I was one of the eight pallbearers at Doyle's funeral. The Mass was to be given by the bishop, with Father O'Heron assisting. The cathedral was packed, every pew full and several rows of people standing in the back. Like midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, or Easter Mass.598Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJXlX3iRl2J
We carried the casket down the central aisle; it was large and heavy, burnished copper decorated with folds of rich black cloth and garlands of white ag-room flowers. The scent from the flowers was heavy and cloying. The casket had always seemed a strange part of the ritual to me, but as I gripped one of the handles I thought I understood it a little more. It was one of half a dozen reusable caskets of different sizes. After the funeral, Doyle's body would be removed from the casket, interred in a much smaller, cramped metal canister, then expulsed from the ship into deep space. Cremation had become more common in recent years as the supply of canisters dwindled and the material to manufacture replacements became more and more difficult to obtain, but the Church still frowned on it, particularly for its own.598Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLdX4JrcZ5S
We carried the casket to the front of the cathedral, up two steps, and set it on the catafalque. Then we walked over to the pew on the side that had been reserved for us.
Jean-Luc was one of the other pallbearers; he sat beside me, then leaned into my shoulder and whispered.
"You still think staying was the right decision?"
I didn't answer. I had not stopped asking that question of myself since I knelt beside Doyle with his blood and life flowing all around me. I didn't need Jean-Luck to ask me the same damn question.
Bishop Worf stood at the pulpit and spoke, his voice little more than a drone. I didn't listen to him. I hardly even saw him. What I saw much more vividly were Doyle's eyes and mouth, both open to me, yet beyond help or understanding.
"Sorry," Jean-Luc said quietly. "That wasn't fair."
I still didn't respond. I wasn't sure where I stood with Jean-Luc; I wasn't even sure I knew where I wanted to stand with him. We'd managed an uneasy truce of sorts since our talk in the Wasteland, but I couldn't say that we had made any progress restoring our old relationship. Maybe that was just as well.
I looked at Father O'Heron standing motionless behind the bishop, her expression steady and unblinking and ultimately impossible to decipher. I found no comfort in it.
Jean-Luc put his hand on my shoulder, a surprising gesture for him. "It'll be all right."
I didn't look at him. I stared forward, wondering if I could stand to remain through the entire Mass.
"She can't see us," Gardner said.598Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJan1YnHcMI
"No kidding. Her eyes are closed," I pointed out to him.
He sighed. "Even if they weren't, she still couldn't see us.
I was looking at the old woman through a large observation window of one-way glass. There were also three concealed cameras in the room, and their images were displayed on monitors above the window. The old woman was sleeping on a bed in one of the sickbay rooms, curled in a fetal position, her mouth slightly open.
"She always sleeps like that," Garnder said. "As if she's holding herself together.
The old woman had been aboard the Enterprise for five days now. She was still hooked up to IVs, and monitoring strips were taped across her forehead and arms. Every time she'd been given solid food, she'd refused to eat. On the other hand, she drank all the juices offered to her, and appeared to plead for more.
"She whimpers when she sleeps," Gardner added. "Sometimes she cries out. When she's awake she speaks gibberish. She doesn't seem to understand a word we say to her.
"Are you sure it's not just another language?"
"Of course we're not sure. We've tried as many languages as we can find speakers on this ship, which isn't that many, to be honest. Some languages have been lost over the centuries. Pike's been dredging up old texts in any language he can find, and he reads a few lines to her to see if we get some reaction. So far----nothing." Gardner shrugged. "Whatever she's speaking doesn't sound like another language to anyone who's heard her."
"Maybe it's alien language," I suggested half seriously.
"Yes, and maybe it's gibberish. Think about it. She's been through extreme deprivations----social, nutritional, psychological, maybe even sensory. And for an unknown period of time. Years, most likely. I would guess that would turn most peoples minds into guano."
"That's what you think happened to her?" I asked.
"That's what I think. Severe psychological trauma. You should talk to Dr. J. about it. That's her area of expertise."
I don't know why I was giving Gardner such a hard time about his evaluation of the old woman. I agreed with his assessment, but I hoped that, given time, the woman would become more secure and comfortable here on the Enterprise, her mind would come back to her, and we might actually begin to communicate. I told Gardner as much, but he didn't respond, and I realized he was annoyed with me.
"How's she doing physically?" I asked, with emphasis on the last word.
"All right. Getting better slowly. Remarkably strong heart. She was badly undernourished, but her 'lytes showed she wasn't too badly malnourished, if you see the distinction.
"I do. That glop she was lying on must've been well-formulated."
Gardner nodded.
"I'll check in with you once a day or so. You'll let me know if there are any major changes?"
"Sure."
I started to leave, and had just opened the door when Gardner said, "Pavel?"
"Yes?"
"I don't think she's ever going to get better. Mentally. I don't think she's ever going to recover from what she's been through.
I took another glance at the woman, who was still holding herself tightly, and I remembered the way she'd wept as I held her. "Let's hope you're wrong."
ns 15.158.61.8da2
