by David
here."
"Yes, sir."
Sejanus nodded, and watched her
go. The two members of his personal guard who
had been standing outside his door would escort
her safely back to the transporter room--
or to Gaius' quarters, wherever she wanted
to go.
Of course, had Jenny balked at his offer,
or behaved even the slightest bit
suspiciously, he would have had them escort her
someplace else entirely.
It was much easier this way.
Deanna Troi was not surprised when
Jenny asked for a counseling session so soon
after the M'dok attack; she was, however,
surprised by what Jenny wanted to tell her.
"A transfer, Jenny? Why?"
"Maybe I'm just tired of not fitting in
here, Deanna. On the Centurion, I
feel I belong. They're all warriors there,
like I am!"
"Jenny ..." Deanna shook her head.
"I know how fond you are of Gaius, how much
you feel a part of the Centurion. That's all
wonderful. But you need to get one thing very clear
in your own mind. Starfleet is not an
organization of warriors. We fight when we
have to, yes, but--"
"But we have to fight now! After what happened
yesterday, isn't our obligation to pursue the
M' dok to their homeworld and destroy their ability
to wage war?" Jenny asked. "Rid the
Galaxy of the threat they pose! The same
applies to any other enemy that threatens any of
our worlds. Why shouldn't we really train the
Tenarans to defend themselves, force them to change
their society so that they'll be safe even when
our two ships leave? After all, no enemy in
his right mind would attack Magna Roma or
Meramar. We should insist that the Tenarans be able
to fight for themselves--shouldn't we?"
"Isn't that a choice for the Tenarans
to make?" Deanna asked carefully.
Jenny's hand cut the air like a weapon. It
was more than an aggressive gesture; it
betrayed suppressed nervous tension and energy.
"Not if they're going to keep on asking the rest
of us to protect them from attack! They're using
us as their shield so that they can have the luxury of
living the way they want to."
As Jenny spoke, Deanna
listened to her words, and at the same time she
listened to her feelings. The empathic sense
Deanna derived from the Betazoid half of
her told her that Jenny was being torn in two.
This was more than an intellectual argument she was
having with herself, an internal debate about two
conflicting value systems; this was a
fundamental split, a tear in her being.
"Jenny, I can't decide questions of
political philosophy for you. You have to do that
for yourself. Every adult, every citizen of the Federation,
has the duty to do just that. I'm here to help you with
your problems of emotional adjustment. I
don't--"
"That is my problem!" Jenny cried.
"Everything I believed in is coming apart! Can't
you tell?"
Yes, Deanna thought, of course I can
tell. But I still can't prescribe an answer
for you. "Jenny, I think you could use a bit
of a break from your work before you decide to transfer
to the Centurion. One way or another."
"All right," Jenny said dully. "With
Lieutenant Worf down there, they really
don't need me at all."
"Good. I'll get permission from the captain
for you to get some time off, and then I'll want
to see you again after that. In the meantime, here's what
I want you to do. I know you had sections in your
Academy history courses on fascism and
English common law."
Jenny nodded. She seemed suddenly spent,
as if her furious outburst had used up all
her strength.
"I don't feel that they cover either
subject in enough detail," Deanna said. "I
want you to spend your days off reading as much of
what the computer has on those two topics as you
can manage. All right?"
"All right."
Deanna patted her on the shoulder.
"I'll speak to you later."
"Thank you, Counselor."
When Deanna Troi left, Jenny threw
herself onto her bed and stared up at the painting
on her cabin wall. She had brought it with her
from Meramar--the only keepsake she'd allowed
herself from her native world. It was a rendition of
Servado's Agony the semidivine hero
crucified by the barbarian horsemen
he had held off single-handedly for so long.
Below the rough cross, Servado's sword lay
broken in two. Despite the nails through his
palms, the crown of thorns on his head, and the
lance wound in his side, Servado gazed out of the
painting with inhuman calm. His eyes held a
message that Jenny had treasured all her
life "Be courageous, my daughter. Be a
warrior in my image, and we will meet in
heaven."
The message that tradition said was the last he
had spoken in this world was written across the
bottom of the painting "Resorgo." In the
language of Meramar this meant, "I shall rise
again." It was Servado's promise to his people.
Beneath the painting was a small altar covered
with a white cloth. A plain sword lay on
it, much like those produced for generations in
Hispania by Jenny's ancestors for the
legions of Rome. Straight, two-edged,
unadorned, it was a slender, lightweight
version of the legionary's sword. Jenny,
dressed in white, knelt before the altar.
"Holy Servado," she whispered, "bless
my weapon and my undertaking. Be with me as you were
with my father. Show me the right way."
She looked up at the painting hanging above
her. Servado's gaze looked as stern and
loving and approving as it always did, but now she
thought she saw something else there as well.
Something she had seen in Sejanus' eyes
too.
"Holy Servado," she whispered. "Did
you reappear after all on another world?"
But there was no reply. She bent her head
again and continued to pray, sometimes in English,
sometimes in her native language--that
corrupted, convoluted tongue that had once
been Latin.
Chapter Twelve
It was truly beyond belief.
Three days had passed since the M'dok
attack. Worf had even more people in the
self-defense classes he was organizing
than before--so many, in fact, that he had
requested Gaius Aldus' help in teaching the
class. The Magna Roman, who had yet
to arrive this afternoon, was an expert in
unarmed combat as well--and much easier for the
Tenarans to relate to, Worf had to admit.
And still the Tenarans found reasons not to defend
themselves.
<
br /> As Worf had asked her to, Nadeleen
repeated the objection she had made to him in
private three days ago. "I am glad you
asked that question," Worf said. He had the full
attention of the class.
"Because you are quite right, Nadeleen. A
M'dok warrior would have sprung back to his
feet and attacked again. Your counterattack must
be swift enough, powerful enough, that the M'dok
is no longer able to get up. That is what I
will teach you today."
He picked a young girl at random from the
crowd.
"You--what is your name?"
"Arkanka, sir."
"Very well, Arkanka, please come here."
She stood up and approached him warily.
Arkanka was a couple of years younger than
Nadeleen, but she was as tall as Worf and
looked strong enough. Against the M'dok, she
would have a fighting chance--if she learns what I
teach.
"Now," Worf told the group, "there are
various parts of the body where humanoids, even
M'dok, are particularly vulnerable to serious
injury. Blows struck there, hard enough, done
properly, can even cause death."
The Tenarans all shivered
simultaneously. Engrossed in his lecture,
Worf didn't notice the movement. "We will
pass over most of them for two reasons. First,
I'm trying to keep what I teach you pared down
to the essentials and avoid more advanced
details. And second, you would be foolish
to try for most of those places on a M'dok.
The exception, however, is the throat.
"When the M'dok attack, they do so with their
arms out, so that they can strike with their talons, and
their heads up so that they can bite downward. They
expect their prey to be terrified, frozen with
fear, so they don't worry about the fact that their
own throats are exposed. They are therefore
vulnerable to the few simple strikes I will now
teach you. Arkanka, put your arms out and your
head up. Like this." Worf posed for her.
"Just a minute!" Arkanka
objected. "Are you saying that you're going to teach
us how to deliberately injure someone?"
"Not "someone." An attacker.
Presumably, a M'dok warrior."
The whispers changed to angry mutters.
"We can't do that," Arkanka said firmly.
"Can't ..." Worf took a deep breath
and tried again. "I do not think any of you will use
what I teach you to attack an innocent
person. We're discussing self-defense,
remember."
"Even so," Ingerment said, "we thought it would
be all right, because you showed us how to defend ourselves
without hurting the other person. But now you're
talking about something unacceptable."
"Unacceptable?" Worf repeated. "Is it
unacceptable to do what you have to do to save yourself?
It will take more than simple judo throws
to stop the M'dok."
"Then we won't stop them." Some of them
stood and began to walk toward the exit.
Before a general movement could develop,
Worf said, "Explain that to me, please."
Ingerment looked at the others, and seeing that
they accepted him as their spokesman, went on.
"We'd rather let them hurt us than be forced
to hurt them in order to stop them."
""Hurt"? M'dok do not "hurt,""
Worf pointed out. "They kill."
"All right, then," Ingerment said stubbornly.
"We'd rather let them kill us than be forced
to kill them."
"Better to die than be forced to take on the
moral stain of murder," Arkanka added.
Worf said, "But if one of you is going
to die anyway--you or the M'dok--isn't it
better if it's the M'dok?"
"Why is a M'dok less worthy of living
than we are?" Nadeleen asked. "We're
all sentients, so what's the difference?"
Worf thought a moment. "I like Tenarans a
lot more than I like M'dok." That earned him a
few smiles, but he could see that the issue had
not gone away. "What about Nadeleen's
reaction the other day? What if it is not your
own life at stake, but the life of a child or
someone else unable to defend himself?"
Ingerment had an answer for that. "They'd also
prefer to die rather than force any of us to commit
murder to protect them. Every Tenaran
feels that way."
"Every Tenaran?" Worf asked. "Even
Melkinat, who took down an ancient
weapon from the wall and split a M'dok
skull when the M'dok attacked
Zhelnogra?"
"We're as capable of an irrational
reaction as any other sentient being,"
Nadeleen answered him quietly. "But that
doesn't mean that it's proper to react that
way. Our laws and customs are based on
reason, not irrational rage."
Worf shook his head. "I respect your
beliefs--if every sentient in the Galaxy
behaved the way you do, there'd be peace everywhere.
But you've seen that the Galaxy doesn't work that
way. You have to deal with reality, not theory."
"We are dealing with reality," Nadeleen
said. "You're the one who's fooling himself, finding
excuses to give free rein to his
bloodthirsty instincts. We won't let you
pollute our world with any of that." She stood
up and walked rapidly toward the exit.
The others followed her. Worf called after
them, but they ignored him. Their unwillingness
to fight infuriated him.
Behind him, he heard laughter.
He spun around. Walking toward him across the
gymnasium floor was a young man dressed in
a Roman toga edged with purple and wearing
sandals worked with silver and gold thread. Worf
was annoyed with himself that he had not noticed this
man--presumably a Magna Roman--before,
and even more annoyed at the laughter, which he
took to be directed at him. He stiffened and
waited silently for the other man to come up to him.
The young man raised a hand in greeting.
"I'm Marcus Julius Volcinius, and of
course I know who you are." He became aware
at last of Worf's lack of response
to his greetings. "Oh, forgive me,"
Marcus said quickly. "I wasn't laughing at
you! I was laughing at ... at the irony of your
undertaking."
"Irony?" Worf rumbled.
"Oh, yes. You're trying to undo a
lifetime of training with a few hours'
instruction." He shook his head. "Doomed before
you start."
Worf gestured toward the door through
which the last of the Tenarans had exited. "They're
all young still. I chose them for that."
"Ah, but not young enough! How soon does a
Roman become a Roman, or a Klingon a
Klingon?"
"Klingons have a rite of passage,"
Worf said cautiously, "after which one is
deemed an ad
ult."
Marcus nodded. "Of course, of course.
All societies invent such rituals. That's
not what I'm talking about. I asked you at
what age a child becomes imbued with the values of
its society."
"That depends on the child--and the society."
Marcus grinned widely. "Spoken more like a
diplomat than a warrior. However, it's
clear to me that the younger one gets the children, the
better the chance of changing their development."
Worf frowned. "You mean more than you're
saying. Please explain."
"Hmm. Yes. A Roman habit--to mean
much more than we say."
"A habit this snake is excellent at."
Gaius Aldus had approached silently, and
now stood behind Marcus. "I was delayed
aboard ship, Lieutenant, but I see our
class has left us already."
"More problems over what constitutes
self-defense, Gaius," Worf said.
"Marcus Julius, I think, was going
to suggest a solution to our problem."
"Were you, now, Marcus?"
"Gaius," Marcus said, bowing slightly.
"A pleasure to see you again."
"And for me as well, Marcus Julius,
though I am surprised to see you down here. You
should be aboard the Centurion, where you can't
get in anyone's way." His arm shot out, and
he grabbed Marcus by the wrist. "What are you
doing here?"
Marcus twisted free, bruising his arm in the
process. "You don't know everything that goes
on, Gaius."
Gaius drew himself up. "I'm supposed
to know everything important. I'm the
magister navis."
Marcus laughed at him. "You shouldn't take
archaic titles too seriously."
"All right, Marcus. Don't take my
title seriously." He grabbed
Marcus' arm again, and dragged him closer.
"Take me seriously. Now, what are you
doing here?"
Marcus looked down at the powerful hand
gripping his arm. This time, he could tell,
Gaius would not let his hold be thrown off
easily, and Marcus had no wish to make a
fool of himself by struggling ineffectually against
Gaius in the street.
Besides, it would give him pleasure to show the
"magister navis" how out of touch with
reality he truly was. "I'll show you," he
said. "Come with me."
"Excuse us, Lieutenant," Gaius
said. "I will speak to you later."
"Of course," Worf said.
Marcus led the way to a small one-story
building divided into two rooms. Both were being
used as classrooms, and both were filled with