Star Trek: Pantheon (33 page)

She looked past him into the holodeck. What she saw looked like a patch of lush green fir forest, with shards of deep azure sky showing between the needled branches.

“Don’t just stand there,” Riker said. “Come on in.”

She turned to him. “Are you, um, sure I’m
dressed
for it?”

He nodded reassuringly. “You couldn’t be dressed more perfectly.”

Laying her hand in his, Cadwallader let him draw her into the holodeck. As the doors closed behind her, she got a better idea of her surroundings.

They were perched on a steep mountainside—or more specifically, on a wooded ledge jutting
out
from a steep mountainside. She could see other mountains all around them—a chain stretching in every visible direction to the horizon. And above them was a perfect dome of blue heaven, uninterrupted by even a single wisp of cloud. It looked like the kind of place that should have been quite cold, but the sun was hot and strong, and the trees protected them from the winds.

“You approve?” Riker asked.

She nodded. “Where are we?”

“Alaska,” he told her. “Not far from where I grew up.” He tapped his foot on the moss-covered ground. “I got a chance to see this place only once—just before I left for the Academy.”

“Helipod?” she guessed.

“Nope. I
climbed
up. Took three whole days and a lot of bruised body parts, but I made it.”

Cadwallader looked down into the valley below. She whistled.

“And it was just as beautiful as I thought it would be,” he went on. “Only one problem. There was nobody to share it with.”

She chuckled, amused. “I think I get the picture. But wasn’t this supposed to be a
dinner
date?”

Riker snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a gas-fired stove materialized in front of them. There were a couple of pans on the cooking grill. The aroma that came to Cadwallader was spicy and faintly fishy.

“Smells good,” she said. “What is it?”

“Trout remoulade,” he replied. “An old family recipe.”

He snapped his fingers a second time, and a red-and-white checkered tablecloth materialized not far from the stove. It sported a basket of bread and a couple of glasses of wine.

This time, Cadwallader actually laughed. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

Riker shrugged. “When I’m inspired.”

She turned to him. “And when it gets dark?” she asked. “What do we do to keep warm?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he told her.

“Really? And why is that?”

He was completely deadpan as he said it: “You’ll have to wait until
after
dinner to find
that
out.”

Today, there were only two of them at Ben Zoma’s bedside—Troi and Commander Asmund. Of course, the empath had a professional reason for remaining there. It was disconcerting to regain consciousness and find that so much had changed while one was unaware. Often, a ship’s counselor could smooth the transition.

But not all Troi’s reasons for visiting were of the professional variety. She also
liked
Ben Zoma. Hell—it was difficult not to.

And to be honest, she felt a little guilty for having had to deceive him when he confronted her that time in the corridor. She was glad the time had come when she could drop the pretense and be honest with him.

Just as she was glad she didn’t have to lie to Idun Asmund anymore. Or to probe her emotions for evidence of murderous intent.

“How long until we reach Daa’V?” Ben Zoma asked softly. With the poison completely neutralized, he was considerably stronger than he had been the day before. He’d even gotten most of his color back.

“Another four days,” Troi told him. “And that’s at warp nine.”

Full warp capability was a luxury she’d never take for granted again. Not after crawling into and halfway through the Romulan Neutral Zone at warp one.

He thought for a moment, then seemed surprised. “We’ll be on time.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Even with all that’s happened, we’ll be on time. Thanks to Geordi and his engineering staff—and a little help from your friend Simenon.”

Ben Zoma smiled. But a moment later the smile faded.

“It’s too bad. About Greyhorse, I mean.”

She nodded. “We all feel bad. Perhaps with some rehabilitation…” She shrugged. “One can only hope.”

He turned to Asmund. She returned his gaze attentively.

“Funny,” he said, “isn’t it—that the one we were most eager to pin the problem on…should be so instrumental in the solution. And in saving my life to boot.”

Idun grunted. “Remember Beta Gritorius Four?”

After a second or two it came to him. “So I do. Then we’re even?”

The blond woman shook her head. “Not at all. It’s just
your
turn again to save
my
life.”

Ben Zoma laughed—which turned out to be a bad move, as it drew the attention of Dr. Selar. The Vulcan was suddenly standing at the foot of the biobed.

“I think we should be going,” Troi said, rising.

Asmund stood too. “If we must. But I’ll be back,” she told Ben Zoma.

The captain of the
Lexington
pointed at her with mock-solemnity. “I’m depending on it, Commander.”

Troi grinned—and not just at Ben Zoma’s antics. She saw the look on Idun Asmund’s face, and she knew that she was happy. For the first time in years the woman felt as if she
belonged.

One didn’t always have to be an empath to know what was going on in people’s hearts. And to rejoice with them.

Worf looked at the entrance to his quarters, where the alarm was beeping insistently. “Enter,” he said.

As the doors opened, Morgen’s angular frame filled the gap. “I hope I am not interrupting anything,” he remarked, his yellow eyes glinting.

Worf made a point of not paying excessive attention to the long, leather-wrapped object tucked under one of the Daa’Vit’s arms—though when this voyage began, he would have been more than a little leery of it. “No,” he replied evenly. “Not at all. Come in.”

Morgen walked directly to the chair he sat in last time. Momentarily, the Klingon considered placing himself on the other side of the room, as he had before. Then he thought again and took a seat much closer to Morgen’s—separated from it by only the width of a low,
s’naiah
-wood table.

Their eyes met and locked. Klingon and Daa’Vit—though no longer
just
Klingon and Daa’Vit. With a hint of ceremony, Morgen laid the leather-wrapped object on the table.

“Open it,” he instructed. His inflection rendered it more of a request than a command.

Worf picked it up and unwrapped the thing. Before he was entirely finished, he saw the curved, razor-sharp blade. It gleamed even in the subdued light. The Klingon regarded his visitor.

“Go ahead,” Morgen said.

Carefully, Worf unwrapped it the rest of the way. He noted the grim elegance of the weapon, its surprising lightness, the intricately woven leather of its pommel. He nodded appreciatively.

“I only regret,” the Daa’Vit told him, “that it could not be a real
ka’yun.
But I was quite pleased with the job your ship’s computer did in fabricating this one. You’ll find it handles slightly better than the one
you
gave
me
when we participated in your ‘calisthenics’ program.”

The Klingon looked at him and suppressed a frown. It was only reasonable to expect that a Daa’Vit would make a superior
ka’yun;
they were trained to do so from the age of three.

“The hardest part was convincing your captain to authorize a bypass of the computer’s security restrictions. As you know, it will not create a weapon without the prior approval of either the captain or the security chief.” Morgen smiled. “And I could hardly have asked
you—
not if I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Worf rewrapped the
ka’yun
and set it down again. He didn’t know what to say. It was the first time in the history of the universe that a Daa’Vit had ever offered a Klingon such a gift. “I am honored,” he managed to say at last.

“Of course you are,” Morgen quipped. “But you understand—it’s only a temporary thing.”

The Klingon’s forehead ridged over. “Temporary?” he echoed, not understanding at all.

“That’s right,” the Daa’Vit informed him. “When my coronation is over, I’ll beam you back with a real one.”

Worf shook his head. Now he
really
didn’t understand.

Morgen leaned closer. “Unfortunately, I have a couple of vacancies in my escort. Dr. Crusher has graciously agreed to fill one of them. I am asking you to fill the other.”

The security chief looked at him. “A Klingon…on Daa’V…?”

Morgen waved aside the objection. “I’m not saying it will be easy, Lieutenant. Not for you—and not for me. But I’m willing if you are.”

Worf sat back in his chair. “You will be denounced as a traitor. Your throne will be forfeit.”

“Does that mean you’re turning me down?” the Daa’Vit asked.

The Klingon attempted a grin. “No,” he said. “Once again, I am honored.”

“And perhaps a little crazy,” Morgen suggested.

Worf nodded. “That as well.”

As the holodeck doors opened, Wesley recognized the scene. It was just as he remembered it—a scarlet forest set ablaze wherever a sunbeam pierced it. The flying things were there too, hurrying from one overhead branch to another, making their deep-throated cries and dropping their beautiful, deadly feathers.

As the ensign entered, he remembered also to adjust for the strange springiness of the turf—and to look for the path that cut through the woods.

Simenon was just where Wes had expected to find him. This time, however, he was dressed in regulation Starfleet attire—not the casual robe he’d been wearing when they last visited this program.

As Wesley approached, the Gnalish was picking up a stone from the pile. “Greetings,” he said without turning around. Then, pausing—as if savoring the moment for as long as he could—he pulled back and let fly.

The stone sailed effortlessly over the bright, placid water. It skipped once, twice, and then three more times in quick succession. Brushing his hands against each other, Simenon turned to his young companion.

“It’s like piloting a shuttle,” he said. “Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.”

The ensign smiled. “I guess you’re right.”

The professor trained his ruby eyes on him. “Come to polish your technique?”

Wesley shook his head. “To wish you luck.”

Simenon snorted. “What sort of luck will I need on Daa’V? One diplomatic mission is much like another.” His tail switched back and forth; his expression eased just a bit. “But thanks for the thought.”

“You know,” said Wesley, “I’m hoping to get to the Academy one day. As soon as possible, in fact.”

The Gnalish tilted his head as he regarded the human. “And?”

Wesley shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m looking forward to seeing you there.”

“I see.” He bent and picked up another rock, appraised it. “I should tell you—I’m not the most popular fellow in the place. Cadets see me and run the other way.”

“Then they’re not very bright,” the ensign told him. “I’ve already attended one of your classes.” He glanced at the pile of flat rocks at Simenon’s feet. “I wouldn’t mind at all taking another.”

The professor snorted again—more softly this time. “That’s what you say
now.
Just wait until exam time.”

Wesley laughed. And after a moment Simenon joined him.

Beverly Crusher smoothed out her dark blue and black dress uniform and considered herself in the mirror. She looked fine. But then, her appearance wasn’t the source of her dissatisfaction.

Her door mechanism beeped. The captain, no doubt. Right on time, as always.

“Come in,” she said, and left her bedroom to meet him in the apartment’s reception area.

Picard was idly taking in the furnishings when she emerged. He smiled at the sight of her.

“Very becoming,” he said. “Very becoming indeed. It has been some time since you’ve worn your dress uniform, Doctor.”

She smiled back. “Thank you. And yes, it has.”

He held his hands out, palms up. “All ready?”

Crusher nodded. “I guess so.”

The captain regarded her. “Is something wrong, Beverly?”

She sighed. “I just wish I’d had more time to prepare for this. Ever since Morgen asked me to be part of his escort, I’ve been studying Daa’Vit culture. But there’s still a great deal I don’t know.”

“And you are afraid you will do something to embarrass Captain Morgen—or even jeopardize his ascension to the throne.”

“Exactly,” Crusher said.

Picard shook his head. “No need to worry. Unlike you, I have had time to veritably immerse myself in Daa’Vit custom. And I can tell you there are no hidden traps to catch you by surprise.”

She looked at him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Do you feel better now?”

“As a matter of fact,” she told him, “I do.” Taking a quick survey of her quarters, Crusher turned and headed for the door. The captain followed her out.

Once in the corridor, they headed for the nearest turbolift. There was a spring in Picard’s step that the doctor hadn’t noticed for days. She approved—and not just in her capacity as chief medical officer. It was good to see the man feeling so chipper after all that had come before.

Maybe his good spirits were contagious, she mused—because by the time they reached the lift, she felt pretty chipper herself.

“You know,” she said, surprising herself a little, “I was actually dreading seeing the people from the
Stargazer.”

The captain shot her a glance. “Oh?”

“It’s true. I didn’t even want to come out of my quarters.”

He grunted. A moment later, the lift arrived and the doors opened. They stepped inside.

Once they were in the privacy of the conveyance, Picard cleared his throat. “To be perfectly candid,” he said, “I was a little apprehensive myself.”

Crusher saw him in a new light.
“You
were apprehensive? For godsakes, why?”