by Peter David
". . . leave, yes, I was just thinking that," Chandra replied, overlapping her. With a hasty good-bye, she quickly exited the house, leaving Worf and Deanna alone.
"Where is Alexander?"
It wasn't the first thing she was anticipating that he would say, but she readily replied, "He wished to visit with my mother. They're very fond of each other, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"So I brought him over to the house. She wasn't home, but Mr. Homn was attending to him. I had the appointment with Chandra and I really didn't want to break it, otherwise I would have stayed with him. I didn't think there would be a problem with that. Is there?"
"No. No."
"Worf, what happened? I mean, clearly something did."
He paced a moment more before he could calm himself down sufficiently to frame his thoughts. "I know why she is doing this to me. But why are you doing it?"
"Doing what? I don't understand... ."
"Do you love me for who I am?"
"Absolutely. And I also love you for what you can b-"
"There," and he stabbed a finger at her. "There is the problem. We have different definitions of what I can be. Or should be. I am a Klingon, Deanna." He thudded his fist against his chest. "That is not a state of mind. That is who I am. If my adopted parents could not make me into a human, what makes you think you can make me into a Betazoid?"
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"I'm not trying to turn you into a Betazoid, Worf, don't be absurd! Neither is my mother! We just wanted you to understand. Not become. Just understand ..."
"Oh, I understand all too well. What is 'Imzadi'?"
She actually seemed to blanche when he said the word. "What?"
"What does that word mean? I am asking you a straightforward question. What means 'Imzadi'?"
"It's ... a term of endearment. It means 'beloved.'"
But Worf shook his head, clearly refusing to believe it. "No. That is not all. Not from the way she said it. She gave it significance beyond a simple endearment."
"Worf, this is silly. Nothing is going to be accomplished by-"
"What does it mean!"
She was taken aback by what she saw in his eyes. There was a cold, burning fury. She wasn't intimidated, she didn't think he was going to hurt her. Instead the anger seemed directed inward, as if he was furious with himself over something that was eating at him. She drew herself up, steadied her chin, and said, "All right. It has a secondary and . .. deeper meaning."
"And that would be-?"
"'The First.'"
"The First." It took a moment for him to understand, but then he did. His eyes widened. "Are you saying that Commander Riker ... he was your . . ."
She nodded. "But it's more than that. It's not just the first person who captures your body. It's the first person who captures your .. . well... your soul."
"Your soul mate."
"I... wouldn't put it that way."
"But you would not deny it."
For a moment, it seemed as if tears were about to well up in Deanna's eyes. Tears of frustration, of upset over the hurt that she could see Worf was enduring ... a hurt that he would never admit to, because he might consider it a sign of weak-
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ness. "Worf. . . what would you have me do? I can't go back and make myself not fall in love with Will, back when he was assigned here to Betazed. I can't alter the course of our relationship. I can't go back in time and reorder it to my liking."
Her comment touched a nerve in Worf. .. but he couldn't quite determine why. Instead he asked, "So . . . where does that leave us."
"It leaves us right where we were before, Worfl I love you. You love me, don't you?"
Slowly he nodded. "But," he said, "it can never be the same as what you had with William Riker, can it."
"So it won't be the same," she said tiredly. "It will be different. Not everyone loves everyone in the same way, Worf! You're not in competition with Will Riker."
"It seems to me that I am."
"I can't control how things seem to you, Worf. You just have to believe me that I'm not measuring you up against Will."
"Am I a better lover than he was?"
If Deanna paled before at the mention of the word "Im-zadi," this time she went in the other direction, turning positively red. "Worf! Oh my God, I can't believe you asked that-! You don't hear me asking if I'm a better lover than Alexander's mother was!"
"Do you want to know?"
"No! I don't! Because unlike some people, I'm not in competition with a memory!"
"It is different."
"How?"
"Because she is dead . . . and he is not."
She saw the hurt in his eyes, the pained recollection of a wound that was clearly still raw in him. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It is ... all right. I suppose ... the question is irrelevant anyway. When I make love to you ... I do so differently than I would with a Klingon woman."
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"You .. . do?"
"Yes. I endeavor to use the techniques that a human male would use."
Deanna felt as if she had been experiencing an entire gamut of emotions. Minutes ago she had wanted to cry; now it was everything she could do not to laugh. "And you know these . .. how?"
"I. .." He cleared his throat. "Researched it."
"Researched it? How?"
"I would rather not say."
"So tell me .. ." Deanna, trying to tease Worf away from his concerns, slunk across the room and draped her arms around his neck. ".. . would you be interested in making love to me ... as you would to a Klingon woman?"
"No."
"Oh." The flatness of his turn-down startled her. Trying to recapture the mood, she said, "Why not?"
"Because it would likely either kill or incapacitate you."
Deanna's arms suddenly felt to her like two unmoving iron bars. "Oh," she said again.
"Riker, of course, never had that problem," Worf couldn't help but note.
Beginning to lose her patience, Deanna blew an annoyed puff of breath from between her round lips and said, "Worf. . . to love someone differently than someone else doesn't mean that you love them less. It's just that our relationship exists on a different level than what Will and I had. But the thing to remember is that you have one very significant advantage over Will."
"And that would be .. . ?"
"You're here. And he's not."
"I see. So you agreed to marry me... because I was convenient."
"No!" she cried out in frustration. "No, that's not it at all! I mean, are you marrying me because I'm convenient for you, because you know I can help you take care of Alexander?"
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"No. Well. .."
She waited for him to complete the sentence. He didn't. "Well. . . what?"
"There is ... some element of that... I suppose," Worf admitted. "But that is part of seeing you as an ideal mate for a variety of factors. One factor is not inherently more important than another, correct?"
"Well. .." She hesitated and then said, "Actually ... I would think love is ... wouldn't you? The more important, or most important, I mean."
"Yes. Of course."
They stared at each other uncertainly for a time, and then Worf said, "I... need some time to think, Deanna. Just a couple of hours to myself."
"Yes . . . yes, of course . . ."
"I will meet you at your mother's house, if that is acceptable. Perhaps then we may all... discuss matters."
"I would like that. And that is the Betazoid way, Worf: Talking out feelings. Coming to a meeting of minds. You see, you are learning."
"As you say," Worf replied, but he didn't sound completely convinced.
He walked for hours, from one end of the city to the other. Worf watched Betazoids in action, interacting with each other, laughing on occasion, enjoying themselves. But it was so quiet, so damned quiet. Worf had never realized before just how much general noise was created through the simple constant stream of chatter that most
beings engaged in.
A Klingon city, on the other hand ... the noise level! It was beyond belief. Perpetual shouting, howls of laughter or anger, explosive arguments that oftentimes seemed to be launched just to have something to argue about. Bone thudding bone as heads slammed together in reckless competition. It was as if Klingons thrived on noise for the purpose of reminding themselves that they were alive. If they could hear themselves,
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then they were there. Silence was reserved for the grave. Noise was for when you were alive and thriving on that life.
No wonder Betazoids had so much time to contemplate things. There was nothing in particular going on to distract them. The way things were around Worf, he could probably actually hear paint dry if he wanted to.
Why was he being so hard on himself? Why was he obsessing about Riker? Why couldn't he simply take Deanna's word that there was, indeed, no competition?
"You are going to ruin it," he warned himself. "You are going to ruin the best thing that ever happened to you simply because of your pride."
He was not in competition with Riker. It was foolish for him to think of it in those terms. He was not in competition because . .. because she had chosen him, that was why. So if there had been some sort of competition, it was over. He had won. He, Worf, had won.
There was still the matter of the Trois trying to make him over into something he was not. But after several hours of walking, he had the answer to that as well. He would indeed bring Deanna to Qo'noS, the Klingon homeworld, and have her undergo some rudimentary warrior rituals so she likewise could "understand." Yes. Yes, that would be most amusing. Deanna Troi, scaling the Flame Cliffs of Kutabi-blindfolded and with no gear. Deanna Troi, learning combat tactics and trying to defend herself in the ring against females half again her size (let alone males!).
He did not contemplate these matters out of a sense of vengeance, no. Far from it. If understanding was what it was all about, then understanding Deanna would have. And perhaps then, she would cease trying to change him in exchange for his not subjecting her to any of the assorted trials that the average Klingon was undergoing at the age of ten.
As he approached the Troi mansion, following a lovely path lined with exotic foliage, he was becoming increasingly satisfied with the way in which things were working out. Perhaps he had disappointed Lwaxana. But then again, he wasn't marry-
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ing Lwaxana. All he had to do was make Deanna happy, and that he was more than prepared to do.
Although, to be honest, he wished that he could have taken back his comment about killing her if he made love to her as if she were a Klingon woman. He could tell that hadn't gone over particularly well with her. Then again, he couldn't exactly blame her, now, could he.
As he approached the front door, the sun was just beginning to settle down upon the horizon. Long shadows cast themselves over the house, caressing it with darksome fingers. He knocked on the front door and waited for Mr. Homn to promptly open it, as he always did.
It didn't open.
Any other person might have taken a few moments to wonder what was going on. Where was Mr. Homn, why wasn't he answering it, he was usually so reliable, they must be busy, and so on.
Not Worf.
Immediately he went into a crouch, taking as a possibility that there was some sort of danger present. He reached for his phaser. . .
.. . and remembered he didn't have it.
Off-duty Starfleet personnel were not supposed to carry hand phasers with them. Worf was indeed off-duty, in civilian clothes, and had absolutely no reason to be toting small arms.
He was, however, a Klingon, and that was more than enough reason to be prepared for just about anything. Consequently, Worf reached into the tops of his boots and pulled out, from each one, a slim blade with a thin handle and notched end. Individually each of the blades was a nasty weapon, and could be yanked out instantly to deal with whatever emergency presented itself. Since he had a few moments before possibly launching himself into battle, it gave him the time he needed to connect the two blades together at the hilts. This presented him with a handgrip in the middle and blades extending from either side of his right hand. He cursed himself for not having more weaponry on him, but he was worried that it might have
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given Deanna the wrong impression if he'd gone to Betazed armed to the teeth. Besides, it was difficult to carry a bat'leth in the average suitcase.
He crept slowly around the perimeter of the mansion, alert to any possibility of enemy infiltration. Part of him was telling him that he was completely out of his mind, overreacting . . . that, in fact, he was trying to prove something, prove that danger lurked everywhere and only he, Worf, was genuinely prepared to deal with it.
There was a large picture window just ahead, and Worf crept toward it. Carefully, he looked in.
He had a clear view into the main foyer. There didn't seem to be anything amiss.
Then he spotted it: a pool of blood over at the far side.
His nostrils flared, and suddenly every battle-ready sense he had screamed at him that someone was right nearby. His head whipped around and he saw no one, but his blade swung around in a deadly arc nonetheless.
To his surprise, he heard a yelp of pain from what seemed to be thin air and then, inexplicably, a Romulan was suddenly there. He hadn't beamed in. He was just not there one moment, and present the next. He was tall, with a high forehead, pale skin, and dark eyes. Even if he hadn't simply popped in out of nowhere, something about his physical appearance would have been more than enough to tip Worf off that this was no ordinary Romulan. Of course, even the presence of an ordinary Romulan on Betazed was cause for concern.
The tall Romulan was nursing a cut on his upper arm. Thin green blood was trickling down it, the cloth hanging loose from where Worf had sliced him.
"The next one takes off your head. Who are you!" demanded Worf.
The Romulan's eyes seem to sink further into his head and then, just as suddenly, widen as if to consume the entirety of his face. And he spoke one word in a frighteningly raspy voice:
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"Fear."
And suddenly Alexander was dead, and Deanna was dead, and Worf was old and weak and toothless, lying helplessly in his frailty as assassins stole toward him in the night, and all of the attendant anxiety of all those happenstances pounded through him and he was paralyzed, incapable of any sort of rational thought or developing any workable tactic. He had no idea where to go, what to do, he was overwhelmed, he-
"No!"
The paralysis should have lasted long enough for a direct attack to be made upon him, but Worf did not give them the opportunity. Rather than allowing him to be reduced to utter uselessness, Worf s training and mental conditioning drove him to action. He spun and lunged right toward the window, smashing through it. Glass rained everywhere as Worf took the impact with his shoulder and hit the floor in a forward roll.
Two Romulans came at him, one from either side. Neither of them were carrying disrupters, blasters, or any of the preferred means of lethally dispatching a foe. Instead they wielded shock prods, apparently hoping to numb him into unconsciousness. All they had to do was come into contact with his body.
Worf was not prepared to let them do that. Unfortunately, the fear was beginning to redouble itself in his mind, so neither was he prepared to fight at his best. But he had no choice.
One of the Romulans came in faster than the other. He was overanxious, lunging forward with the shock prod. Worf swept up with an inner arm block, driving the prod up and away from himself, and then jammed forward with the blade. It deflected off the chest armor that the Romulan was wearing, but still managed to do damage as it skidded up the metal and lodged in the underside of the Romulan's upper arm. The Romulan let out a howl and from the corner of his eye, Worf saw the other Romulan coming in quickly. He swung the knifed Romulan around, using him as a shield for a moment, and then shoved him bodily into the other
Romulan. The two of them went down and the one who had been knifed dropped his prod. Worf
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immediately scooped it up, and what with wielding his double-bladed weapon in one hand and the prod in the other, he very much resembled someone with whom no reasonable individual would want to screw around.
"Father!"
Worf heard Alexander's alarmed scream from somewhere else in the house. "Alexander!" he shouted. "Where are-?!"
Then there was a crash in the great dining room adjacent to the living room. It was very likely a trap, but Worf had no choice. He barreled toward the dining room, his weapons extended. . . .
He rounded the corner, and at the far end was Deanna, pinned against the wall by a woman and for just a heartbeat, Worf thought that it was Tasha Yar, and then he realized . . .
"Sela! Release her! Now!"
And suddenly the house was alive with Romulans. The ceiling exploded and they dropped down from overhead, and the walls blasted inward as they crashed in from all sides. It was a trap, with Deanna as the bait and Worf, apparently, as the prize.
They were wielding shock prods, and clubs, and assorted blunt instruments, and they were upon him like hyenas on a lion. Worf, trained in all forms of Klingon combat, didn't use any of them. He hacked and slashed, slicing with the blade in one direction, sweeping with the shock prod in the other direction. The mass of foes who opposed him presented him with one great massive target of bodies. They were trying to overwhelm him through sheer force of numbers, and under other circumstances they might have succeeded.
But Worf was too thoroughly seized by pure battle fury. He roared, howled defiance, drowned out the shouts of the Romulans who were trying to bring him down. For there was more at stake here than just his life, or even the lives of Deanna and Alexander. He was fighting for his pride, for his honor. He had spent days on Betazed, and during that time he had come to feel-through no one's fault, really-that he was worthless and out of place. That he was a warrior in a land of peace that
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had no use for him. That he had nothing that he could offer to Deanna, that he was a walking freak show, something to be pitied or disdained or even feared. That the only way he was deserving of even staying on the same planet with Deanna was if he managed to change everything about the way he acted and thought and felt. He had been besieged with philosophies he did not agree with and concepts he could not understand.