Star Trek: Pantheon (18 page)

“Seems like a good idea,” said the doctor.

“The doorway is over
there,”
the Daa’Vit announced. Beverly felt him take her by the arm and usher her toward the exit.

“Careful of that chair.” That came from Cadwallader, apparently guided by Morgen as well.

“I see it,” said the Daa’Vit. “Thanks.”

And a moment later they emerged into the corridor. Windowless, it was even blacker than the lounge. Crusher pointed to the left—a pretty useless gesture, she realized. If
she
couldn’t see her hand, how could her companions?

“Turn to the left,” she told them. “There’s a turbolift a few meters from here. On the right—just past the curve.”

“It’s a good thing you’re with us,” said Cadwallader, “or we’d have a devil of a time trying to—”

Suddenly, the darkness ahead of them exploded in a burst of fiery red light. Instinctively, the doctor brought her arm up to protect her eyes—but before she could do even that much, she was wrenched off her feet by a pair of hands and sent flying backward.

A second blast followed the first; this time there was no doubt.
Someone was firing a phaser at them.
And judging from the odor of burning duranium in the air, that someone was out for blood.

Morgen cried out, then Cadwallader. Through the prism of her hot, burning tears, Crusher tried to see who it was that had attacked them, and where he was aiming his weapon.

But it was no use. There was too much happening and it was happening too quickly; all she could do was press herself against the bulkhead and call for help, and hope that the intercom was working better than the lighting system.

A third blast—a shriek and a curse, and the muffled thump of a body hitting the deck. Putting aside her fear, the doctor crawled in the direction of the sound, bracing herself for what she might find.

After all, the beam had pierced the bulkhead. There was no limit to the havoc it could have worked on a human body—or a Daa’Vit, for that matter.

But if she got there in time, she might be able to help. To stabilize the victim’s condition until he or she could be transported to sickbay.

Never mind the fact that she might be a victim
herself
by then. She was a doctor, damn it!

Zzt—

She dropped flat against the deck as another ruby bolt sliced across the corridor—not more than a foot above her head. By its light, she saw the shape of the fallen figure before her.

Cadwallader.

Crusher couldn’t tell how badly the woman was hurt, but the way she just lay there wasn’t encouraging. As the darkness closed down again, the doctor snaked forward—far enough to close her fingers around Cadwallader’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the corridor echoed with distant voices. Faraway lights cast grotesque shadows, and Crusher had an all-too-vague impression of the killer as he—or she—disappeared around the curve.

Morgen—visible also now—took off in pursuit, as the Starfleet captain in him gave way to the Daa’Vit hunter. She called after him, to remind him that the killer was still armed and had the advantage over him. He seemed not to hear.

Turning her attention back to her patient, the doctor noted gratefully that Cadwallader was still breathing. Her face was a mask of pain and the entire right side of her tunic was already crimson, but there was still hope for her.

She tapped her communicator. “This is Dr. Crusher. I need a trauma team on Deck Seventeen—
now.”

Stripping off her lab coat, she tucked it under Cadwallader and up around her shoulder. Then she pressed down hard, in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The phaser emission had stabbed right through the woman, and the hole in her back was worse than the entry wound—but with any luck the weapon had been set on narrow aperture. Cadwallader moaned, her eyelids fluttering.

Come on,
Crusher exhorted inwardly, as the security team bounded past her after Morgen and the assassin.
Come on, before she bleeds to death…

As the captain strode into the specially blocked off critical care area, Crusher and Morgen were there waiting for him. Cadwallader, he noted with some relief, was well enough to turn her head a bit in recognition of his approach.

The doctor looked worn out herself, but she managed a smile. The message was clear: in time, Cadwallader would be all right.

Picard nodded gratefully to her. Then he looked down at his former communications officer. She was pale—terribly pale—but her eyes were as warm and vibrant as ever. Her hand lay on top of the thermal blanket; he took it, squeezed it. Cadwallader squeezed back, surprising him.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Morgen observed.

The captain grunted his assent, replacing the woman’s hand on the blanket, then looked up at the Daa’Vit. “What happened?” he asked, the cold, flat calmness of his voice belying the anger that raged inside him.

“We were assaulted in a corridor during the power outage,” Morgen explained. “A single assailant with a phaser. Adjusted to setting six, if the holes in the bulkhead are any indication.”

“Setting six?” repeated Picard. “But—”

“I know,” said the Daa’Vit. “Our killer must have disabled the communications module in the phaser so it couldn’t talk with the ship’s computer.”

“The phaser didn’t know it was on the ship,” Beverly expanded. “So it didn’t restrict itself to setting five.”

“Then you recovered the weapon?”

“Unfortunately, no,” the doctor said. “At least, not yet. Worf is looking for it now; I’m just speculating.”

The captain frowned. “And you couldn’t tell who it was? Not at all?”

Morgen shook his head. “It was too dark, and we were blinded by the phaserlight. After the security team scared him—or her—off, I tried to follow. But as I said, it was dark. And our assailant knew how to go quietly.”

Picard gazed at Cadwallader again. “You say Mr. Worf is investigating?”

Crusher nodded. “He mentioned something about blocking off the area—so he could keep what happened from becoming common knowledge.”

“I see,” the captain said. “In that case, I’ll be on Deck Seventeen if you need me.” He looked down at Cadwallader again, managing a smile. “You do everything the doctor tells you,” he advised. “I want you up and about in time for the ceremony on Daa’V.”

Cadwallader’s eyes smiled back at him.

When the call for Picard came up from sickbay, a chill played along Riker’s spine. And when Dr. Crusher subtly declined to discuss the matter in public, the first officer’s fears were pretty much confirmed.

There had been another attempt on Morgen’s life. And as before, someone had gotten hurt. But who? Had the assassin been injured in the course of being apprehended? Or was there another victim—maybe even a fatality?

Of course, Deanna was as much in the dark as he was. She wasn’t a mindreader—not as a full-blooded Betazoid would have been. She could only gauge emotions—and neither the captain’s nor Crusher’s were telling her anything instructive.

On the other hand, someone had to look after the ship. So he and Deanna remained on the bridge, striving to remain calm—trying not to exchange too many worried glances.

In the past, when they were in trouble, Riker had been able to take solace in the celestial beauty captured on the viewscreen. But now, with the starpaths stretched as taut as tightropes—reminders of the slipstream that was propelling them toward who-knew-what—even that option was closed to him. He almost wished that Geordi’s engineering team hadn’t gotten the damned thing working again.

It seemed like years before they heard from Picard. And though his voice was well under control, the nature of his request only aggravated their misgivings: “Commander Riker. Counselor Troi. Avail yourselves of my ready room, please. I would like to have a word with you.”

Getting up from the captain’s chair, the first officer escorted the empath to the captain’s private office. Since Picard wasn’t actually inside, there was no need to wait until their presence was acknowledged. Instead, they walked right in.

Riker looked up at the intercom grid. “We’re in your ready room, sir. What’s happening down there?”

“Nothing good, Will. There’s been another attack, as you probably guessed. A
phaser
attack. Cadwallader’s been hurt.”

Riker felt his throat constrict. “How badly, sir?”

“She’ll recover completely, Dr. Crusher tells me—though it’ll be a few days before she’s ready to leave sickbay. And a couple more than that before her tissues have fully regenerated.” A pause. “She was hit with a phaser beam at setting-six intensity.”

The first officer gritted his teeth. At setting six, a phaser beam could punch a hole in duranium. Cadwallader was lucky she was even alive.

“Where and when was she attacked?” Deanna Troi asked.

“Deck Seventeen,” Picard answered. “She was with Morgen and Dr. Crusher, in one of the lounges, when we tried to outrun the slipstream. The killer took advantage of the power blackout to try again. Morgen and Dr. Crusher escaped without injury, but Cadwallader was not so fortunate.”

Riker bit back his anger. “Did they get a look at the assassin?”

The captain’s sigh was audible. “They did not. However, Mr. Worf is engaged in an analysis of the scene now. Perhaps he will turn up some clues as to the killer’s identity. In fact, that is where I am headed once our discussion is over.”

“Is there anything we can do?” the first officer asked.

“Not right now, Number One—you are needed on the bridge. I just thought you should know what happened.”

“Thank you, sir,” Riker said.

Picard didn’t reply. Apparently, he had already started out for Deck Seventeen. In the silence, the first officer turned to the ship’s counselor.

“Rotten news,” she commented.

He nodded. Right about then he should have said something clever and optimistic—“silver linings” kind of stuff. That would have been characteristic of him.

But somehow, he didn’t feel like it. All he could think about was Cadwallader, and how she might have died without ever knowing why he’d canceled their dinner. It was sort of maudlin—but hell, it was the way he
felt.

He desperately wanted to see her. To sit down at her bedside and explain. But he couldn’t. The captain had left specific instructions that he was to remain on the bridge.

“Will?”

Abruptly, he remembered that Deanna was standing in front of him. He’d been staring right past her.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She smiled—half sadly, he thought. “You care for her, don’t you?”

He started to ask to whom she was referring—and then stopped himself. Denying something to Deanna was like denying it to himself.

“Yes,” he told her. “I guess I do.”

There was a time when he would have felt funny admitting that to her—a time when their own relationship was too fresh in their minds for them to talk about other lovers. But things had changed between them—for the better, as far as he was concerned.

“Now I understand,” she said.

“Understand what?”

“The feelings I have been sensing in you lately. The conflicts. As long as Cadwallader was a suspect, you had to submerge your feelings for the sake of the investigation.”

He said, “I had to break a date with her. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—believe it or not.”

“I believe it,” she told him.

Riker looked at the empath. “Deanna, be careful out there, all right? If this could happen to Cadwallader…”

She put a hand on his shoulder—a gesture of reassurance. “I am a big girl,” she told him, grinning. “But thanks all the same.”

And gently but firmly she steered him toward the door.

Worf turned as the turbolift doors opened, cursing inwardly. He had programmed the lift to bypass this floor until their investigation was over.

Then he saw the captain come out into the corridor, and he realized that his order had been overridden by one of the few individuals on the ship capable of doing so. Nor did he have any problem with that—the bypass would be back in place as soon as the doors closed behind Picard.

He squared his shoulders as the captain approached, making his way through the crowd of security personnel carefully analyzing the assault from all angles. “Sir,” said Worf.

Picard gazed with distaste at the phaser burns on the bulkheads—samples of which were being taken by Burke and Resnick. Then he turned his attention to the Klingon. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He took a deep breath, let it out through his nostrils. “Anything to report—beyond the obvious, that is?”

The security chief extracted the phaser from his belt and handed it over. Picard’s eyes narrowed as he accepted it.

“The weapon used in the assault,” Worf explained, though it was all but unnecessary. “As we suspected, its communications module has been disabled.” He paused. “We found it in a refuse bin about twenty meters forward of here. Apparently, the assassin did not want to take a chance that it would turn up in a room search—but was in too much of a hurry to decompose it.”

The captain examined the phaser for a moment. Slowly, his eyes widened. “Lieutenant—this phaser—”

Worf nodded. “It is one of ours. Stolen from the security section.”

Picard regarded him. “How could that have happened?”

The Klingon looked past him, trying to contain his shame. “Loyosha—the officer on duty—was found unconscious shortly after the attack. He was drugged—something in his food, I believe. It appears he was eating his dinner when he passed out. Of course, it is only a theory. We have secured the remainder of the food so it can be tested.”

The captain frowned and returned the phaser. Worf replaced it on his belt. “Where did Loyosha’s meal come from? The food service unit outside Security?”

“That is the most likely possibility,” the Klingon confirmed. “We have secured the unit as well.”

Picard nodded. “Good.” He started to walk along the corridor, away from the main focus of activity, in the direction from which the attack had come. He would, of course, have been able to tell that from the phaser scars on the bulkheads. Worf walked along with him, silent at first.

Finally, the security chief swallowed. “Sir?”

“Yes, Worf.” The captain wasn’t looking at him. He was looking back and forth from one end of the corridor to the other, apparently trying to satisfy himself as to some aspect of the attack.

“Sir,” said the Klingon, “if the food service unit was tampered with, it is my fault. I insist on taking full responsibility for the incident.”

The captain turned to him. He had a strange look in his eyes—as if Worf’s comment had struck some kind of chord.

“Lieutenant,” the older man said finally, “we are dealing with someone who has an extraordinary grasp of this ship’s systems. Considering the unit’s proximity to Security, I am certain the assassin did not reprogram it in person. And if he—” He paused. “Or
she
reprogrammed it from afar, I am certain even Mr. La Forge would be hard pressed to say
how.”

Worf scowled. “Nonetheless—”

Picard dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Nonetheless
nothing.
You have more important things to do than waste time on self-recrimination. Do I make myself clear?”

The Klingon straightened, feeling appropriately chastised. “Aye, sir,” he said.

“Now take me through this assault as you’ve reconstructed it. And don’t leave out any details.”

Worf nodded. “As you wish.”

The critical-care area was off limits to all nonmedical personnel, with the exception of Picard, Riker, and Worf. Those were the orders Crusher had left when she’d gone to her office, in order to more closely analyze the vital-sign readings she’d taken from Cadwallader.

Simple. In retrospect,
too
simple.

She’d forgotten that Carter Greyhorse was a medical officer, and that none of her doctors and nurses—who knew only half Cadwallader’s story themselves—would have a reason to keep the high-ranking visitor out.

So when Crusher returned to critical care, satisfied that the patient was safe from any serious complications, there was her former colleague—hovering massively over Cadwallader’s unconscious form, one huge hand brushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Before she could say anything—after all, what
could
she say?—Greyhorse had sensed her presence and turned around.

She had never seen him display much emotion. But she saw it now. His eyes blazed beneath lowered brows.

“Damn it,” he said. “Why didn’t you
tell
me about this, Beverly?”

Crusher shrugged. “It happened just a few minutes ago. And we don’t normally bring in visitors to help with patient care.”

He struck the biobed—hard. “When it comes to Cadwallader, I am
not
just a visitor. I’ve put a lot of effort into this woman over the years. When she’s hurt, I want to know about it.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Crusher told him, stiffening under his barrage. Then she remembered the circumstances, and she forced herself to take a gentler approach. “I know how you feel, Carter. She’s your friend—”

“She’s
more
than my friend,” Greyhorse said. He glanced back at Cadwallader. “At Maxia, we had taken some direct hits. Sickbay was a mess—fires all over. And debris—I was pinned under some of it. It was nearly impossible for me to get out—or for anyone else to get in.” A pause.
“She
refused to leave—at least until she knew if I was alive or dead. Cadwallader and Picard and a few others stayed behind while the shuttles were taking off. Finally, she found me—cut me free of the wreckage just before sickbay became a bloody inferno. And with some help hauled me onto the last shuttle. By then I’d lost consciousness—too much smoke inhalation.” He turned back to Crusher. “If not for Cadwallader, I would have died a pretty grisly death.”

“I didn’t know,” said Crusher.

Greyhorse cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “Now you do.” He tilted his head to indicate the patient.
“Phaser
burns? Where in God’s name did she get
those?”