Imzadi_ Triangle Part 2

"Worf?"

The last utter question came not as a result of her musing over the name of her beloved, but rather from what sounded like a rather familiar sound. It was a low, slightly animal growl. And in the depth of that animal growl, there was a word or two that sounded distinctly Klingonese. To be specific, they were Klingon profanities, which Deanna recognized all too readily and all too well.

And she was sensing something as well. Her empathic powers were anything but consistent; there were some races so alien to her that she was not able to get a reading off them at all. But Klingons were definitely not among that group. Their emotions were so close to the surface that she could have had a I M Z A D I II.

frontal lobotomy and still been able to read the average Klingon from half a mile away.

In this instance, what she was sensing was pain. Pure, agonizing, gut-wrenching pain. Not only that, but she also sensed an almost single-minded determination to ignore that same pain, to push it away as far as possible.

"Worf?" she called again. The voice had come from a patch of the forest nearby that was particularly dense. She was having trouble seeing. "Worf?" she said once more.

She heard another muttered Klingon profanity, and this time she recognized the origin of the throat that uttered it, if not the literal meaning. It was definitely not the Klingon security chief who was hiding somewhere within the shielding depths of the forest. Rather, it was his young son.

"Alexander!" she called.

"Go away," came back the tight snarl.

"Alex-!"

"I said go away!" came his voice again, filled with both agony and impatience. "What part of 'go away' didn't you hear?"

For just a moment she considered heeding the youth's pleadings, but then she promptly rejected the notion. Clearly Alexander was in distress, and she would do him no favors by ignoring whatever it was that the lad was going through. She started to push her way through the brush.

"Dammit, Deanna!" Alexander protested, but after that he fell silent, as if realizing that his protests weren't getting through to her and it would be less than dignified for him to keep repeating instructions that weren't being heeded.

The area was heavily shaded, and it took Deanna's eyes a moment to readjust. There was a sharp, tangy aroma from the trees that she found positively invigorating. But whatever benefits she might have garnered from the pleasantness of her surroundings quickly evaporated when she saw the dire straits that Alexander was in.

She could tell by the way in which his leg was twisted at an odd angle that the limb was broken. His trousers had a streak of blood across the upper thigh. He had stripped off the right sleeve of his shirt and was endeavoring to bind the break . . , to create, with the help of a nearby st.u.r.dy branch, a sort of makeshift splint.

Alexander had grown in recent months. Indeed, his develop* ment had been nothing short of astounding. Worf had sanguinely claimed that that was fairly standard for young Klingon males. Once they reached a certain age in the maturation process, they underwent a growth spurt that covered, within one year, the amount of development that would normally consume two to three years or more hi a human male. It was as if, once a young Klingon survived the normal travails of extreme youth-thereby proving himself worthy of survival-the body then hastened development so that the Klingon would be less vulnerable, and for a shorter period.

At that particular moment, though, Alexander-who by Earth standards was bordering on adolescence-looked all too vulnerable. He was just reluctant to show it.

"What happened?" she gasped.

"I got trampled," grumbled Alexander.

"Trampled?"

"When people are running for their lives," Alexander observed, "they tend to run over whatever's in their way... particularly anyone shorter than they are. Don't worry, I'm taking care of it."

" 'Taking care of it'? Alexander, you need medical attention. And your father ..."

"My father," grunted Alexander, "was busy. Hold on a moment."

"What are you going to-?"

He had taken a firm grip on his upper leg, and then Alexander gritted his teeth and suddenly twisted the leg around. He tried to hold back the yell of pain, but was only able to contain it for a moment before a howl erupted from his lips. Deanna, her empathy on full boil, gasped hi sympathetic pain. When he made the abrupt movement, she could actually hear the sound of the bone snapping into place.

His eyes rolled back into the top of his head, and for a moment she thought that Alexander was going to faint. But then his eyes became twin orbs of glistening steel and he willed himself to remain conscious. "Do not," he said between gritted teeth, "ask me if I'm all right."

"Are you-" The question came so naturally to her that she had to bite off the inquiry in midsentence. She tried her best to ignore her own roiling emotions as she said in as authoritative a voice as she could, "We have to get you to your father."

"I told you, he was busy. Much too busy to worry about me."

"Alexander, that's unfair."

"Yes, I know."

"He was on the bridge! He couldn't abandon his post-"

"His post." Alexander made no effort to hide his contempt. "The ship had a warp-core breach. People were running everywhere. He made no effort to look for me, no effort to make sure that I was safe. I know why. It's perfectly obvious why."

"Oh?"

"He didn't care whether I was safe or not."

"Alexander," she sighed, "that's absurd. Your father cares about you. Is this why you crawled off here with your injured leg? To punish him somehow? To prove something?"

"This," he informed her, "is the Klingon way. If a warrior is injured ... he tends to it himself. If he can stand, if he can fight, then he deserves to continue. If he cannot tend to himself, then he becomes a burden on others, a drain on resources."

"Your father taught you that?"

"Of course."

"Fine. Then let me teach you something. A very old saying, and it's not Betazoid. It's an Earth saying. You remember Earth, where your grandparents live."

"Of course I remember," Alexander said with impatience. "I lived there for a year, after all. They were... they were good people ... for humans," he amended quickly.

"Yes, well, the Earth saying is that no man is an island. Do you know what that means?"

Alexander was busy affixing his leg to the makeshift splint and barely seemed to be listening. "Beyond the obvious, that no man is an island any more than he is a rock or a bush or a continent... not really, no."

"It means," she said patiently, "that we all need each other. That none of us is completely self-sufficient."

He looked up at her. "And it was an Earthman who said this."

"Yes. The quote in full," and she paused, pulling it from her memory, "is 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'"

"Done?" asked Alexander.

"Yes!" Troi said in surprise. "John Donne!"

"Who's John?" Alexander clearly looked confused.

"John?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't care if this 'John' is done. I was asking if you're done."

"Oh." She didn't know whether to be amused or abashed. "Yes ..."

"Good." He lay back, resting his head on the ground. "Then I'd appreciate it if you'd go away and let me lie here with my leg throbbing in peace."

"No. I'm going to summon help."

"Deanna!"

"What do you expect me to do, Alexander? Let you lie here? If I go off to get help, you might crawl off somewhere else and hide some more. I do not feel like taking that chance."

"Well, I'm not going to lie here like an invalid." With an impatient hiss of breath between his teeth, Alexander grabbed a tree and began to haul himself up. "All right, fine. You win. Let's go."

"You can't..."

"Do not," Alexander said sharply, "make me ask you for help."

She hesitated, and then sighed. She hauled him upward, pulling him up so that his arms rested around her shoulders. Despite his growth, she was amazed by how light he was.

He leaned heavily on his good leg, taking almost no weight onto the injured limb but instead hobbling along rather adroitly with the aid of Troi. "You know something, Deanna," he said as they made their way back toward the main body of the forced encampment, "I knew that an Earthman said that, rather than a Klingon. A Klingon would never say that he was not an island, or that another's death diminishes him."

"No?"

"No. Because we believe that, aside from serving your companion in a war situation, we are all on our own, from birth to death, and whatever we gain or obtain for ourselves is purely through our own devising and dependent upon our own wits. As for death diminishing each other ... Klingons kill in self-defense, in war, or in glory. To slay another is to insure either honor for another, or continued survival for one's self. Diminished? We are emboldened."

"Thank you for sharing that, Alexander," Deanna said with carefully hidden irony. "Just hearing that makes me feel much better."

"Oh, and by the way, Deanna..."

"Yes?"

"Nice landing."

Worf s eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, and then he aimed his tricorder in the direction that he was looking. After a moment, he nodded in satisfaction at the results of the search. For a moment he had thought he had caught movement of some sort, but a tricorder scan revealed that, in fact, it was simply shadows lengthening against the setting Veridian sun. He tapped his combadge. "Worf to captain."

"Picard here. Report, Mr. Worf," came the brisk reply of the erstwhile commander of the Enterprise.

"A thorough perimeter search shows no sign of hostile life. I do not believe any member of the crew is in danger from attack by any native life-form."

"That's good to hear, Mr. Worf. Now let's just hope that the Duras sisters didn't manage to get off a message to any allies who might come seeking revenge for their rather violent demise."

"That would be ... most unfortunate," Worf rumbled after a moment's thought "Indeed. Let us be wary."

"Always."

"Picard out."

The moment that the signal cut off, however, Worf s combadge signaled again. He tapped it and said, "Worf here."

"Worf... this is Deanna. I'm with Alexander... he's been injured."

"Injured?" Worfs perpetual frown deepened. "Where is he? Where are you?"

"Heading back to the encampment. Coming over the northern ridge."

"I will meet you en route." Worf was already starting to move, but his voice maintained an even quality that did not betray the speed with which he was going. He might have been continuing to stand still for all the exertion one would have detected in his tone. "What is the nature of the injury?"

"His leg. He broke it, I believe. I've already alerted Beverly and she's on her way to meet us."

"Why did you not simply wait for a.s.sistance?" he demanded.

"Stubborn Klingon pride," she said with a trace of sarcasm. "Something I think you may have a pa.s.sing familiarity with."

But Worf didn't seem to notice the ironic tone in her voice.

"Yes. Of course. I shall get there as quickly as possible. Make certain the boy does not injure himself any further."

There was a brief pause as if she was considering how to respond to that. "I'll see what I can do," she finally replied.

Worf hurried through the encampment. Various crew members nodded to him or greeted him as he went past, but he didn't pay them any mind. His thoughts and concerns were entirely upon Alexander.

Where had the boy gotten himself off to? Why had he not contacted his father? Concern was writ large all over Worf s face...

.. . and then he began to slow as he comprehended.

Of course. Klingon pride, just as Deanna had said.

His heart began to swell with that selfsame pride as all of the reasons for Alexander's actions immediately became clear to him. He completely comprehended what it was that the boy had set out to do, and the last thing that Worf wanted was to say or do anything to detract from his son's obvious desire to prove his mettle. So by the time he drew within sight range of Alexander and Deanna, gone was the concern, gone was the urgency in his bearing. Instead he was walking with a brisk stride that was distance-consuming but, at the same time, unhurried.

Beverly Crusher was there, running a scanner over his leg. "It's a clean break," Worf heard her say. "You're lucky in that respect. What were you thinking, running off like that?"

"Klingons do not run," Alexander replied stiffly.

"They hobble with dignity," Deanna archly corrected Crusher. This response actually drew a fleeting smile from Alexander, although he quickly hid it again.

Crusher glanced up at Worf, who had drawn within range but had yet to say anything. "If I had sickbay," she said, "I could fix this fairly easily. Cellular regenerator could knit the bone without any problem. As it is, we'll have to wait until we get aboard a vessel with a more fully equipped setup. I'll arrange for it, make a notation to have him beamed directly to the first available sickbay."

"How do his field dressings measure up?" Worf demanded, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a concerned father.

"I just finished inspecting them. It seems he did a rather serviceable job."

Worf grunted.

"Was that a grunt of approval, Father?" asked Alexander. "Or does just 'serviceable' not measure up?"

Beverly looked from one to the other and suddenly decided that her interests would best be served if she was elsewhere. To that end, she quickly made herself scarce.

"You sound upset," Worf said flatly. "Are you upset with me?"

Alexander's jaw twitched but he said nothing. After a moment's hesitation, Deanna said, "Alexander feels... whether rightly or wrongly... that you were not concerned about his welfare during the ship's crash."