Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [175]
“I do, sir,” Asmund confirmed. If she was surprised, it wasn’t reflected in her voice. “Course set.”
“Helm,” said the second officer, “best speed. Engage.”
“Acknowledged,” Idun Asmund replied.
Picard leaned back in his chair in the otherwise empty lounge. The die was cast, he told himself. Now he would see if he had made the right choice…or the wrong one.
Nine
Hans Werber had traveled each and every corridor of the Stargazer at one time or another. But he had never before traveled one so quietly or with such serious intent.
Werber wasn’t alone, either. He was followed by three other officers—Chen and Ramirez of his weapons section and Pernell of engineering. And all four of them were armed with phaser pistols that Werber had lifted with the help of his security clearance.
The weapons chief knew they didn’t have much time. Pausing at an intersection, he peeked into the perpendicular passageway to make sure it was empty. Then he made a left turn, his fellow conspirators in tow.
Their objective was the third set of doors on the right. As soon as he arrived there, Werber removed a small tool from his tunic and inserted the end of it into an aperture in the bulkhead.
A moment later, the doors slid apart, granting him access to a suite. Leaving Pernell to close the doors again, Werber and the others moved into the darkness within.
Reluctant to warn the suite’s occupant, the weapons chief decided not to turn on the lights. Instead, his phaser held in front of him, he advanced to the sleeping quarters at the apartment’s far end.
So far, he reflected, everything had gone smoothly. But their job wasn’t over yet. Far from it.
The door to the bedroom was open. Taking a deep, slow breath, Werber made his way inside. Then he trained his weapon on the vague outline of the bed and reached for the light padd on the wall.
As he turned up the illumination, he fired his phaser. Its lurid, red beam slammed into the bedcovers with enough force to stun an ox—or in this case, the misguided commanding officer of a starship.
But as Werber’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that something was wrong. Picard’s bed was empty…except for a small, bronze object of some kind. He took a closer look—
—and saw that it was a combadge.
Suddenly, the weapons chief realized what he had stumbled into. His throat constricting, his blood pounding in his temples, he whirled and launched himself back through the doorway. But by then, the dimly lit anteroom was rife with ruby-red phaser bolts.
Before Werber could do anything about it, one of the beams caught Chen in the chest and drove him into the wall behind him. Then a second shaft slugged Ramirez in the jaw, spinning him around.
As Ramirez collapsed alongside Chen, Werber fired at one of the several cranberry-colored tunics in the room. What’s more, he thought he hit one. But as he tried to squeeze off a second shot, he felt something kick him in the wrist and saw his weapon go flying out of his hand.
Cradling his injured wrist, Werber saw who had disarmed him. It was Picard, a phaser in his hand. And there were three other figures behind him—Pug Joseph and two of his fellow security officers.
“Picard to Ben Zoma,” said the second officer, making use of the ship’s intercom system since his combadge was elsewhere.
“Ben Zoma here,” came the answer. “We’ve discovered a few rats in my quarters, but they won’t bother us again. And you?”
“We’ve taken care of Werber,” Picard replied soberly.
The weapons chief scowled at the byplay. “This wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d made the right decision,” he spat.
Picard didn’t argue the point. Instead, he gestured with his phaser, indicating the corridor outside. “Take these mutineers to the brig,” he told the security officers. “If they require medical attention, Dr. Greyhorse can see them there.”
“Aye, sir,” Joseph replied.
Rather than wait to be manhandled, Werber put his head down and made his way to the turbolift.
Picard wasn’t sure how many times the chimes sounded outside his quarters before he woke enough to acknowledge