Star Trek: Pantheon (15 page)

“Greyhorse has some technical knowledge,” the doctor offered. She shrugged.

Obviously, she did not believe Greyhorse was a viable murder suspect. The captain couldn’t exactly blame her.

“What about Simenon?” asked Data, who had remained silent almost from the time he sat down.
No surprise,
thought Picard. Matters of motivation were not exactly the android’s specialty.

“He would certainly have the expertise,” said Troi. “But does he have a motive?”

“The Gnalish and the Daa’Vit have never been best of friends,” Beverly remarked. “I remember Jack expressing some misgivings about Morgen and Simenon serving together.”

The captain looked at her. It was the first time she’d brought up Jack’s name since the
Stargazer
contingent came aboard.

“True,” he said. “On the other hand, there was never any violence between the two peoples—thanks to Federation intervention. Nor did those misgivings ever become material. In fact, Morgen and Simenon always had a healthy respect for each other.”

“What about the Daa’Vit angle?” suggested Riker. He looked at Picard. “We know that Morgen has opposition at home. Would his political enemies go so far as to hire an assassin?”

The captain mulled it over. “I suppose it is possible,” he conceded. “And the Daa’Vit are sufficiently spread out among the Federation for any one of our guests to have had contact with them.”

Riker looked to the intercom grid in the ceiling. “Computer—has anyone in Captain Morgen’s escort been to Daa’V?”

The computer responded instantly in a pleasant female voice. “Captain Ben Zoma, Commander Cadwallader, and Chief Joseph visited Daa’V one year ago on the
Lexington.”

“Their purpose?” asked the first officer.

“To deliver medicines requested by the Daa’Vit government.”

Picard nodded. Pug on Daa’V, he thought. How could he help but read into the situation? Bitterness often made a man vulnerable. And if the proper incentive was offered into the bargain…

No. The captain would not prejudge Joseph any more than he would Idun. Pug had served him well on the
Stargazer;
he deserved better.

And yet, he could not allow his feelings to get in the way of his duty. Picard cleared his throat.

“I must say,” he told the others, “it is extremely difficult for me to believe that one of my former officers is capable of murder. I would have trusted any one of them with my life—exactly as I would trust one of
you.”
He considered the device on the table. “But one cannot ignore the facts. We have a dangerous individual aboard—and we must find that individual.
Quickly
—before he or she can strike again.”

“I’ll organize the security effort,” said Riker. “We’ll have each of them watched around the clock.”

“Good, Number One. But be discreet. Security personnel are not to discuss the matter in public—not even among themselves.” He turned to Geordi and then to Crusher. “That goes for engineering and medical personnel as well. I do not wish to put the assassin on guard.”

Assassin.
The word seemed so out of place here on the
Enterprise.

“Counselor Troi,” he said, addressing the empath in her turn. “Keep an eye on our visitors. Let me know if you sense any duplicity in them.”

Troi nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“In some cases, Counselor, you may have to seek them out. We may not have the time to carry on a passive investigation.”

She nodded again.

Picard turned to the ship’s doctor. “I trust Worf will be up and about soon?”

“I want to keep him—and Morgen as well—for observation overnight. Then they’re all yours. But I wouldn’t ask Worf to take on anything physically strenuous—not for a couple of days anyway.”

That was fine with the captain. What he needed now was the Klingon’s
mind
—his training in protecting the ship and its people from calculated harm.

“That will have to do,” he said. “When you release him, send him directly to me.”

Crusher promised that she would do that.

Morgen shook his head, stalking from one end of the captain’s ready room to the other. Dr. Crusher had done a good job; Picard would never have noticed his friend’s limp if he hadn’t been looking for it. “It is out of the question.”

Sitting behind his desk, the human frowned. “It is an eminently reasonable request.”

“Not from my point of view.”

“I am not asking you to lock yourself in your quarters—only to make yourself scarce.”

The Daa’Vit eyed him. “And I categorically refuse.”

“Damn it, Morgen. Someone has made an attempt on your
life.”

“So you’d have me hide from them? Be fearful of them?” He sneered scornfully. “That is not the Daa’Vit way, my friend. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”

Picard took a deep breath, let it out. He hadn’t expected this to be easy, had he?

“Of course,” said Morgen, “you could order me confined to quarters. That is certainly your prerogative.” He stopped to face Picard, as if challenging him. “But then, you would be jailing the next ruler of the Daa’Vit worlds.”

The captain decided against picking up the gauntlet. He wanted matters to proceed calmly—in an orderly fashion. And arousing Morgen’s ire was the wrong way to do that.

Fortunately, a more subtle tack occurred to him.

“I would never think of it,” he told the Daa’Vit. “Not even if you were still an ensign, and your crown was twenty years away.”

That gave Morgen pause. “That’s right,” he said finally. “You didn’t confine me to quarters then either.” He tilted his head. “But then, the killer had already been caught—hadn’t she?”

“We didn’t know there weren’t
other
killers aboard.” Picard got up from behind his desk and came forward to sit on the edge of it. “Not for certain, we didn’t. What’s more, there was the matter of a Klingon escape ship to be reckoned with.” He shrugged. “But at the time I was concerned with more than your well-being. I was concerned with your
education.
It occurred to me that if you were to become a Starfleet officer, you had to be treated like one.”

Morgen nodded. “I’m grateful.”

“You are quite welcome,” said the captain. “And my trust was rewarded. Starfleet got itself a fine officer.” He looked at the Daa’Vit. “A fine captain.” A pause. “That is, before you became a dignitary.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the Daa’Vit, his eyes narrowing.

Picard smiled. “Come, Morgen. Admit it. You are, for all intents and purposes, already the ruler of your people. You have left behind your status as a Starfleet officer—in your own mind, if not officially.” He held out his hands. “You don’t believe me? Recall, if you will, the threat you made a moment ago.”

The Daa’Vit regarded him for what seemed a long time. “No,” he said finally, his lip curling. “I was speaking in anger. Gods, the very thought of being a
dignitary
—it makes my skin crawl.” He looked away from Picard and grimaced.

“Why?” asked the human. “Because dignitaries are notorious for ignoring what we captains know are best for them? Because they insist on endangering their lives for no good reason?” He nodded. “Yes, you are right. Those are things of which you could
never
be accused.”

Morgen’s head came up and his eyes locked again with Picard’s. At that moment he looked like a prototypical son of Daa’V—one whose edges had never been softened by the Federation. Then, slowly, a begrudging smile spread across his face. “You are a master, sir. I salute you.” He shook his head appreciatively. “In all that time I spent captaining the
Excalibur,
I never developed that knack you have for making a point.”

“Just as well,” said Picard. “Then you would have been
completely
insufferable—not unlike Ben Zoma.” A beat. “You’ll cooperate?”

The Daa’Vit’s nostrils flared. “Up to a point,” he agreed. “I’ll make myself…how did you put it?
Scarce?”

“That is indeed how I put it.”

“But if trouble presents itself, don’t expect me to run. I am still quite capable of handling myself, you know.”

The captain had no doubt of it. “Fair enough,” he said.

Troi waited in the corridor outside the doors of Commander Asmund’s apartment. Inside, she knew, her presence was being announced by a beeping sound. Nor could Asmund fail to hear the signal; it was audible in every part of her quarters, and the computer had confirmed that she was home.

Of course, the commander could ignore the beeping—indicating that she didn’t want to be disturbed. Or she could simply say so via ship’s intercom.

The empath was beginning to suspect the first possibility when the intercom suddenly barked out a single word: “Enter.”

She gathered herself as the doors opened, revealing one of the apartments set aside for guests. The decor was moderate and subdued—designed more to avoid offense than to delight, since the ship’s visitors had such a broad spectrum of tastes and preferences.

In special instances, of course, the apartments were completely redecorated—usually to impress a foreign leader or ambassador with the Federation’s respect for other ways of life. The captain’s guests, however, had no need of such special treatment. They were all used to Starfleet facilities of one sort or another.

Troi came in and looked around. No sign of Asmund.

“Commander Asmund?” she called politely.

“Be right with you,” came the answer from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

The empath nodded, mostly to herself, and took a seat on a small blue couch. Above it was a painting—a replica of Glosterer’s famous study: “The Molecular Structure of Certain Amino Acids.” She took a moment to appreciate the subtleties of tone and color.

And tried not to reflect on her ambivalence about her mission here.

On one hand, she was doing exactly what she’d aimed for when she set out to be a ship’s counselor. She was trying to help an individual who was having problems adjusting to her environment.

And Asmund was certainly having problems. One had only to witness her departure from dinner the night before to know that.

But she was also attempting to pin down a danger to the ship and its occupants. And while this was a part of her job as well, she was more used to gauging murderous intent in outsiders than in fellow officers.

Coming here under the guise of counselor was, in some ways, a subterfuge. A deception, if only by half.

That didn’t sit well with her. Her nature was to be sincere, honest. What’s more, her effectiveness as a counselor was based squarely on those qualities. If she were to obtain someone’s trust, she had to first be confident she was trust
worthy.

Yet the threat had been so immediate, the evidence so solid that there was a murderer on board, that Troi hadn’t protested when the captain asked her to probe their guests’ emotions. Nor would she back down now.

“Counselor Troi,” said Asmund, bringing her out of her reverie. The woman was standing in the doorway that led back to her sleeping quarters. She was wearing a tight-fitting black jump suit of Starfleet issue; her hair, still wet from the shower, was combed straight back.

The empath started to her feet, and Asmund motioned for her not to bother.

“Can I get you anything?” asked the blond woman.

Troi shook her head. “No. Thank you.”

Asmund went over to the apartment’s food processing unit. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “if I have something myself.”

“Not at all,” said the ship’s counselor.

With practiced skill Asmund punched in a series of instructions. A moment later a glass of thick dark liquid appeared on a tray, along with a couple of cloth napkins.

At first Troi thought it was a Klingon drink. Then, as Asmund came over and sat on a graceful highbacked chair, the empath got a whiff of it.

“Prune juice,” she said.

The blond woman nodded, tucking back a lock of wet hair that had fallen onto her forehead. “You should try it sometime.” Taking a sip, she set down the tray and then the glass on the polished black table that separated them.

“Perhaps I will,” the counselor agreed, smiling pleasantly.

As they regarded each other, Troi got the same impressions she’d gotten before. Conflicts, uncertainties. The strain of maintaining a façade of humanity when her natural tendency was to be Klingon.

A mirror-image of Worf,
she noted, and not for the first time. One was trying to reconcile his Klingon heritage with his human upbringing; the other was trying to balance her Klingon upbringing with her human heritage.

There was a strange symmetry there. An almost poetic juxtaposition of opposites—what the Betazoid musicians of two centuries earlier would have called
aieannen baiannen.
Literally,
wind and water.

But Troi had not come here to make esthetic observations. Probing more deeply, she searched for the emotional residue that would normally accompany duplicity in a human—the shades of feeling that would tip her off to Asmund’s guilt.

“Tell me, Counselor,” said the blond woman. “Why are you here?”

The empath looked her in the eye. “It is obvious that you are having some trouble coping. I was wondering—”

“If there was anything you could do to help?”

Troi maintained her composure despite the interruption. “Something like that. I know how difficult it can be to finally close a wound—and then to have it opened again by people and circumstances.”

“Do you, Counselor?” Her voice was steady, giving away nothing. “With all due respect, I doubt it.”

“Contrary to appearances,” Troi responded, “I have had my share of heartaches. My share of loss. Of pain.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of Ian, and her heart sank. Then she recovered.

Asmund must have noticed her discomfort, because her attitude changed rather abruptly.

“I did not mean to make this a competition,” she said. “I apologize.” She shrugged. “I have had this conversation twice now—once with my present captain and once with Captain Picard. Both times I managed to convince myself that they were right; both times I made an effort to meet the others halfway. Both times I was unsuccessful.” She shook her head. “Then I realized that the problem was not theirs, but mine.”

“What do you mean?” asked Troi, though she had a fairly good idea.

“They may have forgiven me my association with Gerda—but I haven’t.” Asmund straightened in her seat. “How much do you know about Klingon tradition, Counselor?”

“A little,” said the empath. “Mostly from my association with Lieutenant Worf.”

The other woman stared into her glass. “The ancient Klingons had a law that if a person was not available to be tried for his crimes, his siblings might be held accountable instead.” Her voice hardened. “Gerda was my sister. In human terms, I had an obligation to watch out for her. In Klingon terms, it was more than an obligation. It was a
‘Iw mir
—a blood-bond.”

Troi leaned forward. “Are you saying that you’re in some way guilty of your sister’s crime? As if
you
had committed it instead of
her?”

“I know,” said Asmund. “The Federation doesn’t see it that way. Neither does the human part of me. Over the years, I think, my human self managed to submerge the guilt—the implications of the
‘Iw mir.”
She frowned. “I believe, however, that my reunion with my former comrades has awakened my Klingon sense of responsibility.”

“And that is why you cannot mingle with them? Because they remind you of the blood-bond?”

“That is my theory. Even if no one else will punish me for Gerda’s crime, I will punish myself.” She raised her glass and sipped. “What do you think, Counselor? From a professional standpoint, I mean?”

It sounded plausible. Troi was forced to say so.

“As I thought.” Asmund put her glass down again and smiled grimly. “So you see, Counselor, I don’t need to talk with anyone. I’m quite capable of diagnosing my own problems.”

The empath tried to frame her words carefully. “Diagnosis is only the first step, Commander. Now that you know there is something wrong, don’t you want to do something about it?”

Asmund stared at her. “From a Klingon point of view, Counselor, it is my responsibility to bear this guilt.”

It was a difficult situation. Troi had to concede that.

“Would it hurt,” she asked, “if we talked again?”

Asmund thought about it. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good,” said the counselor. “Then let’s do that. As often as you like.” She returned the other woman’s piercing gaze. “And if I do not hear from you, I will take it upon myself to call.”

Asmund nodded. “Fair enough.”

Troi rose. “I am glad we had this talk.” She smiled.

The other woman tried to do the same as she got to her feet—but in all fairness, she wasn’t very good at it. Nor did she offer any further expression of emotion—gratitude or anything else—as the empath departed.

Once out in the corridor, Troi took a deep breath and frowned. Again, she had come up hard against Asmund’s wall of self-discipline—a discipline born of hiding herself
from
herself. Of course, she had gotten some insight into the blond woman by virtue of their conversation—but nothing she could offer to the captain as an indication of Asmund’s guilt or lack of it.

As for easing the woman’s pain…perhaps she had made some headway there. But not as much as she might have hoped.

All in all, an unsatisfying conclusion.

*   *   *

Riker bit his lip as the doors opened to reveal Cadwallader’s quarters.
Come on,
he told himself.
The sooner you get this over with, the better.

She was sitting by the computer terminal built into the bulkhead, wearing her mustard-and-black uniform. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He was glad she hadn’t changed yet for dinner—particularly when he saw the very feminine green shift folded neatly over the back of a chair.

Cadwallader turned and followed his gaze. “Not very neat,” she apologized, “am I? I just can’t help it. Leaving clothes all over is my vice.”

“Tricia…” he began, but she was already up out of her seat and across the room. Picking up the dress, she held it before her. Riker could see that it was translucent in places—all the
right
places.

“You like it?” she asked. “I know it’s bad form to show a date your dress before you’ve got it on, but—” She shrugged. “What can I say? Mum never trained me quite right.”

He had known this wouldn’t be easy. But he hadn’t expected her to be so damned excited—so
vulnerable.

“Tricia…”

She replaced the dress on the chair. “This is appropriate, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve never had dinner in a holodeck. How does one dress for a meteor storm? Or a hot, steaming jungle—”

“Tricia!”

She stopped short, surprised by the tone of his voice. “Excuse me. Did I say something wrong?”

Riker cursed himself inwardly. He hadn’t meant it to be like this. “No. It’s not your fault. It’s just that—” Here came the hard part. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

He might as well have told her he was a Romulan in disguise. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

“You know,” he told her, “with both of us being officers…” It sounded lame and he knew it. But what else could he say?

Certainly not the truth—that she was a suspect in an attempted murder investigation, and that it prevented him from getting emotionally involved with her. If he listened to his heart instead of his head, if he kept on going the way he was going…it would be too easy to let something slip, something that would help the assassin achieve success the next time.

Not that he believed
Cadwallader
was the assassin. Far from it. But if Riker let out some detail of the investigation, and she unknowingly passed it on to the guilty party…

“Will,” she said, “there are lots of officers who have…relationships with one another. It’s not as if we’re even serving on the same ship.” She looked at him in a way that made his heart sink. “Or is there some other reason? Perhaps the bit of difference in our ages?”

He steeled himself, shook his head. “No other reason. I like you, Tricia. I like you a lot. But I just don’t feel comfortable with…with what’s happening between us.”

She smiled ruefully. “That’s too bad,” she told him. “I thought—well, never mind what I thought.” There was just the slightest trace of huskiness in her voice. “I guess I’ll see you around, then, eh? Maybe in the gym or something.”

Riker nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” And before he could falter—before he could change his mind about the line he’d drawn between his feelings and his duty—he turned and left the suite.

Even after he was outside in the corridor, the doors to Cadwallader’s quarters closed behind him, he could see her expression. The disbelief. The disappointment. The embarrassment.

He felt like something one would scrape from the bottom of one’s boots.

It was strange. The more time passed without any other incidents, the more it seemed that the sabotage of the holodeck had never taken place.

As Picard looked around the bridge, everything seemed so placid—so orderly. It was difficult to contemplate the possibility of violence in such a setting. Even the viewscreen, with its familiar image of stars stretched into taut lines of light, conspired to create an illusion of stability.

Of course, Picard knew that this was a pitfall he would have to avoid. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew that someone had attempted to kill Morgen—and perhaps Lieutenant Worf as well.

He could feel the Klingon’s presence at the tactical station—like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty. They hadn’t pursued the possibility that Worf might have been the primary target and not Morgen. But then, given the presence of the
Stargazer
survivors, and the fact that the Daa’Vit’s life had been threatened once before…

Playing devil’s advocate for a moment, Picard asked himself if any of his former officers might have a reason for wanting Worf dead. As far as he knew, none of them had ever met him before they’d boarded the
Enterprise.
And the only one who had a reason to hate Klingons was Morgen—the very individual who had shared the security chief’s peril in the holodeck.