Dark Mirror (28 page)

Riker flushed.

“Well. You are just going to have to cope, Number One. I have my reasons for sparing Crusher’s life at the moment.”

Riker smiled, that smarmy smile again, the one of which Picard was getting so very tired. “I’m sure you have, sir,” Riker said in the most insinuating tone of voice imaginable.

Picard was heading toward a slow boil and wondering whether showing it would be a good idea. “My business is to manage this mission as ordered. Have I not been doing so?”

“With the exception of Crusher’s case, yes. But that’s just the problem. Encouraging the crew to believe that there’s a breakdown in discipline in the middle of a mission of such import…”

Picard set his mouth in a tight, thin smile for a moment: he had had a sudden idea. “Why such vehemence over an ensign? But he
is
fairly bright, isn’t he? Energetic. Doesn’t miss his chances. He’ll make a fine officer, once he works in a little. Worried about your job, Number One?”

Riker got redder than he had been. Not because Picard had hit any kind of target, but because he suspected Picard was playing with him. In Picard’s own Riker, that pride
was tempered with humor; but in this man, humor seemed to exist only for the sake of innuendo, and teasing only provoked rage.

“Never mind that. Number One, I have my reasons. They are personal, but I guarantee they are not the ones you have in mind. If the ship’s efficiency is in question, that is
your
problem, by definition. On the other hand”—Picard raised a warning finger—“should anything whatsoever happen to Mr. Crusher, even if it’s just a hangnail, I personally will take it out of
your
hide. Consider yourself warned.”

Riker started to get up. “I haven’t dismissed you,” Picard said sharply. “Sit down.”

Riker sat.

“I understand perfectly well that you would like to be in charge of this operation. Your—allies—among the crew are not as tight-lipped as you might think they should be.”
There,
he thought,
why should I be the only one around here feeling paranoid? And besides, it’s true.
“If anything
does
start to go wrong, the responsibility is going to devolve on
you,
for not delivering to your captain, as your job description requires, a ship and crew in good working order. So you had better keep your own nose clean, Number One, before you start trying to wipe
mine
for me. And another thing. Don’t be confused by the events of the day. The conditions keeping Mr. Crusher alive don’t in the least apply to
you.
It doesn’t take the counselor to see you thinking, not by a long shot.”

And that was true enough: there was a thuggish, brutal look about this Riker’s face that Picard couldn’t believe he wasn’t aware of, and all the while he had been talking about discipline among the crew, and the “upper echelons,” his expression had been one of naked acquisitiveness, a greedy pleasure in the prospect that something might go wrong… and come out in the end to his advantage, and Picard’s discomfiture.
What must it be like,
he thought, studying
that sullen face,
to not be able to trust your second-in-command, to know that he wants your job and is plotting against your life—along with just about everybody else on the ship, it seems.
“Dismissed,” Picard said. Riker got up——and the red-alert sirens began whooping. “They’ve sighted it!” Riker said, and dashed out.

Picard broke out in an instantaneous sweat and followed him.

The bridge was silent at the sight of the image caught frozen in the middle of the viewscreen. Picard stood there in front of his seat, watching the graceful white shape, torn. He had rarely been gladder to see anything in his life—and at the same time he wanted to shout,
Get away, for heaven’s sake get out of here!

“Lock on,” Riker said to O’Brien. “Don’t lose it this time.” He looked over his shoulder at Worf.

“Her shields are down,” Worf said.

“Riker to security. Counselor Troi to the bridge. Security teams to the transporter rooms, on the double! Phase two is ready to begin.”

They waited. Picard sat down because he was afraid if he stood up much longer, the trembling that he was fighting to control might start to show. Off to one side, Barclay was looking from him to Riker, his eyes thoughtful, but for the moment Picard ignored this. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the tiny white shape.
What’s the matter with the evasive program—get lost get out of here!

The screen flickered, then went back to normal again.

“What was that?” Riker snapped at Worf.

“Uncertain,” Worf said, sounding concerned. “Possibly tachyar artifact.”

“From what? There aren’t any pulsars around here, much less quasars.”

“Sensor diagnostics show normal,” Worf said. Behind
him, the doors opened and Counselor Troi strolled in: apparently she did not consider that any order ending in “on the double” was addressed to
her.

“Shield status,” Riker said.

“Ready to go up after transport,” said Worf.

Trapped,
Picard thought. There would be no way out once they went up. He wished things had worked better, wished the away team were gone with what they had come for.
If wishes were horses, we’d all ride,
he thought, and did his best to calm himself: Troi was here, after all.

“Such nervousness,” said the soft voice beside him. She had sat down in her chair and was regarding him with considerable amusement. “Is it possible that you’re really beginning to be afraid about something? A historic event—”

“Shut up, Counselor,” he said pleasantly. Just the presence of her now made him angry, which was probably a very good thing.

The screen flickered again. “Engineering!” Riker snapped. “La Forge, what’s going on down there?”

No answer. “Engineering!”

Nothing.

Communications first,
Picard thought, and kept his face like stone to stop the smile from getting out.

“Run the diagnostics again,” Riker said. Picard sat there watching him, and Riker turned toward him and stared, and the look in his eyes was pure murder. Picard moved never a muscle.
Does he think I’m responsible somehow? he
thought.
Does he think I managed this to make him look bad? As an excuse to get
him
killed?

This may be getting more complicated than I thought.
The small white form on the screen abruptly vanished.

Immediately afterward, the screen went dead.

Picard simply sat there and looked at Riker, letting him have the chance to cover himself. He didn’t take the opportunity: just glared.

Picard stood up. “It would appear that we have some systems functions that need to be seen to. Number One, take care of it. Have the security teams return to posts until we’re ready and the diagnostics come up clean. Phase two will have to be postponed accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” Riker said, sullen.

“It’s fairly late in my shift,” Picard said, and hoped it was. At any rate, ship’s night was approaching. “I have some more work to tidy up in the ready room, then I’m going to go and get some rest. Gall me if I’m needed.”

He went through the ready room doors and waited for them to close so that not even Barclay would get a look at the eventual private, utterly relieved grin.

La Forge’s quarters were spartan. He didn’t spend much of his off-shift time there, preferring to spend his time among his machines, and his staff, both of which gave him more amusement by doing what he told them—or by his efforts at correcting them when they failed him—than anything he might do in private, and most of the things he did in company. The quarters were comfortable enough, as all the senior officers’ quarters here were, good for sleeping, if nothing else, and comfortably furnished, but otherwise unornamented.

Which was why he was mildly surprised to come in, at the end of his shift, and see Counselor Troi waiting there for him—sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling at him slightly.

At first sight of her, he was afraid. That was the wisest reaction to the counselor, for someone who had been as long aboard this ship as La Forge had and knew the stories that made the rounds.

“Mr. La Forge,” she said softly, looking up at him from under those dark brows.

“Counselor,” he said, beginning to feel a little more comfortable—though not much. So far he hadn’t felt the dreadful stab at his mind that all too many of the crewpeople had felt in their time aboard. She didn’t always behave that way, it was true: her moods swung in some impenetrable Betazed fashion, turning her very occasionally kindly, but more often deadly, or simply curious. The last mood was most to be feared. At such times she strolled through minds the way she strolled through the hallways, leisurely, abstracted, picking up a thought here or an emotion there and looking it over to see whether it seemed threatening or merely amusing. If it amused her, you would drag yourself away, sweating and feeling as if you wanted a bath, counting yourself lucky that she hadn’t seen the idea or feeling as a threat to the ship. When she perceived
those,
you wound up in the Agony Booth, while Troi let the pain break down the mind’s barriers and spent hours, with a dreadful professional detachment, going through every thought in a brain, looking for the one weak spot that represented the tendency toward weakness or betrayal. Once it was found, there was no question of mercy anymore. People who might fail the
Enterprise,
or worse, were found in the act of failing her, never came out of the Booth—and the horror of their screams was much worse than the usual cries of pain. The counselor specialized in making sure the maximum punishment was extracted from the condemned before they were allowed to die. And to those who had had even light brushes with it, the thought of that calm, amused regard sitting in your mind, watching while you died—even that last privacy denied you—was the greatest terror of all.

So when La Forge looked at the counselor as if Death were sitting there on his bed, demure and calm, he felt that he could be pardoned for the reaction. It was wisest to be safe, after all. But the counselor seemed to have other
things on her mind at the moment. There were stories about this, too, that made the rounds of the crew. There were times when Betazeds apparently became more than usually… interested in the sensual side of life, and the whispered scuttlebutt said that the counselor had ways of making the experience more than usually… interesting for the other person involved; a flip side, as it were, to the ability to brush aside the boundaries of someone’s mind like a curtain. Pleasures redoubled and reflected almost beyond bearing for their intensity, that was what the rumors said… what rumors there were. The counselor’s lovers tended to be tight-lipped, if only because she could become murderous if she felt a confidence might have been betrayed. La Forge had never dreamed that he might find himself in
this
situation. But now, looking at her, he smiled, determined to make the best of it. The counselor could make a powerful friend; even the captain had to give way to her under certain circumstances. Her patronage could mean early advancement, privileges… and the obvious pleasures.

“Come sit down,” the counselor said, patting the bed beside her. La Forge came toward her slowly, his grin broadening, taking his time. He knew he looked good; he didn’t mind making her aware of the fact… and feeling the fear die away, feeling the desire come up, was enjoyable, too. He sat and decided to dare to be a little aggressive about it—she was rumored to like that, from Riker at least.

“Well,” he said, “this is a nice surprise,” and he slid his arms around her, grinning still. Her great dark eyes widened a little; she smiled, too, slipping her arms around him, holding him quite tightly.

“Yes,” she murmured, “it is, isn’t it?” Behind his neck, something hissed—and that was all he heard.

Troi disentangled herself from the unconscious form of La Forge and let him down gently on the bed. She looked
over to the side of the room, the spot out of sight by the closet, and Geordi came out and smiled grimly at the sight of “himself.”

“Glad we were able to tap into comms enough to catch him going off shift,” Geordi said. He put his hands under the man’s armpits and pulled him off the bed, half-dragging him over to an open access panel in the wall. “Didn’t take long to get the message, did he?”

“No question of
that,”
Troi said, standing up and rubbing her hands together. She caught herself at it, analyzed it as a sudden urge to get clean of trickery and of the mélange of emotions she had sensed in him—that dreadful fear, coupled with desire that lay so close to the surface—the two potentiating each other. A lot of these people seemed unusually labile: not necessarily less complex than the crewmen with whom Deanna was familiar, but it was as if the controls normally trained into Fleet personnel to make living together easier had never been trained into these people at all—or as if no one had ever seen the need. These people wore their emotions very near the surface, released them more readily than usual. It made them both easier than usual to manipulate, and more difficult to accurately predict. A pretty problem.

Geordi was busying himself with sealing up the access panel. “My last scan showed the nanites almost into the comms functions,” he said, “and working in all three cores. Things are going to hot up pretty quick now. Better signal the captain. Where are you going to keep yourself?”

“Here will probably be safest, but if as I’m monitoring the situation I see an excuse or an opportunity to head for the captain’s quarters, I’ll do that instead.” Troi did not mention her terror at the thought of walking out into those halls and having to “be” the woman who was the cause of so much fear… but she would do it if she had to.

From outside came the whooping of red-alert sirens.

“There they go,” Geordi said with a grin. “We’re in business.”

Troi touched her badge. “Troi to Captain Picard. Objective acquired and stowed.” She smiled slightly. “Next move.”

The badge buzzed once under her fingertips. “He’s ready,” she said. “Get yourself set.”