Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [60]
The transporter room doors parted without a sound. Inside, Chief O’Brien was waiting for her. Also Worf—with a bundle in his hand.
“I thought I was going alone,” she told him.
“You are,” he snarled, obviously none too pleased about the fact. He unfurled the bundle with a flick of his wrist, showing her the heavy dun-colored tunic she’d have to wear over her medical garb.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s right. Don’t want to attract too much attention, do we?”
The wardrobe change seemed to her a waste of time—one they could hardly afford now, if Riker’s wound was half as bad as reported. After all, if someone had bothered to stab him, wasn’t the Federation’s presence in Besidia probably known already?
Nonetheless, she put down her supply pack long enough to pull the tunic on over her head. Then she recovered her pack, bounded up onto the transporter platform, and gave the order: “Energize.”
Chief O’Brien complied. Her last shipboard sight was that of Worf, his body unnaturally rigid as he resisted the impulse to leap onto the platform beside her. His eyes flashed black fire, and she had no trouble understanding their message: Do not let him die.
Then the transporter effect took over.
Picard paced in front of the command center, trying to hope for the best. The Impriman’s message had made it sound bad for Riker. Very bad.
Hell, the mere fact that it was she who’d had to use the communicator, and not Riker himself, had been enough to indicate the gravity of the situation. Her report had only underscored what he’d already known in his bones.
He thanked God he’d gotten advance clearance for additional beam-downs. Otherwise Dr. Crusher would still be waiting in the transporter room while some Besidian bureaucrat waded through red tape. As it was, all it took was a brief message, and the teleportation barrier was lifted long enough to allow the doctor to beam down to Riker’s side.
Not that Picard felt at all good about sending Crusher down there. Apparently someone was on to Riker’s mission, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use deadly force in opposing it. And if they could cut down someone as resourceful as Will Riker, what chance would a mere doctor have against them? Granted, she had a Criathan retainer to watch over her, but that kind of protection had already proved insufficient.
As the captain pondered these things, the lift doors opened and Lieutenant Worf came out onto the bridge. Without so much as a glance to either side of him, the Klingon assumed his regular position at Tactical, relieving the officer who’d manned the post in his absence.
Normally Picard would have dispatched someone else to give Crusher the tunic they’d been holding for her in ship’s stores against just such an emergency. Certainly there were personnel more convenient to the task.
But Worf had requested that he be allowed to do it, and Picard had allowed it. How could he not? Riker was one of the few real friends the Klingon had, not just on the ship, but anywhere. If he wanted to feel that he was helping in some small way, who was the captain to deny him that?
Picard gazed at the main viewscreen and the curved sweep of Impriman planetscape that dominated it. By now Dr. Crusher would have set to work on Riker. By now she would have a good idea if she’d arrived in time.
And so might Troi, if she was monitoring the doctor’s emotions. Picard turned to his counselor, queried her with a glance.
Was it his imagination, or was Troi looking a little haggard? Perhaps a trifle paler than usual? If so, it was understandable. The Impriman’s message had hit them all like a point-blank phaser blast.
“Nothing to report,” said the Betazoid, answering his silent question. “Dr. Crusher is still uncertain of the outcome.”
Her voice was even, untainted by the emotions that must be echoing inside her. Picard admired her for that.
“Thank you, Counselor.”
So they were truly in the dark. They would get the news, good or bad, only when the doctor completed her ministrations.
Damn. Why couldn’t the Imprimans