Imzadi Forever

  To his surprise, he heard a yelp of pain from what seemed to be thin air and then, inexplicably, a Romulan was suddenly there. He hadn’t beamed in. He was just not there one moment, and present the next. He was tall, with a high forehead, pale skin, and dark eyes. Even if he hadn’t simply popped in out of nowhere, something about his physical appearance would have been more than enough to tip Worf off that this was no ordinary Romulan. Of course, even the presence of an ordinary Romulan on Betazed was cause for concern.

  The tall Romulan was nursing a cut on his upper arm. Thin green blood was trickling down it, the cloth hanging loose from where Worf had sliced him.

  “The next one takes off your head. Who are you!” demanded Worf.

  The Romulan’s eyes seem to sink further into his head and then, just as suddenly, widen as if to consume the entirety of his face. And he spoke one word in a frighteningly raspy voice:

  “Fear.”

  And suddenly Alexander was dead, and Deanna was dead, and Worf was old and weak and toothless, lying helplessly in his frailty as assassins stole toward him in the night, and all of the attendant anxiety of all those happenstances pounded through him and he was paralyzed, incapable of any sort of rational thought or developing any workable tactic. He had no idea where to go, what to do, he was overwhelmed, he—

  “No!”

  The paralysis should have lasted long enough for a direct attack to be made upon him, but Worf did not give them the opportunity. Rather than allowing him to be reduced to utter uselessness, Worf’s training and mental conditioning drove him to action. He spun and lunged right toward the window, smashing through it. Glass rained everywhere as Worf took the impact with his shoulder and hit the floor in a forward roll.

  Two Romulans came at him, one from either side. Neither of them were carrying disruptors, blasters, or any of the preferred means of lethally dispatching a foe. Instead they wielded shock prods, apparently hoping to numb him into unconsciousness. All they had to do was come into contact with his body.

  Worf was not prepared to let them do that. Unfortunately, the fear was beginning to redouble itself in his mind, so neither was he prepared to fight at his best. But he had no choice.

  One of the Romulans came in faster than the other. He was overanxious, lunging forward with the shock prod. Worf swept up with an inner arm block, driving the prod up and away from himself, and then jammed forward with the blade. It deflected off the chest armor that the Romulan was wearing, but still managed to do damage as it skidded up the metal and lodged in the underside of the Romulan’s upper arm. The Romulan let out a howl and from the corner of his eye, Worf saw the other Romulan coming in quickly. He swung the knifed Romulan around, using him as a shield for a moment, and then shoved him bodily into the other Romulan. The two of them went down and the one who had been knifed dropped his prod. Worf immediately scooped it up, and what with wielding his double-bladed weapon in one hand and the prod in the other, he very much resembled someone with whom no reasonable individual would want to screw around.

  “Father!”

  Worf heard Alexander’s alarmed scream from somewhere else in the house. “Alexander!” he shouted. “Where are—?!”

  Then there was a crash in the great dining room adjacent to the living room. It was very likely a trap, but Worf had no choice. He barreled toward the dining room, his weapons extended….

  He rounded the corner, and at the far end was Deanna, pinned against the wall by a woman and for just a heartbeat, Worf thought that it was Tasha Yar, and then he realized…

  “Sela! Release her! Now!”

  And suddenly the house was alive with Romulans. The ceiling exploded and they dropped down from overhead, and the walls blasted inward as they crashed in from all sides. It was a trap, with Deanna as the bait and Worf, apparently, as the prize.

  They were wielding shock prods, and clubs, and assorted blunt instruments, and they were upon him like hyenas on a lion. Worf, trained in all forms of Klingon combat, didn’t use any of them. He hacked and slashed, slicing with the blade in one direction, sweeping with the shock prod in the other direction. The mass of foes who opposed him presented him with one great massive target of bodies. They were trying to overwhelm him through sheer force of numbers, and under other circumstances they might have succeeded.

  But Worf was too thoroughly seized by pure battle fury. He roared, howled defiance, drowned out the shouts of the Romulans who were trying to bring him down. For there was more at stake here than just his life, or even the lives of Deanna and Alexander. He was fighting for his pride, for his honor. He had spent days on Betazed, and during that time he had come to feel—through no one’s fault, really—that he was worthless and out of place. That he was a warrior in a land of peace that had no use for him. That he had nothing that he could offer to Deanna, that he was a walking freak show, something to be pitied or disdained or even feared. That the only way he was deserving of even staying on the same planet with Deanna was if he managed to change everything about the way he acted and thought and felt. He had been besieged with philosophies he did not agree with and concepts he could not understand.

  But this…this he comprehended all too well. This was simple, straightforward. The smell of blood filled his lungs, the cries of those he managed to wound or cut down serenading him. His hair, previously tied back, had come loose and hung around him like a mane, accentuating the resemblance to a great beast beset by lesser predators.

  Several shock prods managed to get through his guard, striking him on the shoulders, the chest, the legs. They should have stunned him. Instead they enraged him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt something trying to get in, trying to force cowardice upon him, but he blocked it out, so filled with a berserker rage was he.

  A sustained shock charge numbed his right arm, and he dropped his blade. It didn’t matter. He swung his momentarily deadened arm like a massive club of bone and sinew, knocking Romulans aside. He kicked, he bit, he clawed, he howled Klingon epithets and words of contempt. Above the melee he heard Sela shouting something about surrendering. It didn’t really penetrate, though. Surrender and dishonor in front of Deanna was simply not an option. So battle-crazed was he that it literally didn’t even occur to him that the cost of his refusal to give up could be Deanna’s life.

  One of the places through which the Romulans had made their entrance was a hole they had blasted in the wall. As Worf struggled, he saw Sela dragging Deanna, a disruptor to her head, through the hole. He shouted Deanna’s name and then more Romulans blocked his vision of them.

  With a bellow that sounded like that of a beast which had vanished in prehistory, Worf suddenly doubled over as the Romulans pushed in on him. For just a moment they thought they had him. They were mistaken. Worf gathered his strength, let out a war yell that would have done Kahless proud, and violently straightened up, knocking them back and giving him the moment he needed. He sprang clear of them and bolted for the hole.

  Never had he felt so alive, so damned near invincible. It was more than just the adrenaline rush, or the berserker rage that had set upon him. It was the simple, clear, and irrefutable fact that he had been right all along. To be prepared for battle, to be the warrior at all times, was the correct way, the smart way, the Klingon way. Peace was a luxury that was purchased with violence. That was the truth, that was the reality. He was totally vindicated.

  And he would be damned if he let Deanna die now that she knew he’d been right. As for Lwaxana, whose fate remained unknown to him, well…he’d rub her nose in it, as well. And that insufferable Gart Xerx, too.

  He was able to indulge in the slightly vindictive little fantasies because he had never been more sure that he was going to triumph in battle than he was at that particular moment.

  Just ahead of him, Sela had come to a halt. Worf smiled in grim amusement. How fitting that they should end up back here, of all places: the scenic precipice that overlooked the Bacarba Lake. Sela couldn’t continue forward. She grip
ped Deanna firmly by the elbow, keeping the disruptor trained on her. Worf stopped short of them by ten feet and stood there in a semicrouch, balanced on the balls of his feet.

  “You’re not going to give up, are you, Mr. Worf,” Sela said, sounding a bit impressed. “Why…I bet that if I threatened to blow your fiancée’s pretty little head off…you still wouldn’t surrender.”

  “You are not going to get away,” Worf assured her.

  Sela didn’t seem concerned. Actually, she seemed bored. “In point of fact…I am. And I can still make use of Deanna here. You are clearly going to be too uncooperative, which is a shame. But I have a new philosophy, Worf: I try to constantly keep my plans adaptable. Too much structure makes it too easy for opponents to second-guess and counter me. So I try to handle things in a free-form manner. I wanted to make use of you. Your attitude precludes it, apparently, and I have no desire to waste further time with you. So…”

  She brought the disruptor around and aimed it squarely at Worf.

  He charged straight toward her, his head low, his arms pumping. He was still enveloped in his self-styled aura of invincibility, and was positive that—if he could make himself a moving target—she would miss.

  And suddenly a fast-moving body came in quickly from the left and tackled him across the waist. Worf had a brief glimpse of his assailant, and he was so stunned that for a moment it completely disrupted his concentration.

  It was Riker, legs pumping, able to use his momentum to actually lift the Klingon’s feet clear off the ground. They hurtled forward, and Worf, with a bellow of betrayed fury, boxed Riker’s ears with such ferocity that if he’d struck him any harder, he might well have smashed in both sides of his head.

  “Will!” shouted Sela.

  Riker tumbled forward, stunned, and lost his grip on Worf.

  Worf had exactly two seconds to celebrate his triumph and then he abruptly realized that the ground was no longer beneath him. When Riker had fallen, he had dumped Worf right off the edge of the cliff.

  Desperately, Worf lashed out with his one functioning hand, but he missed the edge of the cliff by a good two feet and then he was in free fall. He tumbled, end over end, and a scream wanted to rip its way from his throat but he wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t give the Romulans or Riker (Riker!?) the satisfaction of hearing him.

  Down he plummeted, down, and as he fell, the cumulative damage that he had sustained began to catch up with him. His joints seized up, he could barely breathe, the blood loss from several vicious gashes weakened him. By the time he hit the water, he was barely capable of movement. Under water, falling toward the bottom of the lake, the last thing he noticed, with morbid amusement, was the frame of the tattered painting lying nearby. Within moments the surface of the lake was still once more.

  Thirteen

  Deanna Troi left the suite at the inn, heading for her mother’s house and wondering what conclusions Worf was going to come to during his time alone.

  She was beginning to feel that they had done Worf a tremendous disservice. Their motivations, hers and her mother’s, had been with the best of intentions. (At least, she thought Lwaxana was operating with the best of intentions; her comment about Riker and her bringing up of the term “Imzadi” was causing Deanna to wonder a bit.) But Worf seemed to regard their actions not as something to try and broaden his worldview, but rather as something to diminish him. To make him less than he was, rather than greater. How could he have come to that conclusion? If he knew that she loved him, if he believed in their relationship, then certainly he must have known that she would never to anything to hurt him.

  Perhaps the problem lay in different definitions of what was hurting and helping. Perhaps…

  “Imzadi.”

  She stopped in her tracks, not quite believing what she was hearing even though the voice was unmistakable. Slowly she turned to face him.

  Riker was standing here, dressed in civilian clothes—a blue shirt, open at the neck, crisp black pants. He had a broad smile as if there was no one else in the universe he’d rather be looking at at that moment.

  “Will!” She made no effort to hide her joy in seeing him. She went to him and threw her arms around him, hugging him soundly. “Will, what are you doing here? I heard that the board cleared both you and the captain! I knew it would! Is that why you’ve come, to celebrate? This is wonderful! Worf will be so pleased….”

  Then she stopped as she became aware that Worf might very well be anything but pleased. “How did you get here?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “Took a transport out here, arranged by…a friend, shall we say.”

  “So you actually came specifically here, to Betazed. It’s not as if you were just passing through then…”

  “I…needed to come and talk to you, Deanna,” he said. He had one hand on her shoulder, and with the other he gently brushed away a thick black curl from the side of her face. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately…and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about us.”

  “I…have as well, Will.” She gestured ahead of her. “I was heading up to Mother’s house. Walk with me?”

  “Anytime, anywhere,” he said agreeably.

  She tucked an arm through his elbow and they began to stroll. “So how is Worf?” Riker asked.

  “He is…doing well. Our relationship has been having some…growing pains, shall we say. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  She looked up at him with confusion in her dark eyes. “What do you mean, Will?”

  “Well, Deanna, you’re newly engaged. This should be the happiest time of your life. Instead…and correct me if I’m reading it wrong…it sounds like you and Worf are having some problems.”

  “No problems that you shouldn’t be familiar with, Will. Who knows better than you, after all, that life on Betazed can require a major broadening of one’s horizons. I remember a certain young lieutenant who learned a few things while he was here.”

  “So do I,” grinned Riker. But then his smile faded, and Deanna began to sense a great antipathy on his part. “Deanna…”

  “Will…clearly you have something on your mind. Perhaps it would be best if you just said it. You’ve come rather far, after all, to do it.”

  “I know, I know. And all the way here, I kept rehearsing over and over what I was going to say. But now that I’m here, now that I’m faced with it…” He took a deep breath. “Deanna…I’ve been thinking about our relationship. About everything we meant to each other, and how I kept walking out on you…”

  “It wasn’t just you, Will. Don’t take all the blame on yourself. There were things I could have done, could have said…but we made decisions, we had a friendship that we were content with…”

  “Contentment.” Riker shook his head with weary self-contempt. “A word that I once would have choked on. Nothing was ever enough for me. Nothing in my career track, nothing in my romantic life, nothing was ever, ever good enough. Contentment…” He shuddered. “I didn’t know the meaning of it. So tell me…why was it that, of all things, I was supposed to be content with simply being friends with you?”

  “We’ve been over it, Will. We had our careers, things never seemed to match up, we never both wanted the same thing at the same time….”

  “And we still don’t…” After a significant pause, he added, “…or do we?”

  “What do you mean?”

  It was a slow, steady incline through lovely foliage as the path wended its way up to the Troi home. Riker had gradually been walking slower and slower, however, and when Deanna said that, he stopped. He continued looking straight ahead, as if trying to make out the future. “Did you decide to marry Worf…because he’s what you want in a husband? Or was it to get a reaction out of me? To make me realize just how much you mean to me.”

  Deanna actually laughed at that. It wasn’t derisive, but rather a laugh of almost affectionate amusement. “You know, Will, I would love to get a chart of the ga
laxy, as designed by you. There would be all the stars and planetary systems, and in the middle of the galaxy would be you, and everything would be revolving around you. And you’d have a big smile on your face because that’s really the way I sometimes think you view reality. Will, I am actually capable of taking actions and making decisions without them directly relating to, or centering around, you.”

  “I know that, Deanna. But I have a feeling that this wasn’t one of them. And if I’m right…if that is why you are planning to do this…then I want you to know that it worked.”

  “That it…Will, what do you mean…?”

  Before she could react, before she could do anything, Riker had taken her in his arms and brought her lips to his. On the one hand she had not expected it…and on the other, it seemed the most expected, the most natural thing in the world. The years fell away and she practically melted into him as the pure passion that he had for her seemed to flow out of him, nearly consuming her. All thoughts of Worf, of their life together, of her promise to him and all the things they had said to one another, were momentarily washed away and replaced by something pure and clean and…and right.

  But only momentarily.

  Deanna broke away from him, gasping slightly, her mind reeling and her thoughts in complete turmoil. She was beginning to feel as if she was never going to get solid ground beneath her feet. Between Worf’s frustration and sense of competition with Riker, and now Will choosing this moment, of all moments, to declare himself…it was insane. Why couldn’t she have a nice, normal engagement? For a moment she was tempted to dispense with the lot of them, find a Betazoid male, settle down, have a half-dozen children and hope that she never heard of William Riker, Worf, the Klingon Empire, or Starfleet ever again.

  “Will…this is…this is all happening too quickly…”

  “Too quickly?” He stared at her with incredulity. “Too quickly? Good lord, Deanna, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut for years, not saying anything for all this time. Having you there in front of me, not acting upon it. Too quickly? What’s crazy is that I’ve taken this long.”