Imzadi_ Triangle Part 5

"Which of us couldn't?" Alexander asked reasonably. He hesitated and then, summoning the nerve to return to his earlier line of questioning, he said, "It is just that... you've spoken to me in the past of my mother. K'Ehleyr was a warrior."

"A magnificent warrior." He felt his chest swelling with inexplicable pride just thinking about her. Then he stopped and looked at Alexander in confusion. "You speak as if you did not know her." When his son did not respond immediately, Worf prompted, "Alexander?"

"I am ..." It seemed to Worf that Alexander appeared to be struggling, forcing the words from him. "I am ... forgetting things. I cannot recall her voice as clearly as I did. She had a way of looking at me when she was very angry, and another when she was very loving, and I can't quite ... see them. It's as if it's blurry."

"You are seeing it through the haze of time," Worf said regretfully. "Time tends to blur memories. Especially considering you were so young when you had them."

"What if I forget her completely?"

"You will not. I am sure of that."

"Well, I'm glad you're sure, Father. I'm not. So why Deanna?"

The sudden s.h.i.+ft in topic, or angle back to an earlier topic, caught Worf off guard for a moment. "What?"

"Deanna. Even those memories I do have of my mother ... they're so dissimilar from Deanna Troi. Why would you find yourself drawn to someone who is so different from K'Ehleyr? Is it deliberate?"

"Deliberate?" Worf s face darkened. "Are you implying that I did not have genuine feelings for your mother? Or that I am trying to forget her by becoming involved with someone who is her ant.i.thesis?"

"I'm saying..." Alexander began to look frustrated. "I don't know what I'm saying! I have everything all mixed up in my head, and I don't know what to say first! I can't... I can't choose, I can't..."

The boy was practically trembling in bafflement, trying to articulate all of the feelings that were tumbling around in him. Worf found himself easily able to sympathize. "Alexander... you have been through much. I understand. Believe it or not... I do." Worf was accustomed to standing, oftentimes rather stiffly, but now he actually sat next to his son, trying his best to look relaxed. "They are very different, your mother and Deanna. Very different. But different is not automatically bad or inferior."

"That's not always what you've told me, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... when you speak of the Klingon way of doing things ... you talk about it with such pride, and so forcefully. You make it seem so obvious that the Klingon way is the best way."

"It is the best way ..."

"You see?"

"For Klingons."

"But you were raised by humans, Father. And I lived with them, too, for a while. Are you telling me that everything they taught you, and me ... was inferior? Was wrong?"

Worf s mouth opened for a moment, and then closed. His eyes narrowed, and for a second Alexander suddenly thought that he was in a world of trouble. But then, to his surprise, Worf looked down and slowly shook his head. When he looked up again, there was a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes.

"Alexander," he told him, "do not be concerned that you are going to forget your mother. In many respects, you are your mother. If we sparred physically, I would invariably be the victor. But Kahless help me if we were involved in a battle of wits or an argument, because your mother was merciless and I never, ever, won."

"Mother told me she had beaten you in combat at arms on a couple of occasions."

"Well," Worf sniffed pridefully, "I would not wish to defame your mother's memory by implying that she was less than honest. Let us simply say that she remembers matters differently than I."

"All right, Father. And... it's okay. I understand why you have trouble discussing all this."

"Do you?"

"Love is ... well, it's not a trait that we Klingons embrace, especially."

"You do not think so?"

"Well... no. I mean ... it is one of the gentlest emotions, and we are many things, Father, but gentle we most certainly are not."

"Alexander," Worf said as he leaned forward, suddenly struck with the notion of how to explain it. "I have taught you that, in combat situations, you must approach different foes in different ways. A Romulan fights differently than a Klingon, a Klingon differently than a Tellarite, and so on. Have I not?"

"Yes, Father."

"It is different forms of combat but, nonetheless, it is still a battle. Just approached in varying manners. Correct?"

"Yes, Father," Alexander said again.

"Well... my feelings for K'Ehleyr and Deanna are much the same. In both cases, it is love. It is just in different ways."

"So love," Alexander began to comprehend, "is very much like war ... except that no one tries to kill each other."

"Actually," Worf admitted, "there are many instances where love results in war... in romantic triangles that turn deadly ... and even in death as angry lovers or jealous suitors turn against each other with fatal results."

"If that's the case ... why, then ... we Klingons can, and should, be the greatest lovers in the galaxy!"

Worf patted him on the back. "At last... you understand."

"But Father ... you've had me read so many books on the Klingon way... and I've seen nothing on love and its link with war and death."

After considering that for a moment, Worf said, "I suggest you read the works of Shakespeare... preferably in the original Klingon. You will find Romeo and Juliet, in particular, most instructive. Warring houses, murder, suicide... I tell you, Alexander ... it makes you proud to be a Klingon."

The search had been successful.

Deanna had come upon Data as he was making a last-ditch effort to locate his missing pet. Even though she felt there was little hope, she had agreed to aid the android. To her surprise, they had actually managed to find the feline that Data had mysteriously dubbed "Spot." As he held the animal close, Deanna said in amus.e.m.e.nt, "Another family reunited."

Then, to her astonishment, she felt something empathically from Data.

It surprised her completely, because the emotionless android had always been unreadable. From an empathic point of view, he might as well have been a black hole. But now that he was operating with a chip that provided him with human feelings, she was sensing an entire range of emotions rippling out from him. It was as if, in a way, he had literally just sprung into existence for her. "Data? Are ... you all right?"

Data was sobbing uncontrollably as he held the cat tight. "I am uncertain, Counselor. I am happy to see Spot... yet I am crying. Perhaps the chip is malfunctioning."

She smiled. "I think it's working perfectly."

"h.e.l.lo, Spot," Data said cheerfully as they made their way out of the s.h.i.+p's wreckage and toward one of the rendezvous points. Since both his hands were occupied with the cat, he did the best he could wiping the tears away from his eyes with his elbows. "I do not understand, Counselor. Why would I cry ... if I am happy?"

"Tears are a natural reaction to all strong emotions, Data, not just grief. It's triggered by extremes. Happiness, love, anger ... any of those can prompt tears."

"So it is somewhat all-purpose, then."

"That's correct."

"Then how do you know which emotion is prompting the outburst? And how do others know?" "Trust me: You'll know. And so will they."

Riker caught a glimpse of Deanna and Data as they made their way out to the rendezvous point. He noticed that Data was carrying his cat and made a mental note that the final missing crewman-Spot-had been located. Another trauma avoided.

At that particular moment, Riker was walking out onto the remains of the bridge with Captain Jean-Luc Picard. For one morbid moment, Riker considered suggesting that Picard take his beloved fish-who had not survived the crash-and feed them to Spot so that they wouldn't go to waste. But a better impulse prevented him from doing so.

Having just recovered his photo alb.u.m, Picard was waxing philosophical about mortality and legacies. "What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived. After all, Number One, we're only mortal."

"Speak for yourself, sir," Riker said proudly. "I plan to live forever."

Riker then drifted over toward the command chair, which lay damaged and unusable. "I always thought I'd get a shot at this chair one day," he sighed.

He waited for Picard to say, You want it? It's all yours. Take it as a souvenir. It will go wonderfully with your carpeting. But the good captain was a bit too serious-minded an individual to be quite so flippant about something so important to him. Instead he said, "Perhaps you still will. Somehow, I doubt that this will be the last s.h.i.+p to carry the name Enterprise." He tapped his combadge and said, "Picard to Farragut. Two to beam up."

Within moments, they had dematerialized and then reappeared aboard the Farragut. What followed then was the standard battery of debriefings, meetings, and preliminary investigations that were SOP where the destruction of a stars.h.i.+p and loss of command was involved. Riker was utterly confident that Picard, naturally, would have no problems and come off from the incident spotlessly. He was less sanguine about himself; after all, he was the one who had been in command when the s.h.i.+p had crashed.

To that end, Riker met with Geordi La Forge in the temporary quarters he'd been given aboard the Farragut. They went over the final hours of the Enterprise minute by minute, trying to determine if there was anything that anyone could have done to prevent the great s.h.i.+p's destruction. The conclusion they reached was that, in fact, the answer was no.

It was not a conclusion that Riker was especially happy about. He shook his head in frustration and said, "I still feel that there should have been something ... something I could have done. ..."

"Don't do that to yourself, Commander, I'm telling you," Geordi said. "There's absolutely no point to it. Once the warp-core breach began, I couldn't stop it. And I was right down there. What could you, up on the bridge, have been expected to do?"

"I don't know, Geordi. Perhaps the events leading up to it could have been avoided-"

"Commander ... you'll make yourself crazy if you keep thinking that. Don't go looking for someone to blame." With a ragged grin, he added, "That's Starfleet's job."

"Thanks, Geordi. I feel so much better now."

"You know what'll make you feel so much better? Trip to Ten-Forward. It's not as nice as the Enterprise's, of course... but it'll take the sting off."

"You, Mr. La Forge, have got yourself a deal." He slapped his knees briskly and rose.

"Commander ... pardon my asking, but... is everything okay? I mean, aside from the obvious problems, that is."

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, you ... you sound distracted, that's all."

"I do?" He shrugged. "Deanna why I would be. Come on, let's have that drink."

"Pardon? What did you say?" Geordi was looking at him with a tilted head and a most peculiar frown.

"I said, 'Come on, let's have that drink.'"

"No, before that."

"I..." Riker looked confused. "Geordi, I wasn't expecting a quiz. ..."

"You said, 'Deanna why I would be.'"

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, Commander! You said it."

"No, I didn't." He frowned, and then his face cleared. "Oh. I said, 'Don't know why I would be.'"

But Geordi shook his head with certainty. "No, you said, 'Deanna why I would be.'"

"Geordi, don't be ridiculous! It doesn't make sense! It's not even a sentence! Subject, verb, object. Simple way to compose a sentence. 'Deanna why I would be' doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe it does to you," suggested Geordi.

Riker let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Geordi... let's go. I think you need that drink more than I do."

Deanna sat in the Farragut's lounge, looking out at the stars as they hurtled past, and for the first time in a long time she felt adrift. She was now faced with the inescapable: The time with her extended family was ticking down. It bothered her that it bothered her. She was, after all, a Starfleet professional. She went where she was told, and served the needs of Starfleet to the best of her ability. For that matter, as a counselor, she was obligated to maintain a professional detachment at all times. She should not be letting herself get so close to the crew of the Enterprise that it would hurt when she left them. Yet that was precisely what had occurred. She had let them get too close, let them get to her, get under her skin. There was something to be said for that, she supposed. It was a measure of her compa.s.sion and her empathy. But now there was going to be a price for that empathy.

There was irony to it as well, for she realized that they would very likely not be dwelling on her as much as she would be on them. To all of them, she was simply one individual. But she had come to think of them as one great whole. Her crew. Her people. It was the height of egocentricity, she decided, to become as possessive as all that. It was inappropriate, and not in their best interest, and it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't in her best interest.

She had to detach herself. Had to separate, had to be alone with herself...

"May I join you?"

She turned in her seat and looked up at Worf standing behind her. "You should not," he continued, "be seated in that fas.h.i.+on."

"What fas.h.i.+on?"

"With your back to the door. It is wise to have a clear view of the door at all times, in the event that there is an unexpected threat."

"You'll protect me, Worf," she said with exaggerated breath-lessness, as if she were the heroine of some romantic melodrama.

Worf didn't so much as crack a smile. "Of course I will," he said matter-of-factly. He stepped around to the other side of the table and sat down opposite her.

"How is Alexander?"

"He is resting comfortably. I am appreciative of the aid that you extended to him. I shall not forget it."

"It was nothing."

"No ... it was most definitely something." He leaned forward, his scowl deepening. "There is a matter I need to discuss with you."

She quickly discerned that it was something of a very grave nature. One didn't need to be an empath to figure it out; his overall demeanor was more than enough to signal to her that there were very dire matters waiting to be discussed. Was there more to Alexander's condition than Worf had been willing to admit? Or was there some political crisis with the Klingons that would need to be attended to? "What is it, Worf?" she asked worriedly.

"It has to do with ... an arrangement."

"An arrangement?" She was lost. "You mean, like ... a flower arrangement?"

"No. An arrangement having to do with us."

"Oh." She was no closer to understanding what he was talking about than she had been when he first sat down. "What did you have in mind?"

"It has to do with life and war."