Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [54]
“So,” he said, “what brings you here in the middle of your busy day, Counselor? Not that you need an excuse, mind you.”
“You bring me here,” she replied. She glanced at the computer terminal. “You know, you’re supposed to be using this time to sleep, not to tinker.”
Riker shrugged, feeling some cramping in his shoulders where they met his neck. Reaching across his body, he kneaded the muscle on the left side with his right hand. It was as hard as a rock.
“Can’t help it,” he told her. “I was exploring my options.” He glanced again at the computer screen. “Such as they are.”
Coming around to a position directly behind him, Troi peered past him at the screen. “Bon Amar?” she asked. “The Bajoran pirates?”
“The pirates,” he confirmed. “Deanna, would you mind … ?”
Before he could even finish the question, he felt her remove his hand from his shoulder muscle. In the next breath, her fingers probed along either side of his neck with just the right amount of firmness.
Of course, she was an empath. She could feel what he was feeling, even as he was feeling it, and make whatever minute adjustments were necessary. In the time it would take someone else just to figure out where the ache was, Troi would have already made it go away.
“The Bon Amar,” she reminded him, making small, circular forays into the muscular trouble spots. “Am I to understand that they represent one of your options?”
Riker stared at the screen and sighed. “They could,” he told her, “if I allow them to. Apparently, Ro knows how to contact them. She offered me their services in locating Captain Picard.”
The Betazoid played the cords at the base of his neck like piano keys, loosening them up a bit more. “And will you take her up on her offer?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I keep trying to imagine what the captain would do in my place. And I can’t see him enlisting outlaws in his cause—no matter how right or important that cause might be.”
“The ends wouldn’t justify the means?” Troi suggested.
Riker nodded. “Something like that.”
Now that he was somewhat relaxed, she dug a little deeper. “And what about Geordi? What sort of progress is he making?”
The first officer frowned. He could see Troi’s face reflected in the computer screen, superimposed over the data on the Bon Amar. She was frowning, too.
“Not enough,” he confided. “And there’s a problem now with the station. Some sort of power surges, which could destroy the equipment at any moment. And if the equipment goes …” He allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully.
The Betazoid nodded. “I see.”
Her fingers delved as deep as the epicenters of his discomfort. Riker winced at the pain she aroused with her explorations, grateful for her assistance.
“And,” she went on, “the situation on Gorn doesn’t seem to be getting any better. Two days is not a lot of time when you are searching so large an area.”
“No,” he agreed, “it’s not.” He could feel his nostrils flare with frustration. “Deanna … between you and me … I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
Troi paused in her massage for just a fraction of a second—but Riker was aware of it. “You don’t think we’re going to find the captain? But just the other day …”
“I know,” he told her. “I was confident.Hopeful.Despite the odds, I wasn’t going was the other day. Today, I’ve got bad feeling.” A very bad feeling.
In the next moment, he felt simultaneous, tiny bursts of agony—one on either side of his neck. Then the pain was gone. Just like that.
Reaching up, he grasped one of Troi’s hands. It felt good in his. Slim and soft as it was, he took strength from it. And she left it there just long enough before reclaiming it.
“Of course,” she said, “you could change the odds. You could exercise the option that Ensign Ro has put in front of you.”
He turned in his chair to look up at her. “They’re outlaws,” he reminded her.
Troi’s dark eyes fixed on him. “Yes. But they