The Battle of Betazed - Charlotte Douglas [75]
In the corridor outside the brig, Picard paused and straightened his uniform. Recognizing the maneuver as a stall before an unpleasant task, he took a moment to draw a deep breath. The prospect of confronting the doctor who had killed so many Bajorans and Betazoids repulsed him. Assuming the guise of a friend and colleague sickened the captain even more, but the sham might be his only chance of getting Moset to talk.
The captain strode into the brig and, hoping their absence would create a more congenial atmosphere, dismissed the guards.
In the far right cell, Moset huddled on a bunk behind a force field, his head resting on the wall, his knees drawn to his chest. The moment he spied the captain, the Cardassian jerked to his feet. “Come to gloat?”
“On the contrary.” Picard forced a warm and congratulatory tone. “I’m here to pay my respects to the man who won the Legate’s Crest of Valor and made medical history for his work on the Fostossa virus.”
Moset eyed him with suspicion. “How do you know about my work?”
“You’re famous throughout the quadrant.” Picard settled into a chair on the opposite side of the force field and tried to appear relaxed. “As a fellow scientist—”
“You’re a Starfleet captain.”
“True, but archaeology is my first love, and while my standing in the scientific community is insignificant compared to yours, I’m hoping you’ll humor me.”
The wariness hadn’t left the Cardassian’s eyes. “How?”
“This damnable war has kept me from my true passion, my science. I miss stimulating conversations with colleagues, especially those with superior intellects, like yours.”
Moset preened slightly at the praise, and Picard stifled a smile. Perhaps the exobiologist’s enormous ego would work in the captain’s favor after all.
“Someday,” Picard continued, “this war will be over. Then everyone will remember that scientists, not soldiers, make the most important contributions to society.”
“The war keeps interrupting my work,” Moset grumbled. “I needed more time …”
His eyes burned with passion, and Picard noted with satisfaction that, with each stroke to Moset’s ego, the doctor acted less hostile.
“Your work is much bigger than the war,” Picard said, struggling not to gag on his words. “And from what little I’ve been able to learn, it was quite compelling. Unfortunately, because my orders were to destroy the station, you may not receive the credit you deserve for your research aboard Sentok Nor.”
“I have no doubt the Federation will execute me,” Moset said glumly.
Picard didn’t bother explaining that the Federation didn’t kill prisoners. Instead, he used Moset’s misinformation to his advantage. “Perhaps I might be of some assistance.”
Moset’s expression brightened. “You’re offering to help?”
“If you explain your work to me, in lay terms, of course, I might convince my superiors that your scientific knowledge is more important than the petty political differences between our peoples.”
“You’d do that?”
“I cannot promise I would succeed. However, I can assure you that you will not be executed and that you will get full credit for your work.”
Credit enough to rot in hell, Picard thought darkly.
He kept his face impassive, knowing the notoriety Moset craved would keep the man behind a force field for the rest of his life. Recalling the dying Betazoids in the cargo bay, their suffering a direct result of the Cardassian’s experiments, Picard felt no guilt for misleading the man.
“I was so close.” Moset paced the brig, seemingly unsuspicious of Picard’s interest. “First, I isolated the gene that allows Betazoids to develop telepathy. Then I designed a way to transfer the gene into mature Jem’Hadar.”
“So you succeeded?”
“The Founders provided such a poor product to work with,” Moset said with a disgusted shake of his head.
“The Jem’Hadar?” Picard recalled Riker’s report of the thousands of Jem’Hadar that had not survived Moset’s experiments.