SHIP OF FOOLS

Chapter 04

"... and the result was that the ambassador was practically in orbit around that poor girl for the rest of his time aboard", said Beverly Crusher, using her coffee spoon to illustrate the movement. "The moment I turned my back he'd pop up in sickbay, making a nuisance of himself to Nurse Cavour. Now how do you tell a Federation dignitary to get lost? You could possibly have done it, Jean-Luc, but I don't think anything more subtle than a painstick would have kept him away. Heaven knows I don't mind a little social activity, but having those people underfoot all that time was a bit taxing, to say the least. I think we all heaved a sigh of relief when we had unloaded them at Fragan VI."

"I'm beginning to suspect mine was the easy part after all", said the captain with a slight smile, not quite attending. They were just finishing one of their occasional breakfasts together, facing each other across the coffee table in Picard's quarters. Beverly had been keeping up the conversation during most of it, and the captain still seemed a little distracted for all her efforts. At this time of day that was a rare and faintly disquieting circumstance.

"Am I wrong in assuming you are a trifle preoccupied this morning?" she asked rather abruptly.

"I'm sorry", he replied, visibly pulling himself together. "Too many unresolved issues. I keep thinking I'm missing something."

"Stop thinking about it„, Dr. Crusher said reasonably. "It'll come back. We'll have more time than we need once we're sitting in that nebula. If you want my professional opinion", she added, smiling, "it's my theory that you just don't believe anybody can look after your ship in your absence, and now you are trying to find proof of it. Let me tell you... Why, Jean-Luc", she said suddenly, her tone changing abruptly; then she reached out and picked up the small wire device from where it had lain, hidden from sight by a plate of rolls. "Now that's a surprise!"

"What's that? Oh, yes. It belongs to Deanna", said Picard, slightly annoyed. "I suppose she forgot it. I'm not interested in the thing – I don't think I need that device to inform me of my calling in life. I rather like my job."

"But that's not the point!" exclaimed Beverly, half-laughing. "In fact I think it would do you good. You're not very open-minded when it comes to your feelings – forgive the lousy pun. You might be surprised at what you find."

"Perhaps I don't want to be surprised", he said evenly.

"You're not at all interested in getting to know yourself better?"

"In my own time and place, perhaps. Not at the mercy of some obscure mind-scanning gadget."

"Well, this is outrageous. Whoever called it that? It's not a mind-scanning gadget any more than a neural calliper is. And for some people it's a massive stroke of good luck. You might consider Geordi. And Barclay, who's just told me he has never felt so much at ease with himself before. It's your right to be unwilling to accept help in anything, Jean-Luc, but you should grant others the right to be less aloof."

"All right, all right", the captain replied impatiently. "I'm sorry. Let's change the subject, shall we? – Right now I have other things on my mind than my own spiritual fulfilment", he added, softening a little. "In fact it's time I get down to them. That diagnostic should be well under way. I'll be glad to see something running smoothly for a change."

"Jean-Luc, will you at least consider –"

"No", said Picard, rising. "I will not. Beverly, you are the third person in as many days attempting to talk me into trying out this device. I don't like it. I don't like the promises. Frankly, I'm beginning to think it might be a good idea to ban the damn thing."

"Ban it? After Deanna has been recommending it?"

"Her assurances that it isn't harmful are the one reason I'm willing to tolerate it. And even so I wonder if I am making a mistake. At the first sign that it is interfering with the running of this ship I'll get rid of it, no matter what anybody says about its beneficial effects."

Beverly remained sitting, looking up at him with a half-amused and now very puzzled frown. "Forgive me, Jean-Luc, but aren't you overreacting a bit now? All that agitation over the horrible danger of making your peace with yourself? Wouldn't you agree that that in itself might be telling you something, and not necessarily about any member of your crew?"

"I think that's quite enough about that", snapped Picard. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I am wanted on the bridge." And he swung out of the room without another word. The door swished shut in his wake.

Beverly looked after him, genuinely startled now. "Oh, dear", she said softly, to no one in particular. "You are upset, aren't you."

- - - - - -

Lieutenant Worf, on his way to the bridge, put the turbolift on hold when he saw Commander Riker rounding the corner at a sprint. "Thanks", said the first officer, slipping in. "That fool Ferguson just kept me explaining. You'd think he'd never briefed a diagnostics team before."

Worf nodded once. "Bridge." The lift began to move.

"Halt", said Riker a second or two later. "There's something I'm supposed to tell you, and I might as well tell you in here because you're not going to like it. I received a coded message this morning. There's a recommendation in the offing for you." Riker gave him a wry grin. "You owe it to no less a personage than Captain Jellico. He was very impressed with your performance, apparently."

"What?" said Worf, uncomprehendingly.

"Officially it's for the way you handled that business on Mennagar Cui", explained Riker.

Worf frowned, as much at a loss as before. "Mennagar Cui?"

"Come on, Worf. You got that away team out of a very ugly fix, at considerable risk to yourself."

"I did my duty", retorted Worf. "Nothing more. And at that time my commanding officer was not Captain Jellico. I do not see..."

"Well, that's where the inofficial part comes in. In actual fact you're recommended for your exemplary performance of your duties in getting Doctor Crusher and yourself out of that mess on Celtris III and off the planet. Only they can't very well give you a recommendation for something you officially never did. Yes, I have an idea what you're going to say now, Worf. But this wasn't my idea. Think of it as just another recommendation – it will look good on your service record no matter what you think about the circumstances."

"This", said Worf through clenched teeth, "is adding insult to injury."

Riker sighed. "Somehow I knew you'd take it that way. Look, I wasn't there. But I've read the reports, and whether you like it or not, you came out of it brilliantly. It wasn't your fault. It was a very well set-up trap, and there was absolutely nothing you could have done when things went wrong." The first officer took another look at Worf's expression and turned his eyes briefly towards the turbolift ceiling. "I'm sorry, Worf. I've done my official duty and informed you of it. Just in case it helps, Jellico isn't exactly easy to please."

"I know that, sir", Worf replied stiffly, his voice an offended growl. "I had no desire to please him, and I do not believe I did." He addressed the turbolift. "Resume."

Privately, Riker admitted to himself that Worf was probably right. Jellico certainly hadn't shown himself particularly impressed with the Klingon at the time. The whole thing might just as well be Jellico's way of telling Riker what he thought of him – recommending someone further down the chain of command, someone he had all but ignored at the time. The final irony was that Worf had acquitted himself brilliantly on Celtris III; Riker had caught himself shaking his head in disbelief on reading his report. Exemplary performance of his duties, the first officer thought somewhat grimly. Poor Worf.

The bridge looked empty. Ensign Maeno was at Conn, and Sam Lavelle occupied the command chair again. He got up as soon as he saw his superior approaching, nodding and moving back to Ops with a brief "Good morning, sir."

"Morning, Mr. Lavelle. The captain?" asked Riker.

"In his ready room, sir."

Riker grunted and slumped down in the center seat. There was no sign of Data, and he hadn't really expected to see him; all he felt by now was a sense of unnerved resignation. He knew what Geordi would say if he were to ask him about Data again, he could even see Geordi's expression on saying it, and he was thoroughly fed up with making the same inquiries over and over again. He had even instructed the diagnostics teams to make sure of the number of shuttlecraft and escape pods – although he had been checking with the computer himself, and knew perfectly well that no craft was missing. Under normal circumstances, of course, he would have dismissed any such suggestion out of hand. But now, faced with the problem of an inexplicably and persistently missing second officer, he had come to regard such possibilities as less remote than before. And at some stage during the morning the captain would ask him the inevitable question, and he would be feeling a fool. Riker wasn't looking forward to the moment.

Meanwhile, a low altercation was taking place by the aft stations.

"Where is Macaulay?" Worf had asked Ensign N'Guyn as soon as he had stepped out onto the bridge. "I am waiting for a report."

"I don't know, sir. She hasn't been here during my shift."

"She should be here now." Worf glowered at the turbolift door; in actual fact there were two minutes left until the beginning of alpha shift. As if on cue, the door swished open, depositing Deanna Troi on the bridge. She gave Worf a friendly smile and walked down the ramp, to take her place on Riker's left.

"She may just be polishing it", suggested N'Guyn chivalrously.

"She was supposed to be doing it yesterday", Worf replied, turning away and frowning at the Tactical console. Elsewhere the best part of his people were busy on a level-one diagnostic of the weapons systems he knew; perhaps he should not be too impatient. Still...

He hit his comm badge. "Worf to Macaulay."

There was no answer. Worf's frown deepened.

"Worf to Macaulay. Report."

Nothing.

"Computer, locate Ensign Macaulay."

With that near-imperceptible delay that he had forgotten about at the moment, and now found more annoying than ever, the computer replied: "Ensign Macaulay is in her quarters."

N'Guyn drew his breath in through his teeth with a soft hiss. This could only mean trouble – a kind of trouble he would have liked to spare his colleague. Worf was beginning to look seriously irritated now.

"Shall I go and fetch her, sir?" N'Guyn asked hastily.

"No." Worf hit his communicator again. "Worf to Singh."

"Singh here."

"Go look for Macaulay. She is in her quarters, not responding. I want an explanation. Worf out." He gave N'Guyn a crushing look. "You stay until I send a replacement. I will be overseeing the weapons diagnostics in Engineering."

"Yes, sir", said N'Guyn resignedly, watching as Worf turned on his heel and headed for the turbolift again.

- - - - - -

In the corridor outside Ensign Macaulay's quarters Lieutenant Singh, having tried the door alarm for the second time, was beginning to feel concerned. "Computer", he said sharply. "Security override. Release the lock on Ensign Macaulay's door."

The door swished open. Singh took two steps into an almost-darkened room, frowning as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. "Sarah?" he asked. There was no answer, but now he noticed a dim glow coming from behind a partition, and a moment later he froze at the sound of a few tinkling notes. It sounded like something played on a keyboard. Concern gave way to annoyance. "Sarah!" he repeated more loudly, advancing towards the light, and then he stopped in utter perplexity.

She was sitting in the light of a single lamp, her small desk heaped with padds, a monitor and a tiny portable keyboard. To Singh's consternation she was wearing a loosely belted bathrobe, and her auburn hair, usually elaborately coiled and braided, looked as if she had washed it many hours ago, pinned it up and then forgotten all about it. She didn't wait for him to deliver his message. "Listen", she said without even looking up. "What do you think of this?" And dropping the padd she was holding in her left hand she rapidly played a few bars before jotting down something on another padd with her right. A third padd slid off the pile to end up on the carpet, and Macaulay gave an exasperated sigh. "Would you mind picking that up for me, please?"

Caught completely off guard, Singh found himself actually crouching before he recalled his business. "Look", he said. "Whatever it is you're doing, you're expected on the bridge. You're overdue. There's that report..."

"Oh. Yes, of course. I have it here somewhere. Raju", she said, swiveling her chair towards him to look up at him with shining eyes, "have you ever thought about basing a Klingon opera on the Chinese pentatonic scale? We've been talking about it – with Indian music it just didn't work, I've tried – I've tried just about everything I could think of. But this is it, Raju! It all fell into place suddenly last night. Only listen to this, I'll –"

"Stop!" Singh gripped her shoulders. "Now you listen to me, Sarah. I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. But there's such a thing as a level-one diagnostic going on, and there's such a person as our C.O. waiting for your report. So I suggest you get dressed. Quickly."

"Oh", Macaulay said again, the euphoria gone all of a sudden. "That's... I'm sorry. I didn't realize –" She got to her feet, gathering her bathrobe about her. "I've been at it all night, that right? I had no idea..." She looked down on the padd she was still holding, frowning a little; then she put it down. "Oh, shit. Sorry. Five minutes. Could you just find that report for me?" And with that she shot past him. The bathroom door hissed shut in her wake.

Singh groaned as he slid into the abandoned chair. "Computer, lights!" he said, reaching out to gather the mess into a neat heap. At that moment his communicator chirped. "Worf to Singh", a dangerously calm basso voice came over the link. "Report."

Bracing himself, Singh launched into an explanation.

- - - - - -

In his ready room, Picard had been looking through the reports presented by the various stations and departments, and so far had found nothing wrong with them. He had just decided to finish them and then go down to Engineering to have a look at the proceedings when the intercom chirped.

"Bridge to Captain Picard. Sir", said the voice of Ensign Ryan, "incoming message for you from Starbase 109. It's classified, sir."

"Patch it through to me. And, Ensign, next time you might wait for me to acknowledge your call before you deliver your message – even if you happen to know I'm here. I might just ask you to stand by."

"Uh, yes, sir. Of course. I'm sorry, sir. Patching message through now."

Picard smiled a little. Ryan was Worf's latest addition to his team, a gangling young man prone to just that kind of blunder. Looking at him, nobody would have suspected him of having anything to do with ship's security. Obviously, though, there was more to him than that.

Incoming transmission, the monitor on Picard's desk read. Starfleet Command to Captain J. L. Picard, USS Enterprise NCC 1701-D. Voice authorization required.

The captain frowned. All codes had been altered after Celtris III, of course, and so far he had not been required to use the new one. "Authorization Picard gamma six zero seven three."

Admiral Juarez's face appeared on the screen, without its mask of joviality. "Ah, Jean-Luc. Just as well I catch you before you disappear into that damn nebula."

"We couldn't possibly reach it in less than another twenty-four hours", Picard said neutrally.

"And now you're wondering what's become of my own subspace ban. It still holds. Just one more thing you really should know. Starfleet Intelligence has informed us that they have been contacted by an unnamed representative of the Obsidian Order, of all things, warning us urgently against believing in Gul Dravek's bona fides. According to the representative Dravek will probably try somehow to involve the Federation in some dubious deal which he will then make public, discrediting us sufficiently to hazard the peace talks. That, according to the source, is why he specifically asked for a respected, trustworthy negotiator to meet him. It would make it that much more devastating."

Picard was silent for a few moments before he answered, mulling over the implications. At last he said: "I take it Starfleet prefers the version presented by Dravek himself, and our assignment still stands."

Juarez looked uncomfortable. "Your assignment stands, all right. As for preferring Dravek's story... well, let's just say that if it is true there is too much to be gained here to abandon the whole thing now."

"Could you tell me a little more about that?"

"No. I'm sorry, Jean-Luc, but I can't."

Picard hadn't really expected anything else. "I see", he said. "But frankly I am having difficulties making sense of this, Admiral. What little you have been sketching out for me as Dravek's probable intentions –"

"No point getting sarcastic, Jean-Luc."

"... sounded as if it might involve parts of the Cardassian government, which in turn probably means the military", Picard continued carefully. "What you just told me would imply that Dravek's goal is to plunge us back into war, or at least to create additional tensions, and that his superiors wish to prevent this. I don't pretend to know much about the workings of the Cardassian administration, but it seems to me that informing Starfleet Intelligence that this proposed and supposedly secret meeting is a set-up is an impractical way of going about it, Admiral. At the very least I would have thought they have ways and means to prevent this meeting from taking place if they so wish."

Juarez gave an impatient shrug. "Damn it, how should I know? To be honest with you, we're under the impression that there are departments working against other departments there, which I suspect is what you've been saying just now. But that's not the point. The point is that that rendezvous with Dravek may be a trap of some kind."

"Thank you, Admiral. The thought had occurred to me."

"I bet it has." It was evident by now that Juarez wished to bring the interview to a close. He was looking more uncomfortable by the moment. "We've put this affair in the best hands we know of. – Captain, in the light of all this you'll understand that your top priority must be to make sure the Federation isn't compromised in any way. We're depending on you to handle this properly, and to take the proper decisions in case there are problems. Good luck, Jean-Luc. Juarez out." And the screen returned to the familiar logo of laurel branches framing a field of stars, and then went black.

Picard rested his chin on his joined hands and stared at it, frowning. He was aware that he should be feeling both anger and mortification at the casual way Starfleet handed him an impossible situation while denying him the means to prepare for it. He did feel a twinge of both, in fact – as well as a certain dismay. What an assignment. So I am to risk my ship and the lives and reputations of my crew because Starfleet Intelligence wants it both ways. And as Riker would no doubt point out to him as soon as he was regaled with this latest piece of news, if anything went wrong it was obvious who would be condemned for recklessly endangering the hard-won and uneasy truce with Cardassia.

All of this was undeniably true. And still...

The captain looked at his own rueful expression reflected by the black monitor, noting with a kind of wry amusement that along with everything else he actually felt a degree of relief, as if a load had been physically lifted off him. It was oddly reassuring to know that it hadn't been mere paranoia on his part to suspect a trap of some sort. Now the possibility had finally been admitted, by someone as stolid and unimaginative as Admiral Juarez, he could turn his full attention to the question of how best to deal with the issue. In a way, it was startling to discover that he must have been reserving some doubts about his own objectivity without even being aware of it. What was it Troi had once said to him, in a different context entirely? You can have too much of the life of the mind. For some reason, his memory had retained that. Indeed you can, he thought, wryly.

Not that the news had made his assignment any easier. He still had a horrifying task to accomplish, something that would require enormous caution and presence of mind, not to mention luck. And then of course there was that other thing...

Yes. Data. Juarez had taken one worry off his mind, but he realized immediately that there were plenty left. Still, he wouldn't allow it to rob him of that very real sense of relief. He rose and went over to the replicator for some Earl Grey tea, hot, which he carried back to his desk. Two more reports to go over, and he could still go down to Engineering afterwards – which was the likeliest place for any news about Data, too.

He hadn't quite finished the first of the remaining reports when the door chimed.

"Come", he said, putting his mug down. Worf entered briskly, a couple of padds in his hand.

"Sir. These are the details about the Mount Nebula you requested. It consists of accarium B, chromium and dilithium hydroxyls in more or less equal amounts, and some hydrogen. There is no danger either to our hull or to that of a Cardassian ship. Admiral Juarez was not fully informed about the Mount Nebula, however."

"Meaning, Mr. Worf?"

"It is true that the interference with our sensors will be considerable, and will be getting worse. In addition, the long-range sensors will be incapacitated by prolonged exposure to the accarium B."

Picard frowned. "What exactly do you mean by incapacitated, Lieutenant?"

"The substance is known to attack the alloys used in a number of tracking and receiving devices. It is estimated that they will begin to fail after approximately forty to sixty hours."

"Could we adjust the main deflector to compensate?"

"Not without losing some advance warning of approaching ships. Sir, the damage will eventually be irreversible. We will have to replace entire sensor clusters."

"It would appear that timing is of the essence. We'll have to make sure we are not sitting there any longer than we have to... What about their sensors?"

"I cannot tell, Captain. We know too little about Cardassian sensor technology. Under the circumstances I would recommend assuming that these conditions are less damaging to their sensors than to ours."

"Point taken, Mr. Worf. Any news about Data?"

"No, sir."

Picard shook his head, but all he said was: "Anything else, Lieutenant?"

"There is, sir. I would ask your permission to try a new training program."

"Training program?" echoed the captain, and thought: What now? Bat'telh or d'k tahg?

"Yes, sir. I have been devising a new security drill for unarmed hand-to-hand combat. The details are drawn up here, if you wish to look at them. I would like to begin training tomorrow."

"Permission granted", Picard said readily. There was more to come, though.

"Then I will utilize one of the holodecks for the purpose, or preferably the gymnasium. I would also invite any additional crew members who might be interested to take part. I may have to divide the participants into several training groups, but I believe the result would be worth the effort."

"Mr. Worf", said the captain, "may I ask why your inventiveness is invariably directed towards creating work for yourself? In my experience most people use it the other way round."

Worf looked surprised. "We have recently taken new personnel aboard, sir. I have reviewed their records. Some of them may never have had the opportunity to develop their combat skills beyond the basic requirements."

"Yes, yes, that's not what I meant. I hope I know better than to question your thoroughness. But there is a subtle difference between being thorough and being obsessed, Mr. Worf. You are verging on the latter." The captain considered him over the rim of his tea mug, hazel eyes narrowing. "Why am I getting the distinct impression that you are preparing for something specific?"

Worf straightened. "I like to be prepared for anything, Captain."

"Including the exchange of phaser volleys with a Cardassian ship?"

So the captain knew about his recent research concerning the phaser arrays too. There was very little going on aboard the ship he didn't somehow know; Worf wouldn't have been too surprised if Picard had brought up his as yet untried plans of reconfiguring the shields next. But he stood his ground. "Yes, sir."

"We're not at war with them, Lieutenant."

"No, Captain. With all due respect, I still believe in expecting the unexpected."

"It's a sound principle, on the whole." Picard handed the padd back to him. "Go ahead, Mr. Worf. Just remember that whatever your sentiments, for now we are meeting these people as negotiators and potential allies – not as enemies."

"Yes, sir."

Worf left the ready room seething quietly. Damn them. It would be a fine balmy day on Rura Penthe before he trusted any Cardassian on the grounds that they were not at war with them – or on any grounds at all. It was bad enough that he might have to allow them to set foot on his ship. Trusting them was out of the question. He had been insulted too deeply for that, too deeply and too recently; Lieutenant Worf was not by nature a very forgiving man.

Ryan snapped to attention behind the tactial console when he saw his superior officer emerging from the ready room. Worf signaled him with a curt look to remain where he was and headed for the turbolift, wordlessly and quite unaware of the glances that were passing in his wake.

Inside, he instructed the lift: "Deck seven", and then he allowed himself a closer look at some of the anger he felt slowly coming to the boil just below the surface.

Cardassians on the Enterprise. Insult to injury. Captain Jellico's recommendation. Yes, that was it. A recommendation for what he had done on Celtris III.

He had done nothing on Celtris III. Done nothing, not even died. He should have died there – died fighting, defending his captain. It was the least a security officer – a Klingon warrior – could do if he could not protect him. Instead, he had left – left the captain to be tortured, as it were. He had saved Dr. Crusher at least, which was what Starfleet and the captain would have expected him to do. The worst of it was that he had escaped himself, unharmed except for a few scratches and bruises. What sort of Chief of Security could allow that to happen? What could have possessed him to be so careless, so utterly oblivious of his first duty, so...

He had made it back to the Enterprise, and taken up his duties, and in time Picard had been returned – something the Chief of Security knew long before it became generally known as the captain had not left his quarters for a few days. And when he took command of his ship again he had been looking a little drawn but, to most peoples' eyes, not too much the worse for whatever it was that had been happening on Celtris III. Only the restlessness of his hands had given him away and a certain haunted look in his eyes until the calm that covered everything slid into place again, covering this too.

For Worf, it had been Purgatory. He had not been able to keep him safe, and the captain had been brutally hurt as a result of his failure. It was not something Worf could either accept or forget. In fact it was a memory that still sent a hot stab of shame through him whenever he thought of it. It would take a long time to blunt that edge of pain and humiliation a little, that restless, helpless, smouldering rage at what had been done to Picard, and so to himself – at what his negligence had done to both of them.

He had failed, and he had failed the captain. Again. For at the back of his mind there was, and always would be, the memory of a black nightmare he knew he shared with the entire crew, and that of a worse failure which he shared with no one else. So bad a failure that Worf avoided, as far as he could, even the memory of the part he himself had had in the defeat of the Borg. A piece of sheer, raw, single-minded defiance it had been, succeeding against all reasonable hope and all the odds, and still it had not been good enough as it had come too late – too late to undo anything.

He had known about their transporter, known about their ability to adapt to phaser configurations, known everything he needed to know. And yet.

He had still allowed the Borg on the bridge. He had been looking one way the one moment he should have been looking the other. He had allowed them to abduct the captain, and then failed to rescue him. He was Chief of Security, he was the one who should have prevented it. And had not. His responsibility. His fault. His. As well as everything they had afterwards done to the captain, the –

And that was as far as he got; the remainder did not bear putting into words, not even in thought. Captain. It all went up in a blaze, a kind of boiling fury that made him want to put his fist through the nearest bulkhead, smash something to smithereens. How dared they.

There were some human issues he could neither share nor appreciate. But broken pride, violated integrity, a man brutally laid open to the soul – those were things he did understand, striking close enough home to fill him with an incredulous, choking rage, even now. And he – he – not able to prevent them.

He never noticed the crewman who hastily got out of his way as he strode down the corridor. He never even noticed that his hands had closed into fists although the fingernails were digging into his palms, drawing blood. Even unnoticed, the pain helped him steady himself. No point in this he knew. No point working himself into a white-hot rage over something that was long past, unchangeable now. Except that it was never past.

With a painful effort, he forced his thoughts into a different direction. True, they had been destroyed. He had helped destroy them. It gave him no satisfaction. They would never have known the depth of his hatred, they could not have seen it in his eyes, would not have understood why. Would not have cared. They were not honorable enemies. They were beyond hating, beyond understanding in a way that infuriated him. He could not reach them. Nothing could.

He and his, they had still been there afterwards. And like the others he had gone on, accepting Picard's trust in him and the trust of the Enterprise crew as if – almost as if – nothing had happened. Lieutenant Worf had come through it all without a stain. He knew better than that, of course. There was a stain. The memory, the shame, the wounds were still there. And he would never live it down, nor close his eyes against the fact, nor allow himself to forget.

Worf watched the door of his quarters sliding open before him without actually seeing it, and strode in and stood in the middle of the room while it softly swished shut behind him. Fools to rely on him. The captain would do that sort of thing, just as he would insist they trust that damned Cardassian, against his own better judgment. And all of a sudden, there it was again, circling back upon itself, and he felt his hands clench in his effort to contain it. Celtris III. His very own Purgatory. Rage, and shocked loyalty, and a feeling that his own integrity had somehow been intruded upon – how could he ever again trust himself completely after this? And rage again when he tried to think about how anyone could have dared to challenge him so, and get away with it.

Never again. Not ever again.

But that was what he had told himself after Wolf 359.

Lieutenant Worf drew a deep breath, and another. And another. From somewhere in his memory, a voice said: At ease, Lieutenant.

Very well. He would look after his charges this time, he would protect his commanding officer, he would see to it that nothing happened to him. He would secure his ship, train his subordinates, be prepared for anything. Anything.

He walked over and stabbed at his computer, and the shields recalibrations came up on the screen.

- - - - - -