La Forge glanced at his crew members. One ensign was still huddled in a fetal position, but the other one was sitting up, his skin green, his eyes glazed. He was tracking, though. Redbay suspected he had looked like that only moments before.
“I’ll scan,” La Forge said. “You run diagnostics. Let’s see how fast we can find the source of this.”
Redbay nodded. He liked being busy. Being busy kept his mind off that feeling of terror gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He went back to the console and picked up his tools. Beneath the control, beyond the terror, he had the awful feeling that something was missing.
Something that should have guided them all.
He bent over another console and started the diagnostics.
Then he realized what was wrong.
No one had ordered a red alert.
If Picard was right, then the entire crew had been hit with a bolt of fear, a literal assault on the senses.
A clear attack and Picard had not called a red alert.
He had probably been too shaken to think of it.
And that worried Redbay even more.
Chapter Eight
SICKBAY GLEAMED.
The extra beds were lined against the wall, the emergency equipment was out on tables, and extra medical tricorders hung from pegs near the door. Beverly Crusher had even ordered her assistants to place the research tubes into medical storage so that they could use the experiment area during any emergency that might arise. The handful of patients, three sick with the Xotic flu, were in the farthest wing of sickbay, tended by one nurse who was instructed to watch the monitors for any fluctuations.
Beverly tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear and looked at the readings on the diagnostic bed one more time. She had prepared her trauma team, not her research team. After working on Lieutenant Young, however, she wondered if she had made the right decision.
Lieutenant Young was still wrapped in the diagnostic bed, only his head and feet visible above the equipment. Aside from an odd series of bruises across his chest, arms, and ankles, he had suffered no obvious physical wounds. Yet he was nearly comatose.
She had thought, when he first beamed up, that he had had serious internal injuries, or some type of head wound. But as she examined him, then stabilized him, she discovered his lack of physical injury.
Obvious physical injury. She had to keep reminding herself that the key word here was “obvious.” Lieutenant Young—who looked, in some ways, younger than her son Wesley—was dying.
And she could do nothing about it until she determined the cause.
Two of her assistants were running double-check scans on his blood and urine. She was also having them run DNA tests and tests for obscure viral infections: for anything that would cause Young’s abnormally high blood pressure, his increased adrenaline and endorphin readings, and his extra white-blood-cell count.
The thing she didn’t tell her assistants was that she was afraid she knew the cause.
One of her hobbies was the history of medicine throughout the known worlds. It fascinated her that Vulcan developed the art of acupuncture during roughly the same developmental period Earth did—even though the planets were not in communication at that time and the cultures were in different states of growth.
Terminology also interested her: the phrase “in good humor” once meant “in good health” because Terrans once believed that the body was filled with “humors” and that if those humors were in balance, then a person was healthy. She didn’t believe in humors any more than she believed in using leeches to bleed a cancer patient, but she did know that some ancient diagnoses held a basis in fact.
She ran a cool hand over Young’s forehead. No fever, yet his skin was damp and clammy to the touch. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see her. Instead they focused on the ceiling. Occasionally he would moan and cringe. And when he did, his heart rate increased, his breath stopped in his throat, and his blood pressure rose.
She could bring the levels down, but she couldn’t predict when the situation would repeat.
And she knew, as clearly as she knew her own name, that Lieutenant Young’s ill health was being caused by something within his own mind.
In the terms of the medieval physicians of Earth, Lieutenant Robert Young was being frightened to death.
Literally.
And search as she might for a physical cause—an implanted chip, a stimulant in the brain stem, a chemical trigger in his bloodstream—she could find nothing.
She suspected that he had seen something he could not live with, and his conscious mind, overloaded, was trying to cope in the only way it could. It was overloading his body, trying to force it to shut down.
And it was up to her to stop that.
She dabbed sweat off Young’s forehead. Sometimes she felt no better than those medieval physicians who believed that humors governed the body. There were parts of the body—human, Vulcan, Klingon, it didn’t matter—that no one understood.
This was one of them.
She needed Deanna. If anyone could help this boy, Deanna could.
Beverly reached for her comm badge when suddenly a wave of terror filled her. The feeling was so intense that it knocked her to her knees. She banged her head on the diagnostic table as she fell.
The boy was going to die.
They all were going to die.
And she could do nothing. She was perfectly helpless. As helpless as she had been the day Jean-Luc arrived with the news that her husband was dead.
That she would raise Wesley alone.
The ship would be filled with a mental plague, causing everyone to die of fright, and she, a trained physician, would have to stand by.
Helplessly.
Her head hurt.
The beginning of the plague.
She knew it.
Bobby Young was only the beginning, and now it had passed to her. Soon she would lie on a diagnostic table while her assistants fluttered over her. Then they would fall, one by one, victim to this unnamed terror—
Someone behind her screamed.
The plague was spreading.
She put a hand to her head, near the source of the pain, and felt—
A lump.
It hurt to the touch, hurt even worse when she pressed on it, making the headache increase.
Something crashed behind her.
She whirled.
One of her assistants—she couldn’t see who—had made a white flag out of God knows what, and was waving it from below one of the examining tables.
A white flag.
She frowned. Then giggled, despite her terror. A white flag. No one recognized a white flag anymore. It once meant surrender. Save the bearer from harm.
Save the bearer from harm.
Cautiously, she peered above the diagnostic table. Young was writhing within his confines, his eyes rolling in his head.
Young.
Save the bearer from harm.
She glanced around the room.
Except for her assistants, she was alone.
The flag waved, slowly, like a metronome.
Tick.
Save the
Tick.
bearer from
Tick.
harm.
Her throat was dry. She had never felt such terror in her life. Something was wrong. Something was—Lieutenant Young choked.
She rose by instinct, opened his mouth, and cleared the passageway. Her fingers were shaking. She couldn’t concentrate. She forgot what she was trying to do.
Save the bearer from harm.
That was her duty. Her oath.
I swear by Apollo the physician, by Aesculapius, Hygeia, and Panacea
His throat was clear.
and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses, to keep according to my ability and my judgment the following Oath:
But his tongue was bleeding.
I will prescribe regimen for the good of my patients
She cleansed hi
s tongue, moved it aside, and propped up his head.
according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone.
He was breathing regularly again.
His eyelashes were fluttering.
And her terror was subsiding. Or more accurately, she had it under control.
Never do harm to anyone.
And it was the oath, the Hippocratic oath, that had saved her. Hippocrates, Father of Medicine, a Greek physician who came from a famous family of priest physicians, and who wrote more than seventy treatises on medicine …
Knowledge.
It was knowledge that was keeping her calm. Her mind could overcome anything. Hadn’t Dr. Quince told her that during her internship on Delos IV? Her mind was more powerful than any drug. More powerful than anything.
Even fear.
She was standing without assistance. Even in the middle of that terror, she had managed to help Lieutenant Young.
Now she had to help her assistants because she needed them.
She peered over the examining table. Ensign Cassidy was sitting below, both hands clutching the white flag, which was still waving back and forth.
Beverly swallowed. “Etta,” she said. “Etta, it’s Beverly. You’re in sickbay. Put down the flag. You’re safe.”
Ensign Cassidy looked up, her round face pale with fear. “Don’t let them get me, Doctor,” she whispered.
“They won’t, Ensign. No one is here. Captain Picard warned us this would happen. There are Furies outside. Remember the Furies?”
Ensign Cassidy nodded.
“Use your mind, Ensign. Overcome the fear. Put it aside. Remember your medical training. Your fears don’t matter. Your actions do.”
In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients. Beverly shivered. The fear was there, below the surface. But she could control it.
Ensign Cassidy lowered the flag. “What’s causing this?” she whispered.
“Something from outside us.” Beverly took a deep breath. “I need you to focus the others. Remind them of their tasks as medical personnel. Even Lieutenant Young can feel this, and he doesn’t seem to feel anything else.”
She stopped, the fear caught in her throat. A real fear this time.
Deanna!
“Computer,” she said, not caring that the fear filled her voice. “Locate Counselor Troi.”
“She is in her quarters.”
Deanna. Who was sensitive to everyone’s mood. Who could feel what the entire ship was feeling.
Terror like this overloaded a human. Lieutenant Bobby Young was dying from it. Imagine what it would do to Deanna.
Beverly turned to Cassidy. “Keep an eye on our patient. Contact me if there’s any problem.”
Ensign Cassidy blinked. Her expression was clearer. “I’ll be all right,” she said.
“Good,” Beverly said. That made it easier for her to leave.
And she had to. She had to get to Deanna.
Beverly headed out the door at a run, spurred on by fear. But not the fear sent by the Furies. This fear was for her friend’s life.
Chapter Nine
“I SIMPLY DO NOT understand, sir,” Data said. “Did I miss some subtle message in your contact with the Furies?”
His head jerked as it turned, looking at the bridge crew. Lieutenant Worf still stared at the screen. Riker brought his head up, an expression of grim determination on his face. Ensign Iket had stopped pounding on the turbolift door and was holding one hand as if it hurt.
Picard nodded. His fear was still there, but the control he had placed over it grew with each passing moment. “Perhaps, Data, but what you missed was not subtle. It affected the crew’s emotions deeply.”
“What was it, sir?”
“If we knew that, Mr. Data, we would be able to fight it.”
“But you seem unaffected, sir.”
Picard smiled. Sometimes Data’s innocence on matters emotional was just what Picard needed. Still, he could feel the fear trapped within him, under his control, but only barely. “It affected me, Mr. Data, and I fear—” He paused on the word, checked it, and made sure it was accurate. It was. “I fear that this first attack might be a mild one. For a moment, I felt like Ensign Eckley; and in that extreme terror, no human can think clearly.”
Picard looked at Data.
Data was watching him carefully, ignoring the emotional chaos around them.
Picard went on. “There may come a time in our dealings with the Furies when you and you alone will be able to think rationally. I will be counting on you to make the correct decisions. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Data?”
“Yes, sir,” Data said in his most solemn voice.
Picard nodded. Having Data aboard—and unaffected by this inexplicable fear—took some of the tension out of Picard’s back. Data was a good officer. If the survival of the Enterprise and her crew landed on his shoulders, he would make the right choice.
Data’s presence, and the guarantee of levelheadedness, also made the next few decisions easier.
“Open a shipwide channel, Mr. Worf.”
Worf did not break his gaze from the screen. Data watched him, head tilting in puzzlement.
“Mr. Worf,” Picard said in his most commanding voice.
Worf snapped to attention. His gaze, when he turned it on Picard, was fierce. But Picard knew that fierceness was a Klingon cover for embarrassment.
“Sir?”
“Open a shipwide channel.”
“Yes, sir,” Worf said.
Picard glanced at the bridge. Riker was watching him now, and several other members of the bridge crew were taking deep breaths. Ensign Eckley was unconscious, though, and Ensign Iket had sunken to the floor, hand swelling to twice its normal size.
“Channel open, sir.”
Picard nodded. He cleared his mind, pushed the fear even farther down, and met Data’s gaze. It was essential that Picard sound calm and collected for this announcement. Since Data was the only calm member of the bridge crew, Picard would use him as an anchor.
“To the crew of the Enterprise, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard. We have made contact with the Furies, and in that contact, they have somehow tapped emotions buried deep within us. As we suspected, they hope to prey upon our fears.”
He took a deep breath, keeping his gaze on Data’s calm face, and went on. “Many of you are in the grip of that fear now. You must master it—and you can master it. Remember that what you are feeling is not coming from within you, but from without. Your fear is artificial. Use that knowledge to subdue the terrors.”
Data nodded, understanding what Picard was saying. That calmed Picard even more as he went on. “Return to your stations. I shall be contacting the Furies again, and this time, they shall see that we are made of much sterner stuff.”
Picard signed off. Riker was staring at him. Data stood, and opened his mouth as if to speak. But Worf spoke first.
“With all due respect, sir, it was your contact with the Furies that precipitated the attack. Do you believe that another contact is wise considering we do not even know the nature or the power of their weapon?”
“It is the Klingon way to face one’s fear, is it not, Mr. Worf?”
“Klingons believe, sir, that one must respect one’s fears. Occasionally a fear is justified.”
“I agree. Fear is the most protective of all of our emotions. But it cannot govern our lives or our deeds. It is the strongest Klingons, those who can go beyond their fears, who become great leaders.”
Picard had to choose his words carefully here, given the Klingon history with the Furies. Worf probably hadn’t yet realized that he was in danger of repeating it.
“It is my belief, Mr. Worf,” Picard continued, “that you are one of your people’s great leaders. I have seen you face events that would have destroyed lesser Klingons.”
Worf’s lips thinned. He clearly understood Picard’s implications. “Thank you, sir.”
Picard nodd
ed. He turned away from Worf, hoping that his own strength would hold for this next, most crucial action. “Hail the Furies’ ship, Mr. Worf.”
“Aye, sir.”
Riker had stood too. He stayed just out of range of the viewscreen, but he appeared stronger. Perhaps Picard’s conversation with Worf had helped Riker as well.
“They have acknowledged our hail, sir,” Worf said.
Picard straightened his shoulders. He had survived torture by the Cardassians. He could survive anything.
“On screen,” Picard said.
The devil—the Fury captain—appeared on the screen again.
Picard shuddered, but he kept himself steady. He had to concentrate for the good of the ship. “When we spoke earlier, you said you were familiar with our Federation. That means you know our mission is a peaceful one. We do not believe in war.”
“Our records show that you fight it well enough.” The creature’s voice swept through Picard.
“Of course we do,” Picard said. He held himself rigidly, not wanting any sign of fear to show. “We must defend ourselves. But we believe war is a failure of communication.”
“War is more than that,” the creature said. “War is glory. It is the only way to achieve heaven.”
“Heaven” was the term the first Fury’s captain had used for this area of space when he spoke to Kirk.
Tiny shivers were running up and down Picard’s back. He forced himself to ignore them. “I was sent to negotiate with you. If you want to settle in this area, we will help you.”
The creature tilted its head. Its eyes changed color as it moved, and a bit of smoke or mist curled around its horns. “Negotiate? You believe you can negotiate with us?”
The question was a stall. Even through his fear, Picard could sense that. Kirk had tried to negotiate with them. And he had failed in the end.
“Negotiate,” Picard repeated. “Our diplomats will meet with yours, we will establish a truce, and then we will see if we can work out some sort of amenable coexistence.”
The creature threw its head back and laughed. Maggots flew from its mouth, and fell against its chin, held there by thin strands of green saliva. “Diplomats? We have no diplomats, Picard. We do not believe in them.”
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