Star Trek: Pantheon (27 page)

Rising from the floor, she approached the place where the barrier should have been. Carefully, ever so carefully, she reached out.

And watched her hand pass over the threshold, unscathed. No flash of light, no energy charge to make her regret her trespass. No barrier.

No barrier.

Then she looked down and saw that John was watching her. That he had realized the barrier was down as well.

Without a word, he launched himself in the direction of his phaser. Ignoring the pounding in her head, Asmund dived for the weapon too. Unfortunately for her, he got to it first, managed to raise it and fire.

Twisting in mid-air, Asmund somehow eluded the narrow beam of red light. And before the blond man could take aim again, she grabbed hold of his wrist with both hands.

Knowing what she knew about pressure points, it wasn’t difficult to make him scream out and drop the phaser. But all her faculties focused on the task, she never saw the blow from his free hand. It hit her in the back of the neck, stunning her, intensifying the spike of pain in her temple.

Still, she found the strength to lash out backhanded—to hit her adversary across the face hard enough to knock him out. As he slumped beside her, she laid claim to the weapon and got to her feet.

The other guard was still unconscious, his breathing shallow but regular. She passed up the temptation to look for his phaser as well, deciding a second one would be of only marginal value—and she had no time to waste. At any moment, they might realize she was free and send a security team after her.

Phaser in hand, she took off down the corridor.

Like everyone else on the bridge, Wesley was still shaking his head over the success of Professor Simenon’s idea. The ensign grinned as he watched the Gnalish regale Picard with the third retelling of his stone-skimming exploits in the holodeck. With Riker and Troi having departed to oversee repair and relocation efforts, and Morgen gone along with them, the captain and Simenon had the command center all to themselves.

Suddenly, the professor pointed to Wesley, and the others turned his way as well. The ensign felt himself blush as Picard smiled appreciatively and nodded; he could just imagine what Simenon was telling him.
Wonderful boy you’ve got there. Couldn’t have done it without him. So how is it he never skimmed stones before? Who’s responsible for his education anyway?

Swiveling away before his blush became permanent, Wesley returned his attention to his board. Much to his surprise, the astrogation function had been returned to it; that section of the display was outlined again in green light.

Touching the appropriate keys, he called up their position. Instantly, the coordinates appeared on the screen.

He froze as he realized the significance of what he saw. No, he told himself.
Please
say this isn’t right. With an effort, he forced his fingers to run the system through a diagnostic check.

There was nothing wrong with it. It was functioning perfectly. Swallowing, Wesley turned again toward the captain.

And drew Picard’s attention. Abruptly, the captain stopped smiling—and came striding down to the conn station.

“What is it, Mister Crusher? You look positively green.”

Then Picard looked past him and saw the coordinates. As Wesley watched, the muscles in the man’s jaw rippled.

“Commander La Forge,” the captain called, hardly raising his voice. His eyes remained fixed on the astrogation readout.

“Aye, sir?” Geordi came down the ramp from the aft stations. “Something wrong?”

Picard nodded. “Apparently.”

“What is it?” Simenon asked, rising from his seat in the command center.

“Come see for yourself, Phigus.”

By that time, Geordi had arrived and was beginning to appreciate the situation. He whistled soft and low.

Wesley knew that
someone
had to come out and say it. But he waited dutifully for the Gnalish to arrive and curse beneath his breath before he fit words to the problem.

“We’re in Romulan space,” he announced—a bit more loudly than he’d intended. It attracted some stares from around the bridge.

“Indeed,” Picard said. Then, a little more softly: “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

As if sensing that the question was directed toward him, Geordi looked up. “Captain, the engines are in bad shape. And even if we
had
warp speed, I don’t think I’d want to risk using it.”

Picard’s eyes narrowed. “Because we might get ourselves stuck in the slipstream all over again?”

“That’s right, sir.” La Forge bit his lip. “To be safe, we’ve got to put some distance between ourselves and the phenomenon. And even at full impulse, that’s going to take some time. Hours, anyway.”

“At least,” Simenon chimed in.

Picard frowned at La Forge. “We don’t
have
time, Commander. There could be a Romulan ship on our tail at any moment.” His frown deepened. “How quickly do you think you can give me warp one?”

La Forge shrugged. “I don’t know. A day, a few hours—it’s hard to say, sir.”

“Three hours,” Picard told him. It wasn’t a request and it wasn’t an order. It was just a statement of what they needed.

Geordi sighed. “You’d better excuse me,” he said, and headed for the forward turbolift. Without waiting to be asked, Simenon fell in right behind him.

Picard turned to Wesley. “How far are we from the Neutral Zone at full impulse?”

Wesley quickly performed the necessary calculations. “Sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes,” he said, though the captain had moved close enough to the Conn to see the computations on-screen himself.

Picard nodded. “Lay in a course, Mister Crusher. When the use of our warp drive is restored to us, we’ll be that much closer to salvation.”

Sixteen hours,
Wesley thought.
There’s no way we can go unnoticed for that long.

Behind him, he heard Lieutenant Worf grunt—as if in agreement with the ensign’s unarticulated analysis. Then the Klingon spoke.

“We have another problem, sir,” he said evenly.

Picard turned away from the newly restored viewscreen to face his security chief. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

Worf’s expression was grim. “Commander Asmund has escaped.”

Picard’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. “I see,” he said, his voice level and controlled. “And her guards?”

“Injured, but not badly.” The Klingon added: “The brig’s security systems were damaged in the escape from the slipstream.”

“Is she armed?”

“She has a phaser, sir.”

He nodded. “And potential victims all over the ship.” The captain frowned. “Go after her, Worf.
Find
her.” His tone was decisive, authoritative—but his eyes were full of regret. “And give her no quarter. Commander Asmund is a most resourceful individual.”

Worf nodded, already starting to move toward the turbolift. “On my way, sir.”

“Lieutenant…”

The Klingon stopped.

Picard opened his mouth to say something—but thought better of it. He shook his head. “Nothing. Just keep me posted.”

“Aye, sir,” said the security chief. But he knew what the captain had been about to say—something about not allowing personal feelings and beliefs to keep one from doing one’s duty. It would have been an unnecessary instruction; he was glad that Picard had kept it to himself.

As the captain turned back to the viewscreen, Worf entered the turbolift. “Computer,” he asked, “what is the location of Commander Idun Asmund?”

The response was quick and concise. “Commander Asmund is in a lift compartment in the vicinity of Deck Eight, primary hull.”

Worf straightened as if he’d been slapped in the face. The battle bridge was located on deck eight of the
secondary
hull. It would be a simple maneuver for Asmund to move from one hull to the next—and if she could rig the holodeck and the food processor, she could probably gain access to the battle bridge as well.

And she could control the entire ship from there.

She was clever. She had fooled him once, with her protestations of innocence. She would not fool him again.

“Deck Eight,” he said, his teeth clenching as he prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Had Morgen been more familiar with the layout of a
Galaxy
-class vessel, he might have had some prior idea of which cabin he was entering. As it was, he was almost as surprised to see the roomful of young children as they were to see him.

There were about a dozen of them, peering up at him with eyes fresh from crying. A couple still had trails of tears on their faces.

A woman who was kneeling among them—their teacher, apparently—looked up at Morgen. “Hello,” she said, unable to conceal the trepidation in her voice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d evoked that kind of reaction since he’d set foot on the
Enterprise.
Nor was it difficult to understand, given the imposing Daa’Vit physique and the fact that so few of his people were seen on Federation starships.

A moment later, noticing the pips on the Daa’Vit’s collar, the woman said, “Oh. You must be one of Captain Picard’s guests.”

“Yes,” he told her. “I’m Captain Morgen. Is everyone all right in here?”

She nodded. “We’re fine.” She scanned the faces of the children. “A little frightened, but fine.”

Just as she said that, a little girl began sobbing. And before the woman could comfort the child, a little boy followed suit.

Smiling, Morgen lowered himself onto his haunches. “Come on, now,” he said, glancing from the girl to the boy and back again. “If you cry, it’s going to make
me
start crying too. And when I start crying, I can’t stop.”

Then, before he lost their attention, the Daa’Vit opened his tear ducts and let the clear serum inside them flow copiously down his cheeks.

As he’d intended, it got the children’s attention. So fascinated were they by the sight of his tears, they forgot their own problems. A couple of them even started giggling.

Morgen mugged an expression of sadness, and they giggled some more. More mugging, more giggling. Before they knew it, they were laughing out loud.

The woman shot him a look of gratitude. He nodded a little and went on with his act—one that had become a favorite of the children on his own ship over the years.

One little boy even came over and put his arm around the Daa’Vit. “It’s all right,” he said. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Morgen turned to him, still releasing great globby tears. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Uh huh,” the child assured him. “Captain Picard will take care of us. That’s what my mom always says.”

As if on cue, the Daa’Vit’s communicator beeped. Tapping it out of reflex, he opened the communications channel on his end. “Morgen here.”

“This is Picard,” the captain told him. “We’ve got a problem—or more accurately,
another
problem. Are you alone?”

“One second, please.” Standing, the Daa’Vit winked at the children. Then he retreated to the other side of the cabin. “All right. You can go on now.”

The captain didn’t waste any time. “Asmund has escaped her cell. She’s at large and she’s got a phaser.”

Morgen digested the information. “Acknowledged.”

“I want you to return to your quarters.”

The Daa’Vit made a sound of disgust. “I’ve spent enough time in my quarters,” he complained. “More than enough time. Your people need my help.”

“My people,” Picard said, “will survive better without you.” The level of authority in his voice went up a notch. “You are a
target,
Morgen. And as such, you are a danger to everyone around you.”

The Daa’Vit looked back at the children.

“Report to your quarters, my friend. Or I will have a security team escort you there.”

The Daa’Vit forced himself to be objective—to see the wisdom in his former captain’s words. “As you wish,” he answered finally. “Morgen out.”

He lingered only another second or two—just long enough to consider the little ones and the woman in their midst. None of them had any idea what kind of dangers they faced—both from within and without. And that was probably just as well.

“Do you have to go?” a little girl asked.

He nodded. “I’m afraid so. But thanks. I feel a lot better now that you’ve cheered me all up.”

Then, before he could entertain any rebellious second thoughts, he took his leave of them.

The Klingon in Worf urged him to face Commander Asmund alone—but the security chief in him recognized he had a greater chance of success if he called in backups. In the end, the security chief won out.

As he reached Deck Eight, however, none of his backups had arrived. And the situation didn’t allow for delay. Drawing his phaser, Worf pressed his back against the bulkhead, and quickly but silently made his way along its curving surface.

At any moment, he knew, he might come face to face with the fugitive—though given the head start she had, it was far more likely she’d already gotten into the battle bridge. And that was the reason for his haste.

When he slid within view of the bridge doors, he noticed that they were closed. Nor did they show any signs of having been forced.

A neat job indeed. He’d hardly completed the thought when reinforcements arrived in the forms of Nevins and Loyosha.

“Is she in there, sir?” asked Nevins.

Worf was about to answer in the affirmative when he realized he was only going on a supposition. Turning his face upward, he queried the computer as he had earlier: “Computer—what is Commander Asmund’s location?”

Again, the answer was immediate. “Commander Asmund is in a turbolift on Deck Eighteen.”

Worf looked at his security officers. They looked back.

“Deck Eighteen?” Loyosha echoed.

What was she doing? Trying to forestall the inevitable?

Worf didn’t believe it. Asmund was too smart to believe she would elude them for long this way.

Putting himself in her place, the Klingon conceded he might throw a single curve at his pursuers—and the battle bridge would have served him well in that regard.

But Deck Eighteen? What was on Deck Eighteen except living quarters and—

He cursed. If he could locate Asmund, then Asmund could locate
Morgen.
Why didn’t he think of that before?

“Computer,” he barked, “where is Captain Morgen?”

“Captain Morgen,” the computer replied, “is in the educational facility on Deck Eighteen.”

Worf hurtled down the corridor, with Loyosha and Nevins in close pursuit.

“Commander?”

La Forge looked up from his workstation, where he’d been working feverishly to get the warp drive back online. On the other side of engineering, the Gnalish was standing at an identical workstation, complementing his efforts.

“Progress?” Geordi asked hopefully.

Simenon shook his lizardlike head, never taking his eyes off his monitors. “Not enough. I’ve still got a long way to go.”

Turning back to his own instruments, La Forge smiled. He was getting to know Simenon pretty well—he could tell when the professor had something on his mind. “Then what?” he asked.

A pause. “Tell me about the Romulans.”

La Forge was a little surprised by the request. Then he remembered that the
Stargazer’
s famous twenty-year voyage had taken place during the Romulans’ decades-long period of withdrawal. Very likely, he realized with a bit of a jolt, Simenon had never even seen a Romulan—except in tapes, and even those were bound to have been pretty old.

Nor was it hard to figure out what had prompted the Gnalish’s curiosity. When you were sneaking through enemy territory, it was only natural to want to know a little about the enemy.

“Tell you about them,” the chief engineer echoed. “Where would you like me to start?”

“Start anywhere,” Simenon instructed.

La Forge smiled again. “All right. For one thing, their technology has come a long way since their alliance with the Klingons. Their ships are bigger, faster, and deadlier.”

“All very comforting,” the Gnalish commented.

“And of course,” La Forge continued, “no one schemes better than the Romulans. No one’s more merciless.” He thought about the
Enterprise’
s various encounters with its Vulcanoid adversaries over the last few years. And of his personal experiences. “On the other hand,” he went on, “they’re people, with their own concepts of honor and loyalty, of right and wrong.”

Simenon grunted. “Ah-hah. A ray of hope. Does that mean they refrain from shooting first and asking questions never? Is there a chance they’ll believe our tale of woe and let us go?”

La Forge shrugged. “Depends on the exact circumstances.”

“In other words, no.”

“In other words, it’s pretty unlikely.”

The Gnalish sighed. “Sorry I asked.”

Worf couldn’t understand it. As he made his way down from Deck Eight in a parallel turbolift, his adversary didn’t move out into the corridor. In fact, she didn’t move at all.

She just maintained her position in the lift. And the lift maintained its position on Deck Eighteen.

But why? Had she been hurt in the course of Geordi’s maneuver, or maybe in an ensuing melee with her guards—hurt so badly that she’d had only enough strength to go this far, and no farther?

Or was she up to something else entirely? Something he had failed to figure out?

The doors of Worf’s lift opened and he swung out, breaking into a run. Nevins and Loyosha pelted along behind him.

All of them had their phasers at the ready—just in case.

“Computer,” the Klingon barked one more time. “Location of Commander Asmund.”

“Commander Asmund is in a turbolift on Deck Eighteen,” the computer confirmed.

Worf’s mind raced as fast as the rest of him. He had a vision of her standing there in the lift, doors open, a grim smile on her face—and then, when she heard him coming, closing the doors and watching the look on his face as she escaped him.

Was that it? Was she trying to humiliate him, knowing he would lead the search for her?

For what reason? Sheer spite?

Or was she truly mad now—not only homicidal, but out of touch with reality in other ways as well?

This time, when the Klingon arrived to confront the fugitive, he had plenty of company. Not only Nevins and Loyosha, but an additional trio of security officers approaching from the other end of the corridor.

Contrary to Worf’s premonition, the lift doors were closed. He took in his people with a glance.

“Phasers on stun. Be prepared for anything.”

Then, careful to keep his eyes on the doors, he touched the lift security override pad on the bulkhead.

Not that he expected the action to accomplish anything. With the technical expertise Asmund had demonstrated, Worf fully expected that she’d jammed the door-opening mechanism, which would force him to find an engineer capable of bypassing or otherwise nullifying her handiwork.

Much to his surprise, however, the override worked. The doors opened.

The security officers tensed, training their weapons on the interior of the compartment. As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary.

There was no one inside.

Muttering a curse, Worf took a step forward—and noticed something on the floor of the lift. Grunting, he went in and picked it up.

A communicator. He turned it over in his hand.

Asmund had led him on a merry chase. And he had been too concerned with more complicated explanations for her behavior to consider the simplest one of all.

What was the expression humans used? About failing to see the forest for the trees?

The fugitive had asked the computer for Morgen’s whereabouts and then programmed the lift for that destination—with a stop on Deck Four, just to prolong the chase. And while her communicator was buying her time, she was using it to serve her purposes.

He should have known she’d try something like this, the security chief told himself. He should have
known.

He scowled. Asmund could be anywhere on the
Enterprise
now. Absolutely anywhere. He had no choice but to have his people comb the ship for her, inch by inch.

And Morgen…he had to contact the Daa’Vit, alert him to—

“Lieutenant Worf?”

The Klingon turned at the sound of his name. He was a little startled to see Morgen standing there, casting a curious eye over the proceedings.