SHIP OF FOOLS
Chapter 20
"I'm frightened, Will. I don't know what to do."
Deanna Troi was sitting on the sofa in Riker's quarters, hands clasped between her knees, her face a little drawn as if in pain, or expecting pain to set in any moment. Riker was pacing, up and down the length of his living room.
"It's as if I couldn't sense things any more. All I'm reading is this frightful tension. Aggression and frustration, just on the brink of violence. Mental snarling. You can't imagine... And I don't know what's the matter with me. It started out so well, and now I'm deaf to anything but this..." She cleared her throat with a determined effort. "I've asked Beverly if the device could be impairing my empathic abilities. She said I always thought of my empathic abilities as the be-all and end-all, I might consider that other people have other priorities. She was on the point of screaming at me, Will."
Riker turned on his heel with a brief, sharp sigh, opening his mouth to reply, and Troi's eyes grew wide with apprehension; then he shut it again. After a few moments he said: "I don't think it's anything to do with you, Deanna."
"You were going to say something unkind just now," she said very quietly.
"I was." He took a few deep breaths. "I won't, though. I was going to say something about having better things to do than worry about what you're sensing. And you would have sensed more of the same. Correct?"
She nodded, giving him a tiny tremulous smile that never got past the corners of her mouth, and Riker gave a brief snort of laughter in his turn. "It's not funny. I was going to be an absolute jerk. I'll never know what I've done to deserve you. Listen, Deanna. For all I know you're sensing precisely what's happening here. I've been in more rows and yelled at more people in the last twenty-four hours than ever before in my life. I've tried to sort out things in Engineering again and lost my temper; I've found Singh and asked him to try and get some order into this mess, and we ended up shouting at each other. Nobody's listening, nobody's doing their job. Everybody's having some grand idea of their own. Too bad there's only one ship between us."
Troi looked up quickly, on the point of saying something, but Riker wasn't finished.
"And there's worse. You know Storgat – the big Bolian from Astrophysics? He's been getting together with Céline Cavour. From what I heard they were going to make it official. Well, that guy Ferguson didn't like it. Apparently he'd convinced himself she had a crush on him."
"And?" said Troi, her eyes widening again.
"So he went for Storgat with a Klingon-style disruptor – pinched from Worf's quarters, by the looks of it. Storgat's in sickbay, but Beverly doesn't think he'll make it. It's the stasis chambers she says – thanks to all this messing around with the computer their equipment isn't working properly either, you see."
"I never noticed. How could that happen?" whispered Troi.
"Worf hasn't been around. He's having the time of his life playing samurai to the captain – at least he was when I last saw him, and I hope to God he's still at it. One man on this damn ship doing his damn job," Riker finished through clenched teeth.
"That's not what I meant," said Troi, her voice shaking.
"No, 'course not – I'm sorry. But I don't think you could have noticed – not with all the aggression floating around. I've had it with this whole infernal mess, everybody going off into the bright blue yonder and nobody getting anywhere. I've been ranting about the welfare of the crew, and now I can't keep people from being hurt. All I want is to get some sense and order into this and get on with things, and I can't do that either. Instead I've got a wire device that's supposed to work wonders for me if I'll just stop caring. Well, I can't," Riker concluded, finally dropping into a chair opposite her.
"But this isn't how it was meant to be at all. Everybody should be more contented now. Instead – " She fought down a surge of tears. "They feel trapped I think, and they feel the others are in their way. But you don't, do you?"
"No," he said thoughtfully. "At least... well, I just want things to work, and I want them to help me make it so. But – " another snort – "I've a feeling they just want me to help them with whatever it is they happen to fancy, so I s'pose I'm not acting all that different from the rest. And meanwhile this ship is going to hell."
"That's it," Deanna said abruptly.
Riker frowned. "What's it?"
"The ship." She looked across into his face, her own a little less desolate all of a sudden. "I should have known. It's what you want, isn't it? The place where you're happy and at home. The place you want to be. You of all the people on this ship should be feeling that you are getting somewhere."
"No," said Riker. It came out sharply, with a trace of impatience. "I'm not. In fact – " He reached up and pulled the device loose from where it was sitting, grimacing for a moment. "D'you know that I'm feeling the exact opposite? That I'm not getting anywhere? Hell, I've lost something on the way. Don't get me wrong, it felt great at first. But by now it feels..." He hesitated, then said: "Sick."
"Will, who did this to you?"
"Nobody. Nothing to do with you, Deanna. It's just..." He hesitated again, searching for the words. "I feel empty," he said at last, soberly. "Like... look, have you ever been given the wrong gift as a child? Something somebody thought should please you? And it didn't? Perhaps because you didn't like whoever gave it to you, or you had outgrown that phase, or it was just wrong – so wrong it insulted you? My father once gave me a model starship kit when I was about twelve. I'd wanted one for ages, but at the time I knew at once it was to get me off my music. I hated it, and it made me feel rotten – took me ages to get that foul taste out of my mouth. That's how I feel right now. That thing – it's just not right. It's like an unkept promise. Everything I know now, I've known before, and to get it I've acted like a bastard and an idiot. I just feel... well, rotten."
"I wish I could help," said Troi, miserably.
"You can." He caught her suddenly hopeful look and gave her a wry grin. "You can go to your quarters and ask the replicator for some hot chocolate or valerian tea or even hot milk and nutmeg – who knows, with a little luck you'll even get one of them. And then you can try to get some rest. You could do with it, and I'd feel much better. I haven't been much help so far."
"What about you?" she inquired.
"Frankly, I wish I knew. I may just stop feeling sorry for myself, and do some thinking for a change."
- - - - - -
"Sir."
"Yes, Worf?"
"You should rest. You are not well at all."
"I'm well enough." Silently, Picard chided himself for having allowed his attention to drift again. "You were saying?"
"I was not speaking, Captain."
Damn. He pulled himself together, deliberately disengaging his mind from his aching body and the cold numbness that seemed to have settled on every thought and movement. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, low and hoarse. He realized he was terribly thirsty. Where have I been the last two hours?
"Worf," he said carefully, painfully, "there's a jug of water on my desk – "
"I will fetch it," Worf said immediately, almost on his feet already.
"No! That wasn't what I meant. Just that it's there if you want it." He gripped the armrests and pulled himself out of his chair. Somewhat to his relief, the dizziness was bearable, even if the floor seemed to be sinking away from beneath his feet – as if something had happened to the artificial gravity of the ship. He entered his ready room, looking round for the jug he had put away hours earlier, and poured himself some water, only to find himself shuddering with the cold of it when he swallowed. It was cold in here, he realized, noticeably colder than outside; for a moment he wondered if Data had been raising the temperature on the bridge again. Then all of a sudden the whooping of the red alert siren shattered the silence, and he put the mug down on his desk without thinking and shot out onto the bridge. "Data, what's the matter?"
"I beg your pardon, sir." Data was standing by the chair he had been occupying for hours, looking apologetic. Worf, the captain noted, was halfway up the ramp. "It appears that my efforts to regain control of the deflector systems have set off an alarm due to some malfunction. There is no cause for apprehension."
Worf's snarl was audible five steps away. Picard fell into his chair as the deck suddenly seemed to tilt beneath him, closing his eyes until the nausea had passed. "It's all right," he said, hoping against hope that Worf wouldn't pursue the matter. "At least the alarm is working."
"I would appreciate it if this malfunction did not occur again, Commander," stated Worf. There was a hint of breathlessness in his voice, and a rasp that showed clearly just how thin his patience had worn. Unoffended, Data replied: "I will bear that in mind. However, the possibility of another false alarm cannot be ruled out entirely. I am still obliged to remove the safeguards that have been – "
"This," hissed Worf, "is unbearable. Sir, if – "
"Worf," said the captain.
There was a moment of tense silence, then he heard the chair to his left creak slightly as the Klingon sat down again. For Heaven's sake, thought Picard, find something to say.
"How are you doing, Data?"
"I am making progress with the main computer, sir. I have been able to retrieve a large amount of data pertaining to crew brain scans that appear to be uncontaminated. They will help me find a way to counteract the device. As regards ship's functions, I have made the raising of the shields a priority. I believe shields are operative again, if at thirty-one point four percent only. Circumstances have forced me to improvise, and I have written a program rerouting the necessary power from the science departments' equipment. I am currently in the process of reactivating the starboard computer core. It has taken me a considerable amount of time to bypass Geordi's programming in order to activate the self-correct function without setting off any of the traps placed in the routine."
"I see," said Picard, trying to concentrate as the words were slipping past him.
"I am expecting workable results from the devices in about two hours. The data gathered so far is quite fascinating. It appears that the device not only adapts to the brainwave pattern of the individual but analyzes the DNA as well, thus determining the species, and proceeds according to its findings."
"I see," the captain said again. "Data, what about the probes?"
"They report no ships in the vicinity, sir."
"Damn them," whispered Picard. Worf's head snapped round. For a moment, there had been a despairing crack in the captain's voice, but it was gone a second later. "I shouldn't be complaining," said Picard, hoarsely, but with the ghost of a smile. "At this rate, Data will have the ship up and running when they arrive."
"If not," stated Worf with utter seriousness, "I will die defending you."
"Worf," said the captain patiently, despite the fact that his head was aching and despite a feeling that they had been at this juncture a dozen times before, "I know your principles, and I respect them, as you very well know. But I would much prefer you to survive. So, no heroics. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," the Klingon replied. Picard had the distinct impression that he might as well have saved his breath. Die defending me indeed. Nobody is going to die on this ship if I can help it. But there was a catch in his throat nevertheless.
Worf got to his feet and went back to his console, to check the forcefield protecting the bridge and make sure of the two phasers concealed in the locker underneath. For all the strain and the desperation there was something glorious, something flawlessly right and appropriate to this. For once, he was, and would be, where he should be. For once, his duties and instincts and loyalties all pulled in one direction. It was perfect, down to the captain's protest. As you should, Captain. And I shall do as I should.
The forcefields, he noticed with a brief nod of satisfaction, were still in place.
- - - - - -
Deanna Troi roused herself to answer the door alarm after the third ring. Whoever was out there obviously wasn't going away. "Come in," she called, getting up from the sofa and trying not to sound as drained and dispirited as she felt. The door opened to reveal a burly, bearded man in a science uniform. She had to cast around for a couple of seconds before the name came back to her. Rickett. Lieutenant Rickett of Stellar Cartography. Not an officer she saw much of in the course of her duties.
A moment later she sensed the turmoil in the man. It hit her like a wave, a desperate incredulity that made the frustration and suspicion and anger that were thick in the air fade into insignificance. She groped behind her for support, any support, finding the back of a chair. I can't take any more of this, a voice said in her mind. I can't.
"You've got to listen to me, Counselor," Rickett said while the door closed in his back. The voice was low and breathless, and the incredulous dismay she sensed from him almost made her stagger. "I know this'll sound crazy to you, but I've killed somebody. I've just killed Lieutenant Benedetto."
Deanna stared. There was no doubt about this. He might be mistaken – he might still be mistaken, but this was no fantasy – and no attempt at deceiving her either. He believed what he was saying. She found herself shaking. After a couple of seconds she managed to ask: "How did that happen?" – not because she wanted to know but because she couldn't just stand there, staring at Rickett.
"I don't know. That is, I do. I hit him. He got to me. You see," said Rickett with a determined matter-of-factness that clashed wildly with the emotions she sensed from him, "he was all over the place with that way he had, bullying people. Showing everybody. He had this thing about really being Command material. I knew that, but it seemed worse than usual. And then he started picking on Hussein, of all people, and I thought I just wasn't going to let him do that. He took it badly. He went for me – I'd known he would. I wanted him to, in a way. I'd been thinking, well, about time that guy tries tackling something as big as he. And when he came on I caught him on the side of the head, and he went down. I thought he'd get up, but he didn't. Counselor, I wanted to teach that guy a lesson. I really did. But I didn't want that to happen! I didn't realize I'd hit him as hard as that. I... It's a stupid question I know, but what do I do now?"
"I don't know," Troi whispered. "Perhaps... perhaps he isn't dead. Did you inform sickbay?"
Rickett nodded. And then, without warning, something snapped. "I want it to stop," said Deanna, her voice breaking. "I just want this to... to stop. I can't handle it, I just can't, I can't." And with that she collapsed into a chair and started crying hysterically, face hidden in her hands, shoulders heaving, sobbing, almost screaming with anguish.
"Counselor," said Lieutenant Rickett, dropping to his knees by her side in dismay, "Counselor, please – "
- - - - - -
The bridge was very quiet.
Worf was sitting with his back against the Tactical console, one knee drawn up against his chest, a phaser within easy reach. Picard had settled back into the command chair, eyes closed in sheer exhaustion. Only Data was moving, his hands operating keys, his eyes darting from side to side – fast, but not by any means as fast as he could have worked. The two devices were wired into a tricorder lying nearby, and information was accumulating slowly while Data divided his attention between the fluctuating readings from the probes and his efforts to stabilize the main computer. Some of the data scrolling over the screen was corrupt, some was disinformation; some might be either, or it might be valid. He had given up the idea of a direct interface hours earlier.
Worf was thinking about ways and means of saving the ship, or at least his captain, from the disgraceful mess the device had caused; but he found his thoughts going round in circles, and no solution presented itself. Take a shuttle out of the nebula, contact Starfleet, and ask for help? Unthinkable, even if it could be done – he was under no illusions whom the captain would choose for the task, but he, Worf, would not leave the ship for anything. Perhaps Data could restore the engines – but again, they could not safely leave the nebula. The Cardassians might be out there, and it might still have been a Cardassian plot. Lure the Enterprise into a location out of sensor range and out of contact, disable the crew, then turn up and take the ship over. The captain would destroy her first – if the self-destruct sequence still worked. And they were running out of time; the Cardassians would arrive, or someone would appear on the bridge and cause trouble, and he must protect the ship, and the captain...
He woke with a start when he felt his left leg, which had gone to sleep, itching savagely. Instinctively, his hand closed around the phaser lying by his side. Then self-consciousness set in. Fortunately Data was still working away at his station, his back to the Tactical console. Worf got to his feet, tugged his uniform into place and took a quick, annoyed look round. He was feeling foggy with weariness himself, and he didn't like the way the captain was slumped back in his chair. Frowning, he made his way down the ramp.
Picard started as he felt his officer bending over him. "Yes, Worf?"
"You are shaking, sir."
"It's just aftereffects. It doesn't matter." But it did matter he knew. He had tried to pace earlier, feeling that the enforced inactivity of the past hours was driving him insane, and after a very few steps had found the dizziness and nausea too much for him.
"Sir. You have been nearly asleep. You might as well sleep where you can get some rest."
Picard shook his head and sat up, turning in the direction of Data's console. "How is it going, Data?"
"I have established a method of gaining information from the devices, sir," replied Data, swiveling his chair to face him. "I am currently comparing the readings from both in order to determine the changes that took place once the second one was locking on to your brainwaves. The resulting data will provide me with material which can then be used to establish its workings, and devise countermeasures. Unfortunately I have to run extensive checks on all results. I believe I have stabilized the main computer, if at a low level of efficiency. Some of the forcefields protecting the bridge have collapsed. About half an hour ago life support was beginning to fail in a number of locations all over the ship. I have rerouted energy from – "
"So we are open to attack?" interrupted Worf, who had been fidgeting through most of this.
"In theory, yes. However, since only one of the turbolifts remains functional, and since most of the crew appear – "
"Which turbolift?"
Data gave him a look of mild surprise. "The forward one, Mr. Worf."
"You might have told me!" snapped Worf, exasperated.
"I would have noticed any attempt to use this turbolift immediately."
"It is my duty to attend to these things," Worf replied rather pointedly.
"But you were asleep," said Data.
"I was not asleep," snarled Worf.
"All signs indicated that you were, Lieutenant. Considering that – "
Worf's voice rose. "Sir, with all due respect, I would – "
"Oh, for Heaven's sake – !" exploded Picard, his voice cracking on the last word.
There was a brief, shocked silence. Damn you, Jean-Luc, pull yourself together. This is not the moment to be losing control. "I'm sorry," he said, a little unsteadily. "This waiting is getting to me. It won't happen again."
"Sir," said Data, and Picard choked down a sigh. "Yes, Data?"
"Considering the fact that both you and Lieutenant Worf have been on duty for many hours, and that neither of you is in prime condition, it might be beneficial if you were to take some sustenance. You might both feel the better for it, and it would help you maintain a state of alertness."
"Possibly," Worf said somewhat guardedly.
"There is a supply of emergency rations in the bridge lockers," prompted Data.
Worf gave a brief nod. "I know," he said, then added, almost as an afterthought: "Sir." After another moment he opened a locker, took a couple of packages, and made his way down the ramp.
"Do you wish for one of those, sir?"
"No, thank you. Really, I'm not hungry."
Truth be told, he was feeling too ill to be able to eat anything at all, and the mere thought of those emergency rations made him feel queasy. Worf, however, started on his with obvious appetite and by all appearances even with relish. The captain avoided looking in his direction, watching the main viewer with its endlessly shifting pattern instead. He felt himself beginning to drift again when Worf's voice forced itself into his consciousness once more.
"I will try to fetch you some tea, sir."
"But the replicator isn't working," he managed, not sure if Worf could even hear him. From somewhere to the left he heard the basso voice rumble, sternly: "qIjDargh. Hot."
Rather to Picard's surprise the unit did react. There was a chirp, then the familiar whirring sound and a grunt of satisfaction. A few seconds later Worf brought him a conical, ribbed mug of distinctly Klingon design.
"It is the closest thing to black tea we have, sir."
The beverage was black – not black as tea, but black as strong coffee. He felt Worf watching him as he took a cautious sip. The taste was bitter, slightly tarry and, to his palate, distinctly medicinal. It didn't matter at this stage. The brew was hot, warming his hands, and he was shivering uncontrollably now. He was parched too, and as he sat sipping he realized that his mind was clouding, the sights and sounds of his bridge fading out for seconds at a time, then clearing again.
"Sir," said Worf's voice, sounding quite gentle now, "you truly cannot go on."
He's right, of course. I'm much too tired to be of any use here.
"Very well," he said. "I'll get some rest." He dragged himself out of his chair, and the moment he was on his feet a wave of black vertigo washed over him. The captain staggered, watching the darkness closing in on his field of vision, his mind noting quite matter-of-factly I shouldn't have left it so long – and a second later felt Worf's steadying hand under his elbow. As if from a very great distance he heard the voice say: "Come, sir." Afterwards he would find that he couldn't quite remember how he had managed to cross the distance between the command center and his ready room, but he did recall lying back on his sofa, if only because, mercifully, the feeling of nausea ebbed away. He could sense, rather than see, Worf hovering next to him. "Are you all right, sir?"
"I'm fine," he murmured, his mind adding: Well, at least I didn't faint on my own bridge... He closed his eyes and yielded to the blackness that came crashing down upon him.
Outside on the bridge Data, his fingers never pausing, said to Worf: "I have accessed my databases on Klingon language and culture, Lieutenant, and I believe that qIjDargh tea is supposed to have a soothing effect. In fact, it features in Klingon medicine for that reason."
"That is true," Worf confirmed while checking his console.
"In that case, should it not be regarded with caution? Klingon physiology is considerably more robust than the human one."
"There are certain physiological differences," Worf agreed matter-of-factly. "If you will excuse me, sir, I believe the forward phaser bank is coming on-line again. I would like to run a check on it."
- - - - - -
Commander William Riker was sitting on the sofa in his quarters, hands between his knees, turning the device over and over in his fingers.
He had been sitting there for some time now, trying to get some order into things. Trying to sort out memories that seemed oddly elusive now, to remember the feelings of – just how long had it been? Not long, he knew that much – a day? Two? Strange, though, how harsh and clear other things were looking to his mind all of a sudden, how real – the memories of all the choices he had made in his life, open-eyed and deliberately, and of all the roads not travelled.
What had been their names, again?
Drake. Aries. Melbourne.
Enterprise.
Captain William Riker of the Starship Enterprise. The man who had saved the Federation – and if he hadn't by any means saved it single-handedly and if in fact one word, one single word there had been between triumph and utter failure, and it hadn't been spoken by him – well, that needn't distract from his accomplishment if he didn't want it to. It had been up to him to make the most of it.
He had attained everything he had ever dreamed about, and more. The only one who could ever again raise doubts about his abilities, his courage, his sheer heroism was Will Riker himself.
And what had he done?
He had been standing in a small room off the Enterprise's main sickbay, looking down on the ravaged face of a man who could not hear him, and saying, very softly, so as not to be heard by anybody else either: "I want you to get well again, sir."
Later his own lack of doubt had surprised him a little. He had every right in the world to be ambitious, to expect something in return, and nothing to prove – certainly not his loyalty. And anyway, there had been nobody there to convince. The captain had been heavily drugged after many hours of surgery.
A man who still said that sort of thing plainly wasn't cut out to be captain of the Enterprise. Much the way that Captain Picard plainly wasn't cut out to be an admiral. And William Riker grinned to himself. You dare berate me once again for not thinking of my career, sir, and I'll tell you something about yours. How many times did you have the chance to make admiral? Let me think, now...
To give him his due, the captain had never broached the issue again after that. A ship full of damn idiots who didn't know what was good for them, in short. Riker looked down on the device, frowning. I didn't really need this stupid thing to tell me what I want in life, did I? Well, I'd better try and do something about this horrible mess...
He would go to sickbay first, though, and have Beverly give him something for the headache pounding savagely behind his eyes.
- - - - - -