Imzadi Forever

  Crusher blinked in surprise. “Of you?” For a moment he seemed confused. “I…admire you tremendously. You’re one of the greatest…probably, with all due respect, the second-greatest…Starfleet officer it was ever my honor to serve under.”

  Riker stared at him with a look that bordered on incredulity. “You can’t still think that, can you?”

  “Of course.”

  With a slow shake of his head, Riker sat down opposite Crusher. He did not, however, straddle the chair. “Wesley…everyone has people that they admire in their lives. People who they put on a…a heroic pedestal, as it were. But you can’t possibly tell me I’m still up there on yours?”

  Crusher shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say ‘pedestal,’ Admiral. But I still admire you a great deal. In many ways…I still see you very much the way that I did when I first met you. Strong, decisive, heroic…everything a Starfleet officer was supposed to be. It’s not unusual for first impressions to be lasting ones, Admiral…I mean, admit it”—now he smiled—“you find it just slightly difficult to seriously believe I’m an adult. Captain of a starship. Married twice, father of three. But you look at me and still think of the little kid on Farpoint who, once upon a time, only had two goals: to visit the bridge, and to have to shave more than once a week.”

  Riker laughed, the boisterousness of his amusement surprising even himself. “You’re right, Wes. You’re bang-on right. It’s just that…”

  “Just that what, sir?”

  “Just that,” Riker said soberly, “there comes a time in everyone’s life where they start to see their heroes for what they really are: namely, people. Flawed…ordinary…people.”

  Crusher didn’t say anything at first. Something very unpleasant seemed to be hanging in the cabin…an air of self-pity, maybe even a whiff of mortality. “Are you feeling particularly flawed and ordinary today, Admiral?”

  “Wes, I haven’t felt anything but that for years now. Look at me, Wes. Look at me and tell me that you don’t see a broken-down, second-rate starbase commander. Someone who had potential he never fulfilled. Someone who was never everything he should have been. Tell me that you don’t look at me and see someone in whom you’re bitterly disappointed.”

  Someone else would have said such things in tones bordering on histrionic. Riker, however, did not. He spoke slowly, succinctly, and in a voice that indicated he had, quite simply, already decided these things about himself and come to terms with them.

  Crusher’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, quiet fire was in his voice. “If that is your opinion of yourself…Will…then you’re certainly entitled to it. But if you’re looking for someone to confirm it for you, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to keep on looking.”

  Riker let out a slow sigh, tinged with faint amusement. “Is that your final word, Captain?”

  “Yes, it is. And since we’re on my ship, and it is my opinion…then we’ll just have to make it so.”

  Crusher was about to say something else when suddenly he half-looked away, in that manner that had become so customary with the creation of the minicommunicators. “Excuse me, Admiral…. Crusher here.” He listened to the voice that only he could hear and then nodded once. “Excellent. We’ll be right there. Crusher out.” He turned to Riker. “We’re five minutes out of Betazed.”

  “Smooth and uneventful trip, Captain. You’re to be commended.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Crusher rose from his chair and headed for the door. But there he stopped and turned back to Riker. “Do you want me there, Admiral?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Captain.”

  “It’s easily justifiable.” Crusher took a step back into the cabin. “As a Starfleet captain, it would be eminently politic for me to be present. And as a…friend…I wouldn’t mind being there to lend whatever support I could.”

  Riker was ready to dismiss the notion out of hand. But then he stopped and considered it—really considered it—and almost to his surprise, he found himself nodding. Feeling some words should accompany the nods, he said, “Very well, Captain. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea at that.”

  Crusher nodded. “Five minutes, then. Don’t be late. Tardiness is mental slovenliness and is inappropriate for a Starfleet officer.”

  “Where’d you pick that up? The Academy?”

  “No, sir. You told me that—the first time I was late for an astrophysics lesson with Geordi.”

  “Well, that being the case, I could hardly ignore such sound advice, could I.”

  “If it’s good enough for the captain of the Hood,” Wesley Crusher said firmly, “it’s good enough for you.” He turned and walked out the door.

  Through the viewport of his quarters, Riker could now see Betazed, coming up fast.

  Help me, he said. Help me get through this, Imzadi.

  There was, of course, no answer. Nor had there been for quite, quite some time.

  Five

  Betazed was nothing like he remembered it.

  Then again, it had been many years since Riker had set foot on the planet. Not since the days when he had been first officer of the Enterprise 1701-D, under the command of Capt. Jean-Luc Picard.

  Not since—

  He wavered slightly, putting a hand to his head, and he felt Crusher’s firm grip on his shoulder. “Are you all right, Admiral?”

  All the anger, all the resentment and fury that he had thought he was long past, flashed through him once more with unexpected heat.

  “I’m fine!” he practically snarled. “You don’t have to sound so damned patronizing!”

  Young Wesley Crusher would have taken a couple of steps back. He would have become dead pale, tried to stammer out some sort of a reply—and probably failed.

  Capt. Wesley Crusher merely removed his hand from Riker’s shoulder, then lanced him with a grim stare. “I was always raised to believe, Admiral, that being concerned over someone’s welfare was considered, at the very least, good manners. Hardly patronizing.”

  Riker met Crusher’s stare and said slowly, “Yes. Quite right, Captain. My…apologies.”

  Crusher nodded in a way that indicated that, as far as he was concerned, the minor incident was closed. Instead, he glanced toward the heavens. “Looks like the weather’s turning nasty on us, sir.”

  At that, Riker nodded. It was something that he’d become accustomed to on Betazed. The majority of the time, the weather was calm, pleasant, bordering on the tropical. But when the atmospheric conditions shifted, they did so with startling and almost violent speed. One minute, cloudless and blue skies, and the next minute—bam.

  Riker remembered that Lwaxana perpetually carried an umbrella with her when strolling about, particularly in the countryside. She had always prided herself on being ready for anything.

  Anything.

  “It’s this way,” said Riker.

  They’d materialized on one of the more well-to-do avenues of the city. The homes were far apart and set back…but not too far. Betazoids walked a fine line between a desire for privacy and acceptance of its impossibility—for amidst an empathic society, privacy was at best a pretense and it was rude to pretend otherwise.

  Crusher could have had them beamed right to their destination, but before he had specified anything, Riker had given specific coordinates that deposited them half a mile from where they wanted to be. It was as if Riker weren’t all that anxious to arrive at his goal.

  Riker set the pace, which was not especially fast, and Crusher fell into step next to him. The admiral did not seem particularly interested in talking, and they might indeed have gone the entire way in complete silence if an unexpected voice hadn’t chimed in behind them.

  “It is you.”

  Riker and Crusher stopped and turned, and Riker chuckled low in his throat.

  “Wendy Roper. I don’t believe it.”

  The woman who stood behind them seemed a few years younger than Riker. She was small and slim, and her white
hair, with a few remaining streaks of black in it, was twisted around in an elaborate braid. A sparkle in her eyes made it seem that a very amused young woman was hiding somewhere in the aged body.

  “Will Riker, you old sleaze.”

  He walked to her and put his arms around her—tentatively, as if afraid that he might break her in half. They separated and he looked at her.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare say I haven’t aged at all.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because the thought that I looked like this half a century ago would be too much to cope with.”

  His smile widened. “Can I say you look great for a woman your age?”

  “With my blessing.” She ran fingers across his bearded cheeks. “When did you get so scruffy?”

  “About forty years ago.”

  “Makes you look ancient.”

  “I feel ancient.” He paused, then shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re still here. I mean, you can’t still be assigned here with your father…”

  Her expression saddened slightly. “Daddy died about ten years ago, Will.”

  “Oh.” His face clouded. “I’m sorry. Oh…my manners.” He stepped back and waved Crusher closer. “Capt. Wesley Crusher, this is Wendy Roper.”

  She shook Crusher’s hand firmly but said, “Wendy Berq, actually.”

  Riker looked at her in surprise. “Married?”

  “That’s usually the way.”

  “When?”

  “Actually, about two years after you left. My husband is Betazoid…a teacher. That’s why I stayed.”

  “My God…”

  She patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry about it, Will. I know news travels slowly out in space.”

  He let out a slow breath. “I really am a sleaze. I’ve been back planetside a few times…but I never saw you. Never tried to contact you. Not even…”

  “I was at the funeral.”

  Riker blinked in surprise. “You were? I didn’t see you.”

  “As I recall, you weren’t seeing much of anything that day.”

  To that, Riker said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. “That’s about right.” He paused. “I should have looked you up. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s understandable. If there’s one thing that living among Betazoids has taught me, it’s to be respectful of people’s feelings. If you ask me, the entire Betazoid credo boils down to one word: RaBeem.”

  Crusher looked momentarily puzzled. “‘RaBeem’?”

  Riker glanced at him and said, “It means ‘I understand.’”

  “Very good, Will,” said Wendy.

  “I had a good teacher.”

  They stood there for a bit in uneasy silence, then Wendy cleared her throat. “I won’t play games or pretend this was coincidence, Will. I knew you’d be coming. I knew she’d asked for you. And I thought—”

  “You thought that I could use the moral support,” he said, tossing a look at Crusher. “I’ve heard that quite a bit. Well…fine, Wendy. I suppose the more the…” Then he stopped. “I guess that’s hardly appropriate to the situation, is it?”

  “Hardly,” agreed Wendy.

  Riker stood there, feeling as if he’d been cut adrift. He felt that way a great deal these days—alone, floating. Unattached to anyone or anything in the galaxy around him. Clumsy with his speech, clumsy with his orders, just…clumsy. Unable to focus on anything or decide anything.

  Make a decision, you idiot.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them walked up the small incline that led to the mansion that Riker knew so well. It had been years since he’d been there—a lifetime ago, it seemed—and yet every angle of the house, every aspect of it, had been forever etched into his memory. Tall and graceful, it was constructed on a reduced scale so that, although the upper stories were not abnormally high, they seemed to go on and on, almost touching the sky—the sky that was now darkening with the customary Betazed speed. And yet, somehow, it seemed as if it were holding back. Seemed as if it were waiting for something.

  The door was opened before Riker even had the 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—as he uttered two simple words: “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. Be a man. For crying out loud, get it right!

  His hands curled into fists, and with a 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 mid
dle 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.