GHOST SHIP

by Diane Carey

  “You wouldn’t feel obliged to fight it if you could find a way to escape it?”

  “No more than I would feel obliged to fight a thunderstorm, sir.”

  “I see,” Riker murmured. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  His pleasure sounded like a threat. What a voice. Glad it’s on our side, Riker thought as he strode away, trying to think like a Klingon. Coward and a bully. Yes, that was true. A big stupid phenomenon with more power than it knew how to handle and a propensity for stealing more. It probably thought preserving the life essences of its victims was the decent thing to do. If it thought at all, which it probably didn’t. Or did it? Data had been in contact with something, and evidently not the same something Deanna was sensing. Maybe there was more intelligence at work than was apparent—

  It didn’t matter. Getting away mattered. Not falling into the trap mattered. Riker remembered too clearly the anguish in Arkady Reykov’s eyes when the two had “met” in the corridor. Met—if only they could. Envy pierced him suddenly and he wished he could crawl into Deanna’s mind and have a conversation with Reykov and Vasska. What would it be like? To contact men of that age? Such a fascinating part of history, that brink of the great plunge into the space age—what a time it must have been. They could build ships like that and float them on top of the water and put five thousand people inside. Wouldn’t it be interesting to speak to Timofei Vasska and compare first-officer notes? What did Vasska have to know? Things about the sea and atmosphere that probably seldom occurred to captains and officers these days. And all the political tumults of a civilization like Earth’s—what an experience it would be to understand the thoughts of such people as they must have been. They’d have to be decisive and quick. Their opinions were probably right up front all the time, no disguises, no shady diplomacy. And here they were, within reach. Asking for help, in fact, according to Deanna. Part of the brotherhood of big ships.

  All at once, guilt entered his thoughts. How sure could he be of his own convictions? What had Reykov tried to convey to him when they met in the corridor? What had that extended hand meant? Riker knew he’d hurt Deanna with his arguments. He remembered how her face had grown pale, her eyes sad as she looked at him during those moments. Arguing with Crusher was easy enough. Doctors were used to that, and Beverly was so low-key her heart only beat once a day. But Deanna had never really known what to do with confrontation. It wasn’t part of her nature. He’d hit her when she was down.

  He approached the command chair and touched the intercom. Quietly he asked, “Tell me where Counselor Troi is now.”

  The computer’s response was immediate and conspicuous on the quiet bridge. “Counselor Troi is in sickbay lab isolation area, unit four.”

  “Still? How long are they going to let this go on?” he muttered, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “More information is required to answer your inquiry, please.”

  “I didn’t mean you. Cancel.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Pain in the ass,” he grumbled back at its sugary female voice, and strode forward away from it.

  Something had to work. So far, nothing had, but something would have to. Separating the ship had only gotten them into bigger trouble. Increasing power to the shields had only attracted and fed the creature. Phaser power would probably do the same, albeit with a different kind of energy. There had to be some weapon to devise, something, some idea in Starfleet’s new technology that could get them out of this. It was here, that idea, Riker made himself believe. All they had to do was find it. Except . . . all the cards were in the deck. They didn’t have enough information about the enemy.

  He turned expectantly and looked at Worf’s hunched shoulders as the Klingon bent resolutely over the science station.

  Riker sighed, and paced.

  Going to space on a ship like this . . . it was easy to get smug, to figure the deck was solid and the ship was impregnable. Easy to become imperious about mortality. And when the wisdom of the age put children on board—well . . . safe, right?

  “Sir!”

  He spun, dragged around both by the alarm and the accusation in the voice that stormed the bridge. On the upper deck, LaForge was charging out of the turbolift.

  “Where’ve you been?” Riker demanded. Then LaForge’s appearance registered—little electrical burns on his sleeves, his dark features glossy with sweat, and even behind the visor anger showing clearly in his face. Riker paused and redesigned his question. “What happened to you?”

  “Data locked me in the AR decontamination stall and shorted out the safety shield. It took me this long to tear the wall apart and get out,” LaForge panted. “Mr. Riker, he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Riker blurted. “Where?”

  “He took a shuttlecraft and headed out to find the creature. And it’s your fault, sir.”

  “He took—are you sure?”

  “I was just down at the flight deck. The autolog in the deck control loft says he left over half an hour ago.”

  “Worf! Check that!”

  “Won’t do any good,” LaForge said. “He bypassed all the relays that would’ve notified the bridge. He knows all the tricks, sir. You know he does.”

  “Worf, try to track him,” Riker amended as he climbed the ramp in three long steps and confronted LaForge. “You got any idea what his thinking is on this?”

  LaForge said, “He’s hoping to be able to communicate with that thing if he can get closer to it.”

  “And?”

  “Why would there be anything else, Mr. Riker?”

  “Come on, LaForge, I see it in your face. What else?”

  “Just a little thing, sir. Because you’ve been so nice to him, he’s gone to find out if he’s alive enough for the creature to suck the life out of him.”

  The bridge shrank away. Riker’s eyes tightened until they were aching. He brought a hand to them and leaned the other palm on the bridge rail. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Oh, damn . . . who knew he’d be that sensitive?”

  “Did he have to be?” LaForge shot back.

  “Damn,” he murmured again, this time a whisper. “Worf, anything on that shuttlecraft?”

  “Sensors on passive aren’t picking up anything at all, sir. I don’t understand. Even passive read should pick up something the size of a shuttlecraft.”

  Riker gestured toward Worf, but looked at LaForge and asked, “Got an explanation for that?”

  LaForge shrugged. “Data’s not stupid, sir. He probably rigged a sensor shield of some kind to give him time to get away before we could beam him back or hit him with a tractor beam. We could pick him up right away on active sensors, but passives aren’t powerful enough and Data knows we don’t dare use them.”

  “Does he have a plan?”

  “Not that he told me. He intends to attract its attention, that’s all I know.”

  “Worf, can he do it in a shuttlecraft?”

  The Klingon paused, then said, “No problem, sir. All he’d have to do is use the weapons on board.”

  Pacing away from them, Riker folded his arms tightly, gathering to deal with a problem he himself had caused. “He didn’t have to do this. . . .”

  “Thanks to you, he thought he did,” LaForge said.

  Riker struck him with a glare and snapped, “That’s enough from you. I know what I did. Have you got something constructive to say?”

  LaForge straightened—almost to attention, but not quite—and got suddenly formal. “Yes, sir. Request permission to take another shuttlecraft and go after him. I believe that would put only the two of us at risk and not attract attention to the Enterprise.”

  “And do what when you find him? Dock up and slap his wrist?”

  “I could relay coordinates, and you could beam us both back simultaneously.”

  Riker paused, and the sarcasm protecting him from his own mistake suddenly flooded away. “That’s a good idea,” he heard himself say, even though he hadn’t me
ant to say it aloud. He strode back to LaForge and said, “But you shouldn’t be the one to go. I’m the cause of this. I’m the reason he’s risking his life, and I’m going after him.”

  “You, sir? You said he was just a machine. That he doesn’t have a life to risk.”

  Stifling the desire to reach out and crush those words out of the air, Riker gazed at LaForge so intently he could almost see through the ribbed silver visor and through the dead eyes to the very core of LaForge’s concern for Data. He took a step closer to the navigator and said, “Geordi, nobody needs to be that wrong more than once.”

  Stiffly LaForge insisted, “How do you know you were wrong?”

  But the answer to the challenge was already there on Riker’s face, and he even had the words for it. “Machines don’t go beyond their programming. No machine has ever sacrificed itself to save others,” he said. “Data just did both.”

  LaForge’s stiff posture slackened as he heard Riker’s whole-hearted belief and saw the subtle physiological changes that showed him the first officer was sincere. Even through his anger, he couldn’t doubt his own vision. “Sir, I don’t know if he’ll listen to you. You know what I mean.”

  Softly Riker responded, “I’ll make him listen.” He started toward the turbolift, then whirled and snapped his fingers. “Notify Dr. Crusher to get the captain out of isolation, stabilize him, and fill him in on this. But give me time to get clear of the ship first.”

  LaForge took a tentative step toward him. “Sir, could I—”

  “No,” Riker said. “You stay here. In fact,” he added with a gesture that took in the bridge, “take over.”

  * * *

  The bad memories were piling one on top of the other like an avalanche and there was nothing to stop them. Nothing to distract his mind from them or give him something, anything to cling to. Not an itch, not a blink, nothing. He could no longer focus his thoughts voluntarily. His mind moved of its own accord. The more he tried not to think of certain things, the quicker his mind shot to them and lingered there. There was no longer any way to avoid thoughts or deflect the process. After the good memories had been relived, his mind went deeper and deeper into the past he had long ago learned to control; all the terrible things from childhood and even from his adult past came plunging back at him and there was no stopping it. His mind was a wide field on which all these things were wild birds pecking.

  Why was he being left in here so long? Why had he been forgotten here?

  If only he could wiggle his toes. His fingers. Anything. To feel his own presence would be something, at least—at the very least. To hear himself breathe . . . it was all gone. His sense of time was utterly gone, no matter how he tried to keep control, to keep track. The mind worked at something like twenty-four thousand words per minute, so it probably seemed longer than it had been—but how long? If he could blink, he could begin to judge time again. If he could draw a breath or move a finger, he would have some point of reference. If there was only something, some sense of time or life . . . breathing, heartbeat, anything. It was difficult now to tell if he was awake or asleep, or even to know the difference. No matter how he kept reminding himself of where he was and why he was here, any sense of purpose slid away almost instantly now. Thoughts could no longer take hold in his mind. Then the distortion set in. Doomed to the redundancy of his own thoughts, he felt the horror of the future. Even pain would be welcome.

  They’ve forgotten me. They’ve forgotten I’m here. But where is here? I’m not sure anymore. Do they know they’ve left me behind? Have they stopped monitoring? Did they forget having a captain named Picard? Wasn’t there an entity?

  Riker wanted to leave the area, not attack the creature . . . Has he used this opportunity to do that?

  Ridiculous.

  But what other explanation?

  That thing’s out there. It must have attacked again. It’s taken all of us and this is eternity for me now. My God, we must all be inside that thing! There’s no other explanation. Why else would I be in here for so many days? How can there be such solitude? Man wasn’t meant for this. I wasn’t meant for this. I don’t want it.

  My arms. They’re falling off. I have no shoulders to hold them on. My elbows are growing . . . my knees . . . how can I still be alive this way? I can’t hear myself breathe. I can’t swallow. Listen . . . nothing. Nothing. Where is everything? Everyone?

  Death isn’t supposed to feel unnatural like this. But I’m not dead. I’m not dead. But life isn’t like this, and how can there be anything other than death and life? Beverly? Are you checking? They’ve left me behind. They thought I died and they left my body in space and somehow my mind is awake. This is monstrous . . . unforgivable. I can’t touch myself. A human being should at least have himself for company. Where am I? Let me out! Don’t leave me in space! It’s so cold here. . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  TROI PACED OUTSIDE the isolation chamber, her arms tightly folded. She couldn’t get warm. Frustration picked at her as she tried to find the words to explain her perceptions to the captain, words good enough to make her walk over there and put an end to this chamber experiment. The mind was her professional realm, and this kind of mental distortion had always irritated her. The mind need not be stretched out of shape to be understood, or to be made to understand. Such a man, Picard was—subjecting himself to this on the slim chance that it would help make his decision a bit surer than it otherwise might have been.

  “Have some coffee, Deanna,” Dr. Crusher said, having lost count of the passes Troi had made between the chamber and the monitor.

  Troi cut her pacing short. “How is he? Do you know?”

  “Stable, physically. The encephalogram’s a little erratic, but nothing I’d call unexpected.”

  Shaking her head, Troi said, “I must be more affected than I realize, to let him do this to himself. I’ve never approved of these procedures.”

  “If the captain comes out of there even a little more sure, it’ll all be worthwhile.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Troi said.

  “Sit down, will you?” Crusher ordered up a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to Troi, actually having to fold the counselor’s hand around the cup. “Drink. And forget about the captain for a few minutes. I guarantee he’s forgotten all about you.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  Crusher sat back and nodded, checked the monitors again, found them unchanged, then crossed her legs and tried to take her own advice. “What about you? What’s it doing to you?”

  Troi’s black eyes lay unfocused on the pool of coffee. “They’re on me every second. They give me no rest . . . these strangers. They’re so desperate, Beverly, and it’s an intimacy beyond description. I don’t think even a full Betazoid could understand it. I tried so hard to make the captain understand . . . and Bill . . . ”

  Crusher leaned forward and squeezed Deanna’s wrist reassuringly. “Don’t take it too hard. He was doing what he thought was best.”

  “Was he?”

  “Oh, I think so.”

  Troi felt her lips tighten as she fought back the rush of emotion. “I wish one or the other of us could be . . . somewhere else.”

  “I know,” the doctor said sympathetically. “It’s difficult to deal with someone who reappears out of your past. Especially when you disagree.”

  “I expected his support,” Troi said, her voice cracking. “We know each other better than either of us knows anyone else on this ship. I thought he of all people would accept my judgment.”

  “It’s not his job to accept your judgment, Deanna, you know that. If anything, his duty is to make sure the captain is clear on all angles of a crisis.”

  “Oh, Beverly, that’s not what he was doing. I could feel it. He really believed the things he said.”

  “He’s entitled to,” Crusher said soothingly. “Having an affection for each other doesn’t mean you have to be joined at the brain. You’re allowed to disagree.”

&nbs
p; “I know that, but . . . ”

  “How long have you known each other?”

  “Oh, nearly five years.” A warm tinge of nostalgia mellowed her distraught expression. “We had a lively time together before he decided to devote his life to a long-term mission. There was a time when we planned a future together . . . before we realized we wanted different things from life. He was gallant and gentlemanly, as he is now, perhaps a bit brusque and arrogant—”

  “As he is now,” Crusher appended with a playful smile.

  Troi nodded. “This,” she said, glancing around at the wholeness of Enterprise, “was a coincidence neither of us foresaw.”

  “Why do you call him Bill when everyone else calls him Will?”

  Troi’s cheeks flushed, and she managed a smile. “I didn’t know it was so obvious.”

  “It’s not. I’m just astonishingly observant, you know.”

  Troi’s delicate smile widened. “ ‘Bill’ sounds like a word in the language of Betazed. A word I like . . . reminds me of my childhood there. There’s no translation, but it had to do with—oh, I shouldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t want to compromise him.”

  “Go ahead,” the doctor said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “compromise him.”

  “Well, it means . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Shaving cream.”

  “ ‘Bill’ means ‘shaving cream’ in Betazoid?”

  Troi felt a touch of laughter bubble out of her. “That word always reminds me of this particular brand of Macedonian shaving cream my father used to use. It was scented evergreen and—”

  “Oh, that explains it!” Crusher said. “Latent childhood impressions of parental evergreenery. There you are! It’s not Riker who attracts you—it’s pine trees! And I think I’m only a fair psychologist. Move over, Deanna, I think I like this. Wait till Wesley hears about it. Shaving Cream Riker.”

  “Beverly, you wouldn’t!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I? It’ll spread like wildfire among everybody under twenty years old—”