Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [171]
“Will she come out of it?” he asked.
“That’s difficult to say,” Greyhorse told him.
“Because her brain is different from ours?”
“Among other reasons, yes.” The doctor pointed to the bed’s readouts. “I want to show you something. Do you see those lines, Commander? The two near the top?”
Picard nodded. “What about them?”
“Those are the patient’s brain waves,” Greyhorse explained. He pressed a keypad next to the readout and it changed instantly—the top two lines in particular. “And these were her brain waves when she first came aboard. Do you see the difference?”
He did—but he didn’t know what conclusion he was supposed to draw from the observation. “I’m sorry. I don’t see what—”
The medical officer held up a large, powerful-looking hand. “I didn’t expect you to draw any real conclusions. Let me walk you through it.”
Picard thought that would be a good idea.
“A woman in Ms. Santana’s condition should exhibit precious little brain activity. For example, she should have a very quiet cerebral cortex. However,” said Greyhorse, pointing to the topmost line on the readout, “we see that her cerebral cortex is anything but quiet. In fact, it’s busier now than when she was awake. The same goes for portions of her cerebellum.”
Picard mulled over the information. “So…you’re saying some parts of her brain are actually busier in her comatose condition than they were when she was conscious?”
“Exactly,” the doctor confirmed.
“And what do you make of that?”
The doctor shrugged his massive shoulders. “Again, difficult to say. The patient’s brain may have gone into some kind of healing mode. Or…” His voice trailed off.
“Or?” Picard nudged.
“If her brain works like those of other telepaths, the patient may have purposely emphasized certain functions at the expense of others—which would suggest the possibility that this is not a naturally occurring coma, but one she induced on her own.”
On her own? Picard thought. He looked at Greyhorse. “I don’t understand. Why would she do such a thing?”
The other man returned his glance. “You are in a better position to know that than I am, Commander.”
Picard turned to Santana again, as if he hoped to find the answer written on her lips. Was it possible that she had shut herself down purposely, in order to avoid answering difficult questions?
Somehow, the second officer didn’t think so. Or was it just that he didn’t want to think so?
“Thank you,” he told Greyhorse. “You’ve given me much to think about. If there’s any change in her condition, even a small one—”
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” the doctor assured him.
Picard nodded. Then, with a last glance at Santana, he left sickbay and returned to the bridge.
Pug Joseph touched the itchy spot just above his right cheekbone and recalled Doctor Greyhorse’s orders not to scratch it.
In a day or so, his regenerated flesh would complete the healing process. Then no one would ever know he had hit his head against a bulkhead hard enough to knock himself out.
Fortunately, the security officer thought, he had suffered nothing more serious than a concussion. Otherwise, he would still be in sickbay along with Kochman and the other worst cases.
And they were the lucky ones, he reminded himself. The captain and some of the others hadn’t made it at all.
Removing his food from the replicator enclosure, Joseph placed it on his tray. First his meat, then his rice, then his vegetables, and finally his juice. Then he moved across the crowded mess hall in the direction of one of its few empty tables.
His crewmates, who were all working triple shifts on one repair crew or another, had gathered in clusters all around the room. They were obviously seeking comfort in numbers—taking the opportunity to vent their sorrows and air their concerns, of which they had many.
The Stargazer had been hobbled pretty badly in the battle with the Nuyyad. With key systems on the blink, people were worried about what they would do if another vessel showed up.
Joseph had