she'd put him on report.
Wiley had a suspicion as to what Picard was remembering. His smile officially broadened. "I've got a vid that I'd like you to see. I made it back then - review board of the class of '23."
"Sir?" Picard was now officially puzzled. What did ancient history have to do with today?
"Watch. You might find it informative."
Picard noted that Wiley's tone of voice was benign. Now, he was worried.
Wiley pressed a button.
..."He did win the marathon. And his grades are excellent," Admiral Grant countered to Captain Nechayev's opposition. "He is a fine cadet. What is your problem with Cadet Picard, Captain?"
"He is an arrogant, undisciplined rake. He's rowdy. Disrespectful. He will never become an exemplary Starfleet officer. One more major infraction and he should be kicked out of the Academy."
Lieutenant Nakamura quickly defended this cadet. "He's an exemplary cadet. When he's on duty, there is no one better."
Winston spoke up. "Do you want to know what I really think about Cadet Picard?"
The entire board could do nothing but nod.. They knew when to accede to Winston Holt Wiley's opinion.
"If he learns how to manage his emotions, if he acquires rigid self-discipline yet still can control and recognize that he's got the command ambition, brains and instincts of a Kirk…" The admiral ruminated for a minute, waiting for the perfect moment to make his dramatic announcement. "If Jean-Luc Picard can do all that - then one day, Jean-Luc Picard will be the captain of the flagship of our fleet - The Enterprise."...
Wiley reached over and shut off the screen.
It was not often that Jean-Luc Picard was taken by complete surprise, but Winston Holt Wiley had done it. Picard ruefully acknowledged this when he raised his grey-green eyes to meet Wiley's amused brown-eyed gaze. Picard's stare held a hint of admiration - and concession.
"You do mean… the Enterprise?"
"1701-D. Soon to be commissioned in about eight months. And that's how much time you have, Captain, to assemble your crew."
"Crew?"
"Let's have lunch and discuss it."
Wiley walked over to the oak Provincial harvest table. Picard looked down at the Jean Payout Limoges china, the Christofle silver, and the Baccarat crystal. A tureen of soup. Freshly baked baguettes. And Picard suddenly recognized that Wiley had planned this luncheon with his own French ancestry in mind. He didn't know whether to be flattered or dismayed. Admirals didn't do this sort of thing just out of the goodness of their own hearts. Wiley was expecting something.
A silent yeoman ladled soup and poured wine as the two officers sat down to eat.
"It seems that I was a bit of a Delphinian oracle, way back then," Wiley commented, as a still somewhat shocked Picard placed an ecru cutwork linen napkin upon his lap. "There was something about you, then, that reminded me of another captain of the Enterprise - James Tiberius Kirk. If you did not self-destruct, you had what it takes." He waved his hand to stop Picard from speaking. "Yes, your command styles are different. But you are more alike than not. You're both cut from the same starship captain bolt of cloth. It's your destiny."
"Thank you, Sir." Picard wasn't quite sure that Wiley was paying him a compliment.
It was the first time that Picard would be compared to a legend. It would not be the last.
"The desk job is temporary, Jean-Luc." He chomped into a baguette then added, "I prefer to be called Holt. You have my permission to call me that when we are not in formal situations."
"Thank you, Holt." Picard spoke cautiously. Wiley's machinations were legendary.
"I honestly can't recall any other Starfleet captain being given your opportunity, Jean-Luc," Wiley casually mentioned as he slurped his morel consommé d'Arragon.
"Which is?"
"Chance to hand pick every member of your crew - no admiralty interference."
"Every member?" Picard found it hard to believe that he would be given such carte blanche. The territorial nature of command choices and paybacks was a universal constant.
"Captain, your orders are to pick the finest, the best and the brightest crew for the flagship. These orders take priority over all other posting orders. You are to assemble such a crew to your satisfaction. Do it. You are also to proceed with discretion. Sooner or later the announcement of your appointment will become public knowledge. I would prefer that it be the latter." He studied the man seated before him. "You know, of course, that several admirals are dead set against you. Some wanted your head on the proverbial silver platter. You'll have to convince me again, not to give it to them."
Picard nodded, perceiving the political dynamics.
Wiley returned to business. "You were my original choice for captaincy of the Enterprise. But, when some of the other admirals arranged for your court martial to intervene, they promoted Captain Thomas Halloway. It's only by chance that Tom's family situation forced him to refuse the position. Good luck for you, Jean-Luc. And thank the stars that you were exonerated."
Picard sipped his Pinot-gris d'Alsace wine, trying to comprehend all of the permutations. And to appreciate the fine wine.
"Once you were acquitted, I prevailed. I want you in place before all of the opposition finds out about it. Be as cautious as you can in recruiting. I'll give you my personal authorization codes."
Picard was very select with his choice of words. "And just exactly how am I to approach these officers?" He ate a spoonful of soup and noted the delicate flavors of the consommé. This was not replicated. Rank certainly did have its privileges, including one's own chef.
The admiral pontificated. "I hold a certain position in Starfleet. If certain parties were to become aware of the scope of this position, I would be besieged. And this is not best for me."
"Or, for Starfleet," Picard respectfully, dryly added.
"Jean-Luc, you'll be dealing not just with Starfleet officers, but with the non-coms as well as the civilian personnel. And then, of course, there are the families. And the children." Wiley waited for Picard's reaction.
For a moment, Picard closed his eyes. Apparently the years of rumors were finally becoming true. "Families? Children?" His voice was steady even as he spit these words out.
"A new standing order from Starfleet Command. Ships of a certain class or larger will allow the placement of families - pah! - on board. You will have over one thousand officers, crew, civilians, and spouses on board your ship, Jean-Luc. Starfleet wants to announce to the galaxies that our new ships are more than military vessels. Instead, the main purpose of the galaxy class starships is for scientific research and exploration. Imagine, sticky little fingers on board my new starship!" Wiley shuddered.
"My starship," Picard amended under his breath. Wiley chose to ignore this statement, silently granting Picard the right to be possessive.
"As for me, I'm going to use as my flagship, any vessel that is small enough in compliment so that it won't have children on board." His tone of voice seemed to indicate that children were a plague unto the admiral.
Picard sympathized. But there were matters of importance to be discussed. "I will have full control over the choice of my crew - especially my senior line officers?"
"Of course, Jean-Luc." Wiley ripped up some more bread and sopped up some soup. "But there will be two exceptions."
Picard knew that the original offer was too good to be true. "Of course, Holt. And they are?"
"There is a Klingon in Starfleet. Do you know of him?"
"A junior lieutenant, I believe. Worf?"
"Yes. I like the idea of the only Klingon to ever go through the Academy serving on board the flagship."
"I'll agree to the lieutenant - only if I find him acceptable to me."
The admiral chuckled, conceding to the steel in Picard's voice and grudgingly agreed. "I appreciate your position, Captain." He still emphasized the word Captain.
Picard was somewhat appeased. "And the other person?"
"Dr. Beverly Crusher."
Picard quickly glanced toward the base lights that were visible through a wall of windows. But his reaction was not discreet enough. Wiley noticed.
"You have a problem with my choice, Captain? Do you have something personal against Dr. Beverly Crusher?"
"I would prefer to choose my own CMO."
"I like Beverly. Use her as my personal physician when I am on Earth. Don't care for the company of doctors myself, but when you have to suffer them, why not pick one who is beautiful and brilliant. She's been a damn fine CMO wherever she's been posted. And she deserves it, after what she's been through."
A silent yeoman approached the table and removed the soup plates. Another yeoman carefully served the fish course. It was some sort of salmon dish. Picard ignored it.
Picard decided to be stubborn. "Still, I would prefer to choose someone else, Holt," he countered.
Winston's eyes lit up before he responded. "So, it's true then." He ate a morsel of fish. "You were lovers."
The inquiry was not quite innocent. The reaction was not quite professional.
"No!"
From the Admiral's response, Picard knew how sizable was his over-reaction. "She was the wife of my best friend…" He let his voice trail off. "I had to bring Jack's body back to her. I was the man who ordered her husband to his death…"
"Does she blame you?"
"I don't know." He looked away from Holt's too inquisitive stare. "I haven't seen her since the funeral."
Wiley nodded. "You still carry the guilt?"
"Yes."
"Get over it, Captain." Suddenly, Winston Holt Wiley reverted back into the head of Starfleet Command.
"What?"
"Your objection will be duly noted. However, I will not tolerate any captain under my command who cannot separate personal feelings from his duty. Do I make myself clear, Captain?"
Picard took a deep breath, silently wondered why the gods were determined to torment him so, and reluctantly decided not to press his luck with this cantankerous admiral.
"Dr. Crusher will make a commendable CMO. Shall I personally ask her?"
"Oh, yes." Wiley nodded. "I am glad that you understand, Jean-Luc. Now, go and get your crew." Wiley pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "I am not in the mood for dessert. Help yourself, if you are."
"Holt."
This halted the admiral's movements.
"Protocol requires that I address possible transfers with the commanding officers of the individuals involved. However, if I am to use discretion…?"
"I understand. If you approach one Starfleet captain openly, you approach them all - give or take a stellar minute. Covertly approach your individual choices ordering them into silence. You may use my authority. Impress upon them the serious nature of your interrogation. You may recruit from all of Starfleet. As I told you, I want the best for the flagship. Manipulate as you wish." Winston Holt Wiley nodded at his choice before walking a few steps. "I trust your judgment, Jean-Luc." He went to the door and then whipped around and glared at Picard. "And if you do me a disservice, if you cause me to question my original judgment, you will dearly wish that you had proffered your resignation today." With that, he exited, leaving behind a captain pondering the vagaries of fate and fish.
Ensign Montgomery, who had been so snooty and officious on the way in, was now the most proper of subordinates as he handed Captain Picard his authorization's padd on the way out.
Picard was now empowered, and the heady rush that enveloped him, was intoxicating. Few occasions in life would ever equal this momentous hour in his life. Picard welcomed the unfamiliar joie de vivre. He'd not been expecting to experience such a feeling after a visit with Admiral Wiley.
That night, he uncorked a precious bottle of the Château Picard '37 in his quarters. He gazed at the stars through his window, and toasted, with his every sip, his new inamorata - a starship named Enterprise. His Enterprise. This night he contemplated the questions of his life and the universe, and decided that he'd finally found some answers. He'd achieved his life's goal. But, it wasn't something that he could share with his brother Robert. For a brief moment, the captain considered that there was no one else in his life with whom he could share such news…
A few days later, he approached the central office of Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco. The receptionist politely smiled at him and then looked down at his padd. "Ah yes, Captain Picard. You are assigned to the south quad, Asimov tower, suite 1101. You have the entire eleventh floor." He glanced at another padd. "When will your staff be arriving, Captain? You've been given a total of twelve suites."
Picard thought for a moment. "Most of my staff is being reassigned to me. Their arrival times will vary. In the mean time, prepare my suites."
"As you wish, Captain. May I establish the basic personnel?"
"Meaning?"
"Receptionists. Data specialists. Personal assistants. File clerks. Etcetera."
"Of course. Proceed."
Picard entered his offices and was impressed by the level of political intrigue that Admiral Winston Holt Wiley was playing. The suites were decidedly spacious. As he wandered about, Picard decided that they went beyond Risian luxury. Wiley had meant to make a statement about Picard's status in his offices, and he had made this point with extravagant palatial decor.
Picard investigated, and immediately ordered the removal of all purple velvet and anything covered with metallic upholstery.
What was left behind was rouge breche d'alep marble atop Brazilian flame mahogany and rosewood furniture. Since Picard couldn't really order the removal of all the massive Louis XIV style furniture to any great extent, he decided to at least learn to minimize the ostentatious design of the décor.
However, when he finally discovered the inner sanctum that had been assigned to him, he ordered the desk that was smaller but almost identical to Admiral Wiley's desk to be removed. He was not going to spend the next few months staring at bronze frolicking putti with flowers in their hair. Instead, he eventually chose a simple Louis XV style oak vintner's table as his desk. And a matching side table. He didn't realize that the desk he had chosen was almost identical to the one that his father had once used.
Picard was not exactly surprised to discover that a captain's yacht had been assigned to him. He could go anywhere at warp nine, with little to no monitoring. He was flying with an admiral's credentials, now. No one would dare question Picard's actions. Winston Holt Wiley had truly meant his warnings.
Picard's first stop was a return to Starbase Earhart. Lieutenant Worf was due there on the morrow, and he was indeed the first officer that Picard intended to evaluate.
Picard had spent several hours assessing Worf's record from his days as a cadet to his service on the Hawk. Picard came to the conclusion that he needed to meet and get to know the man. Worf's previous commanding officers had nothing but praise for this Klingon officer, yet his promotions did not correspond to their commendations. Picard wanted to understand why before he approved of the Klingon lieutenant for the Enterprise.
Picard strolled the promenade of the starbase, recollecting Nausicaans and recalling what it was like to be young. Stupid. Full of ambition. To be an ensign. Now he was back - as a captain.
His emotions were ambivalent even as he entered a well-remembered gaming palace. It had not changed much at all. There were echoes of his youth that compelled him to sit in a corner and observe the crowd through the perpetual smoky mist of the bar. He found a secluded chair and ordered a Bajoran spring ale. There was no synthehol to be found in this particular den of gambling iniquity where he'd lost his natural heart.
She was blond. She was slender. She was Starfleet, even though she wasn't in uniform. She was also scanning the crowd until her gaze settled on a group of uniformed officers that had apparently been celebrating for some time.
And Picard knew that he'd seen her somewhere before. It would be only later on, when he reviewed her record that he would place when and where, on a Carnelian minefield, some time ago.
She moved toward the group of officers. So did a Klingon pilot. The Klingon warrior challenged the senior officer of the group, a Captain Farley. Farley was a large man, with dark curly grey hair, and a permanent dissatisfied look in his eye. As he lifted up his glass, it slipped, splashing beer on the Klingon. The Klingon took umbrage.
"Do you arm wrestle, Hu-Man?"
The slightly drunken Captain Farley started to respond.
The blond stepped in front of the man she was forced to call captain, and yelled, "Yes. I do, Klingon!"
The Klingon hid his surprise at this female's bold actions. He almost favorably compared this woman to his own Bondmate. She had the same ferocious look in her eye.
"I am challenging your Master!" he roared.
"I am my captain's tactical officer, on board the Ellison! I defend his honor. You are challenging me!"
"No." The Klingon glanced around the room for support. However brave this human female was, she was still a human female. And a fool. And there was no honor in fighting fools.
"No guramba, Klingon?" a very big and very surly Nausicaan called out from the other side of the bar. He was tickled at the chance to insult a Klingon.
The Klingon glanced over at the Nausicaan, and then turned back toward the Starfleet officers. "You are female," he announced as if that would explain why he would not fight.
Farley started to move forward, but was stopped by his first office who whispered loud enough for even Picard to hear, "Let Yar wrestle the Klingon, Captain. Maybe that will take her arrogant ass down a notch or two." Farley nodded in agreement.
Picard was shocked by both the words and the attitude of the officers from the Ellison. He certainly would never have treated a member of his crew with such public disrespect.
"I do not suffer females," the Klingon informed Yar.
"I'll wrestle you, female," the Nausicaan suddenly boomed. "I enjoy playing with what I conquer."
Tasha's smile was blinding as she sauntered over to the Nausicaan, patted his chest, then grabbed his blood ale, and took a big swig out of it before she placed the tankard back on the bar. "I do too, Nausicaan. However, I don't think that Starfleet would let me play with a Nausicaan on board my ship. Pity. I've heard such interesting things about Nausicaans and their stamina." She glanced back at the bristling Klingon. "Teach me how to play Dom-Jot after I defeat the Klingon."
Picard tensed, knowing that the Nausicaan could take the woman's words seriously. But the Nausicaan threw back his head and laughed loudly, rattling the rafters.
"Woman, you have guramba!" He glanced over at his companions. They roared too. And then the Nausicaan handed Yar his ale. This time she finished it, before she walked over to a table that hadn't been thoroughly cleaned since Picard was an ensign, and assumed the challenge position. The Klingon didn't have a choice. If the Nausicaan was willing to fight her, then his honor dictated that he would have to fight her too. He accepted her dare.
Less than twenty seconds later, with the sound of Nausicaan laughter ringing about the rafters, the defeated Klingon scurried from the bar, cursing aloud about a slippery table top.
Picard was impressed. Quietly, he went over to the barkeep and placed a stack of credits down on the bar, which was apparently the only almost non-sticky surface in the place.
"Who is she?"
The barkeep had already heard about this bald man. Starfleet had given him an office on the station. And the crew of the Ellison was only passing through. They'd already caused enough problems over the past few days.
"Ensign Tasha Yar, Sir. When I knew her she was a lieutenant before she joined the Ellison's crew. Don't know why there's bad blood between Yar and her captain." The barkeep glanced over to where Farley was ordering another round of drinks for his officers - except for Yar. "Don't care for that captain, much. He doesn't like to pay."
Picard shoved some more credits toward the man and nodded towards the Nausicaans. The barkeep grinned at the thought of a Starfleet officer buying Nausicaans a round of drinks. He took the money. With that, he moved away to get some drinks.
Then Picard did something that surprised even himself. He walked over to where Tasha Yar was standing, being virtually ignored by her fellow officers. She was trying so valiantly not to appear so alone.
"Well done."
She looked up, surprised by the intrusion.
"Well done," he repeated. And then he smiled. Her tactics in the handling of a potentially explosive situation had been impressive.
Tasha Yar didn't recognize this slender man in civilian dress, but she knew that he perceived more about the incident than had been obvious.
"Thank you."
And then she returned his smile.
For a brief moment, Picard was a man responding to a beautiful woman. And then he reverted to being a captain again, and courteously nodded to her as he left the bar.
Later that night, he contacted Captain Farley. The man was suspicious as he answered the hail. "Captain Picard?" His disdain for the former captain of the Stargazer was blatant.
"I am not court-martialed yet, Captain Farley." Picard's smile was officiously polite. "In fact, I've been assigned to Admiral Winston Holt Wiley's staff. I need a personal assistant there. And I'd rather like it to be Tasha Yar."
Farley considered his options, disliking the man but liking too much, the offer. "We should discuss this."
"Agreed. Shall we meet for drinks, say 1900 hours at the Bonnestal Facility?" When Farley agreed, Picard closed the line. He knew that he had Farley. He also knew that Yar had the potential to be of importance to his Enterprise. Other than Captain Farley's official opinion of Tasha Yar, her service file was impressive.
Wearing an olive silk shirt and tan breeches, Picard searched through the exponentially increasing smoky atmosphere until he finally located the corpulent, swarthy man that was Captain Farley. He duly noted two of Farley's officers standing ill at ease nearby their captain. Picard had a feeling that the captain would need their sober assistance to return to his ship.
Captain Farley stood as Picard approached. He was barely sober. "You want Yar?"
"I need a personal assistant. And Tasha Yar will do."
Farley sat. "Personal assistant, is it?" Farley glugged his beer.
Picard controlled his disgust. He resented the implications of Farley's tone of voice. But he played it for what it was worth. "Yes. Very personal. And as soon as possible." He added an extra inflection to his words.
Farley thought for a moment. Wiley's personal representative had to have power. After all, Picard had been acquitted by the court martial board. This man had powerful friends.
"A favor? In the future?" he suggested to Jean-Luc.
Jean-Luc agreed.
"She'll be yours at 0800 hours."
Jean-Luc thanked the man, privately wondering how this man had ever achieved the rank of captain. He personally vowed to one day change that status.
At the appointed hour, Ensign Yar reported for duty. She waited in the front office. It was a typical Starfleet commander's office; functional, plain, grimy grey; interchangeable with a thousand such cubicles on at least fifty worlds.
Yar considered the office. Based on its style, her new commander was an unimportant cog bound to a bureaucratic wheel. Whoever her new commanding officer was, for Farley had neglected to mention his name when he kicked her off of his ship, was probably an incompetent officer passed over for promotion and then shuffled out of harm's way and into an inconsequential position.
Tasha sighed. Farley had finally succeeded. She was going to have to resign her commission. She was at the nadir of her career, now working for a petty bureaucrat at a minor posting.
She almost wished that she had filed the sexual harassment complaints against Farley. But Tasha's way had always been to deal with problems herself and not to go running to someone else to fix them. For the first time, she wished that she'd dealt with Farley differently.
An electronic summons told her to enter the next aging, neutrally decorated office. At one point some designer had thought that splashes of slate grey against dirty grey was an artistic statement that lent itself to the ambience of the room. It didn't.
Then the inner office door opened.
"Come in, Ensign."
She dutifully obeyed.
Her eyes focused on the man sitting behind a grey desk that had multiple chips to its surface.
"You!"
For a moment she revealed her surprise. And then she recollected her position. "Sorry, Sir. Ensign Yar reporting as ordered." She awaited his displeasure.
Standing stiffly at attention she waited for this officer to say something. He didn't. Instead, he studied her as she was surreptitiously studying him. He was wearing captain's pips. Which meant that he'd really screwed up his career if this ugly little office was the best he could show for achieving that rank.
Almost as if sensing what she was thinking, he permitted himself a ghost of a smile to cross over his lips. "At ease, Ensign."
She relaxed just a little bit.
"I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard." He read the padd before him, intently scrutinizing its details about her career. "Why are you an ensign? You once were a lieutenant, junior grade. You have several impressive commendations for bravery, and, until you were assigned to Captain Farley's command, you had an estimable record. What happened? Why the demotion?"
"Captain Farley and I had a disagreement."
When nothing more was forthcoming, he ordered, "Explain."
"He disliked the way I rescued fellow crew members." Her tone was bleak, resigned.
Picard accepted her words. "Having read the details of that little incident, I can understand why he put you on report."
He looked up at her. And then he suddenly tossed her a black, matte pip.
She quickly reacted but still had to scramble to catch it.
"Lieutenant." He was quite pronounced with his enunciation. "I don't think that I will consider Farley's opinion of you to be in any way similar to my point of view. Prove yourself to me, Lieutenant." He saw the confusion in her eyes. He motioned toward the sole chair in the room in front of his desk. And then he took pity on her.
"Lieutenant, I require your assistance."
She glanced about the office. And tried to control her shuddering. "I don't think I'd be a very good file clerk, Sir." She placed the pip by the edge of the desk.
"Why not?"
"I, uh, am afraid of paper cuts."
Picard stifled his laugh.
"Anyone who can challenge a Nausicaan has the guramba to survive paper cuts. I tried challenging a Nausicaan once - and lost, to my everlasting regret. Perhaps one day I'll tell you about it."
He glanced pointedly down at the pip on the desk. Then he stared at her.
There was something in his gaze that struck a responsive chord in her heart. A brief tendril of hope began to rise in her breast as she picked up the pip and put it on her collar.
"You're working for me now, Lieutenant Yar, as my personal assistant."
"What are my duties, sir?"
He relented, and did grant her a slight grin before speaking. "I need a crew."
'For what, sir?"
"For my ship."
She admirably hid her shock at his words. From the scuttlebutt that she'd heard about Picard, most thought that he would never walk the deck of his own command ever again.
He admired her restraint from asking the obvious question.
"The U.S.S. Enterprise, 1701-D."
She was awestruck. Rumors had abounded for years about the greatest starship to ever be built. And this man was her captain…
"You want me for the Enterprise?"
"I think that you'll do." Behind his stern visage, he almost smiled . "I'll even allow Nausicaans on board, at your convenience, whenever you feel the need," he teased.
"Whatever you say, Sir." She could not quite believe that he was speaking to her in such a manner. It belied all of the rumors that she'd heard about his legendary disciplinary style.
Surprisingly, Picard felt at ease with this officer, as if he had known her for years instead of less than a day. There was something about her that penetrated his usual cloak of reserve.
"Then, you will join my staff?"
At this moment, he'd won her allegiance.
"Captain, I am willing to serve you until the day I die."
"I trust that going to such an extreme will not be necessary," he gruffly exclaimed. But there was a part of him that recognized that she spoke the truth. He did not wish to be the recipient of such fervor, but he knew it went with being the captain of a star ship. It was part of the responsibilities of being the one in command.
"You will file reports, Lieutenant. You will be part of the bureaucratic process for the next few months until the ship is ready to be launched. You will help me choose the right personnel for the Enterprise." Picard paused for a few moments, assessing her reactions to his words. "When we are finished with all of Starfleet's bureaucratic demands, then we will be free to do what we really want. To boldly go…"
Her smile was beautiful as her eagerness and enthusiasm filled her soul. "Yes, Sir."
"I take it that you agree, Lieutenant Yar?"
"Oh yes, Sir."
Picard was silent for a moment. "May I drop the rank, Lieutenant?"
"Of course, Captain." Tasha tensed. What did this man need to know?
Picard picked up his tea cup off of the dingy laminate desk top. Speaking now as a man who just simply didn't like puzzles, he idly asked, "How did you know that you were going to defeat the Klingon with your arm wrestling? It's a rather unusual skill, even for a security officer."
Fond humor colored her voice as she explained, "I've had a very good Klingon warrior as a tutor. He's taught me every position and every trick. About arm wrestling, and in other areas too."
"I take it that you are referring to Lieutenant Worf?"
"Why yes, Sir. Do you know Lieutenant Worf?"
"I am considering him for a position on my staff."
By the light in her eyes, he knew that she considered this to be a terrific decision.
Tasha volunteered, "He'd make a wonderful Chief Security Officer."
He stifled his annoyance at her presumptiveness. "I have yet to choose the officer for that position. I am considering several possibilities. When next you see him, you may thank him for your change of posting."
He'd made up his mind. If Lieutenant Yar could consider Lieutenant Worf wonderful, then the Klingon was indeed a candidate as an officer for his ship. Now, he only had two hundred and forty two more Starfleet positions to fill.
By the tone of his voice, she suspected that she was dismissed.
Then, he added as if it were an afterthought, "Lieutenant Worf's ship is docking at 1230 hours. I will meet with him then. Join me." He thought of something else. "Admiral Winston Holt Wiley has ordered that we be very discreet in our recruitment of personnel. There will be no discussion of my assignment with anyone outside of my choices for the Enterprise, until the formal announcement is made by the Admiralty."
"Aye, sir." And then she smiled, her eyes shining as if lit by star power, absolutely thrilled by all of the future possibilities.
"Isn't it marvelous, Captain?"
"What?" Picard was startled by the intensity of her excitement.
"The Enterprise! We're going to serve aboard her!" Her smile was infectious.
And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to respond. Picard understood her mood. He'd been feeling it for days now. Her enthusiasm was catching.
"Yes, Lieutenant. It is our time now."