Resistance - J.M. Dillard [26]
Her parents had done so several times. Sara had grown up learning how to deal with the fear of them not returning each time the saucer had separated from the bridge of the ship to protect the children from battle. Distraction through physical exercise, games with friends…
They had been so proud of her when, at age sixteen, she was accepted early into the academy. Her mother had wept and touched her cheek the day Sara had left, and her father had hugged her so hard and so long, she’d thought he would never let go. She’d looked into their eyes one last time before boarding the shuttle and seen there a glimmer of fear. They were afraid—afraid because their only child would soon be facing the same risks they had grown to accept as part of serving in Starfleet.
It was at the very end of her first year as a cadet, when she was utterly distracted, studying for finals, that she’d been called to the commandant’s office. She had absolutely no idea why—until she saw the haunted look in the silver-haired man’s eyes, saw the meticulously composed expression that failed to entirely mask his utter dismay.
My mother, Nave had thought immediately. Or is it my father?
She had not been prepared for it to be both of them. She remembered only snatches of what the commandant had said. Caught in an interplanetary war. The Lowe crippled. Bridge destroyed.
It was very clean, very cold, very surgical. One moment, her parents existed in her consciousness; the next moment, they had been excised. And there was nothing left of them, not a single memento of the dead, not even someone to grieve with. All their belongings, all their friends, had been aboard the incinerated Lowe.
Nave had never bothered to find out the names of the warring factions. Even now, she did not know the details; she had not looked up the records. It was enough that her parents were lost: what point was there in learning anything more? It would only bring back the pain.
And so she had distracted herself from her grief by studying fanatically for her finals. She did not attend the memorial services; instead, she took her tests and aced them. That, she knew, would have pleased her mother and father best.
Now, distracting herself from the coming encounter with the Borg, she moved gracefully through the different moves Worf had taught her with the bat’leth—reversals, figure eights, spinning and thrusting—until she had worked up quite a sweat. She’d been honored that he’d been willing to teach her—even though she was still pretty lousy with the weapon and played with a formidable handicap.
When Worf’s dark form at last appeared at the entrance, she broke into a smile, which quickly became a scowl.
“Worf! Why are you still in uniform?”
The Klingon’s demeanor was awkward. “I came to tell you that we must forgo our lesson this evening. I am…preoccupied.”
“But the best way not to think about the Borg is to work out,” she protested good-naturedly. “Besides, honing your skills with the bat’leth will help you do more of them in.”
He failed to respond to her humor; his expression remained stern, grim. “It has nothing to do with the Borg,” he said.
“Really? There’s something worse than a Borg with a vendetta?” she joked. “Well, you certainly can’t go through something like that on your own. Come on, tell me what’s up.”
Worf’s mood darkened visibly. “I do not wish to discuss it,” he said, in the lowest possible tone, the one approaching a growl, the one that indicated anger and hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Nave said. It wasn’t the first time her lighthearted mood had been met with a chilly response. Yet there was something worse than coldness from the Klingon. “I didn’t mean anything by it…”
But he had already disappeared from the doorway.
Nave finished her workout alone, then went, per custom, to relax at