Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [127]
Picard started to protest to the contrary, but his guests were already on their way out.
“Commander Asmund,” he called, stopping her in her tracks. She regarded him.
“Aye, sir?”
“There is something I would like to say to you.” He looked to Selar. “If you would give us a moment, Doctor—”
“No.” Idun shook her head. Her posture was as stiff as ever—but there was an uncharacteristic vulnerability in her eyes. “There’s no need, sir. I know.”
And before he could insist, she was out the door and on her way.
Picard sighed. He was glad he had been wrong about Idun Asmund. Very glad. He only hoped that she would finally get what was coming to her—the friendship and admiration of her Stargazer colleagues.
It was long overdue.
Before he had completed the thought, Selar was running her tricorder over him and making those discouraging sounds that doctors seemed so good at. Sighing, he submitted to the scrutiny.
It was Eisenberg’s turn to monitor Ben Zoma when the captain’s warning came over the intercom. They would be trying that maneuver again—the one that had gotten them out of the slipstream once before. And it would probably shake them up as much as it had the last time.
That was all right. Sickbay had fared pretty well once; there was no reason to believe it wouldn’t do so again.
As he checked Ben Zoma’s readouts for the umpteenth time, he thought about what O’Brien had told him in Ten-Forward—about “ringside seats” and “the greatest show in the galaxy.” For a little while there, the transporter chief had made it seem so exciting, so heady. But if the stars were a little more tame next time he visited Ten-Forward, Eisenberg wouldn’t be too upset.
And neither, he expected, would O’Brien—despite his brave talk and his toasts to “warp nine point nine five.”
Completing his review of the readouts, the med tech started around the divider that separated Ben Zoma from their other patient—Cadwallader, no longer a critical-care case. But before he could reach the woman’s bedside, he caught a glimpse of a couple of cranberry-colored uniforms coming his way.
Instinctively, he turned to see what had occasioned a visit from the captain and his first officer—especially when the maneuver was to take place in a matter of minutes. Then he realized that it wasn’t Picard and Riker at all. It was Captain Morgen and Commander Asmund. And right behind them, Lieutenant Joseph, and the Gnalish—Professor Simenon.
As Morgen led his companions past the curiosity-ridden med tech, he saw Cadwallader get up on her elbows and smile.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.
“Our fear,” remarked the professor. “We heard that it was safer here than anywhere else on the ship.”
Cadwallader chuckled dryly. “You know,” she said, “I think I believe you.”
“Don’t,” Morgen told her. He laid his great bony hand on her bed. “I just thought it was time you received a visit from your friends.” He regarded Asmund. “All of them.”
The blond woman nodded, returning the Daa’Vit’s gaze. “That’s right. Or at least, that’s the reason he gave me. And when the ruler of the Daa’Vit Unity summons you, you don’t dare disobey.”
Morgen laughed and turned to the patient again. “For the record, it was actually more of a request.”
Cadwallader’s smile got a little broader. “That’s all right. Frankly, I don’t give a damn why you’re here. I’m just glad that you are.”
“Guttle’s Maw,” the professor spat out. “What’s next? Hugs and kisses all around?”
“What’s going on here?” Morgen followed the voice to its source, and saw Dr. Crusher standing at the threshold of her office.
“I thought Commander Cadwallader might want some familiar faces about her—particularly now.” The Daa’Vit smiled charmingly. “Won’t you join us?”
Crusher seemed surprised—pleasantly so. “I’d be delighted.”
Joseph turned to Morgen. “If it’s all the same to you,” he asked, “I’d like to be with Captain Ben Zoma.” He glanced at Cadwallader. “You understand, Cad?”
“Of course,” she told him.
“Wait,” Asmund