Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [52]
Wesley’s voice issued from Geordi’s communicator.
“Crusher to La Forge.”
“La Forge here.”
“I’ve been working in the particle physics library. I think I might have something, but I’m not sure what it is.”
Geordi turned toward his monitor.
“Computer, put me at Ensign Crusher’s location in the library.”
An image of the Dance of Shiva appeared on the screen.
“Uh, Shiva was my inspiration,” said Wesley.
“Time’s a little short, Wes. What’s your idea?”
Wesley asked if it would be possible to make a weapon that would convert the one-eyes into neutrinos. He admitted he couldn’t think of a way himself.
Geordi was silent for a moment.
“Well, it was just an idea,” said Wesley. “Sorry to—”
“No, wait.”
Geordi stared at the Dance of Shiva.
“Let me think about it, Wes. La Forge out.”
Geordi worked quietly beside Chops for a few minutes, then suddenly it came to him. A special recipe of high-energy particles could be used to smash the atoms in the one-eyes in such a way that only neutrinos, and no other particles, would be produced. Vast numbers of neutrinos would fly out from the site of the event—but neutrinos, which had no positive or negative charge, would pass harmlessly through anything; through living bodies, through metal, through a whole planet, without any interaction.
Conversion of atoms into neutrinos, into dark matter, was a natural part of the dance of matter/ energy, but from what Geordi had seen, Rampartian technology hadn’t achieved that level of understanding of the dance … the level of understanding that encompassed both the light and the dark.
Geordi called Wesley back. He told the ensign that a weapon could and would be built. He was putting Chops in charge of building it, but Wesley would be given the pleasure of operating it.
Since his sentencing an hour earlier, Picard had watched the video screen in his room, trying to pick up useful information.
The images had the smooth consistency of baby food. Mind pablum.
He thought about what he’d seen in the flesh with his own eyes: Crichton’s physical problem. Some kind of seizure. Maybe it had to do with his scarred, mask-like face; maybe it was one of the injuries the Dissenters had given him. Whatever it was, the staff in his office had been taken by surprise. It was a new infirmity.
Picard looked at the camera lens and the antennae in the upper corner. He spoke directly at them.
“How can a man in Crichton’s condition be allowed to pass judgment?” Picard asked, though he supposed they could just as well read his thoughts. “I know somebody is listening. Let someone else try my case. Crichton could have been wrong. An error, a falsehood, may have been committed.”
The door opened, and several CS men and one-eyes came in. Without preamble they came over to Picard, forced him down on the bed, and with the gentle firmness reserved for the condemned, began to fasten the restraining straps around him.
“I have proof on my ship,” said Picard, hearing a new note of fear in his voice, “that Crichton is wrong. I have evidence that the Huxley did disappear here, and that Crichton must have known about it. I have a recorder marker from the Huxley. Crichton is perpetrating a fiction.”
The CS ignored him.
They finished, leaving Picard immobilized on the bed, and made their exit.
A short time later, a woman entered with a mobile cart full of electronic gear, on top of which sat a round cap with wires and electrodes. It was the same setup Picard had seen in the hall earlier. He had guessed what it was for.
The woman wore the protective CS helmet. Twin flickering rasters on her visor partly obscured her eyes and headphones screened her ears. No prisoners would be allowed to tell her any fictions in their last moments.
Her uniform had a red CS logo, and a nametag, “Smith.” Her hair was trussed up under her helmet. Her movements were practiced and impersonal, like a nurse’s.
She positioned the cart in a corner, then took an electric razor from a drawer in the cart and came over to Picard. Although he was for the most part