Shadowboxer
Counselor Deanna Troi woke wondering where in heck she was. Not something she usually had to worry about. Blinding headaches weren't the norm either – and yet here she was face down on something fuzzy, unwilling to open her eyes – certain her head had been the bottom rock in a landslide.
She made an effort to lift herself, getting no further than an inch from the ground. She collapsed onto the furry surface again. Her cheek landed on something cold and damp. And sticky.
Ugh, she groaned. Her fingers explored the floor by her mouth. Great, just great – her head hurt, she had no idea where she was or why, and she had dribbled on the upholstery.
How often did the ship self-clean the floor, she wondered.
The effort to think was too much; she blacked out again, barely hearing the running steps or a distraught voice calling her name.
In the blackness, she was allowed one thought – he's here – and it gave her all the comfort she needed.
Hands were touching her – on her neck or her wrist – she was too woozy to know the difference. She was being cradled, she felt arms gently pull her up. Hair was brushed out of her face and a muffled voice engaged in a strange one-way conversation.
Struggling to move, she tugged on fabric attached to her rescuer.
"Will?" she whispered.
"Help's on its way, Deanna. Don't move unless you have to."
The request was reasonable, but did he have to be so rude about it, she wondered. As though somehow this whole situation was her fault. Besides, what was he doing, moving her?
"Will." She was sure there was something important she had to say. "Will, how does the ship stay so clean?"
Gods, where did that come from? That wasn't what she had wanted to say, was it? A soft shh and a tightened grip was all she got.
She fought and mastered an extreme urge to sneeze. The tickling in her nostrils disappeared, replaced by spasms of pain ripping her stomach. It couldn't be helped; she gagged, unable to retain dinner.
Riker swore quietly and wiped her mouth.
Tears were squeezed out of her eyes. What had Riker used to wipe her mouth? It had the soft silkiness of her new dressing gown.
She relaxed into his arms wondering why things couldn't be like this between them more often – until a distant noise indicated the arrival of medical assistance (an anti-grav cart from the sound of it).
He didn't exactly manhandle her as he lay her back on the floor, but her knight-in-shining-armor seemed keen to let go of her before anyone else got too close to see them.
New hands took over, lifting her onto the cart. She hadn't realized how cold she was until a thermal blanket was tucked around her. It reminded her of bed and sleep and really, really good dreams. Was that it? Was that what she had needed to tell him? Something about dreams?
"Hey! You're not thinking about nodding off are you?" The rude voice was back. He was personally affronted. The idea of her sleeping completely offended him. That was certainly bizarre. What did it all mean?
The strain to remember triggered another wave of cramps. She gave a shallow gasp, readying herself for the inevitable. One of the nice, concerned people helped her upright and rubbed her back as she heaved.
As she snuggled back under the blanket, Riker's hand shook her shoulder.
"No you don't," he said. "Not if you have a concussion. You're going to ride this one out, Counselor, if I have to prop your eyelids open with toothpicks."
"The commander's right," the helpful one said. "You need to stay awake, at least until you've been checked out by the doctor."
"Traitor."
"She's delirious, sir."
"She's not delirious. She's just feeling sorry for herself."
It was a silly front. Troi knew Riker's tone and manner masked worry. And, he knew she knew. Her stubbornness in willfully misreading his demeanor was just as stupid ... and petulant.
So there they were, both knowing something to be true and both idiotically avoiding it. Like children.
All must be right with the world, she thought, almost snorting. Here we are, back on a familiar battlefield.
Only, childishness was a recent development.
"Try opening your eyes, Deanna."
"Do I have to?" she muttered.
"I can make it an order if you want."
The sharp light was piercing. She grimaced. Riker placed his hand above her head, shading her from the overhead lights.
"Thanks." She could make him out now. He had his serious face on. The same face he had been wearing for weeks.
"You could tell me why you've been such a grouch this week," she said, hoping to make him smile. "That might keep me awake – you know, laughing at the pathetic excuses you come up with."
Her face blanched in misery as her body told her she had exerted herself beyond her means.
"In case you haven't noticed, Counselor–"
She never liked it when he stressed her title, as though she was about to get a telling off from an irritated father. Lord knew, one dictatorial parent was enough.
"–you're the one headed toward a biobed in sickbay with a vicious head wound that can not be explained. That officially makes you the patient. And that means for the time being you answer either my questions or any questions put to you by your doctor. Do I make myself clear?"
"I have a head wound?"
Hands swooped on her, pinning her arms to her sides when she reached up to her skull.
"The ship is sucking up a sizable quantity of your blood from the carpet as we speak."
"There was blood?" she said. "I thought I'd just dribbled."
She never got the chance to hear his response. The doors to sickbay slid open and the medical attendants bustled her in, where Beverly Crusher was waiting.
The doctor fussed over her for some time while Riker hovered in the background.
By the time Beverly had run her diagnostic equipment over Troi, the party had swelled to include the captain and the ship's new security officer, Lieutenant Christine Vale.
Vale was reporting to the captain and first officer. Troi wasn't privy to their conversation. The doctor was still healing the wound on her head.
"Not as bad as it looks," she said, when Troi asked for a description. "I'm pretty sure the hair will grow back over the bald patch."
Troi craned her neck to give the doctor her best baleful look.
"I'll give you something for the nausea and the headache, but you'll need to rest this one out," Crusher went on. "Whoever hit you did a good job of it – I'd say he used his fist, but the tricorder hasn't picked up any DNA."
"I'm not sure I remember anything," Troi stated when the doctor finally gave the others permission to question her. The sickening cramps had gone, and although she was lightheaded, she was able to sit up without the feeling her head was going to spin away.
"There must be something you can tell us," Riker said. "You didn't get that bump running backward into a bulkhead at warp speed. Do you have any inkling as to why you were on that floor at that time of night?"
She bit back the temptation to suggest she might have had a midnight assignation. "Maybe I was looking for someone?"
"Since we can not establish a cause or motive for this attack, Counselor, I've arranged for a security detail to accompany you to your quarters," the captain said. "The lieutenant has security combing the ship for any signs of trouble."
A wave of dizziness swept Troi again.
Riker didn't miss it. He took her hand. "Still with us?"
She didn't feel with them in the room. She was sunk in the memory. "He was brimming with joy."
"There was no malice in his actions," she said, still in a trance. "Absolutely no malice, it was just a moment of pure luck. An almost unbelievable stroke of fortune. He was happy. Then he hit me."
"Did you see him?" Vale asked.
"I didn't even hear him. I sensed him just before he hit me. He was" – she paused, searching for the right word – "absorbed. Thinking intently. It's like he turned a corner, saw me, had the opportunity to hit me and it made him very, very happy. There was no sense of satisfaction that might come from the thrill of the hunt – he didn't even know me."
"He gets his kicks out of cold coxing random people in the small hours of night?" Riker asked.
"No, he didn't kick me, he definitely hit me," Troi said.
"You're certain he didn't know you. Nor you him?" Vale wasn't here to banter. All of them, with the exception of the security officer, who looked totally professional, had clearly been roused from or preparing for sleep. But Vale was on alert. It comforted Troi to know this woman took her job seriously.
Troi shook her head. "He was a stranger to me."
"Would you recognize him if you sensed him again?" Riker asked.
Troi gave her beloved a withering look. "Of course, but a line up won't be necessary."
They stared at her.
"He's dead."
She looked at them all. They continued to stare back.
"That's what I was trying to remember."
She sensed Will's frustration but refused to feel guilty. Her memory was not in its usual peak condition. They would have to be patient and wait for the sensations to come back to her piecemeal. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, hoping the meditative pose would hasten the retrieval process.
"He hit me." She started with what she knew was true.
"As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I knew he was in pain. All over. He was burning. I don't know how. He can't have been very far from me. I couldn't help him. He was confused and dying. I could feel it. That's what I remember."
Riker shuddered, all his worry flowing through their bond.
He knew what that admission had cost her. Humans were funny sometimes, she thought. Their ability to empathize seemed so much more of a talent to her than her own genetic ability. Her sense of other people came as easily as opening her eyes to see. But humans had to rely on their experiences and ability to imagine their responses in a situation to achieve empathy. Some of them were very good at it. The support they offered her, without knowing it, helped balance the remembered pain of suffering and death.
With a new lead to go on, Vale conferred quickly with Picard, and wished Troi well, before hurrying out of the room. She would be going back to the scene of the attack. Troi wished she were going with the new officer. Now that she remembered what had happened, she was eager to get to the bottom of the mystery – but the stress of the evening had caught up with her and she couldn't stifle a large yawn.
"Beverly has okayed you returning to your room." Riker helped Troi up. "You're allowed to rest in your own bed, but only if someone's there to keep an eye on you. Guess that's me."
"Surely that's not necessar–"
"Doctor's orders."
"That's settled then," Picard said. "Commander, Counselor, you are both relieved of your bridge duties next shift. Counselor, I expect you to adhere to the doctor's orders until such time as she deems you suitable to return to duty." He turned to Riker. "And I expect you to get a decent sleep once Deanna has rested, Number One."
The first officer stiffened almost imperceptibly. Troi didn't miss it.
He was terrified, literally terrified of the thought of sleep, she realized, with a sinking feeling that the source of this problem was not going to be easy to deal with.
She waited until they reached her cabin to broach the topic with him. But Will was ready for her. Allowing her no time to question him, he hurried her to change (blood had stained her nightwear and dressing gown) and had turned down the sheets by the time she had exited the bathroom.
"No more talking, Deanna," he said. "Beverly wants you to rest. I'll be here to monitor you through the night."
Her selfish body told her not to argue, and the bed (which he had had to straighten suggesting she had already tried to sleep earlier in the evening) looked appealing. He would brook no argument, but she refused to go under without one warning shot.
"You and I are going to have a serious talk in the morning, Commander."
He refused to give her any sign he knew what she was talking about. "We should know more by the time you wake up."
Riker dropped onto a couch in Troi's sitting room. He had been chasing away sleep all evening. Now it was long gone and his brain was racing. He relived the moment when he had found her, bloodied and still.
On the holodeck he had asked the computer to locate her, but before it had time to answer he had been on his feet and running in her direction. The pain had been hers, he was sure, so he pushed through it. He was not sure how long it had taken to reach her. Not long, but time enough for her attacker to meet his demise. He felt certain the man had been dead before he arrived. Troi wouldn't have let a dying man go without some effort to help him.
He had hurtled down the corridor, regardless of how he might look to anyone crossing his path. Lieutenant Chafin managed to jump out of his way, but only just.
Then he saw her.
She had been a tiny black and white heap ... but the red seeping down the back of her white dressing gown was visible even from that distance. He sprinted, tapping his comm as his legs ate up the gap between them.
It wasn't a new thing for Beverly Crusher. She'd been dealing with Riker and Troi for years. She'd probably lost track of the times she had been disturbed with a desperate plea for medical attention. She had asked him to describe what he saw.
He had knelt beside Troi, holding back his shock at the sight of the gash on her head and the blood-matted hair which did little to stem the seepage.
He called to her, but got no response. Quickly he had searched for her hand. Her pulse was thready. He couldn't help himself. Basic first aid be damned. He wanted her to feel secure – to know – on whatever level she was, that help was on its way. He had gently lifted her into his lap.
She had whispered his name.
He told her to be quiet and rest. That she had spoken was a good sign, but he wasn't able to put aside his concern. The wound on her head was no accident and the danger that an attacker might be holed up waiting for another chance to finish the job had him on alert. The sooner Vale got here, the better.
The security officer turned up just as Troi was being placed on the cart.
Riker had explained what he found, which wasn't much, he realized.
"A ship-wide search has already begun," the woman assured him.
It could be anyone, Riker wanted to point out. Until they spoke to Troi, they would have to rely on instinct and suspicion to proceed.
"Have the computer access washroom and cabin logs as well as the floor log. I doubt Troi's attacker came off without so much as a bruise. If he bloodied himself he'll need to wash his hands to avoid detection."
He had needed to do something as the medical assistants finished stabilizing Troi.
"Contact me as soon as you have something," he had said to Vale as he stalked after the cart.
Now, for the second time today, he was waiting for the security officer to contact him. His mind sorted the puzzle pieces, but no matter how many angles he examined, too many pieces of the puzzle were missing to form a clear picture.
He considered motivations for the attack. The man may not have known Troi personally, but the opportunity to strike her had been too good to waste. Had the man intended to permanently remove her from the picture? Was she about to stumble unwittingly over a scene she couldn't be allowed to remember or talk about? Or was the attack simply to distract security from something else? Neither of those ideas seemed likely, if, as Troi had intimated, there was no degree of premeditation about the attack. If she had been specifically targeted, then why?
Because of what she is. Someone on board had something they wanted to hide, which Troi potentially could have exposed. A secret worth injuring or, possibly, killing for. It was the only reasonable explanation his brain could turn up and accept.
"Vale to Commander Riker."
"Have you got him?" He wasn't in any mood to waste time on banalities.
"A body has been found jammed into a narrow Jefferies tube ten meters from where the counselor lay. It will be extracted as soon as a scene analysis is completed."
"How long will that take?"
"Lieutenant Korran must examine the tube before the body is removed. She has entered the access system and is there now. She expects to be finished soon."
"Any indication who it is?"
"Human. Beyond that ..."
Her hesitation said something peculiar was going on. "The manner the body has been impacted into the tube makes identification impossible to determine at this point. Cause of death is also as yet unknown, although it may be safe to presume he had help getting himself into this position."
Meaning in every likelihood a murderer was on the loose on the Enterprise.
Great. Just great.
"Keep me updated." Riker didn't doubt the new officer would work exhaustively to cover all possibilities in the search. She wouldn't have gotten the post if she wasn't the right person for the job.
Murders on Starfleet vessels were unusual. Floor logs, security data, advanced forensic technology should ensure any murderer didn't stay concealed for long.
But Riker felt oddly ambiguous toward the killer. He had rid the ship of someone who posed a threat to Deanna – he couldn't be all bad then, could he?
Mind you, the body had been jammed – impacted – into the tube. Vale's dispassionate choice of language evoked in the first officer a sense of pity for the dead man. Ignominy in death – crammed unceremoniously into a tube and left to die.
He tried to imagine the thoughts that might assault a dying man stuffed headfirst into a confined space. Troi said he had been happy, perhaps deliriously so. Between then and Troi's later awareness of his pain, something had gone horribly wrong for him. Did despair overtake him as swiftly as joy had?
Troi had lived through the man's death. She had given them as much as they needed to know about the experience. He wondered what she had left out. It can't have been pleasant.
He had wanted to put his arms around her. He had seen death, smelled it, heard the pain that could sometimes accompany it, even though he was about to have a more intimate knowledge of it a few times, but to share someone else's feelings as they were dying – he would pass on that experience.
If thoughts of his own unique bond surfaced in his mind, he quickly tamped them.
The stress of the day finally had him cornered and a desperate need to shut out the waking world took precedence. Dragging himself off the couch, he went to the door leading to Troi's bed. The low rhythmic sound of her breathing reassured him she really was okay. He made it to the chair beside her bed, but once his head slumped onto the thick, comfy armrest he knew the battle was lost.
The computer would tell him if anything was wrong.
He woke to an almost novel sensation. Seconds passed before he realized what it was.
"You look better."
Riker startled and looked up at Troi standing in the doorway. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?"
She was already dressed in her uniform. Riker couldn't remember the doctor clearing her for duty. He scrambled up from the chair.
"Damn. How long have I been out?"
She hastened to calm him.
"Will, relax. You've probably had about ten hours of uninterrupted, decent sleep – despite the absolute lack of comfort." She had a small smile. "Maybe we should make you sleep in a chair more often."
"I told Vale to update me when she found out who that man was."
The slip in professionalism made him want to kick himself.
"And I told Vale, when she tried to get your attention this morning, you could wait to hear it."
Troi moved into the room, confronting him. "Don't you dare try to deny you needed that sleep."
"Okay. I have had a few sleepless nights – things have been a little rough around here. I feel fine, really."
All his resolve to confess vanished. Standing here, looking her in the eyes, he couldn't bring himself to start the conversation. There had been nothing unsettling in his dreams last night – in fact, if he had dreamed, he had no memory of it now. Maybe it had been the added stress of dealing with the crew's displeasure.
Although Troi was smiling, she seemed ... tired.
He deflected the conversation back her way. "Did Beverly say you could resume duties?"
"A meeting's being held to discuss what happened last night," she said. "I'm not missing it."
"Did I get an invite to the party?"
"Now that you're awake, I suppose it would be pointless to keep you from it."
"Do I have time to get changed?"
"And time left over for a wash," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Have a shower, Will. I'll arrange you a fresh uniform. And Will?"
He was already on his way to her bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder.
"I'm fine. Thank you for asking."
Shadowboxer, by Fiona Apple
