Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [53]
Worf made a derisive sound. “You underestimate the Klingon constitution, Doctor.” He considered Morgen. “And perhaps the Daa’Vit constitution as well.”
Morgen frowned as Crusher inspected his chest wounds. “Your colleague speaks the truth. Daa’Vit—and Klingons—are tougher than you may realize.”
Satisfied with Morgen’s progress, the doctor switched off her instrument and closed it up. “I underestimate nothing,” she said. “Worf should know that, considering I’ve been treating him for years now. True, I’ve never had to medicate him for wounds like these—but I think I know a few things about Klingon biology.” She replaced the tricorder in the pocket of her lab coat. “Now, if you were to say I’ve never treated a Daa’Vit, you’d be quite right. But I’ve studied up quite a bit on the subject.”
“Reading and doing are two different things,” Morgen reminded her.
“I agree,” Crusher assured him. “That’s why I went to the trouble of speaking recently with a Dr. Carter Greyhorse. You know him? Apparently, he’s had some experience treating a Daa’Vit. Naturally, neither of us anticipated any problems, considering the nature of our mission to Daa’V. But he humored me all the same.”
Morgen’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Worf. “It’s a conspiracy.”
The Klingon grunted in assent. “No doubt.”
Crusher noted with interest the relationship that had developed between the two. Of course, she wouldn’t dare point it out to them. That would be the quickest way to destroy it.
Hell of a way to get closer, she thought. If the experience had lasted much longer, it would have killed them.
“In any case,” she said, “I’ve got to go. The captain has called a meeting—you can imagine what it’s about.”
Worf slid off his biobed. “I should be there.”
“No way,” the doctor told him. “You’ll stay right here. That’s an order.”
“But I am chief of security. And this is a security matter.”
“I don’t care if you’re the”—she glanced at Morgen—“the hereditary ruler of Daa’V. No one leaves this sickbay until I tell them to. Got it?”
Neither Worf nor Morgen answered—at least, not audibly. But when Crusher left sickbay, she left alone.
Picard was the first to enter the lounge. It was quiet—almost unnaturally so. Outside, seen through the observation ports, the stars bore silent witness to his carefully controlled anxiety. He crossed the room.
Taking his place at the head of the conference table, gazing at its polished surface, the captain had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He could almost feel the years peeling away, the dimensions of the room shrinking…faces swimming up at him. Those of Ben Zoma, Simenon, Greyhorse, Idun, Pug and—of course—Jack Crusher…
“Is Ensign Morgen all right, Doctor?”
“Fine,” said Greyhorse. “He was just a little shaken up.”
“And Lieutenant Asmund?” asked Jack.
Picard could feel Idun tense at the mention of her sister—but she gave no other sign of her concern.
“Likewise, Captain. She’ll live to stand trial for the attempt on Morgen’s life.”
“Good. I am glad to hear that she will survive.”
He had to be careful what he said. After all, it was Gerda who’d committed the crime—not her twin.
“I’ve got two men assigned to her night and day,” reported Joseph. He glanced at Greyhorse. “The doctor’s not pleased about it, but I told him those were your orders.”
The captain nodded. “Indeed.”
“What about the Klingons?” asked Simenon.
“The Victorious and the Berlin are only hours away,” responded Ben Zoma. “They’ll be escorting the good ship Tagh’rat to the borders of the Empire, where it will become an imperial matter. But the word from the emperor is that the splinter group will be dealt with harshly. After all, he wants