Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [77]
Data cocked his head as he so often did when comprehension eluded him. “But what about your efforts regarding the slipstream?” he asked. “Did you not say you came to help?”
Greyhorse waved the suggestion away with his large, meaty hand. “Self-preservation, my friend. Nothing more, nothing less. If the ship is lost or destroyed, so am I. And I prefer to survive—to return to Starfleet Medical, where I can go on with my charade: the humane and dedicated healer.”
He got up. Data watched him, trying to make sense of what the doctor had said.
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Commander. If anything comes to me, I’ll let you know.” He paused. “Oh, and…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my visit to Professor Simenon. He’d only mock me. You know, for overstepping my professional bounds.”
“I understand,” the android assured him.
“You see?” Greyhorse said. “You really are more human.”
Then he left.
The captain was still sitting in his ready room, still thinking, when the sound of chimes interrupted his reverie. Someone out on the bridge wanted to see him. Picard looked to the room’s only entrance, wondered briefly who might be out there. Then, reluctantly, he straightened in preparation for whoever it was.
“Come,” said the captain.
The doors opened.
It was Ben Zoma. And he did not look very happy.
“Have a seat,” said Picard.
His former first officer sat down on the opposite side of the captain’s desk. It was a familiar position for both of them; they’d conversed this way on the Stargazer hundreds of times.
But this is not the Stargazer, the captain had to remind himself. And Ben Zoma was no longer his exec. What had his life been like for the past decade? Could he have changed enough to become a killer?
“Jean-Luc,” began the olive-skinned man, no longer his usual jovial self. “I want some answers. And I want them now.”
Picard met his gaze. “What sort of answers, Gilaad?”
Ben Zoma leaned back in his chair. “Where is Cadwallader? And don’t tell me you don’t know. She doesn’t answer my intercom calls. And when I went to her quarters, there was no answer there either.”
The captain decided to be truthful—if only up to a point.
“She is in sickbay,” he said. He watched for his friend’s reaction, hoping to discern something that would give away Ben Zoma’s guilt. And at the same time, hoping even more fiercely not to.
“Sickbay,” echoed the other man, suddenly concerned. And as far as Picard could tell, the concern was quite genuine. “Is she all right? What happened?”
Here came the lie. It didn’t exactly emerge trippingly from his lips.
“During the engine shutdown, emergency life support short-circuited on Deck Seventeen, causing an explosion in the ventilator shaft. An air vent blew out; Cadwallader was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It could have happened that way. In fact, Geordi swore he’d actually seen an accident just like it—years ago, back on the Hood.
Ben Zoma nodded, taking it in. “And Cadwallader?”
“She’s fine,” said Picard. “Some minor surgery, that’s all. She could probably be up and about tomorrow, though Dr. Crusher will no doubt want to keep an eye on her a little longer.”
Ben Zoma nodded again. The skin between his brows crinkled.
“You know,” he said, “when you serve under a man for almost twenty years, you come to know him pretty well. You know when he’s tired, or frustrated, or saddened. Even a man like you, Jean-Luc—one who hides his feelings well.” He leaned forward, not so much angry as hurt. “And you know when he’s lying through his teeth. You, my friend, are lying through your teeth.”
“Indeed.”
“That’s right. As I told your Counselor Troi, there’s something happening on the Enterprise—something