Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [14]
He thought of the strange ship that had just clicked out of being on the table beside them and shrugged. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”
She pulled her hand from under his, then put it on top of his and pressed down gently. “There is more than hurt to be felt, you know. I can also feel love.”
Riker allowed himself a sentimental smile. For an isolated moment they shared something that neither was completely sure still existed between them anymore. The magnetism was undeniable, but at the same instant it pierced him with its own dangers.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “I have to go back up there and act indispensable.”
“I know.”
He crooked his forefinger under her chin. “Try to relax. We all have that kind of dream sometimes. I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”
Troi smiled warmly. “I’m all right.”
He squeezed her hand, somehow feeling he hadn’t quite accomplished what he came in here for. Well, no point dragging it out to the maudlin. Stepping toward the door, he made what he thought was a clumsy exit.
The door brushed open, then closed automatically behind him, leaving him alone in the corridor as he took a stride or two toward the bridge turbolift—
And braked hard.
There was someone in front of him. He’d sworn the corridor was empty an instant ago. The air was chilled, heavy.
The man was big, almost as big as Riker. And maybe fifteen years older. His eyes were ready for Riker’s, and didn’t flicker away, but remained steadily focused. A wave of silver was the only inconsistency in his thick dark hair, and there was a uniform cap tucked under his arm. Yes-he was wearing a uniform, a dark blue uniform of some kind.
Riker vaguely recognized the style, but it was almost a “racial” kind of memory rather than something from his own experience.
The man’s pale lips separated without moisture. His face worked as though to speak, but there was an invisible wall between them. There was no sound, no sensation of warmth-in fact there was now a distinct chill in the corridor.
The large man, standing straight and proper, lifted a hand toward Riker, beckoning. Or perhaps asking-a gesture of entreaty-but then his handsome face crumpled, his brow knitting tightly, brackets of frustration forming on either side of his mouth.
Riker was as a man chained during those moments. He might have believed anything when the other man’s form slowly turned gauzy, thinned, and disappeared.
Chapter Three
“CAPTAIN, I’M PICKING UP an energy blip….”
Tasha Yar caught back her voice and grimaced at her readout board, confused. A flop of bangs had come back over her eyes as though to insist some part of her would always rebel against the discipline. Her delicate Lithuanian complexion blotched slightly around her cheekbones as she willed the instruments to start giving her sensible information, especially when Captain Picard appeared at her side and looked down at those same instruments.
“It’s gone now,” she told him bitterly. “How can that be? Worf, do you have anything?”
“Nothing,” the Klingon thundered, redoubling her impatience. “I don’t like it.”
“Steady, both of you,” Picard said. The readings looked absolutely normal. These two hotheads were dependable, but the doubting Thomas side of him wished he himself or Data or LaForge had also happened to see this flicker of energy Worf and Yar claimed had been there.
Suddenly Yar struck her board with the heels of her hands and shouted, “There it is again! But it’s inside the ship!” She slammed the intercom without consulting Picard. “Security to Deck Twelve, Section A-three!”
“Inside?” Picard stepped closer. “Are you sure?”
“It’s gone again!”
“Check your instruments for malfunction. Worf, do the same with long-range sensors.”
Yar took a deep breath. “Aye, sir.”
“Checking,” Worf said, much less embarrassed than Yar was.
Picard straightened. “And call Mr. Riker