Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [78]
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 comand 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 periodically check the shuttle bay operation consoles—in essence, to run the self-diagnostic sequences. It was something the regular shuttle deck personnel could have done easily enough, but Captain Picard insisted I learn everything there was to know about a Federation Starship. In retrospect, not a bad idea.” His bright yellow eyes lost their focus as he reentered the past. “That particular day, a crewman named McDonnell was in charge of the shuttle deck. A slow-moving, slow-talking sort of fellow, but one you could always rely on. When I arrived, he was nowhere to be seen. The deck was empty.” “There was only one crewman on duty?” Worf asked. “That is correct. The Stargazer was a deep-space explorer, remember. Constellation class. We didn’t carry the same kind of crew that the Enterprise does. We didn’t need to.”
The Klingon nodded. “Of course. Please proceed.” “I called for McDonnell, but there was no answer. What I should have done at that point was alert Pug Joseph. But I was young and cocky—and besides, I didn’t expect that there was really anything very wrong. So I took a look around.
“Finally, I found McDonnell. He was stretched out
behind one of the shuttles, either dead or unconscious. Later, I found out he had only been knocked out. But at the time I wasn’t sure, so I rushed to his side. And as I bent down to see him, Gerda leapt down on me from her perch on top of the shuttle. “She must have hit me pretty hard. The next thing I knew, there was the taste of blood in my mouth. My vision was blurred and my ears were ringing too loudly for me to think. I didn’t know it was Gerda attacking me. I wasn’t even certain I’d been attacked. I just knew that something bad had happened, and that I should try to keep it from happen-+ again.
“As I tried to get my bearings, I caught a glimpse of something swinging toward me– something long and heavy-looking. Just in time, I rolled away; it missed me. There was another blow, which I also managed to elude. Gradually, I came to realize that my life was in jeopardy —and that it was Gerda who was jeopardizing it, though I couldn’t understand why.
“By the time Gerda came at me again, I had made a further connection with reality: I recognized the weapon she held in her hands. It was a rikajsha stalk. What the Federation science manuals refer to as Klingon ironroot.”
The reference prodded Worf’s curiosity. “Rikajsha?” he repeated. Ironroot grew only on the Klingon homeworld. “Where did she get it?”
“From the ship’s botanical garden,