Nightshade

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “You aren’t angry about that system?” Picard asked.

  “Why should I be?”

  To that Picard had no answer. “Have you sensed anything at all, Counselor?”

  Troi glanced at Breck. “Yes, Captain, but . . .”

  “If you think I am a security risk, I will wait outside the door,” Breck said. His voice was even, no offense taken.

  “Counselor?” Picard asked.

  Troi shook her head. “His life is forfeit along with yours, Captain. It seems . . . unfair to exclude him. Besides, he might be able to answer some of the questions I have about the Orianians.”

  “Lieutenant Worf, do you concur?”

  Worf nodded, one small movement. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Very well,” Picard said. “Proceed, Counselor.”

  “The Orianians have very strong empathic abilities. I have never been around any race that could so easily breach my empathic barriers.”

  “Is that what happened the first night, when we saw the room of lifeless children?”

  “Yes and no. When I’m asleep, sometimes my barriers are not as strong, and intense emotions do seep through, but never to that degree. It was like the fear, the pain, was my own. One of the greatest fears for a Betazoid is losing self-identity. To be swallowed up by someone else’s thoughts and feelings until you forget that they are not your own.”

  Her lovely face was . . . haunted. Picard had no better word for it. It was not often that the counselor allowed her own worries to show so clearly. “Are you all right?”

  “It passes, Captain. I have experienced a few individuals in the past who could intrude upon me in this fashion, but never so many people in one place. And the strangest part is that they don’t know they have the ability.”

  “Explain,” Picard said.

  “I don’t know if I can. It is like they all have these wondrous empathic talents, but somehow it is stunted or hidden, even from themselves.” Troi looked at Breck. He sat motionless against the wall, but he was watching her. She had a vague sense of his intense concentration but could not read him.

  “Breck, what are the legends of mind powers? What were they suppose to be able to do?”

  He shifted, settling more comfortably against the wall. His body language was much more casual than the intensity Troi could feel.

  “There have been no true mind powers among our people for over a hundred years. Until I met you, Healer, I thought they were wishful stories for children. Now I am not so sure. I feel strange when I am near you and you use your powers. It prickles along my mind. Why?”

  Picard watched doubts pass over Troi’s face. Was she debating whether to tell the truth? If so, Picard knew which she would choose. Troi was more comfortable with the truth.

  “Many of the Orianians are blank to me, Breck. That means I can’t read their emotions, which is highly unusual. It implies an ability to block empathic senses. You are a blank to me most of the time.”

  “So, you are saying I am an empath or a mind-healer?”

  “In some sense, yes.”

  He smiled at that. “A mind-healer, but why are so many of us blanks, as you call us?”

  “Did you feel General Alick die?”

  “I don’t understand the question,” Breck said.

  “I felt him die, Breck. I felt his death inside my head. It was horrible, bitter.” Troi stopped then spread her hands wide. “I don’t have words for how it feels, but it is hideous. It is one reason Betazoids don’t go into security work.”

  “You feel all deaths?”

  “Not all, but many.”

  “You think that the Orianians were originally empaths, but killing forced the talent underground?” Picard asked.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Wait,” Breck said. He was leaning forward now, making no pretense of disinterest. “You mean this war has killed not only our people but our mind-powers?”

  “What were the powers suppose to be able to do?” Troi asked again.

  “They could heal the body as well as the mind, though that was rare, only the greatest could do that. No leader ruled without a healer by his, or her, side. They were supposed to be able to talk to the ground, the plants, even the water and trees.”

  “Talk, how?” Picard asked.

  “The legends say they could conjure fruit from bare rock, but I don’t know what is myth and what is reality. The stories grew as the healers died.”

  “But their empathic sense was often tied to the ground, to the planet?” Troi asked.

  “Yes. If the stories are even partly true, the most common power was to be a friend of the trees and growing things.”

  “Does that help you, Counselor?” Picard asked.

  “There is something called a sense of place, Captain. Land can have a sense of itself. There are theories it is the imprint of people, but it is often strongest in areas where there are no people.”

  “Are you saying that the planet itself could be empathic?”

  “It is alive, Captain,” Troi said. “Every living thing gives off something that death steals from it.”

  “But a planet, an entire planet?”

  “A dying planet,” Troi said softly. “Dying like the people and their empathic abilities.”

  “I do not understand this,” Worf said. His voice was a questioning growl.

  “I do,” Breck said softly. He laughed and it was the first truly free sound Troi had ever heard from him. “We are tied to our planet. As we poison it, we poison ourselves, not by being forced to eat corrupt food, or drink foul water, but directly. We are tied to our world, and as it dies, so do we. And the first thing to die was our tie to the planet we were killing. Our mind-healing.”

  Troi nodded. “I think so.”

  “Could you teach me how to use my powers?”

  “I believe so,” Troi said.

  He laughed then, delighted as a child. “We must save you, Picard. Your Federation has too much to teach us for it to end here. If we can prove to my people that killing and destroying this planet has robbed us of our healing . . . all of them, even the ones who want to continue this war, might listen.”

  “Then we must talk to the Greens,” Worf said.

  “Agreed, Lieutenant.” Picard smiled, slightly. “But I doubt that they will allow me to accompany you.”

  “Captain, I cannot leave you to be tortured. I cannot . . .”

  “You can and you will. Believe me, Worf, if I saw another solution I would take it. But we don’t have the firepower to fight our way out. Even if I was willing to allow the peace mission to die in my place.”

  “Captain . . .”

  “Find the real murderer, Lieutenant, clear my name. Perhaps this afternoon’s unpleasantness will be the only interrogation needed.”

  Worf stood in one smooth motion, using only his legs. “We will not fail you, Captain.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Worf.” He carefully did not look in Troi’s direction. He did not want to see her compassionate glance. She would know, if no one else did, that he was worried. Two days, and he would die. The worst of it was, the peace mission seemed likely to die with him. And now he had less than an hour before he was going to be led away to voluntary torture. It was ridiculous, but he saw no way out of it.

  Picard had always known that death was a likelihood as a career Federation officer, but ending his days executed for murder . . . It was too absurd.

  The others went out the door. They would do the questioning. The sorting out of all the horrible implications. Picard would have felt better if he could have gone with them. It was not that he thought he would see something or hear something Worf and Troi did not. It was that once that door closed behind them, all Picard had to do was wait. To wait for the guards to come and take him back to the clean white room, and its devices. But after the pain he would be returned here to wait some more. To wait and wonder. It rankled that he should spend his last hours helpless, and dependent on others, even trusted friends
.

  “Enough of this,” he said to the empty room. “I am Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the Federation Starship Enterprise. I am not so easily defeated.” Out there was the best security chief he had ever worked with, and the only counselor he had ever trusted with his own thoughts. They were good people. They were part of the Enterprise crew, and that meant the best. He was in good hands, the best hands. Picard knew that, and yet . . . he worried.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE GREENS’ CELL DOOR was near the center of the maze of white corridors. The stark white walls stretched as far as they could see, a tide of prisoners behind identical clean, white doors.

  Worf leaned close to Troi and whispered, a rumbling growl that vibrated in her ear, “Are there prisoners behind all these doors?”

  She whispered back, “I’m trying very hard not to sense anything, Worf.”

  He nodded and straighted back to attention. They were all waiting until Talanne could be brought. She had left very clear orders that they were not to question the Greens without her presence. So, they waited.

  Troi stood very still in the center of the corridor. She had rebuilt her barriers after the captain was found. She had no choice. The emotions behind the doors were like vibrating static playing along her nerves. Troi felt exposed, or worse yet, diffused. She felt stretched thin, tugged at by every emotion they passed. A planet of unbelievably strong empaths with absolutely no training. It was too frightening.

  If the captain hadn’t been jailed, awaiting execution, Troi knew that she would have been the one in the greatest danger. So she stood in the midst of the buffeting wind of the Orianian minds and tried to feel nothing.

  Worf and Breck stood to either side of her. If someone had simply glanced at them, they might have assumed that it was Troi who was the new ambassador. Breck had tried guarding Worf, but the Klingon had made it clear what he thought of the Orianian’s help. So they both guarded Troi.

  The problem was that the real danger to Troi was something that neither warrior could protect her from. Only one person could help her walk safely through the pain and despair that was the jails of Oriana, and that was Troi herself.

  Sounds came from down the corridor. The guards all turned at full attention to face the noise. A group of three masked and cloaked Orianians came into view. Their black and gold cloaks almost glowed against the whiteness. Troi found her eyes drawn to the color. This unrelieved whiteness was exhausting to the eye. Perhaps that was the point. Even the walls themselves reminded you that this was a prison, as bleak in its own way as the outer planet.

  “Greetings, Ambassador Worf, I am sorry to keep you waiting. The guard that came to tell me you were here had some trouble locating me.” It was Talanne’s voice, but she made no offer to remove her mask and show her face. “Open the door for us.” Her voice was quiet, but it was definitely an order.

  A guard moved to obey. He, or she, pushed the door wide, holding it with an arm. He stood aside to let the ambassador’s party enter.

  “Please, enter,” Talanne said. “All guards will remain outside the door.”

  “But Colonel Talanne . . .” a guard protested.

  “I have spoken,” she said.

  “Ambassador Worf,” Breck said, “shall I remain outside, as well?”

  “Yes.” Whether Worf wished it or not, custom dictated that if Talanne had no bodyguards, then he would have none. In fact . . . “We are honored that Colonel Talanne shows such trust in us.”

  “I am trying to behave like a civilized leader.” The bitterness in her voice could have cut glass.

  Troi was relieved that even standing next to Talanne, she felt nothing. She was blocking out Talanne’s empathic broadcast. There was only a faint buzz like the humming of insects, ignorable if she worked at it. Troi was relieved more than she would admit. But how could she help Worf and the captain if she refused to use her powers?

  Worf ducked through the low doorway into the cell. Troi followed him because that was her job, but fear was growing in her, her own fear. Fear of failing her duty out of cowardice.

  The harsh, bright light bounced off the glaring whiteness of the walls. The room swam in brightness like burning water in a glass globe. Audun sat against the far wall, his large brown eyes staring dully at the door, as if he did not really see it at all. Liv was huddled on one side, her back to the door. Her shining white-blond hair spilled onto the floor, a line of darkness staining it. Marit lay on her back, one arm slung carelessly outward as if in sleep. But her face was too pale for sleep.

  Worf moved swiftly to kneel by Audun. Troi just stood for a moment staring at Marit. The buzzing in her head was growing louder like someone had turned up the volume. No, she thought, no, I can’t feel this. Not again. Please.

  Talanne stepped in behind them. Perhaps she couldn’t see around them, perhaps it took a moment to realize what had happened. Or perhaps, the full horror of it slid slowly into her mind, because she simply didn’t want to believe it.

  “Audun, what has happened here?” Worf asked. He was feeling for a pulse on Liv. He did not bother with Marit. The Klingon knew death when he saw it. “Audun, can you speak?” Worf asked.

  Troi stepped toward them, slowly. It was like a nightmare where no matter what you did, it was too late, always too late. If only they had discovered the Orianian attitude toward torture sooner. If only . . . two of the most painful words. Words that Troi told her clients not to use. If only: words to torture yourself with.

  The buzzing in Troi’s head exploded into a scream. It shattered her barriers like brittle glass. A shriek was ripped from Troi’s throat. She whirled and found Talanne just behind her. Another scream tore through Troi and spilled out her mouth. Talanne wasn’t screaming. Troi was doing the screaming for her.

  Talanne’s emotions washed through Troi and swept her away. Horror at Marit’s lifeless face. Terror at what had been done, then anger. Anger that grew and fed on itself until it was rage. It burned through Troi and filled her with a desire to hurt someone. For the first time she understood exactly what Worf felt when just destroying something, anything, would make him feel better.

  The burning hatred curled in upon itself—self-hatred. Guilt. Guilt like a gleaming sword to cut and leave Talanne to bleed. The anger turned inward and fed on the guilt, like a beast gnawing its own foot to escape a trap. Troi choked on the tears, the rage, the hatred. She collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

  The room was suddenly full of guards with drawn weapons. Talanne had not moved. With her face covered, she seemed utterly calm. Only Troi knew what was happening inside, and only now did Troi realize Talanne’s empathic gift. The Orianian leader could project all her strong emotions onto other sensitives. She could rid herself of the worst of them, like throwing out garbage. And all of that emotional trash was filling Troi until she wasn’t sure where Talanne left off and this person called Troi began.

  “Troi!” Someone was holding her, cradling her in their arms. “Troi, can you hear me?”

  Talanne’s voice came low and calm. “Who was in charge of the Greens’ questioning?”

  Troi’s lips moved soundlessly, mocking the words, repeating them.

  “Counselor!” Worf shook her, forcing her to look up at him instead of at Talanne. “Deanna, can you hear me?”

  “Who did this?” Talanne’s words hissed this time, rage burning through them. Troi repeated the words like an echo. She did not seem to see Worf’s face.

  One of the guards dropped to one knee in front of her. “Colonel Talanne, we did not know that the Green was so delicate.”

  “Do you give me excuses!” She slapped him, and he pressed his face to the floor.

  “Mercy!”

  “You will get mercy,” she said softly, Troi repeated it with her. “The mercy you gave that woman.” Talanne turned her back on the crouching guard. “Take him to the place of pain.”

  Worf slapped Troi as gently as he could. She did not react, but her eyes tried to follow Talanne. Worf c
radled the counselor in his arms and stood. “I must get the counselor away from here. Stay with the Greens, Breck. See that no harm comes to them.”

  “As you ask, so shall it be done,” Breck said. He backed toward the prisoners, his rifle now pointing out at his fellow guards.

  Worf pushed through the guards with Troi’s limp body in his arms. He stopped in front of Talanne. “I must take her out of here. She is ill. I charge you with the safety of these people. I left Breck to see that no more harm is done them. You will treat him as a member of the Federation. He is not to be tortured.”

  “I will see that no more harm is done. You have my word of honor.” Troi repeated the words, it was ghostly, as if Troi were not there anymore. Worf held her tighter as if that would help.

  “Your word of honor means nothing to me, Talanne,” Worf growled the words next to her masked face. Troi winced, spine bowing as if in pain. Worf pushed through the guards into the hallway. Troi whispered, “Go with them, show them the quickest way out of these cells.” A second later a guard came out to stand beside them.

  “Colonel Talanne bids me lead you out of the prison.”

  Worf swallowed hard enough for it to hurt. How had Troi known that? How? “Then lead us,” Worf growled.

  The guard made a half salute, then strode down the corridor, black and gold cloak swinging out behind him. Worf followed, glancing down into Troi’s face. Her eyes were wide open, but they looked blind. She didn’t even blink. He whispered, “Troi.”

  He had ordered her to find the captain. He had taken her farther into this place, knowing how it might effect her. Worf had given the orders, but it might be Troi who paid the price.

  Every commander knows that when he orders his people into battle there is a chance not all will come back, but Troi was different. Worf could not think of her as a warrior. That should have been an insult coming from a Klingon, but it was not. Worf could not explain it, but Troi was the only friend he had that was not a form of warrior and still he respected her. He had never seen her so much as carry a phaser. She went into battles unarmed, and though she would not kill, she never flinched or considered personal safety first.