Possession - J.M. Dillard [99]
But the original Vulcan consciousness—the small silent observer that was the true Skel—watched in profound regret and, indeed, a most un-Vulcanly frustration at his own helplessness.
Never before had he quite grasped the mythical human concepts of purgatory and hell; now, he knew he understood them fully.
Indeed, he felt he was on the verge of deep psychosis, for at the same time that he was aware of the entities’ control, he sensed—more strongly than at any other time in his life—the presence of his mother, T’Reth. Her shrieks echoed in his mind:
Help them! Warn them! Do not let this happen to our people again!
Madness, surely. But there were times when he felt convinced that his mother’s presence was real, that she struggled as he did to find a way to defeat the entities. In sickbay, as the entities had forced Dr. Crusher to leave the accelerator canisters empty, it was T’Reth who had called out a warning. And for a brief blissful moment, the real Skel had shaken off the entities’ influence long enough to direct that warning to the receptive mind of Jean-Luc Picard.
Since then, the entities had allowed Skel no freedom. Now he could only watch, powerless, voiceless, as the image of the Skal Torr wavered, then coalesced into the stern unsmiling countenance of a Vulcan female, a wide band of silver gilding her blue-black cap of hair.
Beside Skel, Riker said with consummate glibness, “Captain T’Lal. This is First Officer William Riker. Captain Picard regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but on behalf of him and the crew of the Enterprise, we bid you welcome.”
T’Lal’s control was complete, her inflection admirably toneless, yet Skel saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—an instant of doubt only another Vulcan could have sensed. “We trust your captain is well. Are you prepared to beam over the artifacts?”
Riker gave an affirmative nod to the last statement, and to the first, he answered, “Captain Picard is suffering from a minor ailment; our chief medical officer has recommended bed rest. However, as you can see”—he swiveled in his chair and gestured at Skel beside him—”Master Scientist Skel is unharmed and in perfect health. He requests that someone be sent over from your vessel so that he can ensure the artifacts arrive properly secured.”
Captain T’Lal turned her cool, frankly scrutinizing gaze upon Skel a full five seconds. “Our scans indicate that all is well aboard your ship. However, to minimize the risk of possible infection, logic would dictate that we beam them directly to our vessel.”
A passive, unwilling observer, Skel watched as the entities planted a thought inside his beleaguered brain, as they directed his mouth, his teeth, his tongue—as they used the Vulcans’ own logic to defeat the race. “Logic clearly dictates,” Skel told T’Lal in a strong clear voice that betrayed none of his internal conflict, “that there is no infection loosed aboard this vessel. Certainly, my concerns about proper containment are also quite logical—”
T’Lal interrupted smoothly. “I assure you, Master Scientist, that we can receive the artifacts with utmost care. Send us specific instructions, and we—” She broke off as another officer leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Ah,” she said, then refocused her gaze upon Skel. “There is one here who is willing to beam over to your ship… .”
She turned as the healer, T’Son, stepped forward into view.
“Greetings, Skel,” T’Son said, holding up her hand briefly in the Vulcan salute. “I am concerned about the effect recent events have had upon your health.