Resistance - J.M. Dillard [12]
He had never known a Vulcan to be overtly rude, but Counselor T’Lana did not strike him as an ordinary Vulcan. As a rule, Worf did not like most members of the race: they were aloof, cold, unable to hide the distaste they felt in the presence of more emotional beings. T’Lana was different. Worf had watched her from the moment she set foot on the bridge. She seemed relaxed, free of her people’s extreme selfconsciousness. She was clearly comfortable being among a mostly human crew. And there was—or had it been his imagination?—something approaching warmth in her eyes. That is, until those eyes had focused on him.
Now, as she turned away, Worf noticed the fineness of her features. When he first began to serve alongside humans, he had found the faces of their females to be vaguely repulsive: their noses were too narrow and short, their lips too thin, their teeth too small and even. The smoothness of their foreheads seemed bland, unformed.
Over time, he had come to accept and finally to appreciate them. And all the things about Jadzia—things that once would have offended him, her straight, even, fine features—he came to see as delicate and beautiful.
Counselor T’Lana was beautiful in the same way.
The realization unsettled him, since Jadzia’s death, he had avoided noticing such things. In fact, he had instructed Ensign Sara Nave in the use of the bat’leth and never once noticed that she was female. But he could not deny at that moment that he was drawn to the new counselor, in spite of her coolness toward him.
Beverly measured her reaction as best she could under the situation. T’Lana’s subtle snub of Worf would have been lost on most of the bridge crew, but it did seem to the doctor that T’Lana had just turned her back on him.
Jean-Luc’s manner remained smooth, though he blinked once, rapidly, in surprise. “Of course, Counselor,” he replied. “Commander La Forge is currently completing a task in engineering. I’ll introduce you to him when he’s available. In the meantime, since you prefer to report for duty…” He gestured at the chair that had been Deanna Troi’s.
To get to it, T’Lana had to move past Worf. Beverly watched with curiosity as the petite Vulcan sidled by him without even meeting his gaze.
Was it possible, she wondered, that this person, whose Starfleet record indicated enormous respect for other societies, was a bigot when it came to Klingons?
His expression one of thinly veiled puzzlement, Worf moved to Will Riker’s old station and settled into the chair. T’Lana coolly took Deanna Troi’s former position. She appeared oblivious to the awkward reactions from the three senior members of the crew, the ones who knew enough to realize that the first officer had just been slighted.
Beverly leaned toward Jean-Luc, who was still standing, and said in a low voice, “I’ll be in sickbay if you need me.” The undercurrent in her tone was intentional, one that she knew the captain would pick up on; she was inviting him to tell her what was wrong. And she fully intended to insist, the instant he was off duty, that he come to sickbay for an exam and a little talk.
She turned and headed for the turbolift but had taken only three steps when she was stopped by the mixed chorus of sound: a groan, Worf’s urgent question, “Sir, are you all right?” and Nave’s exclamation, “Captain!”
She whirled, intuitively knowing what she would see. Nave was already out of her chair; Worf was up and reaching toward the captain; T’Lana was sitting, staring calmly at the tableau.
And Jean-Luc…Jean-Luc had sagged to his knees a step from his chair, torso bent slightly forward, fists curled and pressed against his ears as if to blot out a painful noise. His mouth was still open, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his brow contorted in agony.
She did not remember moving over to him. In one instant, she was standing a short