Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [95]
Then, without looking to see Eisenberg’s reaction too quickly, he took a sip of his synthehol and savored it. “Ah,” he commented with a bravado he didn’t quite feel. “What life’s all about.”
Finally, he gave his companion a sidelong glance. The younger man was staring at him.
“Join me?” O’Brien asked.
Gradually, Eisenberg lifted his glass. And smiled—if only faintly. “When you put it that way,” he said, “how can I refuse?”
After everyone else left, it was just the two of them. Morgen paced the length of the observation lounge, looking for all the world like a caged beast. And the captain watched, leaning back against the edge of the conference table, his arms folded over his chest.
“Damn her,” the Daa’Vit growled. “No—damn me. How could I have brought her aboard? How?”
“There was no way of predicting this,” Picard told him.
“You’re wrong,” Morgen insisted. “I knew I was inviting trouble—in my heart, I knew. But I wanted to show her that I could put the past behind me. I wanted to be forgiving. Benevolent. All the things my years in Starfleet taught me to be.” He shook his head. “And look where my benevolence has gotten me. Your security officer is endangered. Cadwallader gets a hole burned through her. And Ben Zoma—brave, goodhearted Ben Zoma—”
Suddenly, Morgen seemed to erupt—to go mad. He growled hideously at the top of his lungs and pounded his fists on the table. Picard’s instinct was to retreat from the spectacle, but he stood his ground—reminding himself that the tortured creature before him was his friend. That he had nothing to fear from him.
Still, it was not easy. He had never seen such an explosion of Daa’Vit fury before—and he had no wish to see it ever again.
In the end, Morgen’s fit lasted just a few seconds. But even when it was finished, his chest still heaved. “I am sorry you had to see that,” he said.
“It is all right,” the captain told him. “We are friends. Old friends.”
“No,” the Daa’Vit insisted in a deep slow voice. “It was…inappropriate.” He massaged the fingers of his left hand. “But even so, I was right. I should have listened to my head, not my heart. I should have known better.”
Picard could see no good coming of further self-recrimination. He decided to change the subject. “Will it hurt your ability to ascend to the throne?” he asked.
The Daa’Vit looked at him. “What?”
“Being without Ben Zoma and Asmund. Will it hurt you politically?”
If Morgen saw what the captain was doing, he didn’t object. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It shouldn’t. True, it will make people wonder when I show up with a smaller escort than that which was announced. But there will still be four of you—yourself, Pug, Cad, and Greyhorse. And four is the minimum required by law.” He cleared his throat, which must have been scoured raw by his outburst. “Blazes—anyone who hasn’t got four friends in the whole universe isn’t fit to rule.”
The Daa’Vit began to pace again. But he seemed under control, contemplative. Almost calculating, in contrast to the fit of unbridled emotion Picard had just witnessed. Preferring this Morgen to the other—at least for now—the captain didn’t interrupt.
“Of course,” the Daa’Vit said after a little while, “the size of my escort is one thing—and the circumstances in which it was diminished is another. If the true story gets out on Daa’V, it could be embarrassing. Most embarrassing.”
The captain shrugged. “Then no one on Daa’V need know the circumstances.”
Morgen nodded. “Good.” His eyes narrowed. “Now all we have to do is get there. What about this idea that Simenon’s had?”
Picard shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it—except that Commander La Forge seemed to think it was promising.”
“Perhaps we should find out, then.” A hint of irony had crept back into his voice. Of amusement, almost.
The captain saw it as a good sign. “Perhaps we should,” he agreed.
Fourteen
As Worf negotiated the corridor that led to the brig, he asked