Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [72]
Picard gazed with distaste at the phaser burns on the bulkheads—samples of which were being taken by Burke and Resnick. Then he turned his attention to the Klingon. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He took a deep breath, let it out through his nostrils. “Anything to report—beyond the obvious, that is?”
The security chief extracted the phaser from his belt and handed it over. Picard’s eyes narrowed as he accepted it.
“The weapon used in the assault,” Worf explained, though it was all but unnecessary. “As we suspected, its communications module has been disabled.” He paused. “We found it in a refuse bin about twenty meters forward of here. Apparently, the assassin did not want to take a chance that it would turn up in a room search—but was in too much of a hurry to decompose it.”
The captain examined the phaser for a moment. Slowly, his eyes widened. “Lieutenant—this phaser—”
Worf nodded. “It is one of ours. Stolen from the security section.”
Picard regarded him. “How could that have happened?”
The Klingon looked past him, trying to contain his shame. “Loyosha—the officer on duty—was found unconscious shortly after the attack. He was drugged—something in his food, I believe. It appears he was eating his dinner when he passed out. Of course, it is only a theory. We have secured the remainder of the food so it can be tested.”
The captain frowned and returned the phaser. Worf replaced it on his belt. “Where did Loyosha’s meal come from? The food service unit outside Security?”
“That is the most likely possibility,” the Klingon confirmed. “We have secured the unit as well.”
Picard nodded. “Good.” He started to walk along the corridor, away from the main focus of activity, in the direction from which the attack had come. He would, of course, have been able to tell that from the phaser scars on the bulkheads. Worf walked along with him, silent at first.
Finally, the security chief swallowed. “Sir?”
“Yes, Worf.” The captain wasn’t looking at him. He was looking back and forth from one end of the corridor to the other, apparently trying to satisfy himself as to some aspect of the attack.
“Sir,” said the Klingon, “if the food service unit was tampered with, it is my fault. I insist on taking full responsibility for the incident.”
The captain turned to him. He had a strange look in his eyes—as if Worf’s comment had struck some kind of chord.
“Lieutenant,” the older man said finally, “we are dealing with someone who has an extraordinary grasp of this ship’s systems. Considering the unit’s proximity to Security, I am certain the assassin did not reprogram it in person. And if he—” He paused. “Or she reprogrammed it from afar, I am certain even Mr. La Forge would be hard pressed to say how.”
Worf scowled. “Nonetheless—”
Picard dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Nonetheless nothing. You have more important things to do than waste time on self-recrimination. Do I make myself clear?”
The Klingon straightened, feeling appropriately chastised. “Aye, sir,” he said.
“Now take me through this assault as you’ve reconstructed it. And don’t leave out any details.”
Worf nodded. “As you wish.”
The critical-care area was off limits to all nonmedical personnel, with the exception of Picard, Riker, and Worf. Those were the orders Crusher had left when she’d gone to her office, in order to more closely analyze the vital-sign readings she’d taken from Cadwallader.
Simple. In retrospect, too simple.
She’d forgotten that Carter Greyhorse was a medical officer, and that none of her doctors and nurses—who knew only half Cadwallader’s story themselves—would have a reason to keep the high-ranking visitor out.
So when Crusher returned to critical care, satisfied that the patient was safe from any serious complications, there was her former colleague—hovering massively over Cadwallader’s unconscious form, one huge hand brushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Before she could say anything