Star Trek: Pantheon (25 page)

“She must have hit me pretty hard. The next thing I knew, there was the taste of blood in my mouth. My vision was blurred and my ears were ringing too loudly for me to think. I didn’t know it was Gerda attacking me. I wasn’t even certain I’d been attacked. I just knew that something bad had happened, and that I should try to keep it from happening again.

“As I tried to get my bearings, I caught a glimpse of something swinging toward me—something long and heavy-looking. Just in time, I rolled away; it missed me. There was another blow, which I also managed to elude. Gradually, I came to realize that my life was in jeopardy—and that it was Gerda who was jeopardizing it, though I couldn’t understand why.

“By the time Gerda came at me again, I had made a further connection with reality: I recognized the weapon she held in her hands. It was a
rikajsha
stalk. What the Federation science manuals refer to as Klingon ironroot.”

The reference prodded Worf’s curiosity.
“Rikajsha?”
he repeated. Ironroot grew only on the Klingon homeworld. “Where did she get it?”

“From the ship’s botanical garden,” Morgen explained. “Gerda brought it aboard when she signed on with the
Stargazer.
Apparently, she was planning my assassination even then—arranging to have a weapon at hand that need not arouse anyone’s suspicion. After all, it was only a long, skinny garden plant—even if it was capable of breaking someone’s skull when placed in the right hands.”

“Actually,” Worf told him, “Klingon legend is full of references to the
rikajsha
being used as a weapon. I assure you,” he said, “I would allow no such plants in the botanical gardens of the
Enterprise.”

Morgen nodded. “I know. I checked.” A pause. “At any rate, I couldn’t avoid Gerda’s attacks forever. That first blow had been a telling one, and it put me at a severe disadvantage. Before she was done, she’d broken one of my arms in two places and cracked a couple of ribs. But I was able to reel and stagger around long enough to avoid being killed before help could arrive. And arrive it did—compliments of dumb luck.

“It seems a crewman named Stroman, a geologist with a bent toward charcoal sketching, had been doing studies of some of the specimens in the botanical garden. Noticing that the
rikajsha
was missing—had been violently uprooted, in fact—this crewman notified Pug Joseph on the bridge. Picard and Ben Zoma overheard and wondered about it, and they contacted Gerda. Seeing it was she who had brought the plant there in the first place, they thought she might know something about it.

“Unfortunately—for Gerda, not for me—their call went unanswered. Gerda had left her communicator in her sleeping quarters so as not to be traced to the shuttle deck. She had no idea that anyone was trying to reach her—nor, I suspect, would she have cared very much at that particular moment.

“Concerned, Picard queried the computer about her whereabouts. It told him that she was in her room—even though she was supposed to be on her way to engineering, to help calibrate a new navigation system.

“Even more concerned now, the captain had Pug Joseph dispatch a security team to Gerda’s quarters. At the same time, Ben Zoma ordered Cadwallader to conduct an internal sensor search for Gerda—just to confirm that she was truly in her room. We’d had instances of people forgetting their communicators, and he didn’t want the security team wasting time on a wild chase of—what is the expression?” He looked to Worf for help.

“Goose,” the Klingon offered. “A wild goose chase.”

“Right. Thank you. After a little while—internal sensor searches being the slow things they are—Cadwallader determined that Gerda was not in her quarters at all. She was on the shuttle deck—where neither McDonnell nor myself were responding to Cad’s intercom calls. Moments later the captain, Ben Zoma, and Pug burst in and rescued me—just as Gerda’s blows were starting to connect again.”

Morgen smiled humorlessly. “You see what I mean? Dumb luck. Except for anticipating Stroman’s desire to sketch the
rikajsha,
Gerda did everything right. She picked a time and a place when I would be relatively isolated from other crewpeople. McDonnell was the only one who would be around—and he was someone she could easily deal with. What’s more, there was little chance of anyone finding my body before she made good her escape.” He stopped himself. “Do you know about that? The escape, I mean?”

The security chief shook his head. “Not very much. As I said, the computer was far from helpful.”

“It was masterful—in theory, anyway. The
Tagh’rat—
the Klingon splinter group’s ship—was awaiting Gerda’s signal. When she finished with me, she needed only to contact her allies and open a hole in the shields—using the shuttle deck’s instrumentation. By the time the hole was recognized and closed by bridge personnel, the
Tagh’rat
would have gotten close enough to snare Gerda in its transporter beam and take off.”

Worf had to agree. It was a good plan. If Gerda had been successful in her assassination attempt, it would probably have worked.

“I wish,” the Daa’Vit said, “that I could have made Stroman part of my escort. I didn’t have that option, though. He died at Maxia Zeta.”

“Too bad,” the Klingon remarked.

“Yes. It is.”

Worf let a moment go by before he resumed his questioning. “Tell me…did Gerda try to take her life after she was apprehended?”

Morgen looked at him. “I believe she did.”

The security chief nodded once. “Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

Picard sat in Geordi’s office and scrutinized the readouts on Geordi’s desk monitor. “Insufficient data,” he read.

“That’s right,” said the chief engineer. “We can’t construct a really dependable model for the professor’s theory—we simply don’t know enough about subspace physics.” He sat back in his chair. “Of course, we’ve been able to come up with some
relatively
dependable models. But to do that, we had to make some rather large assumptions.” Touching a space on his keypad, he brought up one of the models to which he was referring. “This is an example. If all our assumptions are correct, we ought to be home free at twenty-six degrees. But if we’re off a bit here or there, we could need as much as
thirty-
six degrees.”

The captain looked at him. “However, you still think the basic theory is sound.”

Geordi nodded.

“And the warp engines are capable of bearing that kind of burden again?”

He nodded again.

Picard gauged his officer’s confidence level. It was about as high as he’d ever seen it—despite the trouble with computer modeling.

“All right, then,” he told La Forge. “Let’s give it a chance.”

Geordi leaned forward again. “You’ve got it, sir. I’ll just need a few minutes down here to finalize things.”

The captain stood. “Take as much time as you need. I will be up on the bridge.” He paused, gazing in the direction of the master situations monitor, where Simenon, Data, and Wesley were fiddling with yet another set of variables. “Commander…how did the professor take the news?”

Geordi shrugged. “Right in stride. But then, that’s more or less what I expected of him. He’s not one to let his feelings show—is he?”

Picard shook his head. “No. He’s not.” Another pause. “I just wondered.”

As the captain and the chief engineer exited La Forge’s office, the crisis team looked up. They waited for a sign.

Geordi gave it to them. Thumbs-up.

“It’s about time,” the Gnalish commented. Wesley probably thought the same thing, but he kept his sentiments to himself—and wisely so. He had a lot of dues to pay before he could get away with Simenon’s brand of antics. Only Data seemed to take the go-ahead in stride.

Without a comment, Picard left engineering and headed for the nearest turbolift. Stepping inside, he said: “Bridge.”

In the silence that followed, he had a moment to ponder his decision. To wonder if he was doing the right thing.

He was still wondering when he emerged from the lift—only to be confronted by his Klingon security chief. Judging by the expression on Worf’s face, there was a matter of more than routine concern on his mind. And with all that had occurred on the
Enterprise
lately, Picard was not eager to anticipate what it might be.

“You wish to see me,” Picard said. It wasn’t a question.

The Klingon nodded his massive head. “Aye, sir.” He indicated the ready room with his eyes. “In private, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” the captain responded, and led the way inside. As the doors closed behind them, he took a seat behind his desk. Worf sat down as well. “All right,” Picard said, leaning back. “I take it this is a security matter.”

The Klingon hesitated. “Yes,” he replied at last. “But perhaps not in the way you mean.”

The captain found his curiosity piqued, but he decided to let Worf proceed at his own pace. “I am listening,” he said simply.

His chief of security frowned as he searched for the right words. “Sir,” he began at last, “I don’t believe Commander Asmund is the killer.”

The statement caught Picard off guard.
“Not
the killer,” he echoed, giving himself time to recover. He leaned forward. “Lieutenant, you yourself presented the evidence that damned her. Are you now saying that you were
wrong?”

“Not about the knife wounds,” Worf explained. “They were made by a ceremonial blade—I would stake my life on the fact.” He licked his lips. “But I no longer believe that Commander Asmund was the one who wielded the knife.”

Picard regarded him. “And what has occurred to change your mind?”

Worf’s brow lowered—a sign of sincerity, of earnestness, Picard had learned over the years. “Captain, I had occasion to speak with Commander Asmund. She claimed that she was innocent—no surprise under the circumstances. But in the process of defending herself, she made some points that rang true. About honor—
Klingon
honor.”

Picard was interested enough to hear more. “Go on,” he said.

“In essence, Commander Asmund told me that the murderer’s approaches weren’t worthy of a Klingon—which she considers herself to be. In this, I had to agree. None of the attempts fit in with the Klingon tradition of assassination.”

“But we know that some of your people take that tradition less seriously than others,” the captain pointed out. He had firsthand knowledge of that fact, having been the intended victim of a
dis
honorable attempt back on the Klingon homeworld.

“True,” Worf conceded. “That is why Commander Asmund referred me to the details of her sister’s crime. You recall those details?”

“I do.” Picard saw the scene again, just as it had been presented to him when he and Ben Zoma rushed onto the shuttle deck: Gerda swinging the deadly ironroot. Morgen lurching to avoid the blow, and only barely succeeding. And McDonnell lying prone in the foreground. “They are not easy to forget.”

“You recall, then, that Gerda Asmund did not kill the one called McDonnell—though it would have been well within her power, and even advisable. A loose end is a loose end, yet Gerda chose to avoid unnecessary death.”

The captain nodded. “That is correct.”

“What is more, Gerda used a simple weapon—as prescribed by Klingon tradition. Usually a knife is the weapon of choice, but certainly an ironroot is not out of the question.”

“The point being that she probably could have gotten her hands on a phaser—but chose not to.”

“Exactly.” Worf paused to let the significance of that sink in. Then he went on. “Note also that the assassination attempt was carried out by a single individual—one on one. And finally, that the first blow was not a killing one—giving the intended victim an opportunity to view the face of his killer, so he would know whom to curse in the afterlife.” His voice grew weightier. “Finally, there is the matter of the poison.”

The captain couldn’t help but wince at the memory. No one had expected Gerda to have a
ku’thei
nodule under her armpit—not even Idun, who had shaken off her shock long enough to warn them about a suicide attempt. Fortunately, Greyhorse had gotten to Gerda in time.

“Again,” Worf finished, “all in accordance with Klingon custom. All honorable.”

Indeed.
And the crimes committed on the
Enterprise
had been anything
but
honorable—just as Idun had pointed out. Picard measured one set of facts against the other. “What you are saying, then,” he told Worf, “is that since Gerda Asmund acted according to your code, Idun—as her identical twin—would have done the same. And because the murder attempts were conducted dishonorably, by Klingon standards, they could not have been the work of Idun. Eh?”

Worf scowled. “Is it not a logical conclusion?”

“Perhaps,” the captain conceded. “And if less were at stake here, I might be inclined to accept it. But we are dealing with life and death; we cannot take the chance that our logic is flawed.” He leaned back again. “It is no secret that I have been one of Idun Asmund’s staunchest supporters. Even when some of your fellow officers were ready to condemn her, I refused to believe them—to judge her on the basis of her sister’s actions. But now…” Picard shook his head. “I cannot release her. I cannot risk another murder. You may log your observations for the judge advocate general’s office, Lieutenant—but the matter is really out of my hands. I am sorry.”

The Klingon lifted his chin. “I understand,” he said. Though his disappointment must have been keen after all the trouble he had gone to—after what he had deemed the truth was proven to have no practical value—he still held his duty above all. And his sense of duty dictated that he accept the captain’s decision. “Nonetheless, I have increased security to the point at which it stood before Commander Asmund’s arrest.”

“Naturally,” Picard agreed.

Having received the captain’s blessing, the Klingon rose.

On the other side of his desk, Picard got up as well. But one matter was still unresolved. “A question, Worf.”

The Klingon, who had just started to turn away from him, looked back. “Captain?”

“Where did you get all this information? It is not available in the ship’s computer files. I know—it was by my order that the details were left out.”

Of course, they were still on file at Starfleet Headquarters. But he had not wanted the material to be available to curiosity seekers—especially since it might have hampered Idun in her career.

“I spoke with Captain Morgen,” the Klingon answered.

Picard swallowed his surprise. What had happened to that fabled hostility between Klingons and Daa’Vit?

“I see,” he said. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

Worf inclined his head slightly. “Aye, sir.”

A moment later the chief of security had departed, leaving Picard with even more to ponder than when he arrived on the bridge.

Good God,
he mused.
Is it possible that a murderer is still loose on my ship?

Guinan stood behind the bar, looked around, and smiled.

Ten-Forward was quiet again. Not
really
quiet, of course; there were murmured conversations and the tinkling of glasses and the sound of chairs clattering against tables. But it was placid in comparison to the rush of the last several hours.

Commander Asmund’s arrest had raised quite a stir. And understandably so. Asmund wasn’t some hostile life-form who’d invaded the
Enterprise
with her phasers blazing; she was a Starfleet officer who had walked beside them, even sat down to dinner with them—all the while plotting to commit murder in their midst.

For once, even Guinan had been caught off guard. Usually, there was very little that occurred on the ship that got past her. But neither she nor Troi nor anyone else had managed to catch on to the killer—not until Worf identified her by her handiwork. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

As the doors opened, Guinan glanced in their direction. It was a reflex by now, part of the routine of running Ten-Forward. She felt more comfortable knowing who was coming in and who was leaving. And people liked the idea that she took note of them; it made them feel special.

Then she saw who had just entered her domain.
Well,
she mused,
maybe “special” isn’t quite the right word in this case. “Hunted” or “persecuted,” but definitely not “special.”

It was Pug Joseph. And he’d been drinking again. She could see it in the dark, puffy rings under his eyes and in the waxy pallor of his skin.

For a moment, Pug didn’t seem to notice her—maybe because there were a couple of waiters obscuring his view. She watched him scan the area out by the observation ports, eyes narrowed. Looking for his nemesis, she thought:
me.
Failing to find her, he smiled and took a couple of steps toward the nearest concentration of tables.

Apparently, Pug had gotten tired of drinking in his room. And despite his earlier failures, he still thought he had a shot at taking his binge to Ten-Forward.

Then the waiters moved away, and Guinan was revealed to him. As their eyes met and locked, his expression changed—became tense, almost hateful.

Stifling his fury, he turned and walked out of the lounge.

Beverly lay stretched out on her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to face the prospect that Ben Zoma was beyond her help. It wasn’t easy. She had done her best, brought to bear all the medical technology at her disposal—and he still had less than a fifty-fifty chance.

That irked her. It wasn’t as if she had never lost a patient—every doctor in Starfleet had to deal with occasional failure. But Ben Zoma had been her husband’s friend, his comrade. He had joked with him, shared sorrows and triumphs with him. In a way, she felt that losing Gilaad Ben Zoma would be letting Jack down. And she desperately didn’t want to do that.

Jack.
The thought of him made her turn to the box of tapes resting on her commode. She wanted—needed—to hear his voice.

Opening the box again, Beverly peered inside. She longed to hear something upbeat, optimistic, like the last one—but after a moment she realized that she didn’t remember the content of any individual tape very well. In fact, they were pretty much a blur to her.

It took her a few minutes, but she eventually found a tape that seemed to fit the bill. In fact, she realized with a little pang of delight, it was one of the first subspace messages Jack had ever sent her. She even remembered the messenger who had brought it—a stocky young woman who took her duties quite seriously. She used to check and double-check Beverly’s signature against her records before releasing a tape, no matter how many she brought—at least until they replaced her with someone less memorable.

And it was summer, wasn’t it?
Beverly remembered that too, because she couldn’t understand how it could be summer and be so cold. Of course, she’d never lived in San Francisco before. She’d never even lived on
Earth
before.

But Starfleet’s medical college was in San Francisco, and it was the best in the Federation. And when she’d actually gotten
accepted
there, she could hardly justify staying on Arvada Three, as much as she loved the colony.

So, shortly after her marriage to Jack, they’d moved to a second-floor apartment in the shadow of Starfleet headquarters—which seemed a little oppressive at first. Later, however, she came to appreciate it; it had made her feel closer to her husband and his work. And it enabled her to get subspace messages that much more quickly.

Shaking her head, she inserted the tape into the player. It took a second or two before Jack’s message came up.