Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [117]
Then he was hurtling toward the exit, his mind locking down like a machine. Which, in the end, was what he was born to be. Not a man, but a machine. No more human, in all the ways that mattered, than the android Data. A machine.
In the corridor, people stopped to look at him. But that was all. Obviously, no one had warned them about him. They hadn’t heard yet.
Taking advantage of the fact, he headed for the turbolift. A female crewman was in his way; he hurled her aside. Once he got to the lift, he knew, it would be impossible to stop him. His objective was only two decks away—a matter of moments.
As he passed a joining of the corridors, however, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of red and black. There was an impact, though he was too deep into his battle-state by now to feel it, and he was shoved sideways into the bulkhead on his right.
Recovering, he caught sight of his attacker’s face—recognized the blue eyes, narrowed in determination. And of course, the beard.
Riker was quick. He got in a solid blow to the side of Greyhorse’s head—a blow that jarred the big man but did not stop him. Before the first officer could follow up on his attack, Greyhorse retaliated.
First, he snapped Riker’s head back with a well-placed kave’ragh—just as Gerda had taught him. Then, while the smaller man was still stunned, he lifted him off his feet by the front of his tunic and flung him hard into the bulkhead.
Before Riker slipped to the deck, Greyhorse was lunging for the turbolift again. A fraction of a second later, the doors opened and he was inside.
“Transporter room five,” he said, breathing just a little harder than normal. Removing his communicator, he flung it on the floor. Then the doors closed and, though he couldn’t feel it, the lift started to move.
“Captain? This is Doctor Selar.”
On the bridge now, Picard glanced at Data before replying. “Yes, Doctor. What the devil is going on there?”
“Apparently, you were right to warn us about Doctor Greyhorse. He was putting something in Captain Ben Zoma’s mouth when I interrupted him. A pill—poison, I would guess. Fortunately, I was able to retrieve it.”
Picard swore softly. It had been close.
“Where is Greyhorse now?” asked the captain. “Were you able to detain him?”
A slight pause. “No, sir. My priority was the safety of the patient.”
Picard nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Doctor.”
“We must stop him, sir,” Data said. He looked at the captain. “With what he knows about ship’s systems—”
Before he could finish, Picard was calling Worf over the intercom.
“Aye, sir?” the Klingon replied.
“Mister Worf, we have located Doctor Greyhorse. He fled sickbay just a few moments ago.”
The Klingon grunted. “I’ll dispatch a team to the area—and limit the turbolifts to security use only.”
“Very good,” the captain said. He almost warned Worf about Greyhorse using his communicator to lay down a false trail—but he was sure the security chief was well aware of that tactic by now.
He stood and turned to Worf’s replacement at tactical.
“Get Commander Riker up here right away. And—”
“Captain?”
Picard responded without turning. “What is it, Commander?”
Data seemed to hesitate for just the smallest fraction of a second. “Sir, we have made contact with the Romulans.”
Picard turned and faced the main viewscreen—and his mouth went dry. Before him was a Romulan warbird—immense, powerful. And he knew without asking that all its disruptors were trained on the Enterprise.
Eighteen
Picard stared at the image of the Romulan warbird. “Open hailing frequencies,” he instructed.
A moment later the screen filled with a typically Romulan visage—finely chiseled, with hooded eyes and long, pointed ears. The man was seething with confidence—and why not? By now his scanners would have picked up the Enterprise’s lack of warp drive activity—not to mention its inadequate shielding. He had the Federation ship at