Star Trek: Pantheon (28 page)

“Is something wrong?” the Daa’Vit asked innocently.

Worf’s scowl deepened. “That,” he growled, “is one way of putting it.”

The bleeding from her temple had stopped, but Asmund’s head hurt mercilessly. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the cargo container and tried to put her thoughts in order.

By now, she thought, they would have found the communicator in the turbolift. And begun the search in earnest.

But it was too late. Avoiding the use of the lifts completely, she’d found an entrance to the cargo bays on Deck Thirty-eight and slipped inside.

Fortunately, the bay’s manifest had told her it had the kind of cargo she needed. And the
Enterprise
crew had been every bit as efficient as it was reputed to be; the dolacite containers she sought were all in their proper locations.

Used extensively these days to line the insides of warp nacelles, dolacite was the only substance routinely carried on Federation starships that could foil internal sensor systems. By hiding among containers full of the stuff, Asmund had effectively rendered herself invisible to the ship’s internal security systems.

She glanced at the phaser in her lap. Picking it up, she felt its reassuring heft.

Under other circumstances, it might have been a liability to her. After all, every phaser was hooked in with the ship’s computer—to prevent the use of power levels at which a random blast could punch through a hull wall. And with that kind of hookup, it wasn’t all that difficult to scan the
Enterprise
for phaser locations—there were only a few dozen of them on board.

It was certainly a lot easier than trying to find a single human bio-profile among a mostly-human population of more than a thousand individuals.

But the dolacite protected her from that kind of detection as well. Which was a good thing. She needed the phaser.

You’ve bought yourself some time, she mused. You’d better put it to good use.

If only her head didn’t hurt so much.

All in all, Beverly decided, they’d been pretty fortunate. Not only had Simenon’s strategy gotten them out of the slipstream, but they had avoided any truly serious injuries. The worst was a compound fracture of the leg, suffered by a man named Starros—one of the security officers who had been watching Idun Asmund. Nor had sickbay sustained any damage; there wasn’t even a tricorder out of place.

Of course, Asmund had escaped in the course of the beating the ship had taken. And according to Worf, she was armed with a phaser and dangerous as hell.

But so what? They were also in Romulan space, in peril of being blasted to atoms or—if Fate was kind—merely becoming prisoners of the Empire.

Somewhere along the line, the doctor had decided it wasn’t worth getting scared. And so, when the last of those injured in the attempt to break free of the slipstream had been treated, she’d decided to return to her cabin, and enjoy some much-needed rest.

As soon as she stepped out of the lift, Beverly noted the beefed-up security presence in the vicinity of her door. She asked what it was about.

“Lieutenant Worf’s orders,” one of the officers on duty replied.

“I see. Then you’ve got squads like these by the captain’s quarters as well? And Commander Riker’s?”

“In every occupied residential corridor, Doctor.”

Crusher nodded. “Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to be singled out for special treatment or anything.”

The security officer looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t mind me,” the doctor told her. “I’m just asserting my right to be in as much jeopardy as everyone else.”

And while the officer tried to decipher her last statement, Crusher walked by her and entered her apartment. It felt good not to be afraid anymore.

As she stepped inside, she saw a tiny red light shining at her from her bedroom. It was on the tape player—a reminder that the thing was on “pause.” And a reminder as well that she’d made a promise to herself about listening to the end of the tape.

She let the light draw her on. Hell—if she was going to be space dust before long, she was at least going to hear the end of Jack’s story first.

Without even ordering the lights to activate, she sat down on her bed and touched the display marked “play.” Immediately, the tape picked up where it had left off.

“—there’s Greyhorse and Pug Joseph and Simenon, who you’ve heard about also, and—hell, I’d better stop before I read off the whole roster. As I said, though, they’re a good bunch.”

Crusher sat back against her cushions. Maybe
that
was what had given her this spurt of resolve—the cumulative effect of hearing Jack’s voice these last few days. Exposure to the courage that had spurred him to life—and ultimately death—among the stars. It was as good an explanation as any.

“And while we’re on the subject of Greyhorse,” Jack went on, “it seems there’s more to him than meets the eye. He comes off pretty quiet, pretty studious. But the other day, I think I caught him in a compromising position…with Gerda Asmund, of all people. You see, Vigo and I were—”

Crusher’s finger darted out and stopped the tape. In the dark of her bedroom, she could hear the thumping of her heart against her ribs—the sudden urgency of her breathing. Touching the mechanism’s control display again, she rewound for a few seconds. Then she played it back again.

“—more to him than meets the eye. He comes off pretty quiet, pretty studious. But the other day, I think I caught him in a compromising position…with Gerda Asmund, of all people. You see, Vigo and I were repairing to the lounge for a game of
sharash’di.
We didn’t know there was anyone in there. And as we came in, we saw Greyhorse and Gerda sort of—well, sort of moving apart, as if they’d just been embracing one another. Anyway, I didn’t want to embarrass them, so I just ignored it, and so did Vigo. We went straight to the—”

The doctor shut off the machine. She had heard enough.
Oh my god,
she thought.
Oh my god.

Heart hammering in her chest, she punched her communicator.

In the dim light he’d come to prefer, Carter Greyhorse sat in his quarters and considered the Klingon ceremonial knife. It was sheathed almost to the hilt in a black crust of dried blood—Ben Zoma’s blood.

But not enough of it, apparently; the captain of the
Lexington
was still alive. The murderer cursed softly. He knew now that he should have inflicted a few more wounds before he fled. But if he’d stayed a little longer to do that, some crewman might have stumbled onto the scene.

And he couldn’t afford to be found out. Not then—and not now. There was still so very much to do.

Turning the knife in his hand, he admired its cruel, cold lines, its sturdiness. It was a good tool; it had been made well. As well as the knives that Gerda had owned—but then, that was no surprise, considering Gerda and Idun had gotten them from the same source.

Idun…it was strange to see her again, after all these years. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—just as Gerda would have been, if she’d lived. It made him ache to think about that.
If she’d lived…

Straightening, he put the thought from his mind. There was no time for sentimentality. He had to think—to prepare.

What was that line from Robert Frost?
“Miles to go before I sleep…”
He smiled grimly. Rising, he crossed the room and slipped the blood-blackened blade beneath his mattress—pushing it in just enough so that it couldn’t be seen.

Eventually, he knew, someone would suspect him and search his room. And the knife would be found. But by then, it would be too late for those who had wronged Gerda Asmund.

And he would no longer care what they did to him.

Picard was sitting in his ready room, reviewing all his options, when Beverly reached him.

“It’s Greyhorse,” she said without preamble. “Greyhorse is the killer.”

Picard started. A chill climbed the rungs of his spine. “How do you know?” he asked.

Crusher’s voice was trembling. “One of Jack’s tapes. He and Vigo saw Greyhorse and Gerda embracing.”

The captain thought about it. Gerda…and Greyhorse? “He never told me.”

But then, he wouldn’t have. That was why people had trusted Jack Crusher. He would sooner have died than given away a confidence.

“If Gerda and Greyhorse were involved—” the doctor began.

“Hold, Doctor.” Picard didn’t wait for the rest. “Lieutenant Worf,” he called out.

“Worf here,” came the reply.

“I want Doctor Greyhorse arrested and confined to his quarters. This assignment takes priority over all others—including the hunt for Commander Asmund.”

Picard could imagine the confusion on the Klingon’s face. But to his credit, Worf’s hesitation lasted only a moment.

“Aye, sir. Worf out.”

Picard was silent a moment.

“I thought I knew him, Jean-Luc,” Crusher said. “I worked with him for a year at Starfleet Medical.”

She sounded as if she were on the verge of tears.

“I thought I knew him, too,” he said. “I thought I knew them all.”

When the doors opened on the cargo deck where Asmund was hidden, the first thing she did was check the power charge on her phaser. Not that it was at all necessary—she already knew how many shots it had left. But her instincts compelled her to make sure.

The second thing she did was move forward into a crouch. Her legs hurt in a number of places—small injuries she must have suffered when she was thrown about the brig. But she had to endure all that now—just as she had managed to endure the pain in her temple for the last hour or so.

It was disappointing that they had thought to look for her here so soon. She hadn’t had nearly enough time to consider what had gone before—to come up with even a halfway reasonable theory as to who the murderer might be.

Of course, it wasn’t
necessarily
a security officer who’d just entered. It could have been a crewman coming down for supplies, or to make sure the environmental controls were working. After all, there were certain containers that carried temperature-sensitive cargo.

But Asmund had to be ready for the worst. She had to assume that Worf or someone else had outguessed her.

As the doors whispered shut again, she heard voices.
Two of them. Or more.
Leaning forward a little more, she strove to hear what they were saying.

But they had stopped. Definitely security, then. A couple of cargo handlers wouldn’t have had any reason to become so quiet. She held the phaser a little tighter.

Then the silence was broken by the beep of a communicator. One of the security officers muttered something beneath his breath.

“Bednarik here,” she heard someone say.

“Our orders have changed,” said the voice on the intercom. Asmund recognized it immediately as Worf’s.

“Changed, sir?” Bednarik was still trying to speak softly, though it must have been obvious to him that he’d lost the element of surprise.

“That is correct,” the Klingon confirmed. “We are no longer searching for Commander Asmund. Our new objective is Doctor Carter Greyhorse.”

Greyhorse.
Asmund felt her teeth grind together.

“The big fella,” Bednarik said.

“Precisely,” came Worf’s reply. “You are to report to Deck Twenty-four. Greyhorse has shown himself to be a consummate technician—he may decide to strike at the environmental support equipment.”

“Aye, sir.” A beep signaled the end of the conversation.

Bednarik’s companion spoke up for the first time since they entered the cargo deck: “What about Asmund?”

There was a pause. “We forget about her,” Bednarik said, “for now. But if we happen to run across her, I’ll tell you what—I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

Asmund nodded. She wouldn’t have expected anything else.

Then the cargo deck doors opened and closed again, and she was alone. She relaxed—though not completely.

Worf and his security people had given her what she’d been looking for—the identity of the murderer. If she just sat tight, they would eventually find Greyhorse and stop him. But the Klingon in her couldn’t accept that as a solution.

The man had soiled her honor—tried to kill her comrades. It was
her
job to deal with him—no one else’s.

She would get to him first. She promised herself that.

Carter Greyhorse was on his way to sickbay. He had some unfinished business there.

Once before, he’d visited sickbay to complete a job he’d started. But just when he thought he was alone with Cadwallader, just when he was about to slip the
ku’thei
pill between her lips, Beverly Crusher had come in and ruined everything.

This time, Crusher would not interrupt. The computer had already assured him that she was in her quarters. And with the murderer caught—or so everyone thought—it would be simple enough to smile his way into critical care. And pay Ben Zoma back.

As he would pay them
all
back. Each and every one—for taking from him the only person who’d ever made him
feel
anything.

Turning the corner, he entered the medical facility. It was crowded with those who had been injured in Simenon’s maneuver. None very badly, he saw—which was just as well. He hated to see innocent people get hurt; he was, after all, a doctor.

A few steps in, a nurse turned and looked up at him. She smiled. “Doctor Greyhorse,” she said, recognizing him.

He smiled back in a perfunctory sort of way and kept going. She had no idea; his expression, as reserved as ever, hadn’t given her a clue.

Critical care was just ahead and to the right. The barrier obscuring the area was still up, though it was meaningless now. The murder attempts were common knowledge. There was nothing left for Picard to hide.

As Greyhorse approached the barrier, he resolved to be patient. His lack of success in finishing off Cadwallader would not make him hurry. This was a slow game, this killing—slower than he had anticipated. But he would ultimately be the winner. All he had to do was keep going and not make any mistakes.