Resistance - J.M. Dillard [94]
“Here, here,” La Forge called with the others and joined in the enthusiastic applause.
The tables in the Happy Bottom Riding Club had been cleared away. Picard and Crusher stood in the center, with a clearly uncomfortable Worf nearby. The gathering wasn’t remotely as small as the Klingon had requested. Actually, one might say that it was quite large, in fact. But Picard had realized that it was the first public gathering since the memorial service for their fallen comrades and the crew needed something to celebrate.
A few days had passed since the Enterprise had left the directiveless Borg behind, in the care of Seven of Nine; the crew was headed now for dry-dock and shore leave.
Picard made his way past the well-wishers as they encircled Worf. There was a playful gleam in the captain’s eye as he knew how uncomfortable his new first officer was under the spotlight.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Beverly quietly asked with a straight face.
“It’s not a dip in the ocean,” he remarked, remembering Worf’s last promotion under his command, “but it will do.” Picard regarded her for a moment. “But you don’t seem to be having much fun.”
Beverly let out a sigh. “For a while,” she said, holding her champagne flute at chin level, “I thought we’d never be able to transform you back into yourself. The nanites had evolved radically…” She shook her head. “I figured it out because I had to. But it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“The hardest thing?” Picard asked softly. His tone was mildly teasing. She had been terribly serious and preoccupied the past few days. The experience with the Borg had been hard enough on her, but then she ferreted out the fact that Janeway had seriously threatened him with court-martial. He had hoped that the little celebration for Worf would help raise everyone’s spirits—including hers.
Beverly caught his little half smile, but her tone did not lighten. “Actually, the second hardest thing. The hardest was seeing you as Locutus again.” She looked down and shook her head, her hair swinging against her shoulders. “I took a great deal of pleasure in destroying the queen. I only wish I could have hurt her as badly as she hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Picard said gently. “The queen doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is a pathetic creature that has to be taught to think for itself. Besides…” He fought the impulse to reach out and smooth her hair, an act he would never permit himself to do in front of the crew. “Hurting her wouldn’t make me feel any better. But being here with you again does.”
His words had the desired effect; she smiled, and took another sip of champagne.
Picard let his gaze sweep over the crowd. It lit on the bar, where Worf had managed to escape to and was having a discussion with the Vulcan counselor. “I was very glad Mister Worf came to his senses about his assignment,” he said. “I just don’t understand what made him change his mind.”
Beverly looked down slyly into her glass as her lips quirked upward.
“Wait a minute,” Picard said. “Out with it.”
She gazed up at him with mock innocence. “Out with what?”
“You know something. That cat-that-caught-the-canary smirk. Why did Worf change his mind?”
“I really don’t know,” she replied. “All I did was tell him to be Klingon.”
He frowned, puzzled. “Be Klingon?” He turned toward Worf, who seemed to be hard at work trying to make another convert.
“It is prune juice,” Worf explained. “A suitable drink for a warrior.”
He poured the thick purplish-brown liquid from a flagon into the short, narrow glass in front of the Vulcan counselor and studied her as she stared noncommittally at it. He had not spoken to her privately since he had returned from the Borg vessel; he did not know whether she still resented him. He wanted to foster cordial relations between them, especially now that he was the official second-in-command.
“Vulcans do not believe in war,” she said.
“One does not need to shed blood