Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [129]
She remembered her mother closing the door against the billowing mists. She saw her father again as he helped lay his sibling on a table—as he tore aside Lenoch’s cloak and inspected his wounds. And she felt anew the mixed sense of fear and fascination—the guilt that had taken hold of her as she and Gerda peeked into the room all unnoticed by the adults.
Like Ben Zoma, Lenoch had been stabbed over and over again. Even in the dimly lit foreroom of her father’s house, even against the dark hues of Lenoch’s clothing, she had been able to see the blood—a lot of it and in many places. Her father had cursed at the sight.
The rest was a blur. She had a vague impression of being discovered by her mother—of being sent back to bed. Not that she and Gerda had been able to sleep. They’d lain awake all night gazing at each other, wide blue eyes a-glitter with moonlight, listening to the guttural exchanges in the rooms below them. Listening and wondering—until the night was shattered by the sound of a half dozen voices bellowing all at once. Like the cry of the taami- wolves that roamed the hills back on Alpha Zion, but with a tinge of something distinctly Klingon. And by that howling, they knew that Lenoch was dead.
But there was more—wasn’t there? Before she and her sister had been shooed upstairs, hadn’t she seen something else? Something that Gerda had remarked about once they were alone in their bedroom?
She frowned. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember. Gerda would have remembered—but Gerda wasn’t around to be asked. Idun forced herself to concentrate.
What was it? What had they seen?
Suddenly, the deck beneath her feet shuddered and shifted, forcing her to hold on to Ben Zoma’s biobed in order to maintain her balance. It lasted only a couple of seconds, however. Idun looked around.
Certainly, the lack of a more violent tremor was encouraging. But no one was saying anything. At least, not until they received official word.
Then it came: “Attention, all decks. This is Captain Picard. We have returned to normal space with minimal damage to the warp drive and other systems.”
There were murmurs of approval, sighs of relief. One doctor slapped another on the back.
“Please note,” the captain’s voice resumed, “that the crisis is not yet over. Our emergence from the slipstream phenomenon has deposited us once again in Romulan space. However, we are much closer to the Neutral Zone this time.” A pause. “We will maintain yellow alert status until we leave Romulan territory—which, if all goes well, should be a matter of just a few hours. I thank you all for your cooperation.”
Of course, Asmund thought, there was still the possibility of an encounter with another Romulan ship. But at least it wouldn’t be the Reshaa’ra. It would take Commander Tav some time to unravel Picard’s encrypted directions for emerging from the slipstream. And in the meantime, the Romulans would get a taste of—
Idun could feel the blood rushing to her face. A taste…
That was it—the thing she couldn’t remember. Before their mother had chased them upstairs, she and Gerda had seen their father taste Lenoch’s wounds!
But why? Why would he do that?
Unless…he suspected them of being poisoned.
It was a dishonorable thing to do in the course of an assassination. But then, whoever attacked Lenoch might have been a dishonorable individual.
Suddenly, a connection snapped into place. She looked down at poor, haggard Ben Zoma and wondered: what kind of person was Greyhorse?
“Dr. Crusher,” she snapped—before she’d even completed her chain of reasoning.
Crusher rushed over. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Poison,” Idun said. “I think Ben Zoma’s been poisoned.”
The doctor shook her head. “No. Greyhorse never got that pill into him. Besides, I administered the antidote for ku’thei—just in case.”
“I’m not talking about a pill,” Idun insisted. “I’m talking about the knife Ben Zoma was attacked with.