Chapter Five

THE TEN-FORWARD ROOM was relatively quiet so early in the day’s primary work shift. Deanna Troi and Lieutenant Worf entered the lounge and surveyed the smattering of customers among the mostly empty tables. The hum of conversation died as several pairs of eyes turned in their direction. Wordlessly, a party of three rose from a nearby table and brushed past the Klingon and the Betazoid, glancing at them but unwilling to make direct eye contact.

They know, thought Deanna. They know we’re looking for a murderer. For the first time, the counselor realized what it felt like to be an agent of law enforcement. Instead of looking for the good in people, as she usually did, she was looking for the evil. The guilty. Even those who were perfectly innocent were made uncomfortable by such scrutiny, and she couldn’t blame them for scurrying out of their way.

No doubt the effect was heightened by the presence of Worf. The security chief stood at unyielding attention beside her, his imperial Klingon sash accentuating his massive chest and his eyes glowering under his coarse rippled brow. He looked like the very instrument of justice—a god of vengeance. Suddenly, she was grateful for having such an experienced partner in this lonely duty.

The lithe figure of Guinan padded toward them. “Hello,” she said without her customary cheer. “I don’t suppose you’ve come here to relax.”

“No,” scowled Worf. “We’re looking for Shana Russel.”

“By the far port,” answered Guinan, pointing to a corner of the room where shadows blended into the darkness of space. “She’s been sitting there for hours.”

They could barely see the hunched blond-haired figure until they drew within a few meters. Even then, the young woman did not look up from her quiet contemplation of the stars.

“Excuse me,” said Worf, “we have to speak with you.”

“Yes,” muttered Shana Russel. She finally looked up, and Worf was surprised by her youthfulness and the depth of incomprehension in her eyes. Her yellow hair matched the paleness of her skin and clung to cheeks dampened by tears. Worf was not a creature given to sympathy, but the distraught condition of this human female softened his manner somewhat.

“May we sit down?” he asked with a bow.

“Yes,” nodded Shana Russel, her gaze drifting from the Klingon to the woman with him. “I’m . . . I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”

“Deanna Troi,” said the Betazoid with a smile she hoped was comforting. “I’m afraid you know why we’re here.”

“Yes,” she rasped, returning her eyes to the window and its unfettered view of the heavens. “I didn’t feel like being alone in my room, so I came here. There wasn’t any place else to go.”

“How much do you know about what happened to Lynn Costa?” asked Worf.

Wiping the errant strands of hair from her cheek, the young woman sat up in her chair. “Grastow came to tell me,” she sniffed. “He couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t either. We cried in each other’s arms.”

She cried now and turned to Worf with eyes burning with disbelief. “Since I’ve been sitting here,” she gasped, “I’ve overheard some people talking. . . . They say it wasn’t an accident! Is that true?”

“We don’t know,” he admitted gently. “That’s why we’re talking to the people who had access to the class-zero pods. Did you have any cause to alter the programming or any of the equipment on that pod?”

“On pod one?” asked Shana incredulously. “I wouldn’t go near Dr. Costa’s experiments unless she asked me to. I can’t imagine anyone else would either.”

“Someone apparently did,” said Deanna.

A realization of the intent of the questioning suddenly dawned on the young scientist, and she bolted upright in her chair. “You think I . . . !” she shrieked.

“You’re crazy!”

Worf looked somewhat pained. “We’re asking everyone,” he explained. “Did you see or hear anything suspicious in the last few days? Do you know of anyone using that pod other than Dr. Costa?”

Shana Russel sank back into her chair and shook her head sadly. Then she covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed softly. Deanna touched Worf’s shoulder and cocked her head toward the exit.

Worf nodded and stood. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he muttered to the pathetic human. “If you think of anything, please come to see me.”

But Shana Russel was beyond hearing his words.

As he and Deanna wound their way between the empty tables of the Ten-Forward Room, Worf heaved his shoulders with a massive sigh. “She didn’t seem to know much.”

“No,” agreed Deanna glumly. “Nobody does.”

“Except for Emil Costa,” growled the Klingon, narrowing his eyes. He reached into his sash and pulled out the small blue vial. “I wonder if Shana Russel has seen this before?”

“I have,” said a voice behind them.

Worf and Deanna turned to see Guinan watching them from behind her saloon-style countertop. “Let me see that,” she said, pointing to the vial.

Worf strode immediately to the bar and handed his evidence to the mysterious humanoid. “Do you think you’ve seen this before?” he asked.

“Or one just like it,” she answered. Guinan sniffed the container’s narrow opening.

“Where?” demanded the security chief.

“Right here,” Guinan replied, motioning around the deserted recreation center. She turned to Deanna. “Emil Costa had it with him when you were last in here and the two of you were talking. He often carried it—to spice up his orange juice.”

Slowly, Worf turned to Deanna, and the two of them exchanged looks that confirmed each other’s suspicions. After a moment, the Klingon clenched his jaw, pounded his fist on the bar, and stormed out the door. Only by running did Deanna manage to catch up with him.

“Worf!” she called, stopping him before he reached the turbolift. “That’s not enough proof. You need more!”

His torso twisted in anger and frustration, and he growled, “I have enough to confront him!”

The Betazoid shook her head firmly. “He would just deny it. And then he would know you had this evidence. Wait until you’ve got more. Let’s build a case against him.”

The Klingon’s chest heaved a few more times, but he managed to calm himself. “You are right,” he groaned. “We can’t go to Starfleet with a single piece of circumstantial evidence. And we have to discover a motive—something beyond the stress of marriage and careers. I think the next step is to pore over all the records for the Microcontamination Project and each of its personnel.” He gritted his teeth. “Starting with Emil Costa.”

Deanna couldn’t help it—she was suddenly overwhelmed by a tremendous yawn. “Sorry,” she gulped with embarrassment.

Worf smiled, “How much sleep have you gotten in the last twenty hours?”

“Plenty,” Deanna lied. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve had perhaps an hour’s worth,” Worf corrected her. “Collecting data is a job for one person, so why don’t you take a few hours to rest? After the funeral, you can help me review the records of Saduk and the other assistants. I want to study Emil Costa’s records myself.”

“I’m perfectly willing to carry on,” the counselor protested.

“I know you are,” said Worf. “But I am in charge of this investigation and the allocation of resources. I ask you to rest.”

Deanna could see that it was useless to argue. Besides, the weariness of this unpleasant duty was beginning to take its toll on her. She had slept for only about an hour, and not too well at that—haunted by her all too realistic dream of Lynn Costa’s death. She had misinterpreted Lynn’s acceptance of death as a wish for it. Now she knew that Lynn Costa had been stalked by a determined murderer, and that was why the crazed woman had wanted to leave the ship so badly.

“All right,” she relented, staring down. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”

Morosely, Deanna trudged off. Worf, who had never subscribed to the human custom of lavishing praise for praise’s sake, called after her, “I welcome your assistance!”

The Betazoid stopped and turned with a smile. For the first time since the incident with her unborn baby, she found herself liking Worf.

Ensign Wesley Crusher tried to amuse himself by watching the statistics whiz by on the console in front of him. Occasionally, he glanced up at the stars careening past on the main viewer. Normally when course adjustments were handled by the computer, the young helmsman still found any number of interesting distractions on the bridge. He would query Data, Riker, or—more rarely—the captain about some topic relevant to their current mission. He read reports about their destination, and he plotted alternate courses for practice. Though it wasn’t his specific duty, Wesley would also monitor various ship systems, such as the quantum state reversal unit or the antimatter reactors, just to study their operation.

But the bridge was quieter and far more somber than usual, even for a routine mission like this one. Data was on hand, but he had been given the extra task of dispatching and scheduling the shuttlecraft for the ceremonies at Kayran Rock. The starbase was not fully staffed yet, and a mountain of data had been dumped upon the android by subspace transmission. The data concerned the docking and speed capabilities of various shuttlecraft, the expected arrival and positions of their motherships, the location of other asteroids, and the personal requirements of the participants.

For one thing, Wesley had heard that all Klingon and Kreel delegations had to arrive at different times but be received in exactly the same fashion. Apparently, bad blood still existed between the two races, and the Federation wasn’t taking any chances. In addition, few of the ships heading for rendezvous would be allowed to keep station with the asteroid. Kayran Rock was part of a sprawling asteroid belt with some fairly big chunks less than a million kilometers away. With all of these considerations, a substantial amount of shuttle-pooling was proving necessary, and Data was sitting at the ops console, factoring the data into algorithms of his own devising. Wesley knew better than to disturb him.

Commander Riker had been called to sickbay several times by Wesley’s mother to discuss the autopsy, and Captain Picard had secluded himself in his ready room. Worf, Deanna, and Geordi were occupied elsewhere by the investigation, so the lad was without his customary companions. The disturbing death of Lynn Costa had cast a pall that had seeped over the entire ship, and the bridge was not immune.

Therefore, he welcomed the message from Lieutenant Worf when it came over the intercom. “Worf to Ensign Crusher,” intoned the deep baritone.

“Crusher here,” snapped the teenager officiously.

“When your duties allow,” said the Klingon, “I would like to see you in my command post.”

The teenager tried to control his excitement, guessing that Worf’s request must have something to do with the investigation into Lynn Costa’s death. “Yes, sir,” he snapped. “I’m on bridge duty at the moment.”

“There’s no hurry,” answered Worf. “I’ll be here until the funeral at eighteen-hundred hours.”

“Acknowledged,” Wesley replied. He glanced back at Commander Riker, who had just reclaimed the captain’s seat in Picard’s absence.

“Go ahead,” Riker nodded. “I’ll watch the conn until your relief comes.”

Wesley punched in a request for relief, then hurried off the bridge. He found himself whistling as he strolled down the corridor, a folk tune he had learned from the farm settlers who had been aboard the ship a year or so ago. The lad quickly suppressed his natural exuberance and put on a somber face. He had to remember that the ship—in fact, the whole Federation—was in mourning. He knew Lynn Costa had been a remarkable woman, but he had always found her distant and inaccessible. He much preferred her husband, Emil, and he was glad nothing had happened to the old man.

His destination was a small command post just off the bridge which Worf occasionally commandeered for his personal use. When he was on the bridge or off duty, a subordinate still manned the post. In this cozy bunker, the Klingon had a full complement of viewscreens for simultaneous visual contact with the shuttle bays, cargo bays, transporter rooms, engineering, and the bridge. Plus, he had his own communications and ops panels, which could be converted at a single command into any subsystem available on the Enterprise. All the screens were aglow as Wesley Crusher strode into the cramped confines.

“Have a seat,” barked Worf, staring intently at a computer screen which bounced earthy colors off the oils of his dark skin. He was reading as quickly as he could.

“Oh, this is pointless!” he growled, leaning back in his swivel chair and shaking his massive head. “I could have three or four lifetimes and not read all this material.”

“Uh, yes,” said Wesley with disappointment. “Is that why you’ve sent for me, to help you read records?”

“No,” intoned Worf, leaning forward and flexing his brow to form a bony hood over his black eyes. “I have some undercover work for you.”

Wesley scurried forward and slipped into the lone chair opposite Worf’s instrument panel. “What is it?” he asked confidentially.

Worf pointed to a screen on his left—it was an electronic datebook. “I see that Emil Costa used to tutor you in microbiology. Do you think that you could reestablish your friendly relationship with him? Keep him company?”

“Right now?” asked Wesley with some horror. “His wife just died!”

The Klingon ground his teeth together for a moment before replying, “I know he is your friend, Ensign, but Emil Costa is the primary suspect in a murder investigation. Perhaps your observation will clear him from suspicion. I told you this was undercover, and I meant it. I want you to stay close to him, watch him, and find out whether he killed his wife. Without letting him know, of course.”

“Of course,” gulped Wesley, squirming in his seat. “How should I do it . . . just ask him if he killed his wife?”

“Be circumspect,” answered Worf. “We Klingons have a saying: A terrible secret cannot be kept. He may admit his crime to you, if he thinks you are his friend.”

“But I am his friend!” protested the boy.

“Not on this assignment,” replied Worf. “You are an investigator, and you are not to tell anyone. Is that understood?”

Wesley Crusher mumbled a reply.

“I will inform Captain Picard, Commander Riker, and Counselor Troi. No one else needs to know.” Worf stood and stretched. “Remember,” he cautioned, “Emil Costa could be a murderer, and you must never place yourself in danger. As soon as you uncover any knowledge of his role in Lynn Costa’s death, I want you to see me. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” answered Wesley.

“You can start to befriend him at the funeral,” Worf suggested, returning to his seat. He rubbed his eyes, then peered down at his screens. “Dismissed.”

Wesley stood awkwardly and stumbled out the door. In the corridor, he collected oxygen into his lungs and called his brain cells to attention. First, he was staggered that anyone could suspect Emil Costa of causing Lynn’s death. Such an idea was preposterous—the man was enraptured of his mate, always had been. He talked about Lynn in reverential tones, even when complaining that she had woken him up in the middle of the night to ask a question she could have looked up on the computer.

The two had seemed ideally paired to Wesley. Both were crusty, not arrogant but watchful of their time and energies; they didn’t suffer fools gladly. She had been intense, tightly wound, but he had always seemed kicked-back even with his Prussian underpinnings. Emil looked stern and expected a full day’s work and then some, but he had let Wesley explore the submicroscopic world at his own pace. That had been a couple of years ago, before Wes had become an ensign assigned to the bridge, but he remembered Emil Costa as being incredibly kind and patient, for an adult.

Now he could be a murderer, the boy thought glumly. How had his life slipped so much in those few years? Wesley Crusher felt a sudden pang of guilt for not keeping in closer touch with the Costas, but scheduling time with them was difficult, and his bridge duty . . .

No excuses, Wes decided, he should have kept closer tabs on them. But that still didn’t explain this bizarre charge against Emil. The boy didn’t think for a moment that Emil Costa was capable of killing his wife, unless he was suffering from some horrific mental illness.

The young ensign was suddenly filled with rage, and he wanted to clear his former tutor. But he remembered Worf’s stern admonition. No, he couldn’t tell Emil Costa why he was coming to see him—he didn’t have to. Wes felt truly grieved that the old scientist had lost his wife, and that was reason enough to see and comfort him. Wesley was now grateful for this assignment from Worf, because it gave him a chance to do something he should have done much earlier.

Deciding there was no time to waste in righting this wrong, the ensign tapped his insignia badge. “Ensign Crusher to Dr. Emil Costa,” he said, wetting his lips nervously.

“Hello, Wesley,” came a voice that sounded very old and very beaten down. “Nice of you to call.”

“Doctor,” said Wes sadly, “I’m very sorry about what happened to your wife . . .”

“Don’t mention it,” rasped the doctor. “It was unexpected, but then—these things happen.”

“She had a full life,” Wesley replied, selecting that phrase from a list of platitudes that didn’t come near to expressing what he felt.

“I thank you, Wesley,” said a voice too tired to hide the Germanic accent. “You are doing well—I hear about this exploit or that exploit of yours all the time.”

“I’m still learning,” Wes admitted, “just like when you were tutoring me.”

“It’s not too late to join the Microcontamination Project,” Emil suggested with a glimmer of life in his voice. “There are several openings just now.”

The ensign seized upon the opening just presented him. “Yes,” he replied, “I was just thinking about that. May I come by, Doctor, and discuss this with you?”

“Well . . .” gulped the voice uneasily.

“I won’t stay any longer than you wish,” the boy promised. “If you like, I could accompany you to the funeral.”

“One step at a time,” the old researcher sighed. “You can come by for a few minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” Wes shot back. “Out.”

The teenager nearly bolted down the corridor toward the turbolift.