The Garden - Melissa Scott [101]
"No-" Paris bit off the word as though not saying it, not acknowledging what he had seen, could keep it from being true, but the doctor came inexorably on.
"I'm sorry." The voice was tinny through the speakers. "There's nothing I can do."
"No," Paris said again, but even he could hear the admission in his voice. Kes touched his arm again, soft, wordless sympathy, but he pulled away, pressing his hand against the wall to keep himself from hitting something. Not Grayrose, he thought, not her, I liked her, she was a friend, and I don't have enough friends to be able to lose any of them-
"Janeway to sickbay." The voice came from the intercom next to his hand, but Paris ignored it, trying to force back the tears. "Mr. Paris, report."
The crack of command reached him at last, and he straightened, not caring if Kes or anyone saw him weep. "Paris here, Captain. Grayrose is dead."
"The Kirse?" Janeway's voice softened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Paris. For what it's worth, she didn't die in vain. The Andirrim are on their way out of the system. We've picked up Renehan, and are reestablishing contact with the other away team."
For what it's worth. Paris's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace, but training and the cold logic he'd learned with the Maquis and in prison reasserted itself. It wasn't worth anything, was no consolation, but you had to pretend it was, or you'd go mad yourself. He took a deep breath, and was remotely proud that his voice was steady as he answered. "Glad to hear it, Captain." He hesitated, then added, "Unless you need me, I'd like to stay here a little longer."
There was a little pause before Janeway answered, and when she spoke, her voice matched his own. "Go ahead, Mr. Paris. We'll let you know if you're needed. Janeway out."
Paris turned away from the intercom, went to stand by the window, watching the holographic doctor spreading a bodysheet over Grayrose. Her wings protruded above the edges, and Paris looked away. She had done her duty; he only hoped it would have been a consolation to her.
CHAPTER
9
TORRES LOOKED FROM WALLSCREEN TO WALLSCREEN, dizzied by the enormous, rapidly changing images in their depths. The fact that they were silent only added to the disorientation-or maybe, she thought, fighting for some sense of perspective, maybe it would be worse if the sound were in proportion to the picture. In the center of his console, Adamant moved fluidly from one set of controls to the next, now letting his hands play over rows of unseen controls, now glancing up at the lights that flickered in the transparent dome above his head, now fixing all his attention on something that only he understood in one of the massive screens. The rest of the away team stood close together, as though they were afraid of blocking Adamant's view of the huge screens, but the Kirse ignored them, all his attention devoted to the pattern he was weaving at his controls. Only Tuvok seemed able to follow that
dance, or at least, Torres thought, he made a better show of it than any of the others.
She turned away from the central consoles, and stared at the screens, trying to make sense of the massive images. On one side of the room, behind Adamant, the screens were empty except for the trees and shrubs of the elaborate gardens, and the heads of a few of the dwarf-soldiers, crouching behind a low wall. On the other, the Andirrim shuttle moved up the road toward the citadel, surrounded by a cloud of drones, its own and the Kirse's tangled in a swirling mass, while more of the dwarf-soldiers sniped at it from the uncertain shelter of the gardens. The gardeners seemed to have fled, but even as she watched one, less metallic than the rest, leaped from behind a bush to grapple with one of the dwarfs. A second dwarf-soldier swung around, phaser leveled, and blasted the creature, but another