Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [37]
“Could it be that this thing is a vessel and you’ve been reading its crew?”
“That possibility has occurred to me,” Troi said, determined not to say she didn’t know, even if she didn’t. “I haven’t dismissed it. But if we can label those humanoid images as ghosts, I suppose there’s no more harm in labeling these impressions as their … souls. No, please-let me continue. I realize that’s imprecise, sir. I regret having to speak so. ‘Soul’ is a subjective term, but I believe that’s the image these entities have of themselves.”
“You’re receiving a perception of self?” Crusher asked. The long copper fan of her hair moved against her shoulders as she leaned forward.
Troi’s nymphic eyes widened. “Oh, yes! That’s why I’ve been doubtful of my perceptions. Some of the visions are startlingly clear. The image of Vasska, for instance, and the memory of giving him orders as that entity struck the Gorshkov.”
“You didn’t say that before,” the captain pointed out. His tone rang with annoyance, as though he did indeed expect her to give a clearer report on these unclear things.
“No, sir. I wasn’t very sure of it before. I only remembered it when I was attacked on the bridge. I wish I could explain.”
“You’re empathizing with Captain Reykov, then?” Picard surmised.
“At times,” she answered. “His is the strongest personality. But, sir … there are many others. Many others. Those sharp visions are clouded over by uncountable life forces around the phenomenon. Not in it, but existing in a halo all around it, as though drawn through space wherever it goes.”
“Are they prisoners?”
As Picard shot those blunt words at her, Troi flinched. She settled back in her chair, almost as though to remove herself, and dropped all emotion from her Mediterranean features and those inkdrop Betazoid eyes. “Are you asking me to theorize, sir?”
“I’m asking you to help me formulate a plan of action,” he said, “or at least a plan of approach.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Rather than helping, I’ve put you in a difficult position this time.”
“It’s not your fault, Deanna,” Crusher said.
“Not at all,” Picard echoed.
Troi searched her telepathic self for more from him, but the captain was not a man whose feelings gave up their shields easily. She sensed his resistance of her probe, a resistance as refined as he himself was, and respectfully drew back within herself.
“If these life essences are prisoners, as you suggest, and we destroy the prison,” she continued, “will we be committing murder?”
With that question, she cut to the core of Picard’s problem. He studied her. She was graceful, thoughtful, exotic-yes, that was the word for her-and so concerned, yet as helpless as the rest of them.
“You do have an artistic curve to your clinical self, don’t you, Counselor?” he observed softly. “I realize your task is a strain. But mine is too. If our only chance of survival is to destroy those thousands or millions of minds you sense, what do I do? Save or sacrifice? Whose lives are forfeit?”
“That’s the one flaw in the Prime Directive, Jean-Luc,” Crusher said. “When interfering with another culture is the only way to save the lives you’ve been entrusted with-I don’t know what I’d do either. Count heads and see who has more lives to save?”
The captain leaned back and ran his knuckle along his lower lip. “From what the counselor says, that puts us in a rather noticeable minority.” He tapped the nearest intercom on the desktop and said, “Picard to bridge. What’s the status up there?”
“Unchanged on the thing, sir,” Yar reported. “Ship’s condition is improving, but we’re having to task many systems to reestablish power to the shields. Everything’s strained, including warp power.”
“Charming,” Picard responded. “They’re going to have to work faster.”
“Yes,