Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [209]
This time, it was Lieutenant Garner who was standing inside the open doorway, keeping an eye on the mutineers. And she wasn’t the least bit surprised by the second officer’s appearance, because it was she who had communicated with him at Hans Werber’s request.
As before, the weapons chief was sitting on his cot. When he saw that Picard had arrived, he stood up. His expression was more thoughtful than belligerent for a change.
“Leave us, please,” said the second officer.
Garner did as she was instructed. Then Picard touched the bulkhead controls and saw to it that he and Werber had some privacy.
“Here I am,” said the commander. “Have you thought of something?”
Werber nodded. “I think so.”
Picard expected him to say Santana was the guilty party, and attempt to lay out some proof of it. But he didn’t. In fact, the weapons officer was no longer quite so sure that the colonist was involved.
“Then who’s the saboteur?” asked the commander.
“I don’t know,” said the prisoner. “But I know how to find him.” And he went on to elaborate.
Picard considered the information. “I appreciate your help,” he said at last. “If it leads us to the saboteur—”
The mutineer preempted him with a gesture. “Don’t make me any promises, Commander. Just get the sonuvabitch.”
Picard nodded. “I will certainly try.”
Seventeen
Greyhorse pressed the hypospray against Armor Brentano’s arm and released a full dose of psilosynine into the man’s system.
The Magnian looked at him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” the medical officer confirmed.
“When will I start feeling different?” Brentano asked.
“In the next two to three hours,” said Greyhorse. “And you will continue to feel that way for anywhere from four to five hours.”
“So we’re not far from the depot?” the colonist concluded.
“So I’ve been told.”
Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, Greyhorse removed a metal disk about the size of his fingernail. Positioning it between thumb and forefinger, he placed it against Brentano’s temple—where it remained.
“What’s this?” his patient wanted to know.
“A monitoring device,” he said. “If your brain waves start to change, I want to know about it.”
“So you can shut me down?” asked Brentano.
“Exactly right,” said the medical officer. “For the sake of everyone on this ship—you included.”
“What if I snap and rip it off?” he asked, smiling.
Greyhorse didn’t feel compelled to smile back. “Then I’ll know it and the result will be the same.”
“I’ll remember that,” Brentano promised him.
I assure you, the doctor added silently, at least one of us will.
Gerda Asmund had hoped that her mood would improve. However, it had gotten worse with each passing day.
Finally, as the Stargazer came within sensor range of her target, the navigator found herself looking forward to the battle ahead. However, the prospect wasn’t the blood-roiling elixir it should have been.
What’s more, her sister knew it. Idun had been watching her like a mother s’tarahk ever since their talk in the turbolift, trying her best to gain some insight into Gerda’s feelings.
But how could Idun understand her lack of enthusiasm when Gerda herself didn’t understand it?
Abruptly, she was drawn out of her reverie by a beeping sound—a sensor alarm she had set earlier. Looking down at her monitor, she saw that visual information was available on the depot.
Her sister, who had heard the alarm as well, turned to her. Idun, at least, was eager to engage the enemy, and had been for some time. Gerda could see it in her eyes.
The navigator glanced back over her shoulder at Commander Picard, who was discussing something with Lieutenant Ben Zoma in front of the captain’s chair. “We’re in visual range of the depot,” she announced.
Picard regarded her. “On screen,” he said.
Working at her controls, Gerda complied.
Pug Joseph was standing just inside the entrance to the engineering support room on Deck 26, watching Serenity Santana and her fellow colonists gather in an approximate semicircle and exert their influence on the Stargazer’s dorsal tractor node.