BEST LAID PLANS, Part 4

by mabb5

Data starts a new life and meets an old friend. Jean-Luc encounters an old friend too, along with Ferengis, and other assorted questionable characters. He also gets a suggestion as to what he should do with the rest of his life.

A.N. Revised April 2013. Corrected typos and some slight continuity errors.

THE BEST LAID PLANS:

PART 4: Love in Bloom

Love in Bloom as Data starts a new life, and Picard meets an old friend...He goes shopping for a ship, deals with Ferengis, and then receives an unusual suggestion as to what he should do with his future. Another NC17 chapter. Usual disclaimers apply.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

He was casually dressed in gentian blue slacks and an identically colored woven tunic. He carried a knapsack. And he was dressed like any of the thousands of students that one could see every day rushing about the university campuses located in and about New York city.

There were two things that made this man stand out - his white skin and the fact that a student was an unusual sight in the hallowed halls of one of Earth's oldest surviving auction houses that could trace its very beginnings back to London in the 18th century. Few students could afford to buy an auction catalogue much less actually purchase one of the rarities that were offered here at auction.

The auction house personnel kept an eye on the student as he wandered about the auction preview, looking over the lots on display for the auction that would be sold the next day. He finally stopped, and picked up a sarod. Much to the amazement of the house's attendants, he tuned the instrument and started skillfully playing a melody on it.

After a few moments, one of the cataloguers who had worked on this collection of rare musical instruments, came over to the student.

"May I help you, Sir? Not many people even know what a sarod is, or how to play it."

"This Pakistani instrument is quite similar in structure to several Vulcan stringed harps that I have studied. It can be tuned to Vulcan chromatic scales as well. Shall I demonstrate?"

"I think, Sir, that it would be best if you put the instrument down before damage occurs."

"I detect no anomaly in my neural net reflexes. Therefore, there is little probability that I will damage the sarod. However, if you wish for me to place it down, I will do so." Data returned the 20th century instrument to its display rack.

The cataloguer, a nervous portly man in his thirties, did not quite know what to make of the man before him. "Are you interested in bidding on it? If so, you must first establish a credit history with this house."

Before answering the man, Data paused to consider not only what the man was saying, but how he was saying it. There was an edge of implied superiority in the man's voice that Data used to associate with Lore, Bruce Maddox and Admiral Kennelly. Choosing to ignore the cataloguer's attitude, Data politely said, "I am here to see the Jack Benny Stradivarius." Data reached into one of the many pockets to his tunic's vest and pulled out a data chip. "This should establish whatever credit history that you wish to know."

The man took the chip, commenting, "There are several conditions attached to bidding on the Stradivarius. The current owner insists that the buyer purchase the violin for performance purposes and not bid on it solely as an investment." The man sniffed. "Follow me."

Data trailed after the man until they reached the area where the violin was on display inside of a transparent aluminum case, and a force field. Data immediately concentrated on observing the violin before him. The rich patination of the wood's cross-hatching glowed in the cross-lighting of the display case. "A work of art," he commented, more to himself than to any of the other people milling about the display.

When the snooty cataloguer who'd met Data returned, his attitude had changed considerably. "Mr. Data Noonien Singh, Sir, would you care to personally examine the Stradivarius?" His voice was unctuous. It practically oozed. "The owner does require that all of her conditions be met by the bidders prior to the sale."

Data nodded. "May I play it?"

"You can play?" the cataloguer questioned. He opened up the display, reverently handing the instrument to Data. A moment later, the man had his answer as Data precisely turned the instrument. First, Data played a few measures of The Laughing Vulcan and His Dog, testing the vibrancy of the strings. Then a few more measures of a theme by Paganini were played. Glorious tones reverberated about the room.

After that, Data started playing the violin solo of the First Movement Allegro from Beethoven's violin concerto in D. As the minutes passed, a portion of Data's brain noted that the crowd about him was growing. And where before there had been the low murmur of conversation, now there was only silence. When he reached the end of the first movement, he stopped, was surprised by the sound of applause, and then looked at the man who had given him the violin.

"Am I disturbing you, or may I continue?" Data politely asked.

A sprightly lady of indeterminate age stepped forward. "Who are you?"

"My name is Data."

The woman turned toward the cataloguer who was still standing by the open case, his jaw still dropping. "Please tell me, Mr. Adjajian, that this gentleman is going to be a bidder."

The man slightly nodded.

The woman moved closer to Data and touched the ess curve of the violin. "This instrument has been in my mother's family for generations. Unfortunately, the only musician really worth a damn still in the family is my great-niece. But she only plays the piano."

Data then proceeded to play Love in Bloom, the theme song of a comedian from many centuries ago, who had once aspired to be a serious classical musician too.

The diminutive lady dressed in blue, was enchanted with his performance. "You clearly know the convoluted history of this instrument."

"I do have that information. Are you Mrs. DelaChancie?"

"Yes, Mr. Data, I am." She looked about the crowd, daring anyone to complain as she ordered, "Please continue to play, Mr. Data, if you would be so kind."

He proceeded to play Nathan Milstein's variations on the Beethoven cadenza. When he finished, when the applause had stopped, Carrie DelaChancie took the violin from him.

"I had a minimum price on this violin. Mr. Adjajian tells me that you have the credits. The violin is yours, Mr. Data. You're the first person who's been interested in it, that truly is a musician."

"I am not a musician by profession, Madame. However, I am studying composition at Harvard. From there I will go to the Lloyd Biggle school of musicology at the University of Michigan." Data respectfully touched the violin. "I believe that you have a contract with this auction house for the sale of this instrument. I am perfectly willing to bid on it at auction."

Before the lady could respond, the opening measures of Camille Saint-Saens Rondo Capriccio's Havanaise were played on a piano on the other side of the violin display. Data peered around the octagonal display, and nodded his head in acceptance of this musical invitation.

He walked over to the concert grand piano which was a rare Art Case Steinway. It was made of ornately inlaid and carved rosewood and Brazilian flame mahogany from the late 19th century. Data turned back to Mrs. DelaChancie, and took the violin from her.

A lady in a slate blue suit was playing the piano. She repeated the opening measures as Data added the pure tones from the violin. Almost an hour later, after playing some Chopin, Bruch and Sedtor of Vulcan, Data returned the violin to Mr. Adjajian. Then he smiled at the lady seated on the piano bench.

"It is good to see you again, Commander."

Her reaction was immediate. "My lord, the rumors are true. You do have emotions. I thought I could hear it in your playing!"

Data was surprised by her statement. "Surely with my interpretations you more than suspected that fact. I would be disappointed if you thought my performance had not changed."

Nella stood and hugged Data. "Mr. Data, what can I say? You were a brilliant violinist then." She looked at him, pausing for a moment to see if she could tell how much he had changed. She sensed that in many ways he had. "You are an even better performer now."

"So you know this man, eh, dear?"

Nella glanced over at Carrie. "Data, this lady is my great-aunt. And, Aunt Carrie, this gentleman is one of the best musicians with whom I have ever served." She could see that her aunt was puzzled. "This is Commander Data. We played together on board the Enterprise. I know I showed you the vid of our Chopin cello trio performance." Her eyes suddenly expressed her sorrow over the loss of the Enterprise. "Come, Data. Let's go get a cup of coffee."

Data nodded towards Nella's aunt. "May I suggest dinner, instead? I would be honored to be your escort."

Nella took his arm. "Delighted to accept, Mr. Data. Now you can tell me all about what has happened to Jean-Luc - and everyone else."

Data escorted the ladies to Baltimore. Several hours later, after some interesting discussions about the status of contemporary music, as well as a good meal at Hauser's, a restaurant that had been a Baltimore tradition for centuries, Data accompanied both ladies to Carrie DelaChancie's historic restored house.

"I stay with my aunt when I'm on Earth," Nella explained as she guided Data into the parlor decorated with an eclectic collection of antique furnishings and art work from many centuries as well as many cultures.

Data look with interest about the room. After the sterile, carefully planned environments of Starfleet ships and bases, he was ever curious as to how ordinary beings really lived.

"And it's always a pleasure to have you, my dear," the lady added as she entered the room, carrying a coffee tray. "Nella's parents are always gallivanting off somewhere doing exo-biological research. Personally, I find everything I need here on Earth." She placed the tray on a table by the Chippendale sofa covered in rose silk damask. "Sit down, Mr. Data. I'm sure that the two of you have a lot of catching up to do, which you politely refrained from doing during our dinner. I appreciate your consideration, Mr. Data. It's refreshing to meet someone with such an ingrained sense of courtesy such as yours." She straightened up. "I'm going to bed, Nella. Program the house computer as you wish for the morning. I'll be sleeping in, tomorrow." With that she turned to leave.

Data stood, walking over to her and opening the door. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, Carrie. I hope to see you tomorrow evening at the auction." He extended his hand.

"I've made arrangements for transportation tomorrow, to take us back to New York. Nothing personal, Mr. Data, but I do not care for your transporter technology even if it did return us from New York to Baltimore in only a few minutes. You may join us tomorrow, if you wish." She shook Data's hand. "You know, I am only selling the violin because it deserves to be played, and not locked up in a museum somewhere or placed in protective storage. Goodnight, Mr. Data. Nella, dear."

After she'd left, Data rejoined Nella on the sofa. "Your aunt is an interesting woman, Commander."

"Mr. Data, if my aunt permits you to call her Carrie, surely you can call me Nella."

"Nella," he whispered, pleased with the way it sounded on his lips. Data looked over at the Wedgwood black basalt coffee service. "I have acquired a taste for black coffee. I know it sounds odd coming from an android, but I find the liquid stimulating."

Nella laughed again. "Along with your human emotions, you seem to have acquired some human habits too, Mr. Data." She settled back against the cushions. "Tell me, Mr. Data, did they ever finish my plans for stellar cartography on the Enterprise before she was lost?"

"The stellar cartography lab was most beautiful, Nella. I was quite fond of it."

"I wish I could have seen it."

"I have the records in my memory. I could arrange for a viewing."

"Mr. Data…"

"Just Data to my friends. It is my first name."

With steady hands, Nella poured the coffee, adding several cubes of sugar to her own cup. The fact that Data had mentioned Picard's name caused no visible response. However, her heart was pounding as she handed Data his cup.

"Data, how was Jean-Luc when you left him?"

Judging by the tone of her voice, the lady's query was not casual. Data quickly referenced all known information about Captain Picard and Commander Daren. Subtleties of behavior that had eluded him before he now comprehended. The captain had cared for this lady. He softly spoke his answer. "He was well." Data carefully chose his words. "Jean-Luc's relationship with Dr. Crusher has changed, though."

Nella drank some coffee before replying. "Are you trying to tell me that Dr. Crusher finally got Jean-Luc?"

"If, by using the word got, you mean that have they formed a more close, personal relationship, then that is correct."

"I knew Beverly was hurt when she learned that Jean-Luc and I have been performing duets together." She sipped some more coffee. "Are they happy together?"

"I do not know if Captain Picard could be considered happy after losing his ship. However, they both seemed to need each other. And they do hold hands when they walk together."

"Then, I'm glad." Nella sighed, then finished off her coffee. "I only want the man to be happy. After all that he's gone through, he deserves a little happiness. And I hope that Beverly feels the same way." She looked at Data. "Well then, Data, tell me why you're really here on Earth."

"I thought it only logical that I return to Earth in order to learn how to feel like a human being. Now that I have emotions, I need to learn how to control them. I have taken a leave of absence from Starfleet."

"Well, I'm teaching at Georgetown right now. I'm also part of a group of amateur musicians. We try, as they say, to make beautiful music together. You'd be most welcome if you'd care to join us, Data."

"I shall certainly try to arrange my schedule, Nella. I would enjoy renewing our musical partnership."

She leaned over and patted his arm. "Data, so would I. And our friendship too." She pressed a light kiss against his cheek.

Surprised, Data paused to consider her actions. "I hope that we will remain friends as well." He kissed her back on the cheek, hoping that it was a fitting response to her gesture.

She stood and stretched, raising her arms above her head. "Come, Data. You don't have to go back to New York tonight, if you don't want to. My Aunt Carrie always has a guest bedroom ready. There's always a friend or spare relative looking for a place to stay. You can sleep here tonight, if you wish. Or, if you'd prefer, you can go peek at my aunt's musical library. She's got a few rare recordings that I don't think that even you will find in your memory banks. She's a true music aficionado and collector."

"Thank you for the invitation. I will stay - and sleep. I dream now."

"In the morning, I'll show you the treasures. We can compare notes." With that pun, she took his arm and guided him up the stairs. "Then, we'll see how well you can bid at auction."

=/\= =/\= =/\=

"Welcome on board the Adama," the man echoed. "I'm a Vorlo. Captain Ragner," he heartily laughed as he added, "Welcome, Captain Jean-Luc Picard!" He laughed again as if he were making a great joke. He extended his hand. "So, tell me what was the galaxy's most famous Starfleet captain doing on board a hunk of Plakled recycled metal like the Unk?"

The woman who had been kissing Picard stood next to Jean-Luc and clamped her arm tightly around his waist.

"Looking for me. Who else, Captain Ragner?" She challenged him, laughing as she spoke, curling up sensually clinging to Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc turned his head and inspected the slender woman who had dared to put her arm around him uninvited. There was a tightness, a sign of strain, about her dark eyes and pursed mouth, that he had not seen before.

"Were you looking for her, Captain John Luke Pickard?" the Vorlo asked.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

The was a ring of truth to his answer which the Vorlo recognized. Picard sent the woman a look that she could not misinterpret. For a moment their gazes connected. She was the one who blinked.

"His real name is Galen. John Luke Galen." She enunciated each syllable with a preciseness that almost grated. "Or, that's what he was called when I lived with him."

"Maquis?" the Vorlo snapped.

"Hah!" she retorted, with a nasty attitude. "The Maquis wouldn't have him!"

"You're not all Maquis?" Picard glanced over at the woman, automatically expecting her to answer him.

The Vorlo did instead. "I'm a friend of the Maquis for the right price." He leaned across the grungy table, coming practically nose-to-nose with Picard. "Are you a friend of the Maquis, Galen? Can I expect you to remain friendly to the Maquis when I do business with them on board my ship?"

The woman hugged Picard even more closely. "Oh, Captain Ragner, Johnny here can be as friendly as a Risian play leader during mating marathons, when he has to be." She patted Ragner's chest. "You worry about getting us out of Federation space in one piece. I'll worry about Johnny's relationship with the Maquis."

Picard leaned forward, almost bumping noses with Ragner. "Cheeky little brat, isn't she?" he cheerfully observed, starting to throw himself into the role that had been thrust upon him. "Always telling her betters what to do. Bossy woman." Picard suddenly turned, clutching the woman tightly to his chest, then shoving her backwards against the table. He twisted her arm that had been about his waist, forcing it into a position behind her back.

Ragner moved out of the way as he watched her flail against Johnny's arms.

"You bastard!" she screeched. "Let me go!"

"All right," Picard mildly agreed, stepping back, and then flipping her onto the dirty black carpet. Heaven only knew what the rug's original color had been.

She sat on the floor, pulling her legs up, then suddenly kicking her left foot in the direction of Picard's groin.

Picard dodged out of her boot's path. He'd been anticipating her reaction, grabbing her ankle before she could pull back. She tried to kick him as well. As she struggled in this ungainly position, he tipped her back even more, pressuring her downward.

"Hello, Ro Laren. You look like the Pah Wraiths succeeded in dragging you to hell. Where's my latinum?"

She stopped her struggling momentarily, "Hello, Johnny," she answered. "You're looking good - for being such a skinny fatherless son of a Ferengi lover! What money?"

"You know her?" Mela finally said something.

Picard was distracted by the distress he heard in Mela's voice. He unconsciously loosened his grip on Laren's ankle, which was a mistake because she booted his midriff with all of her strength. Picard crashed backwards, colliding hard against the table's edge before he landed on the floor almost fully under the table.

Ragner hung over the table's edge, rolling on his belly, extending a helping hand to Laren.

She grabbed them, pulling herself up. Ragner peered under the table viewing the sprawled man, and then looked back up at Ro. "What's he got that I don't got."

She reached over and tugged on one of his dirty grey braids. "No hair," she explained. "I like my man to squeak when I clean him."

Ragner started laughing as he slid off the table, back into his chair. "We're short of space." He nodded at Mela and the children who'd been watching everything with a somewhat stunned expression on their faces.

"You his woman, too?"

Picard sat up, narrowly avoiding hitting his head against the rather mucky underside of the table. He didn't want to think about what the Vorlos were doing to the table to make the underside look like such a prime breeding ground for unnamed fatal diseases.

"No. She is under my protection. I'm taking her to her husband - he's Maquis."

Ragner leaned back, plopping his feet up on the table, motioning for his men to move aside. "What are you, Johnny? Pirate, poet, beggar man, thief?" He leered at Mela. "What do they call those Earthers, Ro?"

Ro stepped over Johnny's legs. "I think that it has been a very long time since anyone has accused Johnny of being a knight in shining armor." She looked over at Mela. "She's either paying him a lot of latinum or her husband has something Johnny wants. Or, he has something on Johnny."

"Mela's a friend," Picard firmly stated, imparting a subtle warning to Ragner and his men by the way he said it.

Ro turned back to Ragner. "Last I heard, Johnny was playing pirate and robbing proto-Vulcan archaeological digs. I also heard that he got caught by the Vulcans, too."

Picard pulled himself up. "The Vulcan security couldn't hold me. They had no proof."

Ro nodded. "That sounds just like you, Johnny. Never sticking around long enough to leave a trace behind."

"They got my ship," Johnny remarked, sounding disgusted with himself.

Ragner laughed again. "I'd like to hear more of your stories, Johnny. But, I've got a ship to run. And thanks to you and your little trick with the space pod, I'm behind my schedule." He pointed at Mela. "You! Can you cook?"

Mela looked at Picard for support. He slightly nodded. Then she looked back at the Vorlo captain, trying to match Picard's brave attitude. "I'm a good cook." She looked back over at Picard who silently nodded his approval.

Ragner nodded. "Good. You'll take the old cook's quarters. I spaced the old one when he was late with my supper." He jerked his head in the direction of the twins. "Keep those kids out of my sight if you want to keep them breathing," he warned. "Otherwise I'll sell them to the nearest Cardie."

"I think not." Picard spoke quickly, his voice bespeaking a deadly promise. "No one will touch those children, much less a Cardie!"

Ragner studied Picard for a minute, seeing something beyond the dirty clothes and the brave words. "Any man who hates Cardies has a berth on my ship." He turned, speaking the order to one of his men. "Tomorrow, find this man a job." Ragner then looked at Ro Laren. "Take him to your quarters. Keep him there. I'll see you both at the end of the first shift. I wouldn't advise bothering me before then if you want to keep your skins intact.

"Merde!" Ro Laren said under her breath.

Jean-Luc heard her curse. "I believe that's my line."

"Follow me," she ordered, ignoring the rest of the crew still in the conference room. They hooted and hollered as she left, half-dragging Jean-Luc by the arm. "Don't say anything!" she cautioned under the noise that the men were making.

"At the moment, I can't think of a single thing that I'd like to say in public," he countered as he followed her lead down a corridor.

"That Vorlo always likes to keep track of me," she commented as they walked. "Everything I do and say, he watches. He seems to notice every little thing."

"In that case…" Picard stepped into a doorway, pulling Ro Laren into a tight embrace, his hands fondling the sleek curves revealed by her skin-tight red jumpsuit. He buried his face against her neck. "Where can we talk?" he whispered against her ear lobe.

"I'll try to fine some place safe," she responded, her hands roving over his body too.

Even though she knew he was only play-acting, the way he was feeling her was bringing about certain unbidden, unexpected responses. Her blood rushed to her head as she forced herself to remember that in all likelihood, the man caressing her breasts hated her to the very depths of his soul.

Someone walked by them in the corridor. Though the passerby jested in a language unknown to the captain, the crude nature of the remark needed no universal translator.

"This way, Johnny," she instructed, ducking down a much smaller side corridor, an off-shoot to the main one they'd been traveling.

Once inside the little rooms that comprised her quarters, she pulled him back into her arms, kissing him with a fervid passion that was not quite an act.

He forcefully shoved her away from him, gulping air as he tried to hold on to his composure. His instinctive response, when he had first sighted Ro Laren had been to yell at her until his throat gave out and turned hoarse. His second impulse was to shake her by the shoulders until she screamed, throttling her until she begged for mercy. He liked the idea of Ro Laren begging him for mercy. In his deepest, darkest thoughts, he'd often dreamed of what he would do to Ro Laren if he'd ever gained the pleasure of her company again.

"Still haven't forgiven me, eh, Johnny? Laren postured, striking a provocative pose, almost as if she weren't alone in the room with Picard.

"Did you really think I really would forgive you, Ro? That I could even consider it?"

In a voice quavering with bravado and something else, she dared to ask, "You sound as if I broke your heart, Johnny." She daringly added, "Did I?"

"Yes." His answer was truthful. For a moment he stared at her, the truth of his hurt hidden in the depths of his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, seeing it, knowing that what had been between them had been more than just a professional relationship.

For a second, he knew that she was telling the truth. But her honesty did not give him any answers to the questions that he had.

"What's going on, Laren?" He forced himself to sound calm and reasonable, in spite of his overwhelming urge to rant and yell.

He wanted to pummel her flesh, to hurt her until her pain equaled that which she had inflicted on him. He wanted to kiss her until she pleaded… for something…

With a mental jerk, he cleared his head, shaken by the directions of his thoughts.

"Did you say something, Ro?" He realized that she was looking at him with concern.

"When was the last time you rested, Johnny?"

"You know, Laren, I really don't remember. It must have been a few days ago on board the Unk." He responded automatically to the concern in her voice. And then, who she was and what she was and where she was struck his consciousness forcefully. Ro Laren may be acting like a friend, helping him escape imprisonment or a fate worse than death. It didn't matter. She was still Ro Laren, traitor to Starfleet. She had betrayed him. He pulled himself together.

"And don't call me Johnny. I don't care for it." He was irritated by her presumption, and then was annoyed with himself for revealing it. He was Captain Jean-Luc Picard and it was about time that he remembered it.

Somehow, she guessed what he was thinking. "I don't need your permission to call you whatever I like. Besides, I don't think you'll answer to darling."

"You haven't the right." The moment he said it, he regretted it. A brief look of pain flashed in her eyes. His words had hurt her when she was only trying to help him. And then he was angry with himself for even noticing. Or caring.

"We should talk." His tone was brusque as if he didn't or wouldn't care.

"I'd rather do something else," she proposed as she started to undo the black metal clasps down the front of her too-tight jump suit. Her fingers stopped at her zipper.

He wasn't so tired that he didn't sense the continued implied warning behind her words, even as she undressed. "What?" He wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real, or some sort of sleep deprivation delusion. Though he couldn't consciously recall ever fantasizing about the undressing of his former helmsman.

"Sit down, Johnny," she ordered.

He sat down on the only place that was empty in her small, plain room. Her bed. The only chair by a table was covered with discarded garments and an orange deep-space suit.

"Ragner likes to watch," she explained as she continued to undress. "He's always monitoring me." She looked in the direction of the device.

Once Jean-Luc located its position on the wall, he realized how completely the monitor covered the action within the cabin. They were being observed at all times.

"And now that you're sharing my cabin, I don't think he'll ever turn the damn viewer off. He'll want to see and hear everything that we do."

"Laren, how did you ever get involved with such a man?"

"Last time I had any real choices in my life, I was living with you."

Their words sounded like a lover's quarrel. He followed her lead, accepting that she was helping him for reasons best not explored at the moment. His instincts told him that the danger about them was tangibly real.

"You chose to leave." He spoke carefully, more to any eavesdropping audience than he did to her, as if her departure hadn't really mattered that much to him, one way or another.

"Did you really give me any choice, Johnny? I didn't want to leave. You made me go." For a brief moment, the pain was there, in her voice, in her eyes. If Picard had not insisted that she comply with Admiral Nechayev's ill-begotten plan; if he had not literally blackmailed her, forcing her to continue spying on the Maquis when she had wanted to quit, Ro Laren would still be a Starfleet officer.

She dropped her suit., stepping out of it. Ro then sat down next to Johnny on the bed and worked on taking off her boots. When she was finished, she stood, only wearing a thin black skimmer top and a thong.

He had two choices at the moment - be a gentleman or pretend to be her ex-lover. Not that he had a real option. He was too much of a man not to respond to her near-nude physical presence, if only on a visceral level.

She faced him, looking down into his eyes. She placed her hands on his shoulders. Quietly, but with the deadliest of intent she asked, "Are you here to spy on me? On the Maquis?"

"I didn't know you were here, Ro." He reached up and put his arms about her waist, idly stroking upwards, slowly moving his hands about her ribs to rest them beneath the undersides of her breasts. "And I don't give a damn about what the Maquis are doing at the moment. I'm not required to…" He looked into her dark eyes, willing her to see that he was speaking the truth. "I was only on board the Unk because I was on my way to a job - a dig on Gaudete II."

"Why didn't you use your connections? Why didn't you use your ship?"

"I lost my ship, Ro." With this, he rested his forehead against her stomach, hiding what he really felt in the warmth of her flesh.

She finally understood what he had been telling her. "You lost her…" Her voice was soft, full of pain; full of comprehension.

He raised his head, gazing upward upon her visage, give her a glimpse of how great was his grief for just a brief moment.

She just stood there, silently offering him her comfort. Then, she thought about the people she had once known and respected. "My… friends?" She didn't know what else to call the crew of the Enterprise "Guinan? Will? Geordi? Beverly? What's happened to them?"

"Scattered. Some have joined the Maquis." In spite of the situation, Picard had to smile. "As for Guinan, she always does what she pleases. I consider myself fortunate when she even bothers to mention any of her plans to me."

The temptation to ask him more questions was too great. So, she bent over and kissed him lightly on the lips. The softness of his lips as he responded surprised her. "Come. You need a shower." With trembling fingers, she attempted to undo his vest.

He rebuked her. "I will do it, Ro," he stated more roughly than he needed to do.

She pretended that his words didn't hurt, exposing none of her feelings. She'd spent too many years of her life becoming a self-contained, self-controlled woman. She wasn't willing to admit to the fact that he still has such power over her. "It's more fun if I help." She pointedly glanced towards the monitor.

The anger was there - in his look, his touch, his actions. Swiftly, he removed his clothing, ignoring the monitor and disregarding Ro.

When he was naked, he stepped into the tiny bathroom and turned on the shower. He wasn't that surprised to discover that it was an almost antiquated hot water system, probably a by-system using the energy from the engines to heat the water. This system went in keeping with the standard of the other features that he'd seen so far on the Adama. And none were even a close match to the level of comfort that had been on board the Enterprise.

Slowly the cubicle filled with steam. Then he moved aside to give Ro some room as she entered the shower. They said nothing to each other, as he tried to assess just how closely they were being monitored in this room.

Ro leaned her head against the back of Jean-Luc's shoulders as she spoke in a low-pitched voice. "Ragner can only see us in here - not listen, if we keep our voices low."

"Are you sure, Ro?" He asked this as he reached over and grasped her right hand, placing it on his hip, knowing that this action could be seen through the shower wall.

"No." She made a sound full of pain and self-irony. It was supposed to be a laugh. "You, of all people should know that life's a gamble, and then you die, Johnny." She leaned up against him, pressing her body to his, softly saying against his ear, "Captain…"

He turned around so that they were both facing each other. "Careful, Ro. You wouldn't want to make a mistake, now would you?"

She moved closer to him, carefully massaging his thigh that was pressed up against the clear shower wall. And the fact that he was having to perform for a Vorlo just added to the reasons as to why he was angry.

"So we have to have sex in order to entertain a man who would otherwise kill me?" He grimly smiled. "You'd make such a great personal sacrifice for me, Ro?"

She shut her eyes, not wanting to see as well as hear the sarcasm and contempt that she knew he felt toward her. She'd never felt the full brunt of his nastiness before, though like all junior officers, she'd suspected he was capable of most righteous brutality. She considered herself to be very lucky that he hadn't caught her the day when she had joined the Maquis.

He said nothing. Instead, he forced his hips against hers reminding her that he was a man. Certain things can never be faked, and the evidence of his arousal was one of them.

"Scream, Ro," he ordered, "like you're enjoying what I'm doing to you." He shoved up even closer to her, using her softness as if it were a means of punishment.

"Anything you say, Johnny." With this, she reached up, and slapped him across the cheek rather hard. Then she screamed, yelling as if she didn't care who overheard her. "If that's all you can say to me after all this time, go fuck yourself!" She stormed out, slamming the shower door behind her, narrowly missing him.

He grabbed a towel, chasing after her into the bedroom. He draped the towel over the lens of the monitor. "Sorry, Ragner. I don't like spectators to my sport."

Ro stood in the middle of the room, staring at his with a defiant glint in her eyes. She wasn't sure if they were play-acting any more.

"If you're going to scream, Ro, I'd suggest you start doing so right now."

"What?"

"Scream." He thrust her backwards. She stumbled, retreating a step before he pushed her again. This time she landed flat on her posterior, on the bed.

He leaned over her, trapping her, forcing her down. He rested his weight on his arms.

"Why?" she asked, looking at him, trying not to give into the terror that this position always invoked. She was trying not to be scared. She was not willing to surrender an inch, until he gave her an answer that she could accept.

"Do you really have to ask, Laren?" He whispered his words against her lips. And then he kissed her, lightly, gently, offering her a touch of his soul's warmth. It was the first genuine, human, emotional action on his part that he'd made since she'd tackled him during his introduction to Ragner.

It worked. She softened beneath his touch, almost forgetting everything that was between them. Her arms crept around his neck, tugging him down, as she opened her mouth, letting him in. She was surprised by the sweetness of his kiss. She had not expected it of him.

Somewhat surprised himself by her willingness, he answered in kind, kissing her more deeply, losing himself to her unexpected submission, momentarily forgetting all the barriers between them. He moved her over until they both were lying side by side on the bed.

Something flamed between them. Something that had been born a long time ago when a defiantly brazen Bajoran had demanded that he trust her. Something that had continued to exist during the years since, even flaring not that many months ago when she had pretended to be a prostitute in a bar. This something was the unfinished business between them - a connection of which they'd never spoken, never openly acknowledged, or even admitted silently to themselves. Yet it was as real as the trust that had once been the bond between them.

He raised his head, looking into her eyes which were almost black with the rise of her unforeseen passion.

He didn't know how to answer the unspoken questions in her gaze. He felt compelled to say something though. "I should have known. You have always been a constant surprise to me, Ro Laren."

"That's nothing compared to the shocks you've given me over the years. I've been questioning my sense of judgment ever since our first meeting."

She grinned, suddenly entertained by everything that was happening between them. "You're not such an overly-stuffed uniform after all." Her grin broadened as she dared to touch him - lightly as first, but then more passionately inquisitive, as if it were a prelude for more to come. "You're even better than I thought - especially when you're not wearing your uniform."

Before he could voice an appropriate response, the door to her room crashed open. Ragner strode in, not caring in the slightest that he was intruding. He was flanked by two burly, armed Vorlos in pea-green jumpsuits.

"You know, Ro, if you wanted privacy, all you had to do was ask." With this, Ragner picked off the towel from the monitor, and dropped it onto the deck. Then he removed a Viridian disruptor from his belt. He slammed the butt of it against the lens, destroying it. "I thought you liked putting your tight little ass on display for me. I know I certainly liked watching it."

Sensing that perhaps some of Ragner's words were truthful, Picard sat up, resting against a bulkhead. He didn't bother covering his nakedness, somehow knowing that Ragner would view modesty as a sign of weakness.

"Don't let me stop what you're doing, Johnny. Ever since she came on board, Ro here has been rather lonesome. And she won't let me or any of my crew get near her tail. Shoots if we try. So, enjoy her while you can. The other Maquis tell me that the lady has a fickle reputation. Her lovers don't live too long."

"Thank you, Captain. I do know that," Picard politely responded. He wondered what Ragner was really trying to tell him. "You could have just shut it off if you didn't want to watch how I'm going to deal with Ro."

"What? And miss the only good entertainment I've had in months? Besides, I'd rather imagine what you're doing to her. I'll still be hearing you, Johnny. And I can promise you this…" He walked to the doorway. "…you kill her, I'll space you out the nearest chute a living chunk at a time. You won't want that." He ogled the nude Ro one more time. "If you beat her, she'd better be able to still perform her duties. Even though the Maquis are only on loan to me, she's still part of my crew. You can't hurt her - I am the captain of this ship. I'm the only one who has got the right to hurt her - and you." With that warning, he left with his men.

"An interesting choice of champions, Ro."

He then reached over and grabbed the mottled blue cloth that served as a coverlet. He grabbed the lone flat pillow, then pulled the coverlet over his naked body. "Replicate another pillow," he ordered, then rolled against the wall. "I'm exhausted."

Ro Laren elbowed him in the ribs. "Is that all you're going to say to me?"

"Watch out for the edge of the bed - it's wet. We never did dry off from our shower." He turned away from her, pulling the blanket up over his ears.

"Be like that," she muttered under her breath. She slid out of bed, jerking the blanket over. He pulled it back. "I'm going to finish my shower," she announced to his back. He did not respond.

She had almost made it to the bathroom when he commented, raising his head, speaking his words over his shoulder. "Feel free to take out the bathroom monitor, Ro. Unless you like performing for Ragner."

"Oh, he can't see that much when it gets steamy in there. I don't want to press our luck too much. I've seen him whip crew members for lesser infractions. Be grateful that the monitor doesn't focus on the toilet. I understand that there are some races that really get in to that sort of thing."

He ignored her, until she was gone. Then he turned onto his back, crossing his arm over his head, wondering what he was going to do, and how he was going to handle this mess. More importantly, how was he going to handle Ro Laren? Meeting Ro again had certainly made his life more complex. Somewhat stunned by all that had happened, and how swiftly he had responded, he felt as if he were beginning to get a headache. But he was too tired to think at this moment. He fell asleep even as he contemplated his situation, considering all of the possibilities, unpleasant or otherwise.

A few minutes later, Ro entered the bedroom wearing a short, red wrap-around, drying her hair with a towel. She knew he was asleep by the rhythm of his breathing. Sighing, she kicked the seat clean on the lone armchair, wondering why she felt so disappointed over the fact that he was asleep. The last thing she needed was the complication of Jean-Luc Picard in her life. Yet, there was a part of her that was so glad that he was back in her life. There was so much of her very soul that she needed to explain to him, so much that had been left unfinished between them on both personal and professional levels.

When she was done with her hair, she considered her next move. Though the dark blue armchair was upholstered, it had its share of mountainous bumps. It wasn't the most comfortable berth on board this ship, and certainly it was not a good choice for a night's rest. However, she'd slept in worse places before, on Bajor and in prison camps, when there had been no other choice. Now she did have a choice. And dammit, it was her bed!

Deciding to be discreet for once in her life, she still wore her robe when she climbed into bed, grabbing one of the small throw pillows from her chair. Jean-Luc had spent too many years on board fancy starships if he thought that ships such as the Adama had replicators in the crew's quarters. She pummeled the small pillow's lumps into hopefully a more comfortable arrangement. Finally deciding that she had stirred enough to awaken a sleeping hung-over Barjoran varbog, she came to a conclusion. Jean-Luc Picard was either a dead man - or a man who was sleeping like the dead. In either case, her only prudent choice was to go to sleep too. In spite of all the adrenalin that had been coursing through her veins during the past few hours, she fell asleep rather quickly too.

Many hours later, she turned into the warmth in her bed, even more. Cuddling closer, she dwelt in that special place between recognition and dreamland. Even when his arm brought her closer to bring her to rest on his chest, she still half-believed that she was dreaming. She wasn't disturbed until she though she heard him say under his breath, "Eline…"

She opened her eyes. She really didn't want to wake up. Or move. Casting an eye toward the chronometer on the wall, she could see that she was hours away from having to report to Captain Ragner. Reality then struck her full force as she recognized the muscled, hairy chest she'd been using as a pillow. She grinned to herself. Never in her wildest imaginings - and she did have quite a fertile imagination - had she ever envisioned sleeping with Jean-Luc Picard. She idly considered the possibilities as her blood began to sing…

"Eline… he mumbled again.

She wondered who the lucky Eline was as she mentally ran through the listing of all of the women that she had heard were connected romantically with Jean-Luc Picard. Clearly, the captain was accustomed to sharing a bed, based upon the way he was embracing her. But as for the identity of the woman, Ro couldn't hazard a guess. She didn't think that Jean-Luc could have had the time to form such a deep attachment with a woman reaching the point that he would have become accustomed to sharing his bed with her during the few months since she'd been gone and joined the Maquis.

She briefly considered that he might have married since the last time that she'd seen him. After all, being on the run with the Maquis no longer helped her be privy to the cream of the Starfleet gossip soup. But then, she discounted that possibility. Though she knew he'd only been following her lead during their discourse with Ragner, Jean-Luc was too much of a man of honor to have played all of their ensuing games, if he'd been a married man, or even a man who had made some sort of permanent, personal commitment.

Carefully sitting up, sliding her robe off of her shoulders, she studied him in the half-light of her cabin. The tired lines of his face went beyond mere fatigue. A tear slipped down her cheek as she thought of the Enterprise, and of his loss. Later on, though she would have to get him to verbally confirm it, Ro knew that he was no longer a Starfleet officer. That loss too, was written on his face. Other pain was there as well. Someday, she hoped that he would confide in her all that had happened to him.

She understood pain and loss. They'd been her constant companions almost every day of her life since she had been a little girl. Only when she had earned his trust during those early days on board the Enterprise, when she had become Guinan's friend, had she ever felt what it was like to be safe again - if only for a few brief years, and only as long as she had been in his service. She continued to watch him until his arm searched for the heat from her missing body. She made up her mind. After all, she was used to taking impossible-to-win gambles. Certainly the men in her bed had come to expect no other kind of behavior from her. So she decided to live down to his expectations of her. And if she lost, well, the worst she could expect was what she was already figuring on getting from him when he finally was alone with her and could speak freely.

She lay down next to him, returning his arms to her shoulders. For a moment she was still, listening to his heart beat, trying to match her breathing to his. Then she carefully turned so that she rested on top of him, crossing over against him with her bare breasts pressed against his chest. Her left hand carefully roved about his ribs, then moved lower until she was touching his manhood. She was impressed with the feel of his firm flesh beneath her fingers. Evidently, his dreams had been as erotic as hers had been.

Ro was not an expert when it came to Terran males. Other that a rather memorable occasion with Will Riker, she had known little sexual intercourse with men from Earth. She usually preferred Bajoran males when she was in the rare mood to mate. Sometimes, when she was in a peculiar temper, she would chose a Klingon lover. But Jean-Luc Picard was a different sort of male. She suspected that his origins wouldn't matter. He'd be considered a rare man by the female populations of most humanoid worlds.

She supposed it wasn't fair what she was doing to him, but then Ro had learned that the universe wasn't fair a long time ago. And sometimes, this fairness thing could work in her favor. And it most certainly was working now. She stroked him with a more determined sensuality.

When she judged him to be ready, she straddled him, sliding her body on top of him, placing his cock within her, taking him into her warm folds.

With this movement, he finally admitted to himself that what he was experiencing was more than just a particularly erotic, vivid dream.

"Good morning, Ro," he greeted her, as he paused his instinctive thrusting.

She froze, blushing red, half-embarrassed by being caught out by him.

"You must have expected me to wake up sooner or later, " he idly remarked, somewhat amused by the stunned expression on Ro's face.

"Cap…er, Johnny. I didn't think."

He knew she was lying, but he wasn't going to chastise her for it. "That has been one of your character flaws, Ro Laren," he agreed. And then he just lay there, waiting for her next move.

She didn't quite know what to do. He had not yelled at her. He had not condemned her. And he wasn't telling her to get off of him. In fact, though it didn't seem probable, he was looking at her as if he desired to kiss her.

"Come here, Laren," he commanded.

Not that most of the officers with whom she had served would ever accuse her of being a good officer, but this was one order she wasn't about to disobey.

Their gazes locked. Something strong and bright passed between them. Waiting for him to respond was one of the most painful and wonderful moments of her life. He brought his hand up to her check, stroking the curve of her chin down to the nape of her neck, his fingers bending, moving her head close enough to bring her lips against his. "Hello, Ro Laren," he softly said, humor coloring his voice at the absurdity of their situation. His lips touched hers, and brushed them with a smile.

Fire rushed along her veins at this touch. She made a sound, a soft whimper of desire. His lips brushed hers again. She forgot everything as she burned, now sharing her heat with him. She was astounded at his sudden blazing reaction. He no longer was in cool control. He pushed his hardness into her softness. She wanted to weep with the feel of him in her for it was beyond her imagining.

"Slowly, Laren. Slowly," he warned as he guided her. "We have all the time in the universe," he commented as with his hands he held her hips against his body. Somewhere along the way, her robe had been discarded. A part of his artistic nature judged that a nude Ro Laren was a fair and lovely sight to behold.

She regained some control. "About that time we have - we only have as much as Ragner will allot us."

He shifted, moving them both to face side by side. "Fortunately, in his own way, that Vorlo seems to like you, Ro."

"I should have known that you'd have to be in command," she whispered, as she accommodated his new position. She made a sound very much like a whimper when he stopped thrusting into her. "I didn't mean it!" she protested, arching into him.

"I know, Laren…" He reached over and lowered his head to her breast, tenderly sucking her nipple until it was hard beneath his lips. And when the tenor of her moans changed, he trailed his lips over to her other breast, worshipping this nipple with equal fervor, flicking his tongue with every sound she made.

He began to rock himself against her, very intently, wanting to bring them both to orgasm at the same time. He rose, to move into a missionary position for his thrusting.

"NO!" she gasped, suddenly recognizing the significance of the change in his position. "I have to be on top!" she yelled, pain suffusing her voice. She seemed almost panicky, a state of mind Picard never usually associated with her.

He looked at her face and saw demons there from her past, that somehow his actions had summoned. He didn't want to hurt Ro - not in this manner. He remembered what he had read once in her personnel file about her incarceration under Cardassian rule. And he thought he knew at least the source of some of her terrors.

"Of course, ma belle. Of course. Whatever you wish," he soothingly murmured, knowing that when they battled in the future, it would be on a fair and open battlefield, and not on this more personal, intimate plane. He moved again, assisting her in straddling him, once again letting her take charge of their mating. And when she was sitting upright, resting against him, her thighs holding his manhood captive, he cupped her head, offering solace as he whispered, "Show me what you need, Laren. Please."

She stared back at him with hesitation, unsure if she really should continue.

He smiled, as if almost amused by their situation. "You are in command, Ro Laren. And that is something I've rarely offered, ma belle," he wryly observed.

She was lost in his smile. Whatever guilt she had felt for her unauthorized foray against his body was forgiven by the generosity of his gentle touch and his teasing words.

"Why don't you admit it." She started to recoup her inner fire. "You like a woman to be in charge, now and then."

"Only a fool would not."

Her smile turned into something glorious as she regained her earlier rhythmic motions. "I've called you many things over the past few years." She caught herself before she said something aloud that might be dangerous for them.

"I'm sure you have," he replied, under no illusion as to her volatile temper. He adjusted to her lead.

"But I've never called you a fool…" She bent over him so that her lips brushed against his. "You're my lover…" She took his lips, searing him with both her touch as well as her mind, knowing that she had been given the freedom to be herself with him. She knew of no more powerful aphrodisiac than this.

He took what she offered, and gave back in repayment, recognizing that her need was as great as his. Moments later, he started laughing, triumphing in their release, softly rejoicing in her victory as well as his own. Somehow, he knew that the sex had been inevitable between them. It had been a long time coming.

And when she was collapsed on top of his body, spent, satisfied at the moment, feeling his laughter rumble through both their bodies, he explained, "Blame Guinan."

She frowned, and found enough strength to raise her head. "You can talk of another woman at a time like this? You'll pay, Johnny."

"Guinan warned me once, Ro. She sort of mentioned that I should listen more often to you, since it was written in her stars that one day, we would be lovers…"

"Guinan told you that?"

"Guinan is always telling me such things. But if I'd spent all my time making love to all of the legion of women that Guinan said would love me, I'd have never had the time to do anything else."

"So, am I supposed to be flattered, insulted or what?"

He had to admire her pragmatic nature, even in bed. "Or what, Ro?" We will discuss where we go from here, tomorrow." He reached over and pulled up the blanket about their shoulders.

"You're tired? And only after that light little workout?" she teased as she snuggled against him. "Why, I've barely gotten started…"

"Sometimes I think Guinan confuses me with Will Riker," he whispered, as he felt fatigue flow through his veins where flames had danced just recently. He felt, rather than saw the reaction in her body at the mention of Will Riker.

"You don't know?"

He thought for a moment, then remembered some things about Will that he really hadn't questioned until now. He sighed. "How long?"

She didn't think that he was asking out of prurient curiosity, so she answered him. "Were we lovers?" He nodded. "It was when we met that Satarran probe." In a more normal tone of voice she added, "Will sort of forgot himself." She whispered to herself, "But it was an uncommon couple of nights…"

He heard her anyway, and started laughing.

"Get Will to tell you about it, sometime. I won't mind."

"Will forgetting himself with you, now that is something that I can understand. You have been quite a temptation, Laren. He thought a minute longer. "But you and Troi. She defended you and considered you a friend."

She tried not to care that he was speaking in the past tense about her friendship with members of Starfleet. So, she grinned a wicked little grin.

"Mon Dieu," he laughed, after correctly interpreting her grin. "I don't think that I ever gave Will enough credit. What you and Deanna must have done to him afterwards…"

"And he deserved every bit of it."

"I don't doubt that, Laren. Not at all." He sighed. "But enough about the problems of other people. What happens next?"

"Depends upon Ragner." She sat up. The blanket dropped to her waist.

Picard did not mind the view. He had, of course, never officially noticed Ro Laren as a woman when he had been a starship captain. But he'd always been appreciative of feminine beauty, and Ro Laren most definitely had been on the list of women that he had admired.

He reached up, and caressed the delicate skin of her breast, noting how her body reacted to his touch.

"Damn him!" she thought as her body responded to his touch with a wild primitive sort of ardor. She was reacting as if she were a love-starved fool, not an image that she wanted to present to this man. Yet, she felt almost helpless beneath his touch.

"I thought you were too tired," she remarked.

He reached up and brushed his hand against her ear, playfully fingered her earring, and then the wayward strands of dark silk that had fallen.

"Your hair - it's longer," he observed, studying the look he was creating with his fingers. "Enchanting," he added, not wanting to mention how much the new hairdo softened her look. He sensed that Ro would not appreciate such a personal observation. So he distracted her by reaching over and kissing her breast, suckling it as if it were the most perfect breast that he had ever so worshipped. He discovered that perhaps he wasn't quite as tired as he thought.

Over the years, the few lovers that she'd willingly enjoyed had treated her in many different ways. But few had acted as if they prized her. She tried to control her heartbeat. If she wasn't careful, she'd find herself loving Jean-Luc Picard too much. And that she knew, to the very utmost of her being, would be a very foolish as well as self-destructive thing to do. She'd spent a lifetime being alone. She dared not change her ways now, or even consider the possibility of having such a hope enter her life.

She tried to speak casually. "I didn't know you noticed such things."

He wasn't following the directions of her thoughts. He looked into her dark eyes, noting that they had turned into the rarest color of sherry. He knew that she was deeply affected by what he was doing to her body. "What?"

"The difference in my hair - I didn't think that it was the sort of thing that you'd notice."

"Ro Laren," he scolded, "I may have been many things during my life. Currently I'm just a poor archaeologist who has been waylaid on my way to a dig, by you. But I have always been, and always will be, a Frenchman in my heart. And when it comes to the women in my life, and whether I like it or not you are one of them, I will always pay attention. I will always notice - even when I am furious with you over your actions."

She leaned closer to him, mutely instructing his mouth to return to her breast. "Does this mean that you forgive me?" she boldly asked.

He started laughing again, idly recognizing that he had somehow found a great deal of laughter in his life, now that he no longer was a starship captain. "You do like to live dangerously, Ro Laren. Now if you would care to direct your more personal attention to more pressing, important matters…" With this, he moved her hand to his groin, making his point as her fingers encountered his tumescence.

She too laughed, as she positioned her breasts by his mouth, teasing his flesh as she so desired her own to be touched.

But he had to be honest with her before he induced her to do more touching. "It wouldn't be appropriate to discuss your forgiveness at the moment," he warned.

"So, you're willing to sleep with your enemy?" she countered, drawing away from him, no longer feeling quite as amorous as she had, moments earlier.

He knew that he'd made a tactical error but he valued honesty more than he did his personal pleasures. "I have never thought of you as my enemy, Ro Laren."

"Just a foolish, misbeguided soul, eh, Johnny?"

She was quick to anger. Picard had never considered this to be one of her better, more favorable personality traits. But he had to respect it. "Misbeguided - no. Foolish, yes - sometimes," he amended.

"And just what is it about me that you consider to be foolish?"

Choosing his words carefully, he explained, "You're championing of me to Captain Ragner comes to mind."

She snorted. "You're right about that. What else? Don't be afraid to add that you think I've been foolish in some of my actions."

"No, you were honest in what you did. I can admire that even as I hate you for it - you're actions that is - not you."

Tears threatened to fall. She was disgusted with herself for being so weak; for letting this Starfleet officer's opinion mean so much to her.

"So you're not going to forgive me."

"Only after I've forgiven myself for forcing you to make such a terrible choice with your life. I was a fool not to listen to everything you were trying to tell me - and should have told me." She had to nod her head in agreement with these words. "But you were responsible too, Ro."

"How so?:

"You did not trust me enough."

She moved closer again, whispering, "But do you trust me enough, now?"

"Yes," was his answer as he kissed her. "My problem has been that I always have trusted you, Ro Laren - even when I knew it was not wise…" This time his kiss seared their minds as well as enflamed their bodies. He'd continue his moral debate at a much later moment. Right now, he had more pressing desires to occupy his time.

In his captain's quarters, Ragner shut off the monitors to Ro's quarters. He had seriously questioned the identity of the man now sharing Ro's bed. Mistrusting everyone and everything was one of the reasons why Ragner was still alive, not to mention having gained the rank of a Vorlo ship's captain, which was a feat few accomplished much less lived long enough to enjoy. Only a fool or a very bad con artist would book passage on a ship using the name of one of Starfleet's most notorious captains. Ragner knew that this Johnny was neither one of those choices. Yet the Unk captain had been sure enough of this passenger that he hadn't even tried to disguise his non-Federation activities from Johnny and the woman Mela. And then that captain had even been imbecile enough to try to cheat him - Ragner - the finest Vorlo free-trader in the Federation and territories beyond. Ragner had no choice but to destroy the fools.

Ragner pondered the role of fate in his life and those around him. If he hadn't seen a woman and two children's names and ages on the passenger list, he would have never tried to find the missing escape pod from a ship whose own crew had been inept enough to help him blow themselves up.

His only concern when he'd learned of the missing pod was that there was a poor woman with her kids floating around an asteroid belt. Not that he was a sentimental sort, but Ragner wouldn't be accused of abandoning a family to their deaths. But that was before he discovered that the pod was being piloted by a fellow skilled enough to negotiate an asteroid belt in a ship that measured its flight in kilometers per minute instead of microseconds. The ensuing game of Targ and Klingon with the escape pod had been fun. Vorlos by their very nature, enjoyed having fun almost as much as they liked making illegal profits. Yet, the very way that Johnny had maneuvered the pod bespoke of great expertise as a pilot, the kind of skill that one learned in Starfleet. Still, this knowledge didn't fit in with the passenger.

And then there was the matter of Ro calling him Galen. For Ragner had heard of Galen - two Galens as a matter of fact. One was an archaeologist which is what this Galen was claiming to be. The other was a pirate who raided archaeological digs for profit, which was also what this man claimed to do.

Ragner trusted Ro, as much as he trusted anyone on board his ship. She vouched for Johnny. But it wasn't until Ragner had heard Johnny's words about her hair that he knew that at least part of what Ro had told him about the man was the truth. Spies didn't remember things like commenting about a woman's hair. That was the response of a man who was familiar with an old lover.

He also concluded that if the man had been Starfleet, it had been a long time ago. It no longer mattered. If this Johnny were really Jean-Luc Picard, he would have never become personally involved with a woman such as Ro. The nature of Picard's character was spread across the stars, and the man had a very discreet reputation when it came to his women. Yet, Ragner did not doubt in the slightest that this Johnny was, for the very moment at least, Bajoran property. And the real Jean-Luc Picard would never be involved with a battling bitch of a Bajoran. Whoever he was, Johnny wasn't likely to be the Jean-Luc Picard.

He debated whether or not to tell Ro and Johnny that he'd turned off the monitors. Knowledge that someone was watching or listening sometimes added a certain spice to the act of mating. Yet, Ro did have a right to know that he was trusting her friend on a limited basis. Ragner prided himself on being considered a fair man by his crew. And they did consider him to be a fair man - for a Vorlo.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

It was a fair day on Betazed. The sun was spreading its cheery warmth everywhere. Birds were singing blithe little happy tunes. Flowers were doing swaying dances under the guidance of mild breezes. In short, it was the best kind of day that this spectacularly beautiful planet had to offer.

Deanna Troi, unfortunately, was not enjoying any of it. For Deanna Troi had a headache. In fact, she had several of them, if she ever decided to list each and every person that were the primary causes of giving her a headache.

The first on her list of woes was Deanna's cantankerous Klingon, Worf. He was not a happy camper, to put it mildly. Deanna had never before suspected that Rear-Admiral Nechayev had a wicked sense of humor until she found out what the Admiral had done with Worf after the incident at the wake.

Worf had been assigned to the Federation Embassy under the directorship of Mark Roper. Though Worf didn't know it, he now had the very same boss that a very young Lieutenant, junior grade, William T. Riker had worked for years ago.

There were several security units that had been assigned to Betazed. A few additional units had been added since the Sindareen incident, though the main defense of Betazed still relied on Federation forces stationed at SB G-6.

A couple of hundred kilometers from where Deanna was ignoring the weather, Worf was pacing in a walk path about the perimeter of the Federation's main office building. He was stomping somewhat placidly for a Klingon. Oddly enough, in spite of his distaste for diplomacy when a good bat'leth could resolve the problem, Worf liked Betazed. Oh, he didn't understand these overtly emotional and demonstrative people, but he could appreciate their honesty and forthrightness. A warrior could say what he thought, and not have to hide his opinions behind the prettified words that the Terran humanoids seemed to prefer, much less insist upon.

Besides, the Betazoid food was very good.

Worf had been assigned quarters, offices and staff in the main Federation Embassy, a gleaming silver, blue steel and sparkling crystal skyscraper. To say that Worf did not feel completely at ease on the pacifistic planet of Betazed was not an understatement. But he did his duty to the best of his ability. And then, when he couldn't take the pressures of having to be nice to civilians one nanosecond longer, he headed straight to the Embassy's holosuites. They were the only outlet for release that he had. For on a planet of peacemakers, where else do you find a worthy warrior to fight?

Worf had recreated the various levels to his Klingon exercise program. What he didn't realize was that when he was exercising, he broadcast a powerful range of emotions - feelings which most Betazoids had only read about and then discussed to death. And had rarely, if ever, had experienced.

The mess started innocently enough.

At first, Worf was plagued by a few civilians and some psychologists who were really, really curious about what it felt like to have the desire much less the compelling, almost genetic command, for a need to fight. Thinking that she had found a way for Worf to interact with the Betazed community, as well as alleviate some of his stress, Deanna had casually suggested to Worf that he teach his Mok'bara class. More inclined to do whatever Deanna wanted, rather than to teach a bunch of undisciplined Betazoid civilians who could make him yearn for the good old days on board the Enterprise, Mr. Worf started the class.

The first class had Deanna and Mr. Homm as the only students. But then the class began to grow as several of Worf's Space Marines joined. They somewhat challenged Worf's position since Starfleet's enlightened attitude towards a Klingon in Starfleet had not necessarily infiltrated down through the generations of grunts that had served in the Space Marines. For they were the children of the children who could remember fighting the Klingon Wars.

To them, the alleged atrocities and battle stories of their fathers and mothers were as vivid as if it had only happened yesterday, instead of almost a century ago. The prejudices in Starfleet that Worf had rarely if ever had to face on board the Enterprise under Picard's enlightened command returned with the challenges of these marines. These marines weren't willing to openly accept this Klingon as their commanding officer even if he was a Starfleet commander. They hadn't joined his class just for the exercise.

Ever since his youth, when he had first decided that going to the Academy was the path of honor toward Sto-vo-kor that he would follow in his life, Worf had dealt with such prejudices. He knew how to diffuse or even when to encourage such feelings. It was, after all, the way to turn a group of marines into a unit. While they may not like having a Klingon as a commanding officer, nevertheless they would learn to go through hell and back, when ordered to do so by him.

But the emotions evoked by these marines as well as Worf's feelings of restraint, acted as if they were a clarion call to the Betazoids. The Betazoids were fascinated. Everything from the unstable nature of hate to the depths of prejudice to the ever-present anger that such feelings aroused attracted the Betazoids.

The Betazoids started coming to the class. A few at first, but then they grew into crowds.

Worf dealt with the residents of this planet with the politeness and respect expected of a Starfleet liaison officer and lieutenant commander. And when he was done he took his frustrations out in the holosuites. He thereby created a self-defeating cycle. The more he politely dealt with the Betazoids, the more stymied he became. Then, factor in the marines and their attitudes and actions. The stronger the need for release, the greater were his emotions. And the more the Betazoids came to watch and annoy him.

And during a beautiful day on Betazed, Worf had reached the end of his patience. He sought out Deanna Troi's counsel.

He found her seated in one of her mother's many gardens. Each of Lwaxana's gardens had a theme. This much Worf had figured out during his few previous visits.

Gazing upon Deanna, who had apparently come to this secluded garden spot to study, but was instead napping amidst fuchsia orchids, Worf decided that whatever Lwaxana's official intent was for this garden's theme, in reality she had created a place solely to highlight the exquisite beauty that was her daughter.

Deanna's glowing red gown, a dress without sleeves, seemed to splash about her hips then flow into the surrounding frame of purple to rose flowers. Looking upon her, as she rested peacefully against her garden chair, Worf remembered why he was glad that he had been assigned to Betazed.

Deanna…

He had not really and truly been alone with the lady since a rather memorable night when he'd introduced her to Balalaika music. Events since that Holodeck visit had kept them apart. Until the wake, Worf had thought that merely the fates had joined into a conspiracy to keep them apart. But after the wake, Worf decided that Deanna had willfully misunderstood what had occurred between Riker and himself.

Yet, he had always found it hard to be angry with Deanna. Somehow, she had snuck into his heart and laid claim to it.

So he stood there, at a not too far a distance, and watched her, standing as if he were a guard from a place and time long forgotten, sworn to protect this woman with his very life's blood.

Time meandered along as the sun inched toward the horizon, steadily followed by the rising moons of beauty. After what must have been more than an hour, Deanna finally was awake enough to sense Worf's presence. She opened her eyes and looked about, locating him under the shade of waffa trees. Somehow the dark colors of their branches from ruby to almost black seemed to match his guardian mood.

She sat up, stretching to work out the kinks. "Guarding me from my mother?" she asked, feeling relaxed enough to tease him. Though Worf had only encountered Lwaxana twice since his arrival, both experiences could be referred to as interesting.

"No. Mr. Homm," he explained. "Your mother left for an Alpha Quadrant Convention of Ambassadors on Pacifica several hours ago.

He walked over to her and woodenly sat down next to her on the duetto chair, momentarily wondering if Betazed gardens ever had any kinds of chairs other than chairs for lovers. This chair was more comfortable than was indicated by its scrolling forms and gyrating accent finials. The mauve to ochre cushioned metal was in the shape of birds performing some sort of ritual. Considering that this was Betazed, Worf suspected that the birds were being depicted mating.

He was unsure of Deanna's reception. Some of the things that Lwaxana had said to him about his relationship with her daughter still rankled. And he was not completely positive that Deanna, in spite of her obligatory protests, did not actually listen to her mother every once in a while.

Deanna thought for a moment, trying to clear the jumble of emotions in her mind, in order to focus solely on Worf. "Mr. Homm hasn't been practicing his Mok'bara exercises inside the house again, has he?"

"No. If he had, we would have heard something break by now. I have been keeping him occupied." His smile held a hint of some mischief planned.

"Worf, what have you done?"

"Mr. Homm has never tasted Klingon blood wine before. Since I knew that your mother was gone, I brought some over for him." Worf failed to mention the substantial amount of Klingon blood wine that he had carted over for the manservant, enough to keep the man with his near-legendary capacity for alcoholic beverages occupied for many hours.

"That was very thoughtful of you, Worf." Deanna wasn't fooled for a moment by Worf's actions or attitudes. She knew that Worf viewed Mr. Homm's presence as a means for her mother to try and control Deanna's behavior while her mother was absent. Fortunately, her mother had yet to learn the extent of Mr. Homm's willingness to be bribed.

"Now, why did you come?" She didn't mean to sound coquettish, but the past few months had been an emotional strain on her. At first, Worf had refrained from trying to change their relationship because of some mysterious matter of loyalty that he felt that he owed to Riker. Now, that apparently the issue of loyalties had been resolved, though neither man had bothered to consult Deanna's wishes about the matter, Worf should have felt himself free to pursue her. Certainly, she'd been willing for their relationship to change. She'd done everything she thought necessary short of advertising to convey this message to Worf. But circumstances seemed to keep them apart with Lwaxana Troi's attitude being chief amongst them.

"Do you want me to leave?" he politely asked, tensing his muscles as if to stand.

She placed her hand on his thigh. Though hardly a force physically capable of restraining him, he heeded her unspoken request and remained seated, relaxing as best he could against the back of a chair he had deemed silly the first time he'd seen it.

He looked down at her arm, bearing just the slightest blush of gold from her afternoon in the sun. An unbidden thought contrasting the creamy color of her flesh should it blend with the darkness of his, crossed his mind. The urge to make it a reality with their bodies was so strong, he had to jerk away from her.

"What do you want me to do, Worf?" The erotic nature of his thoughts flooded Deanna's consciousness, changing the way she had been feeling. It had been a long time since she'd felt the freedom to act upon her own natural desires. Now she was in a garden, with a man she'd desired for a very long time. It was about time that she did something overt.

"This?" she suggested as she moved her hand over to touch his groin.

He snapped back, shocked. The only way that he could have been more shaken was if he'd just learned that his father had really been in the pay of the Romulans. But he did not stop her finger's explorations.

"Deanna," he warned. A woman did not tease a Klingon warrior without knowing the consequences.

She was tired of his hesitation. "What?" she commanded, anger flowing through her veins, bringing a touch of rose to her ivory skin. "Is it too warm? Or not cold enough? Is it because we are alone? Or do you need an audience? Do you need wine? Ale? Or water? Shall I be submissive? Or must I claw and fight for what I want from you?"

Worf reacted to that spoken image.

She glared at him, daring him to do something as her hand still grasped him.

He reached down and removed her hand from his body, bringing her wrist up to his teeth. He bit her with just enough pressure to lightly break the skin, to draw a trace of blood. And then, inexplicably, he released her hand.

She looked at the mark on her skin and then over at him, trying to understand why he had let her go and the reasoning behind what he had just done. She knew what he was feeling. Her anger was a powerful aphrodisiac, echoing back and forth between them, magnifying their emotions with each reflection.

Instead of answering her unspoken questions, he reached over to his left, searching for something. When he found it, he released it - the hidden controls that turned their seating into a double lounge. They were now reclining.

He had to know. "Do all Betazed chairs convert into beds?"

"In my mother's house, they do." Deanna had to collect her wits in order to answer him coherently. The intent and direction of his feelings were overwhelming.

"Practical woman," he commented. Then he took her injured wrist and brought it back to his body, resting her palm against the his chest.

Her eyes darkened as she gleaned his intent.

"Deanna," he warned for the last time, as he reached over and placed his palm against the fullness of her right breast. He carefully squeezed remembering just how fragile human females could be. Then he studied the lines of her bodice. He could see the hardening of her nipples through the tug of the material. For a moment, he fondly reminisced about the efficiency of Klingon feminine garb with its abundance of snaps that easily opened with the briefest of tugs. He knew that a similar such gesture would also expose Deanna's breasts. But if there was one thing he'd learned about human females, even those who were only half human, and especially those females who prided themselves on their fashions like Deanna did, was that they did not like their clothing to be destroyed.

Deanna understood his problem Using her free hand she reached over and released the only shoulder strap she had, loosening her bodice. As if by magic, aiding with another gesture on her part, a second later the fabric dropped to her waist. He was accustomed to female nudity, especially after spending time on a planet where the populace seemed to favor undress over dress at almost every function, official or otherwise. But this was different. He had dreamed of her body for months, fantasizing about it even longer. And now he was faced with the reality. He admired her breasts, noting their fullness, the duskiness of her tips, how they responded even to the intensity of his gaze.

He placed his hand back on her breast, reverently touching; his fingers were carefully curling about her nipple. He tugged. She moaned. He smiled. Then he grew concerned. He raised his eyes from her bosom back to her face. "You will tell me if you feel pain? I do not want to hurt you."

"Worf, don't worry. I'm not as fragile as you think. Do as you wish, Worf. I won't break. But I will be wounded if I sense anything but a desire for pleasure from you."

She'd effectively reminded him that she was both an empath and a woman - a woman with desires of her own. She'd chosen him to fulfill them. He would ponder his good fortune later. Now, he had things of greater importance to do, to touch, and to stroke. He pulled her close and then he kissed her.

When she could breathe again, she took charge of their loving, by undoing the top to his regular duty uniform. She shoved it off of him. With trembling fingers she then concentrated on his pants, releasing his cock. Later on she would contemplate the strength and size of his Klingon manhood. She was, after all, her mother's daughter, a daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed. If she could cope with all that, she could certainly handle all that Worf had to give.

"Deanna," he sighed, appreciating the deftness of her touch. Knowing that he should do more than just to lie back and accept it, he reached over and pulled her close, lowering his head to her breasts, carefully kissing them at first, then scraping across the flesh with his teeth before he brushed his tongue completely over her breast.

Her reaction was immediate, as she was flooded with both his desire and her own needs.

"Worf," she gasped.

He raised his head, worried that perhaps this was not the Betazed way. "What?"

"Don't stop…" She pulled his head back to her breasts, pressuring him with one hand as the other continued to stroke his manhood.

Willingly, she moved positioning herself almost under him. With an urgency that surprised even herself, she pressed her hips against him, thrusting her softness against his hardness. She then reached down and slid the hem of her dress upwards, revealing her thighs to him. She didn't want to wait.

He understood her mute instruction. Still suckling her breasts, he moved his hand down to her thigh, carefully scratching his fingernails against tensing muscles. And then he realized that she was not wearing anything underneath. As his hand moved along her curves, he considered the possibility that panties were not a Betazoid practice. He approved of such an idea. The thought that Deanna would wear nothing under those attention-gathering outfits that she usually favored, hardened him even more.

And then his fingers encountered her moistness. Her heat was for him alone. And he triumphed in it, breached the space between them, until they moved as one.

He was a masterful lover. Yet his consideration for her person was evident in his every touch, his every kiss, his every stroke. Before, she had considered the possibility that she could be in love with this man. Now, there was no question in her heart about what she felt for this Klingon. He was her lover - and her love. But she couldn't tell him for though he was Klingon, he was now kissing her with a thoroughness that was quite surprising. And he wouldn't stop kissing her for he was learning how to kiss, something that he sensed the human part of his Deanna would expect in the times to come. He would do anything to please her.

Then the rhythm between them changed. It became more ragged, more driven. Worf forgot everything but the urgency of his body and the shuddering of his woman in his arms. He lost control, throwing his head back, roaring into the evening air at their moment of pleasure. Only when the pressure subsided from his body, when the necessity of dominance ebbed, leaving him physically enervated but emotionally elated, did he notice what Deanna had done to him. And he was proud of it.

Almost in shock over her behavior, she touched his shoulder. At some point during their lovemaking she had bit him hard enough to draw blood. Then her fingers traced the tracks that her nails had left when she had seized his shoulders and arms.

With stunned eyes, she look up into his face. She was going to apologize for her actions, but the expression on his face told her that to do so would be unwise and unwarranted. Whatever pain she may have inflicted on his body had been most welcome.

He studied her face, seeing the stars in her expression. The Klingon ego was secure enough to know that he had put it there.

Gently, almost in awe over what had just passed between them, he spoke to her. "You are… unharmed?" He was worried that he had been too rough. He glanced over what he could see of her body in the waning light. The Betazed moons were in the new phase, and for some inexplicable reason, the garden lighting that usually turned on at dusk had failed to do so this evening.

Yet there still was enough light for him to see the welts and abrasions he had inflicted on her body during their lovemaking. He froze in horror. That which he had feared most, he had done. He had hurt his Deanna.

She knew what was upsetting him. She countered the only way she could.

"Worf, what we just did, our lovemaking…"

"Forgive me, Deanna, for hurting you," he groaned as he tried to leave her embrace. Guilt flooded through him.

She would not let him go. Instead she touched him as if she desired more.

"Worf, listen to me," she ordered.

Something about the way she spoke caught his attention. There was an element in her tone of voice that bespoke of annoyance, perhaps even anger. But there was no horror there. No revulsion at his touch as she sought to arouse him again.

Happiness grew in his breast, as he realized that she was not rejecting him. She wanted him. And from the way she was stroking her hands over his body, she was intending to make love to him all over again on this most wonderful of lover's bowers. He knew that he would never look upon new moons and ginger flowers in the same way again for the rest of his life. For they would always remind him of a paradise found.

"Again?" he asked, not needing to be an empath to intuit her reply.

"You're not too tired, are you?" she inquired, laughter coloring her voice. Her happiness was infectious, growing and merging into his.

He suddenly shifted, rolling over onto his back, forcing her to go on top of him if she wanted to keep her balance not to mention her position. For a moment he stopped moving, just gazing up into her beloved face, wanting to give voice to every love poem he knew - even some from Earth, to praise her to the heavens, to love her with his every heartbeat, to sing the songs of his warrior's heart.

On a branch above them, a bird sang its night song to its mate.

Worf was momentarily distracted by its lovely song, examining the tree, trying to locate the bird. "The Klingon homeworld does not have birds that sing at night."

He returned his gaze to Deanna, wanting to explain how amazing he found such creatures to be. But there was a look in her eyes that had had not been there before, as if she were remembering something - or rather someone else from long ago.

"We must speak, Deanna."

"No." She denied what he wanted to do. She wasn't ready to speak of the things that he wanted to discuss.

"Yes, Deanna," he commanded, brushing his hand across her breasts.

She reacted to his touch, willing herself to ignore what he wanted, and instead to concentrate on the desire that was rising between them again.

"Deanna."

She looked at him seeing understanding in his eyes, knowing that in some ways it would be more difficult for him to speak of his other loves than it would be for herself.

"Couldn't we talk tomorrow? There are other things that I'd rather be doing tonight."

She made her point as she leaned over to place a tender kiss against his lips.

"A Klingon warrior would never let a woman distract him," he properly informed Deanna.

"So, tonight you're a warrior, hmmm?" What she did to him next was so painful that the pleasure was too intense.

He groaned, then considered the best method of retaliation. "Tonight, I am your lover," he announced. "You may distract me."

"How kind of you to allow me to do so, Mr. Worf." What she did next startled him.

She slid down his body, until her knees rested on the velvet grass by the side of their lover's bed. She took him in her mouth for just a moment. She wasn't sure if the noise he made was a roar or a groan. She didn't care. She would have him roaring again before he could even guess as to what she would do next. Then she nipped him. This time she knew she had succeeded in making him moan.

"Deanna…" he groaned, when he could speak again.

She raised her head simply to smile at him. "What, are you threatening me? Don't you think that I can't take it? You'd be surprised."

He lay back against the metal rest and their multi-colored cushions. "I think, Deanna, that before his night is through, I may wish that I were a younger warrior."

"Not up to the challenge?" she teased. "I've heard rumors about Klingon stamina. Obviously the ones boasting of such things have never loved a Betazed."

"You speak the truth," he surprisingly agreed. "Only the weak would boast of their stamina. A warrior would rather show you."

"I think I'll give you your chance, Worf."

He raised his head, about to suggest that she kiss him again if she wanted him to be up for the challenge right now. Instead, he growled, thrusting his manhood towards her lips.

She was about to do as he wished when a howl rent the night air. At first she thought it had come from Worf, that she had inadvertently done something to induce great pain. But then another sound echoed about the garden again. It was coming from the house.

"No!" Worf groaned, suddenly suspecting what the source of the noise could be.

She sensed his suspicions. "What? What have you done?"

"Homm." He roughly shoved her aside.

Even as he moved, a great racket was heard, reverberating about them. It was a crashing sound that lasted for several seconds.

"Oh, no!" Deanna moaned, suddenly recognizing what this sound must be. There was only one thing in her mother's house that could make such a shattering din - her mother's prized crystal pyramid.

And at the top of this pyramid, a commanding structure in the center of her mother's main salon, an edifice with many open display shelves like an étagère; full of light and sparkling refractions, rested the casque that contained the Holy Chalice of Rixx, one of her mother's most prized possession - even if it was only a moldy old clay pot.

Pulling up his pants, Worf ran to the house.

Deanna followed him, grabbing and pulling over her head his duty tunic. She hadn't wanted to waste the time searching in the dark for the clasp to hold up the bodice of her dress.

They found Homm in the main room. Mr. Homm was on the floor sprawled by the still-teetering base to what was left of the eight foot tall crystal pyramid. There were crystal shards everywhere.

Worf walked by the remnants and realized that the structure had been built like one of those card houses that Data liked to create. But this one was made with crystal tiles instead of cards. The floor crunched as he knelt by Homm and checked for life signs. He then double checked before he turned his head to speak to Deanna.

She knew before he even said anything. For she'd seen the fifteen liter container that Worf had brought for Mr. Homm. It was empty, sitting in the corner of the room.

"Drunk," Deanna stated, appalled by what this meant. And what her mother would do.

Worf returned his attention to Mr. Homm. "I'm not sure. He appears to be sleeping - he is not unconscious."

Deanna carefully stepped over to the pyramid checking to see if she could find the casque that held the chalice. She located the purple and gold agate carved box under a marble carved corner table. Opening it up, she touched the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, now broken into five distinct shards.

"Oh, no…" she moaned, realizing what awaited her when her mother came home.

Worf stood and came to her to peer down into the box, fingering a shard.

"Glue?" he suggested.

"That's not funny Worf!" Anger colored her voice as she strove to control her temper and her nerves.

"I was not joking," Worf protested.

Mr. Homm moaned.

"Help him," Deanna ordered.

"To do what?" Mr. Worf was all innocence.

Deanna growled through her teeth.

Worf guessed. "His room? Where is it?" He picked Mr. Homm up and flung him over his shoulder. If Mr. Homm were conscious he would have been able to nip Klingon ankles.

Deanna pointed. "Down that corridor, fourth door to the right. And Worf?"

"Yes, Deanna?"

"Throw him in it! I don't care if he bounces on the floor!"

A few moments later Worf returned, staring at Deanna who was holding several of the crystal pieces. She had straightened out her dress. Worf was disappointed.

"We could replicate the broken pieces. I know I've got several holograms of this thing. We could reconstruct it so that my mother would never know that it crashed."

"I wish Geordi or Data were here," Worf commented as he considered the task Deanna was proposing. "They could fix this."

"Wishing won't solve our problem, Worf," Deanna replied as she put down the crystal pieces and handed him his duty shirt.

Worf was disheartened that she now wanted him to dress. Stoically, he put on his shirt. Without realizing it, he glanced down the hallway that let to the stairs to her room.

Deanna still noticed. "Goodnight, Worf."

He was somewhat surprised. He had always assumed that human females liked to talk after lovemaking. Perhaps Deanna did not.

"Deanna." He strode toward the main foyer. "When will I see you again?" he stiffly asked, unsure of what Deanna really wanted him to do.

Deanna shook her head as if to shake away the waves of desire he was still projecting. "I'm sorry, Worf. Not now. Just go. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Then, goodnight, Deanna." Worf left.

Wishing with all her heart that Beverly or Guinan were near by, for she felt like she desperately needed some feminine counsel for a change, Deanna walked slowly toward her room.

Two hours later, Worf was drenched in sweat. So much so that he was leaving a trail of wet footprints along the embassy hallway as he returned to his quarters from the Holodeck. He didn't care. It wasn't his fault that these Holodecks didn't have proper locker room facilities like the Holodecks on board the Enterprise had. Besides, the sexual frustrations he felt over leaving Deanna had been particularly difficult to dismiss this evening.

The door to his quarters swished open. He was instantly on the alert for something was different. There was a foreign scent in the air. And then he saw her.

She waited until he was standing directly in front of her before she got up off of his plush royal blue velvet sofa, swaying with slow, graceful movements. She was wearing a soft blue long gown with a very interesting low bodice. The flowing silk chiffon was quite stunning. Then she draped her arms over his shoulders, her long sleeves trailing over the front of his sweaty chest. She didn't mind.

The moment Worf saw her in it, she knew that the dress had fulfilled its purpose. She could sense that the frustrations he'd been battling since he left her earlier in the evening, were finally going to be resolved.

"I broke in," Deanna explained.

He didn't have to say how glad he was that she had. She knew it. Her attempt at seduction was working.

"I was unaware of your prowess in breaking and entering," Worf casually stated, not adding that he was pleased to be learning of her prowess in other areas.

"Beverly taught me. Amazing the confidence that three solid silver pips on your collar can do for you. Though you might want to review the security procedures for your staff. The marine on duty didn't check to see if I was an active Starfleet officer."

Worf eyed her décolletage. "Did you smile at him?"

"Why, yes." She felt inclined to bat her eyelashes at him, repeating the conduct she'd used earlier to talk the guard into letting her into Worf's quarters.

"Then I understand why he made his mistake. I will discipline him - but I will not put him on report."

"In your rather roundabout way, are you paying me a compliment, Worf?"

"You have turned many a man's head with your smile, Deanna…"

She pretended to pout. "But never yours?"

"Only a fool would be bewitched by only your smile."

If she hadn't been sensing what she was from him, she might have been insulted.

"I see. You're no fool."

"It is what is in your heart, Deanna, that holds me spellbound." He kissed her softly. "But I thought that you were tired. Why are you here?"

If her dress was not a clue, she would tell him. "Somehow, when I am around your, Worf, I feel rejuvenated. And I can think more clearly when I am away from my mother's house." She pressed a light kiss against his cheek. "Forgive me for sending you away?"

"Of course. I did not mind."

She knew he lied, but he was doing it for her sake. "Forgive me?"

"Is there something else?"

She looked up at him, relaxing against him, resting her chin against his heart. "For letting my problems with my mother come between us."

"She will undoubtedly cause more trouble in the future."

"And then some," Deanna darkly agreed.

"I will handle her."

Deanna indelicately snorted. "Many men have tried. They didn't exactly have a very high success rate."

"Captain Picard did."

"He ran faster than most."

Worf looked down at himself and then studied Deanna. He kissed her hard, with a passion that was barely contained. "We will discuss your mother, later." He kissed her again. "I must shower," he gruffly stated.

Deanna could only agree with that statement. She stepped away and then removed her gown. "Shall I scrub your back?"

He froze, absorbed by the sight of her naked body. She was beautiful. She stole his breath away. And when he got it back he answered her question. "Yes."

There were some advantages to having quarters located inside the Federation Embassy. Ambassadors and their personnel had amenities that would not ordinarily be considered acceptable for Klingons. Not that Worf cared for all of this comfort. But he remembered Deanna's fondness of luxurious bathing chambers from what he'd seen of her rooms on board the Enterprise. And his quarters in the Embassy had spectacular bathing facilities.

"Worf."

The way she said his name thrilled him…

"Yes, Deanna?"

"Let me tell you about this Betazed woman and how she really feels about your sweat…"

He grinned when he understood what some Betazed women liked to do. This remarkable woman truly understood how to make a man feel like a warrior. She started to undo all the buckles that held his exercise battle armor together, in order to demonstrate.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

She sat there, stirring for the hundredth time the sugar in her Berengarian root tea. It had dissolved almost half an hour ago, as the liquid had cooled. But she hadn't noticed then and she didn't notice now. All she noted was the sound of her spoon clicking against the pottery sides of her mug.

On the carved oak fireplace mantel, a 19th century Scottish skeleton clock by Robert Wilkie ticked away. It hadn't kept accurate time in centuries. Her grandmother hadn't cared. Neither did Beverly.

The only thing that she was noticing this night, after sixteen long days of double shifts in her sick bay on the Starbase, was that she was tired to her very bones. And that the emptiness of this house was overwhelming. Now, all she had, all that she could hear, were the angry words they had spoken to each other before he had left. Those words still reverberated as ghostly echoes about the room.

She hadn't told Jean-Luc goodbye.

When Jack had died, she had been a helpless participant in that tragedy. But now, when it came to Jean-Luc Picard, she could make choices. And those choices had left her alone in the dark. She missed him.

Beverly reached a decision. Walking over to the work area that Jean-Luc had created, she turned on the terminal and brought up his itinerary. When she figured out where he probably was, and then where he would be, she started sending off sub-space messages.

Beverly wanted him to reach the Gaudete dig knowing that she truly did wish him well. And that she wanted him back as soon as he could return.

She also checked her schedule, wondering if she could take a short leave of her own. She'd never been on an archaeological dig before. She considered surprising him on Gaudete II. As an active Starfleet commander she could arrange faster passage than Jean-Luc had done. She didn't want his romantic recollections of such digs to be the one he had shared with Vash.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

Geordi sat on the ledge of a star portal in his quarters on board the Federation cruise ship, The Princess Leia, the Rigellian sister ship to the cruise ship The Princess Ardalla.

His nose was pressed up against the clear aluminum as he watched the stars go by. He knew that there were many emotions from guilt to regret that he should be feeling at this moment. But the only emotion he felt at the moment was happiness - sheer pure happiness.

For Dr. Leah Brahms was sitting next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she watched the stars go by, too.

Finally she moved, just a little bit, to try and keep her arm from totally falling asleep. "You really didn't know I was divorced when you accepted my offer to come to Utopia Planetia?"

"Hadn't even thought to ask," he truthfully admitted.

Leah Brahms was quickly beginning to understand that Geordi's innate honesty was an immutable part of his psyche. She was just going to have to get used to it.

"I never really met a chief engineer before who didn't like to gossip." She tucked her legs up underneath her and leaned back even more against his chest. She was quite comfortable. And she had the ready feeling that for the first time in a long time, Geordi was truly at ease too. "Am I to infer from your lack of inquiry that you weren't interested?" Her voice was warm, full of laughter, signifying her pleasure at being in his company. And in his arms.

Geordi pinched her ribs.

"Ouch." She elbowed him in retaliation.

He laughed, but it sounded nervous, even to him. "I was afraid to ask. I didn't think I could handle the disappointment if I found out that you were still happily married."

She turned around and delicately traced a finger down his profile, ending with an affectionate tap on the tip of his nose. "What aren't you saying, Geordi?"

Geordi didn't really want to speak because he was afraid that if he did, it would alter the mood of their little star gazing. But she was awaiting his answer. "I don't know if I should really tell you this, Leah."

She moved again, the silk of her deep sapphire caftan slid across his chest. "Tell me, Geordi." She kissed him lightly. "Tell me everything."

"You were so hungry when we were working to free the Enterprise from Junior."

She didn't understand. He could sense it by her body language.

"Hungry? For what? Fungilli?"

"For someone to talk to. You could talk to me. I, uh, got the feeling that I was the first person you could freely talk to, for the first time in a long time. I think I'm the only one who even could understand what you wanted to talk about."

Leah slowly let out a breath, thinking over what he was saying. "Well, I must admit that one of the reasons why I divorced my husband was because we had a lack of communication between us. He never really accepted my work or my love for it."

"Yeah, it's like a fire in our blood. I know I could talk for days about the mathematical perfection of the Dilithium crystals alone."

"Geordi," Leah laughed.

"What?"

"You have - talked for days that is. And since I've been sharing this cabin with you, I have been fascinated by your every word."

He turned to her and suddenly she was in his arms, facing him. "And are you complaining, my dear Dr. Brahms?"

She kissed him again. This time lingering long enough to stroke her tongue across his lips, till he was ready to kiss her back. "No. As a matter of fact, I've enjoyed every word - when I wasn't disagreeing with some of your more cockamamie theories, that is."

He opened his mouth to protest the disparagement of his theories when she took advantage of him and started to kiss him with rising passion. It was a successful tactic.

They'd be arriving at Betazed in a few days. Leah had no intention of leaving this cabin before then - or letting Geordi out of her sight - or her bed.

As Geordi was putting to rest some of his own personal demons with the help of Leah, Reginald Barclay was exploring the comforts of this passenger ship. Other than Geordi, he was the only senior Starfleet officer on board the ship - a ship filled with all sort of travelers and university students on their way to study at Betazed. For the first time in a long time, he found himself telling tales ala Riker in the ship's lounges - and to an attentive audience. The ladies especially liked his version of the story about his almost becoming a god. Somehow, from the depths of his memories, he was able to more-than-adequately recreate his performance of Cyrano's speeches. And several pretty ladies were willing to play the part of Roxanne. Barclay was gaining experience, and he liked every minute of it. He barely stuttered.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

William Thomas Riker bid his staff good night. His staff consisted of a pretty blond yeoman who must have been all of nineteen, and an interesting looking ensign of mixed humanoid parentage. Both ladies were duly impressed with their superior officer, though the yeoman had been the first to consider Riker's smile dreamy.

Riker sighed when they left. They were good support staff but they were not quite the caliber of what he'd been used to on board the Enterprise.

He liked it here on the Starfleet Graduate flight range. Oh, it wasn't equal to the Enterprise. Nothing could replace that experience. But he was enjoying being a commandant. He liked the students. He'd taken to teaching with the same skill and enthusiasm as he did almost everything else.

And he liked flying one-on-one. He'd forgotten how much fun flying by the seat of your pants with only the stars to steer by could be. He was reliving the old days when he'd been a Nova Squadron cadet. He now understood why Jean-Luc had taken over the hot seat on occasion. A man needed to be reminded of his first love, now and then.

And then he thought of Deanna. It was funny how Deanna kept popping up in his thoughts so often, now. He supposed that absence did make the heart grow fonder. Yet, when he'd left Deanna behind to join the USS Potemkin, he rarely had thoughts or impressions of her during the ensuing years.

He knew that he still had a tenuous link with his Imzadi. Now, though the feelings were unfocused, he somehow knew that Deanna was both excited and happy. The noble man inhabiting his soul truly hoped that it was Worf who was the cause of such emotions.

Sighing one more time, he shoved away from his desk and went to the port to look out onto the elaborate docking structure that was located on his side of the space station. He needed to get out of here and go do something wild and daring. Unfortunately being around cadets not quite half his age was causing the juvenile delinquent in his soul to emerge. He liked feeling like this as he considered his options.

The screen buzzed on. Answering the summons he was surprised to see the face of Reginald Barclay.

"Reg! Good to see you, Lieutenant Commander."

"Good to see you too, Co…" Reg suddenly stopped speaking as he counted the pips on Riker's collar. "Captain. When did that happen? How?"

"Believe it or not, It was Admiral Nechayev's parting gift to me after the wake." Riker's grin was huge. "Thanks for the vids, Reg. I hadn't realized that blackmailing admirals could be so rewarding."

"Uh, Captain, you'd better watch what you're saying. This is an open line."

"Understood. And make it Will, Reg. We've been through too much together for you to stand on protocol off duty." Riker leaned back against his desk chair. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"Geordi, that is Geordi and Leah…"

"Who's Leah?"

"Dr. Brahms."

Will sucked in a deep breath. "You do mean the Dr. Brahms who designs warp engines, don't you? She's Geordi's Leah?"

"Yes."

Will chuckled. "I always knew he had it in him. Years of my tutelage, I guess."

"Actually, Will, I think that Geordi is probably following Mr. Worf's advice."

Will was about to ask how a Klingon could give romantic advice when he remembered Deanna. Maybe Worf knew more than Riker had ever suspected.

"Reg, what are you really trying to say?"

"We're on our way to Betazed. We'll be at G-6 tomorrow night. Can we take you out to dinner, Will?"

Will laughingly agreed. "Tell you what, Reg." He glanced over to the side of the screen and saw where the transmission was coming from. "Leave the Princess when you get here and I'll personally see about your transportation to Betazed. Why are you going there, anyway?"

"I think I'd better let Geordi tell you, Will. It's really his business. I'm just along for the shore leave. See you tomorrow, Will. Barclay out."

Riker considered all that Reg had said. Something was bothering the man and it concerned Geordi. Well, he'd learn the details on the morrow.

The next day, Will was in a great mood. He dismissed his students early, letting them take a long weekend. For that was precisely what Riker intended to do himself.

Will was looking forward to seeing Reg and Geordi. He hadn't realized how much he missed the amity that he'd shared on board the Enterprise with his fellow officers. Not that he wasn't forming friendships here on the station, but it was different. He was different. He hadn't realized until experiencing it himself, what a barrier four pips could be even when one simply wanted to get a beer. Eyes watched your every move wherever you went.

It was a fact that the highest rank most Starfleet officers ever achieved was Lieutenant, Senior Grade. Few were promoted beyond that rank. Before he'd been promoted, Will Riker, on occasion, had been just one of the gang, able to do what he liked off duty, with few to remark about his behavior other than Deanna. Now, he had achieved a rarefied status that would automatically set him apart from the majority of Starfleet personnel for the rest of his life. People would notice what he did. Those days of convivial anonymity would never happen again.

Will was beginning to understand why captains associated more with admirals than they did with lieutenants. He was losing that which he'd once had in common with those who lived in the lower decks of a starship. Will now comprehended some of the reasons behind why Jean-Luc Picard had been the kind of captain that he was. Will only hoped that he would be able to behave in the future with the dignity, wisdom and honor that had been the hallmark of Captain Picard's career.

At 1400 hours, Will paced about Docking Bay 6's waiting lounge. It was a tastefully decorated room with undulating patterns of blue, grey and green. Riker supposed that the colors were meant to have a soothing, calming effect. He didn't think that it was working - at least not with him. Will held a bouquet of ivory and pink Modean flowers, toying with them as he waited for the passenger ship to disembark. Will had never cared for waiting for starships to arrive. He'd always preferred to be the one going somewhere, and not be the one waiting to greet a traveler.

Will was surprised by how excited he felt to see his friends when they approached him from a connecting tube walkway. Will greeted Geordi and Reg with equal enthusiasm, shaking their hands, pounding them on the back. Then, he remembered Leah Brahms which was not that difficult since she was still holding on to Geordi.

Will slightly bowed and handed her the flowers with a flourish. "Welcome to G-6, Dr. Brahms." Leah looked at the flowers, slightly surprised by the captain's gesture. "Thank you, Captain Riker. These flowers are lovely."

"Their only purpose is to compliment a lovely lady. It is a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Brahms." He gave her his best attentive smile. "I hope these two gentlemen have been behaving themselves around you."

She deadpanned, "You trained them too well, Captain." After the impact of his smile hit her, she now understood Riker's reputation. It wasn't exaggerated.

"I always aim to please a lady, but I insist that you call me Will. I only want to be captained by these guys"

"As you wish, Will." She turned to Geordi. "Perhaps I should see about our room."

Will answered before Geordi could. "I've already done that. Now, let me tell you what I've arranged," he enthusiastically explained. "I've got the dinner all planned, plus a tour of the station, and if you're so inclined, I'll let you fly some of my skeeter ships - they are the fastest in Starfleet - Geordi and Reg."

Reg spoke up. "Captain, that is Will, I thought that we'd take you out to dinner."

"Nonsense. When I can cook?" Will flashed his trademark smile again in Leah's direction. "I'm a great cook, Dr. Brahms. I insist upon cooking for all of you in my quarters."

Geordi groaned as he remembered other cabin-cooked dinners, but he genuinely couldn't think of a reasonable reason to decline.

After arranging for their luggage to be deposited in their quarters, as well as privately noting that Leah and Geordi had requested shared quarters, Will proceeded to show them about the starbase. They decided to postpone the flight school demonstration until a later time.

Hours later, after a dinner of tandoori chicken that actually turned out to be surprisingly good, Geordi, Reg and Will settled down to talk. Leah had excused herself, pleading fatigue. Will appreciated Leah's tact, and vowed to get to know her better. Clearly she was playing a major role in Geordi's life. He remembered what Jean-Luc had told them when he revealed Q's possible future. He had a feeling that Geordi was trying to fulfill Jean-Luc's words too.

As the three of them sat down on the black sofas in Will's grey, white and teak living room, Will offered Reg and Geordi some real Romulan ale. Both men declined. From the looks that Geordi and Reg exchanged, Will had a feeling that he was going to discover what had really been going on in his friend's lives.

"All right, gentlemen. Why'd you come?"

Hours later, Will agreed to go with them to Betazed. Will arranged for their travel on board his personal runabout, the John Steed. The fact that this gave Will a great excuse to see how Deanna was doing without being too nosy or obvious was beside the point.

=/\= =/\= =/\=

Carrie DelaChancie sat quietly in the corner of her gilded music salon and listened. Glorious music flowed around her as through half-closed eyes she observed her great-niece and the most delightful though odd of creatures, Mr. Data, perform. Mr. Data had composed a duet for piano and violin which was a suite of folk dances based upon an interesting juxtaposition of both Bajoran and Celtic melodies. Besides the composing, Data had also done the arranging.

"Mr. Data, that was marvelous. I trust that your professor of composition gave you the highest of grades for your work."

"Actually, he did not. I find myself confused about getting a forty-second percentile grade."

Carrie and Nella were surprised at this pronouncement. "Data? You must stand up for yourself. Don't let those rigid, prejudiced academic types push you around. You're a gifted musician and composer, and you should let those stuffed peaquods know it!"

Data automatically absorbed and analyzed Nella's words and attitudes, as he catalogued the outfit that she was wearing, comparing her grey and Wedgwood blue dress with her other choices of clothing. He was trying to understand why females chose what they did when they were not wearing their uniforms. Nella was an excellent subject for such a study.

Besides, Data liked Nella. She talked to him as if he were a real being with valid emotions. Ever since the crash of the Enterprise D, few people other than his former crewmates, ever spoke like that to him. Nella was one of the exceptions. Carrie was another.

He then realized that he had failed to answer Nella's question within an acceptable period of time. "I am sorry. I was ruminating."

"About what, Data?"

Data looked at her and considered the probability that she was even more quantifiably beautiful tonight than she had been the last time he had seen her two days ago. He ran a comparison just to confirm his supposition. Then he answered Nella's question.

"I cannot precisely answer your question, Nella. I normally process several thousand bits of information per second. However, uppermost in my thoughts is my lack of acceptance by the teachers and my fellow students at the university."

Carrie spoke out. "How can they not accept you, Mr. Data? You are an original."

"I am an android, madam, with pretensions toward emotionalism. Unfortunately, neither my skill, my mental agility, or my emotions chip guarantees the existence of any music compositional aptitude on my part."

"Nonsense. I've been a patron of the arts for decades. I know great music when I hear it. And you are a great composer, Mr. Data. Your professors are fools. That's what they really are." For a moment, she trailed her fingers down Data's French Sartory bow which he'd also purchased at the auction. "I would have never let you buy this violin if I were not convinced of your extraordinary talents."

The Data that had been before the emotions chip would have made several statements about the qualifications and reputations of his professors. But this new Data just simply said, "Thank you. I value your friendship."

And then he smiled, for a brief moment appreciating the sentiments and beliefs of Carrie and Nella.

Carrie reached over and patted Data's arm. He noticed the flash of her sapphire ring, the lavender lace of her sleeve as he contrasted it against the deep blue fabric of his shirt. His sense of artistry program kicked in. He analogized the color combinations to the décor of the room, noting how well what they were all wearing blended in with a room full of 18th century French Aubusson panels and silk Chinese Oriental rugs hand-woven in subtle pastels.

Then Data exchanged a smile with Nella. Carrie noticed, interrupting them with, "Would you play some more for me, Data? I think that you are possibly the finest violinist who has ever played the Benny violin.

Data nodded and took a step backwards, until he was standing next to the Bechstein concert grand piano. "Do you wish to accompany me, Nella?"

"No, Data. I feel lazy right now. I would rather listen."

Over an hour later after performing Bach, Bruch, Bizet and Baghor of Benzar, Data walked over to the two ladies and stood before them, slightly nodding his head in acknowledgement of their applause. "Ladies, may I escort you in to dinner?" Data didn't need to eat, but he was beginning to learn that there was more to the simple act of eating beyond the taking of nourishment.

"Of course, Data." Nella took his left arm. Carrie took the right.

Data analyzed all of the data input and concluded that he enjoyed dining with these two ladies. He aesthetically liked the harmony and contrasts of design that was Carrie's home. He found Carrie's treasures from the collections of fine and unusual silver to Flora Danica by Royal Copenhagen to the primitive pottery of many worlds to her library of rare musical recordings from many of Earth's eras, to be appealing. And intriguing. And worth further analysis.

He also savored Carrie's choice of menu. She seemed determined to give Data an education in various types of cuisine, far beyond what he had experienced on board the Enterprise.

Nella served the coffee. Data watched her observing the way the colored panels of her dress moved about her hips. Data deduced that the dress was designed to do this - call attention to specific parts of the feminine form.

He didn't notice Carrie observing him, watching them both. She was reaching some conclusions of her own. And to her dismay, Nella was only making things worse.

"Data, have you ever heard a real live Gaelic band?" Nella offered a plate of small cakes.

"I have listened and studied Gaelic music to some extent. Dr. Crusher and Chief Miles O'Brien have been excellent sources of material. And when I visited Dr. Crusher on Caldos, I was exposed to settlers of Scottish descent …"

Nella interrupted him, having learned that one had to do this now and then with Data. "Data, would you like to hear an Irish band or not?"

Dated regrouped his thought processes. "Yes, Nella. I would."

"Then come with me tonight. I know this great pub, near the aquarium."

Data looked at her dress and then down at his clothes. "Should I change my attire?"

"You are fine just the way you are. Wait for me while I go put on my dancing shoes."

Data automatically stood when Nella left the table. Then he sat down and looked at Carrie. She seemed to want to say something to him.

"Data, you know my niece's leave from Starfleet is almost over. She's scheduled to join a ship going to look at some nebula somewhere in less than two weeks."

Data nodded. "Yes, Nella told me about the Alawanir Nebula survey. On board the Enterprise we did a preliminary scan of it two years ago. It intersects near Cardassian, Klingon and Neutral Zone borders."

"Whatever. Data, please try to understand what I am trying to say to you. I like you."

Data considered her words. "I like you too."

Carrie tried to find the words to explain her fears to Data. "Nella likes you too, Data."

"Do you really think so?"

The naïve enthusiasm of his question touched Carrie's heart even as it added to her sense of apprehension.

"She considers you to be a dear friend."

"I consider her to be a dear friend, too."

Carrie feared that she wasn't making any progress with Data. She was going to have to be more blunt.

Nella entered the room. "Ready, Data?"

Carried muffled a curse at Nella's timing as she watched Data join her great-niece. He clearly was distracted by Nella's presence.

Nella came over and kissed Carrie's cheek. Data considered Nella's actions and copied her gesture. "Do not wait up," he commented as he bent over the lady. It seemed to be the correct thing to say under the circumstances. "We may be late."

Carried wished them goodnight. She was afraid, as she watched them go, that one of them was going to be hurt. And that someone wasn't going to be her niece. What would even make matters worse, Carrie suspected, was the guilt that her niece would feel when she realized what she had unwittingly done to Mr. Data. Nella had spent too much of her life studying her music with her eyes focused on the stars. She too often didn't consider the consequences of her actions until it was too late.

Meanwhile Data was enjoying himself. They were at the What Ales Ye Pub and grille. A portion of Data's brain did an analytical survey of cute bar names over the centuries and concluded that such names were a lasting human trait. He collected a list of such word play names that used the word ale, to tell Nella when the music ended.

Data looked about the main room of the pub, absorbing the atmosphere from the walls hung with ancient street signs from Irish cities, to posters of famous Irish personages such as the Kennedys throughout the centuries to even a boxer named The Kilkenny Kid.

Then he directed his attention to the glass tankard of stout sitting before him on the small café table that he was sharing with Nella. He had taken a sip of the stout and had analyzed it. He compared it to Romulan ale which he'd tasted at the wake, noting that the stout had more sucrose, but that the Romulan ale had a much higher alcoholic content.

Data then focused on the musicians in the band. They were quite different from the groups that had formed and played on board the Enterprise. For one thing, at least one of the performers who was the fiddle player, was a fellow graduate student musician from Harvard. His name was Michael Finnegan O'Leary. And the only reason O'Leary had even established a nodding acquaintance with Data was because O'Leary's great-grandfather had once served under Captain James Tiberius Kirk.

After the musicians finished their first set, Michael came over to Data's table. Not that O'Leary was greatly interested in having a conversation with Data. But when a machine could come to a pub escorting one of the more striking women on the planet, O'Leary was more that a little curious.

Data stood, making the formal introductions of Nella to this slightly puckish, thirtyish musician. Unfortunately Data was much taller than O'Leary which was a fact that O'Leary did not appreciate. Matters were also not helped by the fact that Data had considerably more hair on his head than O'Leary did. Never mind that the hair had been created. It was just more item on a list that O'Leary held against Mr. Data.

Michael dragged a chair over from another table and straddled it, concentrating only on Nella Daren. He directed his polished line of pick-up dialogue toward the lady, finding it impossible to consider that the woman could be associated with Data in any way other than as the most casual of acquaintances.

It took Data seventy-nine seconds to conclude that O'Leary was being rude toward him. Nella determined this somewhat more quickly, and swiftly dealt with the man with her acid tongue and scathing blunt comments that she had previously directed towards incompetent underlings.

Data observed her behavior with interest, watching O'Leary leave. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Send Mr. O'Leary away?"

Nella brushed off some invisible crumbs from her sleeve, ate the last bite of her pretzel, took a drink from her stein and waved two fingers in the direction of their bar maid. Then she answered Data's question. "O'Leary doesn't like you. He made it obvious, and I consider that to be rude."

"It is one of the hazards of being an android, Nella."

Eyes blazing with righteous indignation, Nella said, "Well, I don't like it one bit, Data. I don't think that you should tolerate such behavior. If you don't stand up for yourself, who will?"

Data looked upon Nella, capturing in his memory every thing about her from the anger in her voice over her perceived mistreatments of him, to the back-lit halo about her almost-auburn hair, glowing with fired gold highlights about her gracefully sloping blue clad shoulders. He measured this image of her to previous ones in his memory. He remembered the time he had encountered Nella walking with Jean-Luc in a corridor by the arboretum on board the Enterprise. Her hair had been slightly mussed with her hand almost touching the captain's fingers. He knew now that they had probably been kissing when the corridor had been empty from the presence of others. He judged that she was at her loveliest now, though.

Data accessed the program he had labeled Riker 9, then altered his voice slightly to match the vocal rhythmic inflections and pitch that Riker used when he was in the company of a beautiful woman. "I consider myself most fortunate to have such a lovely defender of my honor."

"It's not your honor, Data, it's your dignity. That O'Leary fellow seemed to think that he could say whatever he wished and that you would do nothing about it."

"Nella, they were only words. If he had acted, it would have been another matter."

She shook her head. "I don't understand you at all, Data. What makes you tick?"

"Dr. Soong gave me a naturalistic human functioning internal system. I really do have a heart, albeit it has a multiple special lithium based power source."

Nella laughed, amused by Data's literal answer to her question. She had momentarily forgotten his nature. "Data, I really should have learned how to talk around you by now. Let me rephrase my question. What I meant to say was why did you react in the way that you did?"

"A lot of humans have difficulty relating to me. They find my being an android to be unsettling, bringing a sense of disorder to their perception of intelligent life forms. It took Captain Picard thirteen days, four hours and seventeen minutes before he became comfortable in my presence."

"How did you know this, Data? Did Jean-Luc say something? Was it thirteen days cumulative in his presence, or the first consecutive thirteen days under his command?"

"There was a marked change in his physical response to my presence." Data thought for a moment. "You would say that Captain Picard relaxed on the thirteenth day of my service under his command."

"If it took Jean-Luc that long to learn to welcome you…"

Data interrupted her. "Actually, Captain Picard came to accept me rather quickly in comparison to other Starfleet officers with whom I have served. It was my good fortune that he set the example for all of those under his command. However, Geordi LaForge was the first to favor my position on board the Enterprise. He approved of me within the first three minutes of our meeting even though he was only a lieutenant at the time, and not considered to be a likely candidate for the circle of senior officers. I was lucky to gain his friendship. Some others, unfortunately, like Dr. Katherine Pulaski, never really could relax in my presence, though I do consider the doctor to be one of my friends."

"I'd like to think that I accept you as you are."

" "Yes, I know. That is why I like being in your company, Nella. In my analysis of Terran females, I have reached the conclusion that you are a rare woman amongst them all. I understand why Captain Picard mated with you."

She looked at him not quite sure if she had heard what he had said accurately. She picked up her tankard and drained it, clanking it back down on the wooden table top. Then she stretched her arm across the table taking Data's stout. A thud on the table top was heard when she was finished.

"Data, I am not going to discuss my relationship with Jean-Luc Picard with you." Her voice had an edge to it, but her countenance softened as she added, "Thank you for the compliment."

Data realized that perhaps he'd been unfortunate with his selection of words. "I am sorry if I have displeased you, Nella. It was not my intention."

Nella curtly nodded, accepting his words. Standing, she looked in the direction of the band which had started playing their next set of somewhat slower and less-energetic songs.

"I think it would be a wise move if we did something else right now. Let's dance, Data." She stood and offered him her hand. "You do dance, don't you Data?"

"I have had an excellent instructress, and have had the chance to practice on several occasions, most notably at a wedding between two friends." Then he proceeded to demonstrate what he'd learned from Beverly. Nella was breathless when they returned to their table.

Some as yet unidentified human feeling had compelled Data to establish his dancing expertise with Nella. He needed time to dissect what he had done and why he had done it, to analyze the nuances of feeling that were occurring with every tick of his internal clock. He duly recorded everything knowing that during his next rest cycle, he would have much to consider and review.

Something of his disquiet conveyed itself to Nella. "Let's get out of here, Data." She tugged his hand. He followed.

Minutes later they walked in silence, midst the geometric long shadows about the brick courtyard of Fort McHenry, a Baltimore historical treasure that had survived the centuries. Their footsteps clicked against the brick walkways. Nella's shoulders moved, as if she were reacting to a chill in the night air.

"You are cold?"

She responded to the concern in his voice, smiling at the thought of it. He was more human than he knew. "I'm fine, Data."

Data quickly reviewed the acceptable male humanoid responses to the situation. "I am sorry that I do not have a jacket to place about your shoulders. However…" He placed his arm across Nella's shoulders. "…I can adjust my body temperature, raising my heat by several degrees centigrade. If the warmth is not sufficient, please let me know. I will change it."

"You know, Data, for an android, you should teach lessons to several men I know about how to be a gentleman. A lady could not ask for a more perfect escort."

The first explosion caught Data completely by surprise. He would have reacted defensively if at almost the same moment Nella had not oooohed. He knew that such a response was not typical for a dangerous situation. A second later another explosion sounded, and a trail of brilliant colored lights crossed over the sky, reflecting against the harbor's mirror dark waters.

Fireworks.

Data had never experienced real fireworks before. Oh, he had attended Will Riker's annual Fourth of July picnic inside the Holodeck. Even during the one and only disastrous time the crew had tried to honor Jean-Luc Picard's Bastille Day celebration, Data had been on the Holodeck and had seen the fireworks. But he had never experienced real live fireworks before. His amazement and delight were plainly revealed on his face, as he stood there, with his arms about Nella's waist, watching the fireworks. The crispness of the explosions, the reverberations that one could feel as well as hear, the glow of the colors as splendid as any star he had ever seen; all were a wonder to the android.

Nella leaned into his chest, watching the fireworks through his eyes, as if it were the first time for herself as well. She suspected that the appearance of the fireworks probably had more to do with the Chamber of Commerce's desire to let tourists experience the rocket's red glare than they did with anything of mystical or historical significance. Data's innocent pleasure in this unexpected event touched her heart. Every time she was with him was a revelation for her soul.

Even as he watched the sparkles in the sky, he noticed Nella's position in his arms, the pattern to her breathing, the way her hair caught against the fibers of his shirt as she leaned her head against his shoulder. An extraordinary state of flurry came over Data; a confused rush as feelings and analytical programs collided in his positronic brain before all the in-put merged.

"Nella…"

She reacted to the way he said her name, turning slightly to look into his eyes.

Data could only behave in a manner consistent with those he respected - those he had chosen to emulate. It was a mixture of Riker, Picard, LaForge and others.

He said her name again.

Perhaps it was the unexpected overtone of emotions that reflected Jean-Luc Picard's influence over Data that affected her. Whatever. When he lowered his lips onto hers, she responded to his kiss in surprise - and pleasure - for a moment.

Then she broke out of his arms. "Oh Data, no…" She left him standing there even as the fireworks continued to flare. He stood there, still watching, even as he considered what is was that he had done wrong.

Hours later, he quietly entered Carrie DelaChancie's house, not wishing to disturb anyone. Though he actions were considerate, they weren't necessary for Nella was waiting up for him, sitting in her aunt's parlor with an untouched cup of herbal tea by her hand.

"I am relieved that you arrived home safely, Nella." He spoke politely, trying not to give in to the surprising temptation to yell at her. For the first time, he understood some of the emotional forces behind the feelings as to why humans yelled at each other.

"Data, we have to talk." She motioned toward the Chippendale armchair that flanked her own by the fireplace. "I am still active Starfleet, Data. I used my communicator to arrange for immediate transport when I left."

"Why did you leave me? Did my kiss offend you?"

"No. That is, it's not what you think."

"I do not understand, Nella. I thought that you cared for my company."

"I haven't had a serious relationship since I left the Enterprise, Data. I wasn't ready, or expecting another romantic relationship." She spoke rapidly, almost as if she had rehearsed this response.

He supposed that it was a logical enough explanation. If he'd been an ordinary mortal, he would have believed her. But, the way she was speaking, her responses that he was scanning, told him otherwise. She was lying about the real reason as to why she had left him. Her emotions about Jean-Luc Picard aside, she was not telling him everything.

"Nella, once I asked every man that I respected what it was that women want. I thought that by doing a scientific survey of the question, I would find the answer. Unfortunately, I entered a relationship with Jenna d'Sorra which proved to be an unwise decision. Since I have acquired my emotions chip, I have come to the conclusion that the only way I will ever learn the answer to my question is if I do the research myself, and not rely on the experience of others." He leaned over and clasped her hand, noting her initial reluctance to let him touch her. "Is it because I am an android that you find me distasteful as a possible lover?"

"Data, I never once considered you in that light, before." She spoke the truth. She did not like to feel this confusion that was filling her mind. "Up until a few hours ago, I thought that we were friends."

"We are."

"Just friends."

Data stopped, considering her words, reviewing the situation. "I do not see how I could have misinterpreted your actions."

"You did not misinterpret them, Data. You just misunderstood them."

"I do not understand."

"Data, I never though of you - in a romantic way, that is. I am sorry that I did not recognize how masculine your programming really is."

"Nella, my desire to kiss you was not part of a pre-planned programming. It arose from the natural progression of our actions."

"What?"

Data smiled. "I have learned Nella, that even I can make mistakes. And that when I do, I am learning how to be more human."

"Data, I can only say that I am sorry."

"Then you harbor no feelings for me beyond friendship?"

"No, Data." She regretted having to say the words. She waited for some sort of recrimination on his part for her thoughtless behavior. Instead, he stood.

"Then, I shall remain your friend."

She couldn't help the relief she felt at his words.

He continued. "That is, if you still wish to continue our friendship?"

"Data, I wouldn't want anything to ruin our wonderful friendship."

He thought for a moment, wondering what would be the fitting thing to say at such a time as this. And then he knew, for he was truly learning how to be a human; his acquisition of knowledge and experience was maturing.

"Nella - our kiss?"

"Yes, Data?" She was unsure of what would come next.

"It never happened."

Hours later in his room, a lovely blue and white Queen Ann style guest room, Data sat on a rocker waiting for the sun to rise. Since Spot preferred to keep her tail intact and away from the rocker's panels, she chose to sleep in contented shedding safety on Data's lap.

There was a slight tapping on his door.

"Come in," he quietly called out, unsure of who would be about in the minutes before dawn.

Carrie entered the room, carrying a tray.

Data detected the scent of Irish Breakfast tea. He looked up at the woman in her long crimson velvet robe, with her silver to gold hair curling about her neck and shoulders. He thought, for a second, that Nella's hair would look like that when she grew old.

And then he knew one of the major reasons as to why Nella had not seen him as a suitable mate - and only saw him as an android. She would grow old. He would not.

"Do you wish to talk, Mr. Data?" Concern shaded her words. "Nella came to see me when she came home last night. She had told me that you had kissed her."

"I upset Nella. That was not my intention."

"I know, Mr. Data." Carrie put down the tray down on a tea table, and then sat on antique rosewood parlor chair.

"Tea? A scone?"

"I understand how certain humans value the restorative properties of tea. But for me, it is not necessary. I do not need to eat."

"You ate dinner last night, though I noticed that you avoided the soft shelled crabs."

"I find that I have vegetarian preferences, Carrie." He accepted the proffered cup of tea, though. "Why are you here?" He thought for a moment. "Do you wish for me to leave?"

"Mr. Data, you will always be a welcome guest in my home, with or without the presence of my great-niece."

"Thank you, Carrie. I accept. I appreciate your kindness toward me, though I must admit that I am confused as to the why of it. I do not know what it is that I have done that warrants you consideration."

"Dear Mr. Data, don't you know that you are one of the nicest persons that I have ever met? You have so much talent as a musician too." She could see that he was beginning to formulate all sorts of possibilities as to why she was being kind. "Data, hasn't anyone ever been kind to you before, just for the sake of being kind?"

"Only my frie…" He suddenly understood Carrie's point. He smiled. "Thank you, Carrie."

She reached over and patted his arm, whispering, "I'm sorry that I didn't realize how you felt about Nella until it was too late. I could have guided you. It was my error."

With a wisdom that perhaps he really did not know that he had, he picked up Carrie's hand, lightly kissed her knuckles in the manner that he had seen Captain Picard do on occasion, and then responded, "There was no error, Carrie, except my own."

"To err is human…"

"Yes, Carrie, to be human. It seems I am getting closer to my goal."

=/\= =/\= =/\=

Deanna rolled over and stretched in a manner indicating a great deal of self-satisfaction. She didn't want to wake up. She liked it here in Worf's extra-large bed, even if he was missing at the moment. She wasn't surprised that he was not in bed. Even though they'd made love until the early morning hours, Worf still showed up for duty on time. His only concession to Deanna's presence in his bed was to give up his pre-dawn battle exercises in favor of another sort of passionate exercise.

The past few days had been more than incredible, from Deanna's point of view. She was beginning to learn all about her Klingon lover. He was the right choice for her life.

After checking the time with the computer, Deanna decided that she could afford to spend another hour napping. One of the advantages of not currently being on active Starfleet duty was that her time was her own, when she wasn't in class or arguing with her mother.

In what seemed like only minutes later, the chimes to Worf's quarters dinged. Deanna ignored it at first, half-convinced that the sound was part of her pleasant dream. The second time she heard them, she struggled out of bed, grabbing her pale rose robe that was part of her peignoir set. Reaching the door, she made the mistake of opening it without checking first who was behind it.

"Deanna!"

Worf's son and heir shouted her name. The boy was delighted to see her, hugging her about her waist with a childish enthusiasm that touched Deanna's heart.

"Alexander!" She warmly greeted the boy, kneeling to return his hug. "Oh, Alexander, it is so good to see you again!"

It was as she was hugging the boy that she realized that he was not alone. She should have guessed. She looked up and saw Helena and Sergey Rozhenko. Sergey seemed very pleased to see her. Helena was not smiling.

"Deanna Troi! How good it is to see you." Sergey cheerfully greeted her stepping around her to see if Worf was in the living room. "Is Worf here? We just beamed down. Oh, what a trip we have had. In my day, we would have never let a starship like the Robert Heinlein be run in that condition…"

Deanna stood, automatically straightening her robe, suddenly realizing that the semi-sheer fabric was not exactly the sort of outfit one should be wearing when one was meeting Worf's parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rozhenko, it is good to see you again. Did Worf know that you were coming?"

"Obviously not," Helena sniffed, walking into the living room, glancing quickly toward the rumpled bed visible in the bedroom beyond.

"Obviously not," Deanna echoed, as she turned toward Sergey. "Give me a moment to change, and then I'll go help you find him. He's probably still in the building somewhere. The Ambassador keeps him rather busy with details, in the mornings."

"It sounds like you know my son's schedule very well," Helena tartly observed. "Do you live here?"

"No, I live with my mother…" Deanna's voice trailed off when she realized that there was little that she could say that would be what Helena wanted to hear.

"Deanna, our names are Sergey and Helena. Please for you to call us by our first names. Worf would insist," Sergey boisterously stated, choosing to ignore his wife's attitude and the undercurrents between the two ladies.

"Of course, Sergey." She tried her best counselor's smile on Helena. "Helena." When that didn't work, she remembered what she was and was not wearing. "Excuse me."

Barely two minutes later Deanna rejoined them in the living room, now wearing a ruby wrap-around dress and sandals, her long hair had been hastily pulled back into a ponytail.

"Sergey. Helena." Deanna never finished what she started to say because at this moment Worf came barreling through the doorway to his apartment.

"Mother! Father!" And then, he was tackled, half-falling to the floor with his son in his arms. "Alexander!" He hugged him, rolling to the floor with the boy several times, before he climbed to his feet, holding his son. Looking at his parents, he let his pride in being with them show for a moment. "It is good to see you. Why didn't you let us know you were coming?"

Helena immediately noted Worf's use of the plural. Her eyes narrowed.

Sergey answered the question. "We did, son." Sergey heartily clapped his hand on Worf's shoulder. "Some things never change when it comes to the efficiency of Starfleet communications. No matter. We are here now, with you. And we are going to stay for a while, if you will have us."

"Good." And Worf really meant it, in spite of their sudden complications to his life. "I will make the arrangements."

Deanna stepped forward. "Perhaps I should go see Ambassador Roper and make those preparations." She moved over next to Worf and whispered, "And you should check your messages now and then."

Worf grunted, "I will."

She stepped away from him.

"Why don't you all come over for dinner, tomorrow night?" Deanna smiled too-sweetly over at Worf. "I'd be delighted to introduce you to Betazoid hospitality."

Sergey spoke up quickly before Helena could get started. He knew his wife too well. "Of course, Counselor Troi. We would be delighted to come, eh, Helena?"

Deanna laughed as she corrected him. "Please, call me Deanna."

Helena harrumphed. "And are we going to call you something else in the future?" Though she was speaking to Deanna, she was staring specifically at her own son.

"Deanna is…" Worf looked over at Deanna, not quite sure as to what he should be revealing. He'd dealt with Cardassian ambushes that were less dangerous than answering this question. For during the three nights that they had been lovers, the actual discussion of what their relationship was and was going to be had yet to occur. He considered all of the words both human and Kling that could be used to describe lovers, but none seemed acceptable to him. "Deanna is Deanna. My Deanna."

"Father, you mean it? You really mean it?" Alexander sounded very hopeful.

"Yes." Worf silently dared Deanna to quibble with his choice of words.

Deanna silently admired how Worf had avoided this particular mine field. She put her arms about Alexander's shoulders, momentarily ignoring Sergey and Helena. She knelt in front of the excited boy, trying to understand what he was feeling. She wanted him to accept her relationship with his father. And what she was now sensing told her that he was more than happy with this change in her relationship with his father.

"Alexander, is it all right with you if I see your Father?"

"You mean, date?" Deanna nodded. Alexander Rozhenko broke into a really broad grin, but wisely refrained from mentioning how much plotting and scheming he had done on board the Enterprise in order to bring his Father and Deanna together.

Deanna relaxed. "So you don't mind us, Little One?" she teased, unconsciously using her mother's traditional nickname for loved ones, as she brushed aside some bangs on his forehead.

"If you see my Father, you may call me Little One," the boy replied, putting up with her fussing. He had learned a long time ago, that females liked to fuss over him. And that he was honor bound to put up with it when he considered them to be family.

Deanna looked over at the Rozhenkos. She was sensing amusement and pride from Sergey as well as appreciation. From Helena, the dominant emotion she was feeling was concern. The woman was only worried about what a relationship with Deanna could do to her son and her grandson. Deanna understood and sympathized.

"I'll go see about your rooms." Deanna leaned over and brushed a kiss against the top of Alexander's head, before she reached up and kissed Worf's cheek. "I'm sure that you have much to discuss. I'll see you later.' Then she caught Helena's too-knowing glance, and she knew, rather than sensed, that whatever bluff and bluster Helena might present to her son and husband, she warily approved of Deanna's relationship with Worf.

The next night Deanna decided that her dinner with the Rozhenkos was not such a brilliant idea after all. For her mother was back. And as the evening progressed, it was becoming very apparent that Lwaxana Troi and Helena Rozhenko were not starting out as the best of friends.

For starters, Lwaxana's close relationship with Alexander disturbed Helena. She didn't like her grandson turning to another woman for friendship or comfort when he should be going to his own grandmother for mothering.

Lwaxana noticed Helena's enmity during dinner. And ignored it. What had captured Lwaxana's interest was Mr. Worf. She had anticipated all sorts of emotions from the man now that he was her daughter's lover. After all, he had once referred to her as an admirable woman. But what she was sensing from him was unexpected. Mr. Worf clearly wanted to talk to her before the night was through. But Lwaxana had hoped that Worf would seek her out because of respect such a man owed the mother of his lover, and not just out of duty. Lwaxana sighed, supposing that she would have to learn to understand the Klingon psyche, if her daughter was gong to keep company with a Klingon. When they finally reached the dessert stage which was a chocolate mousse with Deredian vanilla rum ice cream, which was considered to be one of Mr. Homm's specialties, Lwaxana sensed a shift in Mr. Worf's intentions.

"Oh, out with it, Woof," she blurted as she reached for an after-dinner drink of Saurian brandy. She drank it in one gulp then stuck out her hand in Mr. Homm's direction. Mr. Homm refilled her goblet then went around the table, filling other goblets in between the banging of the portable gong of thanksgiving that he was carrying.

"We've reached the end of the meal - and it was a delicious one too, Deanna," Helena mentioned as she drained her own goblet again. "When does the noise stop?", she asked, not wanting to appear too rude yet the constant gonging had set her nerves on edge.

"The gong of thanksgiving is not noise!" Lwaxana angrily stated. "It's a sacred tradition. Get used to it!"

"Mother!" Deanna psychically ordered, trying to control her anger. "Helena is our guest!"

"Little One, are you implying that I do not know how to be the epitome of Betazed hospitality to our guests?" Lwaxana replied as she smiled at her guests about the round table decorated with an abundance of trailing fuzzy tilsit. She was somewhat disappointed that Helena had not overtly reacted to the friendly plant other than to pick stray branches of it out of her salad. Lwaxana hadn't realized that Helena, having raised both a human and a Klingon son with a propensity for bringing all sorts of wild life with insects into her home, had trained her well for whatever stunts Lwaxana might try to pull. On certain levels, they were two of a kind.

"Mother…" Deanna broadcast a warning.

Worf interrupted their mental argument. He stood, crossing over to Lwaxana, and relieved Mr. Homm of his mallet.

"Mrs. Troi," Worf firmly stated, putting down the mallet away from Mr. Homm and Mrs. Troi, "I must speak with you."

Lwaxana stood with her iridescent purple sleeves fluttering about her body. Privately, Worf thought that some of the massive yardage that made up Lwaxana's sleeves could have been used for the neckline of her dress which was decidedly missing some material. The last time he had seen so much of the lady's bosom was when Lwaxana had almost gotten married on board the Enterprise.

"Well, speak, Mr. Woof."

"In private," he countered, sending a quick look in Deanna's direction. He was momentarily distracted by the smile on her face, as well as the way she looked bathed in the glow of candlelight from the multitude of tapers scattered about the room. He extended his arm toward Lwaxana, escorting the lady from the table and down the hall.

Eventually he led her into the room with the crystal pyramid. If Worf had not seen with his own eyes, the structure lying in pieces on the floor only a few days earlier, he would have never suspected that it had been damaged.

"I broke this," he announced, pointing.

Lwaxana was disappointed. She had momentarily hoped that Worf's need for privacy concerned her daughter and matters of the heart, and not some mundane household subject.

"I know, Mr. Worf. Mr. Homm told me."

Worf made a mental note to discuss telling the truth with Mr. Homm in the immediate future. Worf reached up and took down the agate casque. He opened it, showing the pieces of the chalice to Lwaxana. "I broke this. Deanna has told me of its importance."

"This moldy old pot? Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Woof. I don't remember how many times I used to throw it at my first husband Ian Andrew - Deanna's father, you know - when I was angry at him. Now, there was a man who really knew how to fight," Lwaxana sighed. "And he definitely knew how to apologize to me afterwards." She raised an eyebrow, studying Worf. "That's a trait you should acquire, Woof. Even when you're right and especially when you're right."

"I do not understand," Worf muttered. Deanna's feelings over the pot had concerned him, and now Lwaxana was acting as if its breakage did not matter. He was confused. "Deanna was upset over its being broken."

Lwaxana smiled a naughty all-knowing smile. She wasn't going to embarrass Mr. Worf just yet, but she had interrogated Homm concerning the precise circumstances surrounding the breaking of the sacred chalice of Rixx. And she didn't mind the accident in the slightest.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Woof. Mr. Homm can mend this chalice the way he has fixed it in the past. He is good at that sort of thing. He just has to run it through one of those damned beaming device thingies or some such nonsense, in order to get it back together again." She turned, grasping Worf's arm as she added, "Don't humans have some sort of absurd tale about putting things back together again? Well, that is what Mr. Homm can do."

Worf made another mental note to discuss with Mr. Homm the putting of things back together again. He was upset with Mr. Homm's actions, and not because Mr. Homm had neglected to mention to this Klingon that he was capable of doing it. No, what bothered Worf was that Mr. Homm had deliberately let Deanna worry over what would happen when her mother would find out about the damage to the chalice. The unnecessary distress to his beloved, Worf would not forgive. Mr. Homm would pay. And learn the less of never crossing a Klingon over a matter of honor and loyalty again.

"Now, where were we, Mr. Woof - ah yes, we were discussing my lovely daughter Deanna."

"What?" Worf was finding it difficult to follow all of Lwaxana's meanderings.

Lwaxana led Worf to the terrace doors, overlooking one of her formal gardens.

"Little One…" she summoned telepathically.

A moment later, Deanna came into the room followed by the Rozhenkos and Alexander.

"Yes, Mother?" She was wary about the way her mother was acting. She could sense Worf's confusion and wasn't sure what her mother was trying to do to him.

Lwaxana placed Worf's hand on top of Deanna's arm. "It's such a lovely night. Why don't you and Mr. Woof take a stroll. I happen to know that Mr. Woof has a decided preference for my orchids, don't you Mr. Woof?"

"I…" Worf was momentarily speechless, hastily looking toward Deanna for help.

"Mother, what are you doing?" Deanna demanded, forgetting for an instant that she had an audience.

"Must I be plotting something, Little One, when I just simply suggest that the two of you might enjoy a quiet evening stroll through my most beautiful flower gardens?" She stomped her foot. "Why are you always so suspicious of my motives?"

"Because I know you too well, Mother!"

Helena intervened. "Deanna, your mother is right. Do take a walk in the garden with Worf. It is such a nice night." She walked over to Lwaxana and placed her arm about the lady's waist. Smiling through gritted teeth, she added, "Besides it will give your Mother and I a chance to know each other better."

Somewhat surprised by the sudden sense of purposeful friendship that Deanna was getting from the lady, Deanna looked up at Worf. "Let's go for a walk, Worf." Half-tugging, half-guiding, she moved her Klingon out the terrace doors.

Lwaxana called after her, "Why don't you show Woof the Mirror Pool, Deanna? The Alanian pond lilies are especially fragrant at this time of night."

Worf came to a stand-still, stopping Deanna's movement, and turned, trying his very best not to glare at the mother of his beloved. Or to raise his voice. "Mrs. Troi, my name is Worf. Not Woof!"

"Whatever, Mr. Wharf. Go on with your walk." Lwaxana moved away from Helena, shrugging off the woman's hand. "Alexander," she ordered rather than suggested, "Why don't you take your grandfather over to Mr. Homm and have my servant show you my late husband's playroom. Ian was especially fond of star ship models, you know. He liked to make things that fly. Some still do. I'm sure that you'll like playing with them."

Sergey didn't quite know what was going on, but he had acquired enough wisdom during his lifetime to know that now was not the time to be around either his wife or the mother of his hostess.

"Come, Alexander. I want to get to know this Mr. Homm better. He is somewhat of an amazing man." Sergey didn't add that he'd been impressed by the man's drinking capacity. Watching the servant guzzle during the dinner had been a mesmerizing experience. Sergey had encountered Nausicaans who'd have cried uncle! and collapsed dead long before they'd drunk the amount that Mr. Homm had consumed.

After they left, Lwaxana Troi whirled her skirts about her, allowing the deep purple train of her dress to trail behind her as she regally strode over to an armchair by the window overlooking the very garden where she'd sent her daughter. She was every inch a daughter of the Fifth House of Betazed. Unfortunately, her imposing demeanor that had scared many a starship captain had little effect on Helena Rozhenko.

Helena was a woman who had battled Gaultian plagues, do-gooder humans, Starfleet officers and Klingon rokegs alike to make and keep her family. One pretentious, self-important, overbearing Betazoid female was not about to even put a dent in her armor.

"Well," Lwaxana drawled, "are you going to apologize?"

Helena kept her temper. "For what?"

"For thinking that I was trying to take Alexander away from you." As Helena started to sputter, Lwaxana waved her hand in denial. "I never would do that. You're his grandmother. That won't ever change."

"I'm glad that you realize it."

"But I know more than you think."

Both women glared at each other - one sitting and one standing. Suddenly, the one standing decided to equalize things a bit. She sat down on a floral upholstered garden chair opposite of the lady who sometimes actually drank from the sacred chalice of Rixx.

Lwaxana started to laugh, a great belly full of a sound that was decidedly un-ambassador like.

She laughed and laughed until Helena joined in with her. And when they were done laughing, Lwaxana leaned forward and said, "Well, why don't we get right down to it. What is really important to both of us - our children. Or, as my dear departed husband used to say, polish the brass tacks with it."

Helena didn't think that the late Mr. Troi said that phrase quite the way Lwaxana repeated it, but it didn't matter. They had more important things to discuss than Terran maxims.

"Well, I can't read minds, Lwaxana Troi. Even if you do without an invitation. So what's on your mind?"

"Grandchildren."

"Alexander?"

"In a way. You have your grandson. I want one too."

Helena nodded. "And I want more grandchildren. I love Alexander. But I never got a chance to hold him as a baby, to play with him. I missed all of those important years with my grandson."

"He'll become my grandson as well if my Deanna marries your Worf."

"True." Helena nodded again. She noticed that Lwaxana could correctly say her son's name when she wished to do so. But she didn't say anything about it. "Alexander is fond of you. He tells such wild stories about the time he was on board the Enterprise. In fact, he was expressing to me that it is a Betazed custom to be nude at your people's weddings."

"Fancy that," Lwaxana murmured.

"So, how do we do it?"

'Do what, Helena?"

"Get the two of them together."

"They've already done that," Lwaxana archly commented. "And more than once, judging by the way my daughter gazes at Mr. Worf."

Helena chuckled, "He takes after his father in that respect."

Both women shared a knowing look, and then laughed together again.

Helena continued. "Much as I love Alexander…"

"We have to do something about getting more grandchildren," Lwaxana finished.

"So, how do we convince them to get married?"

"Move in here."

"What?"

"Well, they can't have sex with you occupying his quarters at the Embassy. I could sense that Worf would be embarrassed if you were around when he was doing whatever it is that Klingons do when they are making love. So, give them more privacy. You can stay here with me and I'll supervise their courtship."

"We will supervise their courtship together, Lwaxana. There are a few things about Klingon minds that you may not be able to read."

"One of my guest houses is a far better choice than adjoining rooms to Worf's quarters," Lwaxana stated, sensing all of Helena's objections and obliterating them, one by one. "Besides, I've got plenty of room. It will give my servants something to do. I'm no trouble for them at all by myself."

"It will give you more time with Alexander."

"That too, Helena. The boy needs me in his life to counterbalance all of the nonsense that my daughter is trying to teach him. Stuff learned from her parental psychology courses and all of the silliness that Worf learned from Starfleet."

"What?" Helena squealed, this time with indignation.

"Do you know my daughter actually had your son write up a contract for the boy to follow? All proper and legal like. Imagine! So concerned about the boundaries of life that they both forget how important it is for the boy to learn to be himself - to enjoy life."

"Starfleet did that to them."

"You're right," Lwaxana agreed. When it came to getting more grandchildren, the two ladies were in complete accord. Worf and Deanna didn't stand a chance.

In a gorgeous garden, not too far away from the main house, 'neath a trailing jacqar tree, two lovers sat by a pool. They were ignoring the seductive beauties about them. They weren't loving each other. Instead, they were discussing their two mothers.

"You know what she is up to, don't you Worf?"

Worf didn't have to ask who the she was. He had learned to recognize when Deanna was making reference to her mother by the shrill tones that colored her voice.

"My mother is in agreement with her."

"Yes, I sensed that too." She shook her head, suddenly quite weary. She blamed her mother for making her so, discounting the fact that she'd had little sleep over the past few nights. "What are we going to do, Worf? They are going go meddle. You don't have to be a telepath to know it."

"Let them meddle, Deanna." He hugged her close to him, enjoying feeling her pressed up against his chest. "We will survive."

"You know what they want."

"It is something I have considered," Worf admitted. Worf trailed his fingers over the planes of her cheek until he reached her chin, tucking it lightly upward so that they were looking into each other's eyes.

"Worf, are you discussing marriage?"

"Surely it is something that you have considered, Deanna."

He bent slightly, touching his lips gently against her.

"Worf, I need time to think about this. We have all the time that we need to think about marriage, that is. However, we must also deal with our mothers. They will not be so patient."

"Then we must be."

"There's only one problem, Worf."

"What, Deanna?"

"I can feel them circling in for the kill."

"Our mothers wish to kill us?"

Deanna laughed. Then she kissed him back, the light touch of her lips fanning a flame between them.

Worf drew back. "We cannot. Not now."

Deanna sighed knowing that he was right. She relaxed in his arms, looking about the flowers surrounding them. "I love these gardens. They are so beautiful, so peaceful at night."

"I will always remember this place. It is our place for glory."

"But tonight, there are too many people about for us to have enough peace in order to achieve glory again," she teased. Then she looked about the gardens again with its picture-perfect setting for romance. She sensed something more from her mother. Her thoughts turned to more serious considerations than sex. "Our mothers are plotting."

"What do you mean, Deanna?"

"They wanted us to be alone in this garden."

"Surely that is not so unusual?"

"For my mother? She has never, ever before encouraged me to go in the garden with a boyfriend before. She used to follow me with some sort of disruptor gun whenever I came out here in the past with a boy, with Mr. Homm trailing behind to clean up the bloody mess."

"I am not a boy-friend. I am a man."

Deanna snuggled closed to him, pressing her breasts against his chest. "I most certainly can testify to that."

"Then what Lwaxana is doing has a purpose. She must want something from us."

Deanna didn't have to be psychic to figure out what. "Damn her!"

"What?" Worf was concerned. He didn't want Deanna to be angry with her mother because of him.

"Grandchildren!'

Worf suddenly leaned back against the lounge chair's metal back, thinking. "My mother has mentioned that word frequently to me as well." He studied Deanna's face before asking, "Do you mind?"

"Having children?"

"Having my children?"

"What do you think, Worf?" She kissed him passionately, letting her desire flow through their touching. Then she struggled to break the kiss, suddenly realizing that she was giving her mother exactly what the woman wanted.

"My mother is hoping that our passions will run away with us - that we'll be careless."

Worf suddenly grinned, his teeth flashing as he swooped in to kiss her, capturing her lower lip, teasing her mouth open to accept his tongue's caress. He found the very thought of creating a child with Deanna to be quite arousing. He let her know it.

It took Deanna much longer to break away from these kisses. She had a feeling that if she wasn't careful to keep a tight control on their emotions, Worf would truly tumble her midst her mother's award winning Janaran gold lilies. And while she found much pleasure in that thought, she didn't want it to happen tonight, almost as if by royal command from her mother.

Worf took a deep breath, then immediately regretted doing it. He found the scent of the garden's flowers to be quite stimulating. And Deanna didn't wish for him to be too stimulated at the moment.

"Your mother is a wise woman," he pronounced, knowing that such a statement would annoy her.

"Whatever you do, Worf, don't tell her that."

"Since I have thought it, does she not already know it?"

He did have a point. Deanna groaned, resting her head against his chest.

"We will marry, Deanna," he whispered against her hair, running his fingers through several strands of black silk, liking the feel of it as it slipped through his fingers. He had visions of braiding lover's warrior knots in it, to hold tokens of his passion. "We will marry when we wish to marry, and only then."

"Worf, you are a stronger person that I am if you think that we can withstand the pressures of both your mother and mine."

"I will be strong enough for both of us."

"Just wait until they coax Alexander into whining about wanting a little brother or sister…" Deanna muttered against his chest.

"My mother would not!" Worf protested, appalled at the idea of his son being used as a pawn against him.

"Oh, my mother would…"

=/\= =/\= =/\=

As the days passed, Jean-Luc Picard's reluctant respect for Captain Ragner increased. He ran the Adama as a tight yet sparingly controlled ship. And Jean-Luc could appreciate the skill necessary to do so, for Ragner was governing a ragtag crew if there ever was one, with an efficiency of management that would have impressed Data.

Ragner was a fair captain, cautious yet crafty in his negotiations with the traders that they encountered along their course. Picard had learned from Ro that their travel route was repeated on a regular basis with regular customers and stops. Her function on board was to acquire supplies for the Maquis and arrange for their delivery where needed. Purportedly not Maquis though some of his actions indicated otherwise, Picard still hadn't quite determined all that Ragner was and was not. Like the other Vorlos that Picard had encountered in the past, Ragner hid his intentions by a jovial manner and an astute judgment of character. But Picard never forgot the deadly viciousness that was also possible. No Vorlo liked to be crossed by anyone.

For the past few days, Picard had labored a duty shift mainly working on and rebuilding the Heisenberg compensators. Picard understood the shrewdness of this Vorlo captain's actions. He clearly did not completely trust Ro's Johnny, for Picard had yet to work a shift in any area that was of vital importance.

Ro Laren.

Merde.

Picard thought of the lady and knew that regardless of what happened in the future, he would have to deal with the mess that he was making of the present. He was surprised and dismayed over what he was doing with the woman. Picard had always prided himself on his rational and reasonable dealings with members of the opposite sex, though his women might have thought otherwise. But Ro Laren was proving to be the exception. Picard had not envisioned himself capable of such ill advised behavior with any woman, much less Ro Laren.

Because of Beverly. Of course, there had been no formal declaration between Beverly and himself. And considering the lady's state of mind when he'd left her on Caldos, there was indeed a good possibility that a state of mutual understanding would never ever be reached between them. So technically, he should not be having any ethical difficulties about having a relationship with Ro Laren.

Still, Jean-Luc had a problem. Why did he feel so damned guilty when it came to Ro? She asked nothing of him beyond some comfort in the night. And that alone was part of the problem. He found himself turning to her, even when it was not a matter of his immediate life or death. He had not thought himself capable of exploiting someone, even though the woman was willingly exhausting him as much as he was using her.

Jean-Luc Picard had not indulged in a casual affaire de coeur since the year he had unfortunately acquired his artificial heart. Along with his mechanical organ, he had gained some wisdom as well. Since his twenty-first year, even when on shore leave, he had not pursued meaningless pleasure. His affairs, though infrequent, had been heartfelt albeit of short duration. Whenever a woman became a lover or friend, or sometimes both, whenever she got too close to him, whenever she became a danger to his goal of becoming a starship captain or remaining as a starship captain, their relationship would end. Sometimes the friendship survived. Though he had come to realize that such friendship was a rare occurrence. Still, all of these women who haunted his past, had an understanding of their position in his life. Picard suspected that Ro Laren didn't. Or, that if she did, she didn't care to acknowledge it.

And that was what worried him the most - that somehow, even though the lady was willing, he was taking unfair advantage of her. For most of his adult life, Picard had always considered his lovers to be his equal. Even now, when there was no possibility of Starfleet rank between them, Picard still felt as if he were profiting at Ro Laren's expense. And he did not like this feeling.

Perhaps if he could discuss the matter with Ro Laren, things could be resolved. But with the constant fear of their conversation and actions being monitored, there was little that he could overtly do. Few men, much less the rogue that he was pretending to be, would worry themselves about moral niceties, and not take all that was being freely offered. To openly question his relationship with Ro would only arouse even more, Captain Ragner's suspicions.

After he finished cleaning the last coupling, Picard agreed to meet with his fellow workers for a drink in the Adama's common room. His experience as the pirate Galen had taught him the wisdom behind getting to know members of the crew, even if it was a motley one.

Entering the quarters that he shared with Ro, he was not surprised to discover that he was alone. Ro only seemed to be around during their sleep periods. It was almost as if the lady was avoiding his company during the other shifts.

Stripping off his mud brown work suit, he took a quick shower, appreciating the single luxury that Ro's quarters offered. When he was clean, he quickly dressed in similar brown clothing consisting of a knit shirt and pants, with half-boots. Unlike the Vorlo who preferred bright colors that could singe an eye's irises when gazed upon, Picard liked wearing neutral colors that did not attract attention. Checking the computer, he decided that he could visit Mela before going to the common room. He had enough time.

He found Mela's children playing outside the kitchen. When they sighted him, they greeted him with giggles knowing that at this late hour, he wasn't visiting them as their teacher. He played ball with them for a few moments patiently listening to their rapid chatter of tales of what life had been like for them during the past few days. Picard was relieved to see that they had been treated well if indifferently by the crew.

One more time he considered that starships were no place for children.

And then the door to the galley slid open. Mela came out, smiling at the three of them rolling about the corridor's floor. Picard stood, dusting himself off, before reaching over to take Mela's hand. He considered the lady. Tendrils of honey brown hair had escaped from her combs. The tendrils stuck damply to her forehead. She seemed more pale than when she had been on board the Unk. She winced, as if she experienced a flash of pain when she took his hand. He held it captive between both of his palms, his fingers searching her wrist for her pulse. It seemed uneven, rapid. He thought that she seemed tired. And he was worried that she was working too much. Preparing meals for a mixed crew of over twenty people was not an easy task at any time, much less when the cook was in her eighth month of pregnancy.

"Mela, I will speak to the captain. You shouldn't be working, especially not so hard, in your condition."

"It is all right, Johnny." She unconsciously used the name that the crew now called him.

"Does your husband not have a care for you?" he angrily asked. "How could he have left you to travel alone?"

She yanked her hand away from him. "It is not for you to say or condemn."

He nodded, accepting her rebuke, knowing that she was right. It was not his place to judge - or at least to say it out loud. "Forgive me, Mela?"

She nodded, knowing that no woman possessing any semblance of sanity or common sense, could be angry with him for too long.

"Of course. I'm just not used to any man hovering about me, that's all."

Jean-Luc froze. Mela's use of the word hovering conjured up remembrances of Eline accusing him of the exact same thing when she had been pregnant, oh so long ago.

"I will speak to Captain Ragner. I may not be as good a cook as you, but in my youth I did learn a few things about preparing meals for a hungry crowd of field workers. Surely with the replicators and working under your supervision, I can serve up edible meals."

"You are volunteering to cook?" She then reviewed what he had just said. "You're a farmer?"

"My father was a vintner. Besides, someone must cook otherwise Ragner will put us all on Vulcan survival rations. From what I have seen, the replicators are not exactly up to Federation Standard."

"I've done the best I can, Johnny!"

"I wasn't insulting your cooking, Mela." Picard leaned forward, conspiratorially whispering, "I was insulting our host and his ship." Mela laughed. And Picard felt as if he had accomplished something good at least once today. "Now, go and sit down, Mela. I'll make sure that Jory and Harla do not get into any more mischief." He cast his most captainly gaze down at the children. "And if you do behave, I shall challenge each of you to a game of chess after dinner. Agreed?"

The children quickly nodded.

Several hours later, his intention to join his crewmates for drinks all but forgot, Picard wiped his hands for the last time this day, on the towel that he had tied about his waist. A reasonably tasty stew was simmering, fruit compote glazed with treacle was on a shelf in the cooling unit, and coffee strong enough to remove Gonal space barnacles was near boiling on the cooker. He relaxed.

"This food will keep through the next two shifts. I'll be back at 0400 to fix the breakfast. You don't have to get up, Mela. Rest. I'll fix a cold meal."

She was too tired to argue. She agreed.

He helped her down from the counter stool where she'd been sitting and supervising in the small but surprisingly well-appointed galley, and then they slowly walked toward her cabin door. Jory and Harla followed. They ran into a blustering Ragner outside her quarters.

"Johnny! Since when did I give you permission to become the cook?" Ragner bellowed, displaying his annoyance over Johnny's presumptuousness.

"Since the moment I decided that you didn't need the lady giving birth during the middle of baking a cake."

"Who told you, you could?"

Picard immediately understood he had made a tactical error. Picard nodded, staring at the man who willingly chose to wear a puce coat trimmed in bright pink piping. "I apologize, Captain. I must admit, I've been my own man for so long, that I must be reminded of ship's protocol. I meant no harm - or disrespect."

Ragner's eyes narrowed, studying the man before him. If any one else in his crew had said such words to him, he'd have been prone to haul the man up on his homemade yardarm and look up the definition of keelhauling for this insubordination. He sensed otherwise with this man. "I'll order unlocked the replicators in the common room. I suppose that I can spare the power for their use over the next few days. That'll take care of most of the fare for my crew." He directed his glare toward Mela. "Little woman, when you need help, you ask me for it. I'm the one you come to for anything around here. You're too good a cook for me to lose you through female foolishness."

"Captain Ragner, this is only the second space ship that Mela has ever been on. She doesn't know space faring ways."

Ragner veered his gaze back to Picard. "Understood. Don't do it again. I guard my right to be a petty dictator carefully. It's one of the perks of being a Vorlo and a ship's captain." Ragner turned to walk away before he added, "Oh, and Johnny, see me tomorrow morning at 1100 hours, with Ro Laren. I've got the two of you in mind for another job."

In what some would refer to as the middle of the dead man's shift, Picard finally made it back to Ro's quarters. His sojourn as chef had worn him out, especially coming off the end of a long duty shift. All he wanted was to sleep. Ro Laren had other ideas. She was somewhat persuasive.

The next day, he remembered Ragner's orders and told her about them, ten minutes before they were due in the captain's ready room. She rolled away from him on the bed, staring at him as if he had gone mad.

"You only now remember to tell me?"

"Laren, can I help it if you distracted me? Several times as I recall?"

"That was only late last night and early this morning."

"Then, you simply wore me out," he baited.

She glowered at him before she reached across his chest and hit a comm panel button. "Captain Ragner?" she ordered.

"Yes, Ro?" came the muffled response.

"We're going to be late," she said anger lending an edge to her words.

"I know," Ragner responded. "Take your time. I don't want to get out of bed, either."

She sat up and looked with anger upon everything in the room including Picard and the monitor that she had somewhat hoped had been shut off.

"Sometimes, I just want to scream my head off," she stated to the air, as she climbed over his body to get to the floor.

"Sometimes Laren, you do," he archly commented, as he watched her move about, appreciating the sight of her lithe naked body. His eyes darkened with memories of their passion during the night.

She made it to the shower only two steps ahead of him.

Finally dressed and reasonably presentable, the pair of them made their way to Ragner's ready room. Picard couldn't help but contrast it to the ready rooms of his past. For one thing, no one would ever call Ragner a neat man. Star charts sprawled over boxes of contraband liquor. Salt sticks and widgets were scattered over every horizontal surface in the room. The single window of the room didn't provide a view of the galaxies. Instead, pasted on it were various graphs of many types from Dilithium flow charts to crew rotation schedules. There also was artwork that could either be described as primitive or were the efforts of a child - a very young child. Picard had not suspected that Ragner might actually be a family man. But only a loving parent would have hung these attempts at creating art.

Standing before Ragner's desk, the captain motioned for them to sit down. "Just shove that stuff off of those chairs," he commanded.

They complied.

Ragner nodded for a moment, then picked up his mug, and drained whatever the liquid was that was inside of it. Picard suspected that it wasn't coffee. A faint smell of alcohol floated in the air.

"Ro, I want you to take your runabout and rendezvous with our Ferengi friends at Thelka II. Take Johnny here, with you. You know what you're supposed to do."

"Understood, Captain."

"You can leave, Ro." Ragner nodded his head in the direction of the door. "Stay, Johnny, I want to talk to you."

Hiding her nervousness behind a belligerent frown, Ro walked over to the door. "Don't hurt Johnny, Captain. I wouldn't want to have to kill you," she threatened.

Ragner knew that Ro wasn't jesting. He chuckled as the lady left.

"The lady has taken a personal interest in you, Johnny. You're a most fortunate man."

"Yes. Sometimes I do wonder about my luck," Picard amiably agreed. "You obviously have something on your mind, Captain. What?"

"You know where Thelka is, Johnny?"

"I've never been there, but I have heard of it. It's supposed to be a neutral planet with somewhat of a trading-last-chance-out-post with an anything goes atmosphere."

"Yes, it's neutral. Or as neutral as any place can be when the Cardies have an interest in it." Ragner stood and went over to a chest, rummaging about some of the objects on the surface. He found what he was looking for, a flask of some sort, and brought it over to the desk. He poured an orange liquid in his mug, and then handed the tin flask over to Johnny. "Normally, Ro would go alone. She makes the financial arrangements for me and for the Maquis. But I got word yesterday that there was a raid on Tohvun. Cardies attacked a settlement there. Don't think she should go alone now."

Picard's lips tightened as he remembered where he had heard the planet's name before. Mela. He uncapped the flask, and took a swig, stifling a cough as the vile liquor burned down his throat. He wasn't sure what it tasted like. In fact, he didn't want to ever precisely recall what this liquid really tasted like.

"Were they any survivors, Captain?" he hoarsely choked out.

"Don't know. But I'll find out. According to the report I received, the raid was done by renegade Cardies."

Picard snorted in disbelief. "About as renegade as officers of the Obsidian Order pretend to be."

Ragner nodded. "You know a lot about the politics of this region, Johnny."

"Yes, I do. I don't necessarily consider such knowledge to be a blessing."

'But it's kept you alive."

"So far, Captain."

"There are Cardies on Thelka. And we are nearing their borders. They might pay attention to the Adama."

"I would prefer not to be introduced to any Cardassians, Captain."

"I thought as much," Ragner agreed. He grabbed the flask away from Picard. "Cardies want you for something?"

"I don't know of any Cardassian who'd personally want me for a friend."

"Stay with Ro, then. And keep out of trouble. Keep her out of trouble."

"I've known Ro Laren for several years, Captain. You ask the impossible. However, I will do my best, but I am not promising anything."

"You will come back with her, won't you Johnny? You won't try to run off?"

"I promised Mela that I'd be there if she needs me when she's having her child."

"Yes, I suspect that you're a man who'd keep his word."

"Is there anything else, Captain?" Picard moved as if to rise.

Ragner dismissed him. But as Picard carefully stepped his way about boxes and half-empty packing containers strewn over the floor, Ragner spoke again. "You're Starfleet, aren't you Johnny?"

"No."

"The expression Ragner's face told Picard that the man did not believe him.

"I was Starfleet once. Right now, I'm not."

"Good. You'll keep your word then."

"I always do to the best of my ability."

"Then you fly the runabout, Johnny."

"Why? Ro's a good pilot. I've even let her pilot my ship…", he paused for a second, briefly remembering his ship, "… that is, when I had a ship, a long time ago…"

"You're a better pilot, I think. I don't know of many who'd have had the guramba to pilot a space pod with barely enough energy to keep lights going, through the treacherous path of an asteroid belt. Much less a man doing it with two brats and a pregnant woman. If that's not guramba, I don't know what is."

Picard nodded, not quite sure if there was anything appropriate to say at the moment.

"Bring my runabout back in one piece, Johnny. Damned things cost too much to replace."

"Understood, Captain."

"And Johnny…"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Keep Ro out of the bars. She tends to irritate people when she's in bars. She doesn't know when to stop fighting the Bajoran War for Independence."

"Captain, not knowing when to quit has always been part of Ro Laren's charm. Though I have been with her in a bar, before. I do understand your warning."

"Was Ro Starfleet too?"

"Last time I said goodbye to the lady, she was working in a saloon. She wasn't a Starfleet officer then. And she certainly isn't now."

Ragner laughed, shaking with amusement. "Keep your secrets, Johnny. As long as they don't interfere with my ship, I don't care what they are. And, stay clear of the Cardies."

"Will do, Sir."

Two hours later, with their duty bags stowed safely away on board the runabout Starbuck, Picard went through the pre-flight check of equipment.

"Ship's not bugged, Johnny," Ro cheerfully stated, as she climbed into the pilot's chair next to the man.

"Once we leave the ship, we'll check again."

"Don't you trust me, Johnny?" Ro innocently asked, trying to be playful.

"No."

He ignored the look of surprised anger that crossed her face. He didn't see the pain in her eyes as well at his words. Clearly, they had a lot to discuss in private during their trip to Thelka II.

Moments later they were off. About ten minutes after that, Picard proceeded to thoroughly inspect and survey the interior of the cabin. "If Ragner is bugging this ship then he must be using organic technology," Picard declared, putting away his Tricorder. "Is it safe to talk, Ro?"

"I don't know if you should be asking me that question, Johnny."

He raised his eyebrow. "Johnny? Not Captain?"

"You stopped being my captain the day I quit Starfleet, Johnny."

He mulled over her words as he returned to his chair. Without saying a word, he took over command of the controls.

She let him.

Almost half an hour later, after he was sure that everything was in order, and that their route was correct, he turned and faced his former junior officer. "I know that I stopped being your commanding officer, Ro, the moment that you chose the Maquis over doing your duty. But Starfleet does not."

"Huh? What?"

He turned attention onto his comm panel for a moment.

"What do you mean?" Ro demanded.

Picard still studied the panel, even as he spoke. "Will Riker's final report. He implied that there was a possibility that you had been beamed away by the Maquis against your will."

"Are you saying that Will put in his report that I was kidnapped? Riker lied?"

"Not exactly. He didn't explicitly lie. He just chose his words sparsely and carefully. At the time, I didn't understand why he had been so circumspect. Your defection can be justified. If you wish to return to Starfleet, if you voluntarily turn yourself over to the authorities, I will speak on your behalf." He turned his gaze away from the panel and back to Ro Laren.

"I don't believe you! After all that I've done, you want me to go back to Starfleet? I never considered you to be a deliberately cruel man before, Captain."

"You were a good officer, Lieutenant."

"And you want me to be one again? Hah! You, of all people, could just forget a little detail like my being a Maquis?"

"There are those in Starfleet who believe that the Maquis are more justified in their actions than not, Ro."

"And you are one of them?"

"As long as I wore the uniform of a Starfleet officer, I had no honorable choice other than to follow Starfleet's commands." He smiled, more in sympathy with her than she would have suspected. "Now, that I no longer am an active officer, I must admit that I understand and sympathize with some of the Maquis intentions." He looked at her, his eyes suddenly turning cold. "But, since you asked me if I could ignore all that you have done, the answer is no. I did not contradict my Number One's report simply because I was willing to give you the benefit of his doubt. If it had been my preference, you would have been on Starfleet's most wanted list of criminals from the point when you defied your orders. You betrayed almost everything that I have ever held in esteem."

She was hurt by his words, but she didn't reveal it. She had known, since the moment she had pulled the phaser on Will Riker what Picard's reaction would be. At least now they were free to speak the truth to each other

"So you really want me back in Starfleet? You'd have to lie. I don't know if I would lie even to help myself. I've never exactly been prize officer material."

"I beg to differ. At one time I thought that you had the potential to become the very best in Starfleet." He looked at her, unconsciously admiring the way she looked at this moment, her face animated with anger and exasperation. "You were right. I made a mistake by ordering you to obey Admiral Nechayev's commands."

"I agree. But I also made a mistake too, by letting you order me into infiltrating the Maquis."

"The Admiral didn't give either one of us much of a choice, Ro." He looked away from her for a second. "I thought over some of the things that you said to me, Ro. In some respects, you were correct."

"Should I faint now, or wait until bedtime?"

"Don't be impertinent, Ro. I've never cared for that side of your nature."

"You're not my commanding officer anymore, Jean-Luc. I can do what I damn well please. You should be grateful that I saved your ass from Ragner. If he really thought that you were Starfleet…"

Picard interrupted her. "I already admitted to him that I am - that I was."

"What?"

"The man may act like a Pakled and dress like a Q Continuum side-show buffoon, but he is not a fool. He already suspected I was Starfleet. So I told him the truth."

"Ragner would be flattered if he knew how high was the esteem that the great Starfleet captain held for him. Are you going to tell him that, too?"

Picard shoved himself away from the comm panel, and leaned back against his chair trying to really comprehend her motivations. He suspected that he had only scratched the surface of this very complex Bajoran.

"Promise me something, Ro Laren."

"What?" she warily asked.

"Someday, you'll tell me the truth about what really happened on Garon II."

"What does ancient history have to do with anything?"

"Eight people died."

"Starfleet found me guilty."

"I'm sure that you were guilty - of being a short-tempered Bajoran with a tendency towards insubordination. I know as your former commanding officer that your temper was not one of your more endearing traits."

"Don't forget my fondness for mutiny," Ro interjected.

Picard stifled a laugh at this remark. "But you would never betray your fellow comrades by cowardice. If anything, you would fight to the death in order to follow your conscience and to save their lives."

"Unfortunately, the deaths I fought for were those in my away team and not my own."

"Then all I ask, Ro, is that someday you tell me the truth."

"I've always tried to tell you the truth whenever I could."

He nodded, getting up and then ordering some tea from the replicator. And then ordered a strong coffee, double sweet.

He handed her the mug, then returned to his captain's chair. "Your honesty was one of the things that made me believe in you, Ro."

"Thanks, I think." She stretched her long legs, crossing them at the ankles. Even in ugly clothes that did little to flatter the female form, Ro Laren was a striking woman. Picard could appreciate this even as he fought against losing his temper with her. But his gaze was still frigid as he stood, moving closer to her, leaning against the comm panel that was next to her. He had put down his mug on the panel, an act which shocked Ro, considering his unspoken rules about mugs on the Enterprise's bridge.

"I understand what you did and even accept why you did it, Ro Laren. But I cannot forgive what you did. Regardless of how much I might sympathize, you betrayed your oath. You could return to Starfleet based upon Riker's actions."

"But though you would speak on my behalf, you wouldn't want me as an officer under your command ever again."

"Regardless of my championing of you Ro, you are correct. I would not want you as a Starfleet officer under my command ever again. You don't deserve it. But I would do my best to keep you out of prison. However, the point is moot, since I doubt that I will ever be an active Starfleet officer again."

He walked towards the aft part of the ship and the tiny cabins that were back there.

"Of all the almighty gall!" she howled, chasing after him. When she caught him, she spun him around to face her. "Or, hadn't you noticed that I'm serving under your command right now?"

"Actually, I believe the reverse is true. I don't think Ragner appointed me the officer in charge of this mission."

"Damn you, Jean-Luc Picard! I didn't ask you to come here and make a mess out of my life all over again!"

"No, you did it quite well without my help."

She raised her right hand to slap him. But a micron or two away from his face, she stopped, knowing that her anger was really directed more toward her inner self than to him. He didn't flinch, almost as if he were willing to accept her censure.

Tears welled up in her eyes, as she left him, running into one of the small sleeping cubicles, locking the door behind her.

He'd only spoke the truth. Still, there was an acrid taste in his mouth. He heartily wished that things had turned out differently.

Somehow knowing that Ro Laren was not that different from other women of his acquaintance, he returned to his pilot's chair doing redundancy checks on everything. She'd come out when she was ready. To go in after her would be an insult to her character. Or a big mistake…

Over an hour later, he heard a door slide open. Not turning around he stated, "I've been monitoring the communication channels. So far, we've attracted no one's notice."

"That's not necessarily a good sign. Both the Cardies and the Romulans don't like to let their presence be known until it's too late to do anything about it. And in this nether land between the zones, they can do whatever they choose to do, to us."

He turned his head, finally looking at her, behaving as if all were normal between them - as if none of their prior words had been angry or had been bitter.

"You know this section of space better than I do, Ro. Do you want to take over the controls?"

"I don't know if I want to. I rather like the thought of being chauffeured around by a Starfleet captain."

She had returned to the non-confrontational status that had been the tenor of relations between them for the past few days. It was the easy way for both of them. But Picard was never one to choose such a path.

"I won't apologize, Ro," he quietly stated. "I didn't want you to misconstrue my feelings and beliefs."

"I was in no danger of misunderstanding you, Captain." Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she whispered, "So where do we go from here?"

"If I make arrangements on Thelka II for transport to Tohvun and then Gaudete II, do you think Ragner will try to stop me?"

"That will take credits, Jean-Luc. Do you have any?"

"We're meeting Ferengi, aren't we?"

"Yes. I've dealt with a DaiMon Behlk several times. He's not a bad sort, aside from the fact that he is a Ferengi."

"Twice in the past, a Ferengi by the name of DaiMon Bok used Ferengi ships and misled his superiors and crew in order to wage a campaign of personal revenge against me."

"Ticked him off, eh?"

"He blamed me for the death of his son."

Ro could say nothing about this statement. Whatever else Jean-Luc had done, he had never killed casually or taken life without just cause.

"Settling things the only way that the Ferengi government ever would do, they awarded me some money as reparation for the Bok's actions. At the time, I never thought that I'd have reason to touch the credits. The money is in a Ferengi bank account somewhere."

"Which you'll be able to access when we get to Thelka. Will there be enough for transport and to satisfy Ragner?"

"I'm not sure of the amount but I suspect that it is considerable. After all, just how much do you think a Starfleet starship captain with a valid complaint against the Ferengi High Council of Business could command?"

"Probably just enough gold pressed latinum to please Ragner."

They both worked in silence for a while, taking care of the minor details in the running of this runabout.

Ro finally found enough courage to ask a question that had been preying on her mind. "What did you mean by moot point?"

It took Picard a moment to remember her reference. "I have lost two starships, Ro. Starfleet doesn't usually reward captains for such behavior."

"So they kicked you out of their precious little captain's club, eh?"

"Not officially, but almost."

"Are you in or are you out of Starfleet, Johnny? You seem to keep giving me a different answer every time I ask you that question."

"I am on personal leave, Ro. A sabbatical. And it has been strongly suggested by more than one admiral that I never come back."

She was silent for a while. She didn't have to ask how much Starfleet had meant to him. Anyone who has ever served under the man knew the answer to that question. "So you don't have to go back to Starfleet?"

"I think that if I am ever an active Starfleet officer again, it will only be because I kicked down a door in order to get back inside."

She thought for a while, listening to the rhythmic sounds from the equipment about her. The patterns of the beeps and tweets that were the constant background noise on board any space ship, were a comfort to her. Listening to these sounds helped her focus her perceptions of what Jean-Luc was and was not saying to her.

"You said that you sort of sympathize with the Maquis."

"I said that I understand the Maquis. That is not quite the same thing."

If there was one thing that Ro Laren never lacked, it was the courage to take foolish chances now and then. So she said what was on her mind. "You could become Maquis. They would welcome you."

"That I do not doubt." His voice was neutral as if Ro had just made a comment about how many stars there were in the sky.

She turned in her chair, facing him, forcing him to look at her. "I mean it. There'd be no dishonor if you joined us now. Only respect."

He looked into her eyes, seeing tendered there all that she wasn't saying. It would be so easy to accept her silent offer.

"Did you really think that I could do anything else, Laren?" His smile was humorless, though the glint in his eyes held a self-mocking flicker.

"The epitome of a bloody Starfleet captain until your bitter end, eh Jean-Luc?"

"Something like that, Ro Laren."

Silence was her only response.

Hours later, Jean-Luc announced "We'll be arriving at Thelka in twenty hours. Do you want the first sleep shift or shall I take it?"

"I'm not tired, Johnny. You go ahead. Believe it or not, I actually brought some book chips with me. Don't know why, but ever since I was in a Federation prison, I learned to read for no one's sake but my own. Those books and the stims in my coffee will keep me awake."

He accepted her statement and then smiled.

"What's so amusing?" she warily asked. She knew that look.

"I'm mentally debating over what it is that you choose to read, Laren."

"Why? What do you think I'd choose to read?"

"It's a toss up between blood-thirsty battle stories or how-to books on murder, guerilla warfare, untraceable poisons or revenge techniques."

"I could write those kinds of books, Johnny." She paused, thinking of something unpleasant. "You don't think I'm the type to read romantic stories?"

"Only if you were a Klingon."

She laughed. It was the first natural sounding laugh she'd made since she boarded the Starbuck. "You're right. Klingon erotica contains a certain element of violence and pain that some might find arousing."

"Wake me at 1900," he ordered, walking away from her. "There's a hamper of food in the galley. And don't worry, Mela fixed it. I didn't."

She laughed again as she bid him good night. Then she audibly sighed. It was a rueful sound. She had envisioned her hours with Jean-Luc alone and unobserved on board the runabout, being spent in a slightly different manner. Oh, she had known that they would argue, and that angry words would be hollered. But she had truly hoped that after the arguing the relationship that they'd formed on board the Adama would carry over into their private journey alone. And that after the fighting there would have been a time for apologies, explanations and lots of sex.

Now she had the answer to the one question that even she had not had the courage to ask Jean-Luc Picard out loud. He had only been having sex with her because it was part of their performance for Ragner. He had only been acting. Now, that he had the freedom to do as he pleased, his lack of action was the answer to a question that she had beseeched the Bajoran prophets to never really answer.

Ro Laren had spent most of her life alone. Sad. Isolated. Removed from the kinship and companionship that most humanoid cultures considered to be customary.

Now, for a few hurried days, the coldness of her life had his presence to give it warmth. She'd known from their first kiss that is wasn't what he would define as love. And she had certainly never spoke that word aloud to anyone in her life. But she had hoped that he'd at least liked her company. Now, she knew better. She had gambled one time to often. Considering the number of losses in her life, she supposed that she should have been used to it by now. She was not.

Sighing out loud this time, she pulled out her book chip and inserted it into the viewer. Jean-Luc would have been surprised by her preference in reading. She had a weakness for mysteries. Not the blood-bang-bang-and guts-kind, but the genteel works of fiction written best by Earth authors of the 19th and 20th centuries, especially those bearing the sobriquet of English mysteries. This particular book was the penultimate work by Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night. Even though their situations were vastly different, Ro found herself empathizing with Harriet Vane.

For what seemed like only a minute later, but in actuality over seven hours had passed, she felt herself being picked up by strong arms.

"Ma belle," he whispered. "Let me put you to bed."

"Only if you come with me," she mumbled. Suddenly her eyes flew wide open as she realized that what she had just said she'd said out loud. "Captain, I didn't mean…"

"Don't start changing on me now, Ro Laren. Be fearless. I have always considered your audaciousness to be one of your better charms even though it still annoys the hell out of me on occasion."

Entering the cabin he had just used, he placed her on the narrow bunk. He sat down as well on the edge of the mattress, looking down at her. "If I were a Starfleet captain and you were my Starfleet helmsman, my carrying you to your bed would be considered highly irregular not to mention quite improper."

"We no longer are those people."

"True." He brushed strands of her hair away from her face thinking that she possessed a greater beauty than she knew.

"I fell asleep on duty. Are you going to discipline me?"

She sounded contrite, but he suspected otherwise. He smiled, liking the sudden image of what disciplining Ro Laren could entail. "I set the auto pilot and the proximity alarms."

"Then we could have slept together."

These words were not spoken in innocence. He knew it viscerally. "Yes, we could have."

The fingers that had been playing with her hair slowly moved along her cheek, trailing down her neck, until they reached her collar. His other hand seemed to have a sudden need to inventory her buttons, lightly rubbing against the rough fabric of her suit, pressing strongly when he heard her breath quicken. He waited for her to say or do something to stop him. But he also knew that she wouldn't.

"Laren, if for some reason, I find myself forced to stay with Ragner, to be a member of his crew, working with you - and even for the Maquis - for the rest of my life, I find myself thinking that I would not mind such a fate. The Maquis offer freedom - freedom that I have never had before."

"You always were a Starfleet officer at heart even when you were a little boy, weren't you, Jean-Luc? You spent your childhood dreaming of spaceships that one day you would command."

"Not at first. I longed for the stars. But one day I understood that I couldn't have them without becoming an officer. And then I could not conceive of being anything else but an officer in Starfleet when I was a child. I wanted nothing more. I needed nothing more."

"Then you never had a childhood either, just like me."

He was about to speak automatic words of protest when he realized that there was some truth in her words. Between his father and Robert and what they had insisted on taking and keeping from him, the time when he had actually felt like a child had only been a few, innocent early years. Then his dreams had superseded his family's goals. The battles lines had been conceived and his fate had been cast.

"At least I had my granmere and my mama. You lost everyone that cared for you."

"So, what happens if you have to stay?" She looked up into his face, trying to see if the words of his answer would correspond to what his eyes were revealing.

"I could accept this life. I could come to like it here with you, Ro Laren."

"With no regrets?"

"There will always be regrets, Laren. I already have them. There are certain parts of my life that I would not care to lose."

There was one other question she knew that she should ask, but she suddenly found that her courage was lacking. It was enough for now, that in spite of what she'd done, he still liked her.

His fingers toyed with the closure by her collar that covered the hidden zipper to her mud brown jumpsuit.

"Laren." His voice was low as he leaned over to place a gentle kiss against her temple. "The Starfleet captain would never be permitted to forgive the lieutenant for what she did. But the man…" He kissed her again, moving his lips across her cheek. She opened her mouth against his words, momentarily distracting him with the touch of her tongue.

"What…" she whispered. "What is it that the man and not the captain, would do?"

"There is one thing that the Borg taught me, Laren. And that is how fragile our life, our self-autonomy, really is. I had to learn how to forgive. And if I can learn to forgive myself for all of the heinous crimes that I have committed, I surely can forgive a woman whose only sin was to follow her conscience instead of her captain."

She struggled against the drugging sensation of his touch. "What?"

"I knew what sort of woman and the caliber of officer that you were, Laren. I think that I always knew that you would follow your conscience. That it meant more to you even than your honor. I just never thought that I would be the one who would force you to choose. Your devil's choice is something that I truly regret forcing upon you."

She knew that he meant what he was saying to her. And that the comfort of his words was all that he could offer. She had a place in his heart, but she didn't own it. For now she would take his body. At least she had that.

"Who's going to pilot the ship if we are occupied?" she asked, sudden mischief lending a drawl to her words.

"You already know that answer to that, unless you'd rather have me leave you and check on the systems?"

The way she kissed him back was her answer. Laren reveled in the power over him that her touching him revealed. Her fingers tightened against his head, as his lips blazed a path to her breasts. He focused on them, uncovering them swiftly, worshipping them tenderly. She was so close to climaxing from just this caress alone, that it took her several moments to realize that he was shoving her loathsome brown jumpsuit off of her body. Somehow he had unbuttoned and unlocked every closure on her suit without her even noticing. She slid her arms against his shoulders, pressing his head against her breast. The she shoved him backwards with a surprising sense of purpose.

It took him a moment to clear his head before he dryly asked, "Is there something you want?"

"You're wearing too many clothes, Jean-Luc."

His smile was warm, almost carefree. "I trust that you'll help me solve that difficulty?"

"Lazy man!"

"I think that you're a rapacious wench and that if I wish to survive, I'd better do as you command."

"I always knew that you were a smart man, Jean-Luc."

He suddenly stilled her hands as they had been searching for and undoing all sorts of things about his clothing. "The way you say my given name, Laren - it's enticing."

"But…" she whispered, sensing that there was something beyond this comment.

He regretted having to speak of matters that were serious. He found himself prizing their idyll moments more than he had initially expected.

"Don't use my given name. Don't call me Jean-Luc. Not until we both are safe. You resurrected the name of Johnny. And that is what you must call me, for both our sakes."

She kept her fears to herself. "Yes, dear."

"Heaven help the man who loves you, Ro Laren…," he whispered, almost to himself.

With a sudden surge of desire that astonished even herself, she shut him up with her kisses, doing her best to obliterate the words he'd just spoken from her memory. But nothing would erase them from her heart.

Their bodies locked together, moving toward delirium, thrusting to create a universe unique only unto the two of them.

When she could think, she kept telling herself that their passions would be enough. It had to be enough. They were two diametrically different people coming together for a whole legion of reasons that had little to do with love - only feeling. And perhaps, friendship. Yet, Ro doubted if she would ever have another love that could inspire and incite the intensity of passion that only he could engender. What was happening now to them both, had little to do with reason. And absolutely nothing to do with deceiving the Vorlo captain.

And when this mating was over, Ro seriously considered sabotaging the ship so that it would take them days or weeks to reach Thelka II instead of mere hours.

Very warm, very sated, very tired and very uncomfortable, some time later Ro turned about so that she was resting on her other side, on top of Jean-Luc's bare chest.

"Laren," he warned. He thought he heard her mumble something about knobby knees…

"Yes, master?"

He pinched her fanny for her insubordinate choice of word, though he didn't verbally chastise her. "If we are going to attempt to actually sleep together on this torturous instrument that the Vorlos call a bed, you are going to have to stop fidgeting or achieving your rest will not be the desired result."

She propped her chin against his chest, looking at him with a directness of her gaze that was as dangerous in its admiration as it was in it sincerity. "I've slept under worse conditions. And I am sure that you have too."

"Correct. But never willingly."

"All right. I'll leave you to your pillow. Sleep well." She moved as if to leave him. He stopped her, rolling over onto his side, trapping her against the bulkhead.

"My ancestors called this spooning," he explained, as he tucked his knees against her derriere, pressing her back gently against his chest. "If we sleep in tandem, we'll have a bit of room together."

"I don't want to know," she mumbled as she felt his steady breath against her nape.

"Sleep," he ordered, in his best captainly voice. She wiggled her hips against his groin. She moved restlessly. "Dammit, Laren, if the sleep command worked on the Borg, why won't it work on you?"

Suddenly feeling like giggling, she countered with, "Wrong race, Johnny. I'm Bajoran."

"You're trouble." She wiggled again. "And a woman.."

"You go to sleep, Johnny."

He did. But before he did, he pressed a kiss against her neck, holding her gently in his arms until she stopped trying to tempt him. He was thinking that he hadn't felt this relaxed - this content - in a very long time. Hours later, even before the proximity alarms had a chance to chime, he just simply knew that they were close to their destination. As carefully as he could, he moved away from the sleeping Laren, and slid out of the bunk. Minutes later, after making due with a sonic shower, he silently dressed in the garb he'd adapted from his days as Galen the pirate when he was kidnapped by Baran. He'd found the suede jerkin and leather boots to be a comfortable yet practical outfit be it for pirate, poet or archaeologist. He mused that if one day, if he ever should be forced to become a Starfleet admiral, he would adopt a new admiral's uniform for himself based on his current mode of dress.

The atmosphere in the cabin changed. She was awake, watching him, even though he'd kept silent, which was not in keeping with her nature.

"We're about two hours away from Thelka," she casually stated. "Should I get dressed?"

"If you'd rather stay abed, you may. I'll wake you before we actually reach orbit."

'You're so kind." She curled her arms about the lone pillow, silently wishing that it was him. "Maybe now I can sleep in peace."

"Not if you dream of me."

He smiled, as he left the cabin, deliberately ignoring the woman muttering quaint Bajoran curses as he left.

They beamed down to the planet, almost three hours later, after gaining orbiting clearance from the Thelkan official government.

Picard let Ro handle the details. She told him that she'd been to this particular planet thrice already, to meet with the Ferengi. She briefed him of the details to their deal that Ragner had neglected to mention.

Walking the streets of the main space port, a city named Ootzey, Picard noticed that almost every person they passed had some sort of weapon, which was usually a disruptor, obviously visible on their person.

"Should we display our phasers more prominently, Ro?" he observed as he passed an individual that closely resembled one of Worf's Holodeck playmates.

"No. They can see I am Bajoran. And I don't think that anyone would believe that a Bajoran woman would wander the streets of a city where Cardassians could be present, and not be heavily armed."

"Agreed."

He looked about, taking in the sights. One of those sights was Ro Laren in her shiny red, metallic, skin tight cat suit. He was noticing the details, on a street that seemed to house nothing but bars, gambling hells and brothels. On a planet that circled a binary sun, the shadows were long in almost every direction. He was momentarily reminded of another of Worf's Holodeck programs - a place called Deadwood, where Deanna, Alexander and Worf liked to play with Data.

"Here." Ro nodded in the direction of a rather elaborate (for the neighborhood) façade to what appeared to be a multi-storied bar, casino and hotel named MUDDER.

Picard wasn't sure if the name reflected the unpaved street in front of the establishment, a misspelled family member's name or a mispronounced word for a capitol crime. In any event, he hoped it wasn't a presage for their business dealings.

"What if our Ferengi friends aren't here, Ro?"

Picard cautiously looked about the bar as they stepped over the threshold. The bar was decorated in a banausic manner - totally devoid of anything that would have smacked of originality or artistic value. The noise from the dabo tables, the gambling machines and the drunken patrons was almost deafening. Matters weren't helped by the fact that two different entertainments were being staged in close proximity to each other. It was impossible to tell if the quartet of Andorian sex performers/singers or the Phrygian comedian were any good. For how could they be heard?

Considering that according to the city's time zone, they were only entering early afternoon, Picard idly wondered how raucous the place would be by nightfall.

Ro pushed him in the direction of the bar that seemed to undulate about the room. "Don't order water - not in this place. If you don't want to attract attention, don't order synthehol either. Only Starfleet orders synthehol."

Picard pulled Ro into a tight embrace as a swarm of Nausicaans forced themselves past them. Half-yelling into her ear, he said, "Laren, long before I was a senior office, I was a habitué of dives far worse than this one."

"Really?" She was fascinated by this bit of information. "More so that Riker?"

"If I had to, I could teach Will a few things."

"That I don't doubt - Johnny."

Settling up against the bar, he pulled some credits out of an inner vest pocket and placed them in plain sight in front of the barkeep.

"Tranya," he ordered when the hesheit took their order.

A moment later Ro took a sip from the only part of the rim of her glass that seemed clean. She spat it out. "Ghad - this stuff is worse than the purple lemonade Captain Charrington of the Wellington used to make his officers drink." She flashed him a wicked grin. "That lemonade was the real reason I got myself court-martialed. Anything was better than having to drink that stuff shift after shift and during staff meetings."

Picard took a cautious sip from his glass. He spit it out. "This stuff is either older than both of our ages combined, or it is very, very spoiled."

He turned and focused his sternest glare on the barkeep. When the hesheit didn't respond, Ro flung her glass in the olive drab hermaphroditic creature's direction.

"You're trying to poison us!" she roared.

Someone who looked like a manager type in a glittering pinwheel striped suit quickly stepped up to them. A few angry words on Ro's part, plus the accidental showing of their phasers, sufficed. They were given ale instead. Picard didn't think that he should ask where it had been brewed. It was drinkable even though it was warm. And it was probably as good as they were going to get in this place.

After a few minutes, Ro leaned over and said, "I'll be back before you even miss me."

She was gone, slipping into the crowd, before Picard could question her intent. Not knowing what else to do, and recognizing that he had to be doing something if he intended to occupy bar space, he ordered another couple of ales.

She returned about five minutes later. "DaiMon Behlk should be here shortly." She nodded in the direction of a corridor. "Over there." Picard followed her as they wended their way through a room that was becoming more crowded every minute.

Compared to the main barroom, the corridor was a haven of peace and quiet. Picard kept his guard up, even though he felt like relaxing. He followed Ro, until she stepped into a room that appeared to be the first in a series of connecting suites. The only way that the décor in these rooms could be described was as Early Gaudy Ferengi. Clearly, these rooms were used often by the traders with big lobes.

Picard shuddered as he looked around. He normally refrained from being too judgmental over other race's artistic tastes. But when it came to Ferengi decorators - he never wanted to meet one.

Ro commandeered the most comfortable looking chair in the room, located near a lime green round table with brightly inlaid peacock blue and neon orange tiles.

"Sit, Johnny. The DaiMon likes his clients to be comfortable."

Picard chose an arm chair that was the least bilious color in the room. It also afforded him an excellent view of the doorway opposite Ro.

"What are we buying?" Picard informally asked Ro, considering the probabilities of their conversation being monitored. He was getting used to being observed at all times.

"Mainly medical supplies and some battery packs - all perfectly legal." She didn't have to add that it was merchandise that would soon be in the hands of a people who were considered illegal by quite a few planetary governments.

Picard hoped that she was telling him the truth.

A while later, DaiMon Behlk arrived, flanked by two attendants.

Though his expression didn't alter, Picard inwardly groaned. He knew one of the Ferengi attendants - an odious creature named Qo who had tried to kidnap the metamorph Kamala. He'd yet to meet a Ferengi who had a bad memory especially when it came to lost profits. He had only one choice - attack.

Picard stood and aimed his words at Qo. "I will not deal with a Ferengi who is so foolish that he spoils his profits!"

"What?" Qo looked at Picard in utter disbelief. "You! I don't believe it! DaiMon! DaiMon!" Qo kept squealing.

DaiMon Behlk raised his walking staff. This was enough to silence Qo. "What is happening?" He nodded toward his other attendant. This man now had a disruptor pointed at Jean-Luc's stomach.

Ro pulled out her phaser.

"Who are you?" the DaiMon demanded.

Picard sent a warning glance at Ro before speaking. "I am Jean-Luc Picard. My associates refer to me as Johnny."

Behlk looked at Qo. "He speaks truth?"

Qo babbled, "He speaks truth! He is Starfleet!"

"Incorrect," Picard firmly stated, cutting off Qo. "I've left Starfleet."

"He's a captain!" Qo screeched.

Picard grimaced. He found Ferengi excitability to be a less than attractive racial trait.

"I still am a captain - but not in Starfleet!"

"He works for me and the Maquis, with Captain Ragner," Ro interjected, sounding quite bored with the conversation.

Qo bawled, "She lies!"

Qo didn't quite know what happened next. One moment he was screeching, the next, Ro had the very sharp point of her snickersnee pressed up against his jugular vein. She was no longer seated quietly in the corner.

"Say that again, offal!" Ro calmly ordered.

"You lie!" Qo repeated himself.

Picard had suspected that this Ferengi was not too bright. Even the DaiMon looked surprised at Qo's stupidity. Ro jabbed him.

"She cut me! She cut me with her dagger!" Qo wailed, verging on hysteria.

Ro looked at the DaiMon for permission. "May I silence this unworthy one? His wife counts his credits."

Picard liked Ro's castigation of Qo. She clearly understood the finer points of dealing with Ferengi.

DaiMon Behlk nodded.

"No!" wailed Qo.

Ro socked him in the jaw. He fell at her feet, collapsing into a rather unsightly lump, his lobes quivering. For added emphasis, she poked him with her boot. Satisfied that he wouldn't be making any more noise in the immediate future, Ro returned to her chair.

"As I was saying before we were most rudely interrupted," Ro continued, "Johnny Picard now works for me."

Picard inwardly winced at her choice of names, but he had to admire the way she was adeptly controlling the situation.

"Starfleet's most famous captain is now Maquis?" the DaiMon asked.

"No!" Picard vehemently stated. "There's no profit in idealistic causes," he hastily added before Ro could say something he might be forced to deny.

The DaiMon wasn't satisfied. "Why'd you leave Starfleet, Picard?"

" I crashed my ship," Picard explained. And then he waited. He suspected that when a Ferengi captain lost his ship, the punishments were similar.

"Cost Starfleet a lot," the DaiMon considered.

"I'm a ship's captain, DaiMon Behlk. I am looking for a ship that Starfleet doesn't own. For that, I need money. I need to make a profit."

These words the DaiMon understood. He motioned to Ro. "We deal."

Picard sat back and let Ro negotiate. She was quite good at it. Three rounds of drinks later, the details had been arranged and accurately recorded. They'd be returning to the Adama with the correct cargo.

Behlk was about to order drinks to formally seal the deal when Picard spoke up. "I need a banker."

These were the words that every Ferengi prayed to hear a client say. Thrills of delicious pleasure tingled through the DaiMon's earlobes as he thought of all the possibilities. A rogue ex-Starfleet captain with Picard's reputation could make many fortunes in the markets beyond the Federation boundaries. And when that was finished, there were always various empires that would be willing to buy such a man. Behlk shuddered at the thought of such profit . It was almost too much.

"How," the DaiMon gasped, "can I help you?"

"Nagus private bank account number 2893, 2333, 2327, 2363, 2355, 1701." Picard rattled off the series of numbers.

Ro knew that the numbers were stardates and ship registry numbers. Later on, she would learn that the numbers included the registries for the Stargazer and the Enterprise, their commission dates as well as the year that he'd graduated from the Academy.

"What is your command - Johnny?" The DaiMon's voice was as smooth as Rigelian silk.

"I want all the funds in that account transferred into latinum. I want it tonight."

The DaiMon's attendant rapidly fluttered his fingers over his padd. He then showed the results to the DaiMon. The Ferengi considered the figures and then said, "Fifteen percent for a handling fee."

Picard roared with laughter. "You amuse me, DaiMon. One percent."

"Impossible!"

"I know a Ferengi named Quark. I have dealt with him before. He owes my kin latinum." Picard knew that he was stretching the truth a bit when it came to the credits that Quark owed Will Riker, but he didn't think that Will would mind. "Quark will be glad to accommodate me for that percentage."

Behlk knew that Quark did have ties to the Federation. He was the only Ferengi who actually had an establishment on a Federation controlled starbase. Though this Picard could be lying, the thought of the potential future profit was too great a temptation to resist. Behlk intuited the 9th rule of Acquisition - Opportunity plus instinct equals profit - and knew that his instincts were telling him something.

"Agreed. One percent."

Picard nodded, pulling out his own padd to compose the contract.

The DaiMon snorted. "Johnny."

"Yes, Behlk?"

"You will have your credits at sunrise."

"I want them tonight."

"Certain properties - they must be liquidated before you get your money. This takes time."

"Tonight."

The DaiMon shook his head. "Then, I will have to loan you the difference from my own monies at fifteen percent plus the one percent."

Before Johnny could further his arguments, Ro intervened, leaning forward, playing with her tassel to the fastener that was very low on the front of her jumpsuit. "A night of gaming and revelry, Johnny?" The tone of her voice was innocent. The look in her eyes was not.

Another few hours more with Ro Laren, uninterrupted, unobserved, didn't sound like such a hardship to Jean-Luc. Besides, he was coming to realize that he was partial to Ro Laren wearing this particular shade of red.

The attendant who had been quiet until now spoke up, suggesting, "DaiMon. Perhaps Captain Picard and Ro Laren could be our guests here at the casino?"

DaiMon concurred. Ro slightly nodded. Jean-Luc assented. The deal was made. Picard was satisfied with the agreement. The DaiMon would not see a credit of profit until Picard signed the proper forms in the morning. Until then, he felt reasonably safe in the company of these Ferengi, at least until daybreak. Getting the latinum safely off the planet would be another matter entirely.

Then Picard glanced at the padd with the preliminary contract that Behlk had given him. He did not reveal his shock at the amount that Behlk had listed. He shoved the padd over to Ro. "Daimon Behlk." Picard's voice was polite.

Behlk picked up a beetle off of a dish and crunched it before he glanced at Picard. He hated it when human clients were polite. Humans normally were not naturally polite to Ferengi. Instincts told him that his deal was in danger. "Yes, Captain?"

"I have changed my mind."

"You can't do that!" Behlk quickly protested. "We made a deal." His attendant made a slow move toward his weapon.

Picard spoke quickly. "I agree. It is just that I would like only a portion of the credits in latinum."

Ro suddenly spoke up. "DaiMon Behlk, I hear that you have a rather interesting assortment of space ships in your collection. Captain Picard wants something fast - capable of doing at least Warp Nine, with weaponry appropriate for an ex-Starfleet captain. He has many enemies. He needs a very fast ship."

"What you wish will cost much."

"Johnny can afford it," Ro casually remarked. "Right, Johnny?"

Picard nodded, acting rather bored with the proceedings.

"Oh, and throw in a working cloaking device. I've always wanted to own one," Ro added.

"Such devices are illegal, Ro Laren," the DaiMon protested.

"I don't see any Federation constabulary around here, do you, Ro?" Picard hid his approval of her outlandish behavior behind a disaffected manner.

"DaiMon, you stand to make a great deal more profit by selling us one of your used spaceships than you do by just serving as a courier for the latinum bars. Which do you prefer?" Ro wrangled.

The DaiMon scratched an ear lobe. "I might know of an available ship. I will tell you in the morning," the DaiMon commented, pretending to have to consider his choices. He looked down at the still-unconscious Qo. "I think I have the very ship." With that, the Ferengi left the room. His attendant dragged Qo behind him.

Picard stifled a laugh.

"Why do I have the feeling that Qo might have just lost his interstellar transportation?" Ro innocently asked.

"Laren…"

Ro laughed for him, pleased with the way the deals had turned out.

"Why pay for transportation when you can afford to buy your own, Captain?" she teased. "But somehow, I never thought of you as a recipient of capitalist ventures."

This time Picard did laugh out loud in amusement. "I believe that I must one day thank Mr. Data for the substantial totals of my Ferengi bank accounts. At the time I received the settlements, I gave him orders to invest the money as he saw fit. Apparently, Mr. Data had more of a Ferengi capitalistic programming in his psyche than I had expected." Picard stood, stretching muscles that had become tense during the negotiations.

"And a flare for doing business," Ro added. "I'm sure that when you ordered Data to handle your credits, he just consulted every word ever written about the subject. And then he followed the few Ferengi Rules of Acquisition that do not violate Asimov's Laws of Robotics or Starfleet's Code of Ethics."

Picard nodded. "You're right, of course." He leaned his weight on his hands against the table, staring at Ro, naturally conveying his most severe captain's expression. "Now, tell me, Ro. Why do you want a cloaking device on my ship?"

"Surely we can share it?"

"And with whom did you intend to share it?"

"I don't suppose you'd believe that I have a deep, unquenchable scientific curiosity about cloaking devices?"

"Only Data could make that statement and expect me to believe him, Ro." Picard amended himself. "… And possibly Commander LaForge."

"Well then, Jean-Luc. What are you going to do with a cloaking device?"

"I believe that I can do anything with it that I damn well please, Laren. I will own it. And if it can help us get back to the Adama without being attacked by pirates who might think that I am transporting a large treasure, I will use it."

"And afterwards?"

He looked at her, knowing that his answer would reveal a great deal about his true intentions. "I would prefer not to answer that question, Ro Laren."

She nodded, accepting his words at face value. He was trying to be honest with her. His words only confirmed a deep-rooted suspicion that even though he was not currently a member of Starfleet, in his heart he was still an officer.

"Laren?" His voice was mild, controlled.

"Yes, Jean-Luc?"

"After I reach Gaudete II, I will have no need for a cloaking device in Federation space."

She didn't know what to say to him as his offer either shot her theories all to hell - or proved them beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Yes, Laren?"

"When was the last time you had any fun?" She challenged him.

"Oddly enough, someone mentioned fun to me not that long ago. That being did have a point." He walked over to her and offered her his arm. "Shall we go play, Laren?"

"Why Captain, you know the rules of gambling? Or do you only play poker with the admirals?"

"You've never seen me play poker, Laren. The only time I did play on board the Enterprise D, I cleaned Will Riker out."

"Sorry I missed that. He was always such an arrogant poker player. Ah well, maybe one day I'll get the chance to take him down a peg or two - again." She grinned. "We'll start with the poker tables, Captain Picard, and I'll see if you're capable of bluffing this Bajoran." She gaily added, as they left the conference room, "Come to think of it, I believe I have observed your poker playing skills several times in the past."

"Laren, do you have any credits? I can access my secondary account if you wish."

"Well, I do have a little money. And if I lose that, we can always graduate to strip poker."

He smiled at her audaciousness. He was becoming accustomed to it. "Considering everything, you know you displayed remarkable restraint on board the Enterprise. There were actually a few minutes during each daily watch, when I didn't consider accusing you of insubordination."

"Quite noble of you, Captain."

He smiled. "We'll only play strip poker if it is just between the two of us in our suite, Laren," he cautioned. "I've played a few games of strip dabo with Nausicaans in my misspent youth. That's a mistake that I won't repeat tonight."

Laren shuddered at the thought. "I always knew you were a wise man, Jean…nee." She corrected herself as they neared the main door to the gambling area, just in case anyone might be eavesdropping.

She didn't realize that her precautions were unnecessary. Qo, when he regained consciousness would sell the news of Jean-Luc Picard's presence on Thelka to the first information broker. By the dawn of the next day, he would be bartering it for drinks.

It would be a night that the Thelkans would talk about in the years to come. Even if there hadn't been multiple rumors about the stranger's identity, his astonishing luck coupled with his well-honed card playing skills was the stuff of high-flown tale-making.

Ro didn't mind tagging along, for though her winnings wouldn't match Jean-Luc's latinum purse, she was having one of the grandest nights of her life as well. Most of the time, she simply clung to the arm of a gambler who saw no reason why he shouldn't embrace Lady Luck with every risk he took. Riker would not have recognized his captain.

In the future, when Ro Laren would describe this night, she would often use the word reckless to describe Jean-Luc's behavior. She would consider his actions to be most unusual for a man she had heretofore thought was the most reserved, stiff-necked officer in Starfleet. What Ro didn't realize was that there had once been a time, many years ago, when his oldest of surviving friends would have called Johnny's reckless behavior typical.

He'd acquired some wisdom since those days. But tonight was a night for ignoring certain restricting rules. It had been a long time since Jean-Luc had cut loose with a beautiful woman in his arms, and surrendered to his own conceits.

After winning at poker, gul cul, dabo, and even fizz bin - which he had to teach the dealers for apparently these card sharks had never encountered Starfleet captains before - Jean-Luc decided to make the biggest gamble of all - to see if he could keep a Ferengi DaiMon honest.

And when they had won more than was prudent, Picard and Ro went outdoors to see a sky colored deep emerald green with blood red rays heralding the imminent coming of the dawn. They strolled a while, away from the noise, smoke and lights, ignoring the blatant temptations that the establishments offered, to discover a peaceful section of Ootzey that was not polluted by its well-advertised sins. Only a few kilometers from the more traveled parts of town, they found a hill where they could watch the sun come up, sitting on a wobbly park bench.

The landscape was brown and sparse with little standing vegetation. Dark green to black uncut grass stood by jutting rocks near the trickling waters of a weakly flowing stream. It wasn't paradise, but it was an area of respite.

"It's been a long time since I've seen a planet sunrise, Laren." Picard's observation was casual. Neutral in its tone.

"It's not the same when you're living on board ship, and you watch it from a duty station."

"True. Sometimes, you see so many sunrises during a shift, it becomes…"

"Commonplace?" Ro suggested.

"Ignored." He considered his own feelings at this particular dawn. "I always promised myself that I would never become so occupied with being a captain that I would neglect the things of life that touch our souls. I would find time for sunrises. And yet I did forget. Too often."

She saw something in the coming dawn that disturbed her. "There are some sunrises I can never forget." She remembered other dawns. Her voice became very soft as she said, "It was different in the camps.

He became quite still when he heard the emotions behind her words.

"My Father…" Her voice cracked. "Before he died, my father used to say that every sunrise was the Prophet's promise of a new day - someday."

"What happened to you, to Bajor - all that pain…" He stood moving abruptly away.

"What did happen to you, Jean-Luc?" she whispered. "I only heard rumors about Cardassian prisoners when I was in San Francisco. Nothing official."

He turned and looked at her, the agony of having seen too much was reflected in his eyes.

"I learned I could forgive the Borg. They were only being what they were assimilated into being. They could not change their programming."

"Until the Borg met you and LaForge."

"I never considered myself to be a maker of kings, Ro. Neither did I ever think that I would become the catalyst for a race's evolution. Yet, both happened."

"So, what did the Cardassians do?"

He sensed the bravery behind her words. It took a lot of courage to ask him. He knew that at times, she forgot what he now was and was at times still threatened by what he had once been.

"Senseless crimes and base instincts I can almost understand. But when there is a civilized intelligence behind evil acts, then is the crime beyond my comprehension. The Cardassians taught me how to hate, Ro Laren."

"What? Her voice was quiet as she shared his suffering. She was beginning to learn the names of the demons that haunted his dreams. They were similar to her own…

"There was a Gul named Madred. Educated, cultured, intelligent, in possession of enough social graces to even introduce me to his young daughter when I was his prisoner. We were much alike in some respects. Another place…"

"You get used to cruel irony when you're a Bajoran, Jean-Luc."

He didn't hear her words. Instead, the suppressed anger in his soul spoke of what had happened. He had only exposed some of his feelings to Deanna Troi.

"Gul Madred tortured me. And when he was done crushing out of me all that I knew that I was, he toyed with me - simply for the pleasure of doing it."

Ro Laren searched her chaotic thoughts, as she tried to find the right words to say. "After being a guest of the Cardassians, it's hard to return to a normal life, Jean-Luc." She moved next to him, cautiously resting her hand on his shoulder, as a sign of sympathetic understanding. "There is no shame in surviving."

"I never said I was ashamed."

"But you have a lot of anger - and fear that it will happen again."

Almost to himself, he muttered, "But it did happen again…"

Somewhere off in the distance, he heard the sound of a space ship taking off. For a moment it distracted him. But, she was still waiting for him to speak. He added the word tenacious to his ever-growing list of Ro's personality traits.

"Before the Borg, I naively thought that I was master of my universe, Laren." He took her right hand and carried it up to his lips, pressing a kiss against her palm. Then he brought it to rest against his chest.

"No one really is, Jean-Luc. At least I found that out when I was young." She cynically reflected upon her past. "I learned something when I left the Enterprise - Captain."

"What, Lieutenant?"

"That I could not live without my sense of honor. I had to find it again. Otherwise, I would merely be existing."

"I tried to tell Gul Madred that after I met Jill Orra, his daughter. She was a little girl. Lovely. I believe I suffered more with the thought of her growing up hating as her father than I did with my own pain." His voice changed. He sounded almost resentful. "I'm angry, Ro. At Madred. At myself." He took a breath then said, "At you."

He moved back needing to be away from Ro both mentally and physically. Ro was getting to close to him.

"Anger. Fear. They are two sides to the same coin, Johnny."

"You are not Counselor Troi. You shouldn't even try to be." His judgment was harsh and unwarranted.

She ignored his foul mood. "True. But I've lived through some of what you have, Johnny. I've seen too much, too. And I do know how overwhelming the fear is that hides beneath the anger and the pain. And you of all people don't like living with that fear. Doesn't fit your image."

"Oh?" He didn't disguise his sarcasm, now. "Being devastated when you betrayed me doesn't fit my image either, Ro Laren. I think that even Commander Riker thought my response was unreasonable and completely out of character for the great Captain Picard."

She had a feeling that he was not accustomed to speaking like this. She didn't know if she was the catalyst for the best or the worst in him.

"And that is the real reason why you didn't contradict Riker's report to Starfleet. You knew that you were off-balance. And you're too honorable a man to condemn someone." She wryly added, "At least publicly to condemn someone when you suspect your own motives."

He detested the memories she was stirring; the truths she was discovering. Such knowledge did not fit into his personal sense of image. But it would have been against his nature not to acknowledge that her perspicacious assumptions had some accuracy.

"What I felt was based on the thought that you were the one who was doing what was right, Ro Laren." He looked up at the stars, wanting them to share some of the blame. "It didn't matter, all of those peace treaties and civilized negotiations between the Cardassians and the Federation. I was angry because I knew that you were the one with the rightness of it. My reason however, was obligated to follow all of the Federation's rules, decisions and orders." He turned to face her, holding her by the shoulders, confessing, "My superiors told me that we have a peace treaty with the Cardassians. But my mind knows them as my enemy." He sounded almost tormented as he added, "I don't know if my instincts are correct - or if it is because of what I still harbor in my soul toward Gul Madred."

She suddenly began to understand. "It's not what Gul Madred or even the Borg did to you that disturbs you so much." She whispered more to herself than to him, '"It's the fact that you're doubting yourself. And that because of this self doubt, everything has happened since, you think is your fault."

"How can I be a captain if I can no longer trust my own judgment?"

"By the prophets… you trusted me and then I betrayed you. It wasn't that I broke my oath to Starfleet that made you so angry. It's because what I did made you question everything that you are… All your decisions…" Horror filled her soul as she realized the extent of the repercussions to her crime. "I broke you - broke your confidence."

There was nothing more to be said. She turned away from him, stumbling over to some small quartz boulders, an outcropping by the water's bank. She leaned against the cold stone, suddenly feeling the early morning's coldness stabbing into her heart. Her voice was ragged as she whispered, "Even what happened to the Enterprise…" She lifted her head purblindly staring away from the light. "I'm surprised that you didn't want me dead."

Minutes passed before he responded to her words. "Not dead. Though thoughts of you held captive in my brig occupied my nights."

She turned her head swiftly, to stare at him, knowing that he was speaking of all the truths between them now.

He took a deep breath and admitted, "I blamed you for every doubt. And that if I hadn't had those doubts, the Enterprise would not have crashed."

The sun was breaching the horizon now. Each pale ray gaining strength as the time passed. But it brought no warmth to them.

"I wasn't on board when she crashed. But I should have been. Instead, I was following my instincts…" His voice was bitter. "My untrustworthy instincts…"

He straightened up as if he mentally shook himself. "I must do something.

She thought she knew what he meant. "I won't help you destroy the Maquis."

He froze at her words. Then shook his head. "Agreed. Another wrong would not solve anything, Ro Laren."

She turned around to rest against the rocks, needing their support. "But, you are right. You must do something. If I ever get any proof that the Obsidian Order and not the so-called Cardie Renegades, are the ones attacking the border planets, I will give it to you, Jean-Luc."

"No. Give the information to someone in Starfleet, Ro."

She thought about those she still knew in Starfleet and softly whispered, "There's someone at DS9. I don't know who. But once in a while, the Maquis get word of a questionable cargo or suspicious passengers."

"Miles and Keiko O'Brien are there," Picard thoughtfully stated. He'd used Chief O'Brien in the past as a courier.

"I know. Keiko's joined an expedition on Bajor. Every once in a while I get a sub-space message from her."

"O'Brien used to write to me and to some of my officers on board the Enterprise. He seemed to feel that I should know more about the Bajoran situation."

"Miles fought in the wars."

"We all did, Ro."

"But the real battle didn't start until after the politicians said that the war was over."

"History does repeat itself," he cynically added, deciding that he he'd had enough of this conversation. He did not care for public introspection, and especially introspection with a female whose relationship to him was tenuous at best. He glanced over at her. He had always believed that Ro Laren's Bajoran Bitch image had been an act of self-defense. But this mask had also disguised a bright mind that understood far more than she ever revealed. This unexpected time with her had shown him a Ro Laren he had never suspected exited, though he had a suspicion that Guinan had known.

"Now what?" She whispered it more as a question to herself than to him. She had sensed a stiffening to his stance, thinking that he thought that he'd confessed too much to her.

He didn't say anything to her for a long while. He sought to regain some control over his thoughts and emotions. Blaming others for his troubles was one character flaw he usually avoided.

"LaBarre."

The way he said it - she was startled by the abrupt change in his mood. He almost sounded as if he had reached some sort of decision.

She tried to bluff - to hide her fears. "What's that? The only gambling hell we missed on main street?"

"It's a village in France. My family comes from there." The way he spoke revealed nothing to her.

"Hard to imagine you as just a village boy," she weakly jested.

"I never was. I always had my sights set on the stars.

She waited. There had to be a reason as to why he'd mentioned his home.

He turned his head to study her, noting the flickering of lights from some sort of insect bioluminescent source swarming near her by the water. He recognized that in his mind he was still waging war with himself over her. Something glinted at the corner of her eye. He suspected that they were unshed tears.

"Laren, come back with me."

"What did you say?" She didn't disguise her disbelief over his words. She must have misheard him.

"My brother Robert. He died recently in a fire along with his son. I've been thinking about returning, to help his wife with the family winery. You could come back to Earth with me. As I said a while ago, you aren't a likely candidate for reinstatement in Starfleet, but I think that I still have enough influence that if you wanted to go back to Earth, you could."

"You really think that I won't be arrested?"

"Oh, you'll be arrested, but I'll see to it that you won't be sent back to prison."

"You are asking me to go back to Earth with you?" He had borne burdens even greater than she had previously suspected. Perhaps this had addled his common sense. "What would I do there?"

Still, he said nothing.

She forged on. "I - I'm sorry about your family. Were they your only family?"

"My sister-in-law Marie is the only living family that I have left. She is a rare woman."

"She'd probably hate me. I don't get along too well with most women, especially if it's someone you'd call rare."

"Ro, you don't get along too well with most anyone," he observed, somehow finding the spirit to actually tease her again.

"Even you?"

"Yes."

"I'd noticed."

"My father always wanted me to be a vintner when I was growing up. Now, I am actually considering fulfilling his wishes."

"You're not exactly a farmer type, Jean-Luc."

"I actually liked working with the vines when I was young. It was just never my life's ambition, then. Now, it sounds like the perfect respite for me. For a while, at least."

'And why would you want me there?"

"For your botanical knowledge, of course."

"You think I know anything about growing grapes?"

"I know that after you were reassigned from the Enterprise, you were seriously involved with several gardening projects and botanical experiments back on Earth."

"You spied on me when I was at the Academy?"

"Yes." He wondered if he was about to see the return of her near-legendary temper over this admission.

Instead, she laughed. "You kept track of my vegetable garden! Those reports must have been riveting. How many types of tomatoes did I grow?"

"I don't know, but I can always ask Mr. Data, if you really wish that information.?"

"You discussed me with the crew?" Suddenly, there was an icy edge to her voice.

"Only the senior officers. Riker was my personnel officer. I had to ask him if he wanted you back."

"You're lucky that I'm remembering that I was in a good mood from having won so much money tonight. Good thing you have your uses on occasion, Jean-Luc. Otherwise, I'd have let Ragner flame your ass."

"Thank you for your compliment."

She wasn't going to be diverted. "You interfered with my life."

"Yes. I'm sorry that I did. But at the time, I thought I was doing what was best for you."

"And look how that turned out." The noises she made was somewhat derisive, and quite rude sounding. "One of these days you're going to have to get over your compulsion to mess with other people's lives, Jean-Luc."

"I'm trying, Laren."

"Yeah, I've noticed. That's why you promised to go back for Mela. Otherwise, you'd be outta here, right?"

He signed wearily confessing, "All I wanted was to do some work on Gaudete II. And have pleasant archaeological discourses with a Vulcan named Storal whose writings I respected. Perhaps I just even wanted to dig around a bit. Nothing complicated. I sought a simple life for a change."

"Instead you got the Ferengi, Vorlos, a very pregnant Maquis and me. You're just one lucky man, Jean-Luc Picard ."

"I used to think that I was." He leaned closer to her. "I have a suspicion as to where I went wrong." And then he kissed her. For the first time, it felt comfortable between them. The passion would return later. Right now, it was the companionship he was finding surprisingly agreeable.

Some sort of ship roared overhead disrupting their embrace. "I suppose that DaiMon Behlk is returning? Or is he departing with my latinum?" Picard suggested.

"Ragner has dealt with Behlk before. He won't cross the Vorlo's agents after all this time. Behlk knows all about Ragner's nasty temper and his thirst for getting even."

"Ro, why did Ragner send you - send us - here? Why didn't he come himself?"

"The Thelkans. They don't like Ragner. There are quite a few planets that do not like our Captain Ragner."

"Oh?"

"The Thelkans would like to vaporize him if he ever gives the Thelkans the opportunity. And the Thelkans wouldn't mind confiscating his ship as well. I think they've been disputing who the legal owner is of the Adama for years. If the rumors I've heard are correct, Ragner borrowed the Adama and never returned it."

"Yet, they still are willing to deal with Ragner's agents?"

"The Thelkans may not be as profit oriented as the Ferengi, but they still send their kids to the Ferengi schools of economics."

Picard shook his head in disbelief. 'I do not understand the rationale behind the profit motive."

"Considering that you won enough latinum tonight to pay for your new spaceship, that's an odd statement for you to make."

"Some of the tables were fixed."

"I'm surprised that you noticed."

"Ro," he suddenly turned quite pompous. "I would not have considered myself to be an officer and a gentleman if I had not learned in my youth how to tamper with dabo tables and deal from the bottom of the deck."

"You - proud of cheating?"

"I learned how not to be cheated. Besides, I've always been fascinated with the workings of the criminal mind." He smiled, remembering, "My father may not have wanted me to be in Starfleet, but he also didn't want me to fall victim to all of the temptations that a cadet faces. He saw to it that I gained some practical knowledge. Of course, he'd never considered the possibility of playing poker with a telepath. But that is another story." He looked in the direction of the gambling district. "What I don't understand is why they were letting me win at dabo."

"I've an idea why, but I don't think that you will want to hear it."

"When has my displeasure ever stopped you before, Ro?"

"Somehow, I think that the Thelkans found out who you really are, Jean-Luc Picard."

"And?"

"And the prospect of having you as a repeat customer must have appealed to some of them. DaiMon Behlk liked the possibility himself."

"I find I have one regret, Laren."

"What?"

"That I won't be there to see Admiral Nechayev's expression when she gets the report on my luck at the dabo tables."

Not that their prior conversations hadn't been serious, but his words concerned her. "Starfleet has…" She didn't want to use the word spy to describe Starfleet's activities.

He knew why she hesitated. "I believe some reports make reference to intelligence gathering operations."

"So, there are spies in the DMZ."

"Did you really think that there wouldn't be? Perhaps some are just like Keiko sending a friend a letter that sometimes contains information."

"I never said that Keiko did that."

"Keiko is a civilian. I doubt if she'd consider gossiping to a friend to be a morally wrong action." He kissed Ro briefly and then turned to face the bright lights in the distance. "Besides, Ro, you're forgetting. I'm no longer a Starfleet officer."

"Tell me the truth, Jean-Luc."

He paused, considering her words before he took her hand, tugging her slowly in the direction of the lights. "The meaning of truth is a question you really should be asking Data, Laren."

"I never realized that you had this side to your personality, Jean-Luc."

"And that is?" he warily asked. He was learning just how obstinate she could be.

"Evasive." She didn't call him a coward but he suspected that was what she really meant to say.

"You still think I'm a Federation spy?"

"No."

"Then what, Ro?"

She stopped moving, squarely facing him, her hands on his hips, bravely defiant. "Did you quit Starfleet? Or did Starfleet kick you out?"

"Why does it matter?"

She knew that if she yelled at him, it would greatly relieve her frustrations, since he didn't seem inclined to offer the better tension releaser of his lovemaking during what was left of their night of revelry. However, one didn't have to be an officer under Jean-Luc's command to know that hollering at him was not a good idea. She considered his words. "Starfleet kicked you out."

"Sort of."

"And you let them?"

"At the time, Ro, I didn't feel inclined to argue with them."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You didn't fight for your ship."

"What ship? I was a captain without a ship, Ro. And I was not about to be offered another one by the Admiralty."

"I don't believe that you'd just give up."

"Ro, there is more to my life than being a starship captain. Stop trying to annoy me. One day, I may decide to return and seek another command. But, not now. I have other things to do. I did not just give up."

"You just merely resigned yourself to your fate."

"I chose not to fight at that time. If there is one thing that I have learned it is when to pick ones' fight or when to retreat."

"Good. Well, if you're not busy then there is no reason why you can't join the Maquis."

"I will not join the Maquis."

"Not ever, Jean-Luc?"

"I care not to speak in absolutes."

"Good." And then she was grinning broadly, wickedly.

"What?" He was wary now. He was understanding how her mind worked.

"You'd make one hell of an impartial negotiator."

One more time she had said what he wasn't expecting. "Meaning?"

"Starfleet would trust you. The Maquis would accept you conditionally. The Bajorans consider you to be an honorable man. Hell, even some of the Cardassians would respect your word. I can't think of anyone in the galaxy who has a better chance of negotiating a solution to the problems with the DMZ than you, Captain Jean-Luc Picard."

He had to force himself not to say the automatic words of denial that came to him. Aside from his surprise at her words, he was also somewhat flattered by her confidence in him. Though the odds were slight that what she was envisioning would ever happen. The mere idea that she even thought of him in this light touched him.

She had given him something to think about.

"Laren, until that miracle happens, what shall we do?"

She could think of several possible jobs. But there was one task she'd had on her mind for a while. Turning, she put both her arms about his waist, hugging him tightly; her hands were massaging his buttocks. Then she kissed him.

After a while, Picard broke the passionate embrace because although he'd instigated al fresco lovemaking on occasion in his past, this unremarkable park was not the proper place for their passion.

"I have never really properly thanked you for saving my life, have I? I've only said a few words, and done nothing to express my gratitude."

"Once we settle on buying a ship, you could properly thank me," she suggested.

"Mon Dieu, you're trouble and insatiable…"

He kissed her again. The passion of this kiss implied something beyond the physical to Ro. And she couldn't help but like it.

Then she thought of something. She raised her head. Deviltry was shining behind her look. She felt that he was about as hot and bothered by their kissing as she was.

"Jean-Luc, how are you going to express your gratitude if you're on board your ship, and I'm stuck on the Starbuck?"

A.N. The story continues with THE BEST LAID PLANS, PART 5, found on fan fic under the "M" category.