Resistance - J.M. Dillard [5]
“I must refuse the commission,” the Klingon repeated.
“I understood what you said,” Picard countered gently. “But I don’t understand why you said it.”
Worf lowered his gaze. An emotion flickered in his eyes, one that the captain could not precisely identify: reluctance? pain? “It is…a personal matter, sir. I would prefer not to discuss it.”
For a moment, Picard was rendered speechless. Finally, he said, “Commander…I respect your decision and your right to privacy. But of all candidates, you are the most qualified—and I would prefer you, above all others, as my Number One. Could I ask you to take some time to reconsider?”
Worf met the captain’s gaze directly once more, and Picard detected a glimmer of misery. “I have made my decision, sir,” the Klingon said.
There was nothing more to be said, the captain realized, with a sense of profound disappointment and disbelief. He straightened, his manner formal. “Very well, Mister Worf. You may return to your duties…as temporary first officer. I hope you are willing to continue in that role; it will take some time for me to find another qualified officer.”
The Klingon gave a nod and left with obvious relief.
Picard did not follow immediately. He remained behind his desk, contemplating whether or not to inform Starfleet of Worf’s decision. Worf seemed determined—but Picard’s instinct said to wait, to give him time.
The captain sighed. For the second time that morning, he found himself desperately missing Deanna Troi’s counsel.
Worf returned to the bridge and carefully settled into the command chair, ignoring Sara Nave as she half turned her face away from the conn to give him a curious, sidewise glance. He had never felt comfortable taking the captain’s seat; of all places on the Enterprise bridge, he deserved to be there least.
When Captain Picard had first asked him to take over Commander Riker’s position, Worf had considered refusing. But at that moment, the captain had had no other senior officers to choose from, no one from the original crew who had served him so long, who knew the ship and the captain so well. Refusing then would have put the captain in an unacceptable position, since Starfleet had to conduct a search for a replacement. Given the captain’s exceptional standards and the reality that most highly qualified officers were already content with their current assignments, time was needed.
Worf’s loyalty would not permit him to leave his captain without a seasoned second-in-command. But he thought it understood that his assistance was only temporary; he thought it had been clear that he could never accept a permanent position as Picard’s Number One.
Indeed, he had been perplexed by the fact that the captain had even considered him. Worf’s sense of shame was still so great he regarded it as tangible, as visible to others as the Klingon sash he wore over his uniform each day.
He had sat in the ready room looking at Captain Picard after the announcement, but the face he had seen had been the dark visage of the commander of Deep Space 9, Benjamin Sisko. The words he had heard were Sisko’s as well.
As your captain, it’s my duty to tell you that you made the wrong decision…they’ll probably never give you a command of your own after this.
Sisko’s assessment had been humanly soft, even weak. Had Worf been serving aboard a Klingon vessel, he would have gladly accepted death as his rightful due.
Sitting now on the bridge, the Klingon stared out at the streaming stars and saw a different face—this one pale and beautiful, framed by long hair the color of fertile soil. The features were young and delicate, but the spirit behind them was ancient and fierce.
Jadzia. The memory of his wife provoked no less pain than it had the day she had died.
For love of her, Worf had deserted his duty to Starfleet. For love of her, he had forsaken honor.
Only a few years ago, he had gone with Jadzia into the steaming jungles of an alien planet; their assignment was to meet with a Cardassian spy, Lasaran, who had critical information. Information, Worf reminded himself