Star Trek: Pantheon (19 page)

Crusher cursed inwardly. Too late, she looked up at the monitor above the bed, which had a full display of Cadwallader’s tissue damage. Any doctor worth his salt could tell the molecular disruption patterns had been caused by a phaser beam.

There was no point in lying. Greyhorse was good; he would see through any explanation she could make up.

“Come on back into my office,” she told him. “It’s a long story.”

Geordi shook his head. “This is crazy. Absolutely crazy. As if the slipstream wasn’t trouble
enough!”

Picard’s intercom voice was ominous: “Keep an eye out in your section, Commander. If this killer of ours is as enterprising as he seems, and as adept at engineering…”

“I get the picture, Captain.”

“Good. Picard out.”

Geordi regarded Data, who was sitting on the other side of the chief engineer’s desk. He took a deep breath, let it out. “It’s getting scary,” he told the android.

Data looked apologetic. “Intellectually,” he said, “I recognize the concept. However, as I am myself incapable of fear, I cannot share the feeling.”

Geordi grunted. “No need to be sorry about that. Right now it’s important we keep our heads. No matter
who’s
getting shot at—or sabotaged in the holodecks.”

He regarded Wesley and Simenon through the transparent wall of his office. They looked as tired as he felt—particularly the Gnalish. With his snappy sense of humor and his alien appearance, it was easy to forget that he was verging on elderly. But a few days’ worth of theoretical headbanging had made him start to look his age.

One thing he knew, at least, was that Simenon hadn’t been responsible for the phaser attack. The Gnalish had been with him during the power dip and every moment thereafter.

Unless he had an accomplice…

“Should we not join the others?” Data prompted. “They will be wondering what is keeping us.”

“I was just thinking,” Geordi told him. If there was
more
than one person involved in the murder attempts…a
conspiracy…

Simenon could have arranged the holodeck incident—and left the phaser attack to someone else. Maybe the Gnalish was able to get a signal to his co-conspirator that a blackout was in the offing, and that it would be a good time to take another shot at Morgen. Maybe—

“Nah,” he said out loud. Why look for a complicated solution when it was most likely a solo operation? It was hard enough to believe
one
person was nutty enough to want to kill Morgen—much less
two.

“Nah?” echoed the android.

Geordi smiled. “Just discarding a theory, Data. Nothing to be concerned about.” He got up. “Come on. Maybe we can finish those subspace field calculations before I conk out completely.”

Data looked at him in that puzzled sort of way. He was doing that less and less these days—but the engineering chief must have hit on a colloquialism with which the android wasn’t yet familiar.

“Conk out,” La Forge repeated. “As in stop due to lack of sleep.”

As understanding registered on his face, Data rose too and followed Geordi out of his office.

Picard had never been more grateful for his ready room. Right now he needed time. Time to think. Time to absorb the sights of Cadwallader stretched out on a biobed and the corridors of deck seventeen blackened with phaser fire.

Time to put aside Worf’s insistence on claiming responsibility—which had sounded so much like Pug’s comments twenty years before, after another, equally horrible occurrence….

In a little while he would return to his command chair. He would exude confidence. He would inspire others.

But not just now. For a moment at least he would lean back and close his eyes and try to obtain some perspective on the whole bloody mess.

Obviously, Cadwallader was no longer a suspect. The captain had read enough Dixon Hill stories to know that a murderer might injure himself to avoid suspicion—but Cad had been hurt too badly for him to believe that. And besides, the phaser had been in someone else’s hands; both Beverly and Morgen had sworn to it.

Picard chewed the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t help but feel that he was overlooking something. That there was a clue huddling in some dark corner of his brain, waiting only for him to shed some light on it.

I should know who is doing this,
he told himself.
I was their captain, for godsakes. I should have some insight into them.

Indeed, how could he ask Worf or Will to find the killer when
he
couldn’t? Who knew Idun and Pug and the others better than Jean-Luc Picard?

The answer welled up unbidden.
Jack.
Jack Crusher knew them better than their captain—better even than their own mothers, in some cases.

Yes. Jack would have known who was trying to kill Morgen. People had trusted him with secrets they entrusted to no one else. After all, how could anyone with that earnest, well-scrubbed farmboy face be capable of betrayal?

And in an uncomfortable way, the captain had been jealous of that quality in his friend—hadn’t he? Picard shook his head. He hadn’t thought of that for a long time—his envy of Jack Crusher.

It had never gotten in the way of their friendship, certainly. Nor had Jack ever known about it. But there was something in the young Jean-Luc Picard—the one who had taken command of the
Stargazer
with somewhat less assurance than he’d let on—that yearned to be loved the way Jack Crusher was loved. Not just respected or admired, but
loved.

In time, of course, he had gotten over that. And it was precisely then that he realized he
was
loved—though in a slightly different way. People seemed to have an affection for Jack the first time they met him. In the captain’s case, love was something earned over the course of days and months and years.

And who was to say which kind of love was better? Certainly not Jean-Luc Picard, for whom affairs of the heart were still more dark and terrifying in some respects than the farthest reaches of the unknown.

The captain gazed at the empty chair opposite him.
Ah, Jack…

For a moment Picard imagined his friend sitting on the other side of the ready room desk, his long body folded up into the most businesslike posture he could manage.

“A problem, Jean-Luc?”

The captain nodded. “A big one,” he confirmed.

“Anything I can help with?”

Picard sighed. “There is a killer on board, Jack. One of our friends—and he or she is after Morgen.”

Jack’s features took on a more serious aspect. “Trying to accomplish what Gerda couldn’t.”

“Exactly. And I haven’t a clue as to which of them it is.”

His friend nodded grimly. “When you have problems, you don’t fool around.”

“There’s an answer, Jack. I know there is. I just wish I knew where to find it.”

Jack appeared to want to say something—as if he had the answer to the riddle. As if he knew who the killer was. But in the end, he couldn’t get it out. All he could do was shrug.

“It’s all right,” Picard said.

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispered at last.

“No.” The captain regarded his friend, missing him more than ever. “Really. It’s all right.”

Suddenly, the chair was empty again, though Picard wished mightily it were otherwise.

Riker had wanted to come before this, but he couldn’t exactly leave the bridge in the middle of his shift to pursue personal matters. As he entered sickbay, he caught sight of Dr. Crusher.

She was just emerging from behind the critical-care barrier—the one that separated Cadwallader’s biobed from the rest of the facility. Noting his presence, Crusher regarded him. “Something I can do for you, Commander?”

“Yes,” Riker said, “there is.” He indicated the barrier. “I was hoping to visit with our guest.”

The doctor frowned slightly. “She’s sleeping now. She really shouldn’t be disturbed.”

His first impulse was to protest—but he subdued it, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good. Beverly Crusher could be pretty stubborn when it came to protecting her patients’ interests.

Besides, if Cadwallader needed her sleep, who was he to deprive her of it? His explanation of what had happened the other night could wait.

“If you need to know anything about what happened,” Crusher told him, “you can ask me.”

It took him a second or two to figure out what she was talking about. He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. I just wanted to see how she was.”

Crusher looked at him for a moment—and she seemed to understand. “Oh,” she said. “In that case, why don’t you come back a little later?”

He nodded. “I’ll do that.” A second thought. “Would it be okay if I just peeked in on her?”

The doctor thought about it. “I suppose that I can allow that,” she decided finally. There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it.

The first officer smiled. “Thank you.” And under Crusher’s scrutiny, he advanced to the barrier.

Sticking his head around the side of it, he peered inside. As the doctor had informed him, Cadwallader was asleep. But her face was turned in his direction.

Riker sighed. To tell the truth, he had expected worse. But it was still something of a shock to see her lying there wan and weak-looking, when she had been spinning around a horizontal bar not so long ago.

“Commander…?”

He turned and saw Crusher standing behind him. “I know, Doctor. I know.” Reluctantly, he retreated from the barrier.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “I could let her know you were asking for her.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he told her.

As they walked back toward the center of sickbay, Crusher looked up at the first officer. “There’s no need for worry,” she said. “Actually, our patient is doing quite well.”

He nodded. “That’s good to hear, Doctor.”

But he would continue to worry—and not just about Cadwallader.

There were the rest of the
Stargazer
survivors to consider as well….

Data sat in engineering, going over computation after computation in his positronic brain. He had been engaged in this activity ever since Geordi had sent everyone on the crisis team to bed.

“No sense in killing ourselves,” the chief engineer had said. “We’ll be able to think a little straighter in the morning.”

Simenon had agreed. Wesley too, though reluctantly.

But Data needed no sleep. So when Geordi and the others left for their quarters, he remained. And hours later he was still there.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten very far. There were too many variables in his equations, too many unknowns. If only he had a better understanding of subspace dynamics…

“Pardon me.”

The android turned at the sound and saw Dr. Greyhorse standing behind him. The man shrugged his large shoulders.

“I guess everybody’s called it quits for the evening.”

“On the contrary,” Data responded, swiveling around in his seat.
“I
am still here. Therefore, not
everybody
has called it quits.”

Greyhorse’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Right you are, Commander. Your logic is impeccable.” He looked around. “But everyone
else
has called it quits—yes?”

“That is true,” Data replied.

The doctor pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. “Too bad. I was hoping to lend a hand.”

“In what way?” the android asked, curious now.

Greyhorse shrugged again. “You know. With this damned slipstream problem we’ve run into. I come from a long line of engineers, and I’ve had some training in the field myself. I just thought that I might be of service.”

“I see,” Data said. “I apologize. I did not know of your engineering background.”

“It’s all right. No one does, really.”

“Are you familiar with the problem?” the android asked.

“Not exactly.” Greyhorse chuckled dryly. “Or to be more blunt about it, hardly at all. I just know that we’re caught up in a subspace phenomenon that’s affecting our velocity.”

Data nodded. “Allow me to give you a more detailed picture.”

And for the next half hour, that’s just what he did. For the doctor’s part, he listened intently, interrupting only once or twice when he needed something explained in greater detail. Toward the end of the briefing, he didn’t interrupt at all—a fact which Data took as a token of Greyhorse’s increasing understanding. As it turned out, he was right.

As soon as Data was finished, the man began to rattle off suggestions. Good ones too. But they had all been suggested—and rejected—already. And of course, Data was forced to say so. After a while Greyhorse’s enthusiasm began to wind down; he began to run dry of ideas.

“Lord,” he said, “I guess I was right to go into medicine after all. I wouldn’t have made a very good engineer.”

“On the contrary,” the android told him, “your suggestions were quite good. The fact that they were made already is a tribute to your ability, not a condemnation of it.” He saw Greyhorse’s expression take on new life. “Remember, Doctor, three of the finest engineering minds in the Federation could not do any better.”

The man looked at him. “Three? Who are you excluding, Data—not yourself, I trust?”

“I do not consider myself highly skilled in the area of engineering,” the android explained. “A good engineer, as I have been told time and again, is one part knowledge and two parts intuition. I certainly qualify in terms of knowledge, but intuition is one of my weak points.”

Greyhorse shook his head. “You know, Data, there’s intuition and there’s intuition. My relatives would fit your great-engineer model to a T. They’re intuitive as hell—when it comes to machines, at least. But put them in a room with other humans and they have as much intuition as the furniture. Same with me, I’m afraid. I never wanted to be like them, but…well, you know the saying. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m a whiz when it comes to dealing with people’s bodies. But when it comes to dealing with their minds—dealing with them as people—I’m a zero. A
robot.”
He smiled. “You, on the other hand, appear to be a machine. You
believe
yourself to be a machine. But trust me on this, Data. You’re more human—more intuitive in many respects—than the entire Greyhorse clan put together.”

The android found that hard to believe. He said so.

“You haven’t met the Greyhorse clan,” the doctor pointed out.

“No,” Data agreed. “But I have met
you.
And you do not seem to be lacking in positive human qualities.”

The doctor peered at him from beneath the ridge of his brow. “Appearances can be deceiving, Commander. Deep down I am a very uncaring person. You need an example?”

The android didn’t quite know what to say.

“I’ll give you one anyway,” Greyhorse offered. He leaned closer. “I know about the attack on Tricia Cadwallader. I walked into sickbay and saw her lying there, and your Dr. Crusher told me the whole story.”

Data was surprised, given the captain’s orders to keep the assassination attempts secret. However, he didn’t interrupt. He merely filed the information away for future consideration.

“I know,” the doctor continued, “and yet I cannot really say I feel for Commander Cadwallader. Oh, I am concerned on a professional level—I have as much pride in my work as the next surgeon, and I hate to see it marred or mucked up. But as far as my feelings for Cadwallader the individual—the person with whom I worked closely for years and years—I find I have none. The fact of her injuries leaves me cold as clay.”

Data cocked his head as he so often did when comprehension eluded him. “But what about your efforts regarding the slipstream?” he asked. “Did you not say you came to help?”

Greyhorse waved the suggestion away with his large, meaty hand. “Self-preservation, my friend. Nothing more, nothing less. If the ship is lost or destroyed, so am I. And I prefer to survive—to return to Starfleet Medical, where I can go on with my charade: the humane and dedicated healer.”

He got up. Data watched him, trying to make sense of what the doctor had said.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Commander. If anything comes to me, I’ll let you know.” He paused. “Oh, and…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my visit to Professor Simenon. He’d only mock me. You know, for overstepping my professional bounds.”

“I understand,” the android assured him.

“You see?” Greyhorse said. “You really
are
more human.”

Then he left.

The captain was still sitting in his ready room, still thinking, when the sound of chimes interrupted his reverie. Someone out on the bridge wanted to see him. Picard looked to the room’s only entrance, wondered briefly who might be out there. Then, reluctantly, he straightened in preparation for
whoever
it was.

“Come,” said the captain.

The doors opened.

It was Ben Zoma. And he did not look very happy.

“Have a seat,” said Picard.

His former first officer sat down on the opposite side of the captain’s desk. It was a familiar position for both of them; they’d conversed this way on the
Stargazer
hundreds of times.

But this is not the Stargazer,
the captain had to remind himself. And Ben Zoma was no longer his exec. What had his life been like for the past decade? Could he have changed enough to become a killer?

“Jean-Luc,” began the olive-skinned man, no longer his usual jovial self. “I want some answers. And I want them now.”

Picard met his gaze. “What sort of answers, Gilaad?”

Ben Zoma leaned back in his chair. “Where is Cadwallader? And don’t tell me you don’t know. She doesn’t answer my intercom calls. And when I went to her quarters, there was no answer there either.”

The captain decided to be truthful—if only up to a point.

“She is in sickbay,” he said. He watched for his friend’s reaction, hoping to discern something that would give away Ben Zoma’s guilt. And at the same time, hoping even more fiercely
not
to.

“Sickbay,” echoed the other man, suddenly concerned. And as far as Picard could tell, the concern was quite genuine. “Is she all right? What happened?”

Here came the lie. It didn’t exactly emerge trippingly from his lips.

“During the engine shutdown, emergency life support short-circuited on Deck Seventeen, causing an explosion in the ventilator shaft. An air vent blew out; Cadwallader was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

It
could
have happened that way. In fact, Geordi swore he’d actually
seen
an accident just like it—years ago, back on the
Hood.

Ben Zoma nodded, taking it in. “And Cadwallader?”

“She’s fine,” said Picard. “Some minor surgery, that’s all. She could probably be up and about tomorrow, though Dr. Crusher will no doubt want to keep an eye on her a little longer.”

Ben Zoma nodded again. The skin between his brows crinkled.

“You know,” he said, “when you serve under a man for almost twenty years, you come to know him pretty well. You know when he’s tired, or frustrated, or saddened. Even a man like
you,
Jean-Luc—one who hides his feelings well.” He leaned forward, not so much angry as hurt. “And you know when he’s lying through his teeth. You, my friend, are lying through your teeth.”

“Indeed.”

“That’s right. As I told your Counselor Troi, there’s something happening on the
Enterprise—
something you’re not telling us about. The beefed-up security, the holodecks being out of order…and Morgen’s sudden inclination toward solitude. And now Cadwallader.” He shook his head. “You can’t tell me that you’re not hiding something.”

The situation dictated that Picard carry on the charade—that he continue to suspect Ben Zoma along with the others. But his instincts told him otherwise. And a starship captain, he had learned early on in his career, had to ultimately follow his instincts.

He took a deep breath. “You are quite correct,” he told his friend. “I am lying. In fact, Cadwallader was wounded by a phaser blast. And Morgen has become a hermit at my request—after he nearly lost his life in a sabotaged holodeck.”

Ben Zoma was silent for a second. Then he said: “Details. Please.”

Picard sketched out the situation for him. By the time he was done, the man’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

“So you see,” the captain said, “someone is trying to kill Morgen. And more than likely, the assassin is one of
us.”

Ben Zoma frowned. “I wish I could disagree with you.” A pause. “Do you think it was Idun?”

“Personally,” said Picard, “no. It’s too obvious—especially after the way she has alienated herself from the group. Though I am sure the assassin would like us to
believe
Idun is guilty.”

“Obvious or not, she’s the only one with a clear motive,” Ben Zoma pointed out. “Revenge for her sister’s death.”

“Commander Riker came up with another one—the completion of Gerda’s mission.”

Muscles rippled beneath the other man’s graying temples. “I hadn’t thought of that—but he’s right.”

Picard shook his head. “No. I still think Idun is innocent.”

“A hunch?” asked Ben Zoma.

“If you like.”

“You can’t operate on hunches, Jean-Luc. Not in a matter like this one.”

The captain smiled grimly. “It was a hunch, Gilaad, that led me to trust
you.”

Ben Zoma smiled back. “Good point,” he said.