by Peter David
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necessarily the same woman. But even so, there must have been some similarities. So ... tell me what you know of her . . . knew of her . .."
The problem was that Riker didn't know all that much about her. Will Riker did, of course, but not Tom. Then again, it didn't really matter if he kept it vague.
"She was ... a superb officer. Brave. Dedicated. She was beautiful. . . and funny . . ."
"Funny?" Sela frowned. "I don't remember her ever being particularly . . . funny . . ."
"Well.. . considering what she'd been through . . . perhaps she wasn't feeling very humorous by the time she had you."
"No. No, I don't suppose she would have." She appeared thoughtful. "Tell me ... something she did. Something you remember."
"She saved my life, on more than one occasion. There was this one time I remember . . ."
And he spun an entire story for her. He based it loosely on an actual event that had occurred earlier in his career, and he made a few substitutions . . . most notably, it had actually been Tom himself who had saved his commanding officer. But he inserted Tasha into the role of savior, himself into the role of the CO, and unspooled an exciting story of daring and sacrifice. Sela, like a woman suffering from drought, took it all in and seemed to absorb it into her soul.
He was making her happy.
It was a rather odd sensation.
"Tell me more," she said when he had finished his fabricated anecdote about her mother.
But Riker had finished the food in front of him, and he sensed that now was the time to try and push matters ... now, when Sela seemed thoughtful and vulnerable.
"No."
She cocked an eyebrow, looking rather surprised at his abrupt change in tone. When she replied, her voice was silky, with an edge of danger to it. "No?"
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"Why am I here? What is all this about? Are you planning to return me to the Cardassians . . . hold me for ransom ... what? I could sit here all night rehashing old times and making you feel nice and nostalgic for your mother ... but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to pretend we're two professionals who are capable of discussing whatever is on our mutual minds."
Very slowly, Sela brought her hands together and applauded in a steady and somewhat sarcastic manner. "Very nice display, Riker. Very nice. I'm trembling." Then she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward on her elbows, and Riker could see that he had gotten some sort of a reaction from her. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely sure what it was, because it was as if she had draped a mask over her face and become completely unreadable. For a Romulan, she had the knack for Vulcan poker face.
"I could try to put this delicately, Riker, in order to spare myself some minor embarrassment. But I believe it best if we are straightforward with each other."
"That is generally preferable."
"I have fallen on what you would call 'hard times.' I have been an operative of the Romulan government for some years now, and I have had my share of successes. My failures, however, have been rather significant." As she cited each example, she tapped a finger on the table as if counting them out. "My attempt to reprogram your Mr. La Forge so that he would assassinate Klingon governor Vagh did not work out Nor did my attempts to destabilize the Gowron regime by supporting the Duras family. However, my most significant failure was my thwarted attempt to invade Vulcan with Romulan forces. And the reason for these failures can always be traced back to the Enterprise. To your people, Riker, and to you. You have continually interfered with my endeavors, you have undercut my attempts to raise the Romulan Empire to its rightful place of power in the galaxy, and you have blocked me, time and again, from reaching my full potential and level
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within the Romulan power structure." She spread her hands wide and leaned back in her chair. "But am I bitter? Am I angry? Do I harbor resentment so sharp that it sticks within me like a perpetual dagger to my heart? Well? Do I?"
"Uhm . . . just guessing here, but. .. yes?"
"You bet your life I do," Sela confirmed. "The Romulan failure to conquer Vulcan was the worst. That was entirely my plan, from start to finish. Its bungling, and the subsequent loss of Romulan life, led my superiors to inform me that my services would no longer be required. In point of fact, I was likely scheduled for termination, since I had apparently-as the charming saying goes-outlived my usefulness. But I have my supporters. People who work under me and with me, or were loyal to my father and, by extension, to me. Through them and with them, I obtained the materials I needed to survive. I fled Romulus with the vessel you find yourself in now, plus several smaller ships that were stored in the hangar bay. You saw the single-person flier during the breakout, yes?"
"Yes, I did. Very impressive flying."
"Thank you," she said, and nodded in what appeared to be genuine appreciation . . . although with her it was hard to tell.
She rose from the other side of the table and slowly, very slowly, came around it. Riker noticed that she seemed to be swinging her hips a bit more than before. Was it his imagination, or was she moving in a deliberately provocative fashion?
And was it getting hotter in the room?
"The thing I remember most about my mother is that she would tell me stories of old Earth . . . especially about the warrior classes. She found the Japanese system of honor to be particularly intriguing, and passed that fascination on to me. At this point in my life, I am what might be referred to as a ronin ... a masterless samurai. I have a great deal of anger burning within me, Riker . . . anger toward the Enterprise for failing my mother and abandoning her to the vagaries of the time stream . . . anger for the setbacks in my life that have prevented me from attaining the goals I've always felt I should have attained. What I have tried to do in my life is channel that
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anger toward purposes that would serve my career and the Romulan Star Empire. Having failed in that, I now seek redemption."
"And I'm to help you with that redemption, is that it?"
Slowly she nodded. She leaned forward and her voice was low and throaty, and he hadn't noticed it before but there was something almost intoxicating about her presence. "I sense in you a kindred spirit, Riker. You have been abandoned by the Enterprise, just as my mother was. You have given everything that you had to give to your government. . . only to have the government turn around and say, 'Not enough. We are sorry, but you simply have not done enough.' To know that your best was not only insufficient, but unappreciated."
"That," he said thoughtfully, "is certainly true enough."
She drew a finger across the line of his beard, tracing it. "I may have had some doubts about you at first, Riker, I freely admit that. But the most vital thing to remember is that Saket believed in you. I think he even liked you. And if you are good enough for Saket, then you are more than good enough for me. I believe that you can help me topple governments that I seek to disempower."
"You want me to help you disempower governments."
"That's right."
He tried not to laugh . . . but even more than that... he tried not to take it too seriously. Because he was starting to dwell on her words in a way that almost implied they made sense, held some appeal. They didn't, of course. They held no sway for him at all...
.. . except...
. . . except the Federation and Starfleet. . . really had left him out to dry, hadn't they? Maquis or not, he was Starfleet first and foremost. They could have done something to get him out of that hellhole, couldn't they? How long had they been intending to let him rot on Lazon? Forever? Probably. Yeah . .. probably.
With an effort, Riker fought to keep his senses on track. He had to remember the goal that he had set himself: to find out
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what Sela was up to, and figure out a way to thwart it. And in doing so ...
In doing so ... what?
Impress Starfleet? As if they cared about him. Still, that was another way that he and Sela were alike. Through sheer dogg
ed determination, they were both trying to please the governments which had turned their respective backs upon them, in the same way that anxious children will do anything to try and please Mommy and Daddy.
He was not a child, though. He was William Riker ...
No! He was Tom Riker . ..
But even as he thought that, he hated the reality of it. He was Will Riker, dammit. He was every bit as real and as vital and as deserving as the original-no, as the other-Will Riker.
Eight long years he had spent alone on Nervala IV. Eight long years.
One of the difficulties that mere mortals have trouble dealing with is the fact that life does indeed continue without them. But how much more galling for Tom Riker to learn that not only had everyone else's life gone on without him, but his had as well! And it was turning out so much better than his ever could. He would always be playing catch-up, always.
Better that he had died, alone and unknown, on Nervala IV. That was just more frustration that he felt himself lying at the figurative doorstep of the Enterprise.
"You can do yourself a favor, Riker," Sela almost purred. She was sitting quite close on the edge of the table, and she had an intoxicating scent to her. Riker had no idea whether she had applied it or it was a natural smell to her. He certainly didn't have the nerve to ask. "And it won't just be for yourself; it'll be for the Federation as well."
"Oh?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"That's right. You see, you feel as if your Federation has abandoned you. I know my empire has. But we can win back the admiration of both groups through the destruction of their mutual foe. ..."
"The Cardassians?"
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"Well, at the moment, the Cardassians are technically allies of the Romulans. Of course, my little raid doubtlessly didn't endear the Romulans to them, but my people will make the convincing argument that it was a rogue independent operator acting on her own. No, when I speak of mutual enemies"-she lowered her voice in obvious disdain-"I'm speaking of the Klingons and the Klingon Empire."
"The Klingons." Riker guffawed. "Sela, I know that you might be just a little out of touch, but last I looked, the Klingons and Federation were allies."
"The one who is out of touch is the Federation." She snorted disdainfully, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She had slid closer to him on the edge of the table, and one leg was swinging at the knee in a fashion that could best be described as "girlish." It was surprisingly fetching.
Eight years.
Eight years ... by himself. With no company, no loved ones, no ...
... no women.
It had been a long stretch, eight years. Riker had never anticipated living the celibate life of a monk. And yes, there had been the terribly brief reunion with Deanna, but circumstances had sped him through that get-together and there had been no one since then.
Riker had never had any problem obtaining bedmates when he had so desired. One yeoman had once commented that he should have the twinkle in his eye insured for a million credits. He seriously considered doing it just so he could name her as the beneficiary, just for laughs.
So eight years . . . going from feast to famine that totally and comprehensively . . .
He cleared his throat loudly, perhaps a bit too loudly, but he couldn't help it since it was feeling unnaturally closed up.
Sela, meantime, was still talking about Klingons.
"They are users," she said unequivocally. "They used the Romulans until it no longer served them, and then they allied with the Federation when their own resources were destroyed.
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Well, now other, powerful races have entered into the picture, haven't they. Powerful enemies, such as the Dominion and the Jem'Hadar. Inevitably, the Klingons will ally with them. It is their nature. They will ally themselves with the Dominion and shunt aside the Federation. Worse . . . they will turn against the Federation. The price of entry to join the galaxy-spanning club of the Dominion."
"You don't know that for certain ..."
"Was it not a Terran . . . Santa Claus, I believe his name was . . . who said that those who do not listen to history are doomed to repeat it?"
Riker tried to cover his mouth and stifle a laugh. He was not one hundred percent successful. "I... I think you mean Santayana."
"Oh." Sela looked momentarily thrown, but then seemed to shrug it off mentally. "Well... the names are similar. I was close."
"Oh, definitely. They're practically interchangeable."
"The point is," she said forcefully, "that you can be instrumental in ending an alliance that should never have begun. Plus," and she smiled, "my plans involve a certain Klingon. One whose activities you must be all too well aware of."
For a moment Riker had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. The overheated effect that her presence was having on him abated slightly as he stared at her in confusion. "Who are you referring to?"
"Worf," she said flatly, and looked at him askance. "Are you saying you don't know? That their involvement was conducted without your knowledge?"
Worf. Worf from the Enterprise. Tom was with her that far, but her talking now about "involvement"? Riker was suddenly worried that he was approaching the outer reaches of his ability to carry off his masquerade. Trying to buy time, he said, "You've lost me. You've totally lost me."
"My oh my. I begin to understand." She reached over, took her chair by the back, and slid it behind herself. She sat so that
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she was face-to-face with Riker, their knees touching. She took her hands in his, and there was a look on her face that was genuinely sympathetic. "The heartlessness . . . the utter heartlessness . . . nothing could better underscore the pernicious Klingon mind-set. . ."
"What are you talking about?"
"Worf and your precious Deanna Troi, whom you talk about in your sleep-they are involved."
"In . . . involved?" The notion made his head swim. For years, when he had been stewing in his own juices alone on that godforsaken world, Deanna had been locked into his head, as if frozen in amber, and he had cherished the relationship that they had had. When he met up with her again on the Enterprise, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to make right that which he had botched the first time. He couldn't believe that she hadn't already been snatched up by someone, most particularly . . . well. . . himself.
And then what had he gone and done but blown it.
During his time in the work camp, he had dwelt on his actions since being rescued and, oddly enough, he regretted nothing-not even the actions that had cost him his freedom. Nothing . . . except the way that he had once again bungled his relationship with his Imzadi, with his Deanna. He had vowed that if he managed to get oif the Cardassian rock that was his prison, he would somehow salvage the relationship.
In all those musings, it had never occurred to him that she might be taken because, after all, if fate had left her single for all that time, then certainly they were meant to be together.
And taken by ... by Worf? By a Klingon warrior? What sort of madness was that? He was brutal where she was tender, bristling where she was smooth, rough where she was gentle . . .
Insanity . . .
He realized that Sela had kept talking, and with an effort he managed to refocus on what she was saying.
"-kept it secret while you were serving together," Sela was
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surmising, shaking her head in disbelief, "and then, once you were taken prisoner, they dropped the need for secrecy and flaunted their affair publicly."
"This . .. must be a mistake . . ."
"No mistake. I have . .. operatives . . . shall we say ..."
"What are you talking about? Operatives where?"
She hesitated a moment, and then said, "All right. I may as well be candid. Our intelligence reports indicated that, in a full-blown war with the Dominion, Betazed would be a likely target for occupation by the Jem'Hadar. Both the Romulans and the Cardassians are keeping the planet under close survei
llance, with a network of informants and such."
"So?"
"So, masterless samurai I may be, but I still have well-positioned sources in the Romulan intelligence-gathering network, at least. I hear of things. Once I knew of your interest in her, I checked into Deanna Troi's more recent activities just as a matter of course. It turns how she had just recently returned to Betazed . . . with her fiance, Mr. Worf, in tow. Deanna's mother, Lwaxana Troi, held a rather large social gathering for her just the other day, in fact. A sort of welcome-home affair."
Riker looked as if he'd been smashed across the face with a brick. "Deanna . .. and Worf. No, he's . . . he's all wrong for her .. . how could he let this happen . . . ?"
"How could he let it happen?"
Riker's breath suddenly caught. He'd blown it, since of course he was referring to Will Riker, his counterpart.
But without hesitation, Sela replied, "He's a Klingon, Riker. That's my point. He let it happen because he wanted it to happen. He cares nothing about loyalty or decency. As with all his kind, he wants what he can take because he is the stronger. He sees Deanna as a conquest; nothing more."
There was a pounding in Tom Riker's head then, a whirlpool of emotions swirling within him. Anger at Will Riker, fury with Worf, desire for Deanna tinted with a sense of betrayal, and a need . ..
... a need, like a living entity all its own. A need to love and
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be loved, a need to hold a woman in his arms, to reinforce his own desirability. A need to hurl himself into an abyss of passion and sensation, to release the emotion that was roiling within him .. .
It was as if Sela sensed that need. Her hand was at the base of his neck now, as if feeling the throb of his pulse. She seemed everywhere to him: in his mind, in his soul, and when she spoke again it was with her hot breath caressing the inside of his ear.
"You can have her again," she whispered. "You can take her from the brute ... I can help you with that... I can help you with whatever you wish to do, for we are two of a kind ... we are both the outcasts, the forgotten ... we can help each other, Riker . . . we're good for each other .. . you have a need, don't you . . . don't you . . ."