Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
Come on, Crusher exhorted inwardly, as the security team bounded past her after Morgen and the assassin. Come on, before she bleeds to death…
Ten
As the captain strode into the specially blocked off critical care area, Crusher and Morgen were there waiting for him. Cadwallader, he noted with some relief, was well enough to turn her head a bit in recognition of his approach.
The doctor looked worn out herself, but she managed a smile. The message was clear: in time, Cadwallader would be all right.
Picard nodded gratefully to her. Then he looked down at his former communications officer. She was pale—terribly pale—but her eyes were as warm and vibrant as ever. Her hand lay on top of the thermal blanket; he took it, squeezed it. Cadwallader squeezed back, surprising him.
“She’s tougher than she looks,” Morgen observed.
The captain grunted his assent, replacing the woman’s hand on the blanket, then looked up at the Daa’Vit. “What happened?” he asked, the cold, flat calmness of his voice belying the anger that raged inside him.
“We were assaulted in a corridor during the power outage,” Morgen explained. “A single assailant with a phaser. Adjusted to setting six, if the holes in the bulkhead are any indication.”
“Setting six?” repeated Picard. “But—”
“I know,” said the Daa’Vit. “Our killer must have disabled the communications module in the phaser so it couldn’t talk with the ship’s computer.”
“The phaser didn’t know it was on the ship,” Beverly expanded. “So it didn’t restrict itself to setting five.”
“Then you recovered the weapon?”
“Unfortunately, no,” the doctor said. “At least, not yet. Worf is looking for it now; I’m just speculating.”
The captain frowned. “And you couldn’t tell who it was? Not at all?”
Morgen shook his head. “It was too dark, and we were blinded by the phaserlight. After the security team scared him—or her—off, I tried to follow. But as I said, it was dark. And our assailant knew how to go quietly.”
Picard gazed at Cadwallader again. “You say Mr. Worf is investigating?”
Crusher nodded. “He mentioned something about blocking off the area—so he could keep what happened from becoming common knowledge.”
“I see,” the captain said. “In that case, I’ll be on Deck Seventeen if you need me.” He looked down at Cadwallader again, managing a smile. “You do everything the doctor tells you,” he advised. “I want you up and about in time for the ceremony on Daa’V.”
Cadwallader’s eyes smiled back at him.
When the call for Picard came up from sickbay, a chill played along Riker’s spine. And when Dr. Crusher subtly declined to discuss the matter in public, the first officer’s fears were pretty much confirmed.
There had been another attempt on Morgen’s life. And as before, someone had gotten hurt. But who? Had the assassin been injured in the course of being apprehended? Or was there another victim—maybe even a fatality?
Of course, Deanna was as much in the dark as he was. She wasn’t a mindreader—not as a full-blooded Betazoid would have been. She could only gauge emotions—and neither the captain’s nor Crusher’s were telling her anything instructive.
On the other hand, someone had to look after the ship. So he and Deanna remained on the bridge, striving to remain calm—trying not to exchange too many worried glances.
In the past, when they were in trouble, Riker had been able to take solace in the celestial beauty captured on the viewscreen. But now, with the starpaths stretched as taut as tightropes—reminders of the slipstream that was propelling them toward who-knew-what—even that option was closed to him. He almost wished that Geordi’s engineering team hadn’t gotten the damned thing working again.
It seemed like years before they heard from Picard. And though his voice was well under control, the nature of his request only aggravated their misgivings: “Commander Riker. Counselor Troi. Avail yourselves of my ready room, please. I would like to have a word with you.”
Getting up from the captain’s chair, the first officer escorted the empath to the captain’s private office. Since Picard wasn