String Theory_ Cohesion (Book 1) - Jeffrey Lang [51]
“The light,” Smothers whispered.
“What light?” Sem asked, her voice sharp with impatience. “Is this some game, Commander? Are we your prisoners now and this is how you will torment us?”
“No,” Chakotay shouted in reply. “Whatever is happening, we’re not doing it.”
“He’s right,” Morsa said, his voice now surprisingly soft. “There’s a light.” Chakotay heard a thump as if something heavy had fallen to the ground.
The next thing he heard was Sem saying, “Morsa, get up. Get off the deck. Morsa, look at me. Look at me!”
But Morsa, apparently, did not or could not. Facing the viewport, Chakotay thought it was safe to open his eyes, but the urge to look back over his shoulder was almost overwhelming.
“She disappeared,” B’Elanna said.
“Play it back again slowly.”
“I’ll try,” B’Elanna said, “but the scan rate is low. Look how grainy the image is.” A moment later, she had the tiny silhouette of Voyager back on the monitor and ran the recording forward as slowly as the satellite’s playback would permit. “See?” she said. “It happens practically between two frames: one second there; the next, gone.”
“And no evidence of debris.”
“None. They weren’t destroyed.”
“A cloak?”
“Did you build a cloaking device? If you didn’t and I didn’t, then I’d say no cloak.”
“Then where are they?” Seven asked.
Harry completed his check of the sensors, pleased with what he had found. He had been right: The whole system had reset when the energy surge hit. Now all he had to do was recalibrate and he would be able to answer the captain’s question again and she would like him again. He smiled goofily. All would be well.
With what he felt was an appropriate amount of flourish, Harry pressed the control sequence that would bring the sensors back online. When he touched the last control, his arm sank into the console up to his elbow.
“Put him on the examination table, gentlemen,” the Doctor said to the crewmen as Paris finished closing the wound on Ensign Chilkis’s forehead. Chilkis had said he’d “come over all funny,” only one of a couple dozen similar complaints Tom had heard after returning to sickbay.
Tom was glad to be useful, though he wasn’t sure precisely how useful he was being. He was fumble-fingered and he was finding it difficult to remember formerly well-practiced routines. Even now, closing a scalp wound, Tom had difficulty keeping the stud on the skin regenerator depressed while running it lightly over the wound. The worst part was that he knew he was being stupid, but wasn’t precisely certain how much smarter he usually was.
Fortunately, whatever was affecting Tom (and, apparently, most everyone else on the ship) wasn’t affecting the Doctor. He was his typical prickly, officious self. “Ensign Grench, my, my, what have you done to yourself?”
More than anything, Grench looked abashed and confused, as if he wasn’t completely clear why he was in sickbay. Or anywhere, for that matter. “Don’t know, Doctor,” he said. “Just feel…funny.”
“Mr. Paris—my tricorder, please. We must find out why Ensign Grench is feeling so humorous.” The Doctor smiled as if he had just said something funny. Tom knew enough to smile, then remembered that he was supposed to be getting a tricorder.
“Here you go, Doc,” Tom said, then realized that he was handing the doctor his skin regenerator. “Oops. Sorry. Let me get it.”
“Mr. Paris, is it possible that you are being even less useful than usual?” the Doctor asked. “It hardly seems likely, yet here we are facing the question.”
“Sorry, Doc. I said it once before and now I’m saying it again: Sorry.” The surprising thing was that Tom felt genuinely aggrieved, his cheeks unexpectedly flushed.
The Doctor regarded him curiously as he removed the medical tricorder from Tom’s hand. “Never mind, Mr. Paris.”
“I’m okay,” Tom said, embarrassed, but trying to sound businesslike. “Can Chilkis go now?”
“Did you sterilize the wound after sealing?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I mean, I’ll check.”
The Doctor frowned.