Star Trek: Pantheon (31 page)

Seconds later, his adversary’s face filled the screen again. But this time that air of confidence had been replaced with suspicion.

“What have you done?” the Romulan asked angrily.

“I have lured you into a trap,” Riker explained. “The same one that forced us into Romulan space. Of course, we’ve since discovered a way out of it—which we’ll be employing shortly.”

The commander’s eyes narrowed. “Do not taunt me, human. I still have my weapons trained on you. And your shields are at low power.”

“True,” the first officer conceded. “But we’re your only hope of escape. If you destroy us, you’ll never see your homes again.” He smiled affably. “Sometime prior to our departure from subspace, we’ll give you the data you need to follow us.”

The Romulan looked incredulous. “What kind of fool do you take me for? If you truly know a way out, why would you share it with us?”

“Because we have no reason to do otherwise. It will take you some time to decipher the information—and by the time you do, we’ll be safely out of Romulan territory.”

The commander mulled the matter over. “There is a way to insure that you do not leave us here. We could take hostages.”

Riker shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Any attempt to board us will force us to try to escape prematurely. If we succeed or fail, you will be left here alone—without the information you need. And if we fail—we will be destroyed,” he lied. “Again, leaving you here alone, with no inkling of how to extricate yourself.”

The commander’s mouth became a hard, taut line. How much did he know about the Federation? About human attention to such things as honor? About a poker-faced bluff?

At last, he uttered a curse—one the computer had trouble translating—and relented. “We will allow you to prepare whatever maneuver you have in mind. At the slightest hint of treachery, however, I will not hesitate to destroy you.”

That was fine with Riker. He had no intention of being treacherous. Or, for that matter, even giving the
appearance
of treachery.

In the next moment, the Romulan’s image blinked out again, to be replaced by the streaking stars of the slipstream. The first officer took a sobering look at them, then remembered that the Romulans were only half his problem.

“Lieutenant Worf,” he called. “What’s going on down there?”

The Klingon’s answer wasn’t long in coming. “Dr. Greyhorse has been taken into custody.”

Riker swallowed. “And the captain?”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the turbolift doors opened and Picard emerged. His face was swollen and bruised, his uniform was torn in a number of places, and there was a decided limp in his gait. But he was alive, damn it—he was alive!

A moment later, Asmund and Joseph stepped out of the lift as well. The blond woman had the look of one who’d just been exonerated.

“The captain is on his way up to the bridge now,” replied the security chief.

“Actually,” the first officer responded, “he’s just arrived. Thank you, Mr. Worf.”

Out of reflex, Crusher had started out of her seat—but Picard waved her away.

“It’s all right,” he said dryly. “I’m much better than I look.”

Riker smiled. As Picard made his way to the command center, he said: “It’s good to see you, sir.”

The captain nodded stiffly. “Good to see
you,
Commander.” He glanced at the viewscreen and saw the telltale effects of the slipstream.
“Mon Dieu,”
he muttered. And turning again to his next in command, he asked the question with his eyes.

“It was the only way to escape the Romulans, Captain.”

“We left them behind?” Picard asked.

Riker straightened. “Not exactly, sir. They entered the slipstream behind us.”

And then the strangest thing happened. Slowly, gradually, a grin spread over the captain’s battered visage. He regarded his first officer.

“Clever move, Number One.”

Riker smiled again. “I try, sir.”

Picard leaned back in his ready room chair, trying to ignore the damage Greyhorse had inflicted on him. Unfortunately, as his mind cleared, he was becoming that much more aware of the pain.

His former shipmates—Idun and Pug—apparently intended to wait with him until Dr. Selar arrived. Beverly Crusher had wanted to stay as well, but Picard had assured her again that his injuries were not all that serious, and that she was needed more down in sickbay. After all, should past prove to be prologue, she would have her hands full with slipstream-exit victims.

That is, he told himself, if an exit is even possible. The fact that we did it once is no assurance we can do it again.

No—he stopped himself. There was no point in entertaining morbid thoughts. The finish line was in sight; all they needed was a little luck and they’d win this race.

“You know,” Pug said, “there are a couple of things you still haven’t told us.” He was standing by the captain’s desk, addressing Idun, who was halfway across the room gazing into the captain’s aquarium.

The blond woman looked back over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

“How you knew where Greyhorse would be holed up. And how you managed to show up when you did.”

Picard nodded, reminded that Idun hadn’t finished the story she’d begun in the turbolift. “Yes,” he said, his curiosity aroused, “how
did
you accomplish all that?”

She shrugged, turning to face them. “It really wasn’t all that difficult. I was tipped off by Commander Riker’s warning over the intercom—the one that instructed everyone to remove their communicators. I asked myself why that might be necessary—came up with the fact that the communicators are used to establish beaming coordinates—and realized that someone with dangerous intentions must have gotten hold of a transporter.”

Pug grunted. “Good thinking.”

“Indeed,” the captain said. “But to beam yourself into the room which Dr. Greyhorse had taken over—” Suddenly he stopped, realizing the implications.

“That’s right,” Idun told him. “I had to find another transporter room and stun the operator on duty. Likewise, the security officer who came to provide reinforcements—no doubt following Mr. Worf’s orders.” There was a tinge of regret in her voice. “In any case, they should have regained consciousness by now.”

Picard frowned. That wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he liked to hear about—even if it
had
been a prelude to saving his life.

Pug, on the other hand, shook his head in appreciation. “Beautiful. And once you had a transporter, you could use it to trace other transporter activity in the ship. So when you found something going on in room one, you just set the controls, stepped on the platform, and beamed over.”

“Yes,” Idun said. “Fortunately, Greyhorse planned to use the entire platform in working his revenge on us, so all the stations were operational. Which was a good thing, because I couldn’t have beamed over with any assurance of success otherwise. Having never been on a
Galaxy
-class ship before, I would only have been guessing at the coordinates.” She cast a glance at the captain. “Of course, Greyhorse might have realized the stations were open and locked them down—if he hadn’t been distracted.” A faint smile took shape on her lips. “I’m willing to wager you provided
more
than a small distraction.”

Picard harumphed. “Not
much
more, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Captain,” Pug told him. “I never thought of Greyhorse as a fighter, but anybody that big…” He left the conclusion hanging in the air.

“And if he was…
involved
with Gerda,” Idun added, “he knew how to use his size to good advantage. Klingons are taught that at an early age.”

For a moment, her dark blue eyes seemed to lose their focus; she folded her arms over her chest. Was she thinking about her sister and the relationship Gerda had kept secret—even from
her?

“Be that as it may,” Picard said, cutting into the silence, “I—”

His sentiment was interrupted by a beeping at the room’s single entrance.

“Come,” he instructed, expecting Selar. But as the doors parted, it was Worf who entered instead.

“Sir,” the Klingon said. He acknowledged Pug and Idun with a couple of brief nods.

“You’ve attended to Dr. Greyhorse?” the captain surmised. His discomfort was getting worse—harder to put aside.

“I have,” Worf replied. “As a precaution against his escaping from the brig the way Commander Asmund did”—he shot Idun a sidewise look as he said this—“I’ve stationed additional personnel at the site. They have grappling devices to secure them against turbulence. Also, the brig’s restrictive barrier has been repaired and placed on battery power, so it should not be affected by any damage to ship’s systems.”

“Excellent,” Picard told him. “What about the possibility of suicide?”

“I have scanned the doctor’s person. He will have no opportunities to take his own life.”

“And my knife?” asked Idun.

Worf turned to her. “It was discovered in his quarters. It will be necessary to hold it as evidence.”

Idun frowned, but she seemed to accept the necessity.

Turning back to the captain, the Klingon said: “Our search of Dr. Greyhorse’s quarters also revealed a small supply of
ku’thei
pills. It was one of these that he used in his attempt to finish Captain Ben Zoma.”

“I see,” Picard responded. However, his attention was starting to wane as the pain mounted—particularly in his side, where Greyhorse must have fractured a rib or two when he kicked him. Where in blazes was Selar?

Coincidentally, his door chose that moment to beep again.

“Come.”

This time it was the Vulcan. And she had her medical tricorder with her, slung by its strap over one shoulder. Also, what Picard recognized as a small case full of commonly used drugs.

Snatching a chair as she came in, she pulled it with her as she approached him. “I assume,” Selar said in a very businesslike tone, “that the captain would prefer to be examined in private.”

Picard started to protest to the contrary, but his guests were already on their way out.

“Commander Asmund,” he called, stopping her in her tracks. She regarded him.

“Aye, sir?”

“There is something I would like to say to you.” He looked to Selar. “If you would give us a moment, Doctor—”

“No.” Idun shook her head. Her posture was as stiff as ever—but there was an uncharacteristic vulnerability in her eyes. “There’s no need, sir. I
know.”

And before he could insist, she was out the door and on her way.

Picard sighed. He was glad he had been wrong about Idun Asmund. Very glad. He only hoped that she would finally get what was coming to her—the friendship and admiration of her
Stargazer
colleagues.

It was long overdue.

Before he had completed the thought, Selar was running her tricorder over him and making those discouraging sounds that doctors seemed so good at. Sighing, he submitted to the scrutiny.

It was Eisenberg’s turn to monitor Ben Zoma when the captain’s warning came over the intercom. They would be trying that maneuver again—the one that had gotten them out of the slipstream once before. And it would probably shake them up as much as it had the last time.

That was all right. Sickbay had fared pretty well once; there was no reason to believe it wouldn’t do so again.

As he checked Ben Zoma’s readouts for the umpteenth time, he thought about what O’Brien had told him in Ten-Forward—about “ringside seats” and “the greatest show in the galaxy.” For a little while there, the transporter chief had made it seem so exciting, so heady. But if the stars were a little more tame next time he visited Ten-Forward, Eisenberg wouldn’t be too upset.

And neither, he expected, would O’Brien—despite his brave talk and his toasts to “warp nine point nine five.”

Completing his review of the readouts, the med tech started around the divider that separated Ben Zoma from their other patient—Cadwallader, no longer a critical-care case. But before he could reach the woman’s bedside, he caught a glimpse of a couple of cranberry-colored uniforms coming his way.

Instinctively, he turned to see what had occasioned a visit from the captain and his first officer—especially when the maneuver was to take place in a matter of minutes. Then he realized that it wasn’t Picard and Riker at all. It was Captain Morgen and Commander Asmund. And right behind them, Lieutenant Joseph, and the Gnalish—Professor Simenon.

As Morgen led his companions past the curiosity-ridden med tech, he saw Cadwallader get up on her elbows and smile.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

“Our fear,” remarked the professor. “We heard that it was safer here than anywhere else on the ship.”

Cadwallader chuckled dryly. “You know,” she said, “I think I believe you.”

“Don’t,” Morgen told her. He laid his great bony hand on her bed. “I just thought it was time you received a visit from your friends.” He regarded Asmund.
“All
of them.”

The blond woman nodded, returning the Daa’Vit’s gaze. “That’s right. Or at least, that’s the reason he gave
me.
And when the ruler of the Daa’Vit Unity summons you, you don’t dare disobey.”

Morgen laughed and turned to the patient again. “For the record, it was actually more of a
request.”

Cadwallader’s smile got a little broader. “That’s all right. Frankly, I don’t give a damn why you’re here. I’m just glad that you are.”

“Guttle’s Maw,” the professor spat out. “What’s next? Hugs and kisses all around?”

“What’s going on here?” Morgen followed the voice to its source, and saw Dr. Crusher standing at the threshold of her office.

“I thought Commander Cadwallader might want some familiar faces about her—particularly now.” The Daa’Vit smiled charmingly. “Won’t you join us?”

Crusher seemed surprised—pleasantly so. “I’d be delighted.”

Joseph turned to Morgen. “If it’s all the same to you,” he asked, “I’d like to be with Captain Ben Zoma.” He glanced at Cadwallader. “You understand, Cad?”

“Of course,” she told him.

“Wait,” Asmund said. She looked at the doctor, indicating with a jerk of her thumb the divider that hid Ben Zoma from view. “Can we remove it?”

Crusher thought about it for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” she said at last.

Simenon snorted. “This is getting more sickly sweet all the time.”

“Hush, you,” Cadwallader told him as Crusher got two burly nurses to move the divider aside.

When Ben Zoma was revealed, they all stared at him for a moment. Then Joseph went to stand by his bed, and Asmund as well.

Morgen nodded approvingly. Old comrades banding together against the tide of events—no matter where that tide might take them. He was mightily glad he could call these people his friends.

Then he realized that it was almost time for the maneuver to begin, and the Daa’Vit held on to a convenient projection from Cadwallader’s biobed.

*   *   *

This time things were a little different. On the downside, they didn’t have full warp speed capability. On the upside, they knew what to expect.

Hunched over his engineering console, Geordi ran a couple of last-minute checks. Satisfied that all was in readiness, he turned to the command center.

“Ready to go,” he told the captain, who’d been standing in front of his chair and looking back at the chief engineer, waiting patiently for just those words.

Picard looked just slightly the worse for wear—a big improvement over his condition a little more than half an hour before. Or so Geordi had been told, and by no less dependable a source than the first officer himself. Of course, Dr. Selar’s ministrations had helped the captain regain some of his form—and a change into a new uniform hadn’t hurt either.

“Thank you, Commander,” said Picard. With perfect aplomb he sat down in his chair. “You may commence.”

Without further ado, Geordi turned back to his monitor, where the blue-line representation was once again in effect. Rather than approach the desired configuration by stages, as he had before, he went right to the final product: two flat surfaces, one fore and one aft, each pitched at an angle of thirty degrees to the ship’s long axis.

After all, they had no time to fool around. Geordi was confident that their current warp capability would be enough to hold the shields in place for the duration of the maneuver—but maybe not much longer than that.

For just a second before he input the change, he paused to consider the possibility that they had pushed their luck a bit too far—that this time the maneuver wouldn’t work, or that they’d be torn apart in the process. Geordi looked around at the familiar figures on the bridge—defined in electromagnetic patterns that only he and his VISOR could decipher. Even in that tiny tick of time, he was able to consider them one by one: Picard. Riker. Troi. Worf. Data. Wesley.

The chief engineer smiled. If the maneuver failed this time, if they had miscalculated, it had at least been one hell of an adventure.

Steeling himself, he gave the computer its marching orders.

Idun Asmund studied the face of Gilaad Ben Zoma. It was gaunt and bloodless, so different from the handsome, smiling countenance that had been the man’s trademark. It was painful for her to look at him—but being a true Klingon, she forced herself to do it anyway.

After all, he was dying. Not quickly, not without a fight, but he was dying nonetheless. And there might not be too many more opportunities to see him while there was still breath left in him.

Asmund looked at Pug. He knew also that Ben Zoma wasn’t long for this world. She could see it in his eyes. It occurred to her that Pug might even feel responsible for what had happened. After all, he was a security chief—one of a breed that would sooner die themselves than see something happen to their commanding officers.

She sympathized, feeling responsible as well. Hadn’t it been her knife that had stabbed Ben Zoma? And wasn’t it her lapse of vigilance that had allowed Greyhorse to obtain it?