by Peter David
"AMUSE?" he practically roared.
"Worf, calm down!" Deanna said forcefully.
"I am not here for your amusement! You wished to know of Klingon philosophies, and I have told you. We believe in vigilance ... in readiness. Our philosophy is one of strength, and that is what has enabled our people to survive for centuries while other races have vanished beneath the bootheels of conquerors."
"And here I thought," Gart shot back, showing a trace of annoyance for the first time, "that your people survived through the sufferance of the Federation and the Khitomer conference a century ago. A time when your race was weak and helpless, and the members of the Federation who were concerned over your barbaric ways-were they of a Klingon mindset-would have left you to die as a race, and thus have one less enemy with which to concern themselves. And for your information, Betazed was sitting on the Federation Council at the time. How fortunate for the Klingons that we believed in that praiseworthy compassion which, according to you, might yet be our downfall."
Worf was glowering so furiously that it seemed as if his eyes were about to leap from his skull. " 'Bar . . . baric...'?" he said with an unmistakable edge of danger.
Immediately Gart was contrite. "Perhaps that was the wrong word ... and it was very long ago ..."
"Barbaric!"
Deanna put a hand on his arm and said urgently, "Worf, perhaps it would be better if we left; we've had a long journey, and rest might be-"
"I think it best," he said in cold, measured tone, "if I departed. I do not believe I am welcome here."
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"That's not true .. ."
He turned to her and for a moment. . . just a moment. . . there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Trust me." He paused, then added, "Bring Alexander back to the inn when the party is over. We will talk then." And he walked quickly away, keeping his focus straight ahead of him, not looking at Alexander and, most particularly, not looking at Lwaxana Troi.
When Deanna and Alexander returned to the inn not too long after Worfs unceremonious exit, Alexander quickly retired to his own bedroom, not wanting to be present for the scene that he knew, beyond question, was to follow.
Deanna had half-expected to find Worf packing. Worf had half-expected that Deanna would simply drop Alexander off, turn on her heel, and head back to her mother's house. Both of them were inwardly pleased to see that their worst expectations had not been realized, but there was a long way to go when it came to finding a meeting of minds.
"Would you like to tell me what that was all about?" said Deanna, facing him with her hands planted firmly on her hips.
"A philosophical difference of opinion," he rumbled.
"The hell it was!" said Deanna with such vehemence that Worfs surprise was evident on his face. "You went in there spoiling for a fight!"
"I went in there expecting a small gathering, not an ambush."
"It was not an ambush, Worf!" she moaned, running her fingers through her hair in frustration. "Mother explained that-!"
"Are you taking her side?"
"I'm not taking anyone's side!"
"I would have hoped that you would take mine. That is the purpose of a marriage, is it not?"
"Worf, if you think the purpose of marriage is that the wife
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leaves her opinions at the doorstep and blindly follows her husband down whatever path he might randomly choose to take . .."
"He called my people barbarians!" His fury was beginning to mount again.
Deanna, however, showed not the least signs of being intimidated. "And what did Klingons call other races? Races whom they considered weaker, or ripe for conquest? Terrans, Betazoids, Vulcans ... are you saying there were no contemptuous nicknames for them bandied about in the places of power at the Klingon Empire? How clean have Klingon hands been, Worf? How clean are yours?"
The uncharacteristically harsh words from the normally calm counselor brought Worf to a halt. Deanna, for her part, immediately felt contrite . . . and then, to the surprise of both of them, she laughed softly. "What is so funny?" Worf asked testily.
"It must be beyond doubt that I love you. If I didn't, you couldn't possibly have gotten me as angry as you just did. I'm a professional counselor. I stay calm for a living. Only a loved one can get quite so under one's skin."
Worf shook his head. It seemed to Deanna that he was very far away, wrapped entirely in himself and whatever demons were eating at him.
"Worf. .." And she sat next to him as he stared coldly into the air. "Worf. . . you seem so conflicted. Even frustrated. Can't you tell me what you're thinking?"
"It is not... easy . . ."
"The Worf that I know hasn't ever flinched from a challenge."
"I act... differently when I am with you. Perhaps the Worf you know is an illusion."
"Oh, Worf, I knew you for six years before we became involved as a couple. I think I've a fairly accurate assessment of your character. Please . . . tell me what's bothering you."
"He felt he was on display."
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Both of their heads snapped around and they saw Lwaxana standing in the doorway. To Worf, it was nothing short of amazing that she had managed to make such a stealthy entrance. Indeed, it was somewhat alarming. Deanna was simply annoyed. "Mother . .."
There had been any number of times where Lwaxana Troi had come across as a bit of a scatterbrain. Then there were other times when she was simply irritating, or amusing, or outrageous. But that was not the Lwaxana Troi they were seeing now. This was a woman who was accustomed to being attended to, listened to, and obeyed. Deanna didn't manage to get out another word, and Worf never even got started.
"Mr. Worf here went through much of his childhood feeling the outcast," Lwaxana said. Her dark eyes seemed to bore straight into the back of his skull. "He lived in a world that prided itself on having outgrown racism, yet did not hesitate to ostracize him because of who he was, and the world did not grasp its hypocrisy. He insulated himself from that upon joining Starfleet, but the raw wounds of his childhood are present in him always. At the gathering this evening, he found himself not in the mind-set of Lieutenant Commander Worf, but instead with the injured ego of young Worf Rozhenko, reacting to every taunt, every harassment, every challenge to his very heritage that he faced as a youth. You were correct, Little One. He was spoiling for a fight, but only because he was simply seeking to repeat a pattern that was all too familiar to him from his childhood."
"Get out of my head," Worf said angrily.
"Well, it's a big head, there's enough room in there for everybody."
"Mother!"
"Oh, calm down, Little One, it was a joke." She leveled her gaze at Worf, and her expression seemed to soften ever so slightly. "Worf... for what it is worth ... I do apologize for the mild fiasco this evening. I truly did intend for it to be just us. But when my absentmindedness and fate conspired to
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make it a large gathering, I thought that it might be easier rather than harder. That you would feel as if there was less pressure; you would just be a face in the crowd. I thought that the sizable gathering would be a blessing in disguise."
"It was a superb disguise," Worf noted.
"So . . . here is what we are going to do. Mr. Worf... do you still wish to marry my daughter?"
Almost to Worf s own surprise, he said without hesitation, "Yes." Even Deanna seemed startled by the speed and vehemence of his reply.
"Very well, then. In that case, Worf, to better understand us you will receive a full training in Betazed philosophy and harmony. You will plumb the very depths of our definitions of love and sacrifice. You need not necessarily subscribe to those beliefs, but at the very least, you will come to understand them and maybe-someday-embrace a few of them. I will handle your indoctrination into our principles myself."
"You? Mother, to begin with, I'm more qualified to-"
"You are too close to the situation, Little One, and besid
es, I am a Daughter of the Fifth House . . . holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and Heir to-"
"The Holy Rings of Betazed," Worf and Deanna intoned together.
Lwaxana appeared to take no notice of the sarcasm. "The point is, I can certainly impart upon Worf what he needs to know and do so in a dispassionate manner. Unless, of course, Worf feels it to be too much of a difficult undertaking ..."
"Reverse psychology is hardly necessary," Worf informed her. He turned to Deanna and asked, "If I do as she requests ..."
"I wasn't presenting it as a request," Lwaxana said.
He glanced at her and said flatly, "Yes. You were."
Lwaxana opened her mouth for a moment and then closed it again. "So I was," she said in a neutral tone.
"If I do this," he continued, "will it... please you?"
"Only if it will please you," replied Deanna.
"It will please me ... but only if-"
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The door to Alexander's room flew open, Alexander stuck his head out, and he fairly shouted, "Will you just do it, Father, so you can get married and I can get some sleep?!" And he slammed the door shut again.
The adults looked at each other.
"When do we start?" asked Worf.
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CHAPTER
8
I om Riker was going out of his mind with boredom.
He had completely lost track of how long he had been cooped up in the brig of the Romulan warbird. Day passed into night with no clear delineation, which might have been as much by design as anything else. It was as if they were trying to destroy his internal rhythm, throw him off and thus make him more susceptible to ...
... to what?
What were they planning to do to him? What the hell did they have in store? Had they seen through his charade somehow? Were they just trying to make him crazy out of pure Romulan sadism? What was their plan? They have to have a plan, he kept telling himself, there must be a plan. They wouldn't have mounted a raid to rescue Saket just out of nowhere. There had to be a reason for it, had to be something they wanted.
Except, since Saket was dead, there was the possibility that it was all moot. He might have been the key to whatever it was they wanted to do, and with him gone, the door was locked tight and the key was gone. In which case, they might just be
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busy trying to decide what would be the most painful way to dispose of Riker.
Then one day (night?) Riker heard the sound of marching feet. Since it was the first time that he'd detected such pronounced stomping, he could only surmise that it was being done for his benefit. They wanted him to know they were coming, probably to scare the hell out of him. But Tom Riker, at that point, was too tired and aggravated and just plain bored to feel anything more than impatience. He figured, Let's just get it over with.
The perpetual guard at his door stepped to one side as two more guards stepped into view. One of them reached up and shut off the field guarding the exit. Without a word, he gestured for Riker to emerge. For a moment, Tom considered the option of just folding his arms, crossing his legs, and refusing to budge. Try to provoke some sort of reaction from them. The thought gave him some small amount of satisfaction; on the other hand, the thought that it might prompt them to simply blow a hole in him the size of a sunspot prompted him to err on the side of discretion. As a result, Tom Riker stood and walked into the corridor.
They had not even bothered to draw their weapons. This was a bit of arrogant overconfidence that Riker couldn't help but feel the desire to test. One guard was in front of him, the other behind him. He stood there for a moment, poised on the balls of his feet, looking for all the world as if he were completely relaxed.
Then he made his move, darting toward the guard in front of him.
He actually managed to get three whole inches before the guard had his disrupter in his hand.
Riker had never seen a draw quite that fast. And he had the sneaking suspicion that, were he to turn around, he would see that the guard behind him likewise had a weapon trained on him. He risked a glance over his shoulder and, sure enough, he was looking down the barrel of a weapon. Without moving an inch, Riker casually took his outstretched hand and tried to
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move it, in a graceful manner, to the back of his neck, which he idly scratched. "You boys are jumpy," he observed, as if he had made no effort at all to attack them.
They didn't buy it. He knew they wouldn't. But they didn't seem to care particularly, either. Without further holdups on Riker's part, they walked down the corridors of the vessel. Very quickly Riker lost track of which hallway led into what. He had a feeling that that, likewise, was by intent. The last thing they wanted him to do was learn his way around the ship. But they wouldn't want simply to blindfold him, since that would make it too obvious that they were concerned that he could do them harm.
After what seemed the hundredth angle around yet another corner, they stopped in front of a door. It slid open and Riker, at their urging, entered. He looked around in confusion. It appeared to be a bathroom and dressing room, with a sonic shower in the corner, and a set of clean, pressed Romulan-style clothes draped over a chair. Fancy it most definitely was not, but it was definitely serviceable.
"What's this for?" he asked.
"You. Shower and then change clothes."
"Why?"
"Because you stink," the shorter of the two guards said reasonably. "Humans give off an odor that Romulans find distasteful. You are fairly reeking of it."
"Sorry. What with my being a prisoner and all, I probably sweated a bit more than I usually do."
Admittedly the attempt at humor was lame, but Riker felt that at the very least the guard could have tried to crack a smile. Such was not to be as he simply regarded Riker with an unsmiling face. When he was certain he had Riker's attention, he continued, "After you have cleaned yourself, you will put on those clothes and follow us."
"Where to?"
He should have known he wasn't going to get an answer, but rather just another cold stare. Knowing there was no point to fighting about or arguing over the matter, he stepped into the
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room and showered as quickly as he could . . . even though his impulse was to revel in it since it was the best he had felt in weeks. He dressed just as quickly and then stepped back out into the corridor. As near as he could tell, the guards had not moved so much as a centimeter from where they had been when he left them.
They went the rest of the way in silence, and then the guards halted in front of a set of doors. Clearly this was where they had been assigned to bring Tom. Riker wasn't sure what to expect when he walked in, although he was mentally prepared for anything, up to and including an abrupt barrage of phaser fire. For all he knew, this was the famed Romulan sense of humor about to display itself for his amusement.
Curiously, he was not expecting what he found.
There was a small table elegantly adorned, with a tall, thin candle flickering in the middle. It was the only source of light in the room. Food was laid out, not in abundance, but in sufficient quantity nonetheless and actually prepared to appear palatable. Seated on the far side of the table was Sela. She was still in uniform, but she had removed some of the armor pieces so that she appeared softer, if not exactly warm and cuddly. And she was actually smiling. For a moment, just a moment, Riker mistook her for someone else, so gentle were the lines in her face. Then he remembered that she was supposed to be a half-breed, born of an Earthwoman named Tasha Yar and a Romulan noble. Riker found himself wishing that he had known Tasha Yar . . . and then had to remind himself that William Riker had known Tasha, and he would be well advised to remember that.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the seat opposite her. Tom did so, his gaze never leaving her. She laughed, and it was a surprisingly musical noise. He had a feeling that she rarely did it. "You never take your eyes off me. Either you are utterly enamored of me, or else you are concerned that I'm going to slide
a blade between your ribs."
"Let's just say a little bit of both."
"Fair enough. Eat." When she saw his hesitation, she
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reached over with a utensil, speared a piece of meat off his plate, and ate it. "See? No poison."
He pointed to another section of the plate and said, "That one."
She sighed. "You think I would eat off the 'safe' part and leave the rest to you. I may be part human, but I'm beginning to wonder if you may be part Romulan." She ate from the indicated section as well without hesitation. "Satisfied?"
"Of course, it could be a poison that works on humans and not Romulans."
"Perhaps. But as I just noted, I'm half human, so I would be at risk." She leaned forward, interlaced her fingers and rested her chin on them. She actually looked almost playful. "Riker, this is ridiculous. We have matters to discuss in which trust will be involved. If we can't even get past an entree, what is the point? Now eat the damned food or I'll blow you out an airlock, all right?"
Riker ate. In point of fact, the food wasn't too bad. A bit bland to his taste, but certainly palatable.
"Tell me about my mother."
The question caught him momentarily off guard. "You mean Tasha?"
She nodded. "I have hated her for many years, for betraying my father and leaving me. But. . ."
He might have been imagining it, but she actually seemed slightly to have let her guard down at the moment.
"I have ... so few memories of her. She died when I was quite young. She . .. used to tell me stories. Fantasy stories. She spoke of giants, and magicians . . . and genies. Genies in a bottle where you would open the bottle and all your wishes would come true." She paused and then said, "I know, I know, it's very confusing . . . your records show that Tasha Yar died on some misbegotten planet somewhere, and yet she wound up on the bridge of the Enterprise-C as a lieutenant in Starfleet even though she'd really only been born a couple of years previously ... I know all that, I understand that. Well... I think I understand it. That the Tasha you served with wasn't