Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [63]
“Or worse,” said Simenon. “We don’t know very much about subspace phenomena, gentlemen—but the ones we’ve observed seem to be quite variable. That means we may continue this way for a while—but it is more likely we will suddenly be released. Or carried along even faster.” He looked at Geordi in particular, his serpentine eyes slitted. “And then, of course, there is a fourth possibility.”
The chief engineer nodded. “The nature of the anomaly could change altogether. We could suddenly find ourselves in a subspace whirlpool—or something even more violent.”
“The moral being to get the hell off this roller coaster,” the Gnalish amplified. “Preferably, before it has a chance to do us in.”
Wesley straightened. “You can count on me,” he told Geordi.
La Forge smiled. “I know I can, Ensign.”
Data had already pledged his best efforts. The chief engineer turned to Simenon. “And you, sir?”
The Gnalish’s mouth quirked, “What do you think?”
For a brief moment, Geordi flashed back on a question the captain had asked of him up on the bridge, when nobody else was listening: “Commander…is it possible that this was accomplished by an act of sabotage? That we were somehow maneuvered into this slipstream you speak of?”
At the time, Geordi had said it was not possible. And he still believed that. No one—not even the best mind in the Federation—had a good enough grasp of subspace phenomena to use one in setting a trap.
But whoever the assassin was, that individual couldn’t have been too upset about running into the slipstream. It was a distraction—a complication that could only work to his or her advantage.
And if the murderer was Simenon—a possibility the chief engineer had to consider, even if he found it unlikely—he would have every reason not to see their work proceed smoothly.
“I think,” Geordi said at last, “that I’m glad to have you on my team.”
The Gnalish smiled. “Naturally.”
As the doors parted, Riker entered the apartment.
Morgen was standing in the center of the foreroom, looking a little too much like a caged beast for the first officer’s taste. “I trust,” said the Daa’Vit, “that you’re not here just to check up on me. I could hardly have complied better with the captain’s wishes—much to the detriment of my disposition.”
“No,” Riker assured him, “I’m not here to check up on you.”
“What then?”
“We’ve got a problem. And since it may affect your arrival on Daa’V, Captain Picard felt you should know about it.”
At the mention of his homeworld, Morgen’s attention turned up a notch. “I’m listening,” he said.
“The Enterprise has run into a subspace phenomenon,” Riker explained. “Something we’ve never encountered before.”
“Has it thrown us off course?” the Daa’Vit asked.
The first officer shook his head. “No. Our course is unchanged. But the phenomenon has got us traveling at warp factor nine point nine five.”
Morgen’s forehead ridged over. “What?”
Riker nodded. “I know how it sounds, sir. But it’s the truth.”
The Daa’Vit gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit, Commander. Please.”
The human conformed to the request. Morgen sat across from him on a rather queer-looking couch—a stone-and-moss affair which had come from ship’s stores.
“Now,” the Daa’Vit told him, “say that again.”
Riker spread his hands. He went over the whole business, leaving nothing out. After all, it was Morgen’s right to know—not only as the next ruler of his people, but as a captain in Starfleet. And his initial surprise notwithstanding, the Daa’Vit seemed to take it in stride.
“You know,” he told Riker, “we had our share of close calls on the Excalibur. Maybe more than our share. Somehow, we always seemed to get out of them.” He smiled as he remembered, the surliness brought on by his confinement forgotten. “After a while, you develop a belief that there’s no problem you can’t solve—no trap from which you can’t devise an escape.” He looked meaningfully at his guest. “Do you know what I mean?”
The first officer nodded. “Yes,