Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [58]
On the wide forward screen was a lovely view of open space, the brilliantly cluttered Fries-Posnikoff Sector, a field of space full of nebulas, elephant trunks, remnants of cosmic activity, comets, clusters, sparkling clouds, binaries—the place had become popular as a college course because so many celestial characteristics could be experienced here, in a relatively compact stellar field.
Taking a few breaths himself, to calm down, Riker stepped downdeck and strode on the plush carpet to where Deanna Troi picked at the environmental control panel.
“Deanna,” he uttered quietly.
“Oh!” She spun to him and said, “I’m so glad you’re here! I didn’t think you made it before we got under way!”
Halfway through the sentence she pulled her voice down to a whisper. Her large eyes widened and she peeked over Riker’s shoulder—which took tiptoes and a little hop—at Bateson.
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the saxophones in New Orleans,” he said. “What’re you doing on the bridge? I thought you were assigned to medical.”
“I am. I’m adjusting temp control in some of the lower decks. It’s been a little haywire. We can’t find the problem.”
“New ship,” Riker said. “Have you seen Mr. Bush?”
“This morning? No, I haven’t. He might be down in—”
“No … I mean, have you seen him?” He rolled his eyes and shrugged in a meaningful way.
“Oh,” she uttered and nodded heavily. “Yes, I’ve seen him. I think he saw two or three of me as well.”
“What do you make of all that?”
She kept working on the panel, so no one would notice their lowered voices. “I think he’s sunken into severe depression, that’s what, as if it’s not obvious. He’s completely inconsolable. Diagnosis doesn’t take a professional.”
“But he certainly needs professional help.”
“He does, but the captain won’t let me practice as a counselor.” She worked to keep her voice down through her anger. Her eyes flared in frustration. “And to tell you the truth, Will, I don’t think there’s much I could do for Mr. Bush. His despondency needs more intense treatment than I can administer on board ship while he’s trying to do other work. Besides, I’m not sure I’d prescribe much more than he’s getting right now—simple hard work.”
“But it’s not helping,” Riker complained.
“No, it’s not. And he’s been cured of the alcoholism several times. We can do that in ten minutes. He’s not simply physically dependent. He’s just … grief-stricken.”
She raised one shoulder in a hopeless gesture, and glanced across the bridge to where Captain Bateson still had his back to them.
“It’s his fault,” she whispered emphatically. “He keeps protecting Bush. He thinks that only shipmates can help a shipmate. When I disagree, he just brings up our loyalty to Captain Picard and to each other, and what can I say? What do you really expect me to say?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“As first officer, can’t you do something?”
“That’d be patently inappropriate,” Riker told her, cutting that one off before it got started. “The senior officers are the concern of the captain. I can’t possibly circumvent Captain Bateson’s preferred method of handling his staff.”
“Well, I don’t prefer his method.”
“Neither do I.”
“It’s not the way Captain Picard would behave.”
“No, it’s not.” Riker glared a few needles at the middle of Bateson’s back, then changed mode and gripped Troi’s arm warmly. “At least we can be together, you and me, Data, Geordi …”
Troi glanced around. “We all tried so hard to get assigned here, Will … we assumed Captain Picard would—”
“That’s enough,” he said, cutting her off.
Her eyes crinkled sadly. “You’re right.”
Reluctantly, Riker gazed again at the captain. “Guess I’d better report in.”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“Alright.”
She seemed sorry to let him go over there, but Riker broke away from her and crossed the fresh carpet to where the captain was picking at the controls and comparing them to a padd. Riker lagged back until the junior engineer finished his