“I see that even you are unwilling to believe the truth.” Urosk folded his arms beneath his dank, tenebrous cloak, and sat back down. Somehow, at least to Beverly, it was the most threatening motion one could imagine.
“Your only choice, Picard,” Urosk said slowly, “was a very poor one.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Geordi, still in his post-op pajamas as Data led him through Enterprise’s corridors, felt as if he’d been out of circulation for years rather than hours.
“It is the truth, Geordi,” Data said emphatically.
“Worf is not a murderer.”
Data squeezed Geordi’s shoulder and turned him around a person who must have just come out a doorway. The android had insisted on the escort to Geordi’s cabin, displacing the orderly who would normally see to such things. A kind gesture, Geordi thought, but with the Captain gone and Riker missing, Data was in charge. It seemed not to faze him.
“If I may point out,” Data said, ushering Geordi into a turbolift, “Lieutenant Worf is capable of acting to defend what he sees as his honor.”
“Hey,” Geordi turned toward the android out of reflex, “Worf wouldn’t defy orders. Are you saying you think he did it?”
There was a dreadfully long pause. The type that meant Data was lending something considerable thought or effort. Finally the android spoke: “I do believe it is within the realm of possibility. In fact, the Klingons may also have had something to do with the away team’s disappearance.”
What? Did they remove my eyes, or my ears?
“You want to explain that one, Data?”
As Geordi felt the turbolift slow, Data pulled them both back to one side. Obviously not their deck. The doors opened, someone stepped in, greeted Geordi and Data, and slipped silently out of Geordi’s world again.
“I think it best we discuss this later, Geordi. In private,” Data said.
The obvious question was “why,” but Geordi left it unasked. Instead, he just settled back against the lift’s wall and took in a breath. Seemingly, the world had gone mad.
“Damn right we’re going to discuss this,” Geordi mumbled. “And it’ll be more sooner than later.”
Chapter Eight
BARBARA STUFFED HER HANDS angrily into the pockets of the white lab coat tossed over the gown she’d worn to the ill-fated dinner. She continued to pace the room that had become Picard’s base of failed operations. At least that was what she was calling it. In fact she was thinking of having a plaque made for the door.
“I don’t sympathize with your diplomatic problems, Captain,” she snapped, louder than she should have. “You’ve let this situation spiral out of control, and that’s just as much my responsibility as it is yours.”
That of course was a lie, more to herself than to Picard. This was all her concern, especially Will, not really her responsibility, but what was a little white lie between emotions?
Unfortunately, she knew she wasn’t fooling herself, and something in Picard’s unflickering eyes said she wasn’t fooling him either. But at this point she was too angry for embarrassment. Too angry . . . too worried.
“Doctor, I can’t accuse anyone of murder or kidnapping when I haven’t any evidence.” The captain was sitting for a change. She had taken his place as anxious pacer.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you take Mr. Data’s suggestion to search the Klingon ship. And the Hidran ship as well.”
“We’ve scanned both ships—”
“Even I know you can hide people from scans.”
“Don’t presume to tell me my responsibilities, Doctor,” Picard snapped.
Barbara leaned down, flattening her palms on the table top. She felt her face flush and hoped it looked more like rage than embarrassment. “Don’t shirk your responsibilities, Captain, and I won’t have need to remind you of them.”
Picard rose, grinding her back with the coolness of his eyes. “My responsibility is my business, Doctor. I cannot and will not move without evidence. You’re supposed to be a scientist, so I’ll assume you understand the value of acting only on facts.”
The Hidran assassin could smell the foolish arrogance of his prey. The odor wafted through the hallway, and he knew the Starfleet Klingon Worf was close at hand.
Bending his long frame over, Batok attempted stealth. The effort seemed foolishly useless—seven feet of red Hidran was just illsuited to blend in against chalk-white walls.
His last glimpse of Worf had been down this corridor, so he stalked forward, toward the room where he believed the Klingons were being kept.
The brightness of this world was an obstacle to Hidran camouflage. In fact, most things about this world were proving a burden—its air, its lack of water, its treacherous Klingon and Starfleet masters.
Batok’s long fingers shifted over the human phaser awkwardly, anxiously. The weapon had been a struggle to acquire—the humans fought better than one might think. These Terran enigmas baffled him, and all of Hidra. They were quiet, small beings, with a strange sense of when and where to show they could also be loud and large.
The Hidran tried to flatten himself along the corridor wall, with little success. He held the phaser close with one hand and pressed his empty palm flush against the chalk wall behind him. He frowned at the dry feeling against his fingers and quickly wiped the grit onto his cloak. Irritations—that’s all the Klingons had ever brought.
He thought of Worf, and of the great pleasure there would be in permanently removing this one particular irritation. Pleasure, fame, reputation . . . all that and more. Killing a Klingon was at one time a rite of passage on Hidra. In his father’s time the number of Klingons a man had killed was the key to elections and power.
That time was nearly past. Yes, the results of Klingon occupation remained, as did the hatred of the Klingons, but so few young Hidra had even seen a Klingon in person that the bragging of young warriors rang hollow.
Batok’s boasting would be honest . . . this was his opportunity to take and shape the rest of his life. He would not only have the chance to spit in a real Klingon’s face, but he would kill one and live to savor the feeling.
Peering around the corner, he spotted another Starfleet guard. How many of them were there! How many would stand in his way?
The Earther wasn’t looking in Batok’s direction, but supposedly they had excellent hearing. With ears that large . . .
Batok set the phaser on what appeared to be the highest stun setting. For the first time he was uncertain, not only of the weapon, but of his actions. He didn’t dare kill the Terran. Had he been doing this under Captain Urosk’s direct orders it might have been different. Killing the Starfleet Klingon could be explained easily, but just killing any Starfleeter? That would not be a badge of honor and would be frowned upon—severely. For reasons that had always escaped Batok, Starfleet was somewhat respected by the Hidran populace.
No, killing off-worlders arbitrarily was not politically acceptable. The act might gain him pleasure, but little else. And Batok took little risk for pleasure alone.
Yet, he also had to be sure the Starfleeter would not ruin his plans.
Quietly the Hidran lieutenant reached around the corridor, guiding and aiming the phaser. One rod of fire whined out, lancing across the hall.
The Starfleeter collapsed into a stockpile of useless muscles.
“Even your own captain knows you have acted with honor.” Kadar offered Worf one of the five seats allowed the Klingons in their cell of protective custody. “Otherwise why would you be confined here with us.” The Klingon commander motioned to the other four Klingon officers, one of whom was now standing awkwardly, his seat offered in tribute to Worf.
So this was the Klingon smugness and arrogance Worf had been accused of so often. It was annoying. He now wanted to somehow take back a few of the punches he’d thrown because of that insult.
“I did not kill the ambassador,” Worf said, taking the stool, deciding to save needed strength
rather than take the unneeded pride there would have been in turning down the gesture. “Captain Picard believes that, but is bound by regulations. I understand his actions and agree with them.”
Kadar thundered to one of his subordinates and was quickly handed his own stool. He sat down, a chuckle rising in his throat as he spoke. “You make brave sounds, Lieutenant Worf. I like you.”
Lifting his eyes from the floor, Worf seized Kadar’s gaze and wrenched it into a lock. There had been a time in Worf’s life when he aspired to a position such as Kadar’s—the command of a Klingon battle ship.
Having served among Terrans for these years, the Klingon condescension he was so often accused of had molded itself into respect. Respect for his captain, not only because of the rank, but because of the man.
A few years ago Worf would have admired Kadar for his rank alone. No longer. In the Klingon Empire one could still attain such position more from treachery and savvy than from skill alone. There was no honor in treachery, Worf had decided. And so, he could not give Kadar respect, until he was sure it had been earned.
“I do not care if you like me,” Worf said. “And I do not care if you believe me.”
Kadar rumbled a laugh. “Are you telling me you were agreeable to the Hidran for no motive?”
The Klingon commander was anything but subtle, yet had this irritating talent for cunningly asking the most delicate of questions.
“I was under orders from my captain.” It was a lie, but Worf needed to be cunning as well. If he could convince Kadar that the platitudes to Zhad were just that—platitudes, then perhaps the Klingon commander might reveal what he knew of the Hidran ambassador’s death. There was a kernel of an idea that kept pushing its way into Worf’s thoughts: his Klingon brethren may well have had something to do with Zhad’s murder, if it was murder.
“I believe that you drown the Hidran in banality in order to gain his trust,” Kadar said.
“As I said, I do not care what you believe.”
The Klingon smile that Worf felt so infrequently on his own face seemed to haunt Kadar’s. “What is it that you do care about, Lieutenant Worf? Do you care about flowers and Terran kittens and other Earther pursuits? Do you have a pet tribble or a puppy dog? Or are you a Klingon? What is the truth about you?”
Worf bolted from his seat and had his hands wrapped around Kadar’s neck before the other Klingons had a chance to contemplate moving. He pressed the Commander’s throat closed with one hand, pinning Kadar’s head in his other hand. Worf kept the Klingon captain balanced on the stool not allowing bracing of any kind.
It was a gamble, and the stake was Worf’s life.
“nIS wej,” Kadar choked out, ordering his men not to interfere.
“Is this Klingon enough for you, Kadar?” Worf growled. “Why does the question of my blood concern you so? Why is my Klingon soul of such grave importance to you? Do you not have what you wanted?”
Worf twisted his hand round Kadar’s neck again for effect, jerking the Klingon commander around.
“The wedge is back between the Empire and the Hidran Congress. They will die, as a people, as a planet, and you will only lose some warriors who will be proud to have given their lives to a disease because it served the purposes of honor. And the Empire can’t even be blamed because I am a Federation citizen and not a Klingon subject.”
Worf released his grip and Kadar yanked himself away. Purple marks on his neck were beginning to appear, but his voice showed no strain. “Are you suggesting that we would intentionally implicate you for a murder you did not commit, Lieutenant?”
This time Worf laughed, but only to cover his anger. Anger at Kadar . . . anger at himself. Given Doctor Crusher’s inability to find any reason other than the breathing mask malfunction for Zhad’s death, even he was beginning to believe his actions caused the ambassador’s demise. But if there was another explanation—a Klingon explanation, then Kadar must be the one to reveal it to him. The Klingon commander’s confidence would have to be gained.
“I am suggesting,” Worf said, “that if I have not been framed, you have fallen into good fortune.” Worf pushed past the other Klingons toward the one window in the small room. “I do not believe in fortune.” Peering out the window and down onto the twisting saffron fields, Worf pressed his palms against the pane and wished he could press right out the window and away from such cowardly Klingons who might do such a thing. “And you do not believe in such fortune either. The universe is Klingons’ to shape, and I have respect for those who mold it to their liking.”
Batok twisted the light Starfleeter over like a limp puppet and grabbed for his phaser. At the same time he checked for a beating heart and a moist breath.
He felt the pounding in the Earther’s chest, and was grateful. The man was alive . . . but would be unconscious for how long? With an alien weapon there was no way to tell. He rolled the unconscious guard into the corner, away from the doorway. Should he bind the guard? With what? Best not waste the time—if the Starfleeter dared to rise again, he would simply stun him back into unconsciousness.
Hastily, Batok slipped the extra phaser into a pocket in his cape. Two Federation pistols and two Federation communicators were now in his collection. Excellent. Urosk’s anger could not last long with such prizes in addition to Worf’s death.
He looked up at the door that looked out of place—a new security hatch phaser-welded into an old stone building. The Starfleeters thought of everything. Had it been a normal door Batok could have opened it quickly, found his quarry, fired, and locked the Klingons back in. They would not have had a chance to react. Now they might.
He’d have to find Worf quickly, kill him, and close the hatch again before the others had an opportunity to make it to the door. He could not kill all of them and still retain his rank, and he could not switch settings on the phaser fast enough to stun the others. He had the other phaser, but one hand must be free to control the door.
His left hand wrapped around the Terran weapon, another on the button that activated the door, Batok readied himself. He tried to picture the layout of the room—perhaps it was the same as the one he had been kept in, yet reversed.
He took in a deep breath of the foul air the planet provided. Just adding moisture wasn’t enough to kill the stench, especially the Klingon stench that was making him sick right through the door.
Worf . . . just beyond that door. The thought was full of angry exhilaration. Soon one Klingon’s stench would be due more to burnt flesh than poor hygiene.
Hate stung Batok’s eyes and he blinked to clear his thoughts. He must be lucid to do this quickly. And he must not fail. To have come this far only to have his efforts end in disgrace would mean his own death.
He glanced down at the phaser’s settings again, hoping he had selected the “kill” setting that would leave a corpse. Depriving the other Klingons of actually seeing the shell of their fallen comrade would be too kind. If he accidentally chose the button that would vaporize Worf, well . . . it would be good enough, but lack the meaning he intended. What Batok really wanted was a Hidran disrupter that could cut a Klingon in half and leave him to bleed to death in agony.
Stiffly he thumbed the hatch control and slowly the door began to open. His arm tensed, his fingers tightened around the weapon.
Worf! Where was Worf?
One Klingon, another, turning slowly.
Batok saw Kadar—the rank on his armor—and moved the aim of his phaser from him to another.
That ridged head . . . turning deliberately toward him.
Worf! The murderer Worf!
Batok fired. An angry spear of energy cracked from the phaser and seared into his Klingon victim.
The boneheaded thug collapsed into a mass of charred flesh and still glowed orange as Batok jammed his fist against the door’s controls.
Another Klingon rushed toward him as the hatch closed, grunting some Klingon animal curse as they always did when they had been defeated.
Rushing back down the corridor, Batok heard the muffled death scream that mystic Klingon fools would make when they had lost a comrade. He had never before heard the sound. There were stories—told by those who had heard. He—a mere Lieutenant in the Hidran Congress’s grand fleet—had caused this scream that filled the corridor with sound . . . and Batok’s heart with glee.
The bay announced that he had accomplished his task. Worf had paid for the Ambassador’s death . . . with his life.
The Starfleet Klingon was dead.
Chapter Nine
A PUFF OF ACRID SMOKE drifted up from the floor, dissipating uncomfortably into Riker’s face. He tried to blink the sting from his eyes as he looked down at the mark he’d made with his phaser.
“How many does that make?” he asked Deanna.
“Twenty-three.”
He took two limping steps over to the wall. Bracing himself, he weakly holstered his phaser. In four hours no one had jumped out to greet or eat them, and he thought it unlikely anyone would come calling at this point.
If by some chance they weren’t alone . . . and if someone was looking for them, at least the two of them would be hard to find. The ship was huge with no end to it in sight.
“Twenty-three corridors,” he muttered, mopping the sweat from his brow with an already drenched sleeve. “Not one in a straight line, all turning back and twisting around. I don’t know about you but this is the biggest ship I’ve ever been on. We must have traveled miles.”
Deanna came up along side him, gently pushing him down toward the deck. “Sit and rest for a while. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Riker nodded and lowered himself to the floor, glancing angrily at his blood-caked bandage. “What a time for a marathon, hm?”
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