STAR TREK TNG 18 Stargazer#1 Gauntlet

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Acknowledgments

This, the first in an ongoing series ofStargazerbooks, owes its existence to a number of people beyond

its humble and shiftless author. John Ordover, Pocket Books editor, was the one who first encouraged

me to take a stab at an ongoing series along the lines of the one pioneered by my friend Peter David.

Scott Shannon, Pocket publisher, approved the darn thing for reasons I still can’t fathom. And Paula

Block, who heads up Paramount’s licensed publishing program, didn’t scream too loudly about it when it

crossed her desk.

I would like to recognize the efforts of all those who helped me work out the science behind the

character Jiterica and the Lazarus star system, which plays a key role in this book. The guilty parties

include Allyn, Michael, Todd Kogutt, Deborah and Baerbell from the PsiPhi bulletin board run by Dave

Henderson, as well as physicist Dave Domelen.

I would also like to express gratitude to David Stern, my first Star Trek editor, for giving me the chance

to introduce theStargazercrew in the first place; Larry Forrester and Herb Wright, who gave the

Stargazerits place in Star Trek continuity with the TNG episode “The Battle”; and all the other TV and

novel writers who provided me with walls to bounce off as I boldly go where few thought it prudent to go

before.

Chapter One

Captain’s personal log, supplemental.

We have arrived at Starbase 32, where Commander Gilaad Ben Zoma and I are to attend a

convocation of starship captains and their executive officers. While such gatherings have rarely

taken place before, our newly minted Admiral McAteer seems intent on closely coordinating the

activities of all ships in his sector.

Ben Zoma thinks the entire meeting will be a waste of time—particularly the cocktail party the

admiral is hosting this evening. I, on the other hand, am looking forward to the opportunity to rub

elbows with my fellow captains.

No doubt there is a great deal I can learn fromthem . . . considering I have officially been on the

job less than a week now.

JEAN-LUCPICARD, captain of the Federation starshipStargazer,surveyed the imposing dome-shaped

room that opened before him. It was filled with a sea of crimson uniforms and gold-barred sleeves, along

with several matching crimson-draped tables bearing pale bowls of Andorian punch and piles of dark

brown finger sandwiches.

Glancing at his first officer, Picard said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many command officers in one

place.”

Ben Zoma, a man with dark good looks and a mischievous glint in his eye, smiled at the remark. “One

well-placed photon torpedo and you’d wipe out half the fleet.”

“Perhaps nothalf,Number One.”

“Close enough,” Ben Zoma insisted.

“Think of it as a unique opportunity,” Picard told him. He regarded a knot of a half-dozen men and

women gathered around the nearest punch bowl. “A chance to pick the brains of those more

experienced at this than you or I.”

Ben Zoma, like Picard, had been promoted only recently. Before being named first officer of the

Stargazer,he had served as the vessel’s chief of security.

“Follow me,” the captain said, meaning to take his own advice.

Joining the group by the punch bowl, he smiled at the glances that came his way. Then, as he helped

himself to some punch, he listened in on the conversation.

“Of course,” said a man with red hair that had begun graying at the temples, “I had never done anything

like that before. But the circumstances seemed to call for it.”

A large-boned woman with dark features nodded. “I’ve been in that situation myself.”

A second woman grunted. She didn’t look like the type who smiled much, despite the youthful scattering

of freckles on her face. “I think we all have,” she said soberly.

“I hate to interrupt,” Picard chimed in, “but what are we talking about exactly? An encounter with a

hostile force? A brush with some undiscovered phenomenon?”

He sounded more gung ho than he had intended. But then, he wasfeelingrather gung ho.

That is, until the others looked at him as if he had placed his hindquarters in the punch bowl. There was

an awkward silence for what seemed a long time. Then one of the officers, the man with the red hair,

offered a response.

“I was talking,” he said, “about putting my dog to sleep.”

Picard felt his cheeks grow hot. “Yes. Yes, of course you were. How silly of me to assume otherwise.”

No one replied. They just stood there, looking at him. Finally, he took the hint.

“If you’ll excuse me . . .” he said rather lamely.

When no one objected to his doing so, Picard separated himself from the group and strolled to the other

side of the room. Ben Zoma walked beside him, a look of bemusement on his face.

“Gilaad,” Picard said to his first officer, “is it my imagination or was I just snubbed?”

Ben Zoma looked back at the group they had just left. “I’d like to tell you that it’s your imagination,

Jean-Luc, but I don’t think I can do that.”

“What I said was admittedly a bit inappropriate, given the tenor of the conversation. But it wasn’t

deserving of that kind of response. Someone else might even have laughed at it.”

Ben Zoma nodded. “True enough.”

“Then why did they react that way?” Picard asked. He looked down at his newly replicated dress

uniform. “Did I put my trousers on backward this evening?”

“Your trousers are fine,” his friend said. “I have a feeling it has more to do with the age of the person

inside them. Youarethe greenest apple ever to take command of a Starfleet vessel.”

Picard couldn’t argue the point. “So I am.”

At the tender age of twenty-eight, he was the youngest captain yet in the history of the fleet. Even

younger than the legendary James T. Kirk, and that was saying something.

“And it’s not just your age,” Ben Zoma said, ticking off the strikes against the captain on his fingers.

“You’ve never had the experience of serving as first officer. You would never have gotten your

commission so quickly if Captain Ruhalter hadn’t been killed in the course of a battle with hostile aliens.

And—because an inexperienced whippersnapper like you couldn’tpossiblyhave gotten a captaincy on

merit—it was probably a political appointment.”

Picard grunted. “Thank you, Number One. I was beginning to actually feel capable of commanding a

starship for a moment there, but you have managed to completely disabuse me of that notion.”

“My pleasure,” his friend told him archly. “What’s afirst officer for if not to deflate his captain’s ego from

time to time?”

“Indeed,” Picard said thinly, sharing in the joke at his own expense.

He looked around the domed room again and noticed a few sidelong glances being cast in his direction.

They didn’t exactly look like expressions of admiration.

Perhaps Ben Zoma was right, the captain reflected. Perhaps his colleagues were looking at him

differently because of his age and relative inexperience.

But if the looks on their faces were any indication, he wasn’t just an object of curiosity. He was an

object of disdain.

It hurt Picard to think so—even more than he would have guessed. After all, they had no firsthand

observations to go on. They could only know what they had heard.

Yet these were starship captains and first officers—men and women who represented the finest the

Federation had to offer. Picard would have expected them to be more welcoming of a fledgling

colleague, more sensitive to his situation.

Apparently, he would have been wrong in that regard.

As was often the case, Ben Zoma seemed to read his thoughts. “All in all, not the friendliest-looking

group I’ve ever seen.”

“Nor I,” Picard said. “I get the feeling I’m running a gauntlet.”

“If you are, it’s undeserved. You’ve earned your command, Jean-Luc.” He jerked his head to include

the other captains in the room. “Maybe more so thantheyhave.”

Picard didn’t want to appear to feel sorry for himself, even if it was just in front of Ben Zoma. However,

hiscolleagues’ doubts weren’t all that was bothering him. If they were, he could have taken the situation in

stride.

Unfortunately, the glances they sent his way underlined a much more troublesome and insidious fact: the

captain harbored some doubtshimself.

Weeks earlier, when Admiral Mehdi called him into his office, he had expected the admiral to lay into

him—to chew him out for the chances he had taken against the Nuyyad. Instead, Mehdi had ordained

him Captain Ruhalter’s successor.

Picard had been too stunned at the time to question the admiral’s judgment. He had been too excited by

the challenge to consider the wisdom of such a move.

But was hequalifiedto be a captain?

He had seized the reins in an emergency and brought his crew out of it alive, no question about it. But

did he have the ability to command a starship over the long haul? Was he a long-distance runner . . . or

just a sprinter?

“You’re not saying anything,” Ben Zoma pointed out. “Should I send for a doctor?”

The captain chuckled. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” He caught sight of a waiter with a tray

of food. “Perhaps an hors d’oeuvre will brighten up the evening for me. I’ve always been partial to pigs in

blankets.”

His first officer looked skeptical. “Really?”

Picard smiled at him. “No. But they’ll do in a pinch.”

He had already embarked on an intercept course with the waiter when he felt a hand on his arm.

Turning, he saw a tall fellow with a seamed face and a crew cut the color of sand.

Like Picard, he wore a captain’s uniform. “Pardonme,” the fellow said. “You’re Jean-Luc Picard, aren’t

you?”

Picard nodded. “I am.”

The man extended his hand. “My name’s Greenbriar. Denton Greenbriar.”

Picard recognized the name. Anyone would have. “The captain of theCochise,isn’t it?”

Greenbriar grinned, deepening the lines in his face. “I see my reputation’s preceded me.”

In fact, it had. Denton Greenbriar was perhaps the most decorated commanding officer in Starfleet.

Picard pulled Ben Zoma over. “Captain Greenbriar, Gilaad Ben Zoma—my executive officer.”

The two shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you,” Greenbriar said. He turned back to Picard. “And a

pleasure to meetyou,sir. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“You have?” Picard responded, unable to keep from sounding surprised. Embarrassed, he smiled.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s just that I feel like a bit of an oddity here.”

“Why’s that?” asked Greenbriar. “Just because you’re the youngest man ever to command a starship?”

“Well,” said Picard, “yes.”

“People are often not what they seem, Jean-Luc.” Greenbriar took in the other men and women in the

room with a glance. “Looks to me like our colleagues here have forgotten that.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Picard told him.

Greenbriar shrugged his broad shoulders. “Admiral Mehdi is a sharp cookie. Always has been. If he has

confidence in you, I’m certain it’s well deserved.”

“It is,” Ben Zoma agreed.

Picard felt his cheeks turn hot. He cleared his throatand said, “I’m not sure what I find more

uncomfortable—the cold shoulder or the company of flatterers.”

Greenbriar laughed. “That’s the last bit of flattery you’ll get fromme,Captain. I promise.”

And with that, he left to refill his glass.

Ben Zoma turned to Picard. “That was refreshing.”

“Unfortunately,” the captain replied, “it’s not likely to happen again this evening.”

“What do you say we find something else to do?”

Picard frowned. It was a tempting suggestion. He said as much. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I feel

obliged to stick it out here a while longer.”

“Your duty as a captain?” Ben Zoma asked.

Picard nodded. “Something like that, yes.”

So they stayed. But, as he had predicted, no one else came near them the rest of the evening.

Not even Admiral McAteer. In fact, Picard couldn’t find the man the entire evening.

Chapter Two

CARTERGREYHORSE,CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICERon theStargazer,watched Gerda Asmund

advance on him in her tight-fitting black garb. The navigation officer’s left hand extended toward him

while her right remained close to her chest, her slender fingers curled into nasty-looking claws.

“Kave’ragh!”she snarled suddenly, and her beautiful features contorted into a mask of primal

aggression.

Then her right hand lashed out like an angry viper, her knuckles a blur as they headed for the center of

his face. Greyhorse flinched, certain that Gerda had finally miscalculated and was about to deal him a

devastating, perhaps even lethal blow. But as always, her attack fell short of its target by an inch.

Looking past Gerda’s knuckles into her merciless, ice-blue eyes, Greyhorse swallowed. He didn’t want

to contemplate the force with which she would have drivenher flattened fist into his mouth. Enough,

surely, to cave in his front teeth. Enough to make him choke and sputter on his own blood.

But she had exercised restraint and pulled her punch. After all, it wasn’t a battle in which they were

engaged, or even a sparring session. It was just a lesson.

“Kave’ragh?”he repeated, doing his best not to completely mangle the Klingon pronunciation.

“Kave’ragh,”Gerda repeated, having no trouble with the pronunciation. But then, she had been

speaking the Klingon tongue from a rather early age.

The navigator stayed where she was for a moment, allowing Greyhorse to study her posture. Then she

took a slow step back and retracted her fist, as if reloading a medieval crossbow.

“Now you,” Gerda told him.

Greyhorse bent his knees and drew his hands into the proper position. Then he curled his fingers under

at the first knuckle, exactly as she had taught him.

Gerda’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t criticize him. It was a good sign. During their first few lessons,

she had done nothingbutcriticize him—his balance, his coordination, even his desire to improve.

To be sure, Greyhorse wasn’t the most athletic individual and never had been. When the other kids had

chosen sides to play parisses squares, he had invariably been the last to be picked.

But he was big. And strong. Gerda seemed to know how to tap the power he possessed but had never

made use of.

“Kave’ragh!”he bellowed, trying his best to duplicate his teacher’s effort.

She spoiled his attack with an open-handed blow to the side of his wrist. It sent his fist wide of her face,

where it couldn’t do any harm. But at least he didn’t stumble, as he had in their first few sessions.

Maintaining his balance, he pulled back and reloaded.

“Kave’ragh!”he snapped again, determined to get past Gerda’s defenses.

This time she hit the inside of his wrist and redirected the force of his attack upward, leaving the right

side of his body woefully unguarded. Before he could move to cover the deficiency, Gerda drove her

knuckles into his ribs.

Hard.

The pain made him recoil and cry out. Seeing this, Gerda shot him a look of disdain.

“Next time,” she told him, “you’ll do better.”

He would too. And not because she had nearly cracked a rib with her counterattack. He would do

better because he bitterly hated the idea of disappointing her.

The first time they had fought, in one of theStargazer’s corridors, he had surprised her by getting in a

lucky punch, and she had gazed at him with admiration in her eyes. It was to resurrect that moment that

he endured this kind of punishment.

He didn’t do it in order to become an expert in Klingon martial arts—he had no aspirations in that

regard. He came to the gym three times a week and suffered contusions and bone bruises for one reason

only: to force Gerda to see him as an equal. To see him as a warrior.

And eventually, if he was very diligent and very fortunate, to see him as a lover.

With this in mind, Greyhorse again assumed the basic position. Knees bent, he reminded himself. One

hand forward, one hand back. Knuckles extended, so.

More important, he focused his mind. He saw himself driving his fist into his opponent’s face, once,

twice, and again, so quickly that his blows couldn’t be parried. And he ignored the fact that it was

Gerda’s face he was pounding.

“Kave’ragh!” growled the doctor, a man who had never growled at anything in his life.

This time Greyhorse’s attack was more effective. Gerda was unable to knock it off-line. In fact, it was

only by moving her head at the last moment that she avoided injury.

He was grateful that she had. He didn’t want to hurt her. He only wanted to prove to her that he could.

It was an irony he found difficult to accept—that he could only hope to win Gerda’s love by

demonstrating an ability to maim her. But then, the woman had been raised in a culture that made

aggression a virtue. She had, to say the least, anunusualpoint of view.

Again, Greyhorse roared,“Kave’ragh!”and moved to strike her. Again, Gerda was unable to deflect

his blow. And again, she managed to dodge anyway.

Getting closer,he told himself. She knew it, too. He could see it in her gaze, hard and implacable,

demanding everything of him and giving away nothing.

Not even hope.

Yet Gerda knew how much he wanted her. Shehadto. He had blurted it out that day in the corridor.

She hadn’t acknowledged it since, of course, and Greyhorse hadn’t brought it up again. All they did was

show up at their appointed time in the gym, teacher and pupil, master and enslaved.

“Kave’ragh!”he cried out.

Then he put everything into one last punch—too much, as it turned out, because he leaned too far

forward and Gerda took painful advantage of the fact.

She didn’t just elude Greyhorse’s attack. She side-kicked him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him

and doubling him over. Then she hit him in the back of his head with the point of her elbow, driving him to

his knees.

Stunned, gasping for breath and dripping sweat, he remained on all fours for what seemed like a long

time. Finally, he found the strength to drag himself to his feet.

Gerda was waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest, a lock of yellow hair dangling and a

thin sheen of perspiration on her face. He had expected to find disapproval in her expression, maybe

even disgust at the clumsiness he had exhibited.

But what he saw was a hint of the look she had given him in the corridor. A hint ofadmiration.

It made Greyhorse forget how Gerda had bludgeoned him, though his throat still burned and his ribs still

throbbed and there was a distinctly metallic taste of blood in his mouth. In fact, it made him eager for

more.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded, inviting waves of vertigo even with that modest gesture. “I’ll be here.”

Gerda tilted her head slightly, as if to appraise him better. She remained that way for a moment, piercing

his soul with her eyes. Then she turned her back on him, pulled a towel off the rack on the wall, and left

the gym.

Greyhorse watched her go. She moved with animalgrace, each muscle working in perfect harmony with

all the others. When the doors hissed closed behind her, he felt as if he had lost a part of himself.

How he loved her.

Chief Weapons Officer Vigo looked at his friend Charlie Kochman, contemplating the experience they

had just shared. Then he broke out in a broad, toothy grin.

“You like it?” Kochman asked.

“I like it a great deal,” Vigo told him.

“Thought you would.”

Vigo considered the wooden sharash’di game board that sat between them, with its skillfully carved

terrain and its clever simulations of various natural features. It was really quite a work of art—the kind the

ship’s lounge seldom saw.

But the game itself . . . it was like nothing he had ever played before, either on his homeworld of Pandril

or anywhere else. And he couldn’t wait to play it again.

“And you say you picked this up on Beta Nopterix?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. From an Yridian. He wanted to sell me the game, so he taught me how to play. Interesting,

eh?”

Vigo nodded. “Quite interesting.”

Kochman, who was one of the ship’s navigators, smiled back at him. “And guess what, buddy? It’s

yours.”

Vigo didn’t understand. “Mine?”

“That’s right. It’s a birthday gift.”

The weapons officer held up his large blue hands. “I can’t accept it. We don’t celebrate our birth

anniversaries on Pandril.”

“But we celebrate them on Earth,” Kochman remindedhim. “And as my friend, I can’t imagine that

you’d deprive me of the opportunity to celebrateyours.”

When he put it that way, it was hard for Vigo to turn him down. “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“Say thank you,” his friend advised.

Vigo looked down at the board, then flashed another expression of delight. “Thank you, Charlie. Thank

you very much.”

Idun Asmund, theStargazer’s primary helm officer, was almost finished with her dinner when she saw

Pug Joseph approaching her with a tray of food.

As Joseph got closer, steam from his meal wafting in front of him, he seemed to notice that Idun’s plate

was already empty. “Aw, geez,” the baby-faced, sandy-haired security officer said, making no effort to

conceal his disappointment.

She looked up at him. “Lieutenant?”

“It’s all right,” he told her stoically. “I guess we can talk some other time.”

There wasn’t anything that demanded Idun’s attention at the moment. “What was it you wished to talk

about?”

Joseph set his tray down and pulled out a chair opposite the helm officer’s. Then he looked around to

make sure no one in the mess hall was listening too closely.

STAR TREK TNG 18 Stargazer#1 Gauntlet

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