Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [112]
“Tell you about them,” the chief engineer echoed. “Where would you like me to start?”
“Start anywhere,” Simenon instructed.
La Forge smiled again. “All right. For one thing, their technology has come a long way since their alliance with the Klingons. Their ships are bigger, faster, and deadlier.”
“All very comforting,” the Gnalish commented.
“And of course,” La Forge continued, “no one schemes better than the Romulans. No one’s more merciless.” He thought about the Enterprise’s various encounters with its Vulcanoid adversaries over the last few years. And of his personal experiences. “On the other hand,” he went on, “they’re people, with their own concepts of honor and loyalty, of right and wrong.”
Simenon grunted. “Ah-hah. A ray of hope. Does that mean they refrain from shooting first and asking questions never? Is there a chance they’ll believe our tale of woe and let us go?”
La Forge shrugged. “Depends on the exact circumstances.”
“In other words, no.”
“In other words, it’s pretty unlikely.”
The Gnalish sighed. “Sorry I asked.”
Worf couldn’t understand it. As he made his way down from Deck Eight in a parallel turbolift, his adversary didn’t move out into the corridor. In fact, she didn’t move at all.
She just maintained her position in the lift. And the lift maintained its position on Deck Eighteen.
But why? Had she been hurt in the course of Geordi’s maneuver, or maybe in an ensuing melee with her guards—hurt so badly that she’d had only enough strength to go this far, and no farther?
Or was she up to something else entirely? Something he had failed to figure out?
The doors of Worf’s lift opened and he swung out, breaking into a run. Nevins and Loyosha pelted along behind him.
All of them had their phasers at the ready—just in case.
“Computer,” the Klingon barked one more time. “Location of Commander Asmund.”
“Commander Asmund is in a turbolift on Deck Eighteen,” the computer confirmed.
Worf’s mind raced as fast as the rest of him. He had a vision of her standing there in the lift, doors open, a grim smile on her face—and then, when she heard him coming, closing the doors and watching the look on his face as she escaped him.
Was that it? Was she trying to humiliate him, knowing he would lead the search for her?
For what reason? Sheer spite?
Or was she truly mad now—not only homicidal, but out of touch with reality in other ways as well?
This time, when the Klingon arrived to confront the fugitive, he had plenty of company. Not only Nevins and Loyosha, but an additional trio of security officers approaching from the other end of the corridor.
Contrary to Worf’s premonition, the lift doors were closed. He took in his people with a glance.
“Phasers on stun. Be prepared for anything.”
Then, careful to keep his eyes on the doors, he touched the lift security override pad on the bulkhead.
Not that he expected the action to accomplish anything. With the technical expertise Asmund had demonstrated, Worf fully expected that she’d jammed the door-opening mechanism, which would force him to find an engineer capable of bypassing or otherwise nullifying her handiwork.
Much to his surprise, however, the override worked. The doors opened.
The security officers tensed, training their weapons on the interior of the compartment. As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary.
There was no one inside.
Muttering a curse, Worf took a step forward—and noticed something on the floor of the lift. Grunting, he went in and picked it up.
A communicator. He turned it over in his hand.
Asmund had led him on a merry chase. And he had been too concerned with more complicated explanations for her behavior to consider the simplest one of all.
What was the expression humans used? About failing to see the forest for the trees?
The fugitive had asked the computer for Morgen’s whereabouts and then programmed the lift for that destination—with a stop on Deck Four, just to prolong the chase. And