Possession - J.M. Dillard [89]
“Understood,” Picard said softly. “Just leave the android to me. Commander Riker and I have devised a plan.” Then, more loudly, he said, “Very good, Mr. La Forge. Carry on with your work.”
Geordi nodded and returned to the console beside Data.
Picard gestured. “Commander Data … could you come with me, please?”
Blinking, Data looked up from his work, then tilted his head quizzically; but at Picard’s insistent gaze, he obediently left the console and moved toward the captain.
Without a word, Picard led him into the turbolift. The instant the doors closed shut over them both, the captain sagged against the bulkhead once more and whispered, “Deck Nine.”
“Captain?” The android’s golden forehead puckered in a frown. “Are you all right, sir?”
Picard groaned and sank to a sitting position. Data leaned over him, concerned.
“No.” The captain gasped. Speaking was torture; each word brought pain, as though it had been literally torn from his gut. “I’m … not … all right. Riker … infected me. Data … the anesthesia failed. Geordi, Beverly—they’re still infected. Trust no one! Lock me in the brig, make sure I can’t escape, can’t … harm anyone. Fuse the circuitry if you must but don’t let them … use me. I order you: Warn the crew. Tell the Vulcans and … Starfleet. And find Deanna … they’re feeding off her sensitivity to emotion …”
He moaned as the mental and physical agony increased; the interior of the lift faded and he saw, in brutal detail, the interior of the Borg’s great metal honeycomb of a ship and its inhabitants—soulless fusions of machinery and flesh. The entities fought him bitterly now, struggling to suppress what Picard knew might be the last command he ever uttered:
“And if you can’t contain the infection … Data, you must do whatever is necessary to … destroy this ship.”
He closed his eyes and yielded to chaos—and heard, as though from an infinite distance, the android reply softly:
“Yes, sir …”
Chapter Ten
LIEUTENANT WORF HEADED down the corridor that led to the senior officers’ quarters, relieved to be free from the helplessness of enforced sleep and the legacy of a dishonorable people dead by their own machinations thousands of years before he was born. He looked forward to a pleasant evening with his son, and frankly, with Kyla Dannelke. Perhaps he could win back some of the chips he’d lost the night before; the thought made a faint smile play at the corners of his mouth.
It faded at once at the sight of Deanna Troi moving down the corridor toward him. She was walking as swiftly as she could without breaking into a run, glancing around and behind her as if anticipating pursuit; the tension in her body spoke of an intense deep-seated fear.
At the sight of the Klingon, she halted, her entire body poised for flight—away from him. Her dark luminous eyes widened, and he realized that she was scanning him empathically. He had never known her to be so blatant about it before.
“Counselor?” He stopped himself, not wanting to startle her into fleeing. “Counselor, are you all right?”
Clearly, the question on her mind was whether he was all right. She continued to stare at him, probing deeper. She had once told him the Klingon mind was not as simple as that of the humans, who were trained to hide their deeper feelings. Klingon emotions hovered blatantly on the surface, but an empath had to work to get to the deeper levels, where the truest Klingon emotions lay. He stood patiently, allowing her to do that.
At last, she took a step toward him, the tension in her body slightly easing. But her eyes were still wide with fear as she whispered, “You—Worf, you’ve been touched by them.”
Was she talking about the infection? He remembered the electric shock he’d felt when Crusher had touched his face, stared into his eyes. Now that the inhibiting drug had worn off Troi’s mind, could she sense the infection in him, building slowly, perhaps more slowly than in humans, waiting to overtake him? He stopped himself. He