The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [39]
As if under compulsion, Thala’s fingers quested again, found a sharp-boned face, fluffy hair—and then, with a horror that gripped her like giant jaws, antennae.
Thev. It was her father’s body, and it moved beneath her, making a rusty, mewling sound. His hands touched her face, pawing at her, probing for her eyes.
“They won’t do you any good, Father!” she screamed. “I’m blind!”
But the living corpse was holding her in a terrifying grip, and the hands were digging into her eye sockets. Thala felt pain such as she had never experienced before, and a full-blown shriek burst from her throat—
—and she sat up in her bed, safe in her cabin aboard the Enterprise. Her heart was pounding so hard that it hurt, and for a moment she could only press her clenched fists against her chest and rock back and forth in agony, a whimper issuing from the back of her throat.
Then she began to keen aloud, terrified and alone. Only one thought kept her, she thought, from dying from the fear and loneliness.
Pulling on her sensory net over her nightgown, she swung out of the bed and ran for the door, burst out into the corridor.
“Selar,” she moaned as she pelted headlong for the lift, and then louder and louder until she was screaming so hard her throat was on fire—
“Selar. Selar. Selar! SELAR! SELARSELAR!!!”
Jean-Luc Picard faced his crew across the conference table again, hands folded before him on the polished surface, his expression grim. Just before calling the briefing, he’d had a hot cup of his favorite Earl Grey tea, but the brew had done little to alleviate the crushing weight of weariness that seemed to enfold him like a garment. “How are the survivors from the Marco Polo?” he asked Beverly Crusher.
She shrugged tiredly, her usually silky red hair hanging limp and dull. Dark shadows marred the fair skin beneath her eyes, and she looked haggard, older than her actual age. Picard wondered for a moment how long it had been since she’d slept.
“We may lose one of them today,” she said quietly, “if we can’t bring him out of whatever dream or fugue state he’s in. His metabolic functions are going to short out. Nobody can exist for long in that much fear.” She sighed. “But the others are stable. Most of them are catatonic. Selar says the Vulcan Science Academy has telepathic healers who may be able to go into their minds and bring them safely out of their withdrawal. Even so, they’ll probably need months of therapy to cope with the experience. Many of them may have committed murders, don’t forget, under the influence of whatever that alien thing is.”
“Are any of them able to talk rationally? So we could find out what happened?” Riker asked.
“Perhaps the first officer, after he comes out of nerve regeneration treatments. When we were preparing him, he managed a few sentences and seemed fairly lucid. But he’d lost so much blood that he was in critical condition, and soon after he slipped into deep shock. We almost lost him.”
“He was physically injured, then?” Picard asked.
“He’d been stabbed twelve times—by his own captain, or so he told me,” Crusher answered bluntly. “He also said that he was the one who sent the distress call.”
Visualizing the scene, Picard shook his head, repressing a shudder. “How is Counselor Troi? She might well be the one who could offer us the best guidance in dealing with this situation.”
Beverly looked grim. “Captain, I’m having to keep her sedated. I’m afraid for her sanity if she regains consciousness. The mental agony of the Marco Polo crew is apparently causing her distress even when she is not awake.”
“Do you think the alien artifact is affecting her, too?” Riker asked.
“I don’t believe so. She was awake and conscious up to the point where the Marco Polo survivors were beamed aboard, but she blacked out from the shock the moment the first group was transported over.” Her mouth tightened, and she looked down at her hands. “Before I sedated her,