"Tasha," he muttered, his eyes going in and out of focus.
"I beg your pardon?" responded Deanna.
"Tasha," he repeated dully, his own voice sounding strange in his ears. "I was just with Tasha, in the shuttle.... " Suddenly, it was all too much for him. His accumulated feelings of disorientation swept over him like a tidal wave, threatening to crush him. Somewhere off in the distance, he heard the sound of his cup shattering on the table.
In what seemed like a long, dizzying fall, Picard slumped back into his chair. His skull was ringing furiously, like a thousand chiming clocks. He put his hands to his ears in an attempt to shut them out, but he couldn't. They were too loud, too insistent.
"Captain?" came a cry, taut with concern. And again, tighter still: "Captain?"
"I..." he began. "I... can't..."
There was a dull sound—like a hand hitting something hard, something metallic. His stomach lurched.
"Troi to Dr. Crusher." The words seemed at once very close and very far away. "Something's wrong with the captain. We're on our way to sickbay."
And then he blacked out altogether.
CHAPTER 4
Dr. Beverly Crusher had seen her friend, the captain, in many a narrow strait. However, she had never seen him look quite so meek or helpless as he did now.
Sitting in his robe on the biobed in front of her, Jean-Luc was just staring into space, and had been for nearly a minute. He seemed oblivious of the doctors and nurses going about their business elsewhere in sickbay.
It made her feel helpless, too—because even after the battery of brain-activity tests she'd put him through, she still couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. Sighing, she completed one last scan with her tricorder and considered the results.
Troi, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looked at the doctor hopefully. Unfortunately, Crusher would have to dash that hope.
"I don't see anything that might cause hallucinations or a psychogenic reaction," she said.
The captain turned to her. "Nothing?"
"Nothing," echoed the doctor.
"Is there any indication of temporal displacement?" queried Troi. "Anything that might shed some light on the problem?"
Crusher shook her head. "Not that I can see. Usually, a temporal shift would leave some kind of trypamine residue in the cerebral cortex. But the scans didn't find any." Gently, she put her hand on Jean-Luc's shoulder. He half-smiled at the gesture, but his mind was clearly on his troubles.
"Frankly," she said, trying to lighten things up a bit, "I think you just enjoy waking everyone up in the middle of the night."
The captain looked at her. He seemed grateful for her effort to ease the considerable tension.
"Actually," he replied, picking up on her gibe, "I enjoy running around the ship in my bare feet. I find it..." He pretended to search for the right word. "Invigorating," he decided at last.
Now it was the doctor's turn to smile. "No doubt you do."
"Dr. Crusher?" The chief medical officer turned. Alissa Ogawa, one of her nurses, was headed this way with a padd. Ogawa was six months pregnant and looked every minute of it.
"Here are the biospectral test results," said the nurse.
"Thanks, Alissa," said Crusher.
Smiling, Ogawa crossed sickbay to attend to other things—and the doctor looked over the results displayed on the padd. Finally, satisfied that there could be no error, she turned to her patient, who had been watching her as she went over the data.
"And?" he asked.
"Well," she told him, "your blood-gas analysis is consistent with someone who's been breathing the ship's air for weeks. If you'd been somewhere else, there would be some indication of a change in your dissolved oxygen levelsrebut there isn't any such indication. You haven't left the Enterprise, Jean-Luc. Not as far as I can tell."
He frowned. "I don't understand," he said. He got that faraway look again—the one that tore at Crusher's heart. Unfortunately, the doctor thought, that wasn't the worst news she would give him today.
Turning to Troi, she asked, "Counselor... would you be good enough to excuse us for a moment?"
The Betazoid looked a little surprised, but she took the request in.stride. "Of course," she replied. And then, to the captain: "I'll look in on you a little later."
Jean-Luc nodded—but his gaze was fixed on the doctor now. He, too, wondered what kind of remarks required such privacy.
As Troi headed for the exit, Crusher met his scrutiny. This wasn't going to be easy, she told herself. But, as his doctor, she had to tell him.
"Jean-Luc," she began, "our scans didn't show any evidence of Irumodic syndrome. But it did reveal a particular kind of defect in your parietal lobe." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's the kind of defect that could make you susceptible to several neurological disorders later in life... including Irumodic syndrome."
The captain absorbed the news. "I see," he said.
Until this moment, he had been dealing only with something he'd experienced elsewhere—more than likely, it seemed, in a particularly vivid nightmare. Now the nightmare—or at least this one aspect of it--was invading his real world.
Still, whatever dark prospects he contemplated, he kept them to himself. Outwardly, he didn't show the least sign of self-pity.
"Now," she continued, "it's possible you could have that defect for the rest of your life without developing a problem. And even if the syndrome does develop, many people lead perfectly normal lives for a long time after its onset."
Jean-Luc smiled wryly--even courageously. "Then why," he asked, "do you look like you've just signed my death sentence?"
He said it with a hint of a smile, so she wouldn't get the wrong idea. Just as she had tried to break the tension earlier, he was trying his best to break it now.
After all, he knew that she would not be pleased about this either. Not only was she his physician, she was his friend. And at times, she had been on the verge of becoming something even more.
"Sorry," said Crusher, unable to quite bring herself to smile with him. "I guess... this has caught me off guard." The captain took a contemplative breath and let it out.
"Well, it'll either happen or it won't. However, since we have no control over it, there's no point in worrying." He looked at her with something akin to defiance in his eyes. "Besides," he added, "something tells me you're going to have to put up with me for a very long time."
The doctor shrugged. "It won't be easy," she told him, attempting to match his attitude, "but I'll manage."
She wanted to say more, but she was interrupted by the entrance of First Officer Will Riker. Crossing sickbay in several long strides, he looked as serious as Crusher felt. Of course, Riker didn't know anything about the potential for Irumodic syndrome, which worried the doctor even more than Jean-Luc's current malady.
The captain eyed his second-in-command. "Well?" he inquired. "Did Worf find anything?"
Riker shook his head. "No, sir. His security scans came up negative." He held his hands out in a gesture of apology. "They're checking the sensor logs... but there's still no indication that you left the ship."
Jean-Luc slipped off the biobed and harrumphed. "It wasn't a dream," he insisted. "Something did happen."
Abruptly, they were interrupted by a voice on the intercom net. "Worf to Captain Picard."
The captain looked up. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."
"Sir, there is an incoming transmission from Admiral Nakamura. It is a Priority One message."
Priority One? Crusher knew that Starfleet didn't use that designation lightly.
Jean-Luc turned to her. "Beverly?"
She knew what he wanted—and she had no objections. "Go ahead," she said. "Use it if you like."
The captain nodded by way of a thank-you. "Mr. Worf," he instructed, "route the communication through to Dr. Crusher's office."
"Aye, sir," replied the Klingon. "Rerouting..."
As Jean-Luc started across sickbay, the ch
ief medical officer sighed. She hoped that Nakamura didn't want too much of the captain. It wasn't as if he didn't have enough on his mind.
CHAPTER 5
Entering the doctor's office, Picard sat down at her desk and activated the desktop monitor. After a moment, the solemn visage of Admiral Nakamura appeared on the screen.
"Captain," said the admiral.
"Admiral," returned Picard. One didn't drag out Priority One messages with small talk.
Nakamura shifted slightly in his chair. "Jean-Luc, I'm initiating a fleetwide yellow alert. Starfleet intelligence has picked up some disturbing reports from the Romulan Empire."
"What sort of news?" asked the captain.
The admiral frowned. "It appears that they're mobilizing for something. At least thirty Warbirds have been pulled from other assignments and are heading for the Neutral Zone."
That was disturbing news indeed. "Is there any indication why they would make such a blatantly aggressive move, Admiral?"
"Perhaps," said Nakamura. "Our operatives on Romulus have indicated that something is happening in the Neutral Zone—specifically, in the Devron system. Our own long-range scans have picked up some kind of spatial anomaly in the area, but we can't tell what it is—or why the Romulans might have taken an interest in it."
"I see," responded Picard. "And what are our orders?"
The admiral scowled. "As you can imagine, this is a delicate situation. I'm deploying fifteen starships along our side of the Neutral Zone. And I want you to go there as well—to see if you can find out what's going on in the Devron system."
The captain pondered his instructions. "Am I authorized to enter the Zone?" he inquired.
Nakamura shook his head. "Not yet. Wait and see what the Romulans do. You can conduct long-range scans, send probes if you wish... but don't cross the border unless they cross it first."
"Understood," Picard assured him.
"Good luck," said the admiral. And with that, his image vanished, replaced with the official insignia of Starfleet.
Turning off the monitor, the captain stood…
... and felt a sudden wave of vertigo wash over him.
He felt himself falling... falling... reaching out... until he was caught by a pair of strong arms.
Looking up, he saw that it was La Forge who had rescued him. The man's face was puckered with concern.
"Captain... what's wrong?" he asked.
With his friend's help, Picard steadied himself and looked around. His family's vineyard seemed to stretch out forever in every direction. But... that wasn't right, was it? He didn't belong in the vineyard... or didn't.
"Is something wrong, sir?" pressed La Forge.
The older man tried to think. "I don't know," he responded. "I... I wasn't here a moment ago..."
His visitor's worry lines deepened. "What do you mean? You've been right here with me, sir."
Picard groped for an answer. He tried to concentrate, to remember... but the damned Irumodic syndrome kept dragging down his every effort.
If only he were younger. If only his mind hadn't deteriorated. If only.
Stop it, he told himself. You're not going to get anywhere feeling sorry for yourself. Now, what happened to you? Try to remember, dammit.
"No," he said at last. "I wasn't here. I was somewhere else... a long time ago." He concentrated harder. "I was talking to someone.... " And then it came to him. Beverly…
"Beverly was there." He looked up at La Forge and saw an expression of disbelief. Picard's former comrade was beginning to wonder if the old man was losing it. It was evident in his eyes, even if they had been created in a lab somewhere.
"It's okay, Captain." He took hold of the vintner's arm. "Everything's going to be all right."
Flushed with anger, Picard pulled his arm away. "I am not senile. It happened, I tell you. I was here, with you... and then I was in another place..." But where was it?
Again, he had a flash of insight. "It was... it was back on the Enterprise!" he croaked.
But how was that possible? He hadn't been on his old ship in a quarter of a century. And the more he thought about it, the more a host of doubts began to set in.
"At least," he went on, "I think it was the Enterprise. It seemed like sickbay... yes... but maybe it was a hospital... or..." He shrugged. How could he know? How could he be sure?
La Forge looked at him. "Captain, I think we should go back to the house. We could call a doctor...."
Picard felt his anger crawl up into his throat, where it threatened to choke him. "No,"he grated. "I know what you're thinking. It's the Irumodic syndrome. It's beginning to... to affect the captain's mind. Well, it's not that. And... and I wasn't daydreaming either, dammit."
La Forge held up a hand for peace. "All right, sir...all right. Just calm down." The older man felt the heat in his face start to ebb away. He straightened to his full height. "Apology accepted," he said, even though—technically—his visitor hadn't tendered one.
"So," La Forge probed, "something's happened. You've gone... er, somewhere else. And back again."
Picard nodded emphatically. "Damned right I have."
"Then..." The younger man appealed to him with his artificial eyes. "What do you want to do about it?" The vintner considered the request, doing his best to seize on a course of action. Finally, one came to mind.
"I want to see Data," he announced.
La Forge mulled it over. "I don't get it. Why Data?"
This was annoying. "Because I think he can help."
The younger man looked at him. "If you don't mind my asking, sir... help how?"
The anger exploded in him, almost as hot and bright as before. "I don't know!" roared Picard. "I don't know—but I want to see him, do you understand me?" In the aftermath of the captain's outburst, La Forge hesitated. Obviously, he still wasn't putting much credence in anything the older man said. But in the end, he seemed to come to terms with the idea.
"Okay, sir. We'll go see Data, if that's what you want."
"It is," Picard confirmed.
The younger man's eyes narrowed. "He's still at Cambridge, isn't he?" It was a good question. "Yes," said the vintner. "I think he..."
He never finished the sentence, distracted by a sudden movement in the corner of his eye. Turning toward it, he saw the intruders again—the scraggly, undernourished, hollow-eyed souls he'd noticed before.
But this time, there weren't three of them. There were six.
As before, they were jeering and pointing at Picard— though he hadn't the slightest idea why. Nor, for that matter, could he guess what they were doing here a second time.
He grabbed La Forge by the arm and, with an effort, managed to turn him in the intruders' direction. "Do you see them?" he asked. "Do you?"
The other man looked out over the rolling vineyards.
Then he looked back at Picard. "See who?"
The captain pointed to them. "They're out there," he said. "Laughing at me. Why are they laughing, dammit?"
Why indeed? What was so funny7 And who were they, anyway?
La Forge put his arm around Picard. It was a patently protective gesture. "Come on, Captain. Let's go see Data." Picard started to protest—and then realized that the intruders were gone. There wasn't a sign of them—not a rag, not an echo. He scanned the vineyards in all directions, to no avail.
But how could they have disappeared so quickly? It was as if they'd dropped into a hole in the earth.
Or was it possible that he had imagined them after all? That they had never existed in the first place?
The older man swallowed. "Yes," he muttered. "Data... yes, of course."
And, feeling a little weak in the knees, he allowed his former comrade to guide him as they walked back toward the house.
Cambridge University hadn't changed much over the millennium or so since it was founded. At least, that was Geordi's understanding. Personally, he had been through the place only once before, on a family outing— and that was
when he was very small.
Data's residence at the university was an old English manor house, built around the end of the sixteenth century. It had the smell of old wood about it. As Geordi approached the front door, with the captain at his side, he noticed the large brass knocker. It had been molded in the shape of a long-maned lion's head.
Geordi smiled. Here, as on the Picard family property, the primitive had been preserved and venerated. No doubt it was making the captain feel right at home.
He had been alarmed by Picard's behavior back in the vineyards. However, the captain hadn't seemed nearly so distracted on the way here. In fact, his excitement had seemed to focus his thoughts—to make him more lucid.
Why, there had been times on the trip from France to England when Geordi had completely forgotten that the man had Irumodic syndrome. Well, almost completely.
There had been the incident with the poodle.
Reaching for the knocker, Geordi banged it a couple of times on the heavy wooden door. After a moment, the door opened. A dour-looking, red-faced woman somewhere in her fifties peered out at them. She looked broad enough to put the average Tellarite to shame.
"State your business," said the woman, with a heavy English accent. Her small, deep-set eyes announced that the two men were anything but welcome here, and dared them to say otherwise.
Still, they hadn't come all this way to be turned back now. "We're here to see Mr. Data," the former chief engineer explained. "My name is Geordi La Forge and this is Jean-Luc Picard. We're old friends of his."
The woman's eyes narrowed almost to slits. "I'm sure you are, sir. Everyone's friends with Mr. Data, it appears. But the professor's busy right now and can't be disturbed, y'see."
"But..."
"I'm sorry, sir." As she began to close the door, Picard put his foot in the way. The woman glared at him.
"It's very important we see him immediately," he elaborated, glaring back. "We've come all the way from France."
Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things... Page 3
