Star Trek: Pantheon (30 page)

“I saw her after she came out,” the big man went on. His upper lip curled back. “She wasn’t the same. She wasn’t Gerda. I wanted to hold her, to help her after all she’d been through—but she told me to just go away, to just get the hell away from her.” A sob came up from deep in his massive chest. “She said I was no good for her. That she’d paid for what she’d done, and she didn’t want to be reminded of it.”

Another sob, worse than the first. He shook with it. “I thought that she’d change her mind—get over it—and we’d be together again. And then…” His eyes went blank. “And then she died, and there was nothing left for me to think about—except what I would do to the ones who hurt her.”

Past Greyhorse, Picard saw something happening to the transporter room doors. They were glowing in a couple of places—with a distinct pinkish radiance. Phasers, he realized. Of course. Security was trying to burn its way in.

But he couldn’t let Greyhorse know—not until it was too late. Quickly, he looked away.

How long would it take for Worf to cut his way in? At one of the higher settings, only a few seconds. But there was less control that way. He might burn through and hit someone inside—someone like the captain—so he’d be using a lower setting.

And how long then? A minute? Maybe two? Could he stall Greyhorse that long?

As if in response to Picard’s silent question, the doctor punched in the balance of the transporter’s instructions and came around the console—jerking his captive along with him. They were headed back to the platform. And Picard could see that one of the disks was live—hungry for an object to transport.

The captain took a second to gather his strength and tried the same maneuver that had worked before. But this time he was too slow, or else Greyhorse was ready for him. Before he could get a good grip on his tormentor’s wrist, the doctor stopped and swung him forward with all his strength. Unable to stop himself, Picard tumbled end over end, finally coming to rest against the base of the transporter grid.

When he looked up, he saw Greyhorse advancing on him. But behind the doctor, the phaser glow was getting darker.

“Carter,” Picard gasped. “Don’t do this. I hated what happened to Gerda too—but there was no other way.”

The big man stopped, towering over him. He grunted scornfully. “That’s it,” he said. “Go ahead. Beg.” He got down on his haunches, came closer than he should have. “I
want
to hear you beg.”

The captain knew he wouldn’t have another chance. Planting his heel against the side of the platform to get his whole body into it, he launched a blow at the center of the doctor’s jaw. It landed more solidly than he might have hoped, jarring him all the way to his shoulder. There was a sound as of cracking ice and Greyhorse fell backward.

Pressing his advantage, Picard staggered to his feet and made for the door, where the hot spots were getting angrier than ever. I can make it, he told himself. I can—

Then he felt something grab his ankle, and his feet went out from under him. He hit the deck and Greyhorse whipped him around again toward the transporter platform. Clawing at the carpet, the captain managed to stop himself short of the live disk.

But the doctor had other ideas. Again, he drove a booted foot into Picard’s ribs, robbing him of what sense had been restored to him. Then, picking the captain up like a rag doll, he took a step backward, preparing to hurl him to his death.

He was stopped short by a sound like all the banshees of hell as the doors to the room burst open. Greyhorse whirled to see what had happened and the captain groped for the big man’s shoulder, trying to anchor himself against being flung into the transparent beam. But with what seemed like no effort at all, Greyhorse lifted him even higher.

The room was filling with a flood of security officers, led by Worf. To Picard’s surprise, Pug Joseph was right beside him. They pointed their phasers, but stopped short of using them on Greyhorse once they saw the situation. Numbed, battered, the captain could only watch.

“Go ahead,” cried the doctor. “Shoot me. And before I fall, I’ll see to it that Picard’s atoms are scattered through the void.”

Worf stuck out a hand to hold his people back. “Put him down,” he said, “and we will talk.”

Greyhorse laughed. “What is there to talk about? A rehab colony—maybe the same one where Gerda lost her soul?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Carter,” Pug interjected, taking a step forward. “What are you doing? He was your captain, for godsakes. He was your friend.”

The doctor’s mouth twisted. “My
friend?
Then why did he kill the only person I’ve ever loved—the only one who ever made me feel
human?”
He glared at Joseph. “Why did
you?”

The security chief shook his head. “I didn’t kill Gerda, Carter.”

“Didn’t you?” the doctor asked. “You stood by like all the others and watched as they took her away. You—”

Picard wasn’t quite certain what happened next. But somehow, it seemed that Greyhorse was hit from behind. The deck rushed up and hit the captain hard, and a moment later Pug was kneeling at his side.

Twisting his head, Picard tried to see what was going on. What he saw was Greyhorse, crouching like a beast at bay—held there by a figure in black and gold wielding a phaser. It took the captain a moment to realize that the figure was Idun Asmund.

She glowered at the doctor. “You forgot to lock out the other disks,” she said. “You remembered everything else—but you forgot that.”

“Traitor,” he spat out. “How can you side with them? They killed your sister!”

Asmund’s eyes narrowed. She raised the phaser just slightly.

Picard saw that it was set for “kill.” The woman took a couple of steps toward Greyhorse.

“Idun,” the captain said, “stop and think.” With his arm slung over Pug’s shoulder, he got to his feet. “You don’t really want to do this.”

Worf was just a few feet behind Greyhorse. He had his phaser in his hand as well. Set on stun, it was pointed at Asmund’s breast—but he seemed unwilling to press the trigger. “It’s over,” he told her. “Your name has been cleansed.”

“No thanks to him,” she replied, taking another step toward the doctor. She was almost close enough now to reach out and touch him. “He would have stripped me of the only thing left to me—my honor. Knowing how hard I’d worked to disassociate myself from Gerda’s crime, knowing what it meant to me to be trusted and respected again…he would have obliterated that without a second thought.”

“Yes,” Greyhorse agreed. “That and more. For Gerda. Someone had to
remember
her—
avenge
her.”

The muscles in Asmund’s jaw worked. Her eyes narrowed a notch.

“Commander,” Worf entreated, “you
have
your honor. It is
intact.
Don’t blacken it now. Don’t finish the job he started.”

For a long moment she stared at her former comrade. Then, suddenly, she replaced the safety on her phaser and tossed it to the Klingon. Worf caught it in midair.

Greyhorse grinned derisively. “Your sister had more courage.
She
would have killed me.”

Asmund appraised him, her dark blue eyes as hard as stone. “No,” she decided. “Gerda was too honorable to kill a madman.”

Without another word, she walked over to Picard and took his other arm. “Let’s go,” she said, “Captain.”

Picard looked at her and squeezed the hand that held his. “Yes,” he responded. “By all means. We have some Romulans to deal with.”

And as Worf and his security people surrounded Carter Greyhorse, the captain let his two former officers escort him out of the room.

“You are not Captain Picard,” the Romulan commander observed.

Riker stood before the command center, where Beverly Crusher sat on the edge of her seat and sized up his adversary. He still had no idea of how he was going to get them out of this one.

Clearing his throat, he said: “I am Commander William T. Riker, first officer. The captain has been called away to deal with an emergency.”

That elicited a certain degree of interest from the Romulan. “An emergency,” he repeated. He made a derisive sound—loud enough to be heard over the communications link. “Something more pressing than a Romulan warbird with its talons around your throat?” He shook his head. “You take me too lightly, Commander. Perhaps I need to remind you where the
true
emergency lies.”

Looking back at one of his officers, the Romulan barked an order. As the officer complied, his fingers dancing over his console, Riker had a feeling about the kind of reminder the commander had in mind.

And there was no way they could escape it. Not at impulse speed.

A moment later the bridge of the
Enterprise
shuddered. The first officer’s teeth ground together; he hated being so helpless.

“Shields at eighteen percent,” Data reported. He turned to face Riker. “One more such assault will result in extensive damage to the ship.”

Riker nodded, still staring at the screen—and the Romulan. He cursed softly. Come on, Will—
think!
Do something—before it’s too damned late!

The Romulan raised an eyebrow. “Now,” he said, “will you surrender—or must I incapacitate you first?”

The first officer’s mind raced, but to no avail. He was drawing a blank at the worst possible time.

Ironic, wasn’t it? They couldn’t move fast enough to even give these Romulans a run for their money, when not too long ago they were breaking every speed record in the—

Blazes! That was it!

Frowning at his adversary, he said: “I can’t hear you, Commander. Your transmission is jumbled.”

Of course, that wasn’t the case at all—Riker could both see and hear the Romulan much better than he cared to. But he needed a minute to work on his idea.

The commander’s head tilted ever so slightly. He was trying to decide whether to believe the human or not—particularly in light of the apparent glitch that had occurred earlier.

Riker didn’t have the luxury of waiting to see the outcome. Turning toward tactical as if he wanted to know what had happened to communications, the first officer subtly drew a forefinger across his throat—a signal that Picard had used in the past. It meant
cut transmission.

Recognizing the gesture, the tactical officer complied. Nodding to Riker, he said: “Done, sir.”

“Good,” the first officer told him. He glanced at the viewscreen, where the Romulan was consulting with another of his officers. He looked skeptical—but at least he wasn’t firing on them. Not yet.

Lifting his eyes to the intercom grid, Riker called on Geordi La Forge.

“Aye, sir,” came the chief engineer’s response.

“We’ve got trouble,” Riker advised. “Romulans. I need warp one—and I need it now.”

For a moment Geordi hesitated. The first officer’s heart sank. If they couldn’t rouse the warp engines even
that
much, his plan was useless.

“All right,” La Forge said finally. “We can give it a shot. But I’ve got to warn you—we’re probably not far enough from the slipstream yet. Even if we can get the warp drive to respond, it’s probably only going to get us stuck in subspace again.”

Riker smiled. “I’m counting on it.” He turned to Wesley. “Heading one four five mark nine oh, Mr. Crusher. Warp one—on my order.”

“Warp one,” the ensign confirmed, locking in the new information.

Riker looked at the viewscreen. The Romulan commander was glaring at him, considering his options. He still appeared confident; he wouldn’t act hastily. Not unless something changed.

Something like the powering up of the
Enterprise’
s warp engines.

“Got ’em going,” said Geordi over the intercom. “But we’d better move quickly—I don’t know how long they’ll last.”

A split second later, the Romulan received the news. His brow furrowed as he saw the possibility of his prey slipping through his net. He whirled to address his weapons officer—

And the viewscreen reverted to an exterior view of the Romulan vessel. The enemy had made the communications blackout mutual.

“Engage,” shouted Riker, bringing his hand down for emphasis.

Wesley carried out the order.

The first officer steeled himself against the jolt of the Romulans’ barrage. A second ticked off. Another…

No impact.
That could mean only one thing…

“Proceeding at warp one,” Wesley announced. He made no effort to disguise the mixture of relief and uncertainty in his voice. “At least, that’s what the engines are—”

Before he could finish, there was an abrupt surge in speed. They could hardly help but notice it. And the starstreaks on the viewscreen began darting by with frenetic intensity.

“Commander—the Romulans are giving pursuit,” the man at tactical reported.

Riker nodded. Now, if there was any justice at all in the universe…

“What’s their speed?” he asked.

The Tactical officer was prompt. “Nine point nine five, sir. The same as ours.”

“Commander?” It was Geordi.

“It worked,” Riker told him. “We’re back in the slipstream. And so are they.”

“Which is just the way you wanted it.”

Geordi had caught on. And judging from the look on Dr. Crusher’s face—a mixture of admiration and relief—Geordi wasn’t the only one.

“That was the plan,” the first officer agreed.

Of course, he’d taken a big chance. They were still sitting ducks if the warbirds decided to fire. But by now the Romulans were no doubt discovering they had more important matters to worry about.

“How’s the warp drive?” he asked Geordi.

A pause. “Better than I figured it would be.”

“Have we got enough juice to try your shield maneuver again?”

Another pause. “Not yet. Can you give me an hour?”

Riker said just what the captain would have said. “Take a
half.”

Geordi said he’d see what he could do.

The first officer returned his attention to the forward viewscreen. After all, his work wasn’t over.

“Raise the Romulan commander,” he told the Tactical officer.