Nightshade - Laurell K. Hamilton [39]
‘Yes, or let him die guilty without naming you as accessories, and we will talk peace,” Basha said.
Worf did not say it would be a hot day on Rura Penthe before he let Picard die to save this world. Perhaps, as a Federation ambassador, he should have been willing to sacrifice his captain, his friend, to save an entire race. But Worf did not lie to himself about his motives or his priorities-humans tended to do that, but not Klingons. He knew where his loyalty lay, and it was not with the Orianians. It was with Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
Chapter Ten
Worf stood to one side of Troi’s delicate figure, watching the face of Dr. Stasha, the doctor who had first examined the murder scene. Worf normally didn’t feel so imposing, but there was something about the doctor that made him think of a dog that had been kicked once too often.
She had small features: eyes, mouth, nose, all in the middle of her face. There was nothing wrong with her face, everything was perfectly symmetrical, but still the effect was crowded. Her face looked like a piece of dough that someone had pinched in the middle. Everything had been scooped to the center. Her large, shining eyes, so typical of the Orianians, were almost bulging as if the eye sockets did not quite hold them.
Now that he had seen two of the “lifeless children” brought back to life, Worf recognized the signs. Dr. Stasha had floated in a metal coffin for how long? Worf could not conceive of spending childhood floating, hooked to machines, then coming out close to normal. How could you recover from something like that? Or did you? Could that be why the Orianians had so little respect for life and honor? Did something happen to them while they floated in the vats? Was something unnamed lost in that horrible waiting?
‘We need to know what you have found, Doctor.” Worf said. He meant it as a request. It sounded like an order.
Dr. Stasha did not seem to be offended. Perhaps she was accustomed to taking orders. “We have done a genetic scan of General Alick’s cup. We have four separate genetic types already matched with their donors.”
‘But I was standing right there, Doctor,” Worf said. “No one passed the general’s cup around the room. Four people could not have touched it.”
‘I did not say that they touched it, Lieutenant Worf. Do you know what dust is, Ambassador?”
Worf frowned down at the slender woman. “That is an odd question. I do not understand its importance.”
‘I am not explaining myself well, please forgive me.” The doctor took a deep breath, clasping her small hands in front of her. Worf did not need Troi’s empathic gifts to see the woman’s nervousness. Was the doctor merely nervous about what had happened, frightened of him, or was she hiding something? Worf would try to be less threatening and then they would see.
‘Dust is formed out of the minute particles of living tissue as it sloughs off dry skin cells, hair follicles, bits and pieces of living matter. Just by standing close to an object, almost all of us leave little particles behind. If allowed to accumulate, the particles become dust. Thus, there were tiny genetic bits from four different people in, or on, the cup in question.”
‘Whose?”
‘General Alick’s, of course; Liv’s, one of the Greens; General Basha’s; and Ambassador Picard’s.”
Worf shook his head. “How did you match these samples?”
She blinked, then nodded. “Of course, you would want to know.” She turned to a spotless white counter top that held only a bulky object, which was nearly a perfect rectangle. Small knobs protruded along the sides. Stasha removed the top of the rectangle to reveal eyepieces.
‘This is our genetic matchmaker. We find it very useful in tracing bombs and assassins. We do try and kill the people that are directly responsible for any terrorist activity. We are not indiscriminate butchers.” She said the last without looking at Worf, but there was the tiniest bit of protest in her voice.
Stasha pressed her face to the eyepieces and adjusted the knobs to either side. “The sample on the left was taken from the murder scene. The right