Star Trek: Pantheon (32 page)

Asmund recalled the first time she’d ever seen anyone die. Though she and Gerda had been too young to understand at the time, her family was embroiled in a feud with another clan. There had been threats, then violence. And finally, in the middle of the night, two men had brought her father’s older brother into the house.

She remembered her mother closing the door against the billowing mists. She saw her father again as he helped lay his sibling on a table—as he tore aside Lenoch’s cloak and inspected his wounds. And she felt anew the mixed sense of fear and fascination—the guilt that had taken hold of her as she and Gerda peeked into the room all unnoticed by the adults.

Like Ben Zoma, Lenoch had been stabbed over and over again. Even in the dimly lit foreroom of her father’s house, even against the dark hues of Lenoch’s clothing, she had been able to see the blood—a lot of it and in many places. Her father had cursed at the sight.

The rest was a blur. She had a vague impression of being discovered by her mother—of being sent back to bed. Not that she and Gerda had been able to sleep. They’d lain awake all night gazing at each other, wide blue eyes a-glitter with moonlight, listening to the guttural exchanges in the rooms below them. Listening and wondering—until the night was shattered by the sound of a half dozen voices bellowing all at once. Like the cry of the
taami-
wolves that roamed the hills back on Alpha Zion, but with a tinge of something distinctly Klingon. And by that howling, they knew that Lenoch was dead.

But there was more—wasn’t there? Before she and her sister had been shooed upstairs, hadn’t she seen something else? Something that Gerda had remarked about once they were alone in their bedroom?

She frowned. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember.
Gerda
would have remembered—but Gerda wasn’t around to be asked. Idun forced herself to concentrate.

What was it? What had they seen?

Suddenly, the deck beneath her feet shuddered and shifted, forcing her to hold on to Ben Zoma’s biobed in order to maintain her balance. It lasted only a couple of seconds, however. Idun looked around.

Certainly, the lack of a more violent tremor was encouraging. But no one was saying anything. At least, not until they received official word.

Then it came: “Attention, all decks. This is Captain Picard. We have returned to normal space with minimal damage to the warp drive and other systems.”

There were murmurs of approval, sighs of relief. One doctor slapped another on the back.

“Please note,” the captain’s voice resumed, “that the crisis is not yet over. Our emergence from the slipstream phenomenon has deposited us once again in Romulan space. However, we are much closer to the Neutral Zone this time.” A pause. “We will maintain yellow alert status until we leave Romulan territory—which, if all goes well, should be a matter of just a few hours. I thank you all for your cooperation.”

Of course, Asmund thought, there was still the possibility of an encounter with another Romulan ship. But at least it wouldn’t be the
Reshaa’ra.
It would take Commander Tav some time to unravel Picard’s encrypted directions for emerging from the slipstream. And in the meantime, the Romulans would get a taste of—

Idun could feel the blood rushing to her face. A
taste…

That was
it—
the thing she couldn’t remember. Before their mother had chased them upstairs, she and Gerda had seen their father
taste
Lenoch’s wounds!

But why? Why would he do that?

Unless…he suspected them of being
poisoned.

It was a dishonorable thing to do in the course of an assassination. But then, whoever attacked Lenoch might have been a dishonorable individual.

Suddenly, a connection snapped into place. She looked down at poor, haggard Ben Zoma and wondered: what kind of person was
Greyhorse?

“Dr. Crusher,” she snapped—before she’d even completed her chain of reasoning.

Crusher rushed over. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Poison,” Idun said. “I think Ben Zoma’s been poisoned.”

The doctor shook her head. “No. Greyhorse never got that pill into him. Besides, I administered the antidote for
ku’thei—
just in case.”

“I’m not talking about a pill,” Idun insisted. “I’m talking about the
knife
Ben Zoma was attacked with.”

Crusher’s brow creased. “You think there was poison on the blade?”

Idun nodded. “Not enough, perhaps, to do the job as quickly as Greyhorse desired. But in the long run, enough to kill him.”

Crusher glanced at her patient—and recognized the possibility that Asmund was right. “I don’t suppose you know
which
poison?”

Idun shook her head.
Ku’thei
was widely used, but hardly the only option. Klingons used a number of untraceable toxins.

Nor could the doctor administer the antidote for each and every one—not all at once, or their interaction would prove as fatal as the poison itself. And Ben Zoma didn’t have that much time.

Both she and Crusher knew all this. But how could they narrow it down?

“Idun,” the doctor said, “Greyhorse never treated a Klingon in his life. Much of his knowledge of Klingon medicine must have come from Gerda.”

So the question became: What poison would
Gerda
have used? Given what they’d seen the night of Lenoch’s death, there could be only one answer: the poison their father had tasted. But what was it?

Idun bit her lip. She tried to picture her father again, dabbing his fingers in their uncle’s wound. Lifting the fingers to his mouth. He’d said a word—hadn’t he? A single word.

“Choc’pa,”
she told Crusher. “Try the antidote for
choc’pa.”

The stars outside were back to normal once again.

Guinan was surveying the newly restored Ten-Forward lounge, such as it was, when the doors to the place opened and revealed Pug Joseph. As he had the last time she saw him, he hesitated just inside the entrance.

This time, however, he wasn’t drunk. She noticed that right away. But he looked off-balance, confused, as if he’d been staring at the sun for too long.

When he saw her standing behind the bar, he didn’t get angry. He didn’t turn tail, either. He walked right up to the bar and confronted her.

“Nice to see you again,” she told him.

“Sure it is.” For a while, he just stood there looking at her. Looking through her, she thought. Then he spoke up: “Listen, you were right. I’ve got a problem.”

Guinan was genuinely surprised. She hadn’t expected him to come around so quickly.

He smiled, though there was no humor in it. “You didn’t expect me to say that, did you?”

She had to be honest. “Frankly, no, I didn’t. What made you change your mind?”

He wet his lips. “A lot of things,” Joseph said. “My captain was attacked—nearly fatally. And a good friend—make that two good friends—were seriously injured. All by a man I thought I knew.” He breathed in once, out once. “I didn’t know anything! I didn’t know where my captain—my responsibility—was, or where he was going. I couldn’t see the hurt that Greyhorse was carrying inside him, the hurt that twisted and changed him. I was too busy getting soused for anything else.”

Guinan nodded. So that was it. Well, it wasn’t the kind of therapy she’d have wished for, but it seemed to have done the trick. Admitting that a problem existed was half the battle.

But now that he had made the admission, there was no need for him to torture himself. “This isn’t the
Lexington,”
she reminded him as gently as possible. “You’re not in charge of security on this ship.”

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Joseph. “At the least, Ben Zoma was my captain. My responsibility.” He looked down at the bar. “The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of someone else’s death.”

His emphasis on “else’s” sent a chill up her spine. “You mean this happened before?” she asked softly.

“That’s right. A long time ago.” He raised his head until their eyes met. His were like black holes. “That’s what I carry around inside of me. That’s the reason I drink the way I do. Because I killed somebody, somebody who depended on me.” A pause, as he wrestled silently with his demons. “You don’t know what that’s like. No one does—except ol’Pug.” His face twisted. “So what do I do? What does anyone do when he has that hanging around his neck?”

Guinan’s heart went out to him. She’d been right about this one, about his self-hatred. But like Troi, she’d thought it was rooted in disappointment—with his career, with the way his life had turned out. She hadn’t had any idea how heavy his burden really was.

“You could start,” she said, “by talking about it.”

Joseph shook his head. “It’s not a real nice story.” His expression suggested that he meant it.

“No problem,” she insisted. “I hear all kinds.”

That was all he really needed—those few words of invitation. Slowly, painfully, he began to tell her what had happened.

Normally, she would have heard him out—listening ever so carefully, speaking only if he needed a push to keep going—until he had purged himself of whatever was plaguing him.

But this time was different. It was wrong.

“Stop,” she said.

Joseph looked at her, a little shocked.

“I’m not the one who should be hearing this.”

The man’s eyes opened wide. He knew exactly what she meant.

“No,” he told her. “I can’t.”

Guinan smiled her most serene smile—the one she used only when absolutely necessary. “You can,” she assured him. “What’s more, you have to. It’s the only way.”

Beverly wasn’t expecting any visitors, so she was more than a little surprised when she saw Pug Joseph in sickbay, heading in the direction of her office.

As he filled her doorway, the
Lexington’
s stocky security chief appeared uncomfortable. Fidgety. Or at least that’s how it seemed to the doctor.

“Pug.” She smiled. “Hi. Care for some coffee?”

He shook his head. “No. Thanks.”

“How about a seat, then?”

He nodded, pulled the chair out from the other side of the doctor’s desk, and sat. For an awkward moment or two he just looked at the floor. When he raised his eyes, they looked…what? Haunted?

“How’s the captain?” he asked.

“Fine. He’ll be out of bed in no time.”

Joseph bobbed his head. “Good.” He glanced fiercely at something on the wall, and then at something else on her desk. But not at her—not exactly.

The doctor was acutely aware of sounds that she hardly ever heard otherwise…the murmur of physicians and nurses as they discussed some minor-injury case…the hum of an overhead light fixture that hadn’t worked right since Simenon squeezed them out of the slipstream…the sharp clatter of a tricorder as it dropped onto a tabletop.

And still Joseph looked around, not quite facing her and not quite facing away—anger and hurt passing over his face in waves.

Beverly leaned forward. “Pug—is something wrong?”

He looked directly at her now, and his mouth became a taut, hard line. “Yes. Something’s wrong,” he got out. He swallowed. “It’s been wrong for a long time.”

She returned his gaze, not having the least idea what he was talking about. “I don’t understand.”

“No,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t.” He sighed deeply. “You’ve heard the story about how Jack was killed, right? About the problem with the nacelle, and how we had to go out there and sever it? How the energy buildup overcame us, and Jack died in the explosion?”

Crusher nodded. “Of course.”

“Well, it didn’t exactly happen the way you heard.”

The doctor felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean?”

Joseph thrust his chin out. “I mean, Jack didn’t have to die.” He paused. “It was because of me that he got killed. Because of
me.”

Crusher felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach. Clutching the armrests of her chair for support, she stared at Joseph. Watched him hang his head, watched his shoulders rise once and sag.

“It was hard work cutting through the nacelle assembly,” he told her. His voice was distant. “We were drenched with sweat despite the cooling systems in our suits. And as hard as we worked, it didn’t seem we were making much progress. Being out there, being so focused on what you’re doing, you lose track of time. You feel like you’ve been hanging out over the edge forever, your whole life.

“And all the time, the energy is cycling through the warp field generator. Building and building, getting ready to explode. And you don’t know when—you just don’t know. Any moment could be the one.” He shook his head. “It gets to the point where you believe you can feel the explosion—the heat, blistering your skin. And the impact—like someone’s taking a hammer to all your bones at once. And the shrapnel—the tiny pieces of hull ripping through you like razors.

“We thought about that. I did. Jack did too—you could tell by the expression on his face, by the feverish look in his eyes. He was just as scared as I was. But he didn’t panic. He just kept at it, slicing away with his phaser rifle. Talking with the captain every now and then, putting on a show of confidence despite the emptiness he felt in his gut.

“Getting into the transfer tunnel was the worst part. The
worst.
We could imagine all the energy jumping around inside. Lightning in a bottle. And yet we were pouring on all that phaser fire—like lighting a giant fuse. It was crazy. We knew that, I was
telling
myself that, but we kept firing at the tunnel as if we were too stupid to accept it.

“Suddenly, we were in. We were in and we hadn’t blown up. Jack told the bridge and everyone was happy. I was happy too. I was giggling like a madman.” A muffled groan. “I think I lost it then. I used up all my nerve getting into the transfer tunnel. After that I had nothing left—nothing. I fired away, I did what I was supposed to, but it wasn’t me that was doing it. It was somebody else’s arms holding the rifle, somebody else’s eyes staring into that mess of tangled metal and circuitry and hellfire. And after a while, that someone didn’t have the brass to stick around.”

He raised his head, looked at her. If Crusher had thought his eyes were tortured before, she knew now that that had been nothing—compared to
this.

“At one point Jack was grabbing my arm. He tried saying something to me, but our communicators were dead—silenced by all the energy running wild around us. And even if they’d been working, I don’t think I would have heard him. I was too rattled by then. Too intent on just getting out of there, getting back inside the ship. Getting
safe.
I let go of my rifle and started back for the hatch. And I screamed—I think—for him to do the same thing.

“He didn’t. He stayed out there, cutting at the assembly—trying to do it by himself. More than halfway to the hatch, I looked back and saw him.” Joseph’s brows came together into a twisted knot. “I’ll never forget it. There he was, blasting away like he couldn’t stop.” Pug’s eyes went wide. “And the energy leak from the nacelle was getting worse. It looked like something alive, something fierce—like the bloody Angel of Death or something. But he’d done some damage. It looked as if he was close to severing the nacelle entirely. Maybe with a little help from me, he would have.

“Suddenly, without warning, the energy leak began accelerating—growing like crazy. It was obvious that something was going to blow. But Jack didn’t budge. He kept firing his rifle, even though you couldn’t even see the phaser beam anymore for all the radiation pounding at him. He must have known how near he was to accomplishing his mission. And while he was trying to blast away the last of the assembly, I started moving again toward the hatch—even more out-of-my-head frantic than before. As fast as I was going, I should have gotten tangled up in my grapples. Somehow, I didn’t.”

Joseph bent his head again, ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Then I saw the captain coming from the other direction, and I realized what I’d done. And I knew what the others would say about me—how I chickened out, how I lost my nerve. I couldn’t stand the thought of that, I couldn’t. So I just went limp, just pretended I was unconscious. It was all I could think of.

“I didn’t expect him to drag me back. I thought he’d go after Jack—after his friend. But I was closer, I was a sure thing. A part of me wanted to tell him I didn’t need his help, that he should have gone after the other guy to talk some sense into him. But then he would have known I was a coward, and he would have told everyone else. So I stayed quiet.

“When the energy pocket exploded, we were sheltered from the impact. All I saw of the blast was the radiation from it, and then the nacelle, or what was left of it, spiraling off into space. And I knew Jack was gone. The captain knew it, too; I could see him—”

Joseph’s voice broke and he had to stop. “Howling,” he whispered, shaking his head from side to side. And then a little stronger, as he drew on some inner reserve of strength: “Howling on the inside of his damned face plate, as if it was him that was dying, and not Jack. But just for a second or two. Then he pulled himself together and got me to safety.”

A muttered curse. “That’s when I told everyone the story—about how we’d blacked out from all that energy coming out of the transfer tunnel. About how we’d done our best, but it was just too much for us.” Now the sobs came, wracking him, shaking the man like a rag doll. “And they believed me,” he rasped angrily. “God help me, how they believed me.”

Crusher sat there in her chair, not sure what to feel. Should I be angry, she wondered? Bitter? Should I pity him—or should I pity
me?

Slowly, she got up and came around her desk. Pug wouldn’t—or couldn’t—look up at her. He was too ashamed—and not only of the tears that had to be in his eyes. He covered his face with his square, powerful hands.

How long ago was Jack killed in that accident? It seemed like forever. And Joseph had been carrying this secret—this burden—all that time. Until now he probably thought he’d be carrying it to his grave.

Tentatively, she reached out—and placed her hand on his shoulder. It was like a rock, clenched against the pain. She could feel it.

“It’s all right,” she said mechanically. And then she realized—it
was
all right, wasn’t it? Whatever crime this man had committed, if one could call it a crime, was a long time ago. And he had been her husband’s friend; Jack wouldn’t have wanted to see him this way, no matter what. She said the words again, with more conviction this time: “It’s all right, Pug.
I forgive you.”

Joseph looked up at her, his eyes red-ringed and swollen. Taking her hand off his shoulder, he held it against his cheek. And shamelessly cried some more.

It wasn’t really Cadwallader’s fault that she was running a few minutes behind schedule. After all, they hadn’t let her see Ben Zoma until just a little while ago, and she hadn’t wanted to leave sickbay before welcoming her captain back to the world of the living. Hell, she’d have done that much even if he’d been only her commanding officer—and not her friend as well.

Nonetheless, she hated like the devil to be late. Especially when it came to something as mysterious as the dinner experience Will Riker had created for her. Despite her protests, he’d told her nothing at all of what was in store—advising her only to wear “that dress” he’d seen the evening of their
last
scheduled appointment.

Finally, a little out of breath, she turned the corner and came in sight of their rendezvous point—the entrance to holodeck one. But Riker was nowhere to be seen.

Oh, come on, she remarked silently, slowing down as she approached the place. I’m not
that
late. And even if I were, he owes me one after the way he—

Abruptly, the doors to the holodeck opened and Riker stepped outside. He was wearing a fitted black suit, the kind worn on Earth for formal occasions. The first officer smiled and extended his hand to her.