Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [80]
“But,” Riker reminded them, “it’s a simple matter to remove one’s communicator. Then one need not worry about being located—either at the moment of the crime or later on.”
The captain nodded. “But thank you, Lieutenant. It was worth a try.” He regarded the others. “Suggestions?”
No one seemed to have any.
“Are we beaten that easily?” he asked. “Perhaps we should just concede defeat now and get it over with.”
That seemed to shake them up a bit.
Picard stood. “I do not care what it takes,” he insisted. “I want this would-be assassin found. Before he becomes an assassin in fact.”
He scanned the faces at the table. For a moment he could have sworn Jack Crusher’s was among them. Then he looked again, and Jack was gone.
Steadying himself, the captain said: “This meeting is adjourned.”
The holodeck doors opened on a majestic scarlet forest shot through with long shafts of golden sunlight. Wesley took a step inside, applying his weight to the seemingly mosslike substance that covered the open spaces between the trees. It was springy underfoot—so springy, in fact, that it was difficult to keep his balance. But after a few more steps, he found the way to negotiate it was to bounce along instead of trying to resist it.
The Gnalish wasn’t immediately visible, but there seemed to be a path full of the springy stuff that cut the forest in two. Half walking and half bouncing, Wesley followed it, shading his eyes when the sunbeams got in them.
It was still along the path, windless and empty of animal life. No doubt, his presence had sent all the earthbound creatures scurrying into the bushes.
But it hadn’t done anything to hamper the activity above him. Small flying things darted from branch to branch, looking carefree and idyllic. They weren’t a whole lot different from the birds Wesley remembered from his childhood on Earth—though no Terran bird ever made those deep-throated sounds, or shed so many feathers as it flew.
Smiling, the ensign watched the flight of one feather as it descended directly in front of him. It glistened in the sun, dark purple around its stem and green at its fringes. Intrigued, Wesley knelt to pick it up—and drew his hand back quickly as he felt the prick of something sharp. Examining his finger, he saw a bead of blood at the tip.
“If we were really on Gnala,” said a voice, “you would have about twenty seconds to make peace with your gods.”
Wesley jumped at the sound. He’d been so intent on the feather, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone in the holodeck. Turning, he saw the Gnalish sitting with his back against a tree trunk, his scarlet robes exactly the same color as the foliage.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Simenon said, getting to his feet. “It just occurred to me that you might find a little background information interesting. Including what’s poisonous and what’s not.”
The ensign looked at the feather in a fresh light. “It’s so pretty. It’s hard to believe it’s harmful.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” The Gnalish smoothed out his robe. “There’s an antidote, of course—but you would have to have taken it in advance. Once you’ve been pricked, it’s too late.” He shaded his eyes and pointed to the flying things among the branches overhead. “That’s how they secure their sustenance. They wait until an animal brushes against a feather and is incapacitated by the poison. Then they descend and pick it apart. Quick workers too. Usually, they can clean a carcass before the poison shuts down the victim’s brain.”
It wasn’t a pretty image. Wesley shuddered involuntarily, imagining a path full of tiny four-legged skeletons.
“Of course,” Simenon went on, “the poison doesn’t affect the colunnu—the flyers. They have a natural immunity to it.”
Wesley let go of the feather. He watched it waft to the mossy ground. “I’m glad,” he said, “that you decided to leave a few details out of your program.”
The Gnalish grunted. “So am I. Back on Gnala, I used