Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
Of course, they were still on file at Starfleet Headquarters. But he had not wanted the material to be available to curiosity seekers-especially since it might have hampered Idun in her career. “I spoke with Captain Morgen,” the Klingon answered.
Picard swallowed his surprise. What had happened to that fabled hostility between Klingons and Daa’Vit? “I see,” he said. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”
Worf inclined his head slightly. “Aye, sir.”
A moment later the chief of security had departed, leaving Picard with even more to ponder than when, he arrived on the bridge. Good God, he mused. Is it possible that a murderer is still loose on my ship?
Guinan stood behind the bar, looked around, and smiled. Ten-Forward was quiet again. Not really quiet, of course; there were murmured conversations and the tinkling of glasses and the sound of chairs clattering against tables. But it was placid in comparison to the rush of the last several hours. Commander Asmund’s arrest had raised quite a stir. And understandably so. Asmund wasn’t some hostile life-form who’d invaded the Enterprise with her phasers blazing; she was a Starfleet officer who had walked beside them, even sat down to dinner with them-all the while plotting to commit murder in their midst.
For once, even Guinan had been caught off guard. Usually, there was very little that occurred on the ship that got past her. But neither she nor Troi nor anyone else had managed to catch on to the killer-not until Worf identified her by her handiwork. It was disconcert-+, to say the least.
As the doors opened, Guinan glanced in their direction. It was a reflex by now, part of the routine of running Ten-Forward. She felt more comfortable know-+ who was coming in and who was leaving. And people
liked the idea that she took note of them; it made them feel special.
Then she saw who had just entered her domain. Well, she mused, maybe “special” isn’t quite the right word in this case. “Hunted” or “persecuted, was but definitely not “special. was It was Pug Joseph. And he’d been drinking again. She could see it in the dark, puffy rings under his eyes and in the waxy pallor of his skin.
For a moment, Pug didn’t seem to notice her-maybe because there were a couple of waiters obscuring his view. She watched him scan the area out by the observation ports, eyes narrowed. Looking for his nemesis, she thought: me. Failing to find her, he smiled and took a couple of steps toward the nearest concentration of tables. Apparently, Pug had gotten tired of drinking in his room. And despite his earlier failures, he still thought he had a shot at taking his binge to Ten-Forward.
Then the waiters moved away, and Guinan was revealed to him. As their eyes met and locked, his expression changed-became tense, almost hateful.
Stifling his fury, he turned and walked out of the lounge. Beverly lay stretched out on her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to face the prospect that Ben Zoma was beyond her help. It wasn’t easy. She had done her best, brought to bear all the medical technology at her disposal-and he still had less than a fifty-fifty chance.
That irked her. It wasn’t as if she had never lost a patient-every doctor in Starfleet had to deal with occasional failure. But Ben Zoma had been her husband’s friend, his comrade. He had joked with him,
shared sorrows and triumphs with him. In a way, she felt that losing Gilaad