Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [82]
“Beverly, you wouldn’t!”
“Oh, wouldn’t I? It’ll spread like wildfire among everybody under twenty years old-“
Her face was alight with conspiracy when the sickbay door shot open. Geordi streaked in and without the slightest hesitation stabbed a finger at the isolation chamber and said, “Get him out of there. We’ve got trouble.”
“Captain? Captain? Jean-Luc, can you hear me? Jean-Luc?”
He heard her voice. Had been hearing it, in fact, for what seemed like years. He moved toward it through a terrible darkness, a spiraling tunnel with glazed walls, and after half an eternity he opened his eyes.
“Jean-Luc?” Beverly Crusher bent over him, concern etched into her features.
He felt the anger working on his face, the effort of trying to speak when his body had almost forgotten how. He felt betrayed and enraged, wanting to demand why they had left him in there so long-why they had put him through that, why they had let the phenomenon devour him and everything he held precious.
“Neurological functions approaching normal, Bev,” someone said from behind her. Another doctor. What was his name? Mitchell? Yes, the neurologist.
“Finally.” She sighed. “Jean-Luc, do you understand what I’m saying?”
He managed a nod, and his head pounded its protest. He forced it to move, discovered his neck was in no better condition, but he was now able to see Counselor Troi standing beside his bed with another expression like Beverly’s. His anger began slowly to dissipate as he began to differentiate reality from dream. As if he was emerging from a vivid nightmare, he had to pick his way through the mist, deciding point for point what was real and what was not
“My God … ” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel. “How … how long … “
“More than fourteen hours in isolation,” Crusher said, “and it’s taken us over two more to rouse you. I told you I didn’t want to do this.”
“Fourteen,” he uttered. “It felt more like … “
“Hush while we stabilize you. You just relax.”
He let his head fall back on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and whispered, “My God … “
He lay still, aware of Troi’s unflagging gaze but unable to meet it yet, his mind clogged with confusion. This was like awakening from a long, distorted, unrelenting nightmare and not knowing for sure which parts were only dream. This remained with him in the pools of sweat between his fingers-his precious fingers that he’d thought were gone-and in the coldness of his feet that wouldn’t warm up. Finally he heard his own breathing. Ragged, but a joy to hear again. He concentrated so singularly upon it that when the sickbay door hissed open, he wondered why his breathing sounded that way. Only when Lieutenant Worf’s massive frame loomed over the counselor’s did Picard begin to separate truth from illusion.
“You said you would contact us when he was awake,” the Klingon boomed to Crusher.
“I said I’d call you when he was stable,” Crusher told him sternly. “He isn’t. But I will when he is, don’t worry, Lieutenant.”
But Worf didn’t leave. “Ship’s business, doctor.”
“I think it’ll have to wait.”
Picard raised a numb hand. “Lieutenant,” he struggled to say, “report.”
“Aye, sir. We had to pull you out of isolation early because we have a new emergency. Commander Data has taken a shuttlecraft and gone out into the sector to attempt contact with the entity, and Commander Riker has gone after him in a research dinghy.”
“Wha-” Picard came halfway off the bed and was bodily attacked by the doctor, the neurologist, and two interns who actually managed to knock Worf out of the way. “What? When?”
“Two hours ago for Mr. Riker, sir. We’re in contact with him, but he hasn’t found Data. We’re keeping communication to a minimum, of course.”
“What kind of absurd-get me up.”
Crusher tossed her head and called, “Stimulant.”
Picard watched incredulously as she pressed the hypo against his arm. The situation must be even trickier than his foggy mind was putting