Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [131]
“You could start,” she said, “by talking about it.”
Joseph shook his head. “It’s not a real nice story.” His expression suggested that he meant it.
“No problem,” she insisted. “I hear all kinds.”
That was all he really needed—those few words of invitation. Slowly, painfully, he began to tell her what had happened.
Normally, she would have heard him out—listening ever so carefully, speaking only if he needed a push to keep going—until he had purged himself of whatever was plaguing him.
But this time was different. It was wrong.
“Stop,” she said.
Joseph looked at her, a little shocked.
“I’m not the one who should be hearing this.”
The man’s eyes opened wide. He knew exactly what she meant.
“No,” he told her. “I can’t.”
Guinan smiled her most serene smile—the one she used only when absolutely necessary. “You can,” she assured him. “What’s more, you have to. It’s the only way.”
Beverly wasn’t expecting any visitors, so she was more than a little surprised when she saw Pug Joseph in sickbay, heading in the direction of her office.
As he filled her doorway, the Lexington’s stocky security chief appeared uncomfortable. Fidgety. Or at least that’s how it seemed to the doctor.
“Pug.” She smiled. “Hi. Care for some coffee?”
He shook his head. “No. Thanks.”
“How about a seat, then?”
He nodded, pulled the chair out from the other side of the doctor’s desk, and sat. For an awkward moment or two he just looked at the floor. When he raised his eyes, they looked…what? Haunted?
“How’s the captain?” he asked.
“Fine. He’ll be out of bed in no time.”
Joseph bobbed his head. “Good.” He glanced fiercely at something on the wall, and then at something else on her desk. But not at her—not exactly.
The doctor was acutely aware of sounds that she hardly ever heard otherwise…the murmur of physicians and nurses as they discussed some minor-injury case…the hum of an overhead light fixture that hadn’t worked right since Simenon squeezed them out of the slipstream…the sharp clatter of a tricorder as it dropped onto a tabletop.
And still Joseph looked around, not quite facing her and not quite facing away—anger and hurt passing over his face in waves.
Beverly leaned forward. “Pug—is something wrong?”
He looked directly at her now, and his mouth became a taut, hard line. “Yes. Something’s wrong,” he got out. He swallowed. “It’s been wrong for a long time.”
She returned his gaze, not having the least idea what he was talking about. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t.” He sighed deeply. “You’ve heard the story about how Jack was killed, right? About the problem with the nacelle, and how we had to go out there and sever it? How the energy buildup overcame us, and Jack died in the explosion?”
Crusher nodded. “Of course.”
“Well, it didn’t exactly happen the way you heard.”
The doctor felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean?”
Joseph thrust his chin out. “I mean, Jack didn’t have to die.” He paused. “It was because of me that he got killed. Because of me.”
Crusher felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach. Clutching the armrests of her chair for support, she stared at Joseph. Watched him hang his head, watched his shoulders rise once and sag.
“It was hard work cutting through the nacelle assembly,” he told her. His voice was distant. “We were drenched with sweat despite the cooling systems in our suits. And as hard as we worked, it didn’t seem we were making much progress. Being out there, being so focused on what you’re doing, you lose track of time. You feel like you’ve been hanging out over the edge forever, your whole life.
“And all the time, the energy is cycling through the warp field generator. Building and building, getting ready to explode. And you don’t know when—you just don’t know. Any moment could be the one.” He shook his head. “It gets to the point where you believe you can feel the explosion—the heat, blistering your skin. And the impact—like someone’s taking a hammer to all