Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 7 Jan 2004 11:01:47 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 149/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 149 They took the lift in silence, still together, her hand still capturing the crook of his arm, then stepped from the lift. Despite the hour, the corridor was unusually silent, due perhaps to the number of crew who were involved in the repair efforts elsewhere in the ship - or, Deanna mused, because they simply could not bear to be so near the place where their crewmate - their friend - lay dying. Picard must have sensed the unusual stillness of the hallway, for he reached for Deanna's, patting it gently - though whether it was to reassure her, or to reassure himself, she didn't know. Perhaps a little of both she thought, gently squeezing his arm in response. "Are you all right, sir?" she asked softly. "Pardon?" he said, slightly startled, then murmured, "Oh, yes, quite," - though the words seemed a little forced, a little rushed. "I was just thinking about Tasha," he added a long moment later. Deanna nodded, grasping his arm a little tighter. "I think we all have been thinking about her lately, sir. About all the people we've loved - and have lost." She heard the soft grunt of disgust he made in response - but took no offence at the sound, knowing he was repulsed only at his own maudlin self-indulgence. "There's nothing wrong with missing those people, Captain," she reminded him. "I'm aware of that, Counselor. It's just... " He sighed disapprovingly. "I never was very good at this," he told her. "Never good at saying 'goodbye'. I rarely went to funerals when I was a child - my aunts and uncles were all young - younger than my parents; most of them were still alive long after I entered Starfleet. By the time they passed away, it was difficult or impossible to go home for a funeral." "I didn't even attend my parents' funerals," he admitted after a moment's hesitation. "When Father died, I was on the other side of the quadrant; I didn't even know he was gone until weeks later - and it was months before I could return to see Mother. And when she died... " He sighed regretfully. "I had gone home for Christmas that year, had seen her and Robert and Marie - this was before René was born," he added, looking down at her. Deanna smiled, nodding, silently encouraging him. "I was home - but I never thought that I wouldn't see her again," he recalled somberly. "She was still so strong and vibrant... in my mind. But she had been in failing health for some time. I didn't see it, of course; I could only her as I had always seen her, a tower of strength and endurance. I never could imagine her growing weak, growing old - and then she was gone, and I had never said farewell to her. "And then Robert... and René," he added softly. She nodded, remembering the terrible toll the deaths had taken on him, remembering the unbearable loss of hope that had surrounded him in those first, awful days and weeks. In a way, she knew, that loss had been the hardest, harder even than the loss of his friends or his parents; with René's death, his future, his family's future, was lost forever. And lost again, she knew, in the ending of his relationship with Beverly, feeling a renewal of that same desperate hopelessness welling up in him. He sighed, the sound of the soft exhalation filling the empty corridor - then turned to look at her. "It was like this," he said a few moments later as they approached the Sickbay doors, "when I took Beverly to see Jack that last time. The halls were so quiet... She was so quiet," he added softly. "So numb. As if all the life in her was somehow stilled, even before she saw him. "And she kept thanking me - for walking with her, for going with her... she kept thanking me - as though I wasn't the one who killed him," he whispered. "You didn't kill Jack," Deanna replied gently. "You know that; Beverly knows that. She never blamed you." He glanced down at her, his face a mask of silenced protestations of responsibility and guilt. At long last, he whispered, "It might have better if she had." Deanna stopped, turning to confront him. "Do you honestly believe that, sir? Do you really believe that everything that you two have shared, for good, ill, or indifference, was so inconsequential that it would have been better off never having happened?" she asked him bluntly. He met her hard gaze - then closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. Never," he whispered plaintively - then opened his eyes and met her gaze again. "I'm sorry, Counselor. I'm just being... mawkish. Overindulging in my own self-pity. Please forgive me," he added. "For feeling? For grieving, Captain? Those are hardly capital offenses," she replied. "But hardly appropriate behavior for a starship captain," he countered. "There would be those who would argue with you, sir," Deanna told him, "and I would be one of them. You need to indulge in your emotions - even if it's only once in a while - and even if it's only with your ship's counselor." She squeezed his arm in reassurance, then gently prodded him back into walking down the corridor - though she could feel the reluctance and hesitation in every step. "You don't want to do this, do you?" she said. He shook his head. "No." "That's not unusual, sir; saying good-bye isn't something most humans feel comfortable doing," she informed him. "It's not that, Counselor," he countered - then fell silent again. "Then why?" she asked after a few minutes. He hesitated. "It's presumptuous," he said at last. "I barely knew her; there are those who knew her better..." Deanna started to answer the protest with the obvious answer - that others would make their farewells in their time - then sensed his reluctance had another source. "Not many," she demurred. "Andile is not a woman to allow anyone - not even her captain - close." He shook his head, agreeing. "Life was not kind to her, Counselor; she learned not to open her defense to anyone... Perhaps if she had kept them closed, she wouldn't be where she is now," he added. "And perhaps she would," Deanna countered. "Please don't tell me you believe she was somehow... fated... to die on this mission," he asked incredulously. She shook her head. "I don't believe in fate, Captain, nor, I think does Andile. But I know she believed her life was inconsequential in comparison to the greater good; she would have given it gladly, if it meant saving the crew or her ship." "But she didn't do it to save them," he said softly. "She did it to save... me." His voice was soft - but the pain and outrage in his spirit screamed at her, crying out at the unconscionable thought of his surviving at such a hideous price. Hideous to him, Deanna thought, but not to her. "Maybe she thought it was a reasonable exchange, Captain," Deanna suggested gently. "Then she was wrong," he retorted, the bitterness in his voice sharp and acrid. "Maybe," she answered gently. "Maybe not. In either case, she did what she did for her own reasons - as she did everything," she reminded him, "and we may never fully understand them. The question left to you - and to you alone, Captain - is what are you going to do with her gift? Throw it away - or use it?" He studied her for a long time - then looked at the doors leading to the Sickbay, and shook his head. It's too late to ask that question, he answered silently; I threw it away the moment I confronted Beverly. He closed his eyes, reaching out for the familiar touch in his mind - and reminding himself that the touch, like all the other things he had finally come to value in his life, was gone. I'm sorry, he called to them both. I'm so sorry. "Captain?" Deanna said, looking up at him, waiting for an answer. He glanced back. "Yes?" he said blankly. She waited a moment longer - then realized her answer wouldn't be coming. Instead, she gestured at the doors before them. "We're here," she told him softly. "Indeed," he murmured, staring at the doors - then released her hand, tugged down on the bottom of his tunic - and stepped into the opening doorway. Beverly heard the doors open - but she didn't need to raise her head to know who had entered her domain. She had never had to see him to know he was there. Even when he was just a friend of Jack's she could sense his presence when he entered the apartment she and Jack shared, feel his being when they were at a party together; even at her graduation from medical school, she could sense him in the audience, a face lost in the crush of a thousand other faces, standing out clearly in her mind and her heart even when she could sense no one else - not even Jack. She could sense him now, standing out there, cold, hurt - and hope surged in her soul... But only for a moment. Then her own hurt replaced it, reminding her of things said that could never be unsaid. Still, she was his CMO, she reminded herself quietly; they had to maintain their professional relationship. At least, she added, while I am his CMO. She rose, patting her slightly wild hair back into place, smoothing her lab coat into a semblance of neatness, then stepped to the door to her office - and stopped. He wasn't standing there, waiting for her, ready to berate her again, she realized with a start; he wasn't ready to greet her with a grimace, or with an impassively stony expression - or with any of the looks she had imagined - and dreaded - and secretly ached for, wishing, in her heart of hearts that he would come, whatever the reason, even to chastise her again - so long as he would come. But he wouldn't come back here, she thought to herself; at least not for me, she added as she looked across the room, instantly understanding the reason for his presence in her Sickbay. "I thought he should say goodbye," Deanna said softly. Beverly started, taken by surprise by the unexpected voice. One hand moving to her chest - then forced a smile at Deanna. "I wasn't expecting you," she confessed, then glanced back at Picard who stood silently beside the life support equipment that surrounded Andile. "Though I suppose I should have been," she added, meeting Deanna's eyes once more. "It's not as though he would have come on his own." Deanna gave the physician and slightly chiding look. "I'm not sure that's fair, Beverly." "No?" Beverly replied. Deanna started to protest - then stopped. "Perhaps it is," she admitted. They fell silent, looking across the room at the man, watching him as he stood motionless beside the bed, his head hanging, eyes closed. "Damn it," Beverly muttered softly, "she's not dead yet! He doesn't have to stand there like she's already in her coffin!" "What would you have him do, Beverly?" Deanna countered. "Touch her! Talk to her! Let her know he's there - let her know she's still alive - while she still is!" she cried miserably. The Betazoid reached for her friend's arm, laying a hand on her comfortingly, knowing the grief that was racing through Beverly's soul; grief for her lost relationship, grief for her dying patient. "Then tell him," she said quietly. Beverly looked at Deanna - then tensed, as if preparing to do that very thing - and stopped, her body falling back in resignation. "No. This is how he is, Deanna; it's who he is. I can't change him; I don't want to. He is who he is - and if that's how he says good-bye, who am I to try to change him? "And it won't matter to Andile," she added softly. "She'll never know... or care." Deanna studied her friend for a moment. "How long does she have?" she asked at last, knowing the resignation wasn't simply over the loss of her friendship with the captain. Andile was dying - and nothing the physician could do would stop that now. "A few hours," Beverly replied. "I doubt she'll make it through the night. I had hoped that performing a resection to removal the damaged bowel would allow her body to begin absorbing nutrients again - but it hasn't. If anything, the surgery made her weaker. She's not absorbing any nutrients now - and what little healing she had experienced in those first hours have now reversed themselves." Deanna patted her friend's arm consolingly. "Bev, Biji was ill when she came aboard this ship. You knew how precarious her condition was! She knew it as well! All those hours we both sat with her while you were treating her..." "She was getting better!" Beverly snapped. "I would never have released her from my care if she wasn't - and God know I would never have let her go on the EVA mission..." Her voice suddenly trailed off. Worried, Deanna looked at the woman - then followed her gaze into the room where Picard still stood next to Andile's bed. "Beverly?" Deanna said worriedly, sensing the sudden surge in the woman's fury. "Damn it!" Beverly said quietly - then raised her voice. "Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it - damn me!" she roared as she strode furiously into the room. Startled, Picard pulled back, looking up at the approaching physician, her face blazing with rage. "Can you hear her?" Beverly snapped at him. Her question, as unexpected as her profanity, took him completely by surprise, leaving him dumb-struck. "Damn it, Jean-Luc, can you hear her?!" Beverly repeated furiously. He stared at her, still blank-faced, for a moment - then shook his head. "No." "Don't move," she ordered - then barked out, "Aaron! Get me the lieutenant's neurotransmitter profile! Now!" she added. "Beverly?" Deanna called out to her, hurrying to her side even as the man came running toward her, padd in hand. The physician raised a hand to the empath, begging a moment's indulgence, grabbing the proffered padd with the other and rapidly studying the readout. "It's normal, Doctor," Aaron protested. "Unchanged since she arrived." "Unchanged," Beverly echoed, "but it's not normal. Not for her. Aaron, get Dr. Matthews - then get the OR ready. We're taking her back in." "Doctor?" the technician replied, startled. "Now!" Beverly roared. Startled, he turned, quickly fleeing the physician's side. "What's happening?" Deanna echoed, confused. "I'm taking her back to surgery," Beverly said. "But..." "Her neurotransmitters are massively depleted," she explained. "I checked it when she first came in - but damn me, I forgot that normal for her isn't the same as normal for others! If I had only thought..." "Neurotransmitters?" Deanna repeated, ignoring the woman's self-chastisement. "I don't understand. What do neurotransmitters have to do with her condition?" she asked confused. Beverly hesitated, looking up at Picard pleadingly, wanting to the Deanna the truth, knowing she might well need the assistance of the only other telepath on the whip - but unwilling to violate the secret Andile had shared with them. "Andile has several mutated genes; her ability to heal is contingent on the presence of several unusual neurotransmitters," he explained, trying to maneuver around the complete truth without alerting the empath. Deanna studied him, sensing the hesitation - but knowing better there were some things he could not - and would not - tell her. "Neurotransmitters that require an inordinate amount of energy to produce," Beverly quickly added, "energy she no longer has." "Can't you just inject the neurotransmitters?" Deanna asked. Beverly nodded. "I've done that for her in the past when necessary - injecting them directly into the cerebro-spinal fluid - but it takes time to move the components to the brain, time that she doesn't have," she added. "This is the only option I have: to place a series of infusion lines directly into the functional areas of brain and begin direct administration of preconstructed neurotransmitters." Deanna looked horrified. "Beverly!" "I don't have a choice, Deanna; she won't survive the way she is," the doctor replied bluntly. "Yes - but can she survive another operation?" the empath countered. Beverly looked at Picard, studying him intently, wondering if there was an solution that would meet his satisfaction - then turned back at Deanna, her mind made up. "I don't know. But I don't have any options, Deanna. Either way, I think it might be a good idea if Data were here," she added quietly. The Betazoid studied her friend for a long time - then gave a single nod of her head. "I'll get him," she said, then looked at Picard. "With your permission," she added. He nodded, then watched as she hurried from the triage area before facing Beverly once again. "What do you need from me?" he asked her bluntly. She met his eyes. Your heart, she told him silently. Your soul. Your love. Everything you have. Forever. But you took every chance of that away, she reminded herself. "I need you - in the OR and in recovery." He raised a brow. "You can hear her - better than anyone. I want you listen for her," she said. "As soon as you can start to perceive her mind at any level, I'll know the transmitters are reaching the correct areas of the brain, and I can increase the infusion levels at those points." She hesitated, then stared at him, her look a blend of uncertainty, desperation - and a bit of sorrow. "You can hear her at the subconscious level, can't you?" she asked, part of her hoping her could - and part of her hoping he couldn't, aching that another person, another woman, would have that intimacy with him - and intimacy they once had shared. And that I rejected, she reminded herself harshly. Retribution? she wondered. Was he striking back at me - or did I simply bring this on myself? It didn't matter any more, she reminded herself coldly; all that mattered - for now, forever more - were her patients. "You can hear her, can't you?" He met her eyes, seeing her anguish, knowing his answer, whatever it was, would hurt her - then nodded. "Yes," he said softly. They stared at each other for a moment, wishing, wondering... regretting. "Beverly..." he began softly, but Beverly interrupted him with a barked, "John!" Another nurse hurried to her side. "Get the captain scrubbed and into a surgical outfit. He's going into the OR with us," she explained. The nurse stared at the man, stunned - but knew enough not to argue with the ship's CMO. "Yes, ma'am," he said, then gestured Picard toward one of the doorways. "Through here, sir," he said. For a moment, though, the man held back, still looking at Beverly - then turned and followed the nurse into the dressing room. He had declined the offer of the chair, unwilling to allow himself a comfort that his crewpeople could not share - but now, well into the third hour of surgery, he was wishing he had accepted, his legs and back aching from the strain of standing in place, barely able to move from the crush of people and equipment surrounding the surgical team. How do they do it? he asked himself; how does _she_ do it? he asked silently, remembering Beverly's every move as she orchestrated the intricate dance of equipment and patient that had accompanied the transfer of Andile from the triage area to surgery, astounded at her ability to follow everything that was happening, to integrate all the information that was being thrown at her, her insistence on maintaining Andile's dignity as she had guided the movement of the body from one bed to the next, all being handled with terrible efficiency - and with utter compassion. How does she do it? he wondered again, watching Beverly as she worked now, her eyes pressed to the monitoring device as she directed the placement of the minute fibers, working with a certainty that belied the fact that a fraction of a misstep could destroy part of the patient's brain, leave her paralyzed, destroy her intelligence - or simply kill her outright - and seemingly without being aware of the press of time and physiology that was rapidly draining the life from the woman on the surgical bed. "Advance it one millimeter, Greg," she ordered. The second red-gowned physician made the adjustment, only to hear one of the attendants announce ,"BP's dropping. Eighty over thirty." "Pulse?" Beverly asked. "Forty," came the answer. "You're too far, Greg," Beverly said. "You're on the vagus." "Backing off a half millimeter," he replied. "Pressure stabilizing," the tech answered. "Infuse two milligrams," Beverly said, watched for a moment - then glanced at Picard. He met her eyes for a moment, then closed his own, seeking, searching - then opened them again and shook his head. "Nothing," she murmured to the others. "Doctor," Greg Matthews said, lifting his head from the microscopic that stood before him, "we need to consider that this therapy is ineffective. We've placed twenty-two lines - but there's no response at any location. I think... I think we should call it," he said at last. Beverly glared at him, her protest ready on her lips - then stilled the protest. "You may be right," she said, staring in disgust at the equipment before her, around her, knowing that it - and not her knowledge, not her expertise - was all that was keeping Andile alive, and that soon enough, even that would not be enough. She turned look at Jean-Luc, half-expecting another of his tirades - but there was no anger in his eyes now, none of that terrifying expression that accompanied his manic insistence on her saving a life that couldn't be saved, of prolonging of life that was over. Instead, she found an expression of grief and sorrow as he stared at the form that lay prostrate on the surgical bed, covered in the obligatory red sheets. "We can continue," she told him softly, though her tone left no doubt that she thought there was no point. He stared at the form, seeing only the small patch of exposed skin at the back of her neck, stained red by the light of the sterile field generator, the flesh beneath still mottled purpled from the bruising of the original surgery - and beneath it all, the six puncture marks left by the Breen device. He raised a hand in silent empathy to the similar marks on his own neck - then looked at Beverly, a thought suddenly coming to his mind. "What is it?" she said, seeing the glimmer of an idea in his eyes. "Jean-Luc?" He looked at her, then lowered his hand. "When the Breen performed their procedure - their deposition - they used something like your infusion lines to introduce the chemical destabilizer to my brain," he said. Beverly nodded. "Yes. I've seen Alyssa's report - but the lines were much finer, infiltrating the entire brain..." Her voice trailed off as she suddenly understood - the whirled around, turning to the others. "Begin infusion of the neurotransmitters," she ordered. "On which line?" Matthews replied. "All of them," she said. There was a moment of stunned silence - then the technicians began unclamping lines, setting flow rates, even as Greg Matthews began arguing. "Dr. Crusher, there is no evidence that flooding her brain with neurotransmitters will work..." he began protesting. "It worked for the Breen," she snapped back. "Yes - when they were brainwashing their prisoners!" he countered. Beverly looked up, her smile hidden by her mask. "Exactly. We're going to do just that - wash out everything that's there - and replace it with unadulterated neurotransmitters." "That's ridiculous! The pressure increase will destroy tissue..." "No. We'll equilibrate the pressure by drawing it off at the same rates of infusion," Beverly countered. "Place a line at the base of her spine," she ordered. "That way we're not drawing off what's just been infused - and let's monitor the intercerebral pressure; there's going to be the normal loss through the tissue and I don't want the pressure to decrease below normal either." "Putting a line so low could paralyze her," Matthews argued. "So we paralyze her," Beverly snapped back. "We'll deal with that later - but at least she'll be alive for us to deal with it. Now do it - or get Alyssa in here. I'm not going to waste any more time arguing with you." "We're ready to begin infusion, Doctor," one of the red-suited technicians replied. "Let's start with one microgram in each line; we'll increase the rate as soon as we have a line in place to keep the pressure balanced," she added, glancing at Picard. He nodded, as though his approval had any place or meaning in this room - then closed his eyes, seeking out the familiar touch once again. _Lieutenant?_ _Andile?_ He held his breath, waiting, aching for the touch - then let it out in a sigh. "Nothing," he said softly, opening his eyes, meeting Beverly's devastated expression. "One point five," she ordered. "We're getting an increase in intercranial pressure!" She can handle a little hyperperfusion, Beverly told herself, hoping it was true, looking at Picard in desperation. He shook his head. "Two micrograms," she said breathlessly. "IC pressure is reaching maximum!" "Get that line in, Greg!" Beverly roared. _Lieutenant? Answer me!_ "Two point five!" "Cellular walls are losing structural integrity!" "Greg!" "One minute..." "We don't have a minute!" "We're losing her, Doctor!" _Answer me, Lieutenant! That's an order! Damn it! Answer me!_ "The synaptic network is beginning to destabilize..." Beverly looked at Picard, then drew a deep breath, looked to the others, and said, "Three micrograms." _Unnecessary, Captain._ Picard drew in a sharp breath, then felt himself stagger back a step. "Jean-Luc!" Beverly replied, whirling around, reaching out to steady him - then saw the look in his eyes. "Can you... Is she...?" He shook his head, confused. "I..." he started - then shook his head again, a presence back in his mind... but not hers. _It is all right, Captain. We have her._ _Jemat?_ Picard thought incredulously. There was a soft, relieved sigh in his mind. _Yes. Yes. You can release her now; we have her._ _Release her? I don't understand,_ he said. _I know,_ came the soft reply. _But you will. Now let her go,_ he urged softly. There was a gentle pressure in his mind, as thought something were tugging at it - then with a rush, he felt the pressure release, and the terrible weight lift from his mind. He staggered back once again - then stared around the operating room for a moment, dazed. "Jean-Luc?" she asked worriedly. "Are you all right?" He hesitated for a moment, confused, finding himself suddenly... empty - then nodded. "Yes. Yes..." "Have you got her?" she asked softly. "No... but they do," he said in a bewildered voice. She stared at him, confused - only to turn as a voice called, "Doctor!" Following the voice, she saw one of the techs staring at the undraped patch of flesh on Andile's neck. Stepping close she looked at it - and felt herself draw in a breath. The skin was still stained red from the lights, still marked by the puncture wounds, still mottled in purple... but in a few small places, the purple was slowly turning to green. The bruises were healing. Healing! her heart shouted joyously, even as her voice calmly announced, "We'll hold at two point five. Greg, get that line in - now." "It's in," he replied soberly, "but I hit a lot of nerve tissue placing it." "That's all right," she said softly. "We can deal with that... tomorrow." Tomorrow, she thought. We have tomorrow - then looked back at Picard. We _all_ have tomorrow. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? 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