Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
Even as he drew out his phaser, the Klingon looked none too happy about the idea. “Captain,” he whispered, “you cannot go in first—”
But Picard cut him short with a simple raising of his hand. “I can,” he whispered back, “and I will.” He turned to the door, gathering himself. “This is my responsibility. I should have discharged it some time ago.”
It was a clear admission that he’d been wrong about the assassin’s identity—and that Riker had been right. But the first officer derived no satisfaction from the fact. There were no winners in this situation, only losers. And, unfortunately, Ben Zoma had been the biggest loser of all.
While the captain and Worf were engaged in their exchange, Burke had been working to override the door’s programming with a security-level code. Finished now, he nodded to Picard.
“Ready, sir,” he breathed, taking out his phaser. Holding it close to him, he pointed it at the ceiling.
Without hesitation, the captain walked forward, confident that there would be no beeping inside the apartment to serve as a warning of his approach. Stripped of any programming instructions to the contrary, the doors opened to admit him.
As luck would have it, the apartment’s occupant was sitting at a table in the center of the reception room. She barely turned her head as Picard entered with Riker close behind.
Idun Asmund looked from one to the other of them, remarkably calm—though she had to know that they were on to her. Captains and first officers didn’t just march into their guests’ quarters unannounced. “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked, half smiling.
“You are charged,” Picard responded, his voice flat and mechanical, “with the attempted murder of your fellow officers. On three separate occasions—including one just moments ago, when you savagely attacked Gilaad Ben Zoma with a Klingon ceremonial knife.”
The woman’s brow creased. “What are you talking about? I haven’t touched my knives since I came aboard. If this is a joke—”
“It’s no joke,” said Riker.
Asmund stood. She darted a glance out into the corridor, where she must have caught sight of Worf and his security team—because the crease in her brow deepened. She turned back to the captain. “Sir, if Ben Zoma’s been hurt, I had nothing to do with it. You must believe that.”
Picard’s nostrils flared. “I wish I could, Idun. I truly do. But both Worf and Dr. Crusher agree—only a Klingon ceremonial knife could have inflicted wounds such as Ben Zoma sustained. You carried such weapons onto the Enterprise. And outside of Worf, you are the only one here practiced in their use.” A pause. “What’s more, you have no alibi—other than the computer record of your having been in your quarters at the time. But the computer only records the presence of your communicator.” He scowled—a sincere expression of his pain and regret. “I have no choice but to place you under arrest.”
She shook her head. “You’re making a mistake, Captain. If you’ll tell me what’s going on, I can—”
“You’ll be notified of the charges in detail,” said Picard, “once you’re in the brig.” He looked to Riker. “See to it, Number One. And don’t forget to check her for poisons.”
The first officer nodded. “Aye, sir.” Worf had told him how Klingons imprisoned by their enemies often chose suicide as an honorable alternative to captivity.
“Thank you,” Picard said.
It might not have been plain to anyone else, but Riker knew how this was tearing the captain up inside. Asmund had been part of his crew—just as he and Troi and Worf were now. No, more than his crew—his family.
It wasn’t easy to confront the fact that a member of one’s family was a murderer. Not under any circumstances.
As Picard turned to leave, Asmund appealed to him. “Captain—this is insane. I would never do anything to hurt Ben Zoma or anyone else. If anyone knows that, it’s you.”
Picard headed for the doorway, appearing not to hear her. And after