Possession - J.M. Dillard [35]
“What I just experienced,” Deanna said shakily, “was a thousand times more horrible than Skel’s terrible memories. What is in those containers, Captain, is not life as we understand it. It is something different. It is organized, powerful, conscienceless, rapacious. But it’s not exactly life—not a virus, but far smaller than that, and far more dangerous. And its hunger, its needs are insatiable. It is completely, totally evil.”
Picard drew back at that final word, then—after a moment’s reflection—asked, “Was it constructed, or did it evolve?”
She shook her head carefully. “Perhaps both. The core of it, its essence, is something from nature. Something that, I think, was captured, discovered, then refined to its purest essence—as if you could capture the banshee and put it in a bottle. It was artificially refined, augmented, and improved. I believe the Vulcans are right about its origins: it was designed for warfare.”
She closed her eyes, trying not to relive the terrible moment of connection with the unworldly power. “It devoured its enemies and its makers alike … until none were left to stop the madness they created.”
Worf walked quietly into his son’s room. Alexander slept soundly now, but he must have been dreaming earlier, since his covers were everywhere except on his body and his pillow was on the floor. In the corner at Alexander’s desk, a holographic eyeball was suspended near his computer station, blinking at Worf as if it were intelligent.
Now, where did that come from? the Klingon wondered. He went over to it, moving to turn it off, but the eye glared at him so balefully that he pulled his hand back. Of course, Worf realized, it is the all-seeing eye of a Klingon warrior! He chuckled and let it be, amused that the eye would watch over his son all night.
Carefully, Worf picked up the pillow and eased it under the boy’s head, then straightened the covers and tucked the youngster in. Alexander would have been outraged at the tender gesture if he had been awake, but Worf had clear memories of his father doing the same to him when he thought his little son was asleep. Worf loved his child with a warrior’s fierce devotion and a father’s gentle caring. Few outside of the Klingon family unit ever saw that side of the warriors, but it was there. Worf only regretted having missed the time of Alexander’s life when he could have been gently cradled in strong arms as his father murmured stories of glorious battles and ferocious one-on-one combat to his infant son. Alexander would have none of that now.
He bowed over the boy, meaning to kiss his skull plate, when the soft chiming of his door startled him. Who could be here at this unseemly hour? If it were ship’s business, either the captain or Data, who had the conn on the late-night shift, would have called him on the communicator.
He left his son’s room and went into the general living quarters. “Enter!” he called gruffly.
He was stunned to find the scientist Kyla Dannelke at his door. She was dressed now in an attractive, low-cut velvet tunic of sapphire blue, which made her pale eyes dazzling in her unsettlingly pale face, and she had brushed her pale hair out so that it fell, unbraided, on her shoulders.
The sight of her evoked conflicting feelings: Worf’s outrage at her prejudice was tempered by her forthright behavior and her clear willingness to change her views.
And, of course, there was no denying the fact that—despite her human features—she was a strong attractive woman.
The mental admission brought forth a surge of guilt, as though he were being unfaithful to his dead mate, to K’Ehleyr’s memory.
Yet at the sight of him, Kyla smiled—an expression of such honest, unashamed happiness and appreciation that the Klingon could not entirely resist its charm. He pressed his lips together and permitted the corners of them to quirk a bit; it was the closest he could come at the moment to returning the smile.
But he kept his tone formal, serious. “Dr. Dannelke,” he said before she could speak, “it is late. I have just now gone off duty.