by Peter David
“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 off 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 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 surveillance, 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 fiancé, 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 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…”
And yet, with all the buildup in his mind, in his body, he didn’t know that he would press his lips against hers until he actually did it. Had no idea that he would grab her with a fierceness that astounded even him, pulling her body up against his, feeling the hard shape of her beneath the clothing, the tautness of her flat stomach and lean muscles. He felt her gasp into his mouth and then she returned the ferocity of his kiss with an intensity of her own….
Nine
Worf hadn’t been completely certain what to expect upon his arrival at Lwaxana Troi’s house, but the sight of Lwaxana in battle gear certainly wasn’t it.
It was a fairly warm morning, as most were on Betazed. The grass was still wet from the dew, and Worf unaccountably felt a certain spring in his step. For no reason that he could really determine, he was filled with an odd faith that everything was going to work out. That confidence lasted up until the point that Lwaxana opened the door, at which point he decided that all bets were off.
The fact that she had answered the door herself rather than having Mr. Homn do it was surprising enough. But her garb and demeanor were nothing like what Worf was accustomed to. She was wearing no makeup, and her long hair was tied back with a cloth. She was wearing a formfitting, one-piece blue outfit, with heavy padding around the shoulders, upper chest, and upper arms, and hips. In either hand, she was holding a long staff, with what appeared to be lights at either end of each staff. The lights were not on, however.
In addition to her workout armor, she was also smiling. Worf wasn’t quite certain which he found to be more disconcerting.
Worf decided to comment on the less obvious of the two unusual aspects of Lwaxana Troi that he was encountering. “Good morning, Mrs. Troi. You seem in a good mood today.”
“Please, it’s ‘Lwaxana.’ Let’s not be so formal. And yes, as a matter of fact, I’m in a very good mood. Come in, come in,” and she gestured for him to follow. He did so, allowing himself the briefest of moments to try and determine whether this was, in fact, Lwaxana Troi, or instead a rather brilliant imposter.
“The reason I’m in a good mood is that I just heard from Odo.”
“Odo?” He frowned. “Security Chief Odo?”
“Oh, I should have realized you’d know of him. He’s in the same line of work as you. He’s a law enforcement officer on Deep Space Nine. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes, but I am not especially fond of space stations.”
“Really?” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Why not?”
“I do not like being aboard a stationary target.”
“Worf, Worf, Worf,” she sighed, “does everything with you have to be defined in military terms?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least you’re honest. Anyway, Odo and I, we have a rather…special relationship. I just received a vid from him this morning. Would you like to see it?”
“No—”
“Then I’ll tell you about it. ‘Mrs. Troi,’ ” Lwaxana recited from memory, in a musical timbre, “ ‘I am in receipt of your latest communication. While I am certain that you considered your remarks to be flattering, I have to tell you that the desires you have expressed are misplaced and that our continued correspondence is going to prove increasingly uncomfortable for us both…particularly, it seems, for me.’ We have a very special relationship, Odo and I,” she said to Worf, back in her normal voice.
“ ‘Despite your impressions to the contrary, we have no relationship beyond friendship,’ ” Lwaxana continued, returning to her musical speech. “ ‘…and at this point, at the risk of injured feelings
, I must say that even that affiliation is becoming increasingly tenuous. Please…if you must continue this correspondence, do so in a more formal and strictly platonic manner…and preferably, with a message that consumes somewhat less time than…’ ” Lwaxana paused, remembering. “ ‘…ninety-three minutes and eighteen seconds.’ ”
Finished, she turned to Worf and seemed unaccountably happy. “You may not have been able to tell from that, but that was positively tender compared to our earlier communiqués. He is definitely starting to come around. Isn’t he marvelous?”
“His candor is admirable…albeit wasted,” Worf observed. “What species is he?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know if he knows, either. He is a shapeshifter, however. And a brilliant law-enforcement individual. If you’re ever in a difficult situation, he’s your man…well…he’s your…whatever…” Then, as if she’d promptly dismissed him from her mind, she said, “All right…this way, Worf.”
She guided him to an outdoor area with towering trees that provided a good deal of shade. There was a wide patio lined with colorful mosaics. Worf found his attention drawn to the mosaics for no reason that he could really discern. There was just something about them that captivated the eye. There was one section, however, that seemed to have been specially prepared. It was a rectangular area about twenty feet long and ten feet wide, and as opposed to the rest of the patio, it seemed to be composed of a spongy, rubbery material. Lwaxana stepped to the far end and indicated, with a wave of one of the staffs, that Worf should stand at the opposite end. He did so, getting the sick feeling that he knew where this was going.
“Why are you here, Worf?” asked Lwaxana. She was standing some feet away from him, and holding the two staffs in a relaxed position so that they were crisscrossing each other.
“I promised I would be.”
“Are you happy about it?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“Happiness is never irrelevant, Worf.”
“Of course it is. Oftentimes, in fact. The first obligation of life is duty. Happiness is not a factor in that.”
“But if you derive no happiness from it, then what’s the point?” She seemed genuinely puzzled.
“ ‘Happiness,’ if you insist upon the term, comes from knowing that one’s duty has been fulfilled.”
“But knowing it isn’t enough. For example, it is the duty of a Daughter of the Fifth House to have a daughter of her own to carry on the traditions of the House. But if I were not happy about having Deanna…if I regarded motherhood simply as a fulfilled duty, and nothing beyond that, then what sort of mother would I be?”
“A Klingon mother.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Worf…be honest with me….”
“Have I a choice?”
“No,” she said in a practical tone. “You think there’s nothing you can learn from me, don’t you.”
He didn’t reply.
“You think,” she continued, “that because Betazoids love peace…and introspection…that we are weak.”
“I would not marry Deanna if I thought Betazoids were weak.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply regard her as the exception to the rule. Or perhaps you do see her as weak…and inferior…and therefore easy for you to control and no threat to your dominance.”
“That is not true!” he bristled.
“All right,” she said calmly. “But now let’s see…if I can teach you a few things. Things about our philosophies, about our way of life. And maybe, just maybe…they’ll be things you can apply to the way you live your life as not only the husband of a Betazoid, but as a Klingon.” She tossed him one of the two staffs and he caught it effortlessly. Then she brought the remaining staff up to a horizontal position, resting it comfortably between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.
Worf gaped at her in undisguised astonishment. “Are you suggesting we fight?”
“You think Betazoid philosophies make us weak. Ripe for conquest. I want to show you otherwise. We were not always the thoughtful philosophers and sensitives that you know us as now. We had our wars, we had our violence. We learned the importance of growing beyond that. You will, too.” She indicated the ends of the staffs. “This is a little game called B’thoon. The lights at the end of the staffs illuminate when they come into contact with your opponent. Moves can be to anywhere, but only a strike between the neck and waist counts as a point.”
“I do not want to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t.”
She spoke with surprising confidence. With a mental shrug, Worf took a stance, holding the rod out in front of him and endeavoring to look as challenged as he could considering his opponent was a middle-aged Betazoid woman.
Lwaxana let out a battle cry, whirled the staff in a dazzling spin, and came at him.
Worf’s staff smacked her squarely in the stomach and lit up. Lwaxana hit the ground like a sack of rocks and lay there for a moment, gasping.
“Are you injured?” Worf asked. He extended a hand to help her up.
Lwaxana, all pride and wounded dignity, waved him off. She placed the bottom of the pole on the ground, pushed upward and got herself standing up. She took a deep breath and finally managed to say, “You’re quick, Worf. I’ll grant you that. And I’m just a little rusty. But I”—and she rallied her confidence—“was B’thoon champion of my graduating class. You won’t catch me quite that easily again.”
Once more she took a defensive stance, approaching him more cautiously this time. Worf didn’t even move. He simply remained with his feet rooted to the ground, tracking her with a slight angling of his torso. She came in fast with a quick series of strikes aimed at the chest and arms. Worf blocked them without too serious an effort, ducked a swing of hers that went wide, and used the opportunity to angle his staff between her ankles and trip her up. Lwaxana’s feet went out from under her, and she thudded to the ground. The spongy material absorbed much of the impact, but Lwaxana still looked jolted.
This is absurd, he thought.
Lwaxana got back to her feet a bit more slowly but no less determinedly. Her hair was somewhat askew and starting to get into her way. She pushed strands aside and readied herself. “Again.”
“Lwaxana…”
“Now!”
Three, four quick exchanges, and this time he hit her just under the rib cage. It didn’t knock her down, but the end of the staff lit up.
“Again,” she said, her anger clearly building.
Again the staffs clacked together. This time Worf pivoted, dodging a full-bore charge by her, and struck her in the back just under the third vertebra. She spun around, and there was cold fury on her face. “I can do this,” she declared.
“Lwaxana…”
“I can do this!”
She came at him again.
And again.
And again.
Each time he deflected her blows, or dodged them. A couple of times she came close to tagging him, but close was all she managed. Over and over he would nail her after a few exchanges, without working up any real exhaustion over it.
He kept waiting for Lwaxana to quit.
She wouldn’t.
Her face, her clothes became soaked with sweat. Her breath became more tortured. Her movements slowed, each repetition more filled with effort than the one before. For Worf it became painful to watch. When she had fallen nearly three dozen times, Worf started to get genuinely concerned. It was not going to look good to Deanna if her fiancé killed his prospective mother-in-law. He was doing the best he could to control the severity of the impact with which the staff was striking her, but Worf was not accustomed to moderating the force of his blows. Klingons did not, as a rule, fight for the purpose of wounding.
So much perspiration was rolling off Lwaxana’s brow that she was blinking furiously to keep it out of her eyes. Her hair was hanging, matted, around her face. She tried to stand in one place as she planted herself for the next go-around, but she
was wobbling. She took a moment to steady herself and Worf waited.
“Lwaxana…quitting is an option,” he said.
There was a deep rasping in her throat, as if all the moisture in her body was on the outside and there was none left within. “You…first…” she said.
With that one sentence, that one defiant utterance, Worf understood what was at stake for her. She wasn’t simply battling him. She was also fighting the memory of her own youth, of what she once was. Lwaxana Troi was a woman who thrived on self-esteem in the same way that others thrived on oxygen and light.
You first, she had said.
Well, that was all it would take, really. All Worf had to do was give in. Say that he’d had enough. Be the first one to back off.
He opened his mouth to say it…
…and the words stuck in his throat.
Quit? To hell with that. Lwaxana was battling demons of her youth. So what? Worf had to deal with that every day, and one didn’t deal with that by giving up.
Slowly he shook his head and brought his staff up defensively again. Lwaxana grunted in acknowledgment that the battle was to continue. She licked her chapped lips, not doing much in the way of wetting them, and steeled herself for another attack.
In a surprising move, she swung at his legs. He vaulted over it, hit the ground rolling, blocked a return thrust by her, and hit her in the stomach again…lighter than the first time, but she still felt it. She bent over, staggering away from him, trying to regroup. And he heard her muttering something to herself, doing it so quietly that he was reasonably sure she didn’t know he’d heard it.
“Just once,” she was saying under her breath, “just once…”
Just once.
Well, that was really all it would take, wasn’t it. The woman had her pride, but certainly she knew she was overmatched by this point. A pain in the ass Lwaxana Troi could be, but insane she most definitely was not. At this point, she was battling not with any hope of truly overcoming him or teaching him some profound lesson about just how tough Betazoids were. Instead she was fighting purely out of vanity. She couldn’t withdraw from the field without managing to nail Worf at least once. He could even see the Lwaxana-skewed way that she would tell others of the battle: “There we were, a Klingon warrior and I, slugging it out with our B’thoon staffs, and suddenly, boom! Got him square in the chest!” Naturally she would leave out the three dozen or so strikes that he got her with first.