Star Trek: Pantheon (7 page)

No matter. Erwin had promised himself he wasn’t going to leave it alone this time. He wouldn’t be doing anybody any good by ignoring the problem.

The first officer pulled up a seat and leaned close to Joseph. “I’ll
tell
you what you owe this visit to. I just got a subspace message from my pal Marcus—on the
Fearless?”

Joseph’s grin started to fade. “Oh,” he said.

“You know what Marcus told me,” Erwin went on. “Don’t you?”

The other man nodded. “Something about a little disagreement, I bet. One in which his man got the worst of it.” The grin started to reassert itself. “You should’ve seen my right hook, Commander. I haven’t lost a thing.”

With an effort, Erwin frowned. “Fighting,” he said, “at
your
age—and you a security chief, no less!” He shook his head disapprovingly. “It’s a disgrace, Pug. It’s got to stop.”

Joseph looked at him. “You should’ve heard what he said about the
Lexington,
sir. About the captain. And about
you.”

Erwin stiffened. He came
that
close to asking what the man had said. But he restrained himself. “I don’t care what anyone said about anyone else. We’re supposed to be adults, responsible people—not children who start brawling at the drop of a hat.”

The security chief sighed and looked away. “I hear you, Commander.” “That’s not good enough,” Erwin told him. “Look, you’re an officer of this vessel. I want you to
act
like one.” He leaned back and pulled down on the bottom of his tunic. “Is that clear?”

The security chief saw that Erwin wasn’t kidding. “It’s clear,” he said.

“Good. And you needn’t worry—the captain won’t get wind of this. Just as he hasn’t gotten wind of the other reports I’ve received.” The first officer paused. “But it’s the last time I cover up for you, understand? The last time.”

Joseph seemed contrite. Reaching over the table that separated them, Erwin clapped him on the shoulder. Then he got up and made his way to the door.

It wasn’t easy to keep from looking back, but he managed. As the lounge doors opened and he emerged into the corridor beyond, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He’d been pretty harsh—maybe harsher than necessary. But this time, Erwin was worried. Marcus had made it sound like more than a brief exchange of hay-makers. Considerably more.

Of course, the message in the subspace packet couldn’t actually come out and say anything; otherwise, it might have come to the attention of someone inclined to handle it more
officially
—someone like Captain Ben Zoma. But if Erwin read correctly between the lines, Joseph’s opponent had taken a
vicious
beating. It was a miracle the man hadn’t pressed charges.

The first officer shook his head. “Vicious” wasn’t one of the words he’d ever associated with Pug Joseph. If things had gotten that far out of hand, his little reprimand had been long overdue.

He could only hope it would have the desired effect.

“I have the
Excalibur
on long-range sensor scan,” reported Worf.

The captain couldn’t help but notice the note of anticipation in the Klingon’s voice. “Excellent, Lieutenant. Give them our position.”

“Aye, sir.”

Picard took in the bridge with a glance. Data was intent on his ops console; likewise, Wesley at conn. Everyone, it seemed, was going about his business with clockwork efficiency.

If they showed any emotion at all, it was excitement; they were upbeat about the imminent arrival of their captain’s old comrades.

There was no trace of the trepidation Picard himself was feeling.

Fortunately, he had gotten quite good over the years at keeping his feelings under wraps. On the outside, he was his normal self—composed, focused, in charge. It was only on the inside that anything was amiss.

The dream of Jack Crusher still haunted him.
Still,
after all this time.

He remembered the lesson they taught at the Academy—the one that was supposed to put the loss of crewmen in perspective. It sounded as hollow now as it had then.
A starship captain makes a hundred decisions a day, and a goodly number of them involve the well-being of part or all of his crew….

For a while immediately afterward, Jack’s death had cost him his confidence—caused him to second-guess himself. And for even longer, it had left a gaping pain of loss.

Because the victim of his decision wasn’t just another crewman. He was a
friend.
And at that stage in his career, Picard had never before lost a friend.

Certainly, he had lost others since. Vigo and the others at Maxia Zeta. And Tasha—dear, fierce Tasha. But the first, as the expression went, was the worst.

Perhaps he should have expected this. With his
Stargazer
officers converging on the
Enterprise,
was it any wonder that Jack was on his mind? Or that his memories would manifest themselves in dreams?

And that was all right—as long as it didn’t affect him the way it had once. As long as it didn’t in any way jeopardize the safety of those for whom he was
now
responsible.

He resolved that it would
not.

“Captain?”

He turned and looked up at Worf. “Lieutenant?”

“I have a response from the
Excalibur.
It seems that Captain Morgen would prefer to beam over without any preliminaries.”

Picard smiled tautly, nodded to himself. “That sounds like Captain Morgen,” he said. “Inform him that I will attend his arrival.”

Worf took a moment to send the return message. “Done, sir,” he said finally.

“Thank you, Mr. Worf.”

Rising, the captain made for the turbolift.

“Admiral?”

“Yes?”

“The
Charleston
has arrived, sir. Commander Asmund is beaming down now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Marcos. Please see to her wants. I’ll be by to meet her shortly.”

Vice-Admiral Yuri Kuznetsov cursed softly under his breath as he pulled up his swim trunks.
Yet another of these
Stargazer
survivors,
he mused. And if she was anything like the first two, it was nothing to look forward to.

Look on the bright side,
he instructed himself.
It’s only for another couple of days. Then the
Enterprise
comes and takes them all away, and you never have to put up with them again.

Truth be told, Dr. Greyhorse wasn’t so bad. A little too serious for Kuznetsov’s taste, a little too intellectual. Carrying on a conversation with him was like talking to a machine. But from what he understood, these were personality defects that ran rampant at Starfleet Medical. And if they were disingenuous, they were also tolerable.

It was the Gnalish, Simenon, that really jump-started Kuznetsov’s reactors. Not only was he opinionated, self-centered, and domineering…he also brought out the worst in Dr. Greyhorse. Since their arrivals, which were almost simultaneous, the two had done nothing but butt heads on every subject in creation. No doubt, at some level they
enjoyed
their bickering. But listening to it was driving Kuznetsov up a wall—and then some.

He grabbed a towel, closed his locker, and padded barefoot across the synthetic tile floor. He could almost feel the temperature-controlled water leeching away his frustration.

It was his responsibility to entertain Greyhorse and the Gnalish—Starfleet Command had made that plain enough. They didn’t want
anything
to go wrong with Captain Morgen’s return to Daa’V. With the Romulans an active threat again, the Daa’Vit Confederacy was too valuable an ally to take chances with—and if the
Stargazer
people were important to Morgen, that made them important to the brass back on Earth.

But it was 0600 hours—long before he was scheduled to go on duty. For a little while, anyway, he could relax.

As Kuznetsov approached the locker room exit, he had a premonition. A nagging
something
at the back of his consciousness.

In fifteen years of active service, he had learned never to ignore his feelings. So it was with some trepidation that he stepped forward, triggering the entry mechanism.

The doors slid apart silently. The pool sprawled before him, its blue depths lit from below.

And among the shifting light shadows floated Phigus Simenon, former chief engineer of the
Stargazer.
Noticing Kuznetsov’s entrance, the Gnalish looked up, his slitted ruby eyes evincing amusement.

“Ah,” he said. “Admiral. So good to see you.” He raised his tail out of the water languidly, then let it submerge again. His scaly gray body gleamed in the bluish light. “Care to join me?”

My God,
thought Kuznetsov.
Is there no escape?

Morgen had served aboard the
Stargazer
for only nine years, but it seemed like much more. His presence was such that when Picard recalled his decades-long foray into deep space, he could swear that the Daa’Vit had been at his side from the first to the last.

Apparently, Morgen felt much the same way, or he would not have honored his
Stargazer
crewmates by asking them to be his honor guards.

But as the transporter platform became host to the Daa’Vit’s reassembling molecules, Picard wondered how much Morgen had changed in other respects. After all, the last time he’d seen him, the Daa’Vit was still a junior-grade lieutenant. Now he was a captain—a peer. And more than that—Morgen was only days away from ruling one of the Federation’s most powerful allies.

Then again, this prodigious fate had always been in the cards for the Daa’Vit. And he had never tried to gain special treatment because of it. Nor had he let it temper his sense of humor—a caustic wit that was apparently typical of his race.

Ensconced in a shaft of blue light, Morgen began to take on shape and substance. Picard recognized the features—long and angular, with jutting cheekbones and wide, deepset eyes. Fearsome-looking by human standards. And his protruding collar and hip bones only reinforced that impression.

Transporter Chief O’Brien made a final adjustment to his controls and completed the process. Morgen’s eyes, a fiery yellow that contrasted with the green tint of his skin, came alive at the sight of Picard.

“Captain,” he said.

“Ens—er,
Captain
Morgen.” Picard frowned. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard.”

“No need for apologies,” said the Daa’Vit. As always, his tone was subdued, almost conspiratorial. “Not between you and me.”

And in that moment, Picard realized that
nothing
had changed about Morgen—nothing significant, anyway. It was like old times again. True, this was not his ensign standing before him—but neither was it the head of a powerful empire. It was simply
Morgen.

Stepping down off the platform, he extended his hand. Picard grasped it.

“This
is
how you humans greet one another—isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Picard smiled. “I am glad to see your years in Starfleet have produced
some
cultural improvements.”

The Daa’Vit smiled back, obviously delighted. “Pitifully few, I’m afraid.”

Picard chuckled. He was tempted to clap his former officer on the shoulder. “It
is
good to see you, Morgen.”

The Daa’Vit looked around. “And where is the full-dress review appropriate for a guest of my stature?”

“Indeed,” said Picard, “I have assembled my officers—though not here, and not in full dress. Rather, they await you in our Ten-Forward lounge—an environment I thought better suited to your…er, grave and formal demeanor.”

Morgen looked at him askance. If he didn’t know the Daa’Vit so well, he might have been alarmed by the intensity of the scrutiny. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Captain?”

Picard shrugged. “In all our years on the
Stargazer,
did you ever
once
know me to be sarcastic?”

“Come to think of it, no. But then, I wasn’t wearing all those pips on my collar then—and you
were.”

Picard grunted. “Strange. I don’t believe I can remember that far back.” He straightened his tunic and gestured in the direction of the exit. “Come. Let’s see if we cannot refresh my memory in Ten-Forward. There are some people there who are eager to meet you.”

Morgen inclined his head. “Agreed.”

So much for melancholy, the captain told himself as they exited the transporter room with a nod to O’Brien. Seeing the Daa’Vit seemed to have cured him of it for the time being.

He was even starting to look
forward
to the remainder of this mission.

“Damn,” said Geordi. “Seems like just a few years ago I was sitting in command class, listening to stories about the
Stargazer
and its valiant crew of deep-space explorers—and before you know it, they’re going to be walking around in these very corridors, just like regular people. Hell, one of them’s here already.”

Walking beside him in the long, curving corridor, Worf scowled. “It is a problem,” he rumbled.

Geordi looked at him. “A
problem?”
he echoed. “How so?”

His companion cleared his throat. “The dignitary we have taken aboard—Morgen. He is…Daa’Vit.”

The Klingon appeared to think that that was explanation enough. But Geordi still didn’t get it. He said so.

Worf’s scowl deepened. He turned to the chief engineer without breaking stride.

“The Daa’Vit,” the Klingon explained, “were the enemies of my people for more than three hundred years. We have licked each other’s blood from our fingers.”

Licked
each other’s…? Geordi hoped that that was just a
figurative
description.

“Shortly after the Federation allied itself with the Empire, it entered into a similar arrangement with the Daa’Vit Confederacy….”

The Klingon stopped himself as a couple of female ensigns approached from the opposite direction. The women nodded as they went by, and Geordi nodded back.

Not until the ensigns were well out of earshot did Worf continue—and then only in subdued tones. “The Empire had been wed to the Confederacy without its consent. Tempers ran high among my people.”

Geordi could only imagine what
that
was like.

“In the end, however, the Romulan threat induced the Empire to keep its ally. And to tolerate its
ally’s
ally.” Worf grunted. “Since that time, no Klingon has attacked a Daa’Vit or vice versa. But then”—he paused significantly—“no Klingon has stood face-to-face with a Daa’Vit in that time.”

Geordi was starting to see. “You’re concerned that when you see our guest, your instincts will take over.”

The Klingon looked at him.
“My
instincts?” He made a derogatory sound. “I am talking about
his
instincts.”

Geordi smiled. “But Morgen was the captain of a Federation vessel for six years. Surely, he had dealings with the Klingons at
some
point.”

“Possibly,” conceded Worf. “But not
face-to-face.”
He paused again. “You must understand—the Daa’Vit are a
barbaric
race.”

The chief engineer found the choice of words interesting. If the Daa’Vit were barbaric by
Klingon
standards…

“There is no telling how he may react.”

Geordi nodded. “And you can’t exactly stay away from him. Not when it’s your job to provide security for him.”

“Precisely.”

Geordi thought for a moment, his excitement about meeting the
Stargazer
crew pushed aside for a moment. “You know,” he said finally, “maybe you
do
have a problem.”

Riker looked around Ten-Forward and smiled. There was a feeling of history in the air.

Though their group was a small one, seated at a single unobtrusive table near one of the observation ports, it had drawn the attention of everyone in the room.

The reunion between Morgen and Captain Picard had not failed to live up to Riker’s expectations. The Daa’Vit was every bit as charming as he had heard, and a hell of a raconteur to boot. The first officer—and everyone in the lounge, it seemed—couldn’t help but be enthralled by him.

“Believe me,” said Morgen, considering the glass of synthehol on the table before him, “I am far from eager to leave Starfleet. I have grown to love the starspanning life.” He raised his eyes, glancing at Riker, Picard, and finally Troi before continuing. “But my father’s passing has left a gap in the government that must be filled. As crown prince, it falls to me to fill it—and within the allotted time, as you are no doubt aware, or the throne will pass to someone else.”

“Manelin was a good man,” observed the captain. “I was sorry to hear of his death.”

The Daa’Vit shrugged. “He was old. He was in pain. Better that he died when he did, with a few shreds of dignity left to him, than to drag it out any further.”

It was a sobering thought. Riker saw Troi’s brow crease slightly, no doubt in empathy with Morgen’s discomfort. “Of course,” the Daa’Vit went on, “I don’t wish to make it seem that I am complaining. If one must abandon a captaincy in Starfleet, ruling a confederacy of planets is not a bad alternative.”

They all smiled. But Riker knew that Morgen’s remark wasn’t from the heart. He himself wouldn’t have traded places with any monarch in the galaxy—and he was only a first officer.

“My only regret,” said Morgen, “is that I could not approach Daa’V on the vessel I commanded. Now,
that
would have been
something.”

The captain grunted. “Yes—something
dangerous.
I haven’t forgotten your descriptions of Daa’Vit politics, my friend. Starfleet knew what it was doing when it offered you the
Enterprise
for your return.”

Morgen smiled a thin smile. “Perhaps
some
Daa’Vit take their politics too seriously. I will concede that much. But the necessity of bringing a
Galaxy
-class vessel into play…”

“The Federation,” said Riker, “values you too much to take any risks, sir.”

The Daa’Vit eyed him. “Values me as
what?
A skilled officer in which it has a massive investment? Or the ruler of a confederacy whose friendship is strategically important?”

“Perhaps both,” the first officer suggested.

“And does it really matter?” the captain asked, cutting into the subtly rising tension.

Morgen leaned back in his chair, his angular features softening again. “You’re right. It
doesn’t
matter. No doubt, I should be flattered that the flagship of the fleet has been deployed for my homecoming.” He considered his glass from a fresh perspective. “And if nothing else,” the Daa’Vit went on, “this gives me a chance to see old friends.” He gazed meaningfully at Picard. “It will be a reunion of sorts, won’t it? Who knows—maybe the last chance we’ll all have to be together again.”

The captain shrugged. “One never knows—though I would not be surprised.” He met Morgen’s gaze. “All the more reason to enjoy each other’s company while we can.”

The Daa’Vit nodded, turning to Riker. “A wise man, your captain.”

Riker chuckled. “We like to think so.”

Wesley Crusher made the necessary adjustments on his control panel, and the
Constitution
-class vessel
Lexington
jumped up two levels of magnification on the forward viewscreen. A moment later, the ship’s image was supplanted by that of its commanding officer, a dark, lanky man with graying temples.

“This is Captain Gilaad Ben Zoma.” He smiled. “You must be Commander Data. I have heard a lot about you—and not just from your captain.”