Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [126]
Pug grunted. “Good thinking.”
“Indeed,” the captain said. “But to beam yourself into the room which Dr. Greyhorse had taken over—” Suddenly he stopped, realizing the implications.
“That’s right,” Idun told him. “I had to find another transporter room and stun the operator on duty. Likewise, the security officer who came to provide reinforcements—no doubt following Mr. Worf’s orders.” There was a tinge of regret in her voice. “In any case, they should have regained consciousness by now.”
Picard frowned. That wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he liked to hear about—even if it had been a prelude to saving his life.
Pug, on the other hand, shook his head in appreciation. “Beautiful. And once you had a transporter, you could use it to trace other transporter activity in the ship. So when you found something going on in room one, you just set the controls, stepped on the platform, and beamed over.”
“Yes,” Idun said. “Fortunately, Greyhorse planned to use the entire platform in working his revenge on us, so all the stations were operational. Which was a good thing, because I couldn’t have beamed over with any assurance of success otherwise. Having never been on a Galaxy-class ship before, I would only have been guessing at the coordinates.” She cast a glance at the captain. “Of course, Greyhorse might have realized the stations were open and locked them down—if he hadn’t been distracted.” A faint smile took shape on her lips. “I’m willing to wager you provided more than a small distraction.”
Picard harumphed. “Not much more, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Captain,” Pug told him. “I never thought of Greyhorse as a fighter, but anybody that big…” He left the conclusion hanging in the air.
“And if he was…involved with Gerda,” Idun added, “he knew how to use his size to good advantage. Klingons are taught that at an early age.”
For a moment, her dark blue eyes seemed to lose their focus; she folded her arms over her chest. Was she thinking about her sister and the relationship Gerda had kept secret—even from her?
“Be that as it may,” Picard said, cutting into the silence, “I—”
His sentiment was interrupted by a beeping at the room’s single entrance.
“Come,” he instructed, expecting Selar. But as the doors parted, it was Worf who entered instead.
“Sir,” the Klingon said. He acknowledged Pug and Idun with a couple of brief nods.
“You’ve attended to Dr. Greyhorse?” the captain surmised. His discomfort was getting worse—harder to put aside.
“I have,” Worf replied. “As a precaution against his escaping from the brig the way Commander Asmund did”—he shot Idun a sidewise look as he said this—“I’ve stationed additional personnel at the site. They have grappling devices to secure them against turbulence. Also, the brig’s restrictive barrier has been repaired and placed on battery power, so it should not be affected by any damage to ship’s systems.”
“Excellent,” Picard told him. “What about the possibility of suicide?”
“I have scanned the doctor’s person. He will have no opportunities to take his own life.”
“And my knife?” asked Idun.
Worf turned to her. “It was discovered in his quarters. It will be necessary to hold it as evidence.”
Idun frowned, but she seemed to accept the necessity.
Turning back to the captain, the Klingon said: “Our search of Dr. Greyhorse’s quarters also revealed a small supply of ku’thei pills. It was one of these that he used in his attempt to finish Captain Ben Zoma.”
“I see,” Picard responded. However, his attention was starting to wane as the pain mounted—particularly in his side, where Greyhorse must have fractured a rib or two when he kicked him. Where in blazes was Selar?
Coincidentally, his door chose that moment to beep again.
“Come.”
This time it was the Vulcan. And she had her medical tricorder with her, slung by its strap over one shoulder. Also, what Picard recognized as a small case full of commonly used drugs.
Snatching a chair as she came in, she pulled it with her as she approached him. “I assume,”