Imzadi_ Triangle Part 10

"Maggie, sir?"

"She and I went to the Academy together. I thought nothing could possibly distract me from my goals and career, but when Maggie and I saw each other... it was like lightning just connecting the two of us. My feelings for her made any previous relationship pale in comparison. It was as if they had been mere dalliances before her. The universe of possibilities which represented my future suddenly seemed to expand to include one more that had never been there before. And she felt the same way about me, I know it. For each of us, we were the first to touch each other's souls."

"Imzadi," Riker said softly.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Sorry to interrupt. You were saying ... ?"

"Yes, well... Maggie and I made plans. We were going to serve together, we were going to be together always. We were willing to put aside our egos: If one of us became captain first, the other would willingly serve as first officer. It seemed that nothing could keep us apart, such was the intensity of our dedication for each other." He paused and then sighed. "But something did happen."

"What was that, sir?"

"Life, Will." He smiled. "Life. You plan for things, try to grab hold of your destiny and conform it to your desires, but you never quite manage to get a firm grasp on it. It always manages to slip away from you."

"Meaning no disrespect, sir ..."

"Will, we're not in my ready room or on the bridge of a starship. It's just you and me, in an apartment on Earth. State your mind."

"Well, sir ... what's the point you're trying to make?"

"The point is, you never stop trying. Resign yourself to the fact that you cannot control fate, but don't resign yourself to fate itself. Never stop fighting, never stop trying."

Ill "And you think that's what I did with Deanna."

"I believe so, yes. It's what I did with Maggie. And I regret it to this day. Regrets are a terrible thing to have, Will. A terrible thing."

It was something that Riker knew all too well, for he had stared squarely into the face of regret. There had been a time when an incarnation of Riker from the future had used the Guardian of Forever to come back in time. In that Riker's reality, Deanna Troi had died forty years previously, and he had never gotten over it. Eventually he had come to the conclusion that Deanna had been murdered and, using the Guardian, had come back in time to try and avert that calamity. Riker had come face-to-face with his future self, and had never forgotten the look of torment in his eyes. "I'm your future without her, buddy boy," the Riker-to-come had growled at him, and it had been a truly frightening sight to behold. It wasn't the gray hair and gray beard, or even the wrinkles that Riker had found so daunting in his future incarnation. It was instead the sheer, burning fury in the eyes of a man who carried with him hatred for, quite possibly, the entire universe, for depriving him of the future that he clearly felt was his by right.

The immediate goal had been accomplished that time. Deanna's life had been saved, and ideally Admiral Riker had returned to a future more to his liking. But whether Riker and Deanna were going to wind up a couple was left unresolved. If there was anything worse than knowing one's future, it was knowing what it might be and not being sure how to attend to it.

"A terrible thing," echoed Riker. But then he brought himself to full attention and said firmly, "Captain, it's not the same thing. I simply know that I'm just not capable of giving Deanna the things she wants or needs."

"Really." Picard shook his head. "Will, do you know what your problem is?"

"No, sir, but I suspect you're about to tell me."

"Your problem is that if you are convinced that something can be done, then you will find a way to do it. You are unstoppable in that regard. By the same token, if you decide that something cannot be done, then nothing on heaven or Earth will get you to do it. You are governed entirely by self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Captain ... I'm not alone in this matter. Deanna feels the same way that I do. She wants to remain simply friends. How am I supposed to conjure up feelings within her that she doesn't possess? Through sheer force of will?"

"Well, that is your name."

At that, Riker laughed. "You've got me there, Captain. But what would you have me do, sir? After the hearing, would you have me jump the first transport to Betazed? Burst in on them at Lwaxana Troi's house, tell Deanna that we should be a couple... ?"

"Is that how you feel?"

"No!"

"Then I suppose this entire conversation is moot," Picard observed.

"That's right, sir."

"All right, then. I beg your pardon for bringing it up."

"Don't worry about it, sir." With slow strides, Riker went to the window and leaned against it, looking out once more at the bridge. "By the way... whatever happened to Maggie? Do you ever see her?"

"From time to time. I'm seeing her tomorrow, as a matter of fact."

Riker turned and looked at him with raised eyebrow. "A date?"

"In a manner of speaking. She's one of the three admirals at the inquiry tomorrow."

Riker rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as if suddenly in great pain. "Just out of morbid curiosity, sir, and not wanting to pry: Who precisely broke it off with whom?"

"I say I did, she says she did."

"A request, then: For the duration of the investigation, can we go with her interpretation?" "You read my mind, Number One. You read my mind."

There was a small porch in the back of the Rozhenkos' farmhouse. It was a chill night, and as a barechested Worf stood on the porch and gazed up at the full moon, his nostrils flared ever so slightly. He leaned on the porch railing, gripping it firmly, apparently oblivious to the crispness in the air.

"Nice night, isn't it."

Worf had heard him coming, but since his approach was silent, Worf had not said anything just in case his father had wanted his presence not to be known. "Lovely night, Father," Worf replied.

"Having trouble sleeping?"

"I simply find the night... alluring," Worf said. He took in the air deeply, his muscles stretching tautly over his rib cage. "I did not realize how much I had missed it."

Sergey was wearing a robe over his pajamas as he sauntered over to his son's side. "Do you remember the night you went hunting?" he asked.

Worf turned and looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Hunting ... ?"

"One night, early on... back when we had the farm on Gault, when you first came to us ... you came outside on a night much like this one, stripped off your clothes, and barreled off into the darkness. When we finally found you the next day, you were curled up in the woods. You were shivering slightly, you had a contented smile on your face... and there was blood encrusted on the edges of your mouth."

Worf shook his head. "I seem to have ... vague recollections of it at most."

"Word spread rather quickly. It's somewhat difficult to cover up such a thing. The neighbors protested; they were afraid of you. It was a very difficult time for us. Very difficult."

"I do not think I appreciated the hardship on you at the time. Perhaps to this day I cannot fully appreciate it." He hesitated a moment and then asked, "Do you... regret it?"

Worf was mildly disconcerted when Sergey didn't answer immediately. When he did reply, it was in a rather roundabout manner.

"You have to understand the difference between your mother and me," Sergey began. "When I found you on Khitomer, battered and pathetic under that pile of rubble ... my decision to bring you back to Gault, to adopt you, was made on the spur of the moment. That's the way I am. I don't think things out the way I should. I act on impulse ... which is appropriate for a warp-field specialist, no?" He laughed at his own joke, but when he saw that Worf wasn't likewise laughing, he trailed off and cleared his throat. "Now, your mother... she was always the rational one. I told her about you, and she said, 'Sergey, do you have any idea what you're getting us into? Do you?'"

"Are you saying... she did not want me?" Worf asked slowly.

"Of course she wanted you. That's not the point. She wanted you ... but she was fully aware of the consequences of our actions. She's very methodical, very reasonable. She thinks out everything and makes her choices based on what seems to be the most sensible course of action."

"Father ... I do not mean to sound impertinent... but why are you telling me this?"

"Because you take after her in many ways. You have enough impulsiveness as it is from your Klingon heritage. But from your mother, you learned how to size up a situation, to make a reasoned choice. She taught you how to act from your brain instead of your heart. You see what I'm getting at?"

Worf nodded, then stopped. "No," he admitted.

Sergey had been looking out at the night, but now he turned to face his son. "This girl, she seems lovely. Intelligent, smart, calm. Your mother adores her, I can tell you that."

"And you do not?"

"I think she's great! I just..." He gestured vaguely. "When I pictured the type of woman I thought you'd wind up with, somehow she was never what I was expecting. No offense."

"None taken. You are not the first person to make that observation, Father. We are ... opposites ... in many ways. On the other hand, it certainly gives us a good deal to talk about."

Sergey grunted noncommittally. "Worf... why are you marrying this girl?"

"She has a name, Father. I would appreciate if you used it."

Unperturbed at the mild rebuke from his son, Sergey said, "Why are you marrying Deanna?"

"Because... she completes me, Father. She is a valuable addition. She integrates smoothly into the framework of the unit."

"Son, you make her sound like a warp coil. Or a weapon. Do you love this gir-Deanna?"

"Would I be marrying her if I did not?"

"Worf..." He paused, trying to find the words. "Worf... in the old days, in the very old days... matches weren't made from love. They were put together by a matchmaker, and any one of a dozen reasons might be deemed reasonable for making a match. It came from here," and he tapped his head, "and not from here," and he touched his heart.

"Father, we are discussing a decision that relates to the entirety of one's life. It should come from both sources, should it not?"

"I just..."

"Father," and he folded his arms in what could best be described as a defensive posture. "I love Deanna. If I did not, I would not marry her, despite all the other 'logical' reasons to do so. I did not come here seeking your blessing. However, I would be most appreciative if I received it."

Sergey looked into the eyes of his adopted son. So many times, he had found those cold eyes unreadable. Life among humans had never been easy, and Worf had been hurt time and . . first by the natural cruelty of children, and then by the far more insidious cruelty of adults who feared the burly Klingon as if he were a walking pile of explosives in their midst. But Worf would have considered it the height of humiliation to let any of that pain show through, and he became very adept at hiding it.

This time, though, Worf had let his guard down ever so slightly. It was all there in his eyes, the need for his father's approval. When Worf had taken on the formidable challenge of being the first Klingon in Starfleet, he had done so partly to emulate Sergey. In taking on a wife, and endeavoring to do right by his child, Sergey realized that Worf was once more following Sergey's example, albeit perhaps unconsciously.

Sergey had reservations, serious reservations. It was Worf s life, however, and Worf wasn't asking for his opinion on Deanna (a lovely girl) or on how it would affect Alexander (he clearly was happy with her) or ...

The more Sergey thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. His instinct, upon which he had operated for so many years, told him that it was a mistake. That they were simply too different. But Sergey was hardly the expert on affairs of the heart. After all, he hadn't had to make decisions regarding a mate in nearly half a century, so it wasn't as if he were in practice.

His son needed him. That was the bottom line. His son needed the approval of his father, and he had no earthly reason to withhold it.

"Of course you have my blessing, Worf," he said. "You know that. Mine, and your mother's. I didn't want you think that I..."

"It is all right, Father." And then, to Sergey's surprise, the edges of Worf s mouth began to twitch. Slowly they pulled taut and then up, and Worf presented that rarest of phenomena: his smile. Not the feral cross between a grin and snarl that sometimes adorned his face when combat beckoned. This was a sincere, almost human smile. "I know that we are an unusual match, and I know that you have my best interests at heart."

"I'm relieved that you understand, Worf." He shivered slightly in the cold air. "Come, son. Getting a little cold for these old bones. How about if we go inside and I make you some warm milk, the way I used to."

"Father... you never made me warm milk."

"Never?"

Worf cast his thoughts back. "You did, however, give me vodka from time to time."

"Well, then ..." He clapped his son on the shoulder. "Let's see what we can do to accommodate you. You have the vodka, I'll have the milk. Somehow, I think, that's appropriate."

CHAPTER.

Kill him."

The first syllable was barely out of the female Romulan's mouth when Tom Riker moved.

As tired as he was, as exhausted as he was, it didn't slow him in the slightest as he lunged before any of the Romulan guards could fire at him. The one thing he had going for him was that they were in relatively confined quarters. They couldn't all simply start shooting, since they would be as likely to hit one another as him. It was the only advantage he had going for him, and it really wasn't all that much of one. That alone was discouraging enough, but he wasn't about to let it slow him down.

It was a valiant effort. His initial charge took him into the midsection of the nearest Romulan, who let out a gasp of air as he staggered back, carried by Riker's weight and sheer manic energy. The woman blinked in surprise, as if amazed over the pure bravado and yet utter futility in which Riker indulged during what were certain to be his last moments. Riker shoved the Romulan guard away and lashed out with one foot to the crotch of the nearest standing Romulan. The guard doubled over, and for just the slightest of moments Riker actually seemed as if he might have a chance. A chance of what, exactly, he wasn't completely sure. He had no idea where to run, no clue to whom he could turn to garner an ally. But first thing was most definitely first: If he didn't get out of there and survive, he didn't have a hope in h.e.l.l.

A sudden movement from one guard caught his eye. He turned to deal with the immediate threat, and as a consequence didn't see the b.u.t.t of the Romulan disruptor that was being brought down with customary Romulan fierceness on his skull. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and Riker sank to one knee. He reached out as if trying to find an invisible support on which he could haul himself up. A second blow to the head finished off any hope of that avenue as Riker slid to the floor. He felt a wave of nausea gripping him. He now had a new plan: He wanted to live long enough to vomit onto someone's boots. That seemed all that he was capable of at that moment, but at least it had the merit of making a political statement.

That was when a loud, stern voice said, "Leave him alone!"

Riker couldn't quite believe the origin of the voice. In fighting through the haze that descended around his skull, he was able to see that the female Romulan was likewise surprised. She was looking at Saket, who had been about to leave when the scuffle in the transporter room broke out.

"Leave him alone," Saket repeated, every word clearly an effort. "He ... saved my life, Sela. I owe him. So do you. If not for him, your rescue would have been in vain."

"But..."

"Don't 'but' me, Sela. I've known you too long. I knew your mother and she..."

Then Saket's knees began to buckle under him completely. The Romulans who were supporting him were frozen in place, clearly uncertain of what to do. "Get him out of here, now!" the woman whom he had called "Sela" ordered. Saket was promptly hauled away, faint protests still audible from his lips.

Riker didn't see any of it, because he was on his hands and knees, the world still whirling around him. A pair of booted feet slowly stepped into his narrow view of his environment, and he wondered if these were going to be the lucky boots onto which he was going to be heaving.

"What are you doing here, Riker?"

The angry and contemptuous question cut straight through him.

She knows me? Riker thought wonderingly, and then instantly it became clear to him. She knew Will Riker, his counterpart and identical twin. From the tone of voice, she'd had dealings with him that had not gone especially well for her. The logical thing to do would be to tell her that he was, in fact, not Will Riker at all, but rather Tom Riker. Tom Riker ...

.. . Will Riker's identical and genetically impossible-to-differentiate twin created by a one-in-a-miUion transporter accident.

Oh yeah. That was going to fly.