Dark Mirror (19 page)

“So your counterpart may have some ability that we don’t expect.”

“I just can’t say,” said Deanna, upset that she could throw no more light on the problem at so crucial a time. “But still—Captain, even the most powerful telepaths have trouble reading through intense emotion, or through ‘obsessive thought.’ Either can be exhausting to maintain, but shifting from one to the other can work. Try to inwardly act great emotion—call up the memory of something that frightened you, enraged you—probably around here, rage would be better. It won’t necessarily show as a block, either. But be flamboyant about it. The harder you project, the more effective it’ll be. Even full Betazoids, fully trained, often can’t sort out the thought they want between the racket of emotion and the usual quarreling of several of the audient’s ego states at a given moment. Or else, forcefully occupy your brain with something that you’ve had trouble getting out of it in the past. If you know some piece of music that persists in your mind once you think of it, a poem, a song—start running it in your mind and keep it there any way you can. It may drive you half-mad, but rest assured it’ll be doing the same thing to the telepath who’s trying to read you.”

“Singing,” Picard said ruefully. “Not out loud, I hope.”

“If it works, yes, but it may work inwardly just as well.”

“I greatly hope it doesn’t come to that,” Picard said.

Troi smiled at the captain’s discomfiture, and it felt good to have something genuine to smile about. “Now then,” he said. “You two take yourselves out of here quickly. Mr. La Forge, I am going to find an excuse to get those authorization codes released and get you at that core… but it may take a while. While I am working on that, I want you to
devise a way to take your counterpart out of circulation without being able to transport him anywhere. That cubby of yours—can you get out of that by means other than walking down some corridor?”

Geordi smiled grimly. “There’s a Jeffries tube that feeds right into it, Captain. That’s one of the reasons I picked it. It can take a lot of time to get around this ship without being seen, by way of access tubes—but it can be done, and I know how to do it.”

“Very well,” Picard said. “Think about how you might get at either engineering or this La Forge’s quarters without being detected. At least we’re all still going to be in the primary hull: that’s a mercy. And I will find out whatever I can about exactly what these people want from us.”

“Our own communicators are working scrambled at the moment,” Geordi said. “I’ve changed the frequency to a very high one that even we don’t normally use. It shouldn’t trigger any alarms… as far as I know. But one thing you should notice, Captain—these people’s badges don’t seem to work as communicators. The ones on your counterpart’s uniforms appear to be just jewelry.” Geordi looked puzzled. “If you can, see if you can find out what those things are for, if they’re not for talking to each other, or being found.”

“Very well. Here, wait a moment.” Picard reached down to his counterpart and worked at his vest for a moment to remove several objects that stuck to the material in the same way the communicators did. They came away with a tug. “Decorations,” Picard said, putting the first few in place on his own tunic. “For what, I don’t like to think. But—” He finished, straightened up. “There. Get him out of here—and keep yourselves as safe as you can. Counselor, if you feel any major eruption of emotion on this ship that I should know about…” He touched his badge. “I’ve set this on vibrate rather than sound. Understand that
there may be a pause between your call and my reply: I may have to get away from people and back to somewhere that I’m not likely to be scanned—probably here.”

“Yes, sir,” Troi said. “And, Captain—don’t forget your personal guard. For whatever reasons, they seem to be loyal to ‘you’ here. They’re help you shouldn’t be afraid to use.”

He nodded. “The concept of such a group existing bothers me as it is, but the point is well taken. It appears, from what that one said”—he motioned with his head at the other Picard—“that your counterpart has a guard of her own. If you can get any sense of their movements, and let me know as need arises.”

“I’ll do my best,” Troi said. “There’s this at least: there are a lot fewer people on this ship to be kept track of. I haven’t sensed any children’s minds, and very few couples.”

Geordi looked up. “Come on, Counselor, Chief O’Brien’s got the coordinates.”

Reluctantly, Troi moved over to join him. “Energize,” Geordi said. And she and he and the alternate Picard were lost in shimmer and vanished away.

Picard stood there in the silence for a moment, watching them go. He looked around the room and found it physically much the same. It was only small details that were changed, such as the uniforms hanging in the closet.

One thing
was
the same: the covered easel off to one side. He stepped over to it softly, tossed the cover back from it. The wood in the Luberon: the beams of sunlight strung on the woodland dimness like harpstrings; the tiny scrap of light, the wavering wings caught, frozen in a golden moment under the trees, among the honeysuckle. Picard shook his head.
How can that man
—he was carefully avoiding using the word I, for that would be a fallacy, possibly a fatal one—
how can that man do this and still be what he is? Or be what he is—and do this?
He thought of Data looking over his shoulder. That at least could never happen here. Data’s creator had been killed in a purge of scientists on his home planet: a great genius, shot out of hand for injudiciously expressing the wrong political opinions—that was to say, anything that didn’t support the Empire. It was not a universe that tended to treat
kindly any dissidence, difference, or any novelty that didn’t immediately throw itself at the Empire’s feet.

He shook his head. There was no time for this now: he had business. He needed, first of all, to set up some situation that would make it natural for the ship’s security officer to release the computer core to Geordi’s ministrations. There was no way to tell exactly how he could do that as yet. But he would find out soon enough.

He paused by the mirror near the closet to look himself over. The uniform was indecently tight, but fortunately quite comfortable. It turned out he didn’t have to worry about bending over after all—he did a couple of experimental deep knee bends, pulled down the tunic to straighten it, and found, rather to his distress, that it didn’t need pulling down, that it
was
down as far as it was going to go, despite his movement. It annoyed him that these people had managed a solution to this particular problem that his own universe never had.

Meanwhile, it was time to get out there. His mouth was dry. He got a drink of water from the replicator—at least
that
worked the same here—and headed for the door.

He stepped out into the hall, and the man standing there saluted him—an odd gesture: a thump of the right chest, the hand then extended flat outward. Picard returned the salute as easily as he could while keeping his face as calm as possible, for the man standing guard outside his quarters was Barclay, wearing lieutenant commander’s insignia over the more or less normal-looking uniform of the junior officers.

“Any problem, Captain?” Barclay said, falling in with Picard as he walked down the hall. Another man, stationed farther down the hall, dropped into step behind them, maintaining a respectful distance.

Picard studied Barclay briefly from the corner of one eye as they walked. This was not the innocent, sometimes bemused young crewman he knew. That bemusement had
an edge to it now, the slightly crazed creativity of the man, his quirkiness, seemed to have been redirected. His face had a calculating look about it, like that of someone who spends his life anticipating trouble and isn’t entirely disappointed when it finally arrives.

“No,” Picard said, “no, Mr. Barclay, no problems.”

“I had wondered,” Barclay said thoughtfully. “It’s not a time of day when you usually bother with your quarters.”

“I wanted to check something, that’s all.”

They came to the turbolift: it opened for them. Picard started to step into it and was briefly surprised when Barclay brushed past him as if he hadn’t been there. At first he was ready to write it off to discourtesy, then Picard saw Barclay alertly looking around the ’lift, checking it for—who knew what?—devices, people, lying in wait. Picard kept his mouth shut and waited. Finally Barclay glanced up at him and said, “Bridge, sir?”

“Bridge,” Picard said, and got in. The ’lift started moving. They stood in a silence that, for the lack of tension in it, at the moment felt almost amiable.

“Captain,” Barclay said. “Possibly I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

Picard put his eyebrows up and waited.

“The day before yesterday, Commander Riker made me an offer for my services.”

Picard kept his face as still as he could and finally fell back on Counselor Troi’s technique. “How did you feel about that?”

Barclay looked uncomfortable. “Captain, it’s not as if you haven’t always treated me well. A cut of the booty.”
Booty!
Picard thought. “Jumps in rank, better quarters. It’s just that—” It was his turn for his eyes to slide sideways. “It’s not always safe to say no to Commander Riker. People have a tendency to, uh—” He took a moment to find the right phrase. “Come to grief.” He swallowed. “And even chief bodyguards sometimes have accidents.”

Picard nodded slowly. “What were you planning to do about it?”

“Sir—I want to refuse him. But afterwards, I’m going to need your protection. For the moment, though, I can stall.”

“You’ll need my protection.” Picard smiled thinly. “A reversal of roles, is that it? Do you need to be taken off duty for a while?”

“If you think that’s the right idea, Captain,” Barclay said, sounding doubtful. He sounded very afraid, as well. Picard would have liked to say something to reassure him, but didn’t dare: he thought it might be out of character. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Barclay. It’s the least return I can make for loyalty.” But he wondered what in heaven’s name he
could
do. “Meantime…” He allowed himself a slight smile. “As far as Commander Riker is concerned, this conversation never happened.”

“Yes, sir,” Barclay said, sounding grateful. “Thank you, sir.”

The doors opened. There were guards on either side of them; as Picard came out, they snapped to attention and saluted. He returned the salute, trying to seem idle about it, and glanced around him, trying to keep the look casual.

The bridge was as he had seen it in the recorded scan. It seemed smaller than his own because of the darker colors, but somehow plusher at the same time. The sense of luxury was more pronounced in the softer carpeting on the floor, the gleam of polished metal here and there, the somber colors. And down there in the center seat—

The other Will Riker stood up and saluted him, smiling a crooked smile. The gesture, which looked too formal, too respectful on everyone else, this Riker somehow made appear sloppy and insulting. The expression in his eyes was chilly, but amused. Picard found himself wishing very much that he had even a smattering of the counselor’s ability to directly sense emotion. For the time being, he had to make do with his own aptitude in that area—not
inconsiderable. On any other man’s face, he would have read the expressions there as meaning insolence, insubordination simmering below the surface, treachery waiting for a chance. The problem was that this was Will Riker’s face as well, and Picard had never caught so much as a hint of any of those emotions in Will. This led him toward a tendency of unbelief. But forcefully Picard reminded himself that in this situation particularly, he must not allow that unbelief to affect him by reflex.

“Report,” he said as he swung down toward the three center seats. “Ship’s status?”

“Unchanged,” Riker said. “Still no sensor contact with the target. We’re sure they’re avoiding us: we’re continuing our search pattern.”

“Very well,” Picard said, and made for his chair. Riker did not immediately move away from it, so that for a moment he and Picard were almost nose to nose, and Riker looked down at him with an expression that bordered on amused pleasure at making Picard wait. Insolence again. What was the man waiting for? Picard remembered quite clearly Kirk’s report, and how officers in this universe routinely moved up in rank via assassination. Did they duel as well? Picard found himself wondering. Was this Riker trying to provoke a confrontation? Had he been trying for a while? No way to tell now.

“Mr. Riker,” Picard said as pleasantly as he could, “kindly take yourself away from my seat before I am forced to request my chief bodyguard to put his phaser up one of those unlovely nostrils of yours and give your brainpan, such as it is, a much-overdue cleaning.”

There were muted snickers around the bridge, just as there had been long ago in the Academy when one of Picard’s cadet martial-arts instructors made the same comment to
him.
Riker backed away—but only just, with a smile that suggested he thought Picard’s chief bodyguard might not do what he was told.
Or am I reading too much
into this?
Picard thought. He doubted it, though. It seemed unwise to take anything for granted at the moment, and in this milieu, it seemed to him that paranoia might be the most logical approach to staying alive and getting his job done.

He sat down in that center seat, astonished to feel the soft give of it under him: a seat that tempted a man to feel comfortable. He disliked the feeling intensely. On his own bridge, Picard wanted to feel alert, not to be tempted to drowse off—especially not around here.

Picard turned his attention to the main viewer. It showed empty space, the stars flowing slowly by, just as on his own ship. For a moment, despite the short time he had been here, he felt a dreadful sense of homesickness. He wanted his own bridge back, and crewmen whom he could trust. But there was no use wishing.

“Anything else to report?” he said to Riker.

“We’re still searching for Ensign Kowalski,” Riker said, frowning now.