Chapter 8

Picard didn't know how long he had been on the floor of the turbolift. Overwhelmed by grief, rage, and shame, his whole body trembled under the onslaught. It was as if he had separated from his body and was watching this pathetic wretch of a man sobbing on the floor and yet could feel every sensation that that man was feeling. He felt the metal burning his raw wrists, the unbearable pain in his shoulders, the intense hunger and thirst as clearly as if he were there in that Cardassian hell.

"Destination please," the computer intoned. The lift would halt for only so long before it prompted the user to decide what he wanted it to do.

The voice snapped Picard back into his body like one of the light switches in his Dixon Hill office, and he immediately became uncomfortably aware of where he was and what he was doing. He hastily got up off the floor, disoriented and embarrassed, and wiped his eyes and face with his hands. As he brought his hands away from his face, to his surprise, he saw no wounds on his wrists. The rubbed them just to make sure, and felt no pain. He was still breathing heavily when he said, "Deck eight," in a voice strained with fear. The lift began to move and he looked around him with wild eyes, not understanding what had just happened.

There was no way in hell he was going to Sickbay and have Crusher see him in this state. He needed to be alone to gather himself. What if this happened again? They would think he was going crazy. Was he?

In the few seconds it took for the lift to reach the deck on which he was quartered, he had calmed himself enough to appear fairly normal to the crewmembers that he passed in the corridor. It was not unusual to see the captain lost in thought. He kept himself aloof from nearly all of the crew, so no one was surprised when they nodded to him and got no response in return. And no one looked closely or long enough to see that he had been crying just a few moments before. Eyes hard and focused forward but down, he managed to hide his weakness.

When Picard reached his quarters, he hurried inside and let the doors close reassuringly behind him. The sigh of the closing doors mirrored the tension leaving his shoulders as he stood in front of the windows looking out at the impassionate stars. The stars were oblivious to his suffering and he found that comforting. His breathing finally slowed, and suddenly, he realized that he was totally drained, as if he had worked a double shift in an emergency situation. "Picard to Crusher," he said to the air after clearing his throat.

"Crusher here. I was expecting you here, Captain. Where are you? Are you OK?"

"Doctor, my trip to the bridge took more out of me than I would have expected. I'm in my quarters and going to take a nap."

"You can take a nap just as well in Sickbay."

I'm more comfortable here." When he heard the pause on the other end of the link, he added, "Please, Doctor." That last sentence surprised even him.

There was another pause on the other end of the line. "OK, Captain. This goes against my better judgment…get some rest and eat a healthy dinner. I'll come see you in the morning at 0800 hours. Promise to call me if you need anything."

"I promise. Thank you, Doctor. Picard out." He sighed in relief that Crusher had not put up a fight about him not going back to Sickbay. She had only agreed because she had not heard of his attack in the Ready Room. Picard looked around his quarters at his belongings. The archaeological artifacts, the sentimental trinkets he had kept from various missions…how meaningless they were as they sat in their precise places. They belonged to someone else. What rubbish.

Slowly, he moved into his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed on his back. He didn't bother to change out of his uniform or to even remove his boots. Staring at the ceiling, he thought about what had just happened to him. It had been totally unexpected and quite frightening to lose control. The very real pain he felt didn't make sense. Why was he feeling that now…after he was healed? Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at the ceiling, hands resting on his stomach. One tear welled over his lid and slid silently out of the corner of his left eye. He could feel the cool path it took before it halted in his sideburn. He gritted his teeth and wiped the offending tear away with an angry swipe. Willing his breath to slow, he closed his eyes. He was just tired. He had been through a lot and had only been back on the Enterprise for a few days. All this would be gone in the morning.

The exhaustion finally won and pulled his mind away from his thoughts. Drifting on semi-conscious thoughts, Picard began to drowse and finally fell asleep.


The command chair was a throne of sorts for whoever had the privilege of sitting in it. Controls on the arms connected the person to the ship as if he were the brain controlling the massive beast called Enterprise. It emanated power. He sat in his command chair feeling the confidence it brought him. Arms resting on the armrests, legs crossed, leaning casually to the right, he was the king of his galactic domain.

He glanced down at his sleeves, which were scratching his wrists for some reason. The fabric felt as rough as the course wool sweaters he had worn as a boy. He tugged at his sleeves from the cuffs and felt that they were sticky. Looking at his fingers, he saw that the tips were dark red with old, congealing blood. Alarmed, he slid his sleeves up to see bleeding and bruised wrists. He bolted up, looking at his bloody wrists in wide-eyed horror.

"Captain, we are receiving a hail," Worf said from behind him.

"On screen," Riker said from his seat to the right of the command chair.

Four lights sprang to life in place of the star field. "How many lights do you see there?" said the smug Cardassian voice.

He was so startled that he stumbled backwards and fell against the front of the command chair. Blood smeared on the tan leather.

"What's wrong, Captain?" asked Riker. "Don't you see the lights? Why don't you answer him?"

Unable to speak, he tried to pick himself up off the floor, but the blood on the command chair was slick and he couldn't seem to stand no matter how hard he tried.

"How many lights are there?" Worf was asking now.

Crusher came onto the bridge from the turbolift. "Don't tell him, Jean Luc! If you tell him, they'll kill me." She was visibly upset, shaking as she approached him.

Data turned around in the opps position. "How many, human?"

Wesley turned around from the con. "Captain, they'll kill Mom if you tell them!"

"Please, Jean Luc! I don't want to die," Beverly begged sobbing.

He looked around in terror as his comrades got up from their seats and closed in on him. Each morphed into Cardassian guards holding remotes like Madred had used to torture him. Disgust emanated from their very beings.

"Weak," one said. "Coward," spat another.

From behind them, the viewscreen flickered and Gul Madred forced his way through it as if it were made of flexible fabric. On the bridge, knife in hand, he roughly grabbed Beverly by the hair. With a savage jerk, he forced her to her knees, pulling her head back to expose her throat. Madred held the knife to her lovely neck, ready to slit it. "Tell me how many lights, and she dies."

Stricken by paralyzing panic, Picard stared at the remotes pointed at him. He knew that he couldn't survive more torture. "I'm sorry, Beverly," he whispered through streaming tears. "I just can't take anymore." His heart broke as the words left his mouth. "I see five lights."

Madred slowly dragged the blade across Beverly's throat. Her screams stopped.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" Picard sat bolt upright in bed, sweat soaking his uniform and the bed. Gasping for breath, wide-eyed in terror, trembling…A wave of nausea hit him and he slid off the bed onto his hands and knees, vomiting. The tears followed, shuddering sobs wracking his body as his mind tried to free itself from the terrible images.

He lurched into the bathroom and stuck his head under the sink washing out his mouth. Splashing cold water on his face and over his scalp started to ground him. He looked at himself in the mirror, a dripping mask looking back at him with leaden eyes. Screaming in rage, he slammed his fist into the mirror with a crunch, causing it to splinter in spider web cracks. He could still see himself in the shattered mirror so hit is several more times until all he could see were the spider-webbed cracks.

Looking down, he saw that his knuckles were split open and gushing blood. "Dammit!" he shouted. Holding his hand under the spigot, the water turned red in the basin. Grabbing a towel, he tightly wrapped his hand. A dark red stain bloomed through the fabric. Feeling lightheaded, he slid to the floor, his back resting against the wall. He remained there the rest of the night.