Chapter Eleven.

TROI PACED OUTSIDE the isolation chamber, her arms tightly folded. She couldn't get warm. Frustration picked at her as she tried to find the words to explain her perceptions to the captain, words good enough to make her walk over there and put an end to this chamber experiment. The mind was her professional realm, and this kind of mental distortion had always irritated her. The mind need not be stretched out of shape to be understood, or to be made to understand. Such a man, Picard was-subjecting himself to this on the slim chance that it would help make his decision a bit surer than it otherwise might have been.

"Have some coffee, Deanna," Dr. Crusher said, having lost count of the pa.s.ses Troi had made between the chamber and the monitor.

Troi cut her pacing short. "How is he? Do you know?"

"Stable, physically. The encephalogram's a little erratic, but nothing I'd call unexpected."

Shaking her head, Troi said, "I must be more affected than I realize, to let him do this to himself. I've never approved of these procedures."

"If the captain comes out of there even a little more sure, it'll all be worthwhile."

"I'm not convinced," Troi said.

"Sit down, will you?" Crusher ordered up a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to Troi, actually having to fold the counselor's hand around the cup. "Drink. And forget about the captain for a few minutes. I guarantee he's forgotten all about you."

"That's what worries me."

Crusher sat back and nodded, checked the monitors again, found them unchanged, then crossed her legs and tried to take her own advice. "What about you? What's it doing to you?"

Troi's black eyes lay unfocused on the pool of coffee. "They're on me every second. They give me no rest ... these strangers. They're so desperate, Beverly, and it's an intimacy beyond description. I don't think even a full Betazoid could understand it. I tried so hard to make the captain understand ... and Bill ... "

Crusher leaned forward and squeezed Deanna's wrist rea.s.suringly. "Don't take it too hard. He was doing what he thought was best."

"Was he?"

"Oh, I think so."

Troi felt her lips tighten as she fought back the rush of emotion. "I wish one or the other of us could be ... somewhere else."

"I know," the doctor said sympathetically. "It's difficult to deal with someone who reappears out of your past. Especially when you disagree."

"I expected his support," Troi said, her voice cracking. "We know each other better than either of us knows anyone else on this ship. I thought he of all people would accept my judgment."

"It's not his job to accept your judgment, Deanna, you know that. If anything, his duty is to make sure the captain is clear on all angles of a crisis."

"Oh, Beverly, that's not what he was doing. I could feel it. He really believed the things he said."

"He's ent.i.tled to," Crusher said soothingly. "Having an affection for each other doesn't mean you have to be joined at the brain. You're allowed to disagree."

"I know that, but ... "

"How long have you known each other?"

"Oh, nearly five years." A warm tinge of nostalgia mellowed her distraught expression. "We had a lively time together before he decided to devote his life to a long-term mission. There was a time when we planned a future together ... before we realized we wanted different things from life. He was gallant and gentlemanly, as he is now, perhaps a bit brusque and arrogant-"

"As he is now," Crusher appended with a playful smile.

Troi nodded. "This," she said, glancing around at the wholeness of Enterprise, "was a coincidence neither of us foresaw."

"Why do you call him Bill when everyone else calls him Will?"

Troi's cheeks flushed, and she managed a smile. "I didn't know it was so obvious."

"It's not. I'm just astonishingly observant, you know."

Troi's delicate smile widened. " 'Bill' sounds like a word in the language of Betazed. A word I like ... reminds me of my childhood there. There's no translation, but it had to do with-oh, I shouldn't tell you. I wouldn't want to compromise him."

"Go ahead," the doctor said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, "compromise him."

"Well, it means ... "

"Yes?"

"Shaving cream."

" 'Bill' means 'shaving cream' in Betazoid?"

Troi felt a touch of laughter bubble out of her. "That word always reminds me of this particular brand of Macedonian shaving cream my father used to use. It was scented evergreen and-"

"Oh, that explains it!" Crusher said. "Latent childhood impressions of parental evergreenery. There you are! It's not Riker who attracts you-it's pine trees! And I think I'm only a fair psychologist. Move over, Deanna, I think I like this. Wait till Wesley hears about it. Shaving Cream Riker."

"Beverly, you wouldn't!"

"Oh, wouldn't I? It'll spread like wildfire among everybody under twenty years old-"

Her face was alight with conspiracy when the sickbay door shot open. Geordi streaked in and without the slightest hesitation stabbed a finger at the isolation chamber and said, "Get him out of there. We've got trouble."

"Captain? Captain? Jean-Luc, can you hear me? Jean-Luc?"

He heard her voice. Had been hearing it, in fact, for what seemed like years. He moved toward it through a terrible darkness, a spiraling tunnel with glazed walls, and after half an eternity he opened his eyes.

"Jean-Luc?" Beverly Crusher bent over him, concern etched into her features.

He felt the anger working on his face, the effort of trying to speak when his body had almost forgotten how. He felt betrayed and enraged, wanting to demand why they had left him in there so long-why they had put him through that, why they had let the phenomenon devour him and everything he held precious.

"Neurological functions approaching normal, Bev," someone said from behind her. Another doctor. What was his name? Mitch.e.l.l? Yes, the neurologist.

"Finally." She sighed. "Jean-Luc, do you understand what I'm saying?"

He managed a nod, and his head pounded its protest. He forced it to move, discovered his neck was in no better condition, but he was now able to see Counselor Troi standing beside his bed with another expression like Beverly's. His anger began slowly to dissipate as he began to differentiate reality from dream. As if he was emerging from a vivid nightmare, he had to pick his way through the mist, deciding point for point what was real and what was not "My G.o.d ... " he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel. "How ... how long ... "

"More than fourteen hours in isolation," Crusher said, "and it's taken us over two more to rouse you. I told you I didn't want to do this."

"Fourteen," he uttered. "It felt more like ... "

"Hush while we stabilize you. You just relax."

He let his head fall back on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and whispered, "My G.o.d ... "

He lay still, aware of Troi's unflagging gaze but unable to meet it yet, his mind clogged with confusion. This was like awakening from a long, distorted, unrelenting nightmare and not knowing for sure which parts were only dream. This remained with him in the pools of sweat between his fingers-his precious fingers that he'd thought were gone-and in the coldness of his feet that wouldn't warm up. Finally he heard his own breathing. Ragged, but a joy to hear again. He concentrated so singularly upon it that when the sickbay door hissed open, he wondered why his breathing sounded that way. Only when Lieutenant Worf's ma.s.sive frame loomed over the counselor's did Picard begin to separate truth from illusion.

"You said you would contact us when he was awake," the Klingon boomed to Crusher.

"I said I'd call you when he was stable," Crusher told him sternly. "He isn't. But I will when he is, don't worry, Lieutenant."

But Worf didn't leave. "Ship's business, doctor."

"I think it'll have to wait."

Picard raised a numb hand. "Lieutenant," he struggled to say, "report."

"Aye, sir. We had to pull you out of isolation early because we have a new emergency. Commander Data has taken a shuttlecraft and gone out into the sector to attempt contact with the ent.i.ty, and Commander Riker has gone after him in a research dinghy."

"Wha-" Picard came halfway off the bed and was bodily attacked by the doctor, the neurologist, and two interns who actually managed to knock Worf out of the way. "What? When?"

"Two hours ago for Mr. Riker, sir. We're in contact with him, but he hasn't found Data. We're keeping communication to a minimum, of course."

"What kind of absurd-get me up."

Crusher tossed her head and called, "Stimulant."

Picard watched incredulously as she pressed the hypo against his arm. The situation must be even trickier than his foggy mind was putting together.

"Just don't make any fast moves for an hour or so," she told him as the two interns helped him find his balance.

"I'm afraid all we may have left," he said, "are fast moves." As he experimented with his newfound legs, his gaze fell on Troi as she watched expectantly a few paces away, her expression taut and hopeful now, wanting to know what he had experienced, what he had decided, yet frightened of asking. Or perhaps she was sensitive enough to know she didn't have to ask; he would tell her when he was ready. Yes, that was it. He saw that now as he looked at her large exotic eyes.

He reached for her hand and firmly said, "Counselor, would you like to escort me to the bridge? This situation has gone far enough."

"Riker to Data. Riker to Data. I know you're out there. Talk to me. Don't make me boost my gain. I'm picking you up faintly on tight sensors, but if you make me expand the sensor cone, that thing'll home in on it and we'll both be finished. Do you copy?"

It was the fourth time he'd made that threat, and the fourth time he'd failed. He was bluffing; he didn't have Data's shuttlecraft on his readouts at all. But if Data thought he did ... well, that was the game. He was halfway to the solar system, traveling at half sublight. On his aft monitor, Enterprise hung against black s.p.a.ce, regally composed amid these devilish odds, her opalescent hulls and nacelles seeming quite open to attack right now. Even from here he saw how low her energies were running. Her impulse and warp sections normally glowed brightly and were now simply brushed with pale color. The string of lights that shone from her rectangular windows were dim slits now, and there were fewer of them than he cared to see. This was a disturbing picture of the starship for Riker, this muted version of a ship otherwise unafraid to show her power. Today she dared not, at least not yet. Not until they could fight what they were up against.

"Come on, Data, come on, put me out of my misery," he grumbled, adjusting the array of sensory equipment on his helm board, This research dinghy was sensor-heavy, virtually all sensors from bow to stern, including most of its outer skin. It was shaped like a boat, its underbelly designed to skim atmospheres, its two lateral sensory pods designed to pick up readings of astonishing detail, right down to wind shifts, storm patterns, and even microorganisms. Ordinarily it would never be used for anything other than research, but today it was the best bet for finding Data. It was smaller and slightly faster than a shuttlecraft, and its pincer-fine sensors could put out a finer beam and draw in cleaner information on less power than any other vessel at his disposal, including cutting through Data's makeshift cloaking device. First rule of tactics: get a better horse.

Of course, he was ignoring the obvious-that he could be heading in completely the wrong direction and Data could be a million miles the other way. But if any part of Data was human enough to run on instinct alone, that instinct said to head toward a star system, where life originated, where it belonged. Where the thing might be.

And so the swirling gas giant was once again Riker's companion in s.p.a.ce, the gas giant, the asteroid belt with its obliterated portion, now just so much chips and dust after the starship's antimatter dump. Funny-in the Enterprise this distance didn't seem so big. Without the ma.s.s of the starship around him, Riker felt the whole perspective acutely, and even if it took the same amount of time, his search exaggerated the distance he was covering. His dinghy seemed small against the black panorama-seemed, h.e.l.l, it was small.

"Data, come in, please," he attempted again, tightening his communications beam and managing to lengthen it a few more miles. That would take a wider sweep-everything was compromise. Working the controls so delicately he could barely perceive the change on the displays, he licked his lips and murmured, "Come on, Data, don't make me live with this."

"This is Commander Data. Mr. Riker, please turn back, sir."

Riker flinched and gawked at the console for a moment, then pounced on it. "Data? Do you copy me?"

"I copy, sir. Your pursuit is ill-advised."

Riker opened his mouth to, snap an insult or an order, but caught his breath and changed gears on the spot. Working as fast as his fingers would go, he tried to force the minimal sensors to draw in on Data's location without putting out enough energy to attract the ent.i.ty. He paused, took a breath, counted to one, and slowly said, "Data, I know what you're trying to do. Geordi told me. I know this is because of those things I said, and I want to tell you ... I was wrong. I had no right to say those things."

"Appreciated, sir. That does not change the accuracy of your statements. You did help me to perceive myself, and for that I am grateful. I'm receiving erratic readings on the phenomenon, sir. It seems to be fading in and out of contact. If it probes me again, I may be near enough to it to transmit as well as receive."

"That may kill you. Don't try it. We've got other ways to fight this thing."

"Fighting it is impractical at this time, Mr. Riker. It uses our own energy against us."

"Worf may have found a way around that," Riker told him, hedging his bets, "but we need you to help us lock down the theory. Turn around and let's go back while we can."

There was a pause, long enough to make Riker nervous. Finally he tampered with his equipment and said, "Data? I'm switching to visual."

As he said it, the screen to his right flickered and focused, supplying him with a rea.s.suring picture of Data's face, a little staticky because of the reduced power output.

"Data, listen to me. I want you to come back with me. You're too valuable a crewman to lose on this wild scheme to communicate with that thing. Be reasonable."

Data's expression was one of regret but resolution as he thoughtfully said, "Even if I could not find a way to communicate with it, sir, I must continue my search."

Even though he knew what was coming and hated himself for sparking it, Riker asked the question he had been steered into. "Why?"

"I must find out if there is anything in me that the phenomenon recognizes as a life essence. I must know if there is enough humanity in me," Data said slowly, "to be destroyed."

Riker squinted into the brightness of the screen. "Data, think about that. It's not very logical, is it?"

"No, sir. But this may be my only chance to discover whether I am even alive, much less human. And if the ent.i.ty fails to absorb me," he said, his impa.s.sivity more than disturbing, "I shall have my answer. I will know my place."

"Your place is with us," Riker told him. "I know that now. You're doing something no machine would do. That's enough for me."

Then the remarkable happened. Data smiled at him. It was a simple, spontaneous smile, childlike and heartwarming, and it didn't seem he was even aware of it. The android's sulfurous eyes sparkled with a lively quality that Riker had never noticed when he was standing in the room with him, but it was also the kind of smile that was laced with regret. Riker could tell-he'd seen enough smiles-what it meant.

"Picard to Riker. Do you read?"

He flinched again, startled by the completely different voice that suddenly pelted through his com system, and tapped the right pressure points. "Data, stand by." The screen winked off, and he hit another link. "Enterprise, this is Riker."

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing out there, Number One?"

"I'm zeroing in on Data, Captain. I've almost got a transporter triangulation on him."

"Have you got a lock on him? He's out of low-power communication range with us."

"Yes, sir I'm talking to him right now. At least I'm trying to."

"Is he having any success with his hypothesis? He's very likely the only being the ent.i.ty's happened upon who's walking the line between living being and machine. He may be our only chance to communicate."