Star Trek: Pantheon (14 page)

A couple of security officers approached the Daa’Vit. “No,” said Morgen. “Let me be.” And promptly fell to his knees.

Burke pressed his insignia. “Sickbay—we need a trauma team in holodeck one. We’ve got two casualties—one Klingon and one Daa’Vit.
Hurry.”

“But I feel fine,” Worf protested.

“I’m happy for you,” responded Crusher, using her tricorder to check the dermaplast patch on the Klingon’s back. It was adhering perfectly—a good job, if she said so herself.

“There’s really no need for this, Doctor.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Morgen. “Another sector heard from.”

The Daa’Vit shook his head disapprovingly. “What is it about medical officers?”

“They are excessively cautious,” Worf observed.

“To be sure,” agreed the Daa’Vit. “No offense, Doctor, but sickbay is the one thing I will
not
miss about Starfleet.”

Crusher chuckled. “Listen to you two. One would think you’d been here for days. It’s been only a couple of hours.” Finished with her examination of Worf’s dressings, she moved over to Morgen’s biobed.

“A couple of hours too many,” complained the Daa’Vit as the doctor positioned her tricorder near his thigh. The gouge there had been deep, but it was healing nicely, with no sign of infection. “You can see we need no further attention.”

“I can see,” she countered, “that you know nothing about medicine. Or else you choose to ignore what you do know.” She moved the tricorder up to Morgen’s side, where he’d been badly slashed. “Just because you
feel
fine doesn’t mean you
are
fine. Those healing agents and painkillers and antibiotics take their toll. The healing agents in particular—they soak up nutrients like a sponge, leaving just enough for the body’s other functions. A little too much physical activity and you’ll be flat on your backs, wishing you had enough strength to scratch your nose.”

Worf made a derisive sound. “You underestimate the Klingon constitution, Doctor.” He considered Morgen. “And perhaps the Daa’Vit constitution as well.”

Morgen frowned as Crusher inspected his chest wounds. “Your colleague speaks the truth. Daa’Vit—and Klingons—are tougher than you may realize.”

Satisfied with Morgen’s progress, the doctor switched off her instrument and closed it up. “I underestimate nothing,” she said. “Worf should know that, considering I’ve been treating him for years now. True, I’ve never had to medicate him for wounds like
these
—but I think I know a
few
things about Klingon biology.” She replaced the tricorder in the pocket of her lab coat. “Now, if you were to say I’ve never treated a
Daa’Vit,
you’d be quite right. But I’ve studied up quite a bit on the subject.”

“Reading and doing are two different things,” Morgen reminded her.

“I agree,” Crusher assured him. “That’s why I went to the trouble of speaking recently with a Dr. Carter Greyhorse. You know him? Apparently, he’s had some experience treating a Daa’Vit. Naturally, neither of us anticipated any problems, considering the nature of our mission to Daa’V. But he humored me all the same.”

Morgen’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Worf. “It’s a conspiracy.”

The Klingon grunted in assent. “No doubt.”

Crusher noted with interest the relationship that had developed between the two. Of course, she wouldn’t dare point it out to them. That would be the quickest way to destroy it.

Hell of a way to get closer,
she thought. If the experience had lasted much longer, it would have killed them.

“In any case,” she said, “I’ve got to go. The captain has called a meeting—you can imagine what it’s about.”

Worf slid off his biobed. “I should be there.”

“No way,” the doctor told him. “You’ll stay right here. That’s an order.”

“But I am chief of security. And this is a security matter.”

“I don’t care if you’re the”—she glanced at Morgen—“the hereditary ruler of Daa’V. No one leaves this sickbay until I tell them to. Got it?”

Neither Worf nor Morgen answered—at least, not audibly. But when Crusher left sickbay, she left alone.

Picard was the first to enter the lounge. It was quiet—almost unnaturally so. Outside, seen through the observation ports, the stars bore silent witness to his carefully controlled anxiety. He crossed the room.

Taking his place at the head of the conference table, gazing at its polished surface, the captain had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He could almost feel the years peeling away, the dimensions of the room shrinking…faces swimming up at him. Those of Ben Zoma, Simenon, Greyhorse, Idun, Pug and—of course—Jack Crusher…

“Is Ensign Morgen all right, Doctor?”

“Fine,” said Greyhorse. “He was just a little shaken up.”

“And Lieutenant Asmund?” asked Jack.

Picard could feel Idun tense at the mention of her sister—but she gave no other sign of her concern.

“Likewise, Captain. She’ll live to stand trial for the attempt on Morgen’s life.”

“Good. I am glad to hear that she will survive.”

He had to be careful what he said. After all, it was Gerda who’d committed the crime—not her twin.

“I’ve got two men assigned to her night and day,” reported Joseph. He glanced at Greyhorse. “The doctor’s not pleased about it, but I told him those were your orders.”

The captain nodded. “Indeed.”

“What about the Klingons?” asked Simenon.

“The
Victorious
and the
Berlin
are only hours away,” responded Ben Zoma. “They’ll be escorting the good ship
Tagh’rat
to the borders of the Empire, where it will become an imperial matter. But the word from the emperor is that the splinter group will be dealt with harshly. After all, he wants this treaty as much as we do.”

“What a damned sorry mess,” said Greyhorse.

“Could have been worse,” said Jack. “She could have succeeded.”

“True,” said the Gnalish.

Suddenly, Joseph stood. “Sir,” he said, addressing Picard, “I want to take full responsibility for what happened. If there are any repercussions—”

“We will all assume responsibility,” interrupted the captain.

The security chief seemed mute for a moment. He hung his head, and when he spoke again, it was in a softer tone. “It’s just that I don’t know how this could have happened…”

“…could have happened,” said a voice outside the lounge.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Picard saw Riker entering alongside Data. The android’s brow was wrinkled ever so slightly.

“It
does
seem highly unlikely,” remarked Data.

“What does?” asked the captain.

Both Riker and the android regarded him.

“That what happened in the holodeck could have been an accident,” said the first officer.

Data nodded as he pulled out the middle seat on the side of the table facing the stars. “That is correct, sir. It is possible that Lieutenant Worf inadvertently mis-programmed the holodeck, calling for a Level Three scenario to automatically follow Level Two. However, he could
not
have inadvertently instructed it to ignore his command to abort.” Seating himself, he went on without pause. “The holodeck computer’s mortality failsafe is designed to resist such instructions, to make them difficult for the user to implement—in order to avoid just this sort of occurrence.”

Riker sat too—at his usual place, on Picard’s left. “Of course, there could have been a malfunction—but you know how rare those are. We check the holodecks on a regular basis. Certainly, we would have caught on to a flaw that profound.”

Halfway through Data’s observation, Dr. Crusher, Counselor Troi, and Commander La Forge filed into the room. Geordi had something in his hand.

“And even a simple malfunction,” said the android, “would not account for Chief O’Brien’s inability to end the program from without. That would have depended on a different circuit entirely.”

“In other words,” expanded the first officer,
“both
circuits would have had to go haywire at once. A pretty big coincidence.”

“Yes,” confirmed Data. “The only practical explanation is that—”

“Someone tampered with the holodeck circuitry,” said La Forge, tossing his burden on the center of the table. It slid a foot or so on the smooth surface before finally coming to a halt. “And that’s exactly what happened.” As he, Troi, and Crusher took their seats, he pointed to the bundle of wires and small black boxes. “There’s the evidence. We found it behind one of the lead panels.”

Picard picked up the bundle and turned it over in his hands. “Looks fairly complicated,” he concluded.

“It
is,”
said his chief engineer. “Ingenious, in fact. And made from parts one might find around the ship.”

“Naturally,” said Riker. “A device like that would have been detected in the transport process.”

“It appears,” said Troi, “that someone among us is out to get Morgen. Or Worf. Or both of them.”

The captain felt a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. He did his best to control it.

Riker frowned. “Someone was after Morgen once before. On the
Stargazer.”

Beverly turned to the captain. “But that was twenty years ago. And she was apprehended before she could carry out her mission—wasn’t she?”

Picard nodded. “Gerda Asmund was found guilty of attempted murder and remanded to the rehabilitation colony on Anjelica Seven. She spent eleven years of her life there before the authorities judged her fit to rejoin society.” He sighed. “Shortly thereafter, she died on a freighter en route to Alpha Palemon. The ship was passing through a meteor swarm when its shields suddenly failed. Gerda was working in the hold; it was punctured, and she was lost with seven others.”

“Her body?” asked Riker.

“Never found,” said the captain.

“Then she could still be alive,” Geordi concluded.

“Not likely,” said Picard. “There were no containment suits missing. No shuttle craft unaccounted for.”

“Still…” Geordi insisted.

Crusher leaned forward. “Captain…how much did Idun and Gerda resemble each other?”

It was a chilling thought.

“They were identical,” said Picard. “I could barely tell them apart, except for the fact that Idun sat at the helm and Gerda at navigation.” He shook his head. “But what you’re suggesting seems a bit farfetched.” He regarded Troi. “Counselor…have you sensed anything to make you suspect Idun is not who she seems?”

Troi shook her head. “No, not really. Just the sort of ambiguities one might expect from a human raised by Klingons.” She paused. “Though I must admit, I have had little experience with Idun’s sort of mind. There is a discipline there that keeps me from reading her emotions very well.”

“What about the transporter?” asked Geordi. “Wouldn’t it have a record of her bio-profile? One we could match with her records?”

“Inconclusive,” ruled Crusher. “If Gerda and Idun have the same bio-profile—which has been known to happen with identical twins—then we would have no way of knowing if Gerda beamed aboard in her sister’s place.”

“They
did
have the same profile,” Picard noted reluctantly. “I remember that.”

Riker regarded him. “And Idun was at Starbase 81 long enough for Gerda to make the switch.” He looked thoughtful, then frowned. “But I have to agree with the captain. We’re looking a bit far afield—especially when Idun
herself
has a motive.”

“You mean revenge?” asked Troi. “For what happened to her sister?”

“Make that
two
motives,” the first officer amended. “I was thinking more along the lines of her completing Gerda’s mission.”

“Completing…” Picard began. “To what purpose, Number One?”

“The same purpose as before,” said Riker. “To create a rift between the Federation and the Daa’Vit. To eliminate any need for the Klingons to share a conference table with their old enemies. And with Morgen inheriting the crown of Daa’V, they could hardly have picked a better time to kill him. Not only would the Daa’Vit break ties with us, they’d be thrown into a state of internal disarray.”

The captain shook his head. “Idun Asmund has served Starfleet with distinction for more than two decades. She has never given anyone any reason to doubt her loyalties.” He straightened in his chair. “When Gerda made her attempt on Morgen’s life, I decided that it would be the gravest of injustices to punish Idun for her sister’s crime—and I have not changed my mind in that regard. If there is evidence to incriminate her, fine. But let us not judge her on her choice of sibling alone.”

“All right, then,” said Riker. “What about the others?”

Those at the table exchanged glances. It was not an easy thing to hold up one’s fellow officers as murder suspects—particularly when the
Stargazer
survivors had become so well liked. And Picard sympathized; he was no more eager to hear such accusations than his officers were to voice them.

But someone had committed an act of violence on his ship. He could not allow that to happen again.

“Commander Riker asked a question,” said the captain. “I want answers.” He turned to Troi first. “Counselor?”

The Betazoid sighed. “Mr. Joseph is not a happy man, sir. He is bitter—disillusioned.”

“Over his failure to advance his career?” said Picard.

Troi nodded. “Apparently.”

“Do you think,” asked the captain, “that his unhappiness would manifest itself this way?”

“It is difficult to say. I do not think Joseph resents Morgen in particular. If he has focused his resentment on anyone, it is Commander Cadwallader.”

“Then again,” said Riker, “Morgen was below him once in the chain of command—just as Cadwallader was.”

“And when one is irrational,” offered Crusher, “one may lash out at
anyone.”

Troi shook her head. “Joseph is
not
irrational—at least, not as far as I can tell. But he
is
angry. At times, extremely angry.”

Riker indicated the mess of wires and black boxes. “Does he have the knowhow to make something like this?”

“He is not an engineer,” said Picard, “if that’s what you mean. But security work does involve a knowledge of ship’s systems.”