HOPE FOR THE DAUGHTERS
by ardavenport
- - - Part 1
Picard faced the wall.
The mat he lay curled up on was nothing more than a large, hard, padded rectangle. No pillow, no blanket. Bright white, vertical lights, arranged and shaped like false windows, slatted the room's severe bluish shadows. The temperature of the Cardassian cell was a bit higher than the comfort range for an earth human, but Picard still wished for a blanket to cover himself with.
The Cardassians had given him a plain, dark gray, sleeveless tunic and pants to replace the sweaty, shapeless orange shift that Gul Madred had put him in for his interrogations. The rough, gray fabric hung loosely around him. Cardassians were, on the average, larger than humans, and Picard's keepers hadn't bothered to size the clothes they'd dressed him in. The unpadded shoes they'd given him were too big as well.
Picard shifted position. He couldn't get comfortable on the firm, flat bed. He could lay for only a few moments before the strain on his neck, or a stabbing pain in his hip, or cramps in his legs and arms would force him to restlessly turn over. The smooth, plastic covering creaked and rubbed against his arms and legs, and on the bare skin on his head.
We should have arrived by now. Picard had no way of knowing how long it would take the Cardassian ship to arrive at it's rendezvous with the Enterprise, but it seemed that enough time had passed since Gul Lemec's guards had escorted him to this cell. He could feel a slight vibration under him, a barely perceptible shift of artificial gravity familiar to all space farers.
The door was locked. He was still a prisoner. But this cell at least contained minimal comforts. A source of water. A sanitary facility. A hard, raised bed to lay on. And the Cardassians left him alone.
Picard's fingers touched the fresh scar on his chest under the cloth of his tunic. The chilling thought occurred to him that perhaps the Cardassians weren't really returning him to his ship after all, that this was just an elaborate trick designed to subjugate him. Else, why would they have been so careless as to leave their pain-giving device inside him? He shivered.
No, he told himself. Gul Madred's tactics had been brutally effective, but his methods and motives had been predictable. Picard had found it appallingly easy to see through his torturer, to know exactly what to say to make him angry and lose his temper. And he'd paid dearly for it. He doubted that Madred would so suddenly switch from his basic cruelty to such a convoluted plan.
He shifted position again. He was thirsty. He would have to get up.
Slowly, he rose to a sitting position and then slid his legs off the mat to let his feet dangle off the edge. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek with the back of his hand, keeping away from his bruised lip. Every muscle in his body complained and ached. He edged off the mat down to the floor and stood up. His posture was bent like an old man's, as he shuffled through the room's alternating light and shadow. His feet dragged as he walked, the loose, cloth shoes hardly any protection at all from the hard floor. He leaned on the opposite wall for support, the top of his bald head resting against the hard metal. He pressed the button over the spigot there and a thin stream of water came out to fill the cup under it.
His hand closed around the half full cup. He lifted it. The water trembled as he brought it to his lips. His shoulders hurt. His elbows hurt. His fingernails hurt, as if they were loose on the ends of his fingers. He had a queasy unwell feeling, like he had a temperature. Maybe he did.
The water was warm and stale. It brought no relief as it went down. For a few seconds he thought he might vomit it up again, like the one, vile meal that Gul Madred had served him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His stomach settled.
When would they arrive?
*o* *o* *o* *o* *o* *o*
Captain Jellico sat forward in the command chair like a general planning his next campaign over the maimed bodies of his own soldiers in the aftermath of a battle. But the Cardassian ship on the main view screen offered him no challenge, no opposition.
"Relay transporter coordinates to the Cardassians, Mr. Worf."
Commander Riker sat back in his chair on the captain's right. The first officer frowned insolently in Jellicoe's direction. He and Counselor Troi had requested to be in the transporter room when the Cardassians returned Captain Picard, but Jellicoe had told him that Doctor Crusher didn't need any help and that the first officer's place was on the bridge while they were facing a potentially hostile ship. They sat on either side of Jellicoe, sentinels who watched the man between them as carefully as the enemy outside the ship. Worf had been given the same answer when the Klingon had made a similar request; Jellico had added a comment about unprofessional sentimentality toward the Enterprise's former captain.
Former captain . . .
Not for long.
*o* *o* *o* *o* *o* *o*
Doctor Crusher faced the transporter platform with her two assistants. They were the only ones in the room, except for Chief O'Brien who stood at the transporter controls.
"Beginning transport," O'Brien announced. His comm badge was linked to the bridge.
The air over one of the transporter pads glowed and shimmered, accompanied by the familiar hum and whine. The glow expanded, took shape and solidified into Jean-Luc Picard.
The glow faded and disappeared from him. The drab clothes he wore hung from him like a prison uniform. Picard looked about cautiously, but the Enterprise transporter room seemed real enough. He inhaled. The surroundings certainly felt right. Doctor Crusher, wearing her blue medical jacket over her uniform and her tall, long-legged body, advanced up to the platform, her tricorder aimed at him. He took a step toward her.
His feet caught on the oversized Cardassian shoes and he tripped. He felt his weight coming down hard on a wrong-turned ankle and his reflexes decided for him to let himself fall forward rather than pressure the ankle. He came down off of the transporter platform into hands that caught him at his waist, his arms, supporting him while he got his legs under him again. His limbs were stiff and uncooperative. He tested the ankle, but he didn't seem to have twisted it badly.
"Damn!" he swore. He kicked the offending shoes away from him. They were so loose that they came off with a single jerk of each leg. O'Brien ducked.
Doctor Crusher stared at him with wide, concerned blue eyes. A moment ago she'd read wondrous relief on his face. Now he was angry, hurt. Her assistants, Ogawa and Torkin, released their hold on the captain when he jerked his arms from them. She released her own hold on his bare arm and palmed her medical scanner. Still annoyed, he turned and glared at the noise she was making. There were no gross injuries, but every muscle and tendon in his body was cramped and stressed far past anything he could have gotten from even the most strenuous exercise.
"What's this?" She held her scanner up to his chest, near his left collar bone.
"A gift from the Cardassians," he told her, humorless.
"I want you in Sickbay, now." He frowned sullenly. He knew he had to go to Sickbay. He just dreaded the trip going there. His limbs were so stiff and sore that he'd had to shuffle from his cell to the transporter on the Cardassian ship. He hadn't minded inconveniencing his guards or Gul Lemec. He had maliciously enjoyed their impatience with his slow pace, until one of the guards had viciously jabbed him in the back. Lemec, with his oily charm had apologized, and lightly rebuked the guard.
Perversely, he felt the same burning indignation now at the prospect of Doctor Crusher and the rest of the crew watching him creep his way through the corridors to Sickbay. The doctor would call for a stretcher long before he would make it there on his own, and that alternative would be even worse.
Crusher saved him from either fate by pointing him back toward the transporter pads.
"Chief, can you beam us directly to Sickbay?" she said over her shoulder as Picard carefully remounted the platform.
"Sure."
After sheparding their patient up onto the platform, Crusher and her assistants took their places. Picard felt a hand on his shoulder and he found Beverly Crusher smiling at him.
"Welcome home, Jean-Luc." He stared back, and then a tiny smile crept onto his lips as he fondly took in every detail of her face, her blue eyes.
The transporter room faded away into the swirling, shimmering non-world of transport, and then into the bright main examination room of Sickbay.
"Come on." Crusher guided him toward the central examination table. He let her and her assistants help him up. They half lifted him to sit on the high biobed and he lay down; one of Crusher's assistants, lifted his stiff legs onto the bed.
Picard lay quietly while the medical staff did their business. Doctor Crusher directed the scans and ordered tests. Nurse Ogawa assisted her, getting requested instruments and monitoring life signs while she healed the raw skin of his wrists and his bruised face with a tissue regenerator.
Picard told them what little he knew about the Cardassian device in his chest. The warm, welcoming smile had disappeared behind the thin lips of his chief medical officer's professional tasks. He was glad for that at least. She would carry out her examination and treatment as efficiently as possible, making the whole procedure at least tolerably impersonal and quick.
"Prepare him for surgery."
He tensed. They would remove the Cardassian device from his chest. The med techs undressed him and then re-covered him, injected him with something to numb his chest and attached monitoring devices to him. They stood over him, their faces cool and neutral, looking down on their captain while they worked on him. Picard stared up at the bright lights above. It was a huge, sectioned, circular fixture.
Five lights . . .
He shut his eyes. He was lying under a sheet and wearing only a loose pair of pajama pants, his upper chest numb.
"Hey."
He looked up. Doctor Crusher leaned over him, blocking out the lights above, her face and red hair appearing dark in the shadow she cast on him.
"We're going to start. It'll only take a few minutes." He nodded. The med techs had set up a draped frame over his neck that they'd mounted a scanner on, but Picard knew that its real purpose was to prevent the patient from peeking at what they were doing to him. As if he might have wanted to look. He closed his eyes again.
He flexed his hands. His shoulders and upper chest were heavy, like a cool inert mass that the living portions of his body happened to be connected to. For days now, his body had been a thing to be manipulated by others. Impatient for it to finally end, he curled his fingers and toes.
Picard felt Crusher's free hand land on his arm, tacitly telling him to stop moving. She'd just made an incision in his chest. Any little fidgeting from him wouldn't affect their operation, but the movement would annoyingly show up on the medical monitors. He kept still. Doctor Crusher asked for some kind of extractor.
He couldn't feel anything of what was being done to him. Eyes closed, he could picture what they must be doing, but he had no sense that anything was happening to him at all. The Cardassian pain device had been just behind his collar bone. He hadn't realized it was even there until Gul Madred had pointed it out, implanted in him while he was under the influence of their interrogation drugs. But when it was activated, he could feel the pain it delivered slicing into his whole skeleton. He supposed that was how it conducted its charge throughout his body, the pain digging out from the insides of his bones like acid eating away his muscles from within. He grit his teeth against recalling too accurately. He felt Crusher's hand on his arm again, a light, gentle touch.
The memory pain was dull and flat, deadened by the local anesthetic and the familiar surroundings and voices. He relaxed. This was real. He could feel it now. He'd felt only a hint of it when he'd first appeared in the transporter room. It had been safer to be cautious about his rescue, just in case.
But now he was sure. His body and heart now believed what his brain had been telling them. He was back on board the Enterprise. The sounds and smells and textures around him flowed and melded into a friendly haven.
"Get out of my Sickbay."
The icy tone of Beverly Crusher's voice broke though his doze. He opened his eyes. He was looking up at Nurse Ogawa whose large, dark eyes fearfully looked at something over the left edge of the drape over his neck.
"I . . . see I've . . . come at a bad time." Jellicoe?
"Get out of my Sickbay right now or I'll call security and have you removed." There was a pause, and then he heard Jellicoe leave. Picard realized that he'd half heard the first part of the confrontation; he just hadn't been listening. He didn't remember any of the actual words, just the sounds of the voices.
He continued staring up at Ogawa, her round, youthful face still anxious. No one paid any attention to him. He tilted his head forward, looking for an explanation. Doctor Crusher's face was murderous. Torkin stood away from her, nervously waiting for instructions. Picard turned his head. People at other biobeds across the room, medical staff and two patients, looked nervously toward the exit that Jellicoe had presumably left through. Picard heard a long sigh from Crusher.
"Prepare to close."
He turned his heard again and felt Ogawa's hand on his forehead, guiding his head back down on the pillow. Annoyed, he didn't say anything or move until the procedure was finished.
After they had removed the sheet, the draped frame and the rest of the medical monitors, Crusher and Ogawa helped him sit up. They gave him a blue top that matched the loose pajama pants he wore. They assisted him with that as well.
"How do you feel?"
He ran his hand over his head and then he lightly touched the tender spot just above his collar bone. Doctor Crusher had also removed the scar that the Cardassians had carelessly left behind along with the pain-giving device.
"Tired," he admitted. He was weary, his arms and legs sluggish, but not nearly as stiff as he thought he ought to have been, probably due to some of the injections the doctor had given him. He fervently wanted a nice, hot shower and a rest. In his own quarters.
"Come on." She led him, not too quickly, out of the examination room, the other patients and staff members averting their eyes until Picard's back was to them. They went out, down a corridor to a private room.
Crusher sat him down at a table and then brought him a very light meal from the replicator, soup, tea and a soft white roll and butter. Picard didn't really feel like going through the exertion of eating anything. Gul Madred had let him go for days without food or water. And then when his Cardassian torturer had served him a meal of a live hatchling and rations, the agonizing session immediately afterward had forced him to bring it all up again. Eating did not appeal to him at the moment.
He picked up the spoon and tasted the soup. Chicken soup with minced vegetables. He took another spoonful and this time enjoyed the taste, as if its commonness would wash out the slithering, soft squirming memory of the Cardassian delicacy going down his throat. He tried the tea. Earl Grey. And then the roll. He cut it open, smearing butter on it, and took a bite. He put the knife down and, still clutching the roll, he ate some more of the soup.
"Hey, not so fast," Beverly Crusher laid her hand on his arm.
He self-consciously put the remains of the roll down. He was hunched over his food, gobbling it like a greedy beggar. A moment ago he'd felt sick at the though of swallowing a meal. He looked for the napkin, unfolded it, wiped his mouth and put it in his lap.
"Sorry," he muttered guiltily.
"It's all right," she told him in an understanding tone, her sympathy making him grit his teeth. He resumed eating at a more dignified pace, finishing the meal in silence.
"Better?"
He nodded, glancing toward her.
"Yes. Thank-you."
"Good." She leaned toward him, her slender hand touching his arm. "I want you to get some rest now."
He didn't really want to rest, but he knew he was too weary to do anything else. They got up and Doctor Crusher went with him to the room's bed. He sat down and then lay down curling up on his side.
Beverly Crusher looked down at him. It was always best for the medical monitors for patients to lay on their backs. She knew that he knew that. But she did not want to make any demands on him, not after all he'd been through. In a few hours she would have to return to heal the cramps and stiffness that he would still have from the abuse he'd suffered.
She adjusted the scanners over his head and then covered him with the blanket. She leaned close over him.
"Call if you need anything."
"Ummmm," he answered sleepily without opening his eyes. She straightened and turned away. At the door, she lowered the room lights and left.
- - - End Part 1