Star Trek-TNG-Novel-Imzadi 1

  opportunity to knock. And filling the doorway

  was a figure that momentarily surprised Riker

  by its appearance ... and then, he wondered why he

  had been at all startled. Of course he would be

  here. Where else would he be?

  "Mr. Homn," said Riker, bending slightly

  and formally at the waist.

  Wesley Crusher looked up in surprise.

  He had fleetingly seen Homn from time to time,

  back in his days on the Enterprise. His

  memory had been that Homn was incredibly tall

  ... and yet, in later years, he had wondered

  how much of that recollection was shaped by the fact that

  young Ensign Crusher had been that much smaller.

  Now, as an adult, he found himself no less

  impressed by Homn's towering presence than he

  had ever been.

  Wendy had never seen the towering manservant

  before. She just gaped.

  And then, Homn did something totally

  unexpected ... something that, to Riker's knowledge, he

  had only done once before.

  His voice was low and surprisingly soft for so

  large a man--and there was even a faint hint of a

  lisp--z he uttered two simple ^ws:

  "She's waiting."

  The response echoed in Riker's mind--

  Waiting for what? Waiting for me? Or waiting

  to die? Or are the two connected?

  Mr. Homn stepped aside, and Riker

  entered, Wendy and Crusher following him.

  The house, in contrast to its elegant

  exterior, still smacked of being overdone to Riker,

  even after all this time. He knew why that was, of

  course. Lwaxana's late husband had

  designed the outside and left the actual

  furnishing to his wife. And furnish it she had

  ... with a vengeance.

  Every corner, every available bit of space, was

  crammed with ... stuff. Everywhere Riker looked

  there was furniture or mementos: portraits,

  trophies, souvenirs, objects of art that

  ranged from the acceptable to the ghastly. The taste at

  casa Troi was, to put it mildly,

  eclectic.

  Mr. Homn stood at the bottom of the

  central stairway and gestured. He

  remained immobile, like a monument. A living

  link to days gone by.

  Riker started up the stairs. They seemed

  to stretch on forever. Once, once a very long time

  ago, he could have charged up these steps, taking them

  two, even three at a time. And a woman would have

  been waiting for him up there, her arms outstretched,

  her face mirthful and loving, her curly black

  hair cascading about her shoulders.

  Back in the old days. Back when he was

  another person entirely, and the only thing he had

  in common with the old man who now trudged heavily

  up the stairs was the name.

  He held on to the banister, pulling himself up

  as he went. He paused for a few moments on a

  landing to catch his breath before he continued upward.

  He knew that Crusher and Wendy were directly

  behind him, but they offered him no support or aid.

  Nor would he have wanted it.

  The stairway opened up onto the

  second-floor corridor, which seemed to stretch

  almost to infinity. This effect was aided by the fact that

  the corridor was illuminated only by flickering

  lamplight, and also because full-size mirrors were

  at either end.

  Appearances. Once again, appearances. They

  had always been so important to her ... and now,

  it would seem that appearances were all she had left.

  At first he didn't know which door she was behind

  ... but then he realized. It was partly open, and from

  within he could hear slow, labored breathing. It

  sounded as if she was just barely hanging on.

  Hell, she might die any minute.

  If he walked slowly enough, if he took enough

  time ...

  He saw the look in Wesley Crusher's

  eyes as the captain of the Hood stood next

  to him. He had a feeling that Crusher knew

  precisely what was going through Riker's mind.

  Dammit, Riker, he scolded himself.

  ; a man. For crying out loud, get it right!

  His hands curled into fists, andwitha stride that

  indicated a confidence he did not feel, he

  walked toward the sound of the breathing.

  When he was just outside the door ... it

  stopped.

  The cessation was abrupt; right in the middle of a

  breath, so it was very noticeable. Riker looked at

  Crusher as if for confirmation, and it was clear that

  Crusher had heard it, too. Wendy,

  feeling tired and labored, had just made it to the

  top of the stairs and so wasn't there yet.

  For just the briefest of moments, relief

  flooded through Riker. And then it was immediately

  replaced by anger at his hesitation ...

  cowardice, even. Quickly he entered the room.

  He was stunned.

  He had expected the most ornate of

  surroundings for this, the master bedroom. But such was not

  the case. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

  Only a bed occupied the room. A canopied

  bed with black drapes hanging down. There

  wasn't a stick of furniture anywhere else.

  It only took a moment for Riker to realize

  what had happened. All the furniture had been

  removed--the different sheen on various parts of the

  floor indicated that. He did not understand, though,

  why it had been done.

  As if reading his mind, Wendy now said softly

  from behind him, "Betazed tradition. Some feel that you

  come into the world with virtually nothing. So when you

  leave, you try not to surround yourself with the things you've

  acquired. It's ... excess baggage, for

  want of a better term."

  "Oh."

  He walked slowly toward the bed, but now there

  seemed to be no hurry. There was no doubt in his

  mind that she was gone. There was still that anger, bordering

  on contempt, that he felt for himself. This is

  what you wanted. This is why you dragged your

  heels. So why aren't you happy about it? The

  reason was, of course, that he also felt

  tremendously guilty.

  Look at her. You owe her that much.

  Slowly he parted the black drapery around the

  bed.

  Lwaxana Troi lay there, unmoving. Her

  skin was taut, conforming uncomfortably closely

  to the outlines of her skull. Her lips and,

  incredibly, her hair, were the same parched color

  as her skin. Her arms and shoulders were bare--she was

  probably naked, just as was customary for a Betazed

  wedding, but a sheet was pulled up to just under her

  arms.

  Her eyes were closed. Her chest was not moving.

  Riker took a slow breath that seemed

  incredibly loud to him. The stink of death was heavy

  in the air, but it didn't stop him from sitting on

  the edge of the bed. Crusher and Wendy stood a

  respectful distance.

  "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.

  "ally 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 fa/! I--"

  But Wendy laid a gentle hand on his.

  "It's too late, W."

  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.

  CHAPTER 6

  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--ag--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 cliffso 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, andforthe millionth

  time in as ma
ny 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?"

  Riker paused a moment to allow his heartbeat

  to approach somewhere near its normal rate. "Where

  in hell did you come from?"

  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--"