Star Trek: Pantheon (22 page)

“But three of our friends were still out there. At last, Ben Zoma got up from his seat and headed for the turbolift. I followed. So did Greyhorse, though he was barking orders to his trauma team the whole time. The others had to stay at their posts.

“We got to the airlock about the same time as Greyhorse’s people. There were also a couple of security guards, handpicked by Pug beforehand. They started to put on containment suits—but before they could get out of the lock, they saw Picard coming in. And he had Pug with him—alive.

“The captain had found him drifting alongside the hull, unconscious. There was no way he could have brought both Pug and your father in at once—he had to make a choice, and Pug was closer. As it was, he barely managed to get them around the curve of the ship before the explosion. If he’d gone after your father instead, all three of them would have died.”

He looked at Wesley. “The captain went back for your father, of course, but we all knew it was too late to help him. Afterward, Pug explained that the energy build-up had been too much for them, that they blacked out—first your father, then Pug himself.”

He grunted. “With the nacelle assembly ripped away, we were able to stagger away on impulse. So in the end, your father and Pug accomplished everything they set out to do. The only problem was one of them didn’t live to see it.”

Wesley found he had an ache in the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it away, found that he couldn’t.

The Gnalish’s eyes narrowed. “Are you all right, Ensign?”

Wes nodded. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice huskier than he would have liked. “I’m fine. Really.” He bent for another rock, trying to take his mind off his feelings. “Let me see if I can repeat that last performance.”

After a moment, he heard Simenon grunt. “Of course.” A pause. “The trick is to be consistent. There, that’s a good one—the one to your—”

Abruptly, a voice came out of nowhere.

“Wesley?”

The ensign looked up at the holodeck’s intercom grid, hidden in the illusion of scarlet treetops.
Oh, no.
How long had he been here? It seemed like only a few minutes, but Geordi’s tone suggested it had been much longer.

Wesley steeled himself. “Yes, Commander?”

“What the devil is going on up there? When I sent you after Professor Simenon, I didn’t expect the
two
of you to disappear.”

The Gnalish snorted derisively and shook his head. Wesley tried to ignore him. “Sorry, sir. I guess I, um…just lost track of time.”

“Lost track of—damn it, Wes! Did you forget what kind of mess we’re all in? Maybe Professor Simenon has the option of fiddling while Rome burns—but you don’t, not as long as you’re wearing that uniform. Understood?”

The ensign grimaced. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simenon pick up another rock. “Aye, Commander.”

“Then get down here on the double. You can tell me in person what you found so enthralling that you—”

Geordi was interrupted by a high-pitched yelp that made Wesley whirl in alarm. His first thought was that the Gnalish had fallen into the water and was drowning. Of course, that was unlikely given his reptilian anatomy—but that didn’t come to mind until moments later.

In any case, Simenon wasn’t in any trouble, aquatic or otherwise. He was just standing there with a strange expression on his face. A wide-eyed, open-mouthed sort of expression.

“Wes? Is everything all right?” Geordi asked.

The ensign looked at Simenon. “I think so,” he replied. He tilted his head to get the Gnalish’s attention. “It is all right—isn’t it, Professor?”

Suddenly, Simenon’s features broadened into a smile. “You’re damned
right
it’s all right,” he said. He looked up. “Mr. La Forge—make some tea. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Wesley regarded him. “Make some tea?” he echoed.

“I
like
tea,” said the Gnalish. “Who do you think introduced your captain to Earl Grey?” He hurried past the ensign on his way to the holodeck exit.

Wesley fell in after him. “But—that
sound
you made—”

Simenon dismissed it. “I always make that sound,” he shot back over his shoulder, “when I’m about to save the ship.”

As Riker entered the turbolift, leaving sickbay behind, he knew that the place where Cadwallader had been attacked would yield no physical evidence of what had taken place there. The curving stretch of corridor had already been restored, the phaser-scarred sections of bulkhead replaced, and the bloodstains leeched from the floor covering.

But he still wanted to see it again for himself. He had the feeling that if he stood there long enough, if he gave sufficient thought to the details imparted by Morgen and Dr. Crusher, he would find an angle that Worf’s security teams had overlooked.

At worst, he would feel as if he were making a contribution. The idea that there was a killer aboard had certainly concerned him before—but Cadwallader’s close call brought the problem closer to home. Now it was
personal.

“Deck Seventeen,” he said. Though he couldn’t feel it, the turbolift started to move.

A moment or two later the doors opened. He stepped out.

And saw Ben Zoma kneeling in the middle of the corridor, eyes narrowed, intent on something in the distance.

The captain of the
Lexington
looked up as Riker exited the lift. He seemed surprised—but just a little. And he made no effort at all to cover up his interest in the place.

For a second or two they just stared at each other. Then Ben Zoma cracked a smile. “Fancy meeting you here, Commander.”

The first officer refrained from smiling back. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing, sir?”

The older man stood, winced, and massaged the back of his neck. “Damn,” he said. “There’s that tightness again. The old body’s not what it used to be—though I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I said that.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Riker reminded him.

“True,” Ben Zoma said. “That was rude of me. On the other hand, I think you know why I’m here. I imagine it’s the same reason
you’re
here—to go over the scene of the crime. To see if there might not be something the others overlooked.”

Riker nodded. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Just a few minutes.”

“And?”

Ben Zoma shook his head. “No brilliant insights—unfortunately.” He gazed past Riker. “The killer came from that direction—more than likely was already waiting for Cad and the others when they came groping for the lift in the dark.” His nostrils flared. “I wish he were here now. And I wish I had a phaser too.”

Riker regarded him. “Not exactly the kind of talk Starfleet encourages in its captains.”

“No,” agreed Ben Zoma, “it’s not.” He turned back to the first officer. “But then, there’s no one around to hear it but the two of us.” He cocked his head. “And if it were Dr. Crusher who’d gotten hurt, or Counselor Troi, wouldn’t you feel the same way?”

Riker hesitated.

“Come now—be honest.”

The first officer decided to be as honest as the dark man had been. “Maybe. But wanting and doing are two different things.”

“No argument there,” Ben Zoma told him. “Many’s the time I wanted to take someone’s head off—and didn’t.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Riker remarked.

“Well,” said the
Lexington’
s captain, “I should be going. Cadwallader could probably use some company. Though I’m sure Dr. Crusher will be as suspicious of my intentions as you are—
still.”

The younger man shrugged. “The fact that the captain chose to trust you is a mark in your favor. But it doesn’t
necessarily
mean you’re not the killer.”

“Absolutely right,” Ben Zoma said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Now I know why Picard described you the way he did.”

While Riker tried to decipher that last remark, the captain’s friend walked past him into the empty turbolift. Just before the doors closed, he heard Ben Zoma utter a single word: “Sickbay.”

Once inside the lift, Ben Zoma shook his head appreciatively. Some officer, that Riker. Jean-Luc’s instincts had been right five years earlier, when he’d offered the man the first officer’s position on the
Enterprise.

He still recalled vividly their conversation on Starbase 52, where the
Lexington
had put in for repairs. Ben Zoma had been pleasantly surprised to find his former captain there, awaiting transportation to his new assignment, and Picard had insisted on standing him to a few drinks.

“I tell you, Gilaad, I never thought I would find an exec like you again. But I think lightning has managed to strike twice.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Riker. Will Riker. He’s with DeSoto on the
Hood.”

“Yes. I think I’ve heard of him. His father’s a civilian strategist, isn’t he? Specializing in the frontier regions?”

“That’s correct. He’s one of the top men in his field. And for my money, his son is even better.” Picard leaned forward. “You know DeSoto—he never says a good word about anyone unless he absolutely has to. And he sings young Riker’s praises like a nightingale. Of course, DeSoto is not happy about the man leaving—he hates like hell to lose such a fine first officer. But he says Riker has earned the right to choose his own destiny.”

“Very impressive, Jean-Luc.” Ben Zoma shook his head. “A
Galaxy
-class vessel and a first-rate exec. What lucky star were you born under?”

“You know, my friend, I ask that question of myself sometimes.”

It was a moment before Ben Zoma realized that the turbolift had come to a stop. And another moment before he could wipe the nostalgic grin off his face, so whoever entered wouldn’t think he was some sort of imbecile.

Then he saw who was standing there, and he smiled anyway.

“A pleasant surprise,” he said. “I meant to come see you.”

“Oh?” said the newcomer as the lift doors closed again.

“Yes. I thought we should—”

Suddenly, there was a flash of something metallic. Too late, Ben Zoma realized what it was. Before he could prevent it, the knife had slipped between his ribs and out again.

Lord,
he thought,
I’ve found the killer. But not the way I had in mind.

As a second strike headed for his face, he ducked—and the blade hit the turbolift wall instead. Carried forward by the momentum of the attack, his adversary fell against him and they grappled. Ben Zoma somehow found the hand that held the knife and managed to keep it at bay.

But he didn’t have much time and he knew it. Already, his side was a fiery, gut-wrenching agony as his nerves woke to the damage inflicted on them. Nor did he dare look down to see how much blood he had lost—no doubt, it was considerable. Putting all his ebbing strength into a single uppercut, he managed to stagger the knife’s owner backward. And at the same time to bellow at the intercom grid for security.

Unfortunately, his adversary recovered sooner than Ben Zoma had expected. This time he couldn’t avoid the knife altogether—and it cut deep into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he slumped against the wall of the lift and kicked desperately at his attacker’s knee.

By then, however, he was too cold and numb to know if his blow did any damage. The last thing he saw was the knife descending yet again. The last thing he felt was it plunging into his chest.

Worf estimated that four minutes had gone by. Four minutes from the time he heard the request for help until he reached the turbolift on Deck Thirty-three. It would have been faster for him to override the last occupant command and bring the damned thing up to the bridge—but for some reason the lift doors wouldn’t shut.

Half a corridor away, he’d seen why. There was an arm stretched out across the threshold—to prevent just the sort of quick attention the Klingon had had in mind. Cursing out loud, he’d noted the blood on the bare hand.

And now, as he knelt beside the body, he cursed again. It was Ben Zoma.

The man had been stabbed a half-dozen times—at least twice in the chest. Nor could Worf ignore the fact, even in his eagerness to do his job and preserve Ben Zoma’s life, that he had seen this kind of wound before.

Very
definitely,
he had seen it before.

Removing his honor sash and stripping off the top of his uniform, Worf wrapped Ben Zoma tightly in the fabric of the shirt. It would help to keep the man warm—an important measure, since he’d already gone into shock. Also, it might slow down the loss of blood—which had already been excessive, judging by the pool of gore on the floor of the turbolift.

Placing his forefinger against Ben Zoma’s neck, the Klingon felt for a pulse. There was movement there—terribly weak, but discernible nonetheless.

“My God!” said a voice.

Worf looked back over his shoulder and saw the two women in civilian garb, grimacing at the sight of Ben Zoma. He couldn’t recall their names, but he knew they were in one of the science sections. A moment later two other civilians approached from the other direction, immediately as stricken by horror as the first two.

“What’s happened?” cried a man.

“Keep back,” the Klingon growled. “The situation is under control.”

It was only another moment before Dr. Crusher arrived with a medical team in tow. Making their way through the swelling throng of onlookers, they lifted Ben Zoma onto a gurney and moved him into the turbolift.

“Sickbay,” Crusher said. At the same time, she was taking readings with her tricorder. “Give him twenty cc’s of cordrizene. That ought to keep him going until we can stabilize his condition.” Her voice betrayed none of the emotion she must have been feeling.

But when she looked up at Worf, her anger was hard not to miss. “How long,” she asked in a subdued tone, “is this going to go on?”

“It is finished,” he rumbled.

Her brows came together. “What do you mean? Did you get a look at the killer?”

He shook his head. “No. But I
know
who it is.”