Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [101]
Geordi shrugged. “Right in stride. But then, that’s more or less what I expected of him. He’s not one to let his feelings show—is he?”
Picard shook his head. “No. He’s not.” Another pause. “I just wondered.”
As the captain and the chief engineer exited La Forge’s office, the crisis team looked up. They waited for a sign.
Geordi gave it to them. Thumbs-up.
“It’s about time,” the Gnalish commented. Wesley probably thought the same thing, but he kept his sentiments to himself—and wisely so. He had a lot of dues to pay before he could get away with Simenon’s brand of antics. Only Data seemed to take the go-ahead in stride.
Without a comment, Picard left engineering and headed for the nearest turbolift. Stepping inside, he said: “Bridge.”
In the silence that followed, he had a moment to ponder his decision. To wonder if he was doing the right thing.
He was still wondering when he emerged from the lift—only to be confronted by his Klingon security chief. Judging by the expression on Worf’s face, there was a matter of more than routine concern on his mind. And with all that had occurred on the Enterprise lately, Picard was not eager to anticipate what it might be.
“You wish to see me,” Picard said. It wasn’t a question.
The Klingon nodded his massive head. “Aye, sir.” He indicated the ready room with his eyes. “In private, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” the captain responded, and led the way inside. As the doors closed behind them, he took a seat behind his desk. Worf sat down as well. “All right,” Picard said, leaning back. “I take it this is a security matter.”
The Klingon hesitated. “Yes,” he replied at last. “But perhaps not in the way you mean.”
The captain found his curiosity piqued, but he decided to let Worf proceed at his own pace. “I am listening,” he said simply.
His chief of security frowned as he searched for the right words. “Sir,” he began at last, “I don’t believe Commander Asmund is the killer.”
The statement caught Picard off guard. “Not the killer,” he echoed, giving himself time to recover. He leaned forward. “Lieutenant, you yourself presented the evidence that damned her. Are you now saying that you were wrong?”
“Not about the knife wounds,” Worf explained. “They were made by a ceremonial blade—I would stake my life on the fact.” He licked his lips. “But I no longer believe that Commander Asmund was the one who wielded the knife.”
Picard regarded him. “And what has occurred to change your mind?”
Worf’s brow lowered—a sign of sincerity, of earnestness, Picard had learned over the years. “Captain, I had occasion to speak with Commander Asmund. She claimed that she was innocent—no surprise under the circumstances. But in the process of defending herself, she made some points that rang true. About honor—Klingon honor.”
Picard was interested enough to hear more. “Go on,” he said.
“In essence, Commander Asmund told me that the murderer’s approaches weren’t worthy of a Klingon—which she considers herself to be. In this, I had to agree. None of the attempts fit in with the Klingon tradition of assassination.”
“But we know that some of your people take that tradition less seriously than others,” the captain pointed out. He had firsthand knowledge of that fact, having been the intended victim of a dis honorable attempt back on the Klingon homeworld.
“True,” Worf conceded. “That is why Commander Asmund referred me to the details of her sister’s crime. You recall those details?”
“I do.” Picard saw the scene again, just as it had been presented to him when he and Ben Zoma rushed onto the shuttle deck: Gerda swinging the deadly ironroot. Morgen lurching to avoid the blow, and only barely succeeding. And McDonnell lying prone in the foreground. “They are not easy to forget.”
“You recall, then, that Gerda Asmund did not kill the one called McDonnell