Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [98]
The thing in Worf’s gut began to writhe. He had to admit it—Asmund’s words had the ring of truth to them.
“You know I’m telling the truth, Lieutenant. And you know also the importance of one’s name—one’s honor.”
The Klingon flinched inwardly. Did she know of his discommendation? Apparently she did. But then, it was hardly a secret in the Empire. And if Asmund maintained any contact at all with the family that raised her…
“Yes,” he said with as much dignity as possible. “I know of that.”
“I must clear my name, Worf.” She had dropped the Starfleet title and was using his given name; the significance of that choice was not lost on him. Asmund was calling upon him as a Klingon might call on another Klingon—as a warrior might call on another warrior. “I must find the assassin and bring him to justice. And I can’t do that while I’m sitting in the brig.”
The security chief’s eyes narrowed. “What would you have me do? Free you?”
She regarded him. “Talk to Captain Picard. Make him see—he’ll listen to you.” Her hands became fists. “I’m not your killer, Worf. I am not the one you’re after.”
He looked at her—looked deep into those strange, blue-shadow eyes—and found he believed her.
“Please,” the blond woman said—not like a warrior this time, but like a human. “There is no one else on this ship who might understand. You are my only hope.”
Worf took a breath, let it out. “I will consider what you’ve said. Beyond that, I make no promises.”
“Tell him I can help in the investigation.” She came closer, her face only inches from his now. “Tell him I can be of use to you.” Asmund reached out to him. “I can be of use, you kn—”
She must have reached out just a little bit too far—because there was a savage burst of light and the woman was flung back into her cell.
Worf resisted the impulse to go in and help her. The energy barrier worked in both directions; he would have suffered the same fate.
So he could only watch as Asmund shook off the effects of the force field and pulled herself to her feet. Watch—and gain a measure of respect for her stamina. Humans weren’t supposed to be able to get up so quickly after being jolted like that.
She looked at him. “That was stupid.”
He agreed. He said so. Then he added: “Maj doch SID ghos nagh.”
It was a Klingon saying—in essence, “Good things come to those who wait.”
Asmund must have wondered exactly what he meant. But she nodded. “Tuv nagh.” I will be patient.
A moment later Worf called for Burke and headed back to the turbolift. There were no computer stations in the corridors of deck thirty-eight—for security reasons—and he wanted to learn more about Gerda Asmund’s approach to the murder of Ensign Morgen.
“Come in,” Morgen told him.
The doors to the Daa’Vit’s apartment opened and the Klingon walked in. Their eyes met and locked, their instincts taking over for just a moment before they remembered who they were and the experience they had shared.
“Sorry to bother you,” Worf said.
“Don’t be,” Morgen assured him. He indicated a seat. “Please.”
The security chief acknowledged the kindness with a slight inclination of his head. He sat.
“What can I do for you?” the Daa’Vit asked.
Worf frowned. “I need to know about that first attempt on your life. The one that Gerda Asmund staged twenty years ago.”
Morgen looked at him. “Any particular reason?”
“Yes,” the Klingon told him. “But for now I would prefer it remain my own.”
The Daa’Vit considered the response. “All right,” he said finally. “I will respect that. But couldn’t you have found what you seek in the ship’s computer?”
“No. I tried that, and all I could get was a reference to the crime. No details.”
“What sort of details were you looking for?”
“Everything,” Worf said. “As much as you can remember.”
Morgen considered it. “Let me see, then.” He leaned back on his couch—a strange rock-and-moss affair. “I was an ensign at the time. One of my duties was to