Ghost Ship Part 3

Riker perked up. "What names?"

She drew the memory up and forced herself to speak. "There was Va.s.ska, Arkady, Gork ... Gorsha ... I don't know those sounds. And I don't understand why I would hear names. I can't do that. I can only read some emotions. I've never been able to draw complete communication."

He inched a little closer. "But you're Betazoid. What's so surprising if you can-"

"I can't. I never could," she insisted, wondering if she could make him comprehend. "You don't understand what it means to communicate with a silent mind. You don't know the trouble, the discomfort of dealing with races that can't shield their thoughts. It's as if a sighted person suddenly enters a world of chaotic lights and colors, or a hearing person suddenly comes into a place that was nothing but uncontrolled noises. The light would be blinding, the din maddening ... I've worked hard to separate my own thoughts from those of others, Bill, and I've done well at it. You can see why it disturbs me that I'm experiencing something so unfamiliar."

"Deanna, it was a dream," he told her soothingly, cupping her hand under his.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But it wasn't," she insisted. "At least ... not entirely."

He believed her. Deanna Troi was the quintessence of professionalism and not given to the flights of personality often displayed by her Betazoid race. Without a pause he asked, "Have you asked the computer to trace the names?"

Troi lounged back in her chair, finally relaxing. "Computer off."

The holograph gave an electrical snap, sucked down into a tiny core of light like a balloon suddenly losing all its air, and winked out.

"Have you?" he prodded.

"I suppose I'll have to."

"Why do you say it that way?"

"I don't like to give in to dreams."

Riker gazed at her, dubious.

Without giving him time to formulate a response to that, she asked, "Bill, what do you think? Do you think I might utilize my talents better in some other way?"

"You don't mean leave the ship, do you? You aren't thinking about that."

"Perhaps," she said, "if that's how I can best serve the Federation."

Desperation struck him. As much as he had-yes-avoided her, as afraid as he was that their past liaison would cloud his effectiveness as first officer, the prospect of her vanishing from his life suddenly cut him like a blade. "Don't you like it here?" he asked, careful of his tone. "Don't you like starship duty?"

"Oh, I like it very much," she said. "Oh, yes, very much. But there are times ... can you imagine what it's like to stand on the bridge and realize I have nothing to do?"

With another shake of his head, Riker tapped a finger on the table and blurted, "Can I imagine it? I don't have to. It's the legacy of first officers the universe across. If you look up first officer in the marine dictionary, it says 'do not open till crisis.' Listen, it takes time for a new position to evolve. When we actually turn to exploratory missions, I think you'll find yourself up to your chin in work. Keeping us sane in deep s.p.a.ce-that's hardly nothing. A ship's psychologist is second only to the chief surgeon on deep-s.p.a.ce missions."

She smiled softly at his sincere effort, and murmured, "Where does that put the ship's telepath?"

To this, Riker had no ready answer.

Troi sensed his concern and forced up a partial smile to ease his worry. She fell into his wide blue eyes as she had so long ago, and crashed through them just as the holographic cruiser crashed through its patch of blue sea. How could she make him understand? Could any human understand how uneasy she was, all the time? She knew people were uncomfortable around her because they thought of her as a kind of voyeur, always peeking through the keyholes of their thoughts. Mind s.l.u.t, some called her. Many avoided her, so she had always tried to be more businesslike and stoic about her extremely businesslike talent-and even that practice had backfired.

Cold, they called her. An unfeeling mind s.l.u.t.

How could she tell him that a crowded corridor was an empty place for Deanna Troi? Barren and lonely. She made such an effort to hide inside herself that she had become insulated from everything but their eyes, accused of a crime she refused to commit. Among her own people she could no longer go unrestrained; having built her discipline almost obsessively, she could no longer drop it for the short times she spent among Betazoids. Thus lost in both communities, misinterpreted by each as too aloof, she had become a woman of feelings who walked forever alone.

Even now she hid those truths from William Riker and his gentle waves of concern.

She swallowed imperceptibly and parted her lips. "Now I ask you-what's the matter? What disturbs you?" She could both sense and see him weighing whether or not to tell her what he was thinking, then almost immediately he changed his mind.

"I don't like to see you experiencing hurts that aren't your own," he admitted. "It doesn't seem fair."

"It's my nature," Troi told him. "My heritage from my mother's people. It's the nature of telepathy. Oh, I could shut my mind, become more alone, as you are, but I've found my way to be useful. I'm lucky, you see," she said, forcing a smile. "I can experience the emotions yet remain objective about them."

He thought of the strange ship that had just clicked out of being on the table beside them and shrugged. "I guess I never thought about it that way."

She pulled her hand from under his, then put it on top of his and pressed down gently. "There is more than hurt to be felt, you know. I can also feel love."

Riker allowed himself a sentimental smile. For an isolated moment they shared something that neither was completely sure still existed between them anymore. The magnetism was undeniable, but at the same instant it pierced him with its own dangers.

"I can't stay," he said. "I have to go back up there and act indispensable."

"I know."

He crooked his forefinger under her chin. "Try to relax. We all have that kind of dream sometimes. I just wanted to be sure you were all right."

Troi smiled warmly. "I'm all right."

He squeezed her hand, somehow feeling he hadn't quite accomplished what he came in here for. Well, no point dragging it out to the maudlin. Stepping toward the door, he made what he thought was a clumsy exit.

The door brushed open, then closed automatically behind him, leaving him alone in the corridor as he took a stride or two toward the bridge turbolift- And braked hard.

There was someone in front of him. He'd sworn the corridor was empty an instant ago. The air was chilled, heavy.

The man was big, almost as big as Riker. And maybe fifteen years older. His eyes were ready for Riker's, and didn't flicker away, but remained steadily focused. A wave of silver was the only inconsistency in his thick dark hair, and there was a uniform cap tucked under his arm. Yes-he was wearing a uniform, a dark blue uniform of some kind.

Riker vaguely recognized the style, but it was almost a "racial" kind of memory rather than something from his own experience.

The man's pale lips separated without moisture. His face worked as though to speak, but there was an invisible wall between them. There was no sound, no sensation of warmth-in fact there was now a distinct chill in the corridor.

The large man, standing straight and proper, lifted a hand toward Riker, beckoning. Or perhaps asking-a gesture of entreaty-but then his handsome face crumpled, his brow knitting tightly, brackets of frustration forming on either side of his mouth.

Riker was as a man chained during those moments. He might have believed anything when the other man's form slowly turned gauzy, thinned, and disappeared.

Chapter Three.

"CAPTAIN, I'M PICKING UP an energy blip...."

Tasha Yar caught back her voice and grimaced at her readout board, confused. A flop of bangs had come back over her eyes as though to insist some part of her would always rebel against the discipline. Her delicate Lithuanian complexion blotched slightly around her cheekbones as she willed the instruments to start giving her sensible information, especially when Captain Picard appeared at her side and looked down at those same instruments.

"It's gone now," she told him bitterly. "How can that be? Worf, do you have anything?"

"Nothing," the Klingon thundered, redoubling her impatience. "I don't like it."

"Steady, both of you," Picard said. The readings looked absolutely normal. These two hotheads were dependable, but the doubting Thomas side of him wished he himself or Data or LaForge had also happened to see this flicker of energy Worf and Yar claimed had been there.

Suddenly Yar struck her board with the heels of her hands and shouted, "There it is again! But it's inside the ship!" She slammed the intercom without consulting Picard. "Security to Deck Twelve, Section A-three!"

"Inside?" Picard stepped closer. "Are you sure?"

"It's gone again!"

"Check your instruments for malfunction. Worf, do the same with long-range sensors."

Yar took a deep breath. "Aye, sir."

"Checking," Worf said, much less embarra.s.sed than Yar was.

Picard straightened. "And call Mr. Riker to the bridge."

Troi continued to gaze thoughtfully at the empty s.p.a.ce where the holograph ships had been chugging across her table. Her gaze was unfocused, contemplative, and though she had tried to raise her hand several times to press the Revive and Continue point on her computer board, something stopped her every time. Nor could she make herself ask the computer to continue. Continue giving in.

A dream. But not one formed within her own mind, of that much she was becoming certain.

The door opened again, this time without the polite buzzer, and Riker strode back in. Troi gained almost instant control over her troubled expression.

Teasing him with her eyes, she asked, "Have you been hiding in the hold all this time?"

"How much power are you feeding into that unit?" Riker asked her.

She blinked. "Pardon me?"

He stopped, his thigh just brushing the edge of the table. "Your holographs. They're bleeding out."

She started to respond, but was cut off by the intercom.

"Commander Riker, your presence is requested on the bridge. Report to the bridge, please."

Riker touched his insignia com. "Riker. I'll be right there."

He brought his attention back to Troi. "Your history lesson. It's bleeding out into the corridor."

Her lips touched and parted as she tried to understand what he was saying and to find the right answer. His expression, his tone somehow made her think there should be an answer and she hated to make him feel as silly as his statement sounded-but what was he talking about?

Finally she steadied herself and coolly said, "But that's not possible."

Riker shifted to his other foot. "Of course it is. You should have maintenance check the energy intake on this thing."

Working to avoid the inevitable, Troi tried not to feel responsible. "No," she said, "it can't be. Don't you remember? I turned it off before you left. I haven't turned it back on."

Without really changing very much, Riker's federal-blue eyes took on a perplexed hardness that wasn't directed toward her at all, but toward a sudden mystery. His mouth tightened over the cleft chin so slightly that she might have missed it had she not been watching for changes.

Troi knotted her hands on her lap and resisted the urge to touch him. Caught by the ominous perception in his eyes, she added, "Completely cold ... "

"This is crazy," Yar complained. She flattened her tiny mouth into a hard ribbon and forced herself to report in a more correct manner to her waiting captain. "Security reports no unusual activity on Deck Twelve at all, Captain. My instruments are in perfect working order. I don't understand this."

On the forward bridge, Captain Picard had his back to Conn and Ops and didn't see Data start to open his mouth to add his two bits, or see LaForge gesture at the android to keep quiet. Everyone else saw the motion and understood its prudence, especially when Picard raised his voice and roared, "That's quite enough of this waffling about. Next time the glitch appears, I want the computers on this vessel ready to record it. We've got the most advanced technology available to the Federation incorporated into the memory core and active matrices of this vessel, and you people are still relying on intuition and your own eyes. Now, snap to and let the ship do its job."

His tone indisputably said that he didn't mean they should let the ship do their jobs for them, but that they should be doing their jobs better, more completely meshing with the systems beneath their hands. Picard was simply the kind of commanding officer who didn't like to have anything out of line.

He swung around, glaring at the main viewer as though he were looking for something and couldn't find it, as though he could coerce an answer out of the darkness of s.p.a.ce, and mused, "Too d.a.m.ned young."

The port turbolift came open and Riker stepped out, escorting Troi by the elbow. Odd ... she still looked unprepared to come to the bridge, her hair still down, her casual short uniform on instead of the usual one-piece she had taken to wearing most often and the two of them stood together before Picard, their faces troubled.

"Captain," Riker asked, "may we have a word with you, sir?"

Troi's distress was no longer obvious. It had been carefully cloaked by her professionalism once again, and only those who knew her very well could tell that her hands were held a little too tightly against her lap as she sat in her lounge in the command area and told them her story of dreams. And there was only one person here who knew her that well.

Will Riker watched her, forcing himself not to interrupt, not to say anything after he too had finished describing the incident in the corridor, no matter how silly it sounded. He simply stood by, as the others focused on Troi. It hadn't been easy for her, telling the captain that she had a dream that wouldn't go away, and for Riker describing that person-or whatever he was-in the corridor had been just as strenuous. Only Captain Picard's studious attention to their silly stories told them that he'd seen enough in the galaxy not to dismiss such things as silly.

The captain stood over Troi now, absorbing the whole idea of her dream with what Riker had told him about. Earth ships, humans in uniform-somewhere there was a common denominator. He meant to find it.

"Can you describe your perceptions more specifically, Counselor?"

Troi tipped her pretty head. "I'll try to verbalize them, Captain, but I must advise you these are imprecise explanations. Telepathic impressions are sometimes too vague for interpretation."

"Do your best."

She nodded once. "My mind describes to me several different historical periods, not necessarily all of Earth, though the clearest ones seem to be human or humanoid. Perhaps that's simply because of my partly human heritage-I can't say. Some, though ... some are so alien that I don't know any words to describe what I've seen."

"Alien, you say?"

"Yes, very obviously so. But the ship I envisioned was definitely of Earth."

"Believe me, we'll get to that in a moment. Go on."

She paused, but not for long. Picard wasn't a man she cared to keep waiting. "There's a haze of apprehension ... urgency ... resistance. But no violent intent."

"You can't be sure of that!" Tasha interrupted from the afterdeck with her usual serenity. She caught Riker's eyes, and his disapproval, but she plugged on. "I mean ... if they're alien sensations, then Deanna could be misinterpreting them completely. To their home beings, those impressions might be hostile, aggressive, and dangerous."

"You're too suspicious, Tasha," Riker said defensively.

"I'm doing my job," she retaliated. Not so much as a glimmer of regret marred her conviction. She knew perfectly well she was volatile-it was an advantage. Unlike Worf, who constantly worked to control his Klingon explosiveness, Tasha would stand up for the worth of her own. Riker saw that in her eyes as he looked back at her now, in the underlying ferocity beneath her face, and indeed it caused him to back down. Not until he'd been silent for several seconds did he realize how completely she had gotten her point across.

Troi picked up on the tension immediately, though she needn't have been telepathic for that. It chewed at her; her job was to keep watch over the emotions and mental states of the starship complement, to guide them through tensions and head off the truly harmful contretemps that came and went in this kind of extended separation. How awful to be the cause of this ... how terrible.

She tipped one hand up as it leaned against her thigh and said, "No ... Tasha's right. Because though there's no perception of aggressive intent," she said, pausing then to say the one thing that truly frightened her, "doesn't change the fact that I'm receiving glimpses of violent destruction."

Not giving those ominous statements any chance to take hold on the imaginations of the bridge crew, Picard lowered into his command chair beside her, hoping to put her and everyone at ease. He was aware of the effect these little disturbances were having on the crew, especially when they saw Deanna Troi's usual poise inexplicably shattered. "Can you focus on that? Are we in danger?"