Star Trek: Pantheon (20 page)

Picard recalled something else from the meeting in the observation lounge. “Tell me about your mission to Daa’V. You were with Pug and Cadwallader, delivering medicines, as I understand it?”

The dark man looked surprised at the seeming non sequitur. “Yes. Decacyclene. The Daa’Vit were hit hard by Marionis syndrome, a virus that originated on Marionis Six—” He stopped as he saw what Picard was getting at. “You want to know if we came in contact with anyone opposed to Morgen’s return. And if they could have influenced one of us.”

“Exactly.”

Ben Zoma shrugged, his eyes glazing over as he gave the proposition some thought. “There were those who asked after Morgen—but no one who actually came out for or against him. Not in my presence, anyway. And as far as influencing the others…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t vouch for all the medical personnel—you’d have to ask my chief medical officer about that. But Cadwallader and Pug hardly left my side while we were down there. I doubt anyone could have tampered with them in any way.”

The captain looked at him. “In Pug’s case, it might not take much tampering at all.” He chose his words carefully. “Gilaad…you see him on a daily basis. Has his resentment gone so far that it would make him want to kill?”

Ben Zoma answered without even thinking. “He’s resentful, all right. And in some ways—small ways—it has affected his performance. Certainly, his drinking doesn’t help in that regard either. You’ve seen how he puts away the synthehol.”

Picard nodded.

“But I would bet my life that Pug has nothing to do with these murder attempts. Down deep, he’s a gentle man. He always
was
a gentle man.”

The captain sighed. “All true. But
someone
has designs on Morgen’s life. And if it’s not you or Cad or Pug…”

“I know,” Ben Zoma said. “It’s hard to imagine Simenon or Greyhorse practicing violence. And if Idun is innocent, as you say, that doesn’t leave a huge number of suspects, does it?”

Picard looked at him. “No. It doesn’t.”

Ben Zoma spread his hands. “I wish I could be of more help, Jean-Luc. I really do.”

For a fleeting moment he resembled Picard’s vision of Jack Crusher. The captain blinked.

“That’s all right,” the captain assured him—just as he had assured Jack. “Eventually, I suppose, we will find the person we’re looking for. I just hope Morgen survives until then.” He squared his shoulders. “In the meantime, Gilaad, not a word of this to anyone. Not even Morgen or Cadwallader.”

“You’ve got my word,” said Ben Zoma. He stood. “And thank you.”

Picard was genuinely confused. “For what?”

“For having enough trust in me to confide all this.”

The captain nodded. “Just do me one favor.”

“What’s that?” asked Ben Zoma.

“Don’t turn out to be the murderer.”

His friend nodded. “It’s a deal,” he said.

Just then Beverly Crusher’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Picard?”

“Here, Doctor. One moment, please.” He looked at Ben Zoma meaningfully.

“You want me to leave?” asked the other man.

“I do.”

“But I already know what’s going on. And it might be news about Cad.”

“If it is,” the captain assured him, “I’ll let you know.”

Ben Zoma frowned. “All right,” he said finally. “It’s your ship. I suppose you can conduct your investigations any way you like.”

Reluctantly, the former first officer of the
Stargazer
got up and left. The ready room doors closed silently behind him.

Looking up, Picard addressed the intercom grid. “Sorry, Doctor. I had some company.”

“I understand. In fact, I had some myself a few moments ago.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Greyhorse.” She took a deep breath—so deep it was audible over the intercom system. “Captain, I told him what was going on. He barged into sickbay and saw Cadwallader and—and it was pretty obvious what had happened to her. At that point it made more sense for him to know than to have him asking a lot of questions all over the ship.”

Picard cursed inwardly. If he’d been aware of this, he’d never have—

“Sir?”

“Doctor…our friend Greyhorse is not the
only
one who knows. I just let Ben Zoma in on the details myself.”

For a second or two, Crusher was silent. “Well,” she said, “it seems our secret is no longer as secret as we would like.”

“That much is certain. I think it’s time we had another meeting. I’ll see you in the conference lounge in ten minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain stood. He could feel matters getting out of hand.

It was time to rein them in.

Picard looked around the table—at Riker, Troi, Worf, and Crusher. “And so,” he said, “I take full responsibility for my decision to confide in Captain Ben Zoma—just as Dr. Crusher takes responsibility for confiding in Carter Greyhorse. But I do not want anyone else let in on this—not under any circumstances.”

“It’s going to get harder and harder to keep it under wraps,” Riker pointed out. “If Ben Zoma noticed, others will too.”

Troi nodded. “Ben Zoma said as much.”

“Nonetheless,” the captain insisted, “we will do everything we can to maintain security. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Very well, then. Let us turn to our investigation. Counselor Troi?”

“Unfortunately,” the empath said, “I have nothing of substance to report. A couple of our visitors—specifically Asmund and Joseph—have problems. But none I could point to as a prerequisite for murder.”

Picard turned to Worf. “Lieutenant—your findings.”

Worf scowled. “We analyzed the meal eaten by Loyosha just prior to his losing consciousness. As we suspected, it was laced with a narcotic that induces sleep. The source of the meal was the food service unit near security—which was programmed to include this narcotic in three of Loyosha’s favorite dishes.” He looked at Picard. “The unit showed no signs of tampering, sir. So it must have been reprogrammed from another location—just as you suggested.”

“Reprogrammed from another location?” Riker whistled softly. “Our assassin’s grasp of technology gets more impressive all the time.”

Picard grunted. “What about the rest of your inquiry?” he asked Worf.

The Klingon’s scowl deepened. “I personally traced the whereabouts of each visitor at the time of the blackout. Morgen and Cadwallader, as we know, were with Dr. Crusher. Professor Simenon was in engineering with Commanders Data and La Forge. Captain Ben Zoma, Dr. Greyhorse, Commander Asmund, and Chief Joseph were in their quarters. At least, that is the information recorded by the computer, based on the locations of the suspects’ communicators.”

“But,” Riker reminded them, “it’s a simple matter to remove one’s communicator. Then one need not worry about being located—either at the moment of the crime or later on.”

The captain nodded. “But thank you, Lieutenant. It was worth a try.” He regarded the others. “Suggestions?”

No one seemed to have any.

“Are we beaten that easily?” he asked. “Perhaps we should just concede defeat now and get it over with.”

That seemed to shake them up a bit.

Picard stood. “I do not care what it takes,” he insisted. “I want this would-be assassin found. Before he becomes an assassin in
fact.”

He scanned the faces at the table. For a moment he could have sworn Jack Crusher’s was among them. Then he looked again, and Jack was gone.

Steadying himself, the captain said: “This meeting is adjourned.”

The holodeck doors opened on a majestic scarlet forest shot through with long shafts of golden sunlight. Wesley took a step inside, applying his weight to the seemingly mosslike substance that covered the open spaces between the trees. It was springy underfoot—so springy, in fact, that it was difficult to keep his balance. But after a few more steps, he found the way to negotiate it was to bounce along instead of trying to resist it.

The Gnalish wasn’t immediately visible, but there seemed to be a path full of the springy stuff that cut the forest in two. Half walking and half bouncing, Wesley followed it, shading his eyes when the sunbeams got in them.

It was still along the path, windless and empty of animal life. No doubt, his presence had sent all the earthbound creatures scurrying into the bushes.

But it hadn’t done anything to hamper the activity above him. Small flying things darted from branch to branch, looking carefree and idyllic. They weren’t a whole lot different from the birds Wesley remembered from his childhood on Earth—though no Terran bird ever made those deep-throated sounds, or shed so many feathers as it flew.

Smiling, the ensign watched the flight of one feather as it descended directly in front of him. It glistened in the sun, dark purple around its stem and green at its fringes. Intrigued, Wesley knelt to pick it up—and drew his hand back quickly as he felt the prick of something sharp. Examining his finger, he saw a bead of blood at the tip.

“If we were really on Gnala,” said a voice, “you would have about twenty seconds to make peace with your gods.”

Wesley jumped at the sound. He’d been so intent on the feather, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone in the holodeck. Turning, he saw the Gnalish sitting with his back against a tree trunk, his scarlet robes exactly the same color as the foliage.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Simenon said, getting to his feet. “It just occurred to me that you might find a little background information interesting. Including what’s poisonous and what’s not.”

The ensign looked at the feather in a fresh light. “It’s so pretty. It’s hard to believe it’s harmful.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” The Gnalish smoothed out his robe. “There’s an antidote, of course—but you would have to have taken it in advance. Once you’ve been pricked, it’s too late.” He shaded his eyes and pointed to the flying things among the branches overhead. “That’s how they secure their sustenance. They wait until an animal brushes against a feather and is incapacitated by the poison. Then they descend and pick it apart. Quick workers too. Usually, they can clean a carcass before the poison shuts down the victim’s brain.”

It wasn’t a pretty image. Wesley shuddered involuntarily, imagining a path full of tiny four-legged skeletons.

“Of course,” Simenon went on, “the poison doesn’t affect the
colunnu—
the flyers. They have a natural immunity to it.”

Wesley let go of the feather. He watched it waft to the mossy ground. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you decided to leave a few details out of your program.”

The Gnalish grunted. “So am I. Back on Gnala, I used to have to wear thick boots to go for a walk in the woods.” He picked up the hem of his robe. “Here, I can go au naturel.”

Wesley looked at Simenon’s feet. For the first time, he realized that the Gnalish was barefoot.

“So, young man, have you followed me in here for a reason? Or just to chat?”

Wesley smiled, a little embarrassed. “Geordi—I mean Commander La Forge—wanted me to make sure you were all right. You didn’t show up in engineering this morning.”

“If I was all right?” Now it was Simenon’s turn to smile. “He could have found that out over the intercom. Commander La Forge just wonders what I’m doing in this holodeck when we have a problem to solve.”

The ensign nodded. “I guess that’s another way of putting it.”

“And to solve a problem,” the Gnalish went on, “we must stand around the master situations monitor, looking ominously at one another.”

Wesley winced. “I don’t think that’s
exactly—”

Simenon dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “It’s all right. You need not defend your Commander La Forge. At his age, I would probably have approached it the same way.” He regarded the ensign. “However, I am older and wiser now. And I know that the best way to approach a problem, sometimes, is to forget about it entirely.” He indicated the scarlet forest with a sweeping gesture. “To play a little hooky, as your Earth expression goes.”

He began to walk down the path. Wesley just watched him, not knowing exactly what to do. Should he continue to badger the Gnalish? Or consider his mission completed and return to engineering?

Suddenly, Simenon turned around. “Well?” he asked. “Are you coming or not?”

The ensign hesitated for a moment. “Me?” he repeated lamely.

The professor snorted. “I don’t see anyone else standing there.”

What the hell, thought Wesley. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break—just a short one.

He started after Simenon.

“That’s better,” said the Gnalish.

“Where are we going?” asked Wes.

“Down to the lake. Where else?”

It wasn’t very far. A couple of twists in the path, and they were there, the water reflecting the splendor of the trees that towered all around it.

Simenon stopped in the vicinity of a small pile of stones—one which he had gathered some time before, apparently, or else simply programmed into the scene. Abruptly, without a word to his companion, he knelt, his ruby eyes darting around until they fixed on something a meter or so away. Using his tail to sweep the ground, he brought his find closer to him—and when it was close enough, picked it up with his fingers.

Another stone. The Gnalish examined it. But after a second or two, he tossed it away. Watching the whole strange scenario, Wesley couldn’t help but chuckle. It seemed so funny for an Academy professor to be squatting barefoot and scavenging for rocks.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Simenon, abruptly indignant. “It takes time to select the right specimens.” Holding yet another one up at eye level, he turned it around, inspecting it from various angles.

“The right specimens?” the ensign echoed. “Right for
what?”

The Gnalish put the stone down in the pile and began to scrutinize another.

“For skimming, of course.”

Wesley looked at him. “What’s
skimming?”

That got the Gnalish’s attention; he looked up. “You mean you don’t know?”

The ensign shrugged. “Should I?”

Simenon looked at him as if he’d just eaten one of the rocks.
“Should
you? Of course you should. Weren’t there any lakes where you grew up?”

Wesley thought about it. “I…I guess so. But that was when I was really young. I’ve spent a lot of time on starships since my mom joined Starfleet.”

The Gnalish looked a little sad—or was that the ensign’s imagination? “You mean,” he said, “you’ve never skimmed a rock? That’s absurd! Every youngster skims rocks.” He shook his serpentine head. “Well, we’ll have to rectify that gap in your education right now.”

He picked up one of the rocks he’d put in the pile—a small round one with one flat side. Aligning one of its edges with the inside of his scaly forefinger, Simenon took a couple of steps down to the edge of the lake, stopping only when the water was lapping gently at his bare feet. Then he leaned his upper body at a funny, almost awkward kind of angle—and sent the rock flying with a flick of his wrist.

The rock sailed over the water, hopping high into the air three times before it finally sank some twenty meters away. The Gnalish turned back to Wesley, looking quite satisfied with himself.

“That,” he instructed, “is how one skims a rock.” He returned to the pile, bent, and picked up a replacement. Then, straightening again, he offered it to Wesley.

“Care to try it?”

The ensign took the rock and tried to fit it into the curl of his forefinger as Simenon had done. The edge cut painfully into his skin.

“No,” said the Gnalish. “You’re holding it too tight. Let it rest on the side of your middle finger.” And manipulating Wesley’s hand, he showed him what he meant.

The ensign nodded. That felt better. Trying to lean as Simenon had, he looked at the Gnalish. “Now I just throw it?”

Simenon shook his head. “You don’t
just
throw it. There’s a knack to it.” He pantomimed the procedure with his own empty hand. “You see? The bottom of the rock must be held parallel to the surface of the lake. And when you release it, you put a backspin on it—so that it remains stable when it hits the water.”

Wesley went through the motion a couple of times until he felt he’d gotten the hang of it. Then he turned toward the lake, drew the stone back, and flipped it out over the water.

It turned sideways as it flew, made a loud
plunk
when it hit the lake, and sank like a—well, like a stone. The ensign frowned.

Simenon sighed. “I can see we’ve got some work ahead of us.”

Riker had expected to see Beverly Crusher presiding over sickbay. It was only after he walked in and saw Dr. Selar standing there giving orders that he realized Crusher had gone off duty. A few minutes ago, he calculated—the same time his own shift had ended.

Usually, he was on top of little things like that. But right now he was a little preoccupied.

He waited patiently for Selar to finish her other business. When she finally saw him standing there, she didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Commander,” she said, inclining her head slightly by way of a greeting. “I was told you might be coming by.”

That caught him a little off his guard. “Really?”

“Yes. Dr. Crusher mentioned it.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right.” Boy, he really
was
preoccupied, wasn’t he?

The Vulcan indicated the barrier behind which Cadwallader’s biobed was situated. “You wish to see our patient?”

He nodded. “If it’s not a bad time.”

“Actually,” Selar told him, “it is not a bad time at all.” And without further ado, she led him back to the critical-care area, where they stopped as she leaned around the barrier. “Commander?”

“Mmm?”

“A visitor for you.”

A rustling of the bedcovers. “By all means,” the patient said, “let him in.”

Riker smiled. Cadwallader’s voice was stronger than he had expected it would be.

But Selar didn’t allow him to go right away. “Please be brief,” she advised. “Her progress is exemplary, but she looks better than she feels. We must help her conserve her strength.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t wear her out.”

The Vulcan gave him a wary look before departing to attend to her duties. Riker watched her go.

Then he came around the barrier and found Cadwallader looking up at him. She was propped on a pillow, her arms entwined across her chest.

She wasn’t as pale as when he saw her last. But he remembered what Selar had said about that appearance being deceiving.

“You look rather comfortable,” he told her.

She shrugged. “I suppose—considering I took a phaser beam not so long ago. Isn’t modern medicine wonderful?”

He looked into her eyes. They had that old sparkle.

“Listen,” he said, “I promised Dr. Selar that I’d stay only a min—”