Dark Mirror - Diane Duane [85]
“Counselor,” Picard said warningly. I know what you want, the voice said inside his head.
And it was her voice and his, at the same time —the same way that the Borg voice ringing through him had been the Borg’s and his at the same time, that being what made it so intolerable—the feeling of a thought he was having himself that he wasn’t actually having himself.
And hard on the heels of the thought came the deep, hard stab right to the center of him, the feeling inside of fingers picking up his thoughts and letting them trickle through hands, like pebbles, jewels, sand —flowing away, picked up again by the handful, flowing through those hands for the amusement of the one who picked them up and scrutinized them … idly, with amusement, hateful amusement. One thought in particular stopped her while he fought for control, struggling to throw her out. The fingers of the questing mind fixed on it, picked it up, held it up in the fierce light of her mind to examine it.
You don’t want him dead, said the voice in his mind, incredulous. The rage was building in him at the horror of this violation. Externally he could barely move a muscle for shock; internally, he shook himself like a man coming up out of dirtied water and shouted at her, “NO!”
She actually flinched back from him, only slightly; then that smile came back. “Well, the things we do find. What kind of perverse desire—” She shook her head. “Unless it’s something to do with the mother. Did she beg you for his life?” Again that stab, but this time it came up against the armor of Picard’s rage. He felt the blow skid sideways and miss. “No, I don’t think so somehow, that’s not Beverly’s style … anyway, she hates him, too, after all, and wouldn’t waste her time. Then again, who knows? I really must have a talk with her about you. But it’s very strange in you. Why should you want to keep alive the son of the man you killed, when you have a chance to get rid of him? You would think his absence would be much better for … domestic tranquillity.”
Picard stood rigid and hung on to his rage like the armor it was. “Take him out of there, Counselor.”
She stared at him. “Now,” Picard said. “Are you refusing a direct order?”
“No,” Troi said after a moment. “Not yet. But in your present mood, I daresay you’ll soon give me grounds to. And then beware.”
Picard waited while her people shut the Agony Booth down. Wesley collapsed on the floor in a heap, moaning, his whole body trembling still with the overstimulation of the nerves. “Mr. Barclay,” Picard said. “Call a couple more of my people. Have them come here and return Mr. Crusher to his quarters. Then stand guard over him there. He is not to be moved by anyone else. If anyone tries—stop them by whatever means necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” Barclay said, glaring at Troi’s people. Apparently there was no love lost among the officers’ various guards.
Picard waited until other members of his bodyguard arrived and took Crusher away. Troi, still smiling that disturbing smile, went pointedly off in the opposite direction, toward the bridge.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Barclay said. “I felt her bearing down on you.”
“You felt that, too,” Picard said, inclined to shudder at the memory.
“When she’s in that mode, sir, there’s no not feeling it, even at a distance. You’re just glad you’re not on the receiving end of her real attention. Some have been. Some die of it.”
“Point taken, Mr. Barclay. Come on.” Picard headed for the ‘lift. “I was in the middle of some work when Dr. Crusher arrived. I need to finish it. Then we’ll go back to the bridge.”
CHAPTER 10
Once back in his quarters, Picard moved swiftly, not knowing how much time he would have before he was disturbed again. Hurriedly he sat down at the desk and slipped out of his tunic the small, closed container and the wafer he had removed from Beverly’s cabinet. Then he started working at the desk terminal, calling up a voiceprint-classified program, and carefully specifying