Star Trek by Christie Golden Page A

but it was the only way. On the rare opportunities they had to meet, Faulwell would give Anthony the letters in a box, as a special gift. But the simple, physical act of writing the letters—all of which he opened with the words “Just a brief note,” regardless of how many pages the letter would then go on to become—made Bart feel akin to the myriads of wanderers who had gone before: the sailors of ancient Earth, the early space-farers, all those who knew distance from those they loved and tried to bridge that distance with the written word.
    Words, written or spoken, were almost as dear to Faulwell as Anthony.
    He took a breath and settled down in a chair in the quarters he shared with Stevens. He instructed the computer to provide soft, instrumental music as a pleasant background, and began to write.
    Just a brief note to let you know that our last assignment was completed successfully. It was not without its tense moments, however! Some days, this mission becomes just at rifle too exciting for a boring old linguist like me to handle.It is always such a pleasure to have a calm moment now and then to write down my thoughts and feelings to you, mydear, and know that, as you read these words, you will, in some small way, share in my adventures. How are you getting along with your new colleague, the one you called in your last letter the “Pompous Windbag?” Has PW come around to your way of thinking yet? I cannot imagine you would be unable to win him over once—
    A klaxon sounded. Yellow alert. The slight linguist sagged in his chair and groaned. Time for another adventure.
    â€œWill the following crewmembers please report to the briefing room.” Bart listened, but his hopes of peacefully continuing with his correspondence were dashed when he heard his name among those listed. Carefully, he capped the pen and left the letter on the table.
    He wasn’t usually summoned to briefings unless he was an actual participant in whatever mission they were about to embark upon. Still, he remained optimistic. With any luck he’d return to his letter in a few moments. After all, not every “adventure” on which the
da Vinci
embarked required a linguist.

    â€œAnd we’ll need a linguist,” Captain David Gold was saying to Geordi la Forge as Faulwell entered the room. “And there’s one now,” Gold added, with a lift of his bushy eyebrows as he caught sight of Faulwell. The rest of the crew who had been asked to report were filling the small briefing room, gently pushing past Faulwell to take their seats.
    Faulwell smiled weakly. His brief note would have to wait.
    Something brushed past his leg; P8 Blue, scurrying toward her specially designed seat. She was muttering under her breath. Bart wondered what this mission was about, that it got the normally calm Pattie so agitated.
    He sat between Commander Sonya Gomez and Carol Abromowitz. Carol leaned over and whispered, “Culture specialist
and
linguist, huh? Wonder if it’s a first-contact situation.”
    Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. Abromowitz loved first-contact situations, but they always made the academic Faulwell nervous as hell. He, more than anyone, knew just how important choosing the right word in delicate negotiations could be. Sometimes, it was literally a matter of life or death. He figured each of the first-contact situations in which he’d participated had aged him at least a year. No wonder his hair was thinning and turning gray.
    110, as always, was the last one to enter. Sometimes he was quite late in reporting to the briefings, but Gold had not reprimanded him. Everyone was sympathetic to 110’s situation. Bart had begun to worry about him, after their recent conversation. The little Bynar edged into the room as if fearing an attack, his eyes—so small in his round, pale face—darting about. Bart remembered how the unified pair used to move—each step in synch,