Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [53]
T’Pol stepped back and observed him critically, staring intently into his eyes. “Sir, I believe you may have a subdural hematoma.”
“A what?” Archer asked groggily.
“I believe the vernacular is ‘a concussion.’”
“I can believe it.” Archer looked down at himself and took a quick assessment. The skin on his palms felt burned, even blistered, and a quick glance showed that the skin there was in fact reddened…. Even his face, arms, and back tingled, as if they, too, had been burned.
“I had a little encounter with Wanderer.” He ran a hand cautiously over his hair; it felt as though it’d been standing on end, from static electricity. “I actually touched it—and I feel as though I’ve been struck by lightning.”
“Wanderer has not left, sir. In fact, it was guarding you when I came off the turbolift…and from all indications, it does not intend to allow us access to it.”
Archer followed her gaze: sure enough, blocking the way to the turbolift, Wanderer still hovered. But something about the creature had changed: it had deepened in color, becoming an intense sapphire, and its energy patterns were moving more swiftly than ever before; its shape was decidedly irregular.
“You didn’t like that any more than I did, did you?” Archer asked it. The fact made little sense; Archer had half expected it to kill him—with the hope that it would win the ensign his life.
“It has changed in appearance,” T’Pol confirmed.
Behind him, the unconscious ensign still lay where the captain had placed him. Holding his one useless arm to his side, Archer moved slowly toward the younger man; T’Pol hurried toward the ensign, crouched down, and felt his neck for a pulse. “Pulse is slow,” she reported, “but steady.”
Archer let go a grateful sigh, then looked up at their nemesis.
T’Pol seemed to read his thoughts. Rising, she said, “It will do no good to rush the creature again, sir—you will only injure yourself further. Perhaps I can reason with it.”
“Be my guest,” Archer said, without hiding his skepticism.
T’Pol approached the creature and said aloud, “Wanderer. Please move aside so that the captain and I can take the injured ensign to engineering.”
The entity’s brightness faded a bit; after a pause, T’Pol turned to the captain. “It refuses, sir. It says that it has a right to protect its own survival.”
“To feed off us, you mean.” Archer’s lips twisted. “It’s getting worried about lunch now that everyone’s been moved to engineering.”
T’Pol hesitated. “I don’t believe it would intentionally harm me, Captain. I would like to try heading for the turbolift carrying the two of you—”
Wanderer obviously “said” something to her, for she broke off and turned toward the creature as if listening. After a pause, she told Archer dryly: “Apparently, Wanderer would not intentionally harm me—but it would not stop me from harming myself, and the two of you humans, if I chose to touch it. It warns that it will not move and allow us access to the turbolift.”
“Well, if it won’t move, then we’ll just have to find a way around it. If we can’t go up the turbolift, maybe we can try another way….” T’Pol nodded. She bent down and lifted the ensign in her arms, then followed the captain down the corridor toward the nearest access tunnel—but Wanderer moved into position in front of them, once again stopping them in their tracks.
“All right,” Archer said. “Maybe we can’t go up to engineering. But who’s to say we can’t go down?” He began to move in the opposite direction down the corridor, wincing with each step at the fresh knifelike pain in his arm and shoulder. He was headed for an access tunnel that led only one way: down to F-deck, which housed the torpedo bays and the armory.
T’Pol frowned. “What is your rationale for doing so?”
Archer knew the answer would draw resistance from his second-in-command, something he was in no mood for. Evasively,