Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [121]
The captain shook his head. “No,” he got out. “I only stopped her…from killing Morgen…”
“Lies!” the doctor cried. With one hand he pulled Picard halfway up over the transporter console. His other hand curled into a claw and hovered just over Picard’s face. “You dishonored her! You deprived her of her right to suicide! And then you dishonored me—by making me the instrument by which you saved her!” Spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. “Do you know how she looked at me afterward? How she hated me? For that alone you deserved the worst torture I could devise. But her hatred wasn’t the worst of it—the worst was what happened in that rehab colony.” His large brow rippled painfully with the memory. “Klingons aren’t humans. They’re not meant to be put in cages like beasts—day after day, month after month. It deprives them of everything that makes them Klingon…” He swallowed hard. “It changes them.”
Picard knew it would be no use arguing that rehab colonies weren’t cages. Greyhorse was mad—truly mad. He felt another surge of vertigo wash over him and fought to keep himself from succumbing.
“I saw her after she came out,” the big man went on. His upper lip curled back. “She wasn’t the same. She wasn’t Gerda. I wanted to hold her, to help her after all she’d been through—but she told me to just go away, to just get the hell away from her.” A sob came up from deep in his massive chest. “She said I was no good for her. That she’d paid for what she’d done, and she didn’t want to be reminded of it.”
Another sob, worse than the first. He shook with it. “I thought that she’d change her mind—get over it—and we’d be together again. And then…” His eyes went blank. “And then she died, and there was nothing left for me to think about—except what I would do to the ones who hurt her.”
Past Greyhorse, Picard saw something happening to the transporter room doors. They were glowing in a couple of places—with a distinct pinkish radiance. Phasers, he realized. Of course. Security was trying to burn its way in.
But he couldn’t let Greyhorse know—not until it was too late. Quickly, he looked away.
How long would it take for Worf to cut his way in? At one of the higher settings, only a few seconds. But there was less control that way. He might burn through and hit someone inside—someone like the captain—so he’d be using a lower setting.
And how long then? A minute? Maybe two? Could he stall Greyhorse that long?
As if in response to Picard’s silent question, the doctor punched in the balance of the transporter’s instructions and came around the console—jerking his captive along with him. They were headed back to the platform. And Picard could see that one of the disks was live—hungry for an object to transport.
The captain took a second to gather his strength and tried the same maneuver that had worked before. But this time he was too slow, or else Greyhorse was ready for him. Before he could get a good grip on his tormentor’s wrist, the doctor stopped and swung him forward with all his strength. Unable to stop himself, Picard tumbled end over end, finally coming to rest against the base of the transporter grid.
When he looked up, he saw Greyhorse advancing on him. But behind the doctor, the phaser glow was getting darker.
“Carter,” Picard gasped. “Don’t do this. I hated what happened to Gerda too—but there was no other way.”
The big man stopped, towering over him. He grunted scornfully. “That’s it,” he said. “Go ahead. Beg.” He got down on his haunches, came closer than he should have. “I want to hear you beg.”
The captain knew he wouldn’t have another chance. Planting his heel against the side of the platform to get his whole body into it, he launched a blow at the center of the doctor’s jaw. It landed more solidly than he might have hoped, jarring him all the way to his shoulder. There was a sound as of cracking ice and Greyhorse fell backward.
Pressing his advantage, Picard staggered to his feet and made for the door, where the