Captain's Table.

Dujonian's h.o.a.rd.

by Michael Jan Friedman.

THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE

"AND DID YOU?"

Sulu glanced up from his empty mug of Martian Red Ice Ale, wondering who'd asked that question. The English sea captain was draining his own mug, and the old man with the meerschaum pipe was busy trying to get it to light for about the fiftieth time that night. The felinoid and the human freighter had slipped away, arm in arm, to some more private part of the bar during the last part of the storytelling session, and the Gorn was lying facedown in his beer bucket. The voice had been too low to be the red-haired pirate's, which meant that it either belonged to the barman or to Captain Kirk himself. Both of them were smiling at him, so he gave up trying to track down the source of the question and simply answered it.

"No," he admitted. "It's been so many years, I'd forgotten all about that promise until I told the rest of the story. Captain Kirk was the one who remembered it, and came to find me." He returned his mentor's smile. "You're right, sir. It was a good way to pa.s.s the time."

"I thought you'd like it," Kirk said, pushing his own gla.s.s away and b.u.t.toning up the flap of his uniform jacket. He slid off his bar stool, then gave the Gorn captain's ma.s.sive green shoulder a comradely thump. "I hope you enjoyed the story, Captain."

The Gorn lifted an enormous ale-stained snout from his bucket. "What story?" he rumbled. "I forgot to listen." Then he fell back onto the bar and began to snore again.

"Well, now that you know about the place, Captain Sulu, you can come back and find it on your own anytime," the barman said, twisting a rag through a long, triangular gla.s.s. "We're open whenever you're pa.s.sing through."

"I'll remember that." Sulu reached in his pocket for a handful of coins to throw onto the bar, but the red-haired pirate reached out and caught his hand before he could drop them. She had perched herself cross-legged on the bar across from him for the last part of his story, so she wouldn't miss a single exciting detail of the triumph of female Nykkus over their rogue males.

"You can't leave now," she protested. "You haven't finished your story!"

Sulu threw Kirk a rueful look. "That's true, I haven't, but that's because the epilogue hasn't actually happened yet. If you can wait until after I pick up my new first officer tonight"

"No, I meant about the lizard-women! Did the evil Klingons add them to their archipelago? Or were they invited to join your federation of good nations?"

"That's a whole other story," Kirk informed her. "You'll just have to wait until the next time we drop in to hear it."

"Or ask some other captains to tell you." Sulu couldn't be sure, since the Captain's Table bar was so crowded and wide, but he thought he'd seen a pod of familiar faces enter the room from the other side, dressed in the same Starfleet red Kirk and he wore. The glitter of their dark scales reminded him of his short-tailed stowaway, but he glanced around in vain. The slump of the sleeping Gorn's neck showed no brown and gold gecko anywhere in sight. "Has anyone seen the little lizard I came in with tonight?"

The barman shook his head, looking concerned. "I hope the little furry animal didn't eat him."

"No." The white-maned sea captain pointed with the stem of his pipe. "I saw him squiggle off toward those dark-skinned girls, over there."

Kirk evidently had a better view of the group than Sulu did. He lifted his eyebrows in amus.e.m.e.nt. "Your gecko knows superior officers when he sees them, Mr. Sulu. You'll have to get another pet tonight."

"Actually, sir, I think I've had enough exposure to reptiles for a while." Sulu stepped away from the bar, then paused to give their companions a respectful nod. "It was a pleasure meeting all of you. Fair skies."

"And fairer stars," said the Englishman seriously. "Travel safe among them."

Sulu smiled and followed Kirk out into the midnight-blue Martian night. The two small moons weren't up yet, and the desert-clean atmosphere made the stars burn like diamonds sprinkled on dark velvet. He glanced up, wondering just how many of them he'd visited so far in his life, and just how many more he'd get to see before he died.

"It was good to work with you on the Excelsior's first mission, sir," he said, as they matched strides down the avenue that led back through the s.p.a.ceport. "I don't remember if I ever thanked you for everything you did back then."

Kirk shook his head, smiling. "Maybe not, but it doesn't matter. You'll pay back the favor to some other young captain who rises out of your ranks someday. That's the way Starfleet works." His smile widened. "And in any case, I got a superb security officer out of the whole mess. If I weren't retiring soon, I'd try to keep him awhile longer."

Sulu laughed, knowing from the way Kirk had let his voice drift ahead of them that the words weren't meant for him, but for the dark-haired man waiting at the s.p.a.ceport's gate. "And he'd probably let you, Captain, but I wouldn't. I've got a hundred free flight simulator games coming to me, after the bet we made about whether you really were going to retire after the Khitomer treaty signing. And with the Excelsior's schedule of deep-s.p.a.ce missions for the next five years, the only way I'm ever going to get my payoff is if he comes along as my first officer."

"Very funny," said Chekov. "You're late."

Sulu glanced at his watch, suddenly worried that all that time in the Captain's Table had really been the hours that it seemed. The time displayed there a.s.sured him otherwise. "By ten minutes, Pavel! Don't tell me you never found a nice little Russian bar on sh.o.r.e leave and forgot exactly what time you were due back at the ship, because I remember"

"That was different, there were two diplomats and an alien tax collector involved"

A hand fell on both their shoulders, warm and friendly. "It's good to see you two working out so well," said Captain Kirk. "Enjoy your mission on the Excelsior, Mr. Chekov. And Captain Sulu let me know how everything goes next time we happen to be in the Captain's Table together."

He left them with a final clap on the shoulders, his strides fading away into the night. Chekov looked curious.

"The Captain's Table?" the Russian asked. "I've never heard of that bar here on Mars. Is it new?"

"New to me, but I think a lot of people have already found it." Sulu paused, remembering what Kirk had said about pa.s.sing the favor on to a captain who would someday rise out of his ranks. He smiled at his new secondin-command. "Maybe I'll get the chance to take you there someday. I don't suppose you want to bet on whether"

"No," said Chekov firmly. Sulu laughed, and swung around to walk beside him, heading back toward the s.p.a.ceport, toward the Excelsior, and toward the stars.

Star Trek:

The Next Generation THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE Dujonian's h.o.a.rd Jean-Luc Picard

as recorded by

Michael Jan Friedman For Jason, Roni, Jesse, and Dana, who love to go a-wanderin'

Madigoor CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD looked around at the thickening fog and decided he would never reach his destination.

In the pea soup that surrounded him, every building looked like every other. Floating street illuminators were few and far between. And as Madigooran cities were known to have their deadlier sides, he wasn't at all comfortable not knowing where he was going.

Turning to his friend and colleague Captain Neil Gleason of the Zhukov, Picard shrugged. "Maybe we ought to turn back," he suggested. "Return to the conference center."

"Nonsense," said Gleason, his face covered with a thin sheen of moisture, his blue eyes resolute beneath his shock of thick red hair. "We can't turn back. We're almost there."

Picard cleared his throat. "Forgive me for sounding dubious, Neil, but you said the very same thing ten minutes ago, and unless I'm mistaken ten minutes before that."

Gleason stopped and clapped his colleague on the shoulder. "Come on, Jean-Luc. I've never attended a more useless excuse for a conference in my life. Trade routes, transitional governments, border disputes ... it's enough to make me wish I'd become an engineer."

Picard had to agree.

A year earlier, the Federation had signed its treaty with the Carda.s.sian Union, with each side ceding certain planets to the other. After that, matters along the border had gotten complicated rather quickly.

For one thing, the Maquis had entered the mix, using guerrilla tactics to make it known they weren't going to accept Carda.s.sian rule treaty or no treaty. Like it or not, that compelled Starfleet Command to formulate a whole new line of policy.

Hence, the strategic conference on Madigoor IV, which Picard and Gleason had been asked to attend. But in its first day, the conference had dealt little with practical matters such as where and how the Maquis might strike next and more with a host of attendant political considerations.

"We owe ourselves a little relaxation," Gleason insisted with a smile. "A little diversion, if you will. And there's no place in the galaxy as diverting as the Captain's Table."

"Yes," Picard responded. "You told me. A pub to end all pubs."

"An understatement, I a.s.sure you."

The captain ignored the remark. "At which point, if you'll recall, I said my pub-crawling days were well behind me."

"That's right," Gleason agreed. "And I told you this pub would make you change your mind."

Truth be told, Picard had had another reason for trying to decline his friend's offer. He'd had a lot on his mind lately an awful lot and he still needed to sort it out.

However, there had been no arguing with the man. So Picard had accompanied him a decision he was rapidly beginning to regret.

Looking around again, all he could make out were vague shapes. Fortunately, none of them were moving, so there was no immediate danger. But the fog was getting denser by the moment.

"I'm sure you're right," he told his companion reasonably. "I'm sure this Captain's Table is a perfectly wonderful establishment. But if we can't find the place ..."

"Oh, we'll find it all right," Gleason a.s.sured him. He frowned and peered into the fog. "It's this way," he decided, though he sounded even less sure of himself than when they'd left the conference facility. "Yes, this way for certain, Jean-Luc."

And he started off again. With a sigh, Picard followed.

But after another ten minutes, they still hadn't gotten where they were going. A little exasperated by that point, the captain took Gleason by the sleeve of his civilian garb.

"Listen," he said, "this is absurd, Neil. At this rate, we'll be wandering these streets all night."

Gleason scratched his head and did some more looking around. "I just don't get it," he replied at last. "Last time, it seemed so close to the conference center. And now ..."

"That was a year ago," Picard reminded him. "Maybe it's closed down in the interim. Or moved."

Gleason didn't say anything, but his look admitted the possibility his friend was right.

"At any rate," said Picard, "this is looking more and more like a wild-goose chase. And as someone who has actually chased a wild goose in his youth, I can personally attest to the fruitlessness of such an endeavor."

Clearly, Gleason wasn't as sure of himself as before, but he still didn't seem willing to admit defeat. "Look," he sighed, "maybe if we just go on a little farther ..."

Having reached the end of his patience, Picard held his hand up. "You go on if you like. I'm going to call it a day."

Of course, he was so lost at that point, finding the conference center would be no mean feat. But at least he knew the place still existed. That was, unless the Madigoorans had hidden it as well as they'd hidden Gleason's pub which seemed fairly unlikely.

Gleason squinted into the fog. "It's here somewhere," he insisted. "I could've sworn it was ... " Suddenly, his face lit up. "Right there!" he announced triumphantly. And he pointed.

Picard followed the man's gesture. Through the concealing, befuddling fog, he could make out a whimsical sign handpainted in bright colors. In flowing Madigooran characters, it read G'kl'gol Ivno'ewi.

Gleason translated. "The Captain's Table." He held his arms out like a performer seeking applause. "You see? I told you I'd find it."

"So you did," Picard conceded.

Funny, he thought, how that sign had seemed to loom up out of nowhere. Looking at it now, he didn't know how he could have missed it.

"Come on," Gleason told him, tugging at his arm.

They crossed what appeared to be a square and reached the door beneath the sign. It was big, made of dark wood and rounded on top, with a bra.s.s handle in the shape of a mythical, horned beast. All in all, a curious entrance even for Madigoor, which had its share of antique architecture.

Without a moment's hesitation, Gleason took hold of the handle and pulled the door open, allowing a flood of noise to issue forth from inside. Then he turned to his colleague with a grin on his face.

"After you, Jean-Luc."

Picard took Gleason up on his offer. Tugging down on the front of his shirt, he went inside.

His friend followed and allowed the door to close behind them. "Well?" Gleason asked over the sounds of music and clattering gla.s.ses and conversation. "What do you think of it?"

Picard shook his head. After hearing his colleague's description of the place, it was hardly the sort of ambiance he had expected. The place wasn't a pub at all, was it?

Rather, it was reminiscent of a French country inn, from the elegant but faded wallpaper to the violin melody coming from somewhere to the ancient hearth blazing in the far wall. There was even an old French nation-flag, hanging from the smoky, dark rafters.

Also a stair, off to the side and just past the bar, that led upstairs to another floor. No doubt, the captain mused, there were rooms to let up there, for those who had drunk a bit more than their fill.

Tables stood everywhere, a veritable sea of them, each illuminated by an oil lamp in the center and liberally stocked with half-empty wine bottles. And there was hardly a vacant seat to be had, except in the farthest reaches of the place. Nearly every table was surrounded with guests, some sitting and some standing.

Picard couldn't help but remark if only to himself on the a.s.sortment of species in evidence there. He had run into almost every kind of being in known s.p.a.ce at some point in his career, and he was hard-pressed to think of one absent from the proceedings. In fact, there were a fair number of patrons whose like he'd never even heard of.

As he continued to examine the place, something caught his eye. A display case, actually, with unless his eyes were failing him something remarkable inside it.

Something quite remarkable.

"Jean-Luc?" said Gleason.

"Just a moment," the captain replied.

He wound his way through the closely packed crowd, drawn by his curiosity. Moments later, as he stopped in front of the display case, his initial conclusion was confirmed.

There was a bottle inside the case. And inside the bottle was a model of a Promellian battle cruiser much like the one he had built as a boy, which stood now in his ready room on the Enterprise.

Picard had never seen another such model in all his travels. It was hard enough to believe another child somewhere in the universe had been so fond of Promellian ship design. But the chances of that child being inclined to build something in a bottle ...

He shook his head. It staggered the mind.

Yet here it was, an exact replica of his boyhood trophy. The captain turned to comment on the coincidence. "Look at this, Neil. I"

But Gleason was gone.