by Peter David
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, and he meant it. He really, truly meant it. He knew now that she had really wanted finally to settle things with him. To bury the dead and put the ghosts to rest. And through his trepidation, through the fears and insecurities of an old man, he had allowed that moment to slip away forever.
He leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.
Her withered, clawlike hand shot upward and grabbed him by the throat.
Riker gasped, and the noise was partly cut off by the hand that was closing on his vocal cords with shocking strength. Lwaxana’s eyes were open and blazing with pure, unbridled hatred.
“Admiral!” shouted Crusher, acting immediately and instinctively to protect the safety of the senior officer. He ran to Riker’s side and was momentarily taken aback by the aura of undiluted fury that radiated from every pore of Lwaxana Troi.
From her ancient lips, as if ripped from the pits of her soul, Lwaxana Troi spat out a condemnation as if it were a curse: “It’s your fault!” The voice was cracked and aged, not at all like the boisterous, sweeping tones that had once been the woman’s staple. But there was still a vitality that would not be daunted by such trivialities as death.
“It’s your fault!” she repeated, and the wrath of the woman shook her voice, shook her entire withered body. “You should have saved her! She asked you! She begged you! You were Imzadi, and you let her die!”
Riker tried to get out a reply, but the pressure was too much on his throat. Wesley tried to yank Lwaxana’s hands away from Riker but they dug in. The long fingernails drew thin streams of blood.
“You let her die!” croaked Lwaxana. “It’s not right! She was too young…too beautiful! And you let it happen, and I hope you burn in hell… it’s your fault!”
Crusher tore her hands loose from Riker’s throat and pulled the admiral away. Riker was gagging, but through the pain and mortification he still managed to gasp out, “It wasn’t! I did everything I could! You have to understand!”
“Admiral—” began Wesley.
But Riker was shouting, “Please! It wasn’t my fault! Lwaxana, I tried everything…it happened too fast! I—”
But Wendy laid a gentle hand on his. “It’s too late, Will.”
And she was right. Lwaxana’s head had slumped back onto her pillow. Her eyes were still wide open, but there was no light in them. Her hand was still in its clawlike grip, frozen in its final gesture.
Wesley Crusher reached over, passing his hand over her eyes and closing them.
And Riker whispered to her, one final time, “It wasn’t my fault.”
But he didn’t believe it any more than she had.
Six
The funeral had been surprisingly simple.
Surprisingly so because, considering the larger-than-life manner in which Lwaxana had lived her life, Riker had somehow expected a death that was…well…larger than death.
Instead, Lwaxana’s instructions had been very, very specific. She had wanted only a handful of people there. Only the closest of friends, the one or two most highly placed politicians…
…and Riker.
Long after the others had left, Riker was left standing there, staring at Lwaxana’s body in its clear, sealed entombment.
He kept trying to develop ways to ascribe to Lwaxana more pure motives than those of vengeance or hatred. After all, she hadn’t been like that when he first met her. Strong willed, yes. Stubborn and meddlesome and—again—bigger than life. But anger? Vituperation? That hadn’t been part of her makeup. Or so, at least, it had seemed.
Then again…the years have a way of changing people. Years, and unpleasant experiences that can harden the heart and blacken the soul.
Perhaps…perhaps she had wanted him there because she was genuinely trying to heal the rifts. Perhaps she had wanted him at her side in her final moments because she really did want to make amends—and it was only in the last, momentary panic, with icy death upon her, that hidden resentments had boiled over. Perhaps she had wanted him at her funeral not because she wanted to rub his nose in the notion of See? See how your shortcomings have deprived me of happiness in life? but rather because, ultimately, she wanted some sort of connection to her daughter to be present at her last rites. And he was, after all, Imzadi to her daughter.
Riker stood there in the chill air of the Troi mausoleum. They were somewhat rare items on Betazed—the more frequent modern method of disposal was cremation and then to be scattered on the winds; the northern cliffs in the Valley of Song were a popular point of such activity.
But the older families—and few were older than that of the Fifth House of Betazed—clung to the traditional method. The method was dictated by the notion that the best way to have a sense of who one’s ancestors were was to have a perpetual reminder at hand.
Which was why Riker was now standing alone in the mausoleum, staring at Lwaxana’s shrouded body, but being even more painfully aware of who was lying in the next room.
What, dammit. Not who. She hasn’t been a who since…
…since you let her…
Riker tried to force away that line of thought. Blast it, he hadn’t let it happen. It had just happened.
He couldn’t go in and look at her.
He turned to head for the door, and that was when the uncommonly slow storm front chose finally to act. There had been a few passing drizzles earlier, and he had hoped that that would be the end of it. But now the full fury of the storm cut loose. Lightning ribboned across the sky, and rain began to fall in blinding cascades. Far in the distance, the Troi mansion was silhouetted against the stormy sky, something out of an ancient horror movie.
Riker stepped back into the mausoleum, turned and looked at Lwaxana.
“You arranged this, didn’t you,” he said with just the faintest hint of irony. “You’re up there less than twelve hours, and already you’re telling them how to run things.”
Lwaxana made no reply. She didn’t have to. The thunder did it for her.
Riker sighed. “All right.”
He walked past Lwaxana and even rapped a quick knuckle on the clear encasement with just a flash of the old irreverence. He walked into the next room…
And there she was.
He approached her slowly, and for the millionth time in as many imaginings of this scene, he envisioned removing the clear covering over her body. Envisioned leaning over, kissing her, and her large, luminous eyes would flutter and open.
He placed his hands on the covering. He was amazed at his ability to remember things, for Deanna was even more beautiful than his recollection had been able to retain.
She was as her mother presently lay—nude but heavily swathed in pure, white shrouds. But unlike Lwaxana, the ravages of time had been spared her. Spared at a hideous price, but spared.
She was perfectly preserved. The black hair still thick and full, the perfect lips formed into a small, round O shape. Her chiseled features were immaculate—perfectly formed, perfectly preserved. Cut down in the prime of life, she had at least retained the look of that primacy.
He wanted to remove the spherical cover over her, to take her in his arms. But that would have been the worst move he could have made. The preservative atmosphere within the clear coffin would be compromised—her body would be subjected to the ravages of time. Besides, it wouldn’t be holding her… no amount of preservation could put the warmth back into the soft skin, breathe the life back into her, open the eyes and put the soul back into place.
She could not be made whole. She could not open those eyes and drink in his presence. She could not open that lovely mouth and say—
“Will?”
Riker jumped at least three feet in the air, letting out a yell of shock. He twisted around and slammed his back into Deanna’s coffin, turning to face an equally startled Capt. Wesley Crusher, who was holding his chest and seemed to have developed trouble breathing. When he found the air, he gasped out, “I’m sorry…did I startle you?”
Crusher was soaked to the skin. He pointed. “Out there. Beamed down. You said you hadn’t wanted me at the funeral, and I respected that…but I thought now that it’s over and all…”
“That I’d be ready to come back.”
Crusher nodded, sending droplets of water spattering to the floor. Riker looked at him with mild amusement. “You look completely waterlogged. How long were you out in the rain?”
“About two seconds. It just seemed disrespectful somehow to beam directly into a—” He looked around. “Into here. Didn’t think I’d get this drenched in such a short time, though.”
“Typical Betazed storm,” said Riker. “You’re right, Captain. I’m ready to leave.”
“Very well. Crusher to Hood—”
“However—”
“Cancel,” said Wesley without missing a beat. He looked expectantly at Riker and waited.
“However,” continued Riker, “it’s not quite that simple. Lwaxana’s will had an odd stipulation—she wants me to go through her memorabilia and catalogue it.”
Crusher blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Captain.”
“But why in the world would she want you to do that?”
Riker lightly rested his hands on Deanna’s coffin; Crusher wasn’t even sure that Riker was aware that he was doing it. It was as if he were trying to draw strength from her. “Ostensibly because she feels I’m best qualified—which is nonsense. Mr. Homn is. The real reason, Wes, is because she wants me to relive it. Relive and remember all of it.”
“But…but why?”
“Because,” he said with a sigh, “I imagine that a day didn’t pass where she didn’t dwell on it. And perhaps she’s under the impression that I was somehow able to put it past me. She credited me for more than she herself could accomplish—which is a compliment of sorts, I suppose. So she wanted one last opportunity to put me through what she’s put herself through all these years.”
“You don’t have to do it, Admiral,” said Crusher reasonably. “Tell them you simply can’t take the additional time from your station. Tell them what you just said—that Mr. Homn is more qualified. Tell them—”
“Tell them whatever it takes to get me off the hook?”
Crusher shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Maybe. But it’s not a way that I can subscribe to.” He shook his head and stepped away from the coffin as he said, “I’m not going to deprive Lwaxana of her last shot at me. I was gutless enough to try and delay my coming to her until the last minute. I owe her this…I owe her something. I—”
He stopped as he realized that Crusher wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead Wesley’s gaze was focused on Deanna’s body, which Riker had partly been blocking from view. Riker said nothing for a moment, but instead simply watched the starship captain. Eventually Crusher rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if something stinging had lodged in his eyes.
“You had a crush on her, didn’t you?” said Riker.
Wesley glanced at him. “Was it that obvious?”
Riker shrugged. “Teenage boys are very good at thinking they’ve got their feelings completely hidden. It helps to compensate for the fact that, more often than not, they’re wearing them on their sleeves.”
Crusher let out a slow breath as if a great weight had been lifted off him. “She was…the most exotic woman I’d ever seen. And you didn’t have to pretend with her. No games, no posturing…she just accepted you as you were. All us guys had a thing for her, really. We’d sit around and—”
And then Crusher flushed slightly and cleared his throat.
Before he could continue, Riker said, “And wonder what it would be like to—”
“Yeah,” admitted Crusher. Then, sounding slightly and amusingly defensive, considering his age and the years that had passed, he added, “We were just kids.”
“We were all just kids. You, me, her…all of us. We just didn’t know it at the time.” Riker smiled. “Remember that blue-green outfit of hers?”
“Ohhh, yes. That was my favorite.”
“Mine, too. Every so often, when I was feeling frivolous, I’d put it on and romp around the holodeck.”
Crusher stared at Riker’s deadpan expression. “You…?”
“I’m kidding, Wesley.”
“Oh.” He laughed uncertainly. “Oh.”
“Gave you a strange mental picture there for a second, though, didn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. It did, sir.”
Riker walked slowly across to the door, looking out at the thundering rain. “What else did you and the guys discuss?”
Crusher was looking at Deanna’s coffin. “Truthfully?”
“That’s usually the best way.”
“We talked about how dumb you were to be just friends with her when you could have been so much more.”
Riker looked at him askance. “Was the nature of my personal life such public knowledge on the Enterprise?”
Crusher shrugged. “A thousand people in an enclosed community for years on end…I’m sorry, Admiral, but there just weren’t all that many secrets around.”
“I see.” Letting out a heavy breath, Riker said, “For what it’s worth, Captain Crusher…we were‘so much more.’ If we made any mistake…or if I made any mistake…it was allowing myself to take too much for granted. Like that she would always be there, like Old Reliable. Like that, if I wanted the nature of our relationship to change, I could do so anytime. That was probably my biggest presumption.”
They were quiet for a time, listening to the rain falling on the structure. Every so often the thunder would crash, and they would involuntarily jump. Crusher could, of course, have beamed up to his ship anytime, but instead it was clear to Riker that Wesley had unilaterally placed himself at Riker’s disposal for however long the admiral needed him…or however long Crusher believed he was needed.
Riker wondered obliquely how many strings Crusher had pulled, and how many noses he had put out of joint, to delay whatever missions the Hood might have in the hopper. Whatever it was that Crusher had done, Riker found himself extremely grateful.
“How did it happen, sir?”
“How did what happen, Mr. Crusher?”
For a moment, Wesley seemed reluctant to put it into words. “I read about it…about how she died. I read the formal reports. I know what my mom told me, but at the time she was so broken up about it that she really couldn’t talk about it much. And somehow she never wanted to discuss it, even in later years. It hurt too much for her…for all of us, really. But now, I thought maybe—”
“You’d like to know what, precisely, was happening at the time.”
“Well…I wasn’t there,” Crusher reminded him. “I was off at the Academy doing my extra year. And when I heard the news, I felt so removed, and I…”
“Wanted answers.”
“Yes, sir. I remember, I just sat there in my quarters, shaking my head…I was too stunned even to cry…and I just kept saying, ‘Why? Why?’”
“And now you’re hoping I might have a few whys and wherefores.”
“That’s right, sir.”
Riker shook his head. Then he walked toward the door and stepped just outside, allowing the rain to spatter on his face. The thunder cracked once more, and over its sound, Riker called out, “I have no answers for you, Wesley! None! But if you want to know what happened…I’ll tell you. You’re entitled to that. God knows we all are.”
The End
of the
Beginning
As if it were an old-fashioned campfire, or perhaps stories being traded in a haunted house, Adm. William Riker sat on the floor of the mausoleum and—holding nothing back—spoke to Wesley Crusher of those last days….
Seven
“Come.”
Comdr. William Riker, upon the command/invitation of his superi
or officer, entered the captain’s ready room. Jean-Luc Picard, seated behind his desk, was studying his computer screen and gestured for Riker to sit in front of him. Riker did so, swinging the chair around and straddling it, then waiting patiently for Picard to conclude what he was doing.
He knew that Picard’s first expression when he looked away from the computer screen would determine the thrust of the discussion. So Riker breathed an inward sigh of relief when Picard turned the computer display away and smiled up at Riker. Apparently there wasn’t going to be any problem.
Still, it never hurt to be cautious. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”
“Merely to touch base, Number One. How are the delegates settling in?”
“Excellently, sir. I’d say the mood was even somewhat jovial. The Byfrexian, Luss, and Cordian ambassadors, and their aides, have absolutely no complaints with their accommodations…although the Byfrexians did request the atmosphere in their cabin be somewhat chilled. I’ve attended to that.”
“How amazingly minor,” said Picard, looking pleasantly surprised. “No problems at all?”
“Well…one small embarrassing moment, I suppose,” admitted Riker. “One of the younger children stopped the Cordian ambassador in the hallway and said…”
Picard raised an eyebrow. “Said what?”
“He, um…well, the child seemed to be under the confused impression that the Cordian was, in fact, an accordion. He asked the ambassador to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’ on himself.”
Picard moaned softly. “How did the ambassador react?”
“He took it in stride, actually. He said it’s happened to him on several occasions in the past and suggested that it might be time, and I quote, ‘to learn how to play the smegging thing.’”
“Good.” Picard sat back in his chair in relief. “These sorts of missions are always delicate, Number One. Considering that ambassadors and delegates are supposed to promote interstellar harmony, it’s amazing how often these things can degenerate into acrimony and emotional free-for-alls.”