Star Trek: Pantheon (29 page)

Then he saw that there was no one attending to Ben Zoma at the moment. My luck is changing, he thought. I will not need to be patient after all.

For a moment, he studied the readings on the monitor above the bed. Interesting. Ben Zoma was putting up quite a fight. It was a good thing he’d had the opportunity to come by—and change that.

Glancing around quickly to make sure they were still alone, he reached for the
ku’thei
pill. Fortunately, it left no traces. Nor was it a substance the transporter’s bio-filter was programmed to red-flag. But then, he’d selected it on that basis. Working in the upper echelon of Starfleet Medical gave one some knowledge of bio-screening systems.

Sitting down in the chair at Ben Zoma’s bedside, he leaned over the patient. To an intruder, it would appear as if he were examining him. Ben Zoma’s face was pale and waxy-looking; the only color in it was where the skin had been irritated by the tubes in his nostrils and his mouth.

Gilaad Ben Zoma, this is for Gerda Asmund. For the—

Suddenly, Greyhorse heard sounds of alarm outside the barrier. The
ku’thei
pill was poised just above Ben Zoma’s parched lips. He had to do something—he couldn’t allow himself to be found like this. Gripped by panic, he thrust the pill into the man’s mouth as far as it would go.

That’s when Dr. Selar came dashing around the barrier. One look at him was all she needed. Without breaking stride, she gripped him by the shoulder and spun him away from Ben Zoma.

She knows, he realized. The knowledge jolted him. But how? How can she?

And who
else
knows?

Shortly, they all would. No matter if he killed her now as she tried to get the pill out of Ben Zoma’s throat. If she lived, she would spread the word—assuming it was not spreading already. And if she died, there would be witnesses to the fact that he had done it.

Better to escape while he still could. To follow the steps he’d outlined for himself if he should ever be found out.

Bolting through the space between the barrier and the bulkhead, Greyhorse flung himself through the gathering crowd. Someone tried to grab him by the wrist; twisting down savagely, he snapped the man’s grip and left him screaming.

Then he was hurtling toward the exit, his mind locking down like a machine. Which, in the end, was what he was born to be. Not a man, but a machine. No more human, in all the ways that mattered, than the android Data.
A machine.

In the corridor, people stopped to look at him. But that was all. Obviously, no one had warned them about him. They hadn’t heard yet.

Taking advantage of the fact, he headed for the turbolift. A female crewman was in his way; he hurled her aside. Once he got to the lift, he knew, it would be impossible to stop him. His objective was only two decks away—a matter of moments.

As he passed a joining of the corridors, however, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of red and black. There was an impact, though he was too deep into his battle-state by now to feel it, and he was shoved sideways into the bulkhead on his right.

Recovering, he caught sight of his attacker’s face—recognized the blue eyes, narrowed in determination. And of course, the beard.

Riker was quick. He got in a solid blow to the side of Greyhorse’s head—a blow that jarred the big man but did not stop him. Before the first officer could follow up on his attack, Greyhorse retaliated.

First, he snapped Riker’s head back with a well-placed
kave’ragh
—just as Gerda had taught him. Then, while the smaller man was still stunned, he lifted him off his feet by the front of his tunic and flung him hard into the bulkhead.

Before Riker slipped to the deck, Greyhorse was lunging for the turbolift again. A fraction of a second later, the doors opened and he was inside.

“Transporter room five,” he said, breathing just a little harder than normal. Removing his communicator, he flung it on the floor. Then the doors closed and, though he couldn’t feel it, the lift started to move.

“Captain? This is Doctor Selar.”

On the bridge now, Picard glanced at Data before replying. “Yes, Doctor. What the devil is going on there?”

“Apparently, you were right to warn us about Doctor Greyhorse. He was putting something in Captain Ben Zoma’s mouth when I interrupted him. A pill—poison, I would guess. Fortunately, I was able to retrieve it.”

Picard swore softly. It had been close.

“Where is Greyhorse now?” asked the captain. “Were you able to detain him?”

A slight pause. “No, sir. My priority was the safety of the patient.”

Picard nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Doctor.”

“We must stop him, sir,” Data said. He looked at the captain. “With what he knows about ship’s systems—”

Before he could finish, Picard was calling Worf over the intercom.

“Aye, sir?” the Klingon replied.

“Mister Worf, we have located Doctor Greyhorse. He fled sickbay just a few moments ago.”

The Klingon grunted. “I’ll dispatch a team to the area—and limit the turbolifts to security use only.”

“Very good,” the captain said. He almost warned Worf about Greyhorse using his communicator to lay down a false trail—but he was sure the security chief was well aware of that tactic by now.

He stood and turned to Worf’s replacement at tactical.

“Get Commander Riker up here right away. And—”

“Captain?”

Picard responded without turning. “What is it, Commander?”

Data seemed to hesitate for just the smallest fraction of a second. “Sir, we have made contact with the Romulans.”

Picard turned and faced the main viewscreen—and his mouth went dry. Before him was a Romulan warbird—immense, powerful. And he knew without asking that all its disruptors were trained on the
Enterprise.

Picard stared at the image of the Romulan warbird. “Open hailing frequencies,” he instructed.

A moment later the screen filled with a typically Romulan visage—finely chiseled, with hooded eyes and long, pointed ears. The man was seething with confidence—and why not? By now his scanners would have picked up the
Enterprise’
s lack of warp drive activity—not to mention its inadequate shielding. He had the Federation ship at a disadvantage and he knew it.

The only thing he couldn’t have divined was the set of circumstances that placed the
Enterprise
in Romulan territory. But then, he might not have cared. The fact was they were
there.

The human decided to take the initiative. “I am Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Federation vessel
Enterprise.
Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

His mouth curling into a faint smile, the Romulan responded. “My name is Tav. I command the
Reshaa’ra.”
The smile faded. “You are in Romulan space. You will surrender your ship immediately.”

No give in this one, Picard observed. No inclination toward satisfying his curiosity; he’s going to go strictly by the book.

The captain frowned. He didn’t have many tools at his disposal—just the truth, really. “We are not here by choice, Commander Tav. We were brought here by a subspace phenomenon which we only recently escaped.”

The Romulan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “How intriguing,” he commented. “Our engineers will no doubt be fascinated when they have the opportunity to debrief you. In the meantime, I repeat: you will surrender your vessel. The alternative is destruc—”

Picard never heard the end of Tav’s threat.

Normally, Data’s duties at ops would have kept him from seeing what happened to the captain. However, the android had been halfway turned around in his chair, awaiting instructions, when Picard was enveloped in the scintillating pillar of light associated with molecular transport.

A fraction of a second later the captain was gone. It was as if he’d never been there in the first place.

There were curses and murmurs of apprehension from the other officers on the bridge. Data found that they were all looking in his direction, including Dr. Crusher.

Of course, he told himself. I am the ranking officer. They want to know what to do.

Using his control panel, the android cut into their link with the Romulan vessel. On the
Reshaa’ra,
it would appear to be a technical failure. With that done, Data turned and addressed the bridge contingent.

“Please remain calm,” he said. “We must not let the Romulans know that anything has happened to our captain; it would only place us at a greater tactical disadvantage.”

They understood. A moment later there was no trace of the confusion that had resulted from Picard’s disappearance. Satisfied, Data restored the video portion of the link; after all, he didn’t want the Romulans to think they’d been cut off on purpose.

Lastly, looking straight ahead at the Romulan called Tav, the android availed himself of the intercom system: “Commander Riker, please respond…”

It had been a long time since someone had handed Riker as bad a beating as Greyhorse had. As the first officer slowly got to his feet, he found he hurt in a dozen places. Could’ve been worse, he thought. He’d had no idea the doctor was so strong—though his size should have been a clue.

“Commander? Are you all right?”

He turned and saw Pug Joseph making his way through a gathering crowd. The man’s face was lined with concern.

“Fine,” the first officer replied, dusting himself off. He looked about, saw that the woman Greyhorse had flung aside was recovering too. A couple of crewpeople were helping her up. “You didn’t by any chance see what happened to Dr. Greyhorse, did you?”

Joseph’s brows came together. “Greyhorse?
He
did this to you?”

Riker nodded. “I’m a little stunned myself—no pun intended.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the matter with him?”

The first officer met the other man’s gaze. “Greyhorse is the murderer, Mr. Joseph.”

Pug just stared at him.

By that time Worf was approaching from one end of the corridor, trailed by a couple of security people. The Klingon navigated briskly through the clot of onlookers, his expression one of urgency.

“He was here,” Riker said. “Unarmed, as far as I could tell.”

Worf took in the scene at a glance, finally turning back to the first officer. “The turbolift?” he asked.

Riker was about to plead ignorance when someone in the crowd spoke up: “Yes. He went into the lift.”

“No doubt,” Worf said, “before we restricted access to them.” He had begun to bark out a security clearance code to open the lift doors, when another voice cut in—over the intercom.

“Commander Riker—please respond.” It was Data. And though Riker knew it was an impossibility, the android sounded…agitated.

He tapped his communicator. “Riker here.”

“We have encountered a problem,” Data informed him.

“What
sort
of problem? Not the Romulans?”

“Aye, sir—the Romulans.”

The first officer cursed inwardly.

“But that is not all, Commander. The captain has disappeared.”

Worf looked at Riker. “Disappeared?” he echoed.

“That is correct,” the android said. “Shortly after he established communications with the Romulan commander, he vanished—in what seemed to be a transporter effect.”

The first officer’s mouth went dry. “Speculation, Data.”

“We cannot rule out the possibility that the Romulans have captured him,” the android explained. “But with our shields up, even at partial strength, it seems highly unlikely.”

True. The Romulans didn’t have the technology to transport through shields. Hell—neither did the Federation.

Then, what—?

Like sequenced grippers in a perfect docking maneuver, everything seemed to fall into place. Riker’s conclusion hit him even harder than Greyhorse had.

“All hands!” the first officer called suddenly—thereby opening the entire intercom system to his message. “Remove your communicators immediately! I repeat—remove your communicators!”

It took those around him a couple of seconds to follow his line of reasoning—but follow they did.

“Greyhorse,” Worf spat out, complying with Riker’s order.

“He’s gotten hold of a transporter,” Joseph expanded, complying also.

“That’s right,” Riker said, taking off his communicator and tossing it onto the deck with everyone else’s. Before his eyes, one of the badges—it was hard to know whose—shimmered with an unholy radiance and vanished. The sight sent a shiver through him.

Not a moment too soon, he reflected. If they’d waited any longer, one of them would have been Greyhorse’s prisoner. Or worse—transporter soup.

“Data,” he called, opening up a channel through the intercom grid. “I’m coming up to the bridge. Just stay where you are—don’t do or say anything.” He turned to Worf. “Find out what transporter room Greyhorse has occupied. Cut off his power, jam his annular confinement beam—whatever. Just stop him before he starts transporting away pieces of the hull.”

The Klingon looked at him. “What about the captain?”

Riker frowned. What he was about to say went directly against his grain as first officer. “If he’s still alive, try to keep him that way. But as long as Greyhorse has an operative transporter in his possession, Captain Picard is not the priority.”

Worf looked as if he’d swallowed something rancid. But he obeyed, turning and leading his officers back through the crowd. Riker needed the nearby turbolift; the Klingon would find another one.

“I’m coming along,” Joseph insisted, falling in behind the security team. He sounded determined.

Nor did Worf protest. Apparently, he was willing to accept all the experienced help he could get.

Riker turned to the lift and freed it with his own clearance code. As the doors opened, he got inside. “Bridge,” he commanded.

And tried to figure out what in blazes he was going to say to the Romulans.

One moment, Picard was on the bridge; the next, he was somewhere else. And before he could determine exactly
where,
he felt something hard smash into his chin. Staggering under the impact, he was hit a second time, even harder. And a third. Finally, he fell, his legs refusing to hold him up any longer. As he lay there fighting off the lurching blackness that was threatening to engulf him, he felt the floor start to slide by.

His head felt like a block of stone, but he managed to lift it—to look around. He saw that he was in the transporter room, being dragged by someone—someone massive, who had a handful of the captain’s tunic in his fist. After a second or two, he realized that it was Carter Greyhorse.

They were headed for the transporter controls. Why? Picard had no idea. His brain was too sluggish—he couldn’t seem to pull his thoughts together. But instinctively, he knew that he had to stop the big man from reaching his destination.

Grabbing Greyhorse’s wrist and swinging around at the waist, he fought off a black wave of vertigo and wrapped his legs around the man’s ankle. Then he twisted his hips as hard as he could.

Caught unawares, the doctor reeled wildly. When Picard twisted a second time, he toppled altogether.

With an effort, the captain rolled away, already anticipating retaliation. But the big man was much faster than he seemed. Before he could scramble to his feet, Greyhorse whirled and kicked him in the ribs.

The pain was excruciating. Somehow, Picard weathered it and kept his legs underneath him. But it only made him an easier target. Putting all his weight behind the blow, Greyhorse leapt and kicked again. It was like being hit with a phaser set on heavy stun.

The captain skidded backward across the deck, the breath knocked out of him. As he wheezed and struggled to fill his lungs, Greyhorse advanced on him purposefully. A second time, Picard rolled in the opposite direction—it was all he could manage. Lights exploded behind his eyes; his pulse thundered in his temples. But he hung on to consciousness, greedily gulping each painful breath.

“You’re as much a fighter as you ever were,” the doctor said. He sounded as if he were speaking to him from a great distance. “But it won’t help. Your crimes have finally caught up with you.”

And with uncanny ease he lifted Picard’s limp form and flung him across the room. The captain felt himself hit the deck, tumble, and finally come up hard against the base of the console. When it was all over, the taste of blood was strong in his mouth. He spat it out, lifted his head.

The transporter platform was being activated again. Dimly, through the layers of wool in his brain, he realized what Greyhorse might have been up to—and curling his fingers over the lip of the control console, digging his heels into the carpet, he slowly dragged himself to his feet.

Too slow,
he told himself.
Too slow.
With each passing second, Greyhorse was destroying another life.

But as Picard inched up high enough to see his adversary, he knew that he hadn’t been too late after all. Something had gone wrong for Greyhorse.

He could see it in the man’s eyes—trained on him now instead of on the controls. They were fierce and dark, full of unbridled fury. His lower lip trembled savagely.

“Damn you!” Greyhorse rasped. He pounded on the transporter console with his huge right fist; it shuddered beneath the blow. “They’re on to me! They’ve taken off their communicators.”

A wave of relief swept over the captain. Someone had seen Greyhorse’s strategy in time.

The big man reached over the console and took hold of the front of Picard’s tunic.
“You.
You delayed me, or I would’ve killed them all by now—scrambled them in transit.” His lip curled. “I wanted you to watch, Captain. I wanted you to see your friends die—that was the worst thing I could’ve hoped to do to you.” His face was just inches from Picard’s. It was a shaman’s mask of pure, writhing hatred. “I never should have cut it so close. I should have scrambled you too, and been done with it. I just didn’t think you’d fight so hard.”

Trembling with rage, Greyhorse let go of the captain with one hand and started resetting the transporter controls. Picard grasped the man’s wrist with both hands, but he couldn’t seem to break that monstrous grip.

“Maybe I can’t scramble
them,”
the doctor muttered. He looked up, his eyes suddenly alight. “But I can still scramble
you.”
He turned his attention back to the board. “And don’t expect anyone to stop me from outside; I made sure they couldn’t interfere once I got started.”

Picard believed it. He knew what kind of technical expertise Greyhorse had demonstrated in his other attempts at violence.

“Carter,” he gasped, still fighting to get air into his lungs. He needed time—to get his strength back. To make the room stop spinning. “Carter—
why?”

The big man sneered at him. “Why? You have the gall to ask that—after you stripped Gerda of her honor? Of her life?”

The captain shook his head. “No,” he got out. “I only stopped her…from killing Morgen…”

“Lies!” the doctor cried. With one hand he pulled Picard halfway up over the transporter console. His other hand curled into a claw and hovered just over Picard’s face. “You dishonored her! You deprived her of her right to suicide! And then you dishonored
me—
by making me the instrument by which you saved her!” Spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. “Do you know how she looked at me afterward? How she
hated
me? For that alone you deserved the worst torture I could devise. But her hatred wasn’t the worst of it—the worst was what happened in that rehab colony.” His large brow rippled painfully with the memory. “Klingons aren’t humans. They’re not
meant
to be put in cages like beasts—day after day, month after month. It deprives them of everything that makes them Klingon…” He swallowed hard. “It
changes
them.”

Picard knew it would be no use arguing that rehab colonies weren’t cages. Greyhorse was mad—truly mad. He felt another surge of vertigo wash over him and fought to keep himself from succumbing.