Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [32]
The blades were razor-sharp, the handles savagely carved. Made of some wood he’d never seen before—and the workmanship was so intricate, it looked like the things were writhing in her hands.
“Yes—they are unusual. They’re Klingon-made.”
“Oh. I see.”
Later on, he’d taken a closer look at her file, and discovered why she had such an affinity for things Klingon. As children, she and her twin sister had been the only survivors of a Federation colony disaster on the planet Alpha Zion. As luck would have it, the Klingons intercepted the colony’s distress calls and reached it before Starfleet could—no doubt hoping that there would be Federation technology there worth raiding.
Apparently, there wasn’t. Just a couple of towheaded five-year-olds, sunken-cheeked and huddled against the elements.
Normally, it would have been unthinkable for a Klingon to take pity on a human. But after what the Asmund twins had gone through, it was obvious that they were made of sterner stuff than most Homo sapiens. Their courage was something the Klingons could not ignore—nor could they leave them there in the ruins, counting on Starfleet to arrive before the girls died of starvation or exposure.
The captain of the Klingon vessel packed the humans aboard his ship. He brought them back to his sister and her husband, who were childless, giving them the option of keeping them—or disposing of them as they saw fit.
They kept them—and raised them as Klingons. Apparently, the training took, if Asmund’s exercise session was any indication.
Twice a survivor, Kuznetsov had mused upon finishing her file. First Alpha Zion, and then the Stargazer. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
But something was still gnawing at him—still bothering him. What? For lack of any other options, he called up her sister’s file—and realized where he had heard the name Asmund before.
How could he have forgotten? The incident had brought the Federation this close to losing the Daa’Vit as allies—maybe even starting a war.
Idun had never been linked with what her sister did. Her slate was clean.
But they were twins. Was it possible that she hadn’t known about her sister’s plan? Hadn’t even suspected?
That question had kept Kuznetsov up late the last few nights. And given him another reason to be scared by her—though in some ways it was even less rational than the first.
Up ahead, Simenon and Greyhorse turned and entered the transporter room. A moment later he and Commander Asmund followed them in.
The transporter technician was waiting patiently for them. She smiled cordially at Kuznetsov; he smiled back.
He wondered if his relief was evident in his expression—though at this point, he hardly cared. The important thing was that he was getting rid of them—all of them.
Beverly Crusher had managed to keep to herself up until now, leaving little opportunity for her to run into the Stargazer people. But she was forced to abandon that policy when they reached Starbase 81.
After all, she had worked closely with Carter Greyhorse for most of the year she’d spent at Starfleet Medical. They’d become more than colleagues; they’d become friends. And he’d been sensitive enough not to bring up more than a passing reference to her late husband, once he realized she didn’t want to talk about him.
So how could she snub him now by not attending his arrival? It would have been worse than bad manners. It would have been a breach of professional etiquette.
And if there was one thing of which she would not be found guilty, it was a lack of professionalism.
The doctor repeated that to herself as she stood beside Captain Picard and watched the last of their guests materialize. Under O’Brien’s expert touch, the shafts of shimmering light coalesced into flesh and blood.
Greyhorse wasn’t difficult to discern from the other two. His towering height, black eyes, and blunt Amerind features set him apart right away. And as if that weren’t enough, the medical blue of his uniform stood out in stark contrast to the garb of his companions.
Crusher stepped forward. “Carter,” she said,