I Am For You

by Laura Schiller

After her husband's death, Kamala, now no one's 'Perfect Mate', carves out a life for herself on Earth. But when Captain Picard comes back, will her newfound independence cause her to give up a second chance at love?

I Am For You

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Star Trek: The Next Generation

Copyright: Paramount/Viacom

Sonnet 132

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard sighed to himself as he placed his tattered copy of Shakespeare's sonnets back on the shelf. Reading them had been a bad idea, he thought ruefully; they brought back far too many memories. He could almost see her, his 'dark lady' – sitting with her hands clasped and her gray gown pooling around her like seawater, watching him intently out of wide black eyes.

"You never know when the conversation will turn to archeology...or to the dark lady with the mournful eyes in Shakespeare's sonnets."

Since then, he couldn't read Sonnet 132 without thinking of her.

Her name was Kamala. She was an empathic metamorph from the planet Krios Prime, a genetic rarity: a young woman with the ability to adapt herself to the desires of every man who came near her, like a chameleon reflecting its background. She had been on the verge of entering her final stage of sexual maturity, in which she would choose one man to imprint on, becoming his perfect mate for the rest of her life.

She had been brought aboard the Enterprise in stasis to be transported as a peace offering from Krios to Valt Minor, a former enemy planet, only to be prematurely awakened by a pair of greedy Ferengi. To prevent her from distracting the crew with her charms, Ambassador Briam, her caretaker, had confined her to her quarters. Captain Picard had taken it upon himself to keep her company...and fallen in love.

The memory of how she had been treated still made him angry. Always referred to as 'the metamorph' (as if she didn't have a name!) carted about in her stasis cocoon, locked in her quarters, born and bred to be nothing more than Chancellor Alric's mate. It was simply wrong. Why had Picard himself been the first person to ever ask her who she was when she was alone?

She had loved him for that, he knew. He remembered her in her spangled white wedding gown, her brown curls caught up on top of her head, looking both proud and wistful as she admitted to having bonded with him, rather than her intended husband.

"I wish I could convey to you what it's like to be a metamorph, to feel the inner strength of someone... to realize that being with him is opening your mind and heart to endless new possibilities. To hear yourself say: "I like myself when I'm with him.""

It was not the facts of the poem that stirred his memory. Kamala was as unlike the selfish, lying, bitterly resented 'mistress' in the poems as could be; nor had she 'disdained' Jean-Luc exactly. He had given her away himself, walked her down the holographic temple steps hand in hand... watched the Chancellor coolly push back the veil, like a child opening a gift, and claim his property with a ceremonial kiss.

He remembered her velvety dark eyes, 'loving mourners' never quite reached by that sad little smile of hers.

"Would you ask me to stay, and ask two armies to keep fighting? Having bonded with you, I've learned the meaning of duty. He'll never know. I'm still empathic, I will be able to please him... I only hope he likes Shakespeare."

Somehow he couldn't see the stiff, cold, pragmatic Chancellor Alric reading poetry.

How was she doing? Was she successful in making Alric happy? Did he make her happy at all? Did she have other friends, other interests, to console her? In moments like this, he had an irrational urge to order a course change to Valt. But after all, he knew he'd never do that. It had been five years, after all.

=/\=

---Excerpts from Kamala's personal log---

Star date: 48923.7

Government Palace, Valt Minor

The funeral is over, thank heavens. It's a relief to be alone again, just to curl up in this armchair in my private bedroom and think, and write. To think that I used to be so frightened of being alone...like a mirror with nothing to reflect. But I've had to accept so many kisses, handshakes, platitudes and truisms that being an empty mirror doesn't feel so bad in comparison.

I know what they're thinking...She won't outlive him for long. Not unless someone else gets her. The Ferengi Ambassador actually kissed my hand, the slimy little brute. And Senator Godric's wife clung to his arm as if she were afraid I would eat him.

And the way people tiptoed around me, as if expecting me to burst into tears. I suppose it's only proper for a woman who has lost her husband, let alone a metamorph who has (supposedly) lost her bondmate. I could not cry – I could barely speak – but I think I carried off the impression of a grief-stricken widow quite well.

I really am grieving – frightened – lonely. Just not for the reasons they think. Alric is...was...my reason for existence. The center of my universe. Since I was a little girl, my teachers have shown me holographs of him, taught me to play the entire Valtese orchestra because he likes music, shown me how to hone my metamorph senses in order to perfectly shape myself to his desires. If somebody had asked me who I am, I would have no other answer than "I am for Alric of Valt".

For five years I was his wife; I played and sang for him, wore his jewels, glittered on his arm at state functions, charmed his guests, listened to his troubles and shared his bed. And he cared for me...possibly I was the only living being he did care for. Now he's gone, I feel so horribly, sickeningly guilty for the lie I have lived these five years. He died thinking I belonged to him...that I loved him. And I never did.

If only I had tried harder, could I have been happy with him?

And what, in this endless, foreign universe, do I have left to live for now he's dead?

Star date: 48923.9

I've been thinking about what to do all day, and I think I have the answer. I want to leave – to go somewhere Krios and Valt are only names, where nobody knows what a metamorph is or that I used to have a husband. And I want a career...I want to do something with my life besides looking after a man. Surely an empath who plays about dozen different instruments can find work somewhere.

My first idea was to find the Enterprise, of course, wherever it may be. But it's been five years and I don't believe Captain Picard would welcome me...and even if he did, what would I do on his ship except spend time and resources? He already has an empath working for him. Besides, I know how he is...devoted to his ship and his duty above all else. There is simply no place for me in his life.

Earth date: September 1, 2372

Paris, Earth

Well, I'm all settled into my new apartment. I joined the local orchestra – I play the cello. It's really not so different from a Valtese instrument I know. There are some interesting characters there, including a Vulcan harpist who freezes me with suppressed disapproval whenever I make a tiny mistake, a Betazoid violinist who wafts about in floaty black gowns and plays more than she talks, and the Maestro, who is human but has a temper fit for a Klingon.

My roommate is an Orion girl named Olana. She reminds me a little of my Finis'ral stage – her pheromone levels are off the charts. She even propositioned me, but when I said no, she didn't seem offended – only baffled by the 'prudishness' of the other humanoid species around her.

Unlike metamorphs in the Finis'ral, however, she is always the same woman no matter whom she's with. But then again, also unlike me, she would never choose a single man to bond with for life. When I suggested it to her, she threw back her head and laughed until her light green face looked like a leaf after the rain. "One man?" she exclaimed. "Honey, how would you feel if you had to eat vanilla ice cream every day, and no other flavors?"

Before coming on the Enterprise, I might have said the same thing. Only...vanilla every day does sound appealing when you know you can never have it again.

Olana loves everyone...or no one, according to your point of view. I can't decide if I envy her or not.

September 25, 2373

Café des Artistes

I love this city. I love the profusion of electric lights at night, like a reflection of the stars...I love how waiters, shuttle pilots etc. will chat with you like old friends...I love the beautiful, venerable buildings and gardens which have been there for hundreds of years. The former royal palace of France, the Louvre, is like a city in itself – I have visited it twenty-four times with my free student pass and still I find something new to discover every time. I understand why it is regarded as one of the great cultural treasures of Earth.

I even love the crazy hoverboard drivers swooping through the airways and causing the shuttles to scatter like pigeons on the Place de l'Etoile.

Alric used to complain that we Kriosians are such a 'sentimental people'; so are humans, I think, or at least the humans here. Paris is known as the City of Lovers, and anyone walking in the Jardin du Luxembourg in summer will quickly find out why. You can't throw a stone without hitting a pair of lovers. In the restaurants, the waiters offer replicated red roses for sale; the women dress like fashion plates and the men aren't shy about looking at them. It's a little embarrassing, but one gets used to it – and really, now that I've cut my hair and taken to wearing loose shirts and pants, I look like any average humanoid female.

I'm not seeing anyone, though; it's rather satisfying to feel a man's lust reach out to grab me like hot, clammy hands and then back away – politely, but firmly. After five years of Alric, and the Finis'ral before that, it's such a relief to just say no.

All the same, all these smug, beaming couples holding hands, linking arms and making out on the park benches are really starting to annoy me.

December 25, 2373

I'm starting to think of Paris as 'home'...which it is, in a way, more than Krios or Valt. The compound where I was brought up, and then Alric's Government House, were gracious and elegant, all white stone and soft tapestries; it was all so huge and grand that it made me feel small. This place is tiny, but all mine – and Olana's. My watercolor landscapes clash amiably with her gorgeous pin-up girls and boys on the walls. My books and holovids get jumbled together in a way that would harrow up Alric's meticulous soul. The replicator has a menu that spans half the sector, from Krios to Orion, and it even puts the lemon slice in the Earl Grey just how it's supposed to be. Olana and I share a big pot of it every so often while she tells me all about her wild love affairs, and I pretend to be shocked just to make her laugh.

Drinking Earl Grey tea for the first time in five years (and the second time in my life) gave me the strangest half-glad, half-painful feeling...but I'm used to it now, and all it makes me think of is relaxation, gossip and laughter.

Today we had a party down in the common room- a human holiday called 'Christmas' after a local deity called Jesus Christ. Even non-humans celebrate it here, possibly because it's the custom to exchange gifts. My dear, thoughtful roommate gave me a Risan horghan statuette – she feels I 'need some action' in my life. I gave her a deluxe edition holodeck program based on a 22nd-century classic novel called Let Me Help, by an Orion writer named Queyras – the story of a former prostitute named Gaila who escapes to Earth and dedicates her life smuggling her fellow victims out of the Orion system.

The title comes from the heroine's conviction that 'let me help' is the most meaningful thing you can possibly say to somebody...more even than 'I love you'. Olana says that's because Orions don't have the same concept of love as a monogamous species like mine...but I think that basically, they mean the same thing.

I read the novel and it haunted me for weeks, as so many good stories do. This may be the first time in my life I've ever picked up a new interest by myself. As a child, it was always my tutors who decided how I spent my time. I can't remember what I did with my mother; I was four when they sent me to the palace to be educated. As an adolescent, I liked whatever the men around me liked – be it Klingon opera or the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition. Then, when I bonded, I took on an interest in archeology and the works of Shakespeare. I never heard of Queyras...until now.

I can just hear Ambassador Briam: "It is not appropriate for a metamorph to seek only her own pleasure. Your goal should be to serve the happiness of your mate."

But I don't have a mate, and I'm going to play this holodeck program with Olana for no reason other than that I like it. If only my tutors could see me now – they'd be scandalized.

June 21, 2374

Oh my God and Goddess, help me. The Captain is here. Where do I begin?

I don't mean here in my apartment, but here in Paris, which is unnerving enough. I know because I saw him – actually, I felt him first. For the first time in five years, I was deeply thankful to be a metamorph, because by the time he came close enough to talk, I was at least forewarned and reasonably composed.

It was at a concert today in the Salle Pleyel. The cellist who was supposed to play Elgar's Concerto in E minor had a shuttle accident – nothing serious. There was no one to fill in except me, the newbie, and Maestro Garnier threatened to 'have my guts for garters' (what are garters?) if I made the slightest mistake in front of the audience. He hasn't, so I suppose I must have been adequate.

The Captain, who seemed to have finagled his way backstage by the power of his reputation, told me I had played beautifully. And that was an understatement, because his sweet waves of admiration and desire had been making me dizzy even from the back row of the hall. I hope my answer was polite, because for the life of me, I can't remember what it was.

He came to my dressing room after the show and stood in the doorway for a long moment, as if to memorize the way I was standing there in my black dress with the cello in its case in front of me. Then he said my name, "Kamala", and it was as if six years had fallen away and I was back on the Enterprise, trembling by the power of a single word from his mouth.

He hasn't changed much. He's still bald, the last of his white hair clipped short as if in graceful acceptance of the changes of age. The same lines of humor, tenderness and strength in his face, perhaps a little deeper. His eyes are still like remote gray clouds, the color shifting and deepening with his mood. His voice is still the voice I could have listened to for hours when we met...a gorgeous Earl Grey baritone, warm and strong and energizing.

Also, he still sends mixed messages: Come closer. Stay back. Make small talk as if we were strangers. Kiss me like there's no tomorrow. Touching his mind is like dancing in a lightning storm. It was a bit tiring, especially after the stress of the concert. I opted for the small talk option.

I was just telling him how an accident was responsible for my playing that solo, and he was grinning at my imitation of Maestro's voice, when Olana barged in with an armful of purple orchids to congratulate me. She stopped...stared...smirked. I dreaded to think of what her Orion brain was coming up with to explain a man's presence in my dressing room.

Then she handed me the flowers, shot a glowing look at the Captain, and held his hand for quite a while when I introduced them. I don't mind...much...because given that it's him, she was really quite restrained. No flirting, no innuendoes, an arm's length of distance at all times. And he thought I was the more attractive!

Then we said goodbye, in a politely friendly way (because of Olana? Or just the five years between us?) and he shook hands with me. His hand was so warm, it made me shiver. He wanted to whisk me away to the next transporter site and beam me to his hotel room...I could feel it, his magnetism pulling me close. But he stopped himself, and let go of my hand with a sigh.

He left the room at a brisk pace, just to get away from me and the mess of desire, sorrow, anger and nostalgia I represented. But knowing him, he can't outpace himself so easily. He had better talk to someone soon.

Of course Olana put two and two together and grilled me about it as soon as we got back to the apartment.

"Jean-Luc Picard," she said, thinking out loud. "And you...Dang. Now why didn't I see it before?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, just for pride's sake, since I could already see that she knew.

"You're that Kamala, aren't you?" said Olana. "The metamorph. It was on the news. You must have met Picard when the Enterprise hosted the Krios-Valt peace treaty and...something...went on between the two of you. I'm right, aren't I? And I really wish," she said, "You'd tell me what it was... because from the look of you, you've been bottling something up for far too long."

I sat down next to her on the sofa and told her my story, looking at the glass on the coffee table instead of her. When I looked up, however, she was frowning and shaking her head as if I had told her the planet is flat.

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You did your metamorph thing and so basically you and Picard are perfect for each other. And now Chancellor Cheeseface is out of the picture, you're single, Picard is single – and you're not jumping at him because...?"

I winced. "Because I don't want to jump at anyone," I shot back. "I'm sick and tired of being a metamorph and having my life run by men. I have a life here...I have my work and my friends and – "

" – nothing else," Olana concluded with typical bluntness.

"I don't need anything else!" I was almost shouting now.

"Then why did you pick Earth and not some other planet? Why were you eating up Captain Beefcake with your eyes just now? You want him bad, honey, and he wanted you...I could smell it."

"Please don't call him that," I complained, just to avoid the rest of that statement.

She smirked, and I realized I had just proved her point exactly. If I didn't care, what would it matter what Olana calls him?

"Listen," she said, in a more serious tone. "You're tired of being a metamorph, right? And so you think if you stay away from your bondmate, you can somehow escape it. But believe me, you can't...it just won't work."

"I just want to be free," I said slowly, knowing I was explaining myself all wrong, but at a loss of how to get her to understand. "Like Gaila, you know?"

"Gaila didn't become a nun," she shot back. "Freedom doesn't mean being alone, it's choosing your own company that matters."

When I turned to leave, just to get some privacy, she had one last question left.

"Hey, Kamala?"

I turned around.

"Do you still think of him as 'Captain'? Not 'Jean-Luc'?"

Knowing how names work in his culture, I couldn't help blushing – no doubt Olana's Orion nose was tickled again.

"He – he's a really private man," I tried to explain. "Nobody calls him...that...except his family and his closest friends. Besides...he never asked me."

I dove out the door, leaving Olana still shaking her head.

I'm so thankful to have her for a friend...but for all her good advice, I still can't bring myself to follow it. And now that she knows everything, I feel as if some veil had been ripped from my eyes. I can't see the blessings of my quiet, well-ordered, comfortable life anymore...I can't pretend to be happy, even though I never realized it was pretending until now.

It's around two hours in the morning and I can't sleep. It's not because of the traffic flying past the windows or even Olana muttering in her sleep; I'm used to that. It's because I see the Captain's face every time I close my eyes, and very often when they're open too.

I do want him...I want to drink our favorite tea with him every morning...fresh tea, not the replicated stuff. I want to read poetry aloud together on a sofa, his arm around my shoulders. I want him to miss me whenever he goes away and hold me tightly when he comes back. I want to wake up in the night just to hear him breathing next to me. I want to use my empathy to read his every wish, and show him mine.

I want to call him Jean-Luc.

Sweet dreams, Captain.

June 22

He sent me a note...on paper, written in blue ink. How did he get my address? And his handwriting is just like him: forceful, but neat and tidy. It slants to the right, just like mine used to before I moved on to computers. A real, old-fashioned letter, written by his own hand...it must be the most romantic gesture anyone has ever made for me.

He asked me to have lunch with him at the Hotel du Louvre, where he's staying. I'm so nervous – what does he want? He could be summoning me to meet his wife and children, for all I know. But wouldn't he have warned me in advance?

I'm trying not to pace back and forth, rumple my hair or shred the napkins, but I can't stop myself from perspiring or my heart from speeding up, which Olana, of course, noticed. One moment she's making jokes ("Geez, just take a cold sonic shower, okay?") and the next she's worried ("One meal, honey. It's not the end of the world.")

I simply must calm down. I am not subject to the Finis'ral any longer. I am Kamala of Earth, a musician, an independent woman –

I have to go.

Later

The hotel was beautiful: gracious nineteenth-century building made of a light golden stone, with red-gold carpeting and curtains. The dining room was full of light and soft conversation, and as soon as I came in, the holographic waiter showed me to a table in a shadowy, secluded nook half-hidden by a potted fern. The Captain stood up when he saw me, resplendent in his dress uniform. He didn't say a word, but his eyes and mind told me he was feeling the same piercing, sweet sensation I felt at seeing him again.

We sat down and made some more small talk as we ate; I had the salmon with wild rice, he had the steak. He told me about some of the missions he'd been on – leaving out or playing down some of their more dashing, heroic aspects, as usual, but since I had been charting his course by the news channels anyway, it didn't matter. I told him about the success of the Krios-Valt peace treaty, the day-to-day life of playing in an orchestra, and the touristy sights I had seen in Paris – the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, etc. I did not tell him about my marriage.

Over dessert, we suddenly ran out of things to say. He stared down at his mousse au chocolat without seeing it, tense as a coiled spring. He wanted very much to tell me something, but was not sure how I would take it, or even how to phrase the question.

"What am I doing here, Captain?" I asked, to spare him from having to break the subject himself.

He smiled crookedly at me, relieved, but still nervous. "I thought you knew already, Mademoiselle Empath," he teased. "I must be projecting my feelings across the entire building."

He was, actually. "I'd like to hear you say it, all the same."

"Only if you call me Jean-Luc," he said, his voice low and vibrant as he caught my eyes in his. "Please, Kamala. I've waited to hear you say it for six years."

Oh my, I thought. Is this how he felt when I pursued him all these years ago? How did he ever resist?

"Jean-Luc," I said, in little more than a whisper. "Tell me."

It was a charged moment, like the moment when a starship goes into warp and the stars begin to streak by like comets, and you are thrown into the back of your seat and know in your bones that some breathtaking change is about to happen.

"I've come here...to ask you to stay with me," said Jean-Luc, with a deep breath. "I'd do it the traditional way, with a marriage proposal on bended knee, except I don't want all these people to stare at us. We've both changed – if you don't want this anymore, I understand. I just want you to know that, whatever happens...I am for you, Kamala."

He made an almost superhuman effort to be calm, to rein in his burning desire for me to say yes, so I could make the decision without influence. The sacred words of the metamorph's bonding vow shimmered in the air between us; the first time they had ever been addressed to a metamorph. He was holding out choice like a precious gift in his hands. I felt like crying.

For just a moment, I considered saying no. I had the power, for the first time in my life. If I gave myself to a man again, would I be able to keep my hard-won freedom?

Then I looked into his eyes, saw and felt what he was offering me, and finally understood. This was Jean-Luc Picard. I bonded with him because I love him, because I love myself when I'm with him. His inner strength, courage and pride carried me through six lonely years, and those traits are mine, because I chose myself by choosing him. He is my freedom.

"I am for you, Jean-Luc," I replied, smiling through my tears. "Yes, of course I'll marry you!"

His love, rich and golden as the summer sunlight, enfolded me like a warm embrace, and a few seconds later we really were embracing right there in the dining room, and everybody cheered and clapped and whistled, but we weren't remotely embarrassed anymore.

May 12, 2378

To: Kamala Picard, 134 rue Beauvoir, Paris, Earth

From: Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, U.S.S. Enterprise-E

Classified: Personal

Ma chere,

Starfleet Command seems to think I've evaded a well-earned promotion long enough, so when I come home, don't be too surprised to find your husband in an Admiral's uniform. Tell René there is a tall, bald stranger who intends to move in; you will have the delicate task of re-acquainting me with our son.

I can see you tilting your head as you read this, worrying that after a life of danger, intrigue and exploration aboard a starship, I couldn't possibly be content reading on the couch and chasing after a two-year-old. You forget how much I've missed you, both of you...a few days of shore leave simply won't do for me anymore. I do not want my child to grow up not knowing me...and I hate to make you worry every time I beam back to the ship.

I am coming home, darling, for good. I intend to embark on the greatest adventure of all: raising a child with the woman I love.

Yours,

Jean-Luc