Snow Falling Softly XXVI

Beverly Crusher's fingers drummed on the panel in front of her, her eyes staring into the stars beyond the transparent aluminum forward window of the runabout. Her drumming came to a stop when Worf's hand snaked out from his flight control panel and clamped down onto hers. "Please refrain from doing that," Worf said, then removed his hand.

"Sorry," Beverly said, placing her own hand in her lap. Her foot began tapping on the deck underneath her.

"Doctor!" Worf said, glaring at her foot.

"Sorry," she said again. At this rate, she was going to have to sit on her hands and her feet. Glancing at the flight navigation indicators, she saw that the time to intercept indicator was only visible to the lieutenant. "How much longer until we arrive?"

"It has only been five minutes since your last inquiry," Worf replied. He looked up from the readout, studied her with his dark eyes. Then he glanced over at the doors separating the pilot compartment from the rest of the runabout. The Security team had settled themselves into the aft compartment, taking the time to rest before the possible battle ahead. His eyes came back to her. "You are anxious," he said.

Not at all. "Worf, my oldest son is being held captive by Cardassians and my second son is being held by a mad Ferengi. I've no news on what's happened on Dorvan V since our departure and Bok has had Andrew for over an hour."

"We will be victorious," Worf said.

"It isn't a victory if I lose either of my sons," she told him.

The Klingon's eyes opened a bit wide. "I know," he said. "The captain will retrieve your son from Dorvan V alive. I am certain of it. We will retrieve Andrew from Bok. Alive."

"How are you so certain?" she asked.

"leSSov," said Worf. "Foresight." As if there would be no question about it, not even glancing up from the navigation controls.

Except Klingon foresight had nothing on fate. The Ferengi's ship hung in space, waiting for them, shields down, an invitation to witness the execution. While the rest of the team had beamed to the bridge in order to secure it, Beverly and Worf materialized in Bok's cargo hold, where Andrew's biosigns had been found. Bok stood in the middle of the hold with two Klingon mercenaries. They had indeed been waiting for them.

Andrew had been forced onto his knees, his hands bound behind him, blood falling from a cut at his temple. One Klingon held a bat'leth poised right behind Andrew's neck. Beverly looked at his eyes, saw the shock at her arrival, saw the anger seething towards his captors, saw the defiance nearly masking his fear. He made eye contact with her, telling her that he was fine, at least in his opinion. But with her physician's eye she found more cuts, welts, bruises, her own anger rising and Bok and his mercenaries. You hurt my son.

Behind her, Worf growled. "You are Klingon," he said. "This has no honor!"

"We are mercenaries, we find honor in getting paid. When we kill this boy, we will be paid. Then we will have our honor," the one not holding the bat'leth replied, his disruptor trained on Worf.

"Shut up," said Bok. "I've heard enough from this boy alone." The Ferengi's beady eyes moved over them. "Picard wouldn't come himself, would he? Couldn't face his son's death?"

The doctor drew her phaser and aimed it at Bok. "Lower your weapons," she said to the two mercenaries, "Or Bok is dead."

"Lower your weapon," sneered Bok, motioning with his phaser toward Andrew, then pointing it at Worf. "Or the boy dies."

Beverly adjusted the grip on her weapon. "You will not---."

The cargo hold's doors opened and a Ferengi crewman was dragged inside by two Klingon warriors, a Klingon female close behind. "Daimon!" the crewman shouted. "They've taken over the ship! They'll take the ransom from Starfleet themselves!"

"There is no ransom," Andrew said. "He's just going to kill me." The words came out strongly, but tainted with a slight slur of pain. The Klingon with the bat'leth turned the blade around and hit Andrew in the back of the head with the handle, sending him to the deck. Without his arms to catch him, he caught the metal plating cheek first, revealing where the cuts and bruises had come from. "No ransom," Andrew said into the deck.

The mercenary hauled him back up to his knees, placed the bat'leth at his neck, fingers working on the leather grip. "Shall I, Bok?" he said. "Before my--."

"Stop." The Klingon woman had spoken. Her two warriors had dropped the other Ferengi onto the deck where he curled into a protective ball. She addressed the mercenary with the bat'leth. "You have run far enough, Tirleth. You will no longer bring dishonor to your house."

"Get off my ship!" said Bok. "You have no right to be here."

Moving further into the room, the armor clad Klingon woman continued speaking. "Yes, I do. You see, I've been chasing this petaQ for over ten months. He brought dishonor to his House then refused to fight when challenged to battle to the death. I have found him and I will make him face his dishonor."

"You have no right," said Tirleth. "The only one with the right is the head of my House and you are not. My father is the head, you are only his mate." His fingers squeezed the grip of his weapon again.

The Klingon woman continued towards him. "I am your mother and I've been sent by our House. I will not see you die in dishonor, nor run away in dishonor. Even if I have to challenge you to battle myself."

"Bet she could kick your ass," Andrew muttered.

Tirleth reacted by flipping the blade over again and dealing Andrew another blow, knocking him back to the deck.

"I mean," Andrew said, cheek pressed against the plating. "If you can only handle a human boy if he's tied up, then I'm sure your mother could take you with her eyes closed." He struggled to get back onto his knees. Beverly willed her son to stop talking, but from her spot, she couldn't see his eyes, couldn't communicate with him at all. She knew exactly what he was doing, using his remarks to show Tirleth he wasn't beaten, and that could get him killed as easily as Bok firing a phaser.

"Shut up, human," said Tirleth, kicking him for good measure, knocking him back to the floor. Then an armored boot came down on the arm that hit the deck as Andrew rolled to the side.

Beverly the doctor heard bones breaking. Beverly the mother heard Tirleth continuing to hurt her son. Bok meant nothing now. "No," she whispered.

Andrew let out a short gasp of pain, shifted his head to face Beverly, eyes the tempered steel of resolve. But she saw the film of tears over those eyes, the flush of the pain reddening his cheeks. The doctor mouthed 'stop' at her son, but he kept talking, ignoring her plea. "Hey, Bok!" he said. "You could even make a profit from it. Set up a betting pool and then--."

"I said shut up!" said Tirleth. The mercenary placed a booted foot on Andrew's back, raised the bat'leth, this time with the blade pointed downwards, his intentions clear. The blade began to descend.

"No!" Beverly shouted, shifting her phaser away from Bok and firing at Tirleth. The beam, set on stun, knocked the mercenary backwards, the bat'leth falling from his fingers, point-first. The doctor's headlong body followed her phaser fire and finished the job of knocking Tirleth to the ground. The cargo hold lit in a fireworks of phaser and disruptor beams. Worf shot the other Klingon, Bok tried to shoot Worf and was put out of commission by one of the Klingon female's warriors. Beverly saw and heard none of this as she scrabbled on the deck for the fallen bat'leth as Tirleth had drawn a Klingon knife. The tall Klingon got to his feet as Beverly found the weapon and managed to draw it up in time to fend off Tirleth's first slash. She saw immediately that he was trying to get to Andrew, that she wasn't his quarry at all. He tried to kill my son. With two moves, Beverly caught Tirleth's knuckles with the blade and he dropped the knife. Within three more moves, Beverly had him pinned, the point of his own bat'leth held at his neck.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, a voice above her said, "SoS'Qeh. That is enough, he will not harm your son." The hand shifted, pulled Crusher to her feet. Beverly turned to find it was the Klingon woman who had spoken.

"How did you know he was my son?" Beverly asked.

"I suspected at first, seeing some physical similiarities. The hair, the coloring. But it was the SoS'Qeh that told me the truth," said the woman. "I am Korvek." She pointed at Tirleth, who remained on the ground. "You have already met my son." Her hands motioned to her warriors, who then moved and dragged Tirleth to his feet.

"SoS'Qeh?" The doctor pronounced the Klingon word hesitantly. "What does that mean?"

Korvek turned to look at the others in the room. Bok now sitting next to his crewman, neither of them moving under the glowering eye and trained phaser of Worf. The other mercenary sat close to them, glowering at the Ferengi as distastefully as Worf. Andrew, trying to get up with his hands still bound behind him. Korvek nodded in the direction of the Security chief. "The son of Mogh will tell you," she said. "You must take your son home as I must bring mine home." Then Korvek nodded solemnly to her. "May your son continue to have honor," she said. "And may mine find his."

Beverly nodded back. Then she went to her son, cutting through his bonds with Tirleth's dropped knife. "Come on, Mom, I could've taken him," Andrew said, a half smile on his face, in his eyes, the other half holding in the pain. With his arms free, her son pushed himself up on his good arm. His attempts to stand were less successful. Finally, she put her arm around his shoulders so he could lean on her and helped him up.

More Klingon warriors had arrived and were escorting Tirleth and the other mercenary out. Andrew caught Tirleth's eye. "How about that," Andrew said. "My mother kicked your ass instead."

Tirleth growled and tried to move towards them, but Korvek grabbed him by the neck and led him out of the cargo hold with the rest of the group.

"What shall we do with these?" Worf asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.

"Is it true there was no ransom?" the crewman asked.

"It is true," said Worf.

"Then we will take Bok into custody. There is nothing in it for us without profit," said the crewman, ignoring the glare from his former Daimon. Worf nodded and allowed the Ferengi to summon the rest of the crew, then walked to where Beverly stood and Andrew was doing his best to stand. One he was close to them, they beamed back to the runabout. The security team joined them, once again settling themselves in the aft compartment, each discussing what had happened on the bridge with the Klingons.

Beverly had Andrew sit in one of the two extra seats in the pilot's compartment as Worf plot the course back to the Enterprise and engaged the warp drive. The doctor had gotten the medical kit and ran the tricorder over her son, looking for injuries other than his obviously broken arm. Reaching his head, she frowned. "Can you sit in the other chair?" she asked him.

Andrew frowned back at her. "Why?"

"I need a better look at the back of your head." She had seen him take two solid blows to the back of his skull, and with his mouth, she'd no idea how many more he'd been given before she and Worf arrived.

"Am I going bald?" Andrew asked, still trying to joke. Then he took a look at how serious she seemed and moved over to the co-pilot's seat without saying anything else.

She scanned a few times with the tricorder, then felt the back of his head for good measure. No skull fracture, with a mild concussion and a scalp wound, he'd escaped without any traumatic brain injury. Both of the bones in his forearm had been broken, one cut on his cheek was fairly deep. All but the arm she could heal in the runabout. The doctor got a hypospray and a sling from the medkit, spun Andrew's chair around so she could get a better look at his arm.

For a moment, she got a better look at her son. The past few hours she had worried that she would never seen him again, at least not alive. Would never have told him that she loved him. Now she looked at him again and the words caught in her throat, worried that he would reject her. Andrew's eyes were full of questions but his mouth kept silent. "Does your arm hurt?" she asked, wondering if he would try to deny it.

He lifted an eyebrow at her question, looking so much like his father when he did that. The eyes, the determination, the gallows humor. "Oh, no, it's fine," he said. "I normally have it in pieces like this. It's more useful, really."

Beverly lifted the hypospray to his neck and injected the painkiller so that his arm wouldn't cause him agony when she moved it. After a few seconds, the analgesic had taken effect and she slid her son's arm into the sling. The medicine would keep his arm out of pain for a few more hours, more than enough to get him to Sickbay and healed up good as new. Next she grabbed a plaser, spun him around again, and began healing the cuts to his scalp. The blood that had gotten into his short cropped hair gave it a dark rusty hue, a darker red than he even had in the winter. She felt better just being able to physically touch her son, reassuring herself that he was there, he was alive, he would be okay.

But the words remained stuck in her throat.

Worf began to speak in his low rumble, his eyes remaining on the flight panel before him. "Lady Lukara, the wife of Kahless the Unforgettable, once went hunting with three of her sons. Her youngest was very young, not yet a warrior. Yet the son of Lukara and Kahless had decided he would hunt with his brothers and he was not denied the opportunity. Their quarry was mil'oD--the sabre bear. Lukara gave her sons a warning about the sabre bear--it is most deadly when it is trapped without hope of escape. Therefore, her sons would always provide the bear with an honorable way out if they wished to survive the encounter. As two older sons began tracking a bear through the forest, the youngest son had already spotted a bear cub. This son set onto the cub in a silent run, his spear held at the ready. The cub spotted the son of Lukara and raised up on his two hind legs, claws out, ready for him. They would meet in an epic clash."

Beverly had no idea why Worf had decided to recite a Klingon myth, but listened anyway, fascinated. Andrew's scalp was nearly healed.

Worf continued. "The boy and the cub were within feet of each other when a roar sounded from depths of the forest and the cub's mother--the mil'oD that the boy's brothers tracked--bounded into the clearing. Another roar--and Lukara stepped into the place behind her son. The two she-bears faced off, they would protect their sons at all costs. They had both been drawn into a hopeless trap by their progeny. The forest had fallen entirely silent as the mothers regarded one another. Then the Lady Lukara took her son by the shoulder, removed the spear from his hand, snapped it in half, and tossed it to the ground. The mil'oD brought her mighty paws up and into her cub, sending him tumbling away. The boys who had put themselves into danger were chastised. The mothers gave each other a nod and parted ways."

Finished with Andrew's fully healed scalp, she turned him around so that she could attend to his face. When she saw his eyes, they were deep in thought, contemplating the story Worf continued to tell. Beverly held Andrew's chin to keep his head still as she healed the cut on his cheek.

And Worf still told his story. "Kahless said of this tale: 'This is the reason for SoS'Qeh: No man, whether father, son, brother, friend, or foe, should ever think to survive if he is to step between a mother and her child. A mother will become more wrathful than the sabre bear, will stop at nothing to protect her child, even if it means her own death. To anger a mother is the most hopeless situation for any man. To do so is to invite death at her hands'." Worf paused, finally looking away from the control panel and at the two of them. "That is what happened today," he said. "What we saw was SoS'Qeh, mother-anger. It is something that cannot be described fully, it can only be witnessed to truly understand what it means." The Klingon stood up. "I must go debrief my officers." And he went into the aft compartment.

Beverly was left facing her younger son alone. She had finished healing the last cut on his face, all that remained was the blood. Her hands dropped so that she held his cheeks, feeling the lines of his face. Then she finally looked at his eyes, eyes she'd been avoiding as Worf told his story. She knew exactly what Worf meant, what Korvek meant, how they explained her ability to bring down a Klingon warrior twice her size. It was something that could be explained only by SoS'Qeh and how easily they recognized her as Andrew's mother was because of that. What she had done for Andrew, she would do for any of her children without a second thought. Because it just was.

His eyes trembled. They skittered back and forth searching her eyes, their tremble matched by one in his body. "I can't do this twice," he whispered, trying to avoid her look, she not letting him go.

Beverly kissed his forehead. "I love you," she said. "I was afraid you would die and never have known."

Her son closed his eyes, forcing out a tear he'd been holding back, lowered his head. She knew, she knew he didn't want to cry twice, be vulnerable first in front of his father and now his mother. "I would have known," he said. "I've known since I was little." He raised his head again, opening his eyes, looking directly at her. "I made myself forget, because it hurt too much. I needed you."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Andrew shook his head. "When I had Shalaft's, I needed you. When that pain hit me, stabbing through me as if it was taking me apart cell by cell, I needed you. When I woke up screaming at night, running out into the snow because I thought the Borg had taken you, I needed you. When Nana was dying, I needed you."

She reached out for him again, laying her hand on top of his head. "Andrew, I'm sorry. I--."

He cut her off. "Let me finish. Please."

She waited.

"Then when I got abducted by some crazed Ferengi, then couldn't keep my mouth shut and was about to get my head sliced off by some dishonored Klingon, I needed you. And suddenly, you were there, launching yourself through the air across a room to tackle a Klingon twice your size, then beating him soundly with his own weapon." He paused, took a breath. "Before, when I wasn't talking, when I was hurting you and everyone else because of my own problems, I was trying to deal with how I felt about you. I've known since I was little that you loved me. Love me and Allie and Gracie. All of us wished that you were our mother, or that you could adopt us, or something like that. And then you were, as if some fairly godmother had been written into our little story and we were granted our dearest wish. Then every time I needed you came back to me, every time I was scared, worried, alone, sad, angry, all of those times. And I thought now you'd be there for me, since you were my mother. But then I thought, wait, you were my mother that whole time, and you weren't there. I know now that you couldn't be. I know now that you can be. I know now that you are."

Beverly bit her lip, but it did nothing for impeding the tears. Andrew reached out with his good hand, brought her head closer, kissed her on the forehead. A kiss of absolution. "And I love you for it," he whispered. "But you have to tell me."

She started. "Tell you what?" Off the top of her head, she could come up with about fifty things that she knew and he didn't and he'd love to know. Starting with his yet-to-be-born sibling.

Andrew grinned, that fantastic smile that reminded her of Jean-Luc. "Where you learned to kick ass like that? Honestly, the look on that Klingon's face, I thought he'd die out of pure embarrassment. And when did Worf teach you to use a bat'leth like that? I've had one lesson and I ended up wielding the bat'leth like I was a drunken monkey."

Her son's words drifted around her. Jean-Luc. Wesley. She still hadn't heard anything about the mission on Dorvan V, if either of them were alive.

"Mom?"

Beverly blinked and looked at her son. "Yes?"

Andrew frowned. "Are you okay?"

The doctor nodded. Worrying him over his father and brother wouldn't do either of them any good. "I'm fine."

Her son sat back. "You're not fooling anyone, you know," he said. "Something's happened and you're not telling me."

You'd always have to deal with what threatened you. "Your brother was taken captive by Cardassians on Dorvan V. Your father went down to the planet to negotiate his release and conduct more negotiations between the colonists, the Cardassians and the Federation." Yet somehow, the way Andrew had gotten the information out of her made her feel better, because it had been what Nana had done.

Andrew paled. "Wesley must have gone to tell them about our idea."

Before Beverly could ask for more information, Worf entered the pilot compartment again. At the two surprised faces, Worf said, "They are debriefed." He checked the navigation panel. "And we are ten minutes from docking with the Enterprise," he said as he took his seat.

The doctor settled in for one of the longer ten minutes of her life. She had one son back, now she had these last ten minutes to wonder if she would have the other alive as well. And Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc Picard stood in the main shuttlebay, resisting the horrible urge he had to fidget. He'd left Wesley in Sickbay glaring at Dr. Selar because she wouldn't let him go until Beverly had had a good look at him. Not that Picard didn't blame Selar for her unwillingness to release the doctor's son. When it came to stepping between Beverly and her children, one tread with extreme caution.

"Riker to Picard."

He tapped his communicator. "Picard here."

"Sir, Admiral Necheyev is aboard and waiting for you in your Ready Room."

The captain frowned. He hated keeping an admiral waiting, but he wasn't going to leave this shuttlebay until he was certain the rest of his family was home safely. "Tell her I'll be on my way shortly, Number One," he said. "Picard out."

The comm channel closed. Then the alarm sounded for the opening shuttlebay doors and the activation of the forcefield. The captain couldn't keep the small smile off his face as the shuttle glided to a stop on the bay's floor. The security team members left the shuttle first, filing out of the room as quickly as they'd filed out of the runabout. Lieutenant Worf stepped out, nodding at the captain, then took a walk around the runabout as he finished the post-flight checklist.

Finally, Beverly walked out the runabout's hatch, followed by Andrew. Silence briefly held them all, none knowing what to say aloud, none knowing what thoughts went through their heads. The captain looked at his son, the boy's arm in a sling, some blood on his face near where he must have had cuts that Beverly would have healed on the return trip. Picard realized he had no idea where he stood with Andrew and stopped himself from going to the boy and wrapping him in his arms, happy to have him alive. Then Andrew came right towards him, threw his good arm around Picard's neck and hugged him close. "You did the right thing, didn't you?" Andrew asked quietly.

"Yes," the captain replied.

"And Wesley?"

"He's in sickbay. He's going to be fine." They would all be fine.

"Are we grounded?" Andrew stepped back, the mischief glinting in his gray eyes.

"I haven't decided yet," said Picard.

Andrew laughed and went towards the shuttlebay's doors. The captain saw Beverly approaching him, her smile tight, her eyes flipping between anxiety and relief. "He's fine, Beverly," he repeated, reaching out, drawing her to him. "Wesley is fine."

"Thank you," she whispered into his ear. Then she kissed him softly. "I'll be in Sickbay," she said. "Are you going to come down?"

He shook his head. "No. Admiral Necheyev is waiting in the Ready Room."

She graced him with one of her brilliant smiles. "Maybe you're the one who's going to get grounded," she said, then was out the door before he could think of a retort.

When Captain Picard stepped into his Ready Room, the admiral awaited him in one of the chairs set in front of his desk. "Captain," she said, rising.

"Admiral," he said.

She sat down in her chair as he settled into his desk chair. "I've heard that your son was retrieved safely?"

He allowed himself the sigh of relief he'd been holding in. "Yes, sorry to keep you waiting. I was in the shuttlebay to..." he trailed off, not knowing exactly how to explain why.

Necheyev smiled. "To make sure, with your own eyes, that they were okay. I understand, Captain. No harm done. I'm also very pleased that you didn't disobey a direct order. Frankly, I thought you would even though I tried my damnedest to get you to keep your head in the situation on Dorvan V. Can you tell me what happened down there? I've heard bits and pieces about some sort of mob riot."

"It wasn't me," Picard said. "It was Anthrawa who stopped the mob. Gul Evek had just beamed all of his men off the planet, aside from himself. This was after the boy Lakanta had tried to take on the Cardassian camp by himself and died in that cause. When all of the other Cardassians disappeared, the mob turned to the last one left--Evek. Despite my being there between them and Evek, they were determined and very nearly managed to get to him. I'm certain they would have murdered him. But Anthrawa appeared out of nowhere and called for the colonists to stop. And they did, every single one of them, then dispersed with his one word." Picard rubbed his head. "It was one of the single most amazing displays of leadership I've seen in my life."

"If only he could have arrived before that point," Necheyev said.

"I think Anthrawa would feel the same way. Lakanta was his son," replied Picard. "As such, he has agreed to continue negotiations tomorrow, after Lakanta's burial. They will be presented with all of the information, including the option to withdraw from the Federation. An information packet has already been sent to Gul Evek regarding the matter and he has sent it along to his superiors. Now the nego--." The captain stopped speaking when his Ready Room door opened and his youngest daughter bolted inside.

"Papa!" she said.

The captain stood up. "How did you get on the bridge?" he asked.

"Took the turbolift," she replied, her tone informing her father that the answer was absolutely obvious.

"No, I mean, who let you in here? How did you stay on the bridge?" Inwardly, Picard grimaced at how easily the five year old could throw him into a tizzy.

"I told Commander Riker that I had something really important to tell you," she said, walking over to him, her eyes roving about the entire room, seeing the lionfish, the window, his Complete Works of Shakespeare. "This is a great room. No wonder you don't let anyone up here." She finally noticed Necheyev. "Hello," she said. "Who are you?"

The admiral was smiling at her, either enchanted by Gracie or amused by the girl's effect on the captain. Or both. Necheyev held out her hand. "I'm Alynna," she said. "And you are?"

The captain's youngest daughter shook the admiral's hand. "Gracie," she said. "Are you Papa's boss?" she asked, looking at the pips on Necheyev's collar.

Picard had reached his limit. "Mary Grace," he said, keeping his face and tone as stern as he could. "You said you had something really important to tell me?"

"Oh! Yes!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "I'll whisper it in your ear," she said, finishing her walk over to him, tugging his arm so he knelt to her level. Too late, the captain remembered that Gracie had a certain inability to actually whisper. So her next words were quite loud enough for Necheyev to hear. "Mom told me this morning that I'm going to have a little brother or sister."

Unfortunately, the admiral had chosen that moment to make eye contact with the captain. At first, all of the blood drained from his face. Then he realized Necheyev was looking right at him, had heard Gracie's entire little secret, and she certainly looked as if she was going to burst out laughing.

Which she did. An admiral-like dignified laugh, but laughing nonetheless. Picard wanted to become part of his desk. Or the floor. Or anything other than the Jean-Luc Picard who couldn't seem to not get his Chief Medical Officer pregnant. He could only hope that Gracie had misheard somehow. Gracie's small hand patted his cheek. "Papa, your face matches your uniform," she said.

He turned to look at his youngest daughter. At her striking gray eyes, the spray of freckles across her nose, the delicate lines of her face, the soft auburn hair, and that streak of utter mischief she'd inherited triplefold from her mother.

"Even your ears," she said. "And the top of your head!"

"Gracie," he said. "Enough."

"Apparently you haven't had enough, Captain," said Necheyev, now regaining her composure, but the amusement not leaving her eyes. "I think we have another situation to discuss."