Star Trek: Pantheon (24 page)

“But talk about a warped sense of justice. Gerda did what she did of her own volition; no one on the
Stargazer
twisted her arm. And once you knew about it…what else could you do but try to stop her?”

Picard frowned. “There was no other choice. You and I know that. But to Commander Asmund…who can say? It is not easy to accept the death of a loved one, much less a twin. Tragedy can do strange things to people’s judgment—make them see villains where there are none.”

Riker shook his head. “And not just tragedy.”

The captain looked at him.

“Sometimes,” the first officer explained, “the desire to protect will do that too. Look at us.” He smiled ruefully. “I was seeing assassins everywhere I turned.”

Just then the doors opened and the bridge was revealed to them. Though the command seat was empty, all seemed to be in order, so they proceeded to the observation lounge.

Once again a set of doors opened for them. They walked in and saw that everyone who was supposed to be there
was
there. With one exception.

The captain turned to Counselor Troi, who had chosen to wait for them by the door. “Simenon?” he asked.

“He’s in engineering—a can’t-wait kind of meeting, apparently. Geordi says that they may be on to something.” She paused. “Under the circumstances, I thought I would speak to the professor later—on my own.”

Picard nodded. “I agree, Counselor. You were correct to let them be.” He turned then to those positioned about the conference table. Morgen, standing by an observation port and frowning, his arms crossed over his chest. Pug, sitting at the table already, drumming fingers and looking more than a little leery. Greyhorse, waiting stoically with his hands locked behind his back.

“Ah,” the doctor said. “At last. Now, perhaps, we can find out what’s going on.”

“Indeed,” the captain assured him. “Please—all of you—sit down.”

They sat. Picard and Riker were the last to push their chairs in.

The captain gazed at the expectant faces of his former officers. And at Pug Joseph’s in particular.

“Before I go any further, Pug, I must tell you that the others here have an advantage over you—at least
some
knowledge of what has transpired. It was not by my choice that this became the case; it was dictated by circumstances.”

Joseph shifted in his seat. He seemed more curious than resentful.

“Nonetheless,” Picard went on, “I regret that it was not possible to let you in on the secret as well. I trust that you will understand—as a security officer and as a friend.”

He turned to the others. “I have bad news. Gilaad Ben Zoma was assaulted just a little while ago in a turbolift on deck seventeen. He is in sickbay now—in critical condition.”

Morgen cursed elaborately.

“My God,” Greyhorse whispered.
“How
critical?”

The captain regarded him. “Dr. Crusher says there’s no way of knowing at this point.”

Pug just sat and stared. He seemed lost, unable to connect with what he was hearing.

“On the other hand,” Picard added, “we have found the assassin. She is in the brig, under guard.”

To Morgen and Greyhorse it was fairly obvious to whom he was referring. Besides Cadwallader, Asmund was the only female in the Daa’Vit’s escort.

To Pug, however, it was not quite so obvious. The captain spelled it out: “Idun is the one who tried to kill Ben Zoma, Pug. Just as she tried to kill Morgen and Cadwallader earlier.”

The security officer leaned back heavily in his chair. Finally, he uttered his first word since Picard had entered the room: “Why?” He looked around for help from his
Stargazer
shipmates. “What the hell would she want to do that for?”

Picard told him—about the attacks, the suspicions, everything. By the time he was finished, Joseph’s complexion had darkened to an angry red.

“But now it is over,” the captain announced. “It hurts me that Commander Asmund could have come to this. And it hurts me even more that Captain Ben Zoma is in such straits. But at least it is over.”

Greyhorse sat up a little straighter. “Captain, if there’s anything I can do…”

Picard shook his head. “Nothing at the moment. But I will relay your offer to Dr. Crusher.”

The Daa’Vit trained his feral yellow eyes on the captain’s.

I know,
Picard responded silently.
We need to talk.

O’Brien scanned Ten-Forward from his vantage point near one of the observation ports. The place was buzzing like crazy.

“News spreads fast around here,” Eisenberg noted.

The transporter chief nodded, regarding the young man across the table from him. He’d met Eisenberg only a couple of weeks before, when the medical technician expressed an interest in joining O’Brien’s notorious poker enclave. Of course, O’Brien had had to explain about the length of the waiting list, which was longer than ten
Enterprise
s put together.

But at the same time, he’d taken a liking to the fellow. In fact, in some ways, Eisenberg reminded O’Brien of himself at the outset of his first starship assignment. Eager but unseasoned, and a little daunted by the danger—which was considerable at the moment, the transporter chief had to admit.

That’s why O’Brien had made it his personal mission to lighten the younger man’s load. To help him forget his worries, if only for a little while. And Ten-Forward had seemed like the best place to do it—until the crowd began to pour in, all a-flutter with accounts of Ben Zoma’s discovery and Asmund’s subsequent arrest.

“Fast?” O’Brien gave out with a short, sharp laugh. “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.” He used his glass to indicate the entirety of the lounge. “On a good day, you can start a rumor on the bridge at 0800 hours—and it’ll reach the last table in Ten-Forward before you have a chance to close your mouth.”

Eisenberg looked at him a little skeptically. “Really.”

The transporter chief shrugged. “Well, maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit. I don’t get up to the bridge that often, y’know. But I think you get the idea.”

The med tech took a drink, then put his glass down. “I guess everyone’s just relieved. Can’t say I blame them, either.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine? A murderer on board—shooting phasers, plunging knives into people…”

“Tampering with holodecks,” O’Brien added, thinking it sounded a little more benign—as long as one left out the details.

“That too. It gives me the willies just thinking about it. And for the murderer to turn out to be one of the captain’s guests…damn. I thought they served with him a while back. I thought they were his
friends.”

“They are,” the transporter chief explained. “A bad apple doesn’t make a bad bunch.”

Eisenberg didn’t seem to have heard him. “You know what they say. With friends like those, who needs the Romulans?” He sighed. “You should have seen that poor Ben Zoma fellow. I’ve never seen so much blood.” The younger man’s gaze grew distant.

O’Brien eyed him mock-seriously. “Y’know, Davey, you’re starting to depress me. And that’s not easy.”

The med tech leaned back in his chair, genuinely repentant. “Sorry.”

“Why don’t you take a peek at the bright side? The woman’s been caught. She’s in the brig, where she can’t hurt anybody else.”

“I suppose so,” Eisenberg told him. For a brief moment he seemed content. Then he started to think again. “But that’s not our only problem, is it?” He glanced out the port, where the stars continued to streak by at an ungodly speed. “What about
that?
I heard that this phenomenon can suddenly change shape—become something else. And tear us apart like old-fashioned tissue paper.”

O’Brien could see he had his work cut out for him. “You
could
look at it that way—doom and gloom and all that stuff. Or you could tell yourself that Commander La Forge and his helpers will get us out of this—like they always do. And in the meantime, we have ringside seats for the greatest show in the galaxy.”

O’Brien swung his chair around to face the observation port and the flat lines of light beyond it. Raising his glass in a toast, he said: “To warp nine point nine five. May she always be so beautiful.”

Then, without looking to see Eisenberg’s reaction too quickly, he took a sip of his synthehol and savored it. “Ah,” he commented with a bravado he didn’t quite feel. “What life’s all about.”

Finally, he gave his companion a sidelong glance. The younger man was staring at him.

“Join me?” O’Brien asked.

Gradually, Eisenberg lifted his glass. And smiled—if only faintly. “When you put it that way,” he said, “how can I refuse?”

After everyone else left, it was just the two of them. Morgen paced the length of the observation lounge, looking for all the world like a caged beast. And the captain watched, leaning back against the edge of the conference table, his arms folded over his chest.

“Damn her,” the Daa’Vit growled. “No—damn
me.
How could I have brought her aboard?
How?”

“There was no way of predicting this,” Picard told him.

“You’re wrong,” Morgen insisted. “I knew I was inviting trouble—in my heart, I knew. But I wanted to show her that I could put the past behind me. I wanted to be forgiving. Benevolent. All the things my years in Starfleet taught me to be.” He shook his head. “And look where my benevolence has gotten me. Your security officer is endangered. Cadwallader gets a hole burned through her. And Ben Zoma—brave, goodhearted Ben Zoma—”

Suddenly, Morgen seemed to erupt—to go mad. He growled hideously at the top of his lungs and pounded his fists on the table. Picard’s instinct was to retreat from the spectacle, but he stood his ground—reminding himself that the tortured creature before him was his friend. That he had nothing to fear from him.

Still, it was not easy. He had never seen such an explosion of Daa’Vit fury before—and he had no wish to see it ever again.

In the end, Morgen’s fit lasted just a few seconds. But even when it was finished, his chest still heaved. “I am sorry you had to see that,” he said.

“It is all right,” the captain told him. “We are friends. Old friends.”

“No,” the Daa’Vit insisted in a deep slow voice. “It was…inappropriate.” He massaged the fingers of his left hand. “But even so, I was right. I should have listened to my head, not my heart. I should have known better.”

Picard could see no good coming of further self-recrimination. He decided to change the subject. “Will it hurt your ability to ascend to the throne?” he asked.

The Daa’Vit looked at him. “What?”

“Being without Ben Zoma and Asmund. Will it hurt you politically?”

If Morgen saw what the captain was doing, he didn’t object. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It shouldn’t. True, it will make people wonder when I show up with a smaller escort than that which was announced. But there will still be four of you—yourself, Pug, Cad, and Greyhorse. And four is the minimum required by law.” He cleared his throat, which must have been scoured raw by his outburst. “Blazes—anyone who hasn’t got four friends in the whole universe isn’t
fit
to rule.”

The Daa’Vit began to pace again. But he seemed under control, contemplative. Almost calculating, in contrast to the fit of unbridled emotion Picard had just witnessed. Preferring this Morgen to the other—at least for now—the captain didn’t interrupt.

“Of course,” the Daa’Vit said after a little while, “the size of my escort is one thing—and the circumstances in which it was diminished is another. If the true story gets out on Daa’V, it could be embarrassing.
Most
embarrassing.”

The captain shrugged. “Then no one on Daa’V need
know
the circumstances.”

Morgen nodded. “Good.” His eyes narrowed. “Now all we have to do is get there. What about this idea that Simenon’s had?”

Picard shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it—except that Commander La Forge seemed to think it was promising.”

“Perhaps we should find out, then.” A hint of irony had crept back into his voice. Of amusement, almost.

The captain saw it as a good sign. “Perhaps we should,” he agreed.

As Worf negotiated the corridor that led to the brig, he asked himself exactly why he’d come.

Initially, he had decided it made sense for the chief of security to check up on a prisoner like Asmund—one who had proved both so brutal and so resourceful. But by the time he was descending in the turbolift, he had been honest enough to admit—if only to himself—that there was more to it than that.

He was curious about this female—and had been since the beginning. After all, she had been raised on the Klingon homeworld. She had been exposed early on to the customs and traditions
he
had missed—that is, until he sought them out as a teenager.

But he was also repelled by her. She was an anomaly—neither human nor Klingon, but a strange admixture of the two. Just as Worf himself was—and that was what made him so uncomfortable.

Up until now, his repulsion had dominated his curiosity. He hadn’t exactly avoided her—he was too busy avoiding Morgen—but he had managed to keep busy enough with his duties to prevent any chance meetings.

Then there had been the incident in the holodeck, and he had had a more compelling reason for shunning the woman. As long as she was a suspect in the murder attempts, he could not afford to have his vision clouded with emotion. What if he came to respect her? To like or even admire her? It could only have been an encumbrance in the discharge of his duty.

And of course, once he realized it was she who had made the attempts on Morgen and the others, personal contact had been out of the question. She had become an adversary, and a deadly one.

But now, with Asmund sequestered in the brig, his curiosity had come to the forefront.

Why? Because she had committed a violent crime—more than one, in fact. And because of the possibility that her Klingon upbringing, in some way—twisted or otherwise—had had something to do with it.

Hadn’t there been a fear deep inside him, since the day he arrived at the Academy, that the Klingon in him would rise up at the wrong time—with grisly results? That a superior would confront him in the heat of an armed conflict and pay the price? Or that a crewmate would simply surprise him in the gym—and regret it for days afterward?

Gradually, on a purely rational level, he’d discovered that his fear was unfounded. He’d learned that he was sufficiently in control to subdue his instincts, dysfunctional as they sometimes were in the context of accepted Starfleet behavior.

That had driven his anxiety into a dark corner of his psyche. But it hadn’t kept it from gnawing at him.

Now he could see the product of his fear—given flesh and substance. Given reality. What was the expression?
There but for fortune…

It was the
real
reason he was coming to see Asmund. Because he had to determine for himself if her immersion in Klingon ways had had any bearing on the murders she’d attempted. He had to know to what extent Asmund herself was responsible—and to what extent it was the fire in her blood.

One final turn of the corridor and the brig came into view. In accordance with Worf’s orders, there were two gold-shirted security officers—Burke and Nevins—standing guard outside.
Despite
the fact that the facility’s force field had been activated.

After all, Asmund had already proven her ingenuity in using shipboard technologies to her advantage. She might have had the foresight to tamper with the brig—just as she tampered with the holodeck and the food service system. It was a long shot, given the highly secure nature of the detention area—but why take chances?

The security officers straightened at his approach. He acknowledged them with a nod. “At ease,” he said. Then, turning to Burke, who was the senior of the two, he asked: “Problems?”

“None, Lieutenant. Commander Asmund hasn’t said a word for hours.” He paused. “Any luck with the other knife, sir?”

Inside the detention cell, Asmund was sitting by herself, watching the conversation on the other side of the transparent energy barrier. She was looking at the Klingon in particular. Worf met her gaze for a moment, then turned back to Burke.

“No,” he told the man. “No luck. At least, not yet.”

“I guess it would be easier if it were made of
shrogh,
or some other distinctly Klingon material.”

“Yes,” Worf agreed. “That would have made our search a good deal easier.”

But by the end of the sentence, he was no longer looking at Burke. Once again he was regarding the prisoner—who had stood up and was approaching the threshold of her cell.

“Careful, Commander,” Burke warned her—not out of compassion, but because it was his duty. “That barrier has a kick to it.”

“I know,” said Asmund, addressing the human. “I am familiar with starship security facilities, thank you.” She turned her gaze on Worf. “Lieutenant, I would like to have a word with you.” Her eyes were hooded, her chin held high. All in all, a very Klingonlike posture.

“I am listening,” he responded.

She shook her head. “Alone.”

It came out sounding more like a demand than a request. If he hadn’t been so curious about her to begin with, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

But the idea of gaining insight into her motives was an alluring one. Too alluring for him to pass up.

“Sir,” Burke said as if he could read his superior’s thoughts, “the commander isn’t your typical prisoner. I wouldn’t advise it.”

Asmund’s mouth twisted up at the corners. Worf read the scorn in the gesture, calculated to sting his Klingon pride.

“Are you so frightened of me,” the blond woman asked, “that you dare not face me even across an energy barrier? Is that what it’s come to—Lieutenant?”

He knew what she was up to. He knew that she was taunting him for a reason. But try as he might, he couldn’t believe she was in a position to harm him. Even if she somehow managed to remove the barrier, she was unarmed—and he had his phaser.

“Leave us,” Worf told his security people, never taking his eyes from Asmund’s.

“But Lieutenant—” began Burke.

“Leave
us,” repeated the security chief—this time a little more forcefully.

Burke and Nevins had no choice but to comply. With obvious reluctance, they withdrew down the corridor until they disappeared around the bend.

“All right,” Worf told the prisoner. “We are alone.”

Asmund nodded. “Thank you.” Her gaze seemed to soften a bit. “You didn’t have to do this.”

It caught him off guard. Up until then, her attitude had been haughty—dancing on the edge of arrogance. Suddenly, there was a touch of weakness in her. A sense of vulnerability no true Klingon would have permitted himself. Was it an attempt to lull his suspicions? If so, he resolved, it wouldn’t work.

“Agreed,” he told her. “I did not have to do it. Now, what is it you wished to speak about?”

She took a half-step toward him. It brought her dangerously close to the energy field. “You were the one who identified the knife wounds,” she said. “It could only have been you. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And it was your duty to report what you found.”

“Correct again.”

Asmund nodded. “Then you believe I am guilty.”

Something shifted uncomfortably in Worf’s gut—as if he’d eaten too many serpent worms. “That is for others to judge.”

“Of course it is. But what do
you
believe?”

He shrugged. “I must believe the evidence.”

“But there
is
no evidence,” she insisted, her voice rising an octave. With a visible effort she took hold of herself again. “Or, rather, what there is is circumstantial.”

“I leave the shades of legality to the advocate general’s office,” he told her. “My job is to see that the ship and her crew are safe.”

“Then do your job. But look beyond the evidence—if you want to call it that. Follow your instincts.” A pause. “What do they tell you? That a Klingon would have tampered with a holodeck? Or opened fire on three unarmed and unsuspecting victims? Or tarnished a ceremonial knife with an enemy’s blood?” She struck her chest suddenly and viciously.
“I
am a Klingon, Lieutenant. I would not have dishonored my family with such behavior—even if I
were
inclined to kill someone.” The woman’s eyes blazed with a cold fire. “My sister tried to kill Morgen—a fact it seems I will never live down. But she wasn’t a coward. She didn’t do it with sabotage or attacks in the dark; your files will confirm that. Misguided as she was, Gerda’s attempt on Morgen’s life was in keeping with the Klingon tradition of assassination. I say it again: she did
not
act like a coward.”

The thing in Worf’s gut began to writhe. He had to admit it—Asmund’s words had the ring of truth to them.

“You know I’m telling the truth, Lieutenant. And you know also the importance of one’s name—one’s honor.”

The Klingon flinched inwardly. Did she know of his discommendation? Apparently she did. But then, it was hardly a secret in the Empire. And if Asmund maintained any contact at all with the family that raised her…

“Yes,” he said with as much dignity as possible. “I know of that.”

“I must clear my name, Worf.” She had dropped the Starfleet title and was using his given name; the significance of that choice was not lost on him. Asmund was calling upon him as a Klingon might call on another Klingon—as a warrior might call on another warrior. “I must find the assassin and bring him to justice. And I can’t do that while I’m sitting in the brig.”

The security chief’s eyes narrowed. “What would you have me do?
Free
you?”

She regarded him. “Talk to Captain Picard. Make him see—he’ll listen to you.” Her hands became fists. “I’m not your killer, Worf. I am
not
the one you’re after.”

He looked at her—looked deep into those strange, blue-shadow eyes—and found he believed her.

“Please,” the blond woman said—not like a warrior this time, but like a human. “There is no one else on this ship who might understand. You are my only hope.”

Worf took a breath, let it out. “I will consider what you’ve said. Beyond that, I make no promises.”

“Tell him I can help in the investigation.” She came closer, her face only inches from his now. “Tell him I can be of use to you.” Asmund reached out to him. “I
can
be of use, you kn—”

She must have reached out just a little bit too far—because there was a savage burst of light and the woman was flung back into her cell.

Worf resisted the impulse to go in and help her. The energy barrier worked in both directions; he would have suffered the same fate.

So he could only watch as Asmund shook off the effects of the force field and pulled herself to her feet. Watch—and gain a measure of respect for her stamina. Humans weren’t supposed to be able to get up so quickly after being jolted like that.

She looked at him. “That was stupid.”

He agreed. He said so. Then he added:
“Maj doch SID ghos nagh.”

It was a Klingon saying—in essence, “Good things come to those who wait.”

Asmund must have wondered exactly what he meant. But she nodded.
“Tuv nagh.” I will be patient.

A moment later Worf called for Burke and headed back to the turbolift. There were no computer stations in the corridors of deck thirty-eight—for security reasons—and he wanted to learn more about Gerda Asmund’s approach to the murder of Ensign Morgen.

“Come in,” Morgen told him.

The doors to the Daa’Vit’s apartment opened and the Klingon walked in. Their eyes met and locked, their instincts taking over for just a moment before they remembered who they were and the experience they had shared.

“Sorry to bother you,” Worf said.

“Don’t be,” Morgen assured him. He indicated a seat. “Please.”

The security chief acknowledged the kindness with a slight inclination of his head. He sat.

“What can I do for you?” the Daa’Vit asked.

Worf frowned. “I need to know about that first attempt on your life. The one that Gerda Asmund staged twenty years ago.”

Morgen looked at him. “Any particular reason?”

“Yes,” the Klingon told him. “But for now I would prefer it remain my own.”

The Daa’Vit considered the response. “All right,” he said finally. “I will respect that. But couldn’t you have found what you seek in the ship’s computer?”

“No. I tried that, and all I could get was a reference to the crime. No details.”

“What sort of details were you looking for?”

“Everything,” Worf said. “As much as you can remember.”

Morgen considered it. “Let me see, then.” He leaned back on his couch—a strange rock-and-moss affair. “I was an ensign at the time. One of my duties was to periodically check the shuttle bay operation consoles—in essence, to run the self-diagnostic sequences. It was something the regular shuttle deck personnel could have done easily enough, but Captain Picard insisted I learn everything there was to know about a Federation starship. In retrospect, not a bad idea.” His bright yellow eyes lost their focus as he reentered the past. “That particular day, a crewman named McDonnell was in charge of the shuttle deck. A slow-moving, slow-talking sort of fellow, but one you could always rely on. When I arrived, he was nowhere to be seen. The deck was empty.”

“There was only
one
crewman on duty?” Worf asked.

“That is correct. The
Stargazer
was a deep-space explorer, remember.
Constellation
-class. We didn’t carry the same kind of crew that the
Enterprise
does. We didn’t need to.”

The Klingon nodded. “Of course. Please proceed.”

“I called for McDonnell, but there was no answer. What I should have done at that point was alert Pug Joseph. But I was young and cocky—and besides, I didn’t expect that there was really anything very wrong. So I took a look around.

“Finally, I found McDonnell. He was stretched out behind one of the shuttles, either dead or unconscious. Later, I found out he had only been knocked out. But at the time I wasn’t sure, so I rushed to his side. And as I bent down to see him, Gerda leapt down on me from her perch on top of the shuttle.