Star Trek: Pantheon (9 page)

Her heart went out to him. “Wes…”

“I don’t
have
your memories, Mom. I’ve got to find out all I can about him. And if it makes me start missing him again, then I’m willing to pay that price.”

It hurt to hear him say that. “You do what you have to, Wes. Just forgive me if I don’t feel the same way, all right?”

The pique cooled a little inside him. Not all at once, but it cooled.

Just like Jack.
Slow to hurt, slow to heal.
Wasn’t that one of his favorite expressions?

“Look,” said Wesley, “I didn’t mean to say all that. Maybe it’s not my place.”

“You can say anything you want to me, Wes.
Anything.”

“But it doesn’t mean you’ll agree with me.”

“It’s not a matter of agreement. It’s…” She shook her head ruefully, at a loss for words.

He came around the desk and took her hand. She looked up at him.

“Try to understand,” she said.

“I will,” he assured her.

Then he left, and she drew up her knees and hugged them as hard as she could.

“Thank you for having us,” Asmund told Vice-Admiral Kuznetsov.

He smiled at her. “The pleasure was all mine, Commander.”

Walking up ahead of them in the corridor, Simenon and Greyhorse were at it again, having found some new subject to work over. Kuznetsov never thought he would be saying this—not even to himself—but he had grown fond of the engineer and the doctor in comparison to the way he felt about Idun Asmund.

Not that she was rude, like Simenon. Nor was she annoyingly intellectual, like Greyhorse. Far from it—her comments were simple, down to earth. And certainly, she was wonderful to look at.

But, strange to say, she
scared
him—and had from the first time he met her. Of course, in the beginning, he couldn’t understand why.

Then he’d inadvertently walked in on her exercise session. Exercise
indeed.
It looked for all the world as if she were fighting for her life—and enjoying every second of it.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander. I didn’t know you were in here.”

“That’s quite all right, sir. I was almost finished anyway.”

She brushed aside a lock of blond hair, wet with perspiration. Breathed through her teeth, like…like what? An animal?

“Er…those knives…they’re very unusual.”

The blades were razor-sharp, the handles savagely carved. Made of some wood he’d never seen before—and the workmanship was so intricate, it looked like the things were writhing in her hands.

“Yes—they are unusual. They’re Klingon-made.”

“Oh. I see.”

Later on, he’d taken a closer look at her file, and discovered why she had such an affinity for things Klingon. As children, she and her twin sister had been the only survivors of a Federation colony disaster on the planet Alpha Zion. As luck would have it, the Klingons intercepted the colony’s distress calls and reached it before Starfleet could—no doubt hoping that there would be Federation technology there worth raiding.

Apparently, there wasn’t. Just a couple of towheaded five-year-olds, sunken-cheeked and huddled against the elements.

Normally, it would have been unthinkable for a Klingon to take pity on a human. But after what the Asmund twins had gone through, it was obvious that they were made of sterner stuff than most Homo sapiens. Their courage was something the Klingons could not ignore—nor could they leave them there in the ruins, counting on Starfleet to arrive before the girls died of starvation or exposure.

The captain of the Klingon vessel packed the humans aboard his ship. He brought them back to his sister and her husband, who were childless, giving them the option of keeping them—or disposing of them as they saw fit.

They kept them—and raised them as Klingons. Apparently, the training took, if Asmund’s exercise session was any indication.

Twice a survivor,
Kuznetsov had mused upon finishing her file. First Alpha Zion, and then the
Stargazer.
Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

But something was still gnawing at him—still bothering him. What? For lack of any other options, he called up her
sister’
s file—and realized where he had heard the name Asmund before.

How could he have forgotten? The incident had brought the Federation
this
close to losing the Daa’Vit as allies—maybe even starting a war.

Idun had never been linked with what her sister did. Her slate was clean.

But they were
twins.
Was it possible that she hadn’t
known
about her sister’s plan? Hadn’t even suspected?

That question had kept Kuznetsov up late the last few nights. And given him another reason to be scared by her—though in some ways it was even less rational than the first.

Up ahead, Simenon and Greyhorse turned and entered the transporter room. A moment later he and Commander Asmund followed them in.

The transporter technician was waiting patiently for them. She smiled cordially at Kuznetsov; he smiled back.

He wondered if his relief was evident in his expression—though at this point, he hardly cared. The important thing was that he was getting rid of them—
all
of them.

Beverly Crusher had managed to keep to herself up until now, leaving little opportunity for her to run into the
Stargazer
people. But she was forced to abandon that policy when they reached Starbase 81.

After all, she had worked closely with Carter Greyhorse for most of the year she’d spent at Starfleet Medical. They’d become more than colleagues; they’d become friends. And he’d been sensitive enough not to bring up more than a passing reference to her late husband, once he realized she didn’t want to talk about him.

So how could she snub him now by not attending his arrival? It would have been worse than bad manners. It would have been a breach of professional etiquette.

And if there was one thing of which she would
not
be found guilty, it was a lack of professionalism.

The doctor repeated that to herself as she stood beside Captain Picard and watched the last of their guests materialize. Under O’Brien’s expert touch, the shafts of shimmering light coalesced into flesh and blood.

Greyhorse wasn’t difficult to discern from the other two. His towering height, black eyes, and blunt Amerind features set him apart right away. And as if that weren’t enough, the medical blue of his uniform stood out in stark contrast to the garb of his companions.

Crusher stepped forward. “Carter,” she said, her smile coming naturally.

He clambered down from the platform and took her hand. She felt tiny beside him—she’d forgotten about that.

“Beverly. So good to see you.” Greyhorse’s voice was as dry as ever, but she knew him better than to be offended. Deep down, he was a warm, even affectionate person.

“Good to see you,” she told him.

The captain was exchanging pleasantries with the others. After a moment or two, he turned to Crusher and touched her arm.

“Dr. Beverly Crusher, my chief medical officer…this is Commander Idun Asmund of the
Charleston.”

The blond woman had a small Starfleet-issue pack slung over one shoulder—a little unusual; ship’s stores could reproduce any personal effect a passenger desired. But then, some effects were more personal than others.

Asmund extended her hand and they shook. She had quite a grip.

“And
this,”
said Picard, indicating the third member of the party, “is Lieutenant Commander Phigus Simenon, once my chief engineer and currently an instructor at Starfleet Academy.”

“And not dead
yet,”
said the Gnalish, “contrary to popular belief—and the fervent hopes of my students.” He smiled, his bright-red serpentine eyes slitting even more than usual as he extended his hands palms downward. His stooped posture made it necessary for him to crane his neck to look up at her—a gesture that would have been awkward, not to mention painful, for a human. Of course, Simenon was decidedly not human.

Crusher returned the greeting as best she could, extending her hands in the same manner. The Gnalish seemed to approve.

“Not only beautiful,” he told the captain, “but respectful as well.”

“I’ve been to your world,” explained the doctor, taking the compliment in stride. “It was part of my training in xenobiology.”

“I gathered as much,” said Simenon.

“No doubt,” said Picard, “you’ll want to join the others. They’re in our Ten-Forward lounge.” He looked at Crusher. “In fact, one might say they’re
commandeering
the lounge, and have done so for the last two days.”

Greyhorse grunted. “Sounds about right,” he remarked.

“To the lounge, then,” said the Gnalish. “But only on one condition.”

The captain became mock-serious. “And that is?”

“That afterward you take me to your engineering section. And leave me there with someone who knows a driver coil from a magnetic accelerator.”

Picard nodded gravely. “I think we have
someone
like that. I’ll see what I can do.”

The Gnalish harumphed. “You mock me, Captain.” He appealed to Crusher. “Imagine—ridiculing someone of
my
advanced years.”

The doctor found herself smiling. Perhaps Wesley wasn’t entirely wrong.

Both Simenon and Asmund had heard her last name, but neither had made the least mention of Jack. And Simenon seemed like the kind of person she’d like to know better.

She still wasn’t about to invite them to her room for a party. Or, for that matter, join them in Ten-Forward. Not yet. But she made a promise to herself—and to Wes—that she’d be a little less of a hermit.

At tactical, Worf noted the intercom activity a fraction of a second before they heard the voice on the bridge.

“Lieutenant?”

It was O’Brien down in Transporter Room One.

Data sat up just a little bit straighter in the captain’s chair. “Yes, Chief?”

O’Brien frowned. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s probably nothing, but…well, one of our guests—Commander Asmund—brought aboard some rather unusual cargo.”

“Can you be more specific?” asked the android.

A pause. “Some kind of
knives,
sir. I can’t tell you much more about them, except…I think they’ve got a sort of ceremonial look to them.” Another pause. “I would’ve said something to the captain himself when he was here, but Commander Asmund
does
have top-security clearance, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.”

Worf grunted. Ceremonial knives? That
was
unusual.

Data rose and started to circumnavigate the command center. “Please make your scan available to the tactical station,” he told O’Brien.

“Aye, sir,” came the response.

A fraction of a second later, the image appeared on one of Worf’s monitors. And a fraction of a second after that, Data was standing beside him, looking it over.

The android’s brow creased ever so slightly. He turned to the Klingon. “You are the weapons expert, Lieutenant. Have you ever seen specimens of this sort?”

Indeed he had.

Worf nodded. “Mr. O’Brien is right. They are ceremonial knives.” He frowned as his eyes traced the familiar serration pattern.
“Klingon
ceremonial knives. My brother showed me a pair just like them when he was on the ship.”

Data nodded. “I see. Then that explains it.”

Worf looked at him. “It
does?”

“Certainly. They must have been a gift from her parents.”

The security chief’s confusion only deepened. “I do not understand,” he confessed.

Data stared at him. Then comprehension dawned. “Did you not know that Commander Asmund was raised in the Klingon Empire?”

He might as well have told Worf that they were headed for the heart of a supernova. It took the Klingon a moment to recover.

“No,” he said finally. “I did
not.”

But that would be rectified as soon as his shift on the bridge was over, and he had a chance to access the necessary information. Worf did not like mysteries—particularly when they hit so close to home.

Guinan was swabbing down her bar with a damp towel when Pug Joseph approached her, glass in hand. He smiled.

“We’re keeping you busy, aren’t we?”

It was an understatement. Now that the Gnalish and Dr. Greyhorse had arrived, the party was
really
in high gear—though the other newcomer, Commander Asmund, had declined to join them.

Guinan shrugged, returning the smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Joseph placed an elbow on the bar and leaned over in a conspiratorial sort of way. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you have anything a mite stronger than this Ferengi bug-juice?”

She looked at him. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard synthehol referred to as Ferengi bug-juice. Very colorful.” Her smile deepened. “In any case, the answer is no. I can offer you a beer, if you like. But the strongest drink we serve in Ten-Forward is synthehol. In fact, I’m a little surprised at the question. I thought synthehol was the strongest drink served in
all
ship’s lounges.”

“Well,” said Joseph, “that’s the way it’s supposed to be—
officially,
that is. But, y’see, we bend the rules a little on the
Lexington.”
He indicated Ten-Forward with a tilt of his head. “Of course, we haven’t got anything nearly this fancy on our ship. But we give a man freedom of choice—if you know what I mean.”

Guinan nodded. “I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Joseph. But I’m afraid that doesn’t change anything on
this
vessel. As long as I’m in charge of the Ten-Forward lounge, there will be nothing harder than synthehol served here. Keeps the repair bills down.” She paused. “But how about an ice cream soda? I can whip up one of those in a flash—and no one has to be any the wiser.”

Joseph scowled. “You’re breaking my heart, you know that?” He held up his glass. “Look. I can go back to my quarters and fill this with the finest Maratekkan brandy.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “But that would mean I’d have to drink it all alone—when some of my closest friends in the world are sitting right there.” He gave her his best cherubic look. “Now, normally, I could see your point. Hell—you don’t want everybody drinking the good stuff, or what would happen in an emergency? But under the circumstances—these
special
circumstances—I think even the head of Starfleet would look the other way and pour me something interesting.”

Guinan sighed. “You’re a tough man to reason with, Mr. Joseph.”

“That’s what they tell me,” he said.

“And I must say, you’ve got a point there. You
could
simply go to your cabin and drink anything you wanted.”

“It takes an astute person to put matters in their proper perspective,” he encouraged.

“But it strikes me that you might want a
real
drink a little too
much.”

His expression hardened a little. “Eh? What d’you mean?”