Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [74]
“Go ahead.”
The isolation unit closed itself off with a thick and solid wall of layered soundproofing, the kind of stuff that would muffle almost anything short of a major earthquake.
Troi watched it close with growing apprehension, and moved to the doctor’s side as Crusher completed instructions for the isolation program. “What will it do to him?”
The doctor shrugged. “Physically, the narcotic will paralyze his body and deaden all external sensory impulses to his brain. It’ll do nothing to his consciousness at all. Once I get this punched in, the chamber will provide zero-G with light tethering to keep him from floating into a wall, and it’ll go completely dark in there.”
Troi shivered. “He’ll be just like them.”
With a cryptic nod, the doctor said, “And just as helpless.”
Captain Picard stood at the center of the small gray chamber, waiting for full isolation to kick in. His fingers had been tingling since the hypo came away from his neck, and he couldn’t feel his toes anymore, but otherwise there was no effect yet. He glanced around the room, an exercise in flat paint. Thirty seconds and already this seemed interminable. Troi’s descriptions sent a chill through him as he recalled the past few hours and how deeply she had been affected by what she was feeling. What she was being forced to feel.
“Well, get on with it,” he muttered. How long did it take to program so simple a pattern? This wasn’t the holodeck, after all.
He tried to tap his fingers against his thighs to vent his impatience, and in his mind he indeed did that, but his hands wouldn’t form into the shapes his mind thought of. He started to look down at them-but couldn’t make his neck bend. His head swirled as he tried to move, but only his eyes could still shift in their sockets. His legs were putty, his back arched and began to ache as sensation quickly seeped away. After a few seconds the ache started to go away too, and suddenly he missed its reassuring throb. A little trickle of panic erupted and he had to fight it off as he stared at the blank gray wall.
Maybe we should cancel this.
He couldn’t hear his voice. He’d heard it before; where was it now? His tongue moved slightly in the back of his throat, but that was all there was left to him.
When the zero-G kicked in and he saw the wall move very slightly before him, his involuntary systems yanked a breath into his lungs and he heard the gasp. At least something was still attached to his brain. Strange sensation, though—
The flat gray wall wavered. Or did it? Now the paint looked glossier-almost reflective. Yes … there was a face.
A face …
A man. Picard instantly dismissed the idea of reflection. It wasn’t his face at all.
The eyes came into focus first, and very clearly. Without blinking they stared directly at Picard as a squared jawline and wide shoulders formed beneath. There was dark hair with a streak of white over one temple, and an expression of pure decisiveness. Even anger.
Picard heard his heart pound in his ears, a long distorted sound, and not for an instant did he have any doubt about who shared his cubicle or the realness of what he saw. Riker had described exactly this and Picard entertained neither question nor guess. Paralyzed, he stared back.
Captain to captain, across the ages, the silent meeting became interminable. Picard’s mind raged to be able to open his mouth and speak to Arkady Reykov, to ask him the question that would make everything much simpler, but his body was numb, gone. And the cubicle was getting dark.
Damn it! Why now? Give me ten more seconds!
Reykov lifted his hand, and the hand became a fist. He showed it to Picard-not a threat, but some kind of example. Picard tried to shake his head, to communicate that he didn’t understand. That too failed him.
Reykov opened his fist and spread his fingers in a European exaggeration that Picard’s French background allowed him to understand perfectly: Well?
Darkness closed around them. And darker still … and darker. Not yet, damn it!
Blackness. Blacker than a dead computer screen, blacker than space. Was