Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [57]
“Not from my point of view.”
“I am not asking you to lock yourself in your quarters—only to make yourself scarce.”
The Daa’Vit eyed him. “And I categorically refuse.”
“Damn it, Morgen. Someone has made an attempt on your life.”
“So you’d have me hide from them? Be fearful of them?” He sneered scornfully. “That is not the Daa’Vit way, my friend. I would have thought you’d know that by now.”
Picard took a deep breath, let it out. He hadn’t expected this to be easy, had he?
“Of course,” said Morgen, “you could order me confined to quarters. That is certainly your prerogative.” He stopped to face Picard, as if challenging him. “But then, you would be jailing the next ruler of the Daa’Vit worlds.”
The captain decided against picking up the gauntlet. He wanted matters to proceed calmly—in an orderly fashion. And arousing Morgen’s ire was the wrong way to do that.
Fortunately, a more subtle tack occurred to him.
“I would never think of it,” he told the Daa’Vit. “Not even if you were still an ensign, and your crown was twenty years away.”
That gave Morgen pause. “That’s right,” he said finally. “You didn’t confine me to quarters then either.” He tilted his head. “But then, the killer had already been caught—hadn’t she?”
“We didn’t know there weren’t other killers aboard.” Picard got up from behind his desk and came forward to sit on the edge of it. “Not for certain, we didn’t. What’s more, there was the matter of a Klingon escape ship to be reckoned with.” He shrugged. “But at the time I was concerned with more than your well-being. I was concerned with your education. It occurred to me that if you were to become a Starfleet officer, you had to be treated like one.”
Morgen nodded. “I’m grateful.”
“You are quite welcome,” said the captain. “And my trust was rewarded. Starfleet got itself a fine officer.” He looked at the Daa’Vit. “A fine captain.” A pause. “That is, before you became a dignitary.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the Daa’Vit, his eyes narrowing.
Picard smiled. “Come, Morgen. Admit it. You are, for all intents and purposes, already the ruler of your people. You have left behind your status as a Starfleet officer—in your own mind, if not officially.” He held out his hands. “You don’t believe me? Recall, if you will, the threat you made a moment ago.”
The Daa’Vit regarded him for what seemed a long time. “No,” he said finally, his lip curling. “I was speaking in anger. Gods, the very thought of being a dignitary—it makes my skin crawl.” He looked away from Picard and grimaced.
“Why?” asked the human. “Because dignitaries are notorious for ignoring what we captains know are best for them? Because they insist on endangering their lives for no good reason?” He nodded. “Yes, you are right. Those are things of which you could never be accused.”
Morgen’s head came up and his eyes locked again with Picard’s. At that moment he looked like a prototypical son of Daa’V—one whose edges had never been softened by the Federation. Then, slowly, a begrudging smile spread across his face. “You are a master, sir. I salute you.” He shook his head appreciatively. “In all that time I spent captaining the Excalibur, I never developed that knack you have for making a point.”
“Just as well,” said Picard. “Then you would have been completely insufferable—not unlike Ben Zoma.” A beat. “You’ll cooperate?”
The Daa’Vit’s nostrils flared. “Up to a point,” he agreed. “I’ll make myself…how did you put it? Scarce?”
“That is indeed how I put it.”
“But if trouble presents itself, don’t expect me to run. I am still quite capable of handling myself, you know.”
The captain had no doubt of it. “Fair enough,” he said.
Eight
Troi waited in the corridor outside the doors of Commander Asmund’s apartment. Inside, she knew, her presence was being announced by a beeping sound. Nor could Asmund fail to hear the signal; it was audible in every part of her quarters, and the computer had confirmed that she was home.
Of course, the commander could ignore the beeping—indicating