Star Trek: Pantheon (23 page)

As Riker followed Picard out of the turbolift, the younger man had to hustle to catch up. He had never seen the captain so intense—so driven.

It had to be hard on him, the first officer thought. He could only imagine how hard.

If it were anyone else, he would have suggested that they stay on the sidelines, commanding officer or not. In cases like this one, personal involvement usually led to trouble.

But Picard wasn’t just anyone. Riker had never once seen him lose his composure, not in the four years and more that he’d served under the man. He could only trust that the captain would not make this instance the exception.

Down the corridor, the trio of armed security personnel was doing exactly what they’d been told—remaining silent and well back from the door monitor, so that they wouldn’t alert anyone inside to their presence. They’d been instructed not to make any move on their own unless the killer tried to leave.

As Riker and Picard approached from one direction, Worf approached from the other. Momentarily, the first officer wondered why the Klingon was naked from the waist up—and then he remembered Worf’s account of his discovery of Ben Zoma. He swallowed as he recalled the bloody details.

Quickly, wasting no time, the captain pointed to Worf and to Burke, who’d been in charge up until now. Then he indicated either side of the door, showing them where he wanted them to position themselves.

Even as he drew out his phaser, the Klingon looked none too happy about the idea. “Captain,” he whispered, “you cannot go in first—”

But Picard cut him short with a simple raising of his hand. “I can,” he whispered back, “and I will.” He turned to the door, gathering himself. “This is my responsibility. I should have discharged it some time ago.”

It was a clear admission that he’d been wrong about the assassin’s identity—and that Riker had been right. But the first officer derived no satisfaction from the fact. There were no winners in this situation, only losers. And, unfortunately, Ben Zoma had been the biggest loser of all.

While the captain and Worf were engaged in their exchange, Burke had been working to override the door’s programming with a security-level code. Finished now, he nodded to Picard.

“Ready, sir,” he breathed, taking out his phaser. Holding it close to him, he pointed it at the ceiling.

Without hesitation, the captain walked forward, confident that there would be no beeping inside the apartment to serve as a warning of his approach. Stripped of any programming instructions to the contrary, the doors opened to admit him.

As luck would have it, the apartment’s occupant was sitting at a table in the center of the reception room. She barely turned her head as Picard entered with Riker close behind.

Idun Asmund looked from one to the other of them, remarkably calm—though she had to know that they were on to her. Captains and first officers didn’t just march into their guests’ quarters unannounced. “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked, half smiling.

“You are charged,” Picard responded, his voice flat and mechanical, “with the attempted murder of your fellow officers. On three separate occasions—including one just moments ago, when you savagely attacked Gilaad Ben Zoma with a
Klingon ceremonial knife.”

The woman’s brow creased. “What are you talking about? I haven’t touched my knives since I came aboard. If this is a joke—”

“It’s no joke,” said Riker.

Asmund stood. She darted a glance out into the corridor, where she must have caught sight of Worf and his security team—because the crease in her brow deepened. She turned back to the captain. “Sir, if Ben Zoma’s been hurt, I had nothing to do with it. You must believe that.”

Picard’s nostrils flared. “I wish I could, Idun. I truly do. But both Worf and Dr. Crusher agree—only a Klingon ceremonial knife could have inflicted wounds such as Ben Zoma sustained.
You
carried such weapons onto the
Enterprise.
And outside of Worf, you are the only one here practiced in their use.” A pause. “What’s more, you have no alibi—other than the computer record of your having been in your quarters at the time. But the computer only records the presence of your
communicator.”
He scowled—a sincere expression of his pain and regret. “I have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

She shook her head. “You’re making a mistake, Captain. If you’ll tell me what’s going on, I can—”

“You’ll be notified of the charges in detail,” said Picard, “once you’re in the brig.” He looked to Riker. “See to it, Number One. And don’t forget to check her for poisons.”

The first officer nodded. “Aye, sir.” Worf had told him how Klingons imprisoned by their enemies often chose suicide as an honorable alternative to captivity.

“Thank you,” Picard said.

It might not have been plain to anyone else, but Riker knew how this was tearing the captain up inside. Asmund had been part of his crew—just as he and Troi and Worf were now. No, more than his crew—his
family.

It wasn’t easy to confront the fact that a member of one’s family was a murderer. Not under
any
circumstances.

As Picard turned to leave, Asmund appealed to him. “Captain—this is insane. I would never do anything to hurt Ben Zoma or anyone else. If anyone knows that, it’s you.”

Picard headed for the doorway, appearing not to hear her. And after he was gone, Worf filled the opening, glancing meaningfully at Riker. The first officer nodded.

He turned to Asmund. She stared back at him, hard. As if she were fighting to keep her grip on emotions so powerful they might rip her apart.

Momentarily, Riker’s heart went out to her. It was a terrible thing to see one who had been Klingon-bred fighting to maintain her dignity.

Then he remembered what had been done to Ben Zoma. And to Cadwallader. And his sympathy for the woman melted away.

“If you please,” he told her, indicating the exit.

With a visible effort, Asmund collected herself. Then, without another word, she gave herself up to the security officers waiting outside in the corridor.

“Let me get this straight,” the engineering chief said. “You think we can
skim
the
Enterprise
out of the slipstream?”

“In a word,” Simenon answered, “yes.”

They were gathered again around the master situations monitor in engineering—Geordi, the Gnalish, Data, and Wesley. And the ensign was finding it increasingly difficult to keep quiet.

It was Simenon’s theory, Simenon’s plan. So it only made sense for Simenon to explain it. But Wes was so sure it was going to work that he could feel himself bubbling inside with excitement.

“You see,” said the professor, “I was teaching Wesley how to skim stones. You know—flat rocks?”

Data looked puzzled. “I am not familiar with the activity.”

“That’s all right,” said Wesley. “You don’t really have to be.”

The android took the ensign’s word for it. “Very well,” he said. “Please proceed, Professor.”

“Anyway,” Simenon went on, “in all my years on Gnala and elsewhere, I’ve skimmed hundreds—maybe even thousands—of stones. But I never gave much of a thought to the principles of physics that govern it. After all, they are so basic, so simple, as to be taken for granted. The stone’s surface and the water’s surface collide; the resulting exchange of energy between the two objects impels the stone upward as well as forward. In short, it
skips.
Its momentum has been diminished some, thanks to things like friction and gravity and the energy absorbed by the water in the collision—but not by much, as long as two conditions are satisfied: the angle of collision must be fairly oblique and the stone must be relatively flat.”

As the Gnalish paused for effect, Geordi leaned forward over the monitor to look at him. “Professor, this is all very enlightening. But what’s it got to do with—”

Simenon stopped him with a raising of his scaly hand. “All in good time, Commander. All in good time.” He frowned. “Where was I?”

“Fairly oblique and relatively flat,” Wesley reminded him.

“Oh, yes.” He punched up a schematic of the
Enterprise
on the monitor screen. “Let’s say this ship is such a stone. It has left our hand, and is hurtling along parallel to and just above the slipstream.”

“Excuse me,” said Data, “but we are
in
the slipstream—not on it.”

Simenon snorted. “Commander, you would never make it as an engineer—or a Gnalish, for that matter. There are very few precise analogies in this life—particularly when we’re talking about something as esoteric as a warpspace phenomenon.”

Geordi nodded, placing a reassuring hand on Data’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Professor. We’ll bear with you.”

“My gratitude,” the Gnalish muttered, “is boundless. In any case, the
Enterprise
is hurtling along, basically parallel to the surface—perhaps skipping every now and then without knowing it, because so little energy is lost in each collision. However, the collisions are what serve to keep us on the right path. Now, if we could somehow change the angle at which we strike the surface, we might go shooting off in a different direction entirely. If we approach it edge-down, for instance, we might go
under
the surface—which would put us in a completely different medium. A slower medium—just as regular space is a slower medium than subspace. Still with me?”

“Still with you,” Geordi replied. “Of course—”

“Of course,” the Gnalish interrupted, “we
can’t
change our position. The slipstream won’t let us—because we’re dealing with not one surface, but many. In fact, they’re all about us, surrounding us—bouncing us back on course with every little collision, channeling us forward. A good assumption?”

“It would appear so,” Data replied.

“Fine. That leaves us only one other option—to change the shape of the rock. Or, rather, in this case, the
Enterprise.”

The android looked more puzzled than ever. “Professor, are you suggesting we separate the saucer from the battle section—as was suggested earlier?”

Simenon shook his head. “Not at all. Because it’s not really the ship that presents a surface to the slipstream.”

Geordi snapped his fingers. “That’s right. It’s the
shields!”

“Exactly.” The Gnalish punched some additional information into the situation monitor, and the schematic began to move. “All we need to do is change the shape of our force shields—”

Finally, Wesley couldn’t stand it any longer. “And in effect,” he continued, “we’ll be changing the shape of the rock. Instead of a streamlined object designed for maximum efficiency in flight, the slipstream will be confronted with an angled surface front and back.”

“Which,” Simenon resumed, seemingly without breaking stride, “should skim us out of the slipstream. No muss, no fuss. All we have to do is present opposition to the flow—at precisely the right angle. One that’s obtuse enough to substantially change the force vector situation, but not so obtuse as to place intolerable stresses on the
Enterprise.”
He looked around, with particular attention to Geordi. “So? What do you think?”

The engineering chief frowned as he considered the idea. “It might work,” he said, “and it might not. Even if the theory is sound, we’re going to have to find the correct angle at which to pitch the shields—or we could be so much subspace debris.”

“Isn’t that what computer models are for?” Wesley asked.

For a moment Geordi thought about it some more. Then his frown dissipated. “All right,” he decided, starting to input instructions to the situation monitor. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”

Picard frowned as he stood in Beverly Crusher’s office, staring at the opaque barrier that separated critical care from the rest of the medical facility. The doctor sat across her desk from him, holding a cup of coffee in both hands. She looked terrible—worn out.

“Jean-Luc?”

He turned to face her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am fine.” Then: “What are his chances?”

Crusher took a deep breath, let it out. “Hard to say. We’ve transfused him, stabilized him—done everything we could. But…” She shook her head. “He suffered massive trauma. Lost a lot of blood.” She looked down at her coffee. “He was in excellent health when it happened—that’s a mark in his favor. But I can’t tell you what the outcome will be.”

He had never felt so helpless—so frustrated.
He is one of my oldest friends. And all I can do is wait. And hope.

But not here. He had other business to attend to.

“Excuse me,” he told Beverly.

“Of course,” she said, managing a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort.”

As the captain left her and made his way through sickbay, he could see Riker waiting for him at the entrance—just as he had requested. The first officer straightened as he noted Picard’s approach.

His eyes searched the captain’s face as he wheeled out into the corridor. A moment later Riker used his long strides to fall into step beside him. “Not good,” he concluded without even having to ask.

“Not good,” Picard confirmed. Then, since there was nothing more that could really be said on that subject, he turned to another. “It appears we were mistaken, Number One—about Morgen being the only target, I mean. Gilaad Ben Zoma was alone when he was attacked. And in retrospect, one must wonder if Cadwallader’s shooting was as unintentional as we first believed.”

As the turbolift came up on their right, they turned and headed in. The doors opened as soon as the mechanism’s sensor recorded their presence and closed after they were inside.

“Bridge,” Picard instructed. Silently and without even a hint of motion, the lift began to carry them upward.

“Revenge,” the younger man concluded, as if he had come to the end of an internalized dialogue. He turned to the captain. Judging by Riker’s expression, the word had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Revenge on everyone who had anything to do with her sister’s apprehension—and imprisonment.” He paused thoughtfully.