Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [17]
Wesley had been studying a lot of Eastern philosophy lately, not because he was naturally inclined to it, but because of Ensign Shikibu.
His first look at her face had sent his mind roaming into the ethereal. He was instantly captivated, but he soon found her to be difficult to understand, and the closer they became, the more he was intimidated by her. Though their new friendship had deepened, there had been no signs of romance so far, and already Wesley seemed to have reached an impasse.
It wasn’t just that she was four years older than he. The problem went beyond mere, mundane chronological age. She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met. She was usually silent as a stone, especially when he wanted to talk, and just when he was about to give up and walk away, she would give him a brief smile that sent him into ecstasy for the rest of the day. But she would rarely talk about her personal life, or about Zen archery, and what she did say he often found incomprehensible.
Once, after he’d asked her for the umpteenth time to tell him about that ancient art, she took him to her cabin. She disappeared behind the partition and emerged wearing flowing robe-like garments of a simple style he’d never seen before, and a leather glove on one hand. She picked up her bow, the largest bow Wesley had ever seen, and fitted an arrow to the string. Lifting the bow, she drew the arrow straight back and pointed it at the wall. She held the drawn bow for at least a minute in a state of strange concentration, her breathing deep and even, her body elegantly poised. There was an ineffable beauty and mastery about her in this posture. She never shot the arrow; she simply put the bow and arrow away and silently opened her door to let Wesley out.
Hoping to understand her better by learning about her cultural background, Wesley started reading about Zen. As it turned out, most Zen writings were in the form of riddles and paradoxes called koan and mondo, which he didn’t grasp at all, and which seemed to say that they shouldn’t be grasped. He traced Zen’s lineage back to the earlier writings of Chinese Taoism, but those writings said that words could not be used to describe Taoism. In search of something less elusive, he traced the lineage even farther back, to the ancient Hindu writings, and found Shiva, the starting point.
Shiva he could just begin to understand. Shiva reminded him of particle physics.
Now, as he watched the dancing Shiva and thought about dancing quarks and leptons, and also about the waves in Shikibu’s raven-black hair, a sudden alert klaxon startled him.
He logged off the computer and waited. The klaxon kept wailing. After an uneasy interval, his cabin intercom came to life and he heard Riker announce that dangerous intruders were loose on the ship.
Then a different voice came over his communicator.
“Shikibu to Weh …”
The words sounded slurred, drunken.
“Wesley here. What’s wrong?”
“Can’t talk or think … truder shot me.”
Wesley leapt up. He felt himself shaking. She must have been injured badly, disoriented—she was calling him when she should have been calling Security or sickbay.
“Where are you?” he asked.
There was no reply, just the faint ambient noise of a room somewhere on the ship.
Riker’s voice broke into the channel.
“Mr. Crusher.”
“Crusher here.”
“I need you on the bridge. The devices haven’t gotten up to your deck level yet, but they may soon. You have to come immediately.”
“Sir, something has happened to Shikibu.”
“Yes, we know about it. She’ll be brought to sickbay as soon as someone from Security can get to her.”
“But—”
“Ensign!” Riker became brusque. “The entire ship is threatened and the captain is being held hostage. Put aside your feelings. I need you at your station. Now.”
“On my way, sir.”
“Worf, where is the captain now?” asked Commander Riker.
He sat in the captain’s chair, Troi to his left, Data and Wesley ahead of him at Conn and Ops, Worf behind at Tactical.
The entire crew presented the appearance of cool professionalism but Riker could see telltale tautness