Resistance - J.M. Dillard [13]
“Jean-Luc,” she said loudly into his ear, “can you hear me?”
In reply, the captain gasped. His eyes opened, but he did not appear to see his surroundings. His gaze was focused on something far distant and terrible.
“Jean-Luc!” she said again, this time, almost a shout.
He did not hear. Whatever he was listening to was so deafening, so horrible, that it drowned out the rest of his world.
Beverly managed, with the help of Worf, to get the captain down to sickbay. Nave was left temporarily in charge of the ship. The Klingon had to support the captain’s full weight in order to get him off the bridge. By the time they got off the lift and were moving down the corridor toward sickbay, Picard—not yet able to speak—had come to himself enough to wave away Worf’s and Beverly’s supporting arms and walk, slow and uncertain, on his own.
His face was slack, stricken; he was forcing himself to breathe slowly as he moved. And although he would not meet Beverly’s eyes, she could still see what he was attempting to hide from her: horror, the same horror that had made him cry out in his sleep the night before.
“Jean-Lu—” Beverly stopped herself. Through an act of will, she forced herself to become distant from the distress she felt, as someone who loved the man who was now suffering. She was no more than a doctor now, concerned for a patient. As such, she asked calmly, clinically, “Captain. Can you hear me?”
Picard shot her a sidewise glance and nodded. Slowly, the terror that had come so swiftly upon him eased, and his breathing slowed. It took him a few more steps to say hoarsely, “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” As the three of them entered sickbay, he straightened and seemed to regain control of himself, then cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mister Worf.” He directed a fleeting glance at the Klingon. “You may return to the bridge.”
Worf shot an uncertain look at Crusher, who nodded. The Klingon turned and disappeared through the double doors.
Beverly led Picard to one of the diagnostic beds and gestured. He sat on the edge, his hands propping himself up. “So,” she said, with feigned casualness, “shall we talk about it first, or should I just go ahead and start the exam?”
Jean-Luc looked grim, haggard, but there was no subterfuge in his gaze, his tone. “The exam won’t show anything.”
“Why not?”
He glanced down at the floor, miserable. “Because nothing…physical happened.”
“Something happened, Jean-Luc. You collapsed. And you’re not leaving here until I find out why.”
Reluctantly, he looked up at her again. “I heard them.”
It was the softness, the certainty in his tone that pricked the flesh on her upper arms, on the nape of her neck. She did not ask who they were, perhaps because she feared she already knew the answer.
His eyes focused on a distant point somewhere beyond her left shoulder. “I had tried to tell myself the dream was nothing more than that…a dream. But I heard their voices even after I woke up. It was so faint that I convinced myself I hadn’t really heard them. But it happened again, when I was with Counselor T’Lana. Unmistakable. And now…” He paused and shook his head as if trying to clear away the vestiges of the experience.
“Now?” Beverly prompted, her own voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
“I can make out bits of what they’re saying now.” He drew a deep breath and stared at her so intently that he seemed to be looking through her. “It’s different, though. They sound…almost frantic, if that’s possible. Rushed. Urgent. One thing I know is clear: the Borg collective is regrouping. And they’re here, in the Alpha Quadrant.”
On the bridge, T’Lana sat silently beside Commander Worf and watched the shifting pattern of stars on the viewscreen. The Klingon was brooding, silent, clearly unsettled by what had just happened to the captain. Indeed, the humans on the bridge emanated a great deal of tension regarding the event.
But there was no purpose in speculating on Picard’s condition.