SHIP OF FOOLS

Chapter 17

Picard looked on silently as Kalish plucked the phaser out of his hand, carefully resetting it before he passed it on to Gomez. Lieutenant Singh turned to Geordi.

"Do you have control of the ship, sir?"

"Do I look like I have?" Geordi gestured towards the ruined Ops console. "You've made a beautiful mess of it, Captain. We still have to get the ship out of this nebula, but we can't do it the way I wanted to. I need the command functions, sir."

"Why?" asked Picard, thinking: Keep him talking. "And why should we take the ship out of the nebula?"

Geordi raised his shoulders. "Look, sir, I'm sorry, but I really don't think I could explain it. You wouldn't want to hear it, for one. At least, not the way you're looking at things now. I would have preferred doing this any other way, but we've got to do it, and we're running out of time. We'll have those Cardassians here in a few hours, and most of us just don't want to go on with this."

"I am afraid I don't quite understand," Picard said coldly.

"Well, that's the point, in a way." Geordi looked at Singh with something like a tiny shrug. Lieutenant Singh gave his subordinates a brief nod. Without turning his head Picard could feel them move into position behind his back. "If you did we wouldn't be stuck here. I can't get at those command functions – not with Data on the bridge, anyway. And you aren't going to help us unless I somehow make you understand, but you wouldn't listen if I tried. So I'll have to do this on my own authority, just because I know it's right. You wouldn't give that device a chance even now, Captain, would you?"

"If you mean try it out, most definitely no!" Picard replied sharply.

"Yes, well, I was afraid you'd say that. Only... you'll have to, sir. I've one here. It's the only way."

"Commander, do you realize this is an act of mutiny?"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but you don't leave me much of a choice, you know. You may lock me in the brig for this, but I don't think you will once you understand. Allow me..."

Geordi took a few steps towards him. Incredulously, the captain felt his arms gripped by the two security men. They were forcing him back against the nearest bulkhead, not violently, just firmly enough to leave no doubt they could grip harder if necessary. Still –

There had always been a kind of invisible forcefield surrounding the captain. People did not usually touch him; very few ever came close enough even to brush against him. Picard had felt that forcefield beginning to break down lately, but judging by others' reactions it still wasn't quite gone, and the security people were no exception. They weren't comfortable with this he felt, not comfortable with the word mutiny or the fact they were openly defying their captain. It took him a fraction of a second to recognize the implications. He had one chance, and only one he knew. This would work just once.

Bracing his shoulders against the bulkhead behind him, he jerked his knee into La Forge's stomach the moment he was close enough, saw the chief engineer double up, then brought him down with a foot hooked behind his knees. Barclay appeared in the gap, and Kalish gasped as Picard tore his right arm free, pivoted and aimed for Barclay's chin. The blow connected solidly – more solidly than the captain could have hoped. Barclay staggered backwards with a dazed expression and collapsed, and Picard managed, almost, to break away before the security men had made up their minds. But then he heard Singh's voice shouting something, sounding desperate, and Kalish gripped his arm again while Geordi struggled to his feet, and the brief moment was past. Immobilized against the bulkhead, he felt his head forced to one side. Close to panic now, he was struggling blindly, frantically; it was all Walser and Kalish could do to keep hold of him. He could hear Gomez' voice in the background, shrill with dismay: "Don't – please, Geordi, don't!" Somewhere very close La Forge wheezed: "It's all right, sir, you'll see..." Then the cool metal of the device sliding into place and a flash of pain like barbed lightning tearing through his brain. He heard himself cry out, a strange breathless sound he hardly recognized, and tried once more, hopelessly, to break away – and then something caught his eye, and all of a sudden everything was very still, and everybody was staring.

It was Worf, not four steps away, face half-obscured by tangled hair, blood soaking his left sleeve and dripping onto the floor, phaser in hand. He was looking down on the weapon as if to make sure of the setting, then up again and straight into Picard's face. For the second time that day the world seemed to reel around the captain. He saw the phaser leveled squarely at his own chest, and for what could only have been fractions of a second sought Worf's eyes, trying desperately to reach what surely, surely must still be left of his mind and loyalty in the black madness rising to engulf them all – but if Worf understood the silent plea, he gave no sign of it. He very deliberately pushed the button on his weapon instead.

The blast threw the captain back against the bulkhead, then to his knees. Kalish and Walser both let go of him and backed away, aghast, and he collapsed on the floor. The security men stared as Worf finally switched off the beam and slowly lowered his phaser. Barclay let out a low "Whew!". Gomez gave a sigh of profound, shuddering relief; she even managed a tremulous smile at Worf. And then she froze.

"Well, that wasn't really necessary, Worf," gasped Geordi. "But I appreciate – "

Then he, too, heard the low growl vibrating in the air.

"Look here, Worf," said Geordi, backing away even as he spoke, "just let me explain, okay? It's not that..."

Singh's hand was stealthily moving towards his phaser now, but he hadn't reached it when Worf raised his own weapon again and fired. Kalish dodged the beam as it swiveled towards him and lunged for Worf's legs, realizing too late that his superior had been expecting the move; he landed hard where Worf had been standing a moment before, and a vicious kick sent him crashing into the nearest console. A streak of black and amber hurtled past him. Barclay, only just staggering to his feet, tried throwing himself in the way and went flying. Geordi saw it coming, not quite believing that the rage he saw could be real, and aimed at him; then the fist crashed into his chin, hurling him halfway across the bridge. Worf whirled, feeling something hot grazing his cheek as he did, pointed his weapon at the source of it and fired, and kept firing until all movement had ceased; then, with a brutal effort, he tore himself out of it. Chest heaving, hands clenched, he stood for a moment getting his bearings. A Klingon battle rage was not – was not supposed to be – a thing easily controlled. At ease, Lieutenant.

He shoved Singh out of the way and knelt over the captain, turning him over on his back and feeling for his pulse, his breath catching in his throat for a second. A sustained level-three phaser blast, even at short range, should not – could not, surely – be enough to kill. But the range had been very short indeed, and he had aimed for quick unconsciousness, and Worf had never been comfortable with the thought of Picard's artificial heart – and then he found the pulse beating, faintly, under his fingers.

With a surge of relief he lifted the captain's head, carefully brushing the device away from his temple and cheek. For a moment or two he looked down on it, frowning. Some memory tugged at him, bothering him, some ugly association he couldn't immediately place; he was tempted to crush the thing in his hand. Then he thought better of it. Data might find some use for it.

Rising, he looked round. Ops was a ruin. So was Tactical. The captain had clearly completed what he had come for. Worf nodded briefly to himself and knelt by Picard again, promptly worried at the sight of the scorched stain on the red uniform tunic. It was an ugly wound he had caused; he would have to see to it, quickly. He gathered him up and rose, effortlessly, to his feet. Blood from his gashed arm was still dripping onto the floor; he felt it soaking the captain's uniform. He had forgotten all about the injury – it couldn't be helped now. Then a communicator chirped. "Crusher to La Forge," an exasperated-sounding voice said. "Geordi, can you hear me?"

Worf looked round among the sprawled bodies, made out La Forge's, and deftly activated the badge with his boot. "Worf here."

Confused, the voice answered: "Geor- Worf? Worf? Wait a moment, what is going on down there?"

"The situation is under control," rumbled Worf. "You may want to send a medical team, Doctor. Worf out." He turned on his heel and strode towards the emergency turbolift.

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