Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [62]
“Look, Will, you were the one who pushed for the inclusion of the mess hall, and you did so for all the right reasons. Chief among those reasons was that it would provide a social atmosphere on a ship that had not been designed with social interaction as one of its top priorities. But how can you expect the crew to develop an appropriate relationship with their captain if you won’t even eat with them?”
“I’m just concerned about it looking wrong,” Riker said, sitting down next to Troi. “I don’t want Akaar, or anyone else, to accuse me of being too familiar with my staff.”
Troi’s eyes widened as she released another puff of air. “I promise not to ask you to sleep with any crew members other than me, Captain.”
“Very funny. You know perfectly well what I mean about propriety. Besides, I thought we were talking about socializing in the mess hall.”
Troi softened her tone. “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. What’s this really about, Will? Akaar? You can’t allow his presence to undermine your command. He is on this ship for one mission, and one mission alone.”
“Sure,” Will said, his expression sour. “It just happens to be my very first mission.”
“True. But once it’s over, he’ll be gone and you’ll have to live and work with everyone else on board for all the other missions that will follow. By then you and the crew need to have done some…bonding.”
“Bonding.”
She hated to compare captains, but felt he still needed some convincing. “Remember how your life was on the Enterprise? On two Enterprises? You played poker. You drank in Ten-Forward. You played in your jazz ensemble, with subordinates. You were a friend to the entire crew—or at least friendly to all of them. Captain Picard was almost never that way.”
He smiled at that. “No. But he mellowed over time.”
“But only up to a point. His command style was always very cool and reserved. Nobody on board doubted his leadership, his competence, and his genuine concern for every member of the crew. But only those of us who were closest to him saw him as a friend. To everyone else, he was only their captain, however exceptional. And his style can’t be your style.”
“But I was a first officer then, Deanna. Not a captain. I may have to put a bit more distance between myself and the crew than I’m used to.”
She took his hands in hers, and looked into his eyes. “Do you, Imzadi? Are you prepared to sacrifice the unique command style you’ve spent your entire career cultivating? I don’t think so. If you were, you wouldn’t have left so many of your fingerprints all over this ship already.”
He frowned. “Fingerprints?”
“Oh, please. A shuttlecraft named after Louis Armstrong?”
The frown melted, and flowed into an appreciative smile. His emotions felt like a rainstorm receding before a rising sun.
“Be their friend and their captain,” she continued. “Give them a chance to be loyal, and give yourself a chance to earn their loyalty. And their friendship. Not just their respect.” She smiled back at him, then said, “Don’t wait seven years to join the poker game, Will.”
He suddenly leaned in and kissed her, then pulled her into a close embrace. Thank you, he thought, and she heard it in her mind, and felt his love fueling the sentiment.
After several minutes, they disentangled themselves. He smiled. “Let’s head for the mess. Deal the cards, and see what happens.”
They stood and walked toward her office door. He stopped and caressed her hair. Earlier today, she had gotten the ship’s stylist to braid her luxuriant, reddish-brown mane into a dozen or so rows, twisting it into a single mass at the back. She felt that this style—which she had worn briefly during her recent honeymoon with Will on Pelagia’s Opal Sea—gave her a sleek look, while still allowing her to maintain a wholly professional demeanor.
“We would have had to go anyhow,” he said. “If for no other reason than to show off your quite alluring new hair-style.”
Troi chuckled, then pushed her husband closer to the door. “Flatterer,” she said.
Entering the corridor, they walked the twenty