CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For the first time in years, Deanna Troi was not looking forward to spending a few moments alone with Will Riker.

There were rare times, of course, when having once had a... relationship… with a patient gave a counselor a certain advantage. It enabled him or her to help more quickly than when one had to ‘start cold,’ as it were.

Usually, though, Deanna thought, it’s more a problem than a blessing.

Like now.

“Captain Picard had wanted me to speak with you,” she began, and took a seat; instead of joining her, however, Will found his way over to the observation lounge window. He leaned on the sill and looked out and away from her.

“Go ahead, Counselor. I’m listening.”

She set aside his lack of courtesy, and got to the business at hand. “He’s concerned that you might have some sort of ... resentment towards Captain Mantovanni.”

Will Riker had a particular smile he occasionally used, a ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ grin that had, at different times, both garnered him poker winnings and intimidated less... friendly challengers. He half-turned to her, and employed it now.

“Really? I thought I was just doing my job—offering alternatives, a different perspective. You know… the things a first officer is supposed to do.”

Riker’s time as her lover had taught him a few things about shielding thoughts and emotions. He didn’t usually bother employing them, since the relationship had always been at least cordial—and often far more—since their split. Now, though, she sensed him shuttering as much of himself as he could behind layers of distracting thoughts.

Deanna stood again, and circled the table until she was at his side.

“I think the captain’s emphasis is not so much what you’ve said,” she observed, “as it is the manner in which your recommendations have been delivered. Will, you’ve been distracted and, well, almost... resentful since the mission specialists came aboard.”

He chuckled in disbelief, and shook his head.

“Is that a professional assessment, or a personal one, Counselor?”

Troi was taken aback momentarily, but rallied well.

“I suppose I’d have to say something of each.”

Riker replied stiffly, “Look, Deanna, I know my job, and if I happen to be a little distracted—for whatever reason—I can still do it better than anyone else.”

That was the point for which she had waited.

“Better than Captain Mantovanni, you mean?”

It was definitely the wrong direction to take the conversation.

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

She suppressed an urge to retreat around the table and pressed the point; almost angry herself, now.

“Why are you constantly challenging him, Will?”

“I thought I explained that already.”

The exchange was becoming exasperating. Deanna took a deep breath and let it out slowly—taking time to compose her thoughts, and deciding on a way to proceed.

“There are different ways of expressing dissent, Will, than barely concealed hostility. Has Mantovanni done something to you?”

“No. Not overtly.” Riker’s eyes narrowed, and he observed, “You seem to have a real fascination with him, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Commander?” Troi was quickly reaching the limits of her patience. Every counseling technique she knew was slipping away as Will drew her into his sphere of emotional distress.

“Just what I said.

“Don’t get me wrong; it makes sense. He was raised on Vulcan, with all that implies. A man whose mind you can’t read, whose emotions you can’t effortlessly gauge. That’s got to be exciting. Like mother, like daughter, after all.”

It was one of those moments where a person reaches for something with which to hurt, and picks up a weapon that does the job far too well. Deanna stepped back as if she’d been slapped; in a way, she had been.

He was instantly sorry; she could see that. The damage, though, had been done.

“All right,” she nodded, continually, almost comically. “I’ll tell Captain Picard that I expressed my concerns to you, and that you reassured me. We’ll leave it at that.”

“Deanna ... ”

“Not... another... word... Commander.”

He understood in that moment that the future of both their personal and professional relationship was, in good part, depending on his silence for the few seconds it took her to leave the room.

Accordingly, he shut his mouth.

“I believe I have found part of the problem,” declared Sera MacLeod.

There were three of them gathered around the engineering systems control station with her: LaForge; Reg Barclay; and Lieutenant (junior grade) Sonya Gomez, a darkly attractive young woman who had served aboard the Enterprise for almost four-and-a-half years. Along with Barclay, she was one of Geordi’s most trusted assistants.

They all looked a little surprised at the Vulcan’s declaration—especially since she’d only been in engineering for the better part of an hour.

“Lieutenant, there isn’t exactly a problem,” Geordi told her. “We’re just looking for a way to boost engine efficiency a bit.”

“Indeed? Evidently my phraseology was imprecise. Allow me to clarify.” On a Vulcan, a smile, even a self-deprecating one, was even more incongruous than Geordi would have thought. “It is my opinion these warp-field equations will improve engine efficiency by, conservatively, 3.1%.”

“Th-that’s... a... pretty large increase from just j-juggling the numbers,” Barclay observed.

“How many simulations have you run?” asked Gomez. She was leaning over with her elbows on the engineering station in a posture just barely short of unprofessional, staring at the readouts MacLeod had input.

Geordi barely managed to smother a smile. To him, Sonya looked like an enthusiastic ten-year-old child; and it didn’t help his self-control that she’d taken to calling this particular station ‘the picnic table,’ after watching Lwaxana Troi use it for just that purpose almost two years ago.

“None,” MacLeod matter-of-factly informed them.

“H-how can you sure you’re figures are a–accurate if you haven’t done any c–computer modeling?”

“A combination of Vulcan intuition and human intellect,” responded MacLeod, as she began a level three diagnostic of the engineering station console. A second later, she looked up, with sudden concern. “Or is that the other way around?”

Gomez smiled; Barclay’s eyes widened in surprise.

Geordi, though, was a little less amused.

“Look, even if your figures are dead-on—and I’m not disputing your ability to do high-level mathematics in your head—considering that the result of a mistake here could be a warp-field shear that might tear the ship apart, maybe we should run a simulation or two, just to be on the safe side?”

Sera regarded him for a moment; slowly, to his amazement, her expression became what he would have regarded on a non-Vulcan as distressed.

“Forgive me. It was not my intention to put the ship at risk. I have, perhaps, become so accustomed to working alone that my methods are no longer compatible with a team dynamic. If you will excuse me.”

After she had left the room, Gomez stood up straight. “Wow.”

“’Wow’ is right,” added Geordi.

“Was it something we said?” asked Barclay, who was genuinely concerned.

“I don’t think so, Reg. I’d love to know what she was doing at her previous assignment, though.”

“Wow,” Gomez repeated, in the same monotone as before. She was staring at the readouts on her display; wordlessly, she punched it up on theirs as well. “I’ve gone through it twice, now.”

It was an abbreviated computer simulation, charting the effect of MacLeod’s warp field equations on speed.

“She was wrong, all right,” Geordi observed wonderingly.

“Yes, sir. The efficiency increase is more like 3.7%, according to this.”

“I think... I think...” Barclay began; then, he joined the others.

“Wow.”

“I’ve spoken with Commander Riker, sir.”

Troi had presented herself again in the ready room just a moment before. Judging from her posture and careful choice of words, Picard knew the answer to his next question before he asked it.

“Were you able to help him resolve his difficulties?”

“Sir, it’s my opinion as Ship’s Counselor that Commander Riker is dealing with an emotional... situation... precipitated by a number of external factors. However, he is more than capable of functioning competently in his capacity as first officer.”

There was a note of finality in her tone that he found a bit off-putting, but for the moment he let it pass.

“In your professional opinion, would that be the considered perspective of the other counselors in your department?” Picard inquired, gently but pointedly.

It was as close to questioning her judgment as he had ever come. She accepted it as a consequence of the circumstances, and hesitated only for a moment.

“Yes, sir, it would,” she affirmed with equal directness. “In addition, there is no other counselor who would be effective in assisting Commander Riker with this.”

“Really. Why is that?” Picard pressed.

“First of all, sir, rank would be an impediment. The remaining counselors on board are grade lieutenant or lower. None of them can really push him to reveal anything he might choose to withhold—not without violating the dictates of protocol.

“There’s also the fact that previous... experiences have made Commander Riker somewhat resistant to the concept of professional counseling."

Girding herself for the captain’s reaction, she pressed on with her train of thought. “I really think it would be more effective if you were to speak with him, sir. Despite your friendship, you are something of a father figure to Will, and might be able to reach him where... others cannot.”

From his expression, she could tell he’d already resigned himself to that eventuality.

“Very well, Counselor. Dismissed.”

Troi fully understood what had just happened: Her captain was more than a little irritated at the turn of events that had him preoccupied with his first officer rather than focusing on his wider responsibilities—especially when such unpleasantness was precisely why there were a series of ship’s counselors aboard. With these few words, Picard had also let it be known he was unsatisfied with her handling of the situation.

If it had been any other person, she might have confronted him about his conclusions.

This man, though, was Jean-Luc Picard; and so, instead, she accepted it.

“Commander.”

Warrick could hear from Worf’s tone that this next exchange would have little to do with tactical readiness—at least not in the literal sense. He almost smiled, but that of itself would have made it too easy for the Klingon.

They had worked well together during the hours since the briefing, in a silence the stoic Worf would probably have found companionable were he not concerned that his comments about Romulan honor had offended his superior irreparably.

Warrick mostly observed, now and again offering a “suggestion” that was, nonetheless, immediately implemented.

Gradually, over the intervening span, a security team of whom the mission specialist had already, albeit grudgingly, approved had been further refined until even his exacting standards were satisfied. It was rare that his job was so easily accomplished; that in itself was a testament to the Klingon’s preparedness and commitment to excellence.

Now, at last, Worf had turned to more personal matters.

He and his superior continued back to the bridge from deck eleven, where the last of their preparedness drills had just been completed, and Warrick had then declared the security personnel “a more than competent unit.”

“I wish to express... regret.”

“Concerning?”

Worf frowned, and narrowed his eyes. There was no sign in Warrick’s face of mockery. Perhaps his mind was on other matters.

“My comments during the briefing were… ill-considered. I was unaware of your... marital status.”

Warrick stopped abruptly in the corridor, and turned to face the Klingon. Starfleet Intelligence officers had a reputation for the ability to intimidate almost effortlessly; it was an indefinable quality for which they were often recruited. Worf was not easily impressed, but this man gave him pause.

“Are you saying that you now like Romulans, Lieutenant?” he asked pointedly.

Worf could feel the muscles in his neck tightening already.

“No, sir.”

They locked gazes for a moment, and Worf could feel the weight both of the man’s authority and his personality. He was a warrior, though; and while he would yield, in many circumstances, to one, he would never bow to the other.

“Are you telling me that you meant what you said, but that you’re sorry you said it then?”

Worf knew he might regret it, but...

“That is... closer to what I feel, sir.”

Warrick nodded.

“You’re young, Lieutenant, so I’ll excuse you this time. Just remember… to love a woman you don’t necessarily have to like her.” He smiled for such a brief moment that Worf almost thought he’d imagined it, and then turned towards the turbolift.

The Klingon understood a moment later that the smile had been genuine; because it returned when he replied, after reflection, “I have never loved a woman I liked.”

CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER FOURTEEN