Nightshade

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Breck stood and spoke softly. “Kel is one of our lifeless children that was saved. Sometimes, it is not possible to heal everything. It is our custom not to look upon them when they are barefaced.”

  “Why?” Worf asked. “They are only scars, healed injuries. There is no shame in that if the injuries are incurred honorably.”

  Breck gave a faint smile. “The Klingons have a different opinion of such things, Ambassador Worf. We . . . we see them as a mark of our shame.”

  Kel was indeed crying, softly. His tormented face was made worse by the effort not to cry, not to break down.

  “Is it against your laws for me to stare at him?” Worf asked.

  Breck could not keep the surprise from his face. He glanced at the Venturi officer. Her face was just as puzzled. “No, it is not against our laws to stare at him. But it is . . .” Breck paused as if searching for the right word. “It is rude.”

  “But not illegal?” Worf asked.

  “No,” Breck said, “not illegal.”

  “Then face me, Kel, and tell me what you saw. If you did not poison Alick, you know who did. An innocent man does not break so easily.”

  “This is too much,” the Venturi officer stood. “You are tormenting him.”

  “I have not touched him,” Worf said.

  “You are allowed to touch him,” she said. “We are warriors accustomed to physical hardship, but you are not allowed to humiliate him.”

  “I can beat him, but I cannot stare at his face?” Worf responded.

  “Of course,” the officer said. “It is expected to torture prisoners to wrest confessions, but not this cruelty.”

  Worf just stared at her for a moment, an idea too horrible for words forming. It was Troi who voiced it. “Do you mean that while we’ve been questioning witnesses, someone else has been questioning our captain?”

  The officer spread her hands. She did not know. “It is possible. I am not privy to the ambassador’s questioning.”

  “You mean they are torturing Captain Picard?” Worf asked. He glared at Breck. “Why did you not say something?”

  “I thought you knew, Lieutenant.”

  “Take us to the captain, now!” His voice rolled like thunder in the room.

  Breck gave a bowing salute. “I will see if it will be allowed.”

  “It will be allowed,” Worf said, “If we have to go through the entire Orianian army, we will see the captain—now!”

  Rage spilled up inside Worf in a warm tide, but underneath the rage was fear. Fear of what they might find. Fear of having allowed harm to come to the captain. A cold, empty, space had opened up inside him. The anger kept him warm, and felt good, but the fear was there. What had been happening to Picard while they questioned witnesses? And why hadn’t they asked what treatment prisoners could expect on Oriana? That question haunted Worf.

  Worf strode out into the hallway, physically shoving Breck out the door ahead of him. Troi followed without protest. The Venturi officer and the weeping sentinel stayed behind.

  This delay would allow Kel to recover himself, to regain control. But it wasn’t knowledge of Alick’s death that had made Kel nervous, even frantic. It had been showing his deformity, and being stared at. Worf was almost a hundred percent certain that Kel was simply self-conscious. He didn’t really know anything helpful. But if Worf were wrong, this might have been Kel’s only moment of weakness.

  Would they be able to wrest the truth from him later, if there was truth to find? No answers for that, but as Worf strode down the corridor, he didn’t care. Suddenly, the murder investigation, the peace treaty, none of it mattered half so much as finding Captain Picard safe and unharmed. And if he was hurt, Worf was not at all sure he wanted to remember that he was Ambassador Worf.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE TWO ORIANIANS outside the cell block doors were fully masked and armed. They saluted Breck as he walked up. He returned the salute. “Ambassador Worf to see Ambassador Picard.”

  “Murderers do not receive visitors. You know that,” one guard said.

  “This is not a request,” Worf said. He moved forward to loom threateningly over Breck and the guards. They gripped their rifles just a little tighter but otherwise didn’t flinch.

  Breck actually placed a hand on Wolf’s chest, pushing him back, gently but firmly. “The acting ambassador wishes to discover the health of Picard. It is not an unreasonable request.”

  The guards exchanged glances. “Murderers are not allowed visitors. That is the law.”

  “I will see Ambassador Picard,” Worf growled. He pushed past Breck, looming over the two guards like a storm about to break. “I will see him now!” Each word was a low growl, chopped and very certain. It was an order. The guards understood that. They shifted nervously.

  Troi felt their uncertainty. They evidently had no orders to cover a rampage by the acting ambassador. Did they dare shoot him? Defend themselves? Or not?

  Worf had tried to get word to Talanne or Basha, to get permission to see the captain. Neither leader had been available. As Federation representatives they should have gone through channels, but Troi agreed with Worf. They had to see Picard, now. The captain was the first human the Orianians had ever seen up close. Torture might not work the same on the captain. They might kill him without meaning to.

  Troi hoped the guards’ uncertainty would work for Worf, and not against him.

  “We were not told that the ambassador was an exception to the law,” the guard said.

  “Do you wish to tell General Basha that you never received his orders,” Breck lied as smoothly as he breathed. Troi knew there were no orders, but the anxiety level of both guards jumped. They weren’t sure if they had missed orders or not. This was, after all, an unusual situation.

  “We have had no orders,” the second guard said. There was a stubborn set to his voice. “If your General Basha wishes the new ambassador to have access to the cells, then let him tell us himself.”

  “Do you really think that with the Venturi leader assassinated, the general has nothing better to do than come down to the cells and see that his orders are being carried out?”

  “We have no orders to cover this . . .”

  “Enough of this!” Worf said. His fist lashed out to connect very solidly with the first guard’s face. He slid down the wall and collapsed in a silent heap. The second guard started to bring his rifle up, but Breck smashed him in the gut, then followed with a knee to the face. The second guard slumped to the ground, as well.

  Worf had disarmed the fallen guard and had no doubts at all about his actions. “Breck, open the door.”

  “I obey orders,” Breck said. He punched a series of buttons near the door. They flashed once, and the door opened. “It only opens one way. It is a safety precaution against people breaking in.”

  “Once inside we are trapped?” Troi asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It does not matter. We are not here to rescue the captain, only to make sure he is safe. Once that is done, we will wait to be released,” Worf said.

  Breck made a sound very like a laugh. “I only hope it is that simple, Ambassador.”

  Worf wasn’t listening. He led the way through the door, rifle half raised. Would he shoot guards that got in his way? Troi tried to feel what his intentions were, but the rage, the near panic to find the captain, was masking everything else. Would Worf commit murder to save the captain? Perhaps. But even knowing that, Troi followed them inside. The door shut behind them with a sigh, and they were alone in a maze of small doors and dim lights.

  The walls were a crisp, pure white. It was nearly soothing after the conflicting colors of the rest of the Orianian complex. Troi would almost have asked to be jailed if she could rest her eyes on the soothing blankness. It didn’t look much like a prison. If it had not been for the many small doors, it wouldn’t have looked like a cell block at all.

  But the corridors were very narrow, forming a white maze that spread out in every direct
ion. It was dizzying. The white walls seemed to squeeze around them like a fist.

  “Which way?” Worf asked.

  “I have not been to see Picard, either,” Breck said.

  “I was not asking you. Counselor?” Worf turned dark eyes to her. His certainty that she would lead them through the puzzle-box of this place was clear and unwavering.

  Troi only wished she felt as confident as he did. As soon as she knew they were coming to a place of torture, she began building the mind-shielding she would need to survive. The Orianians’ emotions were so overwhelming at times that she didn’t know if she could go into the bowels of real despair and still be able to function.

  “If I drop my mental protection to search for the captain then I may not be able to filter out the feelings of all the other prisoners.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Breck said. He cradied his rifle more securely in the crook of his arm, waiting. Waiting for her to decide whether all this effort had been for nothing.

  A shrill scream cut the silence. It was impossible to know if it were male or female. A level of pain had been reached where it made no difference in the voice. The scream came from up ahead in the heart of this white maze, and it decided Troi.

  They had to find the captain.

  The mind-shield was like a layer of buzzing, made up of her own emotions, like bricks in a wall. She had entombed her mind behind pieces of her own thoughts. She could have shattered the shield with one gentle touch, but Troi knew better. In this place the influx of emotions could drive her mad. It had happened to Betazoids before. There were reasons why empaths avoided torture chambers. Other than the obvious ones.

  The buzzing quieted it. Each sound, each emotion faded back into her mind, until there was nothing but that last great shield. A solid blankness, a blessed quietness that all empaths needed as a last retreat. On the other side of that quietness Troi could feel the press of emotions. It was almost physical, like hands shoving against her mind.

  She cast that quietness away, like discarding a piece of clothing. Now, her mind was naked to everything. Troi remembered nothing for a moment. Then, there was a voice calling to her, but the sound was very far away. The only thing she could ‘hear’ was the roar of terror. A screaming, crimson sound that clawed across her mind. Pain had color and shape and texture. Other people’s terror rode her, and she could not remember who she was, or why she had come.

  Hands were digging into her arms, tight, hurting. It hurt. Her body. Her pain.

  “Troi, can you hear me? Deanna!”

  That was right. She was Deanna Troi, and all this pain belonged to strangers. Someone was shaking her, hard and harder. She looked up into Worf’s grim face. Somehow she had fallen to the floor. It was Worf’s hands that had brought her back, his small violence that had chased away the pain. He was still shaking her.

  “Worf, I’m all right.”

  “Deanna,” the relief in his voice washed over her, soothingly. “What happened to you?”

  “There is no time to explain. Please, help me up.”

  Worf stood and lifted her as he moved, one motion that made her feel like a child in his hands. She clutched his arm as she tested whether she could stand alone.

  The pain, terror, despair were still there, but as a distant buzzing. She could concentrate again, feel her own thoughts again. Could she sort the captain’s thoughts from all the noise? If the people in the cells had been any other race, she would have been confident, but the Orianians for better or worse were an overwhelming empathic mess.

  But Troi knew the feel of Picard’s mind, the ordered strength of his thoughts, the cool control of his emotions. Troi knew Picard was a very private man, and as much as he valued Troi, she made him just a little nervous.

  It was that nervousness that Troi reached for, that reserve, the solid, familiar core that was Jean-Luc Picard. She knew some Betazoids said people were like tastes in their mind, or smells, but to Troi it was always more abstract than that, perhaps because she was half-human. Whatever the reason, the thing she searched for was nothing so concrete. In fact, in many languages, there were no words for what she sought. It was like walking through the buzzing noise, pushing it aside with your body, like swimming, but that wasn’t it either. Words were not enough for the rush of other people’s thoughts rippling inside your head.

  There—there. Troi stopped and stood very still, though to Worf and Breck she had not moved and so could not be still. Troi forced herself very still inside. There, like a familiar thread, or a piece of music heard from a great distance. Picard; she knew that slightly disapproving calm anywhere.

  Troi didn’t so much open her eyes as begin to see where her body stood again. “I’ve found him.” Her voice was very quiet and seemed to echo from deep inside her body. It was not easy to make contact with someone who could not reciprocate the mental touch, and to maintain that contact and follow it back to its source while moving through a place drenched in terror.

  Troi moved very carefully down the hallway. It was like carrying a glass of water up a flight of stairs. Each movement had to be thought about, not just by her mind, but her body. Concentration had to be total.

  “Are there other guards?” Troi asked. Her words seemed slow.

  “Two more in the torture area, plus the questioner,” Breck said.

  “The torturer?” Troi made it a question.

  “Yes.”

  “If the guards come, I can’t help you. I can’t let go of the captain.”

  “Understood,” Worf said. “Take us to the captain. Breck and I will do the rest.”

  Troi moved down the corridor, past all the doors. Someone was behind almost every door. The buzzing flowed and faded, parts growing louder as she passed in front of the physical cause of the fear, or sorrow. She saw Picard’s thread as a faint white line like the things you see out of the corners of your eyes. She did not look directly at it but around it, and it pulled her forward.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder. She stumbled and nearly lost that shining thread. She didn’t dare look around to find out why someone had stopped her. If she panicked now, there might not be time to reestablish contact with the captain. Troi closed her eyes. Her job was to maintain concentration. She had to let Worf and Breck do their jobs. If they failed . . . Troi didn’t even let herself finish the thought. Nothing mattered but that faint line. Nothing.

  Breck’s voice came softly, a whisper. “The main torture area lies just ahead. If we must pass through it, then we may be forced to kill.”

  “Counselor, are we close to the captain?”

  She spoke with her eyes still closed, concentrating on that faint line. “Yes.” Her voice was thick and slow with the effort not to lose that line.

  Worf leaned into her, his breath whispering along her face, “We have only three more doors to either side before we will be forced to confront guards. Is Captain Picard on this side?”

  “I don’t know. Close, he’s very close.” Worf’s irritation was the faintest of thoughts. She had no time or energy left over for Worf.

  “Lead us, Counselor,” he said.

  Troi moved forward, eyes still closed. She didn’t need to see. It was only a handful of steps, and the line merged into a door. She reached a tentative hand in front of her. Fingertips brushed something hard and cool. She blinked rapidly, trying to see what she touched. It was a cell door.

  “Behind here, he’s behind here.” Her voice still held that lazy quality. She felt like she was waking from a dream, sluggish and heavy-headed. The effects would pass in minutes, but while they lasted, Troi felt a step away from reality. Distant and cool as a dream.

  “Can you unlock this door?” Worf asked.

  Breck didn’t answer but gently pushed Troi to one side. He pressed his palm flat to a slightly raised panel of the door. There was a faint pulse of amber light, then the door cracked open with a sigh.

  Breck pushed the door inward, rifle at the ready. Worf hissed, “Captain?” The door o
pened wide.

  Picard sat on a narrow bench against the far wall. A look of complete surprise crossed his face. “Lieutenant Worf, what are you doing here? This had better not be what it looks like.” His face crumbled to a frown. Anger would not be far behind.

  Troi stepped into the room, eyes still not quite focused on any one thing. “We were worried about you.”

  “We discovered that the Orianians torture their prisoners. They refused to let us see you.”

  “So you assumed I was being tortured.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am glad to hear you didn’t come to rescue me.” Picard smiled. “When I saw the three of you slink in here, I was sure you had done something foolish. Forgive my doubts.”

  Worf glanced at Troi. She was more herself, and could appreciate Worf’s sudden pang of conscience. “Well, Captain, there was some trouble in getting into the cell block.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  The door slammed open, ringing against the wall. Armed guards poured into the room, rifle barrels searching out individual targets. “No one moves,” a familiar voice called out.

  “That kind of trouble,” Worf said.

  “What is going on here?” Picard asked of everyone and no one.

  Colonel Talanne stepped into the room, a rifle pointing very steadily at the middle of Worf’s chest. “That is what I would like very much to understand, Ambassadors.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  PICARD HAD NEVER SEEN a real torture chamber. Staring around the room now, he still felt like he had not seen one. The walls were smooth and white, and everything was spotlessly clean. There were tables with bright silver straps and chairlike devices whose function was unclear. But the room was open, airy. You could almost picture a gentle breeze wafting through the room. Wasn’t there a rule somewhere that to terrify you had to look terrifying? It seemed somehow obscene that this sparkling room should be a place of pain.

  “Please, Ambassadors, Healer, be seated. Be comfortable.” Talanne herself slid behind a neat desk that took up most of the west wall. “I am sorry that there are no other chairs, but lean against anything. I promise it will not harm you.” Picard couldn’t even figure out what the various instruments did, let alone how they could hurt.