GHOST SHIP Page 13

  The android’s denser body struck the deck with a loud thud, and both Geordi and Worf were there to turn him over. In the dimness that suddenly reestablished itself on the bridge, he looked baffled and confused, but unlike Troi he was conscious.

  Picard glanced once around the bridge to be sure the electrical effect had truly gone away. Then: “Yar, condition of that creature?”

  “Still involved with the asteroids, sir,” she reported, “though going after the antimatter explosions very deliberately. It doesn’t seem to understand what the disturbances are. Seems unclear about what it should do.”

  Picard huffed. “Aren’t we all. LaForge? Leave Data to Worf and get us away from here quickly.”

  “Yes, sir—heading?”

  “Back toward the saucer. While we still have the chance.”

  With that he knelt beside Riker, who was hovering rather helplessly over Troi. “She alive?”

  “Her pulse is like a bass drum,” Riker told him. “Under these circumstances, who knows what that means?”

  “I’ll take it for the good,” Picard said ruefully, “since it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Are we going to reestablish contact with the saucer, Captain?” Riker asked, though he knew the answer. This time reestablishment wouldn’t mean the trouble was over. Quite the opposite. It would mean they’d utterly failed.

  Picard eyed the screen. “Looks like we crowed before we were out of the woods. Tasha, contact Engineer Argyle and inform him we’re picking them up.”

  “Aye, sir; right away.”

  “Make that low band, as frugal a message as possible.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Now the captain lowered his voice as he turned back to Riker, and clasped Troi’s wrist to find her pulse for himself. “What do you make of all this? Those words she spoke . . . and is she in contact with the same thing that’s contacting Data?”

  Riker shook his head. “It’s pretty boggy right now. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be affecting them both in the same way. She keeps talking about these—well, these people as though she knows them, and it doesn’t glitter around her like it does on Data. And it didn’t grab her. Did you notice she could still move around? It’s like the electrical field of the entity is focusing on him, but speaking through her.”

  “Yes, but these messages she’s perceiving. How accurate is her telepathy? I’ve never seen anything like this from Troi before. You know as well as I do that Betazoid telepathy is subfrequency and seems supernatural, but that it’s perfectly explainable scientifically. This business of behaving like a spiritual medium, though . . . I don’t buy into that.”

  “If it’s any help,” Riker told him, “I don’t think she does either, sir.”

  “What was it she said? We can end it? End what?” He tilted a little closer and lowered his voice. “Have you any idea at all?”

  Riker licked his lips. So this was what a first officer was for. To come up with hypotheses about things he knew nothing about. To fudge answers out of nothing. Then again, sometimes that was the best way to get the answers: plow on through until you hit wall or water. “End it. We can. I wonder if that even means us specifically. Could it have been talking to the life essences Troi was sensing?”

  “Or rather, were they talking to it? Tell you what,” Picard said with sudden conviction, “soon as these two can sit straight again, we’re going to put them down side by side and get some answers. We’ve got the messages right in our hands, and we simply aren’t interpreting them correctly. It’s time we did.”

  “How is she, Mr. Riker?” Tasha Yar kept her voice low. Afraid to attract attention to herself, possibly because she had stepped away from her post at this critical, touchy moment, she knelt beside Troi and leaned over her, nearly whispering.

  “I’m no doctor,” Riker said simply, venting his frustration. If he had time to step away from his own post, Troi would be on the way to auxiliary sickbay, but there simply weren’t those extra seconds to spare. So she would remain here, beneath his hands, within his sight, under what little care he could offer.

  “Sir, are we going to reconnect with the saucer section?” Yar asked. She looked at him with eyes that wanted everything to be all right, and she seemed as innocent and hopeful as a Disney drawing.

  “I don’t think we have much choice,” he told her. “It just didn’t work. We get used to situations that work out, and it’s hard to get hit with one that doesn’t. Fortunes of risk, that’s all, Lieutenant.” He gave her a dismissing toss of his head, silently ordering her back to tactical, but she didn’t go.

  “Mr. Riker?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sir . . . it was my idea to separate the sections.” Tasha paused, waiting to catch his attention again. When she did, she tightened her thin narrow lips and asked, “Should I apologize to the captain?”

  Riker dropped himself into the wishing well of those eyes, just for a moment. Her eyes were enhanced with a simple stroke of eyeliner and a touch of mascara; not very much, as though she were unsure and self-conscious about her femininity. Riker found himself fascinated by those thin brown lines, now slightly smudged and a tad uneven. Tasha Yar was all good intentions in one package. Had Riker not reviewed the personnel files of the bridge officers when he got this assignment, he’d have taken one look into those eyes and at the supple, slim body under them and reassigned her to teaching kindergarten to all the children on Enterprise who would brighten to see her face each day.

  He felt that way right now—like she was the child and he was the teacher. There was nothing in her face, in her eyes, to remind him of her upbringing on a pathetic excuse for a colony, yet he thought of it. A colony that had actually seceded from the Federation. Its economy crashed within three decades of that secession. That distant colony where gangs became the ruling bodies, a place that resembled nothing and nowhere as much as it resembled the aftermath of the French Revolution, a place where a bad system was torn down in the name of the people and replaced by something entirely worse. A place whose day-to-day life made the Reign of Terror look organized. Mobs, gangs, indulgence of some, starvation of others, parents teaching their children to be alone because self-sufficiency meant survival. Children functioning like rats in the rubbish. And among them, Tasha. Surviving. Running. Fighting when she had to, eating when she could. Developing the single-mindedness that would allow her to move in record time to chief of security on a mainline starship. Didn’t happen every day.

  A wicked way to grow up. Too quick, too hard, and too unforgiving. She’d missed all those girl things, all the giggling and the ducking behind each other and the moon-eyed crushes and the wondrous ignorance that lets a girl believe what she sees on first glance. For Tasha there had been no mirrors or fussing, and if there had been mirrors, wouldn’t she have shrunk away from the gaunt teenager whose hair was cropped to make her look like a boy—less likely to attract the attention of those who took their low-class habits out in casual rape? From the day her mother first took out a knife and sawed off her four-year-old daughter’s knee-length braid, Tasha had learned to deal.

  Yet she could still look at him now with this absolute cleanness, this complete faith in him and in everything she saw when she looked at a senior officer, everything Starfleet meant for someone who had grown up under mob rule. As he looked at her now, a half ton of responsibility fell on him. What could he say to her that wouldn’t wrinkle that antiseptic faith? She was stronger with it than without it, a better officer in her purity than the woman she might have become if she gave in to the callousness to which she had every right.

  Reaching over the stirring form of Troi, Riker cupped Tasha’s elbow. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t apologize.”

  Chapter Eight

  BEHIND THEM, ANTIMATTER explosions were still lighting up the solar system in all directions. Amazing that so little antimatter connecting with so little matter could result in such conflagration.

  Getting away from the im
mediate vicinity was easy enough—the creature wasn’t watching for the moment, busy devouring the pure energy of matter/antimatter reactions among the asteroids, and therefore stardrive had a few extra seconds to ride the detonation shock waves and get back toward the saucer section. Easy, considering what had gone on so far today.

  Reuniting the ships was something else.

  Riker stood beside the science station where Deanna Troi was now sitting. She appeared disturbed, fatigued, aching, somber, like someone who had just heard bad news, but she seemed aware of the circumstances, perhaps too acutely aware.

  Watching the disconnected saucer section loom toward them in the viewscreen, Riker felt a shiver of anticipation. This was the tricky part, the difference between pulling an ocean liner out of a dock and pulling back into one. Or maybe like docking one of those aircraft carriers the screen had shown them. Angle had to be right. Every linkage, hasp, and junctor had to line up exactly to its sleeve. Luckily Enterprise had computers made to do that. There was really no such thing as doing it manually, although that was the term they used for less-than-fully automated hookup. Really doing it manually would take all day and half the night. But for the moment Riker was glad Picard watched so carefully as the big ships approached each other, saucer at full stop, stardrive moving forward on inertia so as not to attract the entity’s attention. At no other time would they be more helpless than during those last five feet before hookup.

  At the last moment a shock wave from the antimatter explosions in the asteroid belt washed across the two ships and pushed between them like a wedge.

  “Reverse!” Picard sharply ordered, and beneath him the ship moved to comply. “Stabilize. Smartly now. We may not get another chance. Approach on tight-frequency tractor beams. Get us in there.”

  “Aye, sir,” LaForge mumbled, sweating.

  “Worf, assist.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Klingon acknowledged. He left Data sitting on the deck steps and slid in behind Ops.

  Data blinked and watched, but made no attempt to regain his position; in fact, Riker noticed a thick preoccupation on the android’s part.

  Now what? he thought. Look at him. He looks as though a straight answer would do him as much good as it’d do me. Maybe he tried too hard. Maybe he took me too seriously and let that thing get inside and poach him. Next time I’ll keep my mouth shut.

  Maybe.

  The deck rocked beneath him. He grabbed for the bridge rail and looked at the viewscreen barely in time to see an artificially lighted view of the saucer section’s docking sleeve. Then the viewer went black and disengaged automatically.

  “Docking complete, Captain,” LaForge reported. “All sections, all junctions show green. Docking chief reports all secure.”

  “Signal acknowledgment. All stop. Well,” Picard said with a sigh, “that was a blasted fiasco if ever I saw one. Evidently there’s not going to be an easy way out of this one.”

  “Orders, sir?” Riker asked.

  “Captain!” Yar blurted. “It’s gone!”

  The bridge might as well have whirled under them like a giant lazy Susan, they all turned so fast.

  “Gone?” Picard repeated. “Just like that?”

  “Even faster.” Yar glowered over her equipment as though angrier at the phenomenon’s disappearance than she had been about its attacks. It was allowed to go away, but not without checking with the security chief first. “No trail, no residual energy, nothing. Popped out of existence.”

  “Charming. It’s playing some bloody game with us. Well, I’d say this confirms Data’s hypothesis about interdimensionality with rather alarming panache.”

  “Maybe we should get out of the area while we can, sir,” Riker suggested.

  “Oh, no, not on your life, Number One,” the captain responded, “and I mean that quite literally.”

  “But if—”

  “Can’t you see? It’s demonstrated quite clearly that it’s no insect and it’s no shark. It’s a trapdoor spider. We move—it springs. All it has to do is wait. Wait until we make a move. And we’re not going to.” He turned to the waiting faces of the tactical bridge crew and authoritatively said, “All stop. Shut down all systems including internal with the exception of basic life support. Turn off everything that can conceivably be turned off. Suspend experimentation and testing of any kind unless I specifically order it, all food processors, all extraneous utensils, terminals, holographs, intraship communication, generators, plumbing, everything. Reduce ship’s heating and lighting to bare minimum. Keep sound levels down. Tell people to get where they’re going, then stay there. We’re going to shut down the turbolifts within ten minutes and use only maintenance ladders. Have you got that?”

  Riker tilted his head dubiously. “I don’t know how long we can hold out like that.”

  Picard’s dark eyes thinned. “Cities have endured blackouts before, Mr. Riker,” he said, “and so shall we. Ever since submarine warfare and the blitz, groups of people have had to endure periods of excruciating silence.”

  “Those were trained military personnel, sir. It’s going to be harder on—”

  The captain silenced him with a toss of his head and unexpectedly lowered his voice. “Don’t be insulting.”

  “Right. Sorry, sir.” Riker cast an appropriate gesture at Worf and said, “Shipwide systems comply. I’ll check everything personally.”

  The captain nodded. “As soon as we get back to the main bridge, I want a complete systems check in preparation to feed antimatter from the reserves into the main tank to make up for our loss just now. I want it to go smoothly, Riker. That’s a lot of energy changing places, and we don’t want it detected. Notify engineering. They’ll have their hands full with the exchange and the charge up to warp power.”

  “Aye, sir, I’ll see to it.”

  “All hands, prepare to transfer command—”

  “Captain—” Troi came to life abruptly and pushed herself unsteadily from the seat. Had she not caught herself on the command chair, she might have fallen, but there was something more than physical stamina keeping her on her feet.

  The captain caught her arm. “Counselor, you stay where you are. I want to have Dr. Crusher look at you again.”

  “Later, sir, please. Captain, may I speak with you privately?” she asked, with a small glance at Riker. “This is . . . feels very personal to me, sir.”

  The captain indulged in a long study of her eyes, her expression, the degree of strength with which she clamped her hand on his arm—something she didn’t seem to realize she was doing—and he measured her veracity like a lie detector. His gauges were his experience, hard-earned abilities to judge what he heard by the expression of those who were saying it, the tone of voice and the slight quavers in it, the flickering of eyes, and the slight tightness of lashes. He believed her, believed this wasn’t just a whim, that she had something critical to say and was still rational enough to know the difference.

  He sensed Riker approaching, knew the first officer was looking over his shoulder, taking advantage of his height to look at Deanna Troi and silently ask if perhaps he could also be involved in her secrets. Only that made the captain’s decision tricky.

  “Very well,” Picard said. He took Troi’s arm and steered her toward the turbolift. “All hands, transfer command back to the main bridge immediately. Riker, you square off with Data. Get some answers. We’re going to hit this problem from both fronts. Counselor, my ready room. The rest of you . . . stations.”

  Riker watched perhaps too longingly as the captain escorted Troi from the dim battle bridge. He could live without her; perhaps he would have to. He’d called a halt to all relationships when he accepted this post, staring at twenty years of single-mindedness, and he’d kept that promise to himself well enough. Until he stepped onto the ship itself. Until she floated out of nowhere toward him. Suddenly the years ahead appeared more a test than an assignment. Was it unwise for long-term commanders to commit themselves to relationships? This whol
e business about having families aboard ship . . . it was so new. Did anyone know if ship’s commanders reacted differently when their loved ones were on board than they did if they could divorce themselves from everything but the dangers at hand?

  Deanna would know. And she’s the only person I can’t ask.

  He was jolted from his thoughts as two forms stepped by him toward the turbolift, and he shook himself. Before him, Yar and Worf were on the lift with the captain and Troi. Brushing his left arm, Geordi had just stepped by with Data in tow.

  Catching Data’s arm, Riker stopped him. “Data, you stay here.”

  LaForge started to turn, protectiveness roaring up in the set of his jaw and shoulders, and only a bark from the captain caused him to leave Data behind in the hands of a less-than-compassionate superior. “Coming, sir,” he said, his tone low, as though to warn Riker.

  Perhaps it wasn’t insolence, and perhaps it wasn’t a warning. But Riker couldn’t blame him if it were.

  The turbolift doors shut with a vacuumlike cussshhh.

  Data remained facing the lift for a wishful few seconds. Actually it was longer than a few. Enough longer that the pause was obvious. When finally he began to turn, he was at full attention—a stance recognized by both of himself and Riker as painfully unnecessary.

  “How do you feel?” the first officer asked.

  “Functional,” Data said, “though weak.”

  “Want to sit down?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I shall stand.”

  The better to walk away from you, my dear. Come on, Will, make your case and be done with it. “Do you have a report on what happened to you?”

  That wasn’t exactly what he hoped would come out when he opened his mouth, but Riker faced Data squarely with the question and told himself he’d find a way to bring up the other subject sooner or later.