Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [116]
The man had soiled her honor—tried to kill her comrades. It was her job to deal with him—no one else’s.
She would get to him first. She promised herself that.
Carter Greyhorse was on his way to sickbay. He had some unfinished business there.
Once before, he’d visited sickbay to complete a job he’d started. But just when he thought he was alone with Cadwallader, just when he was about to slip the ku’thei pill between her lips, Beverly Crusher had come in and ruined everything.
This time, Crusher would not interrupt. The computer had already assured him that she was in her quarters. And with the murderer caught—or so everyone thought—it would be simple enough to smile his way into critical care. And pay Ben Zoma back.
As he would pay them all back. Each and every one—for taking from him the only person who’d ever made him feel anything.
Turning the corner, he entered the medical facility. It was crowded with those who had been injured in Simenon’s maneuver. None very badly, he saw—which was just as well. He hated to see innocent people get hurt; he was, after all, a doctor.
A few steps in, a nurse turned and looked up at him. She smiled. “Doctor Greyhorse,” she said, recognizing him.
He smiled back in a perfunctory sort of way and kept going. She had no idea; his expression, as reserved as ever, hadn’t given her a clue.
Critical care was just ahead and to the right. The barrier obscuring the area was still up, though it was meaningless now. The murder attempts were common knowledge. There was nothing left for Picard to hide.
As Greyhorse approached the barrier, he resolved to be patient. His lack of success in finishing off Cadwallader would not make him hurry. This was a slow game, this killing—slower than he had anticipated. But he would ultimately be the winner. All he had to do was keep going and not make any mistakes.
Then he saw that there was no one attending to Ben Zoma at the moment. My luck is changing, he thought. I will not need to be patient after all.
For a moment, he studied the readings on the monitor above the bed. Interesting. Ben Zoma was putting up quite a fight. It was a good thing he’d had the opportunity to come by—and change that.
Glancing around quickly to make sure they were still alone, he reached for the ku’thei pill. Fortunately, it left no traces. Nor was it a substance the transporter’s bio-filter was programmed to red-flag. But then, he’d selected it on that basis. Working in the upper echelon of Starfleet Medical gave one some knowledge of bio-screening systems.
Sitting down in the chair at Ben Zoma’s bedside, he leaned over the patient. To an intruder, it would appear as if he were examining him. Ben Zoma’s face was pale and waxy-looking; the only color in it was where the skin had been irritated by the tubes in his nostrils and his mouth.
Gilaad Ben Zoma, this is for Gerda Asmund. For the—
Suddenly, Greyhorse heard sounds of alarm outside the barrier. The ku’thei pill was poised just above Ben Zoma’s parched lips. He had to do something—he couldn’t allow himself to be found like this. Gripped by panic, he thrust the pill into the man’s mouth as far as it would go.
That’s when Dr. Selar came dashing around the barrier. One look at him was all she needed. Without breaking stride, she gripped him by the shoulder and spun him away from Ben Zoma.
She knows, he realized. The knowledge jolted him. But how? How can she?
And who else knows?
Shortly, they all would. No matter if he killed her now as she tried to get the pill out of Ben Zoma’s throat. If she lived, she would spread the word—assuming it was not spreading already. And if she died, there would be witnesses to the fact that he had done it.
Better to escape while he still could. To follow the steps he’d outlined for himself if he should ever be found out.
Bolting through the space between the barrier and the bulkhead,