Star Trek - TNG - 08 - The captain's Honor

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