Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [134]
“You approve?” Riker asked.
She nodded. “Where are we?”
“Alaska,” he told her. “Not far from where I grew up.” He tapped his foot on the moss-covered ground. “I got a chance to see this place only once—just before I left for the Academy.”
“Helipod?” she guessed.
“Nope. I climbed up. Took three whole days and a lot of bruised body parts, but I made it.”
Cadwallader looked down into the valley below. She whistled.
“And it was just as beautiful as I thought it would be,” he went on. “Only one problem. There was nobody to share it with.”
She chuckled, amused. “I think I get the picture. But wasn’t this supposed to be a dinner date?”
Riker snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a gas-fired stove materialized in front of them. There were a couple of pans on the cooking grill. The aroma that came to Cadwallader was spicy and faintly fishy.
“Smells good,” she said. “What is it?”
“Trout remoulade,” he replied. “An old family recipe.”
He snapped his fingers a second time, and a red-and-white checkered tablecloth materialized not far from the stove. It sported a basket of bread and a couple of glasses of wine.
This time, Cadwallader actually laughed. “You think of everything, don’t you?”
Riker shrugged. “When I’m inspired.”
She turned to him. “And when it gets dark?” she asked. “What do we do to keep warm?”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he told her.
“Really? And why is that?”
He was completely deadpan as he said it: “You’ll have to wait until after dinner to find that out.”
Today, there were only two of them at Ben Zoma’s bedside—Troi and Commander Asmund. Of course, the empath had a professional reason for remaining there. It was disconcerting to regain consciousness and find that so much had changed while one was unaware. Often, a ship’s counselor could smooth the transition.
But not all Troi’s reasons for visiting were of the professional variety. She also liked Ben Zoma. Hell—it was difficult not to.
And to be honest, she felt a little guilty for having had to deceive him when he confronted her that time in the corridor. She was glad the time had come when she could drop the pretense and be honest with him.
Just as she was glad she didn’t have to lie to Idun Asmund anymore. Or to probe her emotions for evidence of murderous intent.
“How long until we reach Daa’V?” Ben Zoma asked softly. With the poison completely neutralized, he was considerably stronger than he had been the day before. He’d even gotten most of his color back.
“Another four days,” Troi told him. “And that’s at warp nine.”
Full warp capability was a luxury she’d never take for granted again. Not after crawling into and halfway through the Romulan Neutral Zone at warp one.
He thought for a moment, then seemed surprised. “We’ll be on time.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Even with all that’s happened, we’ll be on time. Thanks to Geordi and his engineering staff—and a little help from your friend Simenon.”
Ben Zoma smiled. But a moment later the smile faded.
“It’s too bad. About Greyhorse, I mean.”
She nodded. “We all feel bad. Perhaps with some rehabilitation…” She shrugged. “One can only hope.”
He turned to Asmund. She returned his gaze attentively.
“Funny,” he said, “isn’t it—that the one we were most eager to pin the problem on…should be so instrumental in the solution. And in saving my life to boot.”
Idun grunted. “Remember Beta Gritorius Four?”
After a second or two it came to him. “So I do. Then we’re even?”
The blond woman shook her head. “Not at all. It’s just your turn again to save my life.”
Ben Zoma laughed—which turned out to be a bad move, as it drew the attention of Dr. Selar. The Vulcan was suddenly standing at the foot of the biobed.
“I think we should be going,” Troi said, rising.
Asmund stood too. “If we must. But I’ll be back,” she told Ben Zoma.
The captain of the Lexington pointed at her with mock-solemnity. “I’m depending on it, Commander.”
Troi grinned—and not just at Ben Zoma’s antics. She saw the look on Idun Asmund’s face, and she