Part 2 (1/2)
”Worf?”
The last utter question came not as a result of her musing over the name of her beloved, but rather from what sounded like a rather familiar sound. It was a low, slightly animal growl. And in the depth of that animal growl, there was a word or two that sounded distinctly Klingonese. To be specific, they were Klingon profanities, which Deanna recognized all too readily and all too well.
And she was sensing something as well. Her empathic powers were anything but consistent; there were some races so alien to her that she was not able to get a reading off them at all. But Klingons were definitely not among that group. Their emotions were so close to the surface that she could have had a I M Z A D I II.
frontal lobotomy and still been able to read the average Klingon from half a mile away.
In this instance, what she was sensing was pain. Pure, agonizing, gut-wrenching pain. Not only that, but she also sensed an almost single-minded determination to ignore that same pain, to push it away as far as possible.
”Worf?” she called again. The voice had come from a patch of the forest nearby that was particularly dense. She was having trouble seeing. ”Worf?” she said once more.
She heard another muttered Klingon profanity, and this time she recognized the origin of the throat that uttered it, if not the literal meaning. It was definitely not the Klingon security chief who was hiding somewhere within the s.h.i.+elding depths of the forest. Rather, it was his young son.
”Alexander!” she called.
”Go away,” came back the tight snarl.
”Alex-!”
”I said go away!” came his voice again, filled with both agony and impatience. ”What part of 'go away' didn't you hear?”
For just a moment she considered heeding the youth's pleadings, but then she promptly rejected the notion. Clearly Alexander was in distress, and she would do him no favors by ignoring whatever it was that the lad was going through. She started to push her way through the brush.
”Dammit, Deanna!” Alexander protested, but after that he fell silent, as if realizing that his protests weren't getting through to her and it would be less than dignified for him to keep repeating instructions that weren't being heeded.
The area was heavily shaded, and it took Deanna's eyes a moment to readjust. There was a sharp, tangy aroma from the trees that she found positively invigorating. But whatever benefits she might have garnered from the pleasantness of her surroundings quickly evaporated when she saw the dire straits that Alexander was in.
She could tell by the way in which his leg was twisted at an odd angle that the limb was broken. His trousers had a streak of blood across the upper thigh. He had stripped off the right sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt and was endeavoring to bind the break . . , to create, with the help of a nearby st.u.r.dy branch, a sort of makes.h.i.+ft splint.
Alexander had grown in recent months. Indeed, his develop* ment had been nothing short of astounding. Worf had sanguinely claimed that that was fairly standard for young Klingon males. Once they reached a certain age in the maturation process, they underwent a growth spurt that covered, within one year, the amount of development that would normally consume two to three years or more hi a human male. It was as if, once a young Klingon survived the normal travails of extreme youth-thereby proving himself worthy of survival-the body then hastened development so that the Klingon would be less vulnerable, and for a shorter period.
At that particular moment, though, Alexander-who by Earth standards was bordering on adolescence-looked all too vulnerable. He was just reluctant to show it.
”What happened?” she gasped.
”I got trampled,” grumbled Alexander.
”Trampled?”
”When people are running for their lives,” Alexander observed, ”they tend to run over whatever's in their way... particularly anyone shorter than they are. Don't worry, I'm taking care of it.”
” 'Taking care of it'? Alexander, you need medical attention. And your father ...”
”My father,” grunted Alexander, ”was busy. Hold on a moment.”
”What are you going to-?”
He had taken a firm grip on his upper leg, and then Alexander gritted his teeth and suddenly twisted the leg around. He tried to hold back the yell of pain, but was only able to contain it for a moment before a howl erupted from his lips. Deanna, her empathy on full boil, gasped hi sympathetic pain. When he made the abrupt movement, she could actually hear the sound of the bone snapping into place.
His eyes rolled back into the top of his head, and for a moment she thought that Alexander was going to faint. But then his eyes became twin orbs of glistening steel and he willed himself to remain conscious. ”Do not,” he said between gritted teeth, ”ask me if I'm all right.”
”Are you-” The question came so naturally to her that she had to bite off the inquiry in midsentence. She tried her best to ignore her own roiling emotions as she said in as authoritative a voice as she could, ”We have to get you to your father.”
”I told you, he was busy. Much too busy to worry about me.”
”Alexander, that's unfair.”
”Yes, I know.”
”He was on the bridge! He couldn't abandon his post-”
”His post.” Alexander made no effort to hide his contempt. ”The s.h.i.+p had a warp-core breach. People were running everywhere. He made no effort to look for me, no effort to make sure that I was safe. I know why. It's perfectly obvious why.”
”Oh?”
”He didn't care whether I was safe or not.”
”Alexander,” she sighed, ”that's absurd. Your father cares about you. Is this why you crawled off here with your injured leg? To punish him somehow? To prove something?”
”This,” he informed her, ”is the Klingon way. If a warrior is injured ... he tends to it himself. If he can stand, if he can fight, then he deserves to continue. If he cannot tend to himself, then he becomes a burden on others, a drain on resources.”
”Your father taught you that?”
”Of course.”
”Fine. Then let me teach you something. A very old saying, and it's not Betazoid. It's an Earth saying. You remember Earth, where your grandparents live.”
”Of course I remember,” Alexander said with impatience. ”I lived there for a year, after all. They were... they were good people ... for humans,” he amended quickly.
”Yes, well, the Earth saying is that no man is an island. Do you know what that means?”
Alexander was busy affixing his leg to the makes.h.i.+ft splint and barely seemed to be listening. ”Beyond the obvious, that no man is an island any more than he is a rock or a bush or a continent... not really, no.”
”It means,” she said patiently, ”that we all need each other. That none of us is completely self-sufficient.”
He looked up at her. ”And it was an Earthman who said this.”
”Yes. The quote in full,” and she paused, pulling it from her memory, ”is 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'”
”Done?” asked Alexander.
”Yes!” Troi said in surprise. ”John Donne!”
”Who's John?” Alexander clearly looked confused.
”John?”
”It doesn't matter. I don't care if this 'John' is done. I was asking if you're done.”
”Oh.” She didn't know whether to be amused or abashed. ”Yes ...”