Dark Mirror - Diane Duane [46]
“Pretending is going to be your main protection,” Deanna said. “Be angry—start being angry now—and stay that way. That at least will steer your body language in the right direction. His body language says he spends most of his time thinking angry, contemptuous thoughts; his face says the same. So steer yourself in that direction. It’ll do for the moment—and with luck, maybe we won’t be seen at all. We’re beaming directly into the core control chamber, after all.”
Geordi nodded, then glanced away from the playback to have a look at the shuttle’s autopilot. At almost the same moment, the communications panel chirped.
“Hawking,” Geordi said softly, as if someone might overhear him.
“You’re within range,” O’Brien’s voice said. “Ready?”
“Stand by.” Geordi glanced at Troi, muted the circuit for a moment. “Did I mention,” he said, “that I’m scared out of my ever-lovin’ mind?”
She smiled at him as reassuringly as she could, but the smile had a rueful edge, Deanna knew, for she was as frightened as he was. “I got that sense,” she said. “Did I mention that I was, too?”
They stood up. He laughed, just a breath. “Come on, Counselor, let’s go bell the cat.”
They moved to the transporter pads. Geordi was wearing a small belt pouch with the isolinear chips and a few other small pieces of hardware. Troi, first on the pads, watched him touch the relay transporter console into life, then he climbed up beside her. It was a tight fit—what with the low ceiling of the shuttle, the emitter arrays were barely six inches above their heads, and Troi kept feeling as if she wanted to duck a little. But she was sure that the other Troi would never stand anything less than regally straight. She almost laughed at the memory of her mother’s voice saying severely, Stand up, little one, you’re one of the daughters of the Fifth House; whoever heard of one of us slouching?
“Ready, Chief,” Geordi said.
“The console reports all the preset routines are answering,” O’Brien said. “All you have to do is hail the shuttle and the transporter’s computer will bring you home on demand. Or call us—but you know the routine. Try not to have to. The signal strength required to drive a call out our way may be noticed—and if there’s a problem with the transport …”
“Understood,” Geordi said.
“Well, then, Godspeed,” O’Brien said. “Energizing …”
And the world dissolved in light—
—and reasserted itself: a tiny room, really, no more than a pie slice carved out of the top of the secondary computer core, with a chair, a sit-down terminal, some wall displays—
—and a crewman leveling a phaser at them, with his face working between astonishment and fear. Astonishment at the sight of Geordi, then fear at the sight of Deanna.
His fear froze him briefly as it also stabbed Troi’s fear and made her angry—she having turned herself toward that emotional set already, by way of self-defense. Without a moment’s hesitation she kicked the phaser out of his hand. No sooner was her leg out of the way than Geordi jumped him, a blur of speed and fear-turned-rage. A second or so later, the man was down on the floor, nearly unconscious, and Geordi came up with the hypospray from his belt pouch and let the man have it in the leg, one of the fast-absorption sites that Dr. Crusher had shown him. The man sighed and was still.
“He’ll be out of it for a few hours,” Geordi said, getting hurriedly to his feet. “But I don’t like him being here. Either they were expecting us or the security levels around here are too high for my liking. Let’s get on with it.”
He moved to the console, sat down, and started to work. Deanna stood by him, only half watching; the rest of her was trying to cope with the feel of the many minds around her.
Normally this was something she had to endure anew every morning: the pressure of all those minds against her own, the brief disorientation on waking up from sleep to find that there were a thousand people, more or less, in bed with you—not in terms of their thoughts, but the ebb and flow of their emotions, like a low roar of ocean noise,