The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [32]
The android did not acknowledge the command until after he had implemented it, but under the circumstances Picard was not inclined to be fussy about protocol. The filters softened the outlines of the artifact, muted the colors that made a human brain reel, and in general made the thing somewhat more bearable to look at. The captain found that he could now stare at it for nearly a full two seconds before he had to look away.
Picard finally stood up, breathing deeply. His knees were weak, and he paced a few steps until he felt in better control. Then he turned and gazed around him at his bridge crew. None of them was looking at the artifact, either, except for Geordi. And who knows what he sees when he looks at it?
Deanna Troi was chalky pale as she balled her fists with white-knuckled intensity. Will Riker’s face was white beneath the darkness of his beard. Wesley was definitely green around the gills. Even Worf looked as though he’d gotten hold of some bad gagh and was having trouble keeping it down.
Only Data and Geordi seemed unaffected by the sight of the thing. Picard had to force himself to regain his customary calm; the faint current of air from the life-support system turned the sweat beading on his forehead clammy.
“Mister Data, are there any life-form readings from that thing?” he demanded.
“It is impossible to be sure, Captain, because the alien field creates considerable distortion in our instrumentation,” the android said. “However, I am detecting nothing that my sensors recognize as organic life.”
The android adjusted a control. “And none from the PaKathen, sir.” Picard glanced at Worf, saw the Klingon’s mouth tighten, but he did not otherwise react to the news. A moment later, Data continued, “However, I am detecting seventeen life-forms aboard the Marco Polo.”
“And their condition?”
“The distortion makes that difficult to say for certain, sir. Most of them are not moving about, as though they are asleep, or unconscious.”
The captain turned to the counselor. “Can you sense anything from the Marco Polo?”
Troi concentrated, eyes closed. “I can feel them,” she said in a low voice. Suddenly she put a hand to her head, moaned, then swayed in her seat.
“Counselor!” Picard said sharply, but she did not answer.
With a sudden leap, Riker was by Troi’s side, bending over her. “Deanna!” he cried, touching her shoulder gently. “Are you all right?”
Blindly she put out a shaking hand, and the first officer caught it, gripped it tightly. His grasp seemed to steady her, but still the half-Betazoid woman shuddered all over, as though some fever were gnawing at her bones. “Captain … ,” she began in a hoarse whisper. “They’re dying over there … oh, God … we must save them …”
She swayed again, then crumpled out of her seat in a dead faint.
Will Riker caught her before she could hit the floor of the bridge. The tall officer scooped up her slight form as easily as he would a child. Her long black hair streamed down over his arm like a river of ebony as he straightened up.
Picard raised his voice to address the intercom. “Bridge to sickbay. We need medics up here on the double!”
A voice he did not recognize replied, “Yes, sir!”
Riker walked up the curving ramp and waited near the turbolift doors. Seconds later, they opened, and two people, one of whom carried an antigravity stretcher, bolted out. “She passed out,” Riker said as they carefully eased the counselor’s limp form onto the stretcher.
One of the medical personnel passed a scanner over the unconscious Troi, then nodded briskly. “She just fainted, sir. She should be fine.”
Riker made a quick involuntary movement as if to follow them as they carried the counselor into the turbolift, but he stood his ground. His blue-gray eyes were shadowed