Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [125]
The commander’s mouth became a hard, taut line. How much did he know about the Federation? About human attention to such things as honor? About a poker-faced bluff?
At last, he uttered a curse—one the computer had trouble translating—and relented. “We will allow you to prepare whatever maneuver you have in mind. At the slightest hint of treachery, however, I will not hesitate to destroy you.”
That was fine with Riker. He had no intention of being treacherous. Or, for that matter, even giving the appearance of treachery.
In the next moment, the Romulan’s image blinked out again, to be replaced by the streaking stars of the slipstream. The first officer took a sobering look at them, then remembered that the Romulans were only half his problem.
“Lieutenant Worf,” he called. “What’s going on down there?”
The Klingon’s answer wasn’t long in coming. “Dr. Greyhorse has been taken into custody.”
Riker swallowed. “And the captain?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the turbolift doors opened and Picard emerged. His face was swollen and bruised, his uniform was torn in a number of places, and there was a decided limp in his gait. But he was alive, damn it—he was alive!
A moment later, Asmund and Joseph stepped out of the lift as well. The blond woman had the look of one who’d just been exonerated.
“The captain is on his way up to the bridge now,” replied the security chief.
“Actually,” the first officer responded, “he’s just arrived. Thank you, Mr. Worf.”
Out of reflex, Crusher had started out of her seat—but Picard waved her away.
“It’s all right,” he said dryly. “I’m much better than I look.”
Riker smiled. As Picard made his way to the command center, he said: “It’s good to see you, sir.”
The captain nodded stiffly. “Good to see you, Commander.” He glanced at the viewscreen and saw the telltale effects of the slipstream. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered. And turning again to his next in command, he asked the question with his eyes.
“It was the only way to escape the Romulans, Captain.”
“We left them behind?” Picard asked.
Riker straightened. “Not exactly, sir. They entered the slipstream behind us.”
And then the strangest thing happened. Slowly, gradually, a grin spread over the captain’s battered visage. He regarded his first officer.
“Clever move, Number One.”
Riker smiled again. “I try, sir.”
Nineteen
Picard leaned back in his ready room chair, trying to ignore the damage Greyhorse had inflicted on him. Unfortunately, as his mind cleared, he was becoming that much more aware of the pain.
His former shipmates—Idun and Pug—apparently intended to wait with him until Dr. Selar arrived. Beverly Crusher had wanted to stay as well, but Picard had assured her again that his injuries were not all that serious, and that she was needed more down in sickbay. After all, should past prove to be prologue, she would have her hands full with slipstream-exit victims.
That is, he told himself, if an exit is even possible. The fact that we did it once is no assurance we can do it again.
No—he stopped himself. There was no point in entertaining morbid thoughts. The finish line was in sight; all they needed was a little luck and they’d win this race.
“You know,” Pug said, “there are a couple of things you still haven’t told us.” He was standing by the captain’s desk, addressing Idun, who was halfway across the room gazing into the captain’s aquarium.
The blond woman looked back over her shoulder. “What’s that?”
“How you knew where Greyhorse would be holed up. And how you managed to show up when you did.”
Picard nodded, reminded that Idun hadn’t finished the story she’d begun in the turbolift. “Yes,” he said, his curiosity aroused, “how did you accomplish all that?”
She shrugged, turning to face them. “It really wasn’t all that difficult. I was tipped off by Commander Riker’s warning over the intercom—the one that instructed everyone to remove their communicators. I asked myself why that might be necessary—came up with the fact that the communicators are used to establish beaming coordinates—and realized that someone