Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [29]
“No … I didn’t. But he doesn’t take it off.”
“He refuses to give in to his handicap. And because of his dedication, he gets depleted and has to deal with some considerable pain.”
Riker grasped the edge of the chair and crushed the cushion tight. “Pain? Are you telling me that thing hurts him?”
“He never shows it.”
“I had no idea….”
Dr. Crusher slid off the table and said, “That’s the kind of crewman you’ve got, Mr. Riker. Now you know.”
The first officer slumped back in the chair, his blue eyes slightly creased as he tried to imagine something his own brain simply wasn’t made to visualize. But he understood pain, and he understood the resistance of it. And the dogged recurrence of it. Suddenly he was aware of how little time he and these special people had spent together. Special talents, yes, but also special handicaps. Data and his mechanical self; Yar and her explosive temper and overprotectiveness; the constant tug and pull between himself and the captain with the undefined split of authority on a starship with civilians on board as regular complement; Troi and what she was going through on all fronts; and now this with Geordi LaForge-blind, but not-a man who could see phenomenally or not at all, no easy middle ground.
This was hard. It was a strain. Since day one there had been troubles, troubles that made them put aside those all-important moments when people got to know each other. They had been through much together, yet they were still strangers. What did he really know about Geordi? How did Geordi feel about other things than sight and that helm he worked? What was Yar’s favorite pastime other than polishing her martial prowess? Certainly such a woman, so young and so vital, would think about something more fun. What music did she like? Did her shoes hurt sometimes? And surely there must be something more to Wesley than just a typical sixteen-year-old invulnerability. And Worf-was he lonely? As lonely as Troi seemed to be sometimes? What kept him in Starfleet when he could easily go back to his Klinzhai tribes and be completely accepted? It wasn’t a Klingon trait to reject one of their own blood, no matter the circumstances of his separation. Why didn’t he go?
Somehow each had become nothing to the others but a name and one particular eccentricity. Data was the Android, Geordi was his visor, Worf was the Klingon, Crusher was the Doctor, Wesley was the Kid, Troi was the Empath, Picard was the Marquis-I guess that makes me the gentry. Or the rabble, Riker thought, not caring what all this did to his expression as Crusher watched silently. I don’t know them. I don’t know any of them yet, and all this time we’ve been depending on each other for life and limb. And Captain Picard … I know him least of all. But then, I haven’t shown him much of Will Riker, either-have I?
“Damn it,” he whispered.
Crusher pressed her lips inward and tried to avoid a softhearted nod, for she saw the changes in his face and especially noticed when he started absently picking at a nail and looking guilty.
“What?” she prodded, very careful of her tone.
“Nothing.” He stood up abruptly, committing the very crime he was hanging himself for. Even as he began to turn toward the door he realized what he was doing, and he paused, balanced on one foot. He tipped his shoulder back toward her and thought about turning. “We aren’t … we aren’t showing-“
“Commander Riker, to the bridge immediately. Yellow alert, all hands, yellow alert. Commander Riker, report to the bridge-“
“Something on the edge of sensor range, sir.”
Tasha Yar’s voice gained a sudden rock-steadiness as she raised her volume over the yellow alert noise.
Picard stood resolute at bridge center, glaring at the viewscreen, very aware of Counselor Troi beside