Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [102]
The captain nodded. “That is correct.”
“What is more, Gerda used a simple weapon—as prescribed by Klingon tradition. Usually a knife is the weapon of choice, but certainly an ironroot is not out of the question.”
“The point being that she probably could have gotten her hands on a phaser—but chose not to.”
“Exactly.” Worf paused to let the significance of that sink in. Then he went on. “Note also that the assassination attempt was carried out by a single individual—one on one. And finally, that the first blow was not a killing one—giving the intended victim an opportunity to view the face of his killer, so he would know whom to curse in the afterlife.” His voice grew weightier. “Finally, there is the matter of the poison.”
The captain couldn’t help but wince at the memory. No one had expected Gerda to have a ku’thei nodule under her armpit—not even Idun, who had shaken off her shock long enough to warn them about a suicide attempt. Fortunately, Greyhorse had gotten to Gerda in time.
“Again,” Worf finished, “all in accordance with Klingon custom. All honorable.”
Indeed. And the crimes committed on the Enterprise had been anything but honorable—just as Idun had pointed out. Picard measured one set of facts against the other. “What you are saying, then,” he told Worf, “is that since Gerda Asmund acted according to your code, Idun—as her identical twin—would have done the same. And because the murder attempts were conducted dishonorably, by Klingon standards, they could not have been the work of Idun. Eh?”
Worf scowled. “Is it not a logical conclusion?”
“Perhaps,” the captain conceded. “And if less were at stake here, I might be inclined to accept it. But we are dealing with life and death; we cannot take the chance that our logic is flawed.” He leaned back again. “It is no secret that I have been one of Idun Asmund’s staunchest supporters. Even when some of your fellow officers were ready to condemn her, I refused to believe them—to judge her on the basis of her sister’s actions. But now…” Picard shook his head. “I cannot release her. I cannot risk another murder. You may log your observations for the judge advocate general’s office, Lieutenant—but the matter is really out of my hands. I am sorry.”
The Klingon lifted his chin. “I understand,” he said. Though his disappointment must have been keen after all the trouble he had gone to—after what he had deemed the truth was proven to have no practical value—he still held his duty above all. And his sense of duty dictated that he accept the captain’s decision. “Nonetheless, I have increased security to the point at which it stood before Commander Asmund’s arrest.”
“Naturally,” Picard agreed.
Having received the captain’s blessing, the Klingon rose.
On the other side of his desk, Picard got up as well. But one matter was still unresolved. “A question, Worf.”
The Klingon, who had just started to turn away from him, looked back. “Captain?”
“Where did you get all this information? It is not available in the ship’s computer files. I know—it was by my order that the details were left out.”
Of course, they were still on file at Starfleet Headquarters. But he had not wanted the material to be available to curiosity seekers—especially since it might have hampered Idun in her career.
“I spoke with Captain Morgen,” the Klingon answered.
Picard swallowed his surprise. What had happened to that fabled hostility between Klingons and Daa’Vit?
“I see,” he said. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”
Worf inclined his head slightly. “Aye, sir.”
A moment later the chief of security had departed, leaving Picard with even more to ponder than when he arrived on the bridge.
Good God, he mused. Is it possible that a murderer is still loose on my ship?
Guinan stood behind the bar, looked around, and smiled.
Ten-Forward was quiet again. Not really quiet, of course; there were murmured conversations and the tinkling of glasses and the sound of chairs clattering