Resistance - J.M. Dillard [30]
She looked like a warrior.
“I cannot be what the captain wants me to be,” Worf told her softly. “I am not worthy to command a starship. You remember what Captain Sisko told me, after Lasaran was killed.”
She would have remembered, of course. He had gone to her afterward, bitter, full of regret, and confessed everything that Sisko had said. Their bond was far too strong for him to have hidden such a thing from her.
She had agreed that Sisko had been right—in a way. But she had also asked, Knowing what you know now—that Lasaran would be killed, that many people would die—would you have acted the same? Would you have come back for me?
No, Worf had answered firmly, then paused. I don’t think so. He sighed. I don’t know…
None of us knows for certain how our actions will affect others. She had looked on him with infinite kindness; she knew how deep and bitter his guilt was. We can only do what we judge to be right at the time. You acted from your heart. You couldn’t have done anything else and remained true to yourself.
“I had to be Klingon,” Worf said aloud, then fell silent again, remembering what Doctor Crusher had told him. And he knew that, so long as he had been bound to Jadzia, he would have acted in the same manner. He would have gone back to her. “And I am still Klingon, so I cannot be trusted with a command.”
That’s ridiculous, Jadzia retorted in his imagination. Are you saying, then, that no Klingon is ever fit for command?
Worf considered the question, then heard himself echo what he had told his wife long ago: “No. I don’t think so…I don’t know…” Had he never bonded with a woman, the choice between love and duty would never have arisen. Perhaps now that he was again alone…
He thought of the startlingly attractive Vulcan counselor and flushed, unable suddenly to look into his wife’s holographic eyes.
In the end, the answer again escaped him, as haunting and elusive as Jadzia’s ghost.
In her quarters, T’Lana sat cross-legged on the cool deck, meditating.
Memories often surfaced during such times. She had learned not to suppress them, merely to observe, then let them go, without reaction or analysis.
The ones that emerged now in her consciousness were no doubt triggered by the meeting today with Picard. They came in singular, vivid images:
Aboard the Federation Starship Indefatigable, the face of Captain Karina Wozniak—intensely determined, framed by short silver curls. T’Lana had greatly admired and respected her. Wozniak had been deliberate, cautious, receptive to her counselor’s advice.
But the first time they had met, Wozniak had been anything but receptive; she had, in fact, been challenging.
Less than an hour after T’Lana’s arrival on the Indefatigable, she had been summoned to the captain’s ready room, where Wozniak sat, waiting. Her skin was dark bronze, contrasting sharply with her ice-colored eyes, her pale hair.
The captain was keenly blunt. It was a trait T’Lana admired, one that most humans failed to appreciate. Wozniak’s tone was good-natured but forceful. “I had requested a Betazoid counselor. I got you instead. Your people are not renowned for their interpersonal skills, yet Command sends me a Vulcan counselor.”
“True. However a Vulcan counselor gives you a distinct advantage,” T’Lana had replied.
Her answer had the intended effect: Wozniak did a slight double take, then lifted a brow and opened her mouth to pose a question.
T’Lana did not give her time to ask it. “I am a talented touch-telepath, of course,” she said. “My ability is so strong that I can sometimes sense the presence of minds even without direct physical contact—though I cannot decipher any thoughts. But it is