Chapter Sixteen

WHEN WORF REACHED the nearest transporter room on the starbase, he was surprised to find Data waiting in line with about a dozen others to return to the Enterprise. From the laughing, carefree mood of the crew members, it was evident they were returning from shore leave. Four individuals were being transported at a clip, so the line to the platform was moving briskly. Worf fell into step behind Data.

“We could pull rank,” he suggested to the android, “and go ahead of them.”

“Yes, we could,” Data agreed with a cock of his head. “But it would not be fair. These people are returning to their posts, whereas I am going to the Enterprise for recreation.”

Worf smiled, “You aren’t pleased with the way the trial is going?”

“Not particularly,” answered the android. “I do not believe you are proving Emil Costa’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, but it troubles me to think that the real murderer may be at large.”

Worf clenched his fists and brooded, “You aren’t the only one. I wonder if we’ll ever know the whole truth?”

“Lieutenant Worf,” came the familiar voice of Beverly Crusher, “report to sickbay immediately.”

He tapped his badge and answered, “On my way, Doctor. What happened?”

“Deanna Troi,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “has had a close brush with death. I don’t want her speaking to anyone at the moment, but she insists on speaking to you.”

“Acknowledged,” growled Worf, charging onto the platform and motioning dazed travelers out of the way. Data was not far behind him.

 

Upon reaching the doors of sickbay, they found the entrance guarded by a stalwart Dr. Crusher, who stood barring their way with her arms crossed. “I want Deanna to sleep,” she proclaimed, “but she insists she has to talk to Worf. Not anyone else, Data.”

“But, Doctor,” he protested, “is Counselor Troi all right?”

“She’s had a very narrow escape,” said the doctor grimly. “But she’s stable and will recover completely . . . with rest. Data, will you please go to the bridge and alert Captain Picard and Commander Riker as to what happened? Tell them Deanna is all right, and we’ll have the details later. In the meantime, no visitors until I give the order.”

She snorted impatiently at the Klingon. “I wouldn’t allow Worf, except my patient won’t go to sleep without talking to him.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the android nodded obediently. He hurried off.

Beverly stepped aside and let the Klingon bull his way past. Then she led him the length of the examination room. “She’s in the intensive care unit,” explained the doctor, “but the danger has passed.”

“What happened to her?” asked Worf with alarm.

Beverly glowered with frustration, “I’m not really sure. When she came in here, she wasn’t breathing. Something caused all the functions of the brain to stop, all the voluntary and involuntary reflexes. We shocked her back to life. When she’s stronger, we’ll run some tests, but I would expect to see traces of poison.”

“Who brought her in?”

“She called sickbay herself,” the doctor shrugged. “The computer analyzed her voice patterns and deemed them sufficiently traumatized to initiate a direct-beaming. Or else,” said Beverly, stopping and gazing at Worf, “Deanna would not be with us anymore.”

The Klingon snarled low in his throat, and the hair on the back of his neck tingled with anger. He followed Dr. Crusher into the intensive care unit.

Deanna lay propped up in bed, her complexion pale. As Worf entered, she mustered a wan smile. He noticed she was lying perfectly still, as if the slightest motion was too much of an ordeal at the moment.

“Two minutes,” cautioned Beverly Crusher, shutting the door behind her.

Worf knelt beside the bed. “I’m sorry I put you in danger,” he muttered.

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “We’re getting close now, Worf, and the guilty one is getting desperate. In my quarters,” she breathed, “get the isolinear chip. But be careful—the gas may linger. See what Karn Milu meant by the ‘queen’s hag’ entry.”

“What?” Worf asked with a startled blink.

“It may be nothing,” sighed the Betazoid, sinking wearily into her pillow. After a few seconds, she lifted her head and summoned enough strength to clearly tell him: “In his secret records, Karn Milu wrote: Lynn is the queen hag, Emil is a naughty jester, Saduk is the heir-apparent, Grastow is a footman, and Shana is jasmine. That’s just one entry in his notes, and we must have the chip to see them all.”

“Rest,” he cautioned her. “You have done enough.” Worf rose to his feet and tapped his insignia. “Worf to La Forge.”

“La Forge here,” said the chief engineer. “It’s good to talk to you.”

“Meet me at Deanna Troi’s cabin,” he answered. “And bring two tricorders.”

“Right away,” Geordi responded puzzledly.

“Out,” said Worf. He tapped his combadge again. “This is Lieutenant Worf. I want a security team in sickbay on around-the-clock status. No one is to see Counselor Troi without the permission of Dr. Crusher. Worf out.”

He turned back to tell Deanna good-bye, but she was already asleep.

 

In the command area of the bridge, Captain Picard stood stiffly, his jaw clenched, and Commander Riker prowled anxiously beside him. He stopped pacing long enough to ask, “How did it happen?”

Data shook his head, “I do not know, and neither, I believe, does Dr. Crusher. The only thing the doctor seemed sure of was that Counselor Troi would recover.”

Riker stroked his beard, then his hand curled into a fist. He turned impatiently toward Picard. “Permission to leave the bridge, sir?”

“No, Number One,” replied the captain sympathetically. “We have to respect Dr. Crusher’s orders. But,” he said curtly, “we should find out what exactly is going on here.”

“There exists the unproven possibility,” said Data, “that Counselor Troi’s sudden illness may be related to the murder investigation.”

The first officer shook his head with frustration and disbelief. “Captain,” he barked, “would you like to contact Worf, or shall I?”

“You can,” Picard answered, “but please remember, so far the Lieutenant has been right about many aspects of this bizarre situation with the Costas. If I hadn’t doubted him, we might have avoided that business on the shuttlecraft.”

Riker took a deep breath, realizing he didn’t often hear his superior question his decisions. He also realized he knew less than any of them about the events leading up to the shuttlecraft incident. Calmly, he requested, “Riker to Worf.”

The deep-voiced response came instantly, “Worf here.”

“Lieutenant, we’ve just heard about Deanna Troi. Is everything under control?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the Klingon. “When I left her, she was asleep and recovering. We talked, and Dr. Crusher assured me she will recover. I am on my way to her quarters now to determine what caused her collapse.”

“What do you think it could be?” asked Will.

“She seems to think it was some sort of gas,” Worf replied. “Geordi and I will investigate until we’re sure there’s no danger, then we’ll call in an engineering team.”

“Be careful,” added Picard. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Worf said crisply. “We may need to ask the court for a delay. Tomorrow, following Grastow, I was going to call Counselor Troi as a witness.”

“I’ll get the delay,” promised Picard. “You get to the bottom of it. Out.”

“Out,” answered Worf, stepping off the turbolift onto the familiar residential deck where most of the bridge officers lived. From a turbolift on the other side of the corridor stepped Geordi La Forge, carrying two tricorders. He tossed one to Worf, and the Klingon immediately set off down the walkway.

“What’s going on?” asked Geordi, falling into step behind the big humanoid. “I thought you had this thing all sewed up?”

“I was deceiving myself,” snarled Worf as he increased his stride.

They rounded a bulkhead, and Worf halted when he saw the open doorway of Deanna Troi’s cabin. He continued cautiously a few more meters before stopping to consult his tricorder.

Geordi stopped and flipped open his tricorder. “What are we looking for?” he asked.

The Klingon’s hooded eyes never wavered from his readouts. “A gas that can kill someone in seconds.”

“I’m picking up some strange residual trace elements,” said the chief engineer, “but not in a quantity to be dangerous. It looks like somebody was nice enough to air out the room for us.”

“Niceness had nothing to do with it,” snarled Worf, cautiously moving into the doorway. When none of the indicators on his tricorder shot up, he stepped into the room.

Geordi followed him, but they went to different parts of the cabin: Worf to the computer screen and Geordi to the food slot—which had been blasted with a phaser.

“Look at this!” marveled Geordi, kneeling beside the blackened crater and jagged metal that had once been a food slot. Black streaks stretched like the points of a star from the gaping hole. Inside, charred wires were covered with steaming green goop. “Direct shot,” he observed.

Worf rifled through Deanna’s desk and computer console but could find no isolinear optical chip. The screen was off, and both the primary and secondary chip slots were empty. “Do’Ha’!” he cursed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Geordi.

“It’s gone,” growled Worf, “the isolinear chip!” He whirled around the room, as if the perpetrator might still be present. “After Deanna collapsed, somebody came in here to steal the chip. When they didn’t find her body, they made a quick decision to destroy the evidence of their murder attempt.” He glared at the scorched food slot.

“I’ll bring in some people from Environmental to go over this food slot,” said Geordi, standing and wiping the smudges off his hands.

“We’re too late,” grumbled Worf. Head uncharacteristically bowed, the Klingon headed toward the door. “I’m going back down to Karn Milu’s office. Maybe he left another chip, or other records.”

“One moment,” called Geordi, halting Worf briefly in the doorway. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, but I completed that speed-up of the turbolifts you asked for. If you ever want to test what it’s like to go fifteen percent faster, just give your destination as speed test and you’ll take the express trip to Engineering.”

“Thank you,” nodded Worf, striding away.

Geordi called after him, “Do it when you first get on. Don’t do it when the turbolift is in motion, or you’ll get the ride of your life!”

Worf barely heard the engineer’s last words as he strode angrily down the corridor, away from Deanna Troi’s cabin. Again, the murderer had anticipated their actions and beaten them! For all his cleverness and certainty, Worf had been wrong about Emil Costa, unless Costa was working in league with somebody else on the ship. But who else felt threatened enough to commit two murders? Nearly three murders!

Deanna Troi had found something, the first piece of evidence that hadn’t been obvious. That was what irked Worf the most—he had dutifully followed the trail of bread crumbs laid out for him while missing the feast. While he had played courtroom on Kayran Rock, Deanna Troi had been doing his job, ferreting out the murderer. At the one instance when he had truly been needed—to protect his crew mate and the evidence—he had been off strutting and making speeches.

Worf grunted angrily as he rounded a bulkhead and headed for the turbolift. Where was he going? He didn’t even know. He had told Geordi he was going to Karn Milu’s office, but he was certain the office had been picked clean of clues. They had had their opportunity and failed.

The turbolift doors shut, and he had to declare a destination. “Deck five,” spit the Klingon.

“Acknowledged,” said the friendly computer voice.

It was a jaunt of only one deck, and Worf stepped out a moment later into a corridor lined with darkened offices and meeting rooms. The science branch was either too shaken to do much work, thought Worf, or too busy enjoying shore leave.

The Klingon walked slowly down the corridor, thinking the worst was yet to come. He would have to go on trying a case in which he had no confidence, or turn his prisoner over to the Kreel. Neither decision was remotely palatable. He knew the Kreel cared more about Emil Costa’s knowledge than his guilt or innocence, but the man, if truly innocent of murder, had suffered enough. He didn’t deserve to become a Kreel prisoner . . . indefinitely.

Worf expected to find his security team waiting outside Karn Milu’s office, but he did not expect to find Dr. Saduk conversing cordially with them. The two officers promptly sprang to attention upon seeing the security chief.

“At ease,” he said. “Hello, Dr. Saduk.”

“Lieutenant Worf,” nodded the Vulcan. “I am glad you arrived. I was just requesting entrance to Dr. Milu’s office.”

“May I ask why?” queried the lieutenant.

“I thought,” said the Vulcan, “that Dr. Milu may have left instructions in his log concerning the future of the Microcontamination Project. As you might surmise, we have been in limbo for several days. We don’t know whether we are to continue operation, under whose direction, or with what staff. If we are to continue, we must restaff immediately.”

The lieutenant pointed to the door, and one of his officers pressed a button to open it. The Klingon stepped slowly into the ornate office, trailed by the graceful Vulcan. “Whose responsibility was it,” asked Worf, pondering the bug-infested walls, “to staff the Microcontamination Project?”

Saduk crossed immediately to the massive amber desk. “With the exception of Shana Russel,” he replied, “the Costas had staffed the project before coming here. Shana’s been with us for six months, and now she could become the senior member of the team.”

“Are you thinking of leaving too?” asked Worf.

“I am,” the Vulcan replied, flicking on Karn Milu’s computer screen. “Both Emil and Grastow may be sentenced for crimes and be unavailable. If Grastow is not convicted of any crime and Dr. Milu appointed him before his death, Grastow will take charge of the project. That would hasten my departure.”

“At least you’re honest,” observed Worf. “You want that job, and you won’t stand for anybody else getting it.”

“I am the best qualified,” replied Saduk factually, slipping into the dead Betazoid’s chair. He peered at the data popping onto the screen. “Do I have your permission to look at his log?”

“Go ahead,” muttered Worf, sinking into one of the guest chairs. “I could suggest to the captain that you be given the post. With Karn Milu dead, the captain could make the determination.”

“I would be grateful to you and the captain if that was the final outcome,” Saduk replied, never taking his eyes or hands from the computer console. “If Grastow has already been appointed, however, that obstacle would be harder to overcome. Plus, the captain would be within reason to simply cancel the project. It has proven rather ill-fated.”

Worf wasn’t going to argue with that statement. He almost envied the way the Vulcan was going to walk away from it all. His mind was jumping from one troubling aspect to another, wondering how he could ever get this investigation back on course. Snippets of words, conversations, actions, and images were flitting through his brain, not giving him a single thing to grasp. What had Deanna Troi said to him in sickbay, words that were all that remained of the stolen optical chip? Worf prided himself on his memory, and trying to recall the cryptic phrases gave him something concrete to think about while the Vulcan probed the computer.

“Nothing pertinent in his log,” the Vulcan declared, pushing his chair back. “I believe it will be up to the captain to make a determination.”

“Lynn is the queen hag,” Worf repeated aloud, “Emil is a naughty jester, Saduk is the heir-apparent, Grastow is a footman, and Shana is jasmine.”

Saduk blinked and furrowed his eyebrows slightly. “That is interesting,” he remarked. “Are those your impressions of us?”

“No,” the lieutenant shrugged. “Karn Milu’s. Do they mean anything to you?”

“Individually,” answered Saduk, “they have a degree of meaning. Lynn would certainly be considered the queen, although I never considered her difficult. Emil was more capable of laughter and the human trait of joking than the rest of us, and one could say he had been naughty. I am the heir-apparent, although apparent is not positive. As I understand the term ‘footman’ it could mean a servant—I leave it to you to say whether Grastow qualifies. As for Shana being Jasmine, I did hear Dr. Milu call her that once.”

Worf bolted upright in his chair. “Wait,” he said, “you say Jasmine is a name?”

“He used it as such,” replied Saduk. “I only heard him call her that once. Perhaps she reminded him of somebody he used to know named Jasmine.”

“Perhaps,” frowned Worf, rising gradually to his feet. “When we first met in this office, he seemed not to remember her name.”

“I thought that was odd at the time,” remarked the Vulcan, “since he brought her aboard the Enterprise and assigned her to our project.”

The Klingon moved behind the Vulcan and hovered over his shoulder. “Look up Shana Russel’s personnel file,” he ordered. “See what data Karn Milu kept on her.”

Saduk keyed in the appropriate commands, and they both stared in amazement at the results. Records on Shana Russel were almost nonexistent, dating only from her arrival aboard the Enterprise.

“Computer,” Worf intoned, “what is Shana Russel’s background?”

“Data incomplete,” said the computer after a moment. “Removed at request of Dr. Karn Milu.”

“What?” snarled Worf with surprise.

“Data incomplete,”repeated the computer. “Shall I request an update from the starbase?”

“How long will that take?”

“Approximately six-point-seven minutes.”

“Patch it to my command post,” barked Worf. He headed for the door, stopped, and looked back at Saduk. “Thank you. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve that job, and I will tell the captain as much.”

The Vulcan nodded agreeably, his saturnine face and expression never changing.

 

Worf walked down the corridor to his command post, noting how deserted deck I had become. He hoped the others were enjoying Kayran Rock more than he was. The Klingon thought briefly about poking his head into the bridge, but he didn’t want to face a blizzard of questions concerning Deanna Troi’s status. She was recovering and resting, and Dr. Crusher could tell them that. He wasn’t anxious to discuss the trial, either. Data could give them an account and do it more objectively than he would. Worf knew he had to forget the trial, reverse course, and start over. He had no idea whether Shana Russel’s missing personnel files meant anything or not—missing, secret, and erased computer files were common practice with this lot—but it was a place to start.

He stepped into his command room without pass ing a single crew member, which was a welcome respite in his present frame of mind. Worf went to his food slot to get a glass of water, and, thinking of Deanna Troi, he hesitated before activating the device. He held his breath until the glass of water innocuously appeared.

Worf sank into the chair behind his command console and punched up the data he and Deanna Troi had been studying only a few days ago. At that time, the Costas had been the primary focus of the investigation, with not much thought paid to the others who orbited around them. They were the shining stars—and now they had gone nova and were about to disappear altogether.

As he reviewed their careers—the early battles, followed by remarkable achievements and altruistic endeavors, culminating in assignment to the Enterprise—he realized how far they had risen. In the annals of Federation science, they were legend. But at what cost? Their ambitions had degenerated into greed and treachery.

The computer voice broke into his thoughts. “Received data from starbase,” she announced. “Enterprise computer updated. Do you wish the data by screen or audio?”

Worf already had screenfuls of data, so he replied, “Audio.”

“Shana Russel,” said the computer, “born Jasmine Terry on Earth, city of Calcutta. Age, twenty-five standard years. Received bachelor of science degree—”

“Wait,” said Worf, leaning forward curiously. “When did she change her name?”

“Eight-point-five months ago.”

“Jasmine Terry,” he repeated aloud, tasting each syllable. He knew where he had heard the first name, but where had he heard that surname before? “Correlate the name Terry,” he told the computer, “with similar names in the records on Lynn and Emil Costa.”

“Searching,” replied the computer. “One match found. Megan Terry was a co-worker with the Costas approximately twenty-six years ago in the Dayton biofilter experiments. She sued them for scientific plagiarism over biofilter version 8975-G, which was eventually accepted as the Federation standard, but her case was dismissed due to lack of evidence.”

“Correlate Megan Terry and Jasmine Terry,” demanded Worf.

“Mother and daughter,” answered the computer.

“That’s enough of that,” said a voice behind him. “Elevate your hands.”

Worf did as he was told, knowing the intruder was in possession of a phaser and was not adverse to using it. He twisted his head enough to see Shana Russel emerging from the lavatory. She was dressed in dark nondescript clothes with a backpack strapped to her shapely torso. She was also carrying a phaser aimed at his head.

“I should have set the phaser on full,” she muttered, “when I shot you before.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

The young blond woman smiled innocently, “I liked you. Even I make mistakes. Now stand slowly, keeping your hands up, and back away from that console. I’ve got this phaser set to full now.”

Worf did exactly as he was told. He had dealt with dangerous and unpredictable creatures from all over the galaxy, but few of them seemed as cold-heartedly ruthless as Shana Russel/Jasmine Terry.

“Your mother,” he said, backing toward the wall, “was the one who really perfected the biofilter?”

Shana’s pretty face clouded with anger so ugly it bordered on dementia. “It was worse than that!” she hissed. “All three of them were equals in the project, but Emil was having an affair with my mother. He promised to leave his wife if she would turn over the results of her work to him—she was the one who was really making progress. Like a fool, she believed him. They stole her work and got her reassigned, while they soared to acclaim. Emil wouldn’t acknowledge me at all.”

“He knew you?” asked Worf.

“Not really,” she grimaced with pure hatred. “He never admitted to being my father, but he is.”

The Klingon stood perfectly still, realizing the petite blonde was pathologically insane. She must have suffered daily harangues from her mother, proclaiming how the Costas had ruined both their lives. As a Klingon orphaned by the ravages of war, he understood the powerful force of revenge, and he also knew the toll it could claim.

“You succeeded in destroying them,” he complimented her.

Shana smiled broadly, “I know. Killing Lynn was satisfying because of the complexity involved. But watching Emil suffer was so . . . fulfilling. He had no idea who I was, or what was happening to him.”

“But Karn Milu knew who you were.”

“Of course,” she answered, “he knew my mother and her whole history with the Costas. When he wanted someone to spy on them over this business with the submicrobe, he came to my school to find me. We decided to change my name to hide my identity, and he spent his sabbatical teaching me Betazoid mind techniques to fool Deanna Troi.” The former Jasmine Terry smiled, “I’ve always been a good student.”

“Why did you kill him?” Worf asked calmly.

The woman shrugged, “He was the only one who knew who I was. Plus, killing him resulted in even more suffering for Emil. How could I resist?”

“And Deanna Troi?”

“If anyone could uncover me,” answered the murderess, “I knew it would be Counselor Troi. When I planted that device in her food slot, I also planted a transmitter to keep track of her discoveries.” Shana shook her head regretfully. “It’s a pity. If she had only died as planned, you wouldn’t have known about the isolinear chip and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The woman pressed a panel on Worf’s desk, and the door opened, revealing a corridor that had been emptied by shore leave. She motioned with the weapon, “I’ll follow you to the turbolift. If you make the slightest wrong move, I’ll slice you in two.”

“Understood,” said Worf, stepping briskly into the corridor. “Where are we going?”

“To get a shuttlecraft,” answered the young blonde. “I’m afraid my tour aboard the Enterprise is over, and so is yours.”

Worf didn’t argue. With very deliberate motions, he walked toward the turbolift, feeling the phaser perhaps a meter from his back. He entered first and moved to the rear of the shining enclosure, leaving plenty of room for the woman wielding the weapon.

“I’m glad you’re cooperating,” she smiled. “Perhaps, with a little luck, we can reach one of the Kreel planets. With what I know, they might be willing to shelter me. Of course, you can drop me off and leave.”

“Whatever you say,” Worf replied congenially, ignoring the obvious lie. “Deck four, please.”

As they began to move, Shana leaned confidently against the side of the lift. “I’m glad you’re taking this so well,” she cooed. “You might think about staying with me.”

“New destination,” said Worf suddenly, “speed test.”

He had a chance to brace himself, but Shana was still reclining against the wall when the floor dropped out from under them. The artificial gravity was slow to adjust, and she crashed into the roof, shrieking, then bounced along the far wall. Worf rolled into a curl and did the same thing with less damage. They whizzed through the center of the ship as the gravity struggled to catch up, and it finally dumped them in a heap on the floor of the flying turbolift.

Even with her injuries, Shana fought the Klingon for control of the phaser. He made the fight brief, punching her in the face and knocking her unconscious. Worf was struggling to his feet when the doors opened and deposited them in Engineering.

A startled Geordi La Forge gaped at them. “Worf!” he wailed. “What happened?”

The Klingon muttered woozily, “Belay that request for the speed increase.” Then he collapsed.

Geordi pressed his insignia badge. “La Forge to sickbay. I need Dr. Crusher in Engineering.”