Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [74]
“They are,” the transporter chief explained. “A bad apple doesn’t make a bad bunch.”
Eisenberg didn’t seem to have heard him. “You know what they say. With friends like those, who needs the Romulans?” He sighed. “You should have seen that poor Ben Zoma fellow. I’ve never seen so much blood.” The younger man’s gaze grew distant. O’Brien eyed him mock-seriously. “Y’know, Davey, you’re starting to depress me. And that’s not easy.” The med tech leaned back in his chair, genuinely repentant. “Sorry.”
“Why don’t you take a peek at the bright side? The woman’s been caught. She’s in the brig, where she can’t hurt anybody else.” “I suppose so,” Eisenberg told him. For a brief mo-ment he seemed content. Then he started to think again. “But that’s not our only problem, is it?” He glanced out the port, where the stars continued to streak by at an ungodly speed. “What about that? I heard that this phenomenon can suddenly change shape-become something else. And tear us apart like old-fashioned tissue paper.”
O’Brien could see he had his work cut out for him.
“You could look at it that way-doom and gloom and all that stuff. Or you could tell yourself that Commander La Forge and his helpers will get us out of this-like they always do. And in the meantime, we have ringside seats for the greatest show in the galaxy.” O’Brien swung his chair around to face the observation port and the flat lines of light beyond it. Raising his glass in a toast, he said: “To warp nine point nine five. May she always be so beautiful.”
Then, without looking to see Eisenberg’s reaction too quickly, he took a sip of his synthenol 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-was
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