Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 23:32:45 GMT  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: "Lori" zakhad@att.net 
 

Title: Test of Focus
Author: Lori (zakhad at att.net)
Series: TNG (Captain and Counselor)
Code: P/T
Rating: PG
Date: 1/31/04
Parts: 2/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com

Summary: After trauma, there must be a period of healing. Sequel to Girl Mad






Picard stared out at the stars, unable to focus. The annunciator interrupted
his thoughts. "Come."

Ward Carlisle came in the ready room, stiff and formal. "You wanted to see
me, sir?"

"At ease, already. Please sit down. Coffee?" Picard gestured at the silver
pot and its attending cups, then poured more for himself. When Ward thanked
him, he prepared another cup, adding sugar, no cream, as he knew his second
officer liked it.

Ward settled in one of the chairs with his beverage and seemed to loosen up
somewhat. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. I received the confirmation of your transfer this morning, and
was rather startled to find that you'd be leaving when we arrive at the next
starbase this evening. From my perspective, this is all quite sudden."

"I'm sorry," Ward blurted. "I thought Commander Troi had mentioned to you --
I put in for a transfer a month ago, and the position came up a week later.
It's never going to be the same between the commander and I, and I know that
she'd never accept a promotion even if they handed her the latest and
greatest out of Utopia, so -- sir?"

"Did you have some sort of argument with Commander Troi?" This bordered on
the unbelievable. He'd never seen Carlisle argue with anyone.

"It's not in her reports?"

"Not that I recall." He had deliberately procrastinated for eight days, but
he had to go back to the reports made in his absence from the bridge and
really read, rather than skim them.

Ward stared, caught off guard. "Really."

"I suppose I might have missed something. What did you disagree about?"

But he only shook his head. "You should ask her about that. I should go,
sir, there are some last minute -- "

"Ward." Picard set aside his cup and folded his hands on the desk. "Please."

Ward adopted a bleak, tortured expression. "It's not why I'm leaving. I have
to think of Cecily and the kids, you know? Seeing how Deanna. . . ." He
stared vacantly for a moment at the floor, thinking. "She didn't approve of
my actions. I helped Nat and deLio and the others by distracting Deanna
while they left the ship. I almost went with them. And then I saw everything
she went through while they were gone, and you weren't yourself, and when
the admiral -- I can't believe it's not in the reports. It's got to be
there."

Picard smiled thinly. "We'll miss you, Ward. I'll miss you. But I
understand, and if there's anything I could do. . . ."

Ward stumbled through a request for a letter of recommendation; he didn't
seem to believe he would get one. After Ward left, Picard brought up the
official reports Deanna had made. When he found the relevant reports, he
asked for the log entries associated with them.

It took an hour for him to finish reviewing, and another half-hour and two
cups of tea to regain composure. Fifteen minutes to compose a letter of
recommendation for Ward. Another fifteen minutes for mulling over the anger
in Deanna's voice, the conviction, the strength coming through well and the
hints of fear in her cautious wording of her entry concerning Ward's
actions. No decision made carelessly, no leaping to conclusions -- she'd
honestly searched her way to her solutions with hardly a faltering sentence.

She was a credit to him in any way he regarded her. He wanted to issue a
commendation, decorate her somehow for the bravery she showed in walking the
tightrope between duty, orders, love, loyalty, and principles. But official
awards wouldn't be feasible, with Jellico's involvement and his ability to
question whether she honestly deserved it, and one didn't give awards for
strength of character anyway.

In the end, he continued to delve into the reports in the interest of being
thorough. After missing lunch, putting off someone who wished to speak with
him, and logging his assessment of her conduct, he replicated salad, his
usual choice when not hungry. He chewed greens and stared at stars, closer
to understanding why his wife sat with empty eyes until spoken to and
refused to discuss anything that had happened during his convalescence.

Starfleet's generosity with leave made more sense all the time. He pondered
taking Deanna home, allowing someone else to command his ship while he took
care of her, but that seemed wrong, given how she had continued in command
in spite of health risks until he returned to duty. Sighing, he discarded
his plate and summoned Lieutenant Sherman to let her know he had time for
her now.

~^~^~^~^~

Geordi returned after two days, apologizing for not showing up, blaming work
and wanting a more polished version of his story, and grinning when he found
out Deanna had a next draft of her own.

"It's not so good," she said as they traded padds.

"We'll see," he said, setting aside his raktajino. "I did some serious
editing; let me know how you like it now." The padd came to life at the
touch of the power toggle. He took the time to switch to black text on white
screen before beginning to read. He'd been looking forward to this; after
three days of hearing her hesitant commentary on his work, he was eager to
see her attempt.

*The house is too quiet now. She believes it is her fault.

Her mother has no time for her. Only time for the ghost of her husband, who
seems to remain with them in the six rooms that were once filled with
laughter every day. Mother drifts now with sadness in her face, and even
though she smiles when she sees her daughter, it's obvious that the ghost
has all of her attention.

Sandra is only seven, and it is not fair, she thinks, that she has no father
and half a mother. The other half of her mother, the happy part, went away
too. There is school to keep her busy. The routine they returned to after
the funeral, with holes where her father's presence had been. Sandra had
tried to sing at breakfast, the same song her father always started and her
mother always followed in a round, until one of them broke the pattern by
laughing. Her mother had instructed her to be silent instead of joining her.
She didn't feel like singing today, she said, and Sandra tried not to cry,
because her mother always cried now whenever she did.

Their cousins appear and disappear at irregular intervals, all expressing
concerns for Sandra, who feels that it isn't something she needs -- why
aren't they concerned about Mother? Since it's Mother who stares at nothing
for minutes at a time and doesn't always hear the first time Sandra calls.

Sandra thinks about these things in school, where her mother can't see her
tears. The teacher is worried now, too; it shows in his face. He asks
questions, she shakes her head and refuses to speak, until he mentions
calling her mother. She tells him she misses her father and he is sad. Talk
to your mother, he says, and Sandra nods. It's what will end the
conversation.

Her mother waits for her at home. When she comes into the house, her mother
hugs her and cries.

I remind her of him, Sandra thinks. It is my fault.

Six weeks after her father's funeral, she packs a few things in a bag and
waits for her mother to fall asleep. By the middle of the following day, she
is in the next town and examining shuttle schedules.*

Geordi stared at the screen, unable to read further.

"It's not me."

He looked up at Deanna, who leaned back against her pile of pillows at the
end of the couch, arms resting on her belly, the padd with his story in
hand.

"I thought about running away," she continued, lowering the padd face down
to see him better. "But I never did. I used it as a beginning but I'm making
up the rest."

"Oh." He reached for his cup, which sat not far away on the coffee table. "I
think it's good."

She didn't smile. "You don't see anything wrong with it?"

"Well, no. I'm not sure what I should see wrong, I guess."

Deanna twisted, reaching for her glass, which sat on the end table. "The pro
blem I'm having is that I read wonderful fiction, I think I can do the same
and that have a great story to tell, yet find it difficult to put what's in
my head into words in an effective manner, as other writers have done.
That's not exactly what I hoped it would be. In my mind, I have a picture of
the mother, the daughter, the house, and the story as it's written doesn't
convey that."

"I guess so. If we even knew what species -- I'm imagining you and your
mother, because you wrote it. But if you sent this to an editor he wouldn't
have that knowledge of you, and so. . . . Well, maybe that's a good thing.
He could imagine for himself what the characters look like."

"Did you finish reading?"

"Uh, no. Sorry. I'll bet you hadn't either."

"You were anxious. I thought I should allay that anxiety." She smiled and
went back to reading, raising her tea to her lips.

When he got to the end of the text -- she'd left the story unfinished, and
even stopped in mid-sentence -- he looked up. Since she still read he sipped
raktajino and started over at the top, trying to remember his handful of
literature classes from years ago.

"It's different," she said at last. "I like that you've moved the
identification of the characters to the beginning. I like how you put a lot
of the information into dialogue. But do you think they need to go into such
detail?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, most of your audience will be familiar with Starfleet and starships
already. And how important is it for the reader to know every detail of
repairing an engine if the story isn't about the fact that they're repairing
an engine?"

"Good point." He passed her story back to her. "About this -- you're not
finished. I did want to see what happened next. Is the ghost real?"

"I didn't mean him to be. Why?"

"Well, the way it's set up -- I kept expecting an actual ghost. It's
fiction, it could be a ghost story." He took back his padd. "And I think I
need to know if it's set on Earth, or somewhere else. Plus where on the
planet it's taking place -- plus, I'm not sure what kind of house I should
be imagining."

"So, the setting is missing." She shifted uncomfortably against her
cushions. "What do you think I should do to put it in?"

"You could describe the house."

"I don't know. It seemed so uninteresting. I don't care about houses." She
fingered the end of her braid, where it lay against the front of her gray
house dress.

"But I can't tell if it's a bungalow or a mansion, or a hole in the
ground -- the planet it's on would help. But then some readers wouldn't
necessarily know from that alone what the house should look like." He
thought about stories he'd read, especially lately. "Well, how about if you
describe the child as she moves around the house? You could describe her
surroundings indirectly, in terms of what she's doing."

Deanna smiled. "That's a very good idea. I'll try that. It's not as easy as
it looks, I'm afraid."

"Anything else on mine you noticed?"

She winced and dropped her gaze. "Well. . . ."

"Come on."

"It's almost too detailed in some of the descriptions of the rooms. And I
don't think you need to describe dialogue so much." She scrolled down the
padd while she spoke. "Everyone is growling and laughing while they talk.
Have you ever heard someone growl while talking?"

"Ah. . . okay. I see that. You did the same thing, though, in the
conversation between the child and her aunt."

She smiled, though it seemed forced. "Yes. I intend to edit, of course."

"Sure. Part of the process." Geordi thought about the editing he'd done on
the first few chapters of his and tried not to feel the frustration of
working that hard and receiving still more reports of flaws.

Geordi helped her up as before -- it was becoming part of the ritual of his
visits -- and after some brief discussion about the state of the ship and
crew, he excused himself. Deanna wasn't doing well. After three visits he
could see a pattern. She would talk about his duties, his concerns, but not
hers. Any mention of the captain and she changed the subject quickly. He
worried, but couldn't see what he could do other than continue to visit.

~^~^~^~^~

Picard returned to the bridge after seeing off his former second officer's
family to find his temporary first officer arranging guest quarters for
ambassadors. Geordi relinquished the center seat, taking his padd with him.
"You're here late, sir," he commented. His fingers worked the padd as he
spoke. "It's beta shift."

"Where is Mendez?"

At last, Geordi looked up. "I let him go. He asked for a few hours' leave.
It's fine by me, we're docked and I have quarters to assign. deLio's in a
meeting with security staff, and I put Greenman on beta shift ops, but since
we're docked she went to do systems checks and maintenance. Are you all
right, sir?"

Picard nodded, though he felt hollow and tired. "How are the arrangements?
Have we started boarding?"

"No. Our first ambassadors will come aboard first thing in the morning. We
discussed that in the staff meeting. . . . Sir?"

"There's a reason we're on transportation duty," Picard said, smiling
grimly. "I remember now, Geordi. Don't look like that."

The frown lines across Geordi's forehead deepened. Mouth set, he studied the
padd in his hands, his expression indicating that he wasn't seeing it. "I'll
miss Ward. I understand why he wanted to go. Cecily didn't want to stay,
either."

"I wasn't aware Commander Troi made it that difficult for the crew in my
absence." He regretted the words the instant Geordi's jaw dropped.
Considering the situation carefully, he imagined he had another first
officer entirely, one who had no ties to him and no feelings to hurt. "In
your opinion, was Jellico's attempt to court-martial her warranted?"

"I wasn't really involved." Geordi busied himself with the padd as though
room assignments took more work than calculating matter-antimatter ratios.
"Wasn't on the bridge much."

"Mr. LaForge."

Subtle reproach brought Geordi's eyes up from his work. Turning slightly in
his chair, the newly-promoted commander considered his response. "Jellico
was his usual self. The commander did the best she could under the
circumstances. She was in an impossible situation, Captain."

"I gathered as much."

"She hasn't said anything to you about it?"

"I want to hear what others have to say. As difficult as impartiality is, it
remains my duty to see that this ship and crew are seen to properly, and
that orders are obeyed. And that orders given in my absence are neither
unreasonable nor unwarranted. I've been reviewing her reports, and Ward's.
He hasn't said much but it's obvious the two of them disagreed and it caused
a rift."

Geordi glanced around the empty bridge. "It was more than that."

Picard waited. One of the things marriage had taught him -- a silence,
appropriately applied, would elicit a more honest response than if he asked
a question that might lead conversation away along distracting channels.

"When deLio and Greenman left, and Ward and Deanna were at odds, it felt
like -- " Geordi hesitated, mouth open, for a few seconds. "Everything was
coming apart. She felt betrayed, and that they'd betrayed you, because she
knew -- we all knew -- you wouldn't have wanted them to leave that way. But
she had to remain in command. It was like she had to fight against her
instincts, like she wanted to play the counselor and bring everyone together
again, yet she had to be first officer instead. I've never seen her that
angry on duty."

The hollowness intensified. Chest aching, Picard studied the main viewer's
static view of the stars and wished for answers, even though he wasn't sure
of the questions any more. "Thank you, Geordi.  I'll see you in the morning.
We should greet our guests together, I think."

"You're welcome, sir. Sleep well."

At the top of the bridge, Picard glanced back. Geordi had already returned
to the center seat and bent to his arrangements. The bridge would be
different again soon, after the final decision regarding a new second
officer had been made. Once the ship was under way and heading for Babel, he
would ask Geordi in to speak with him and Deanna, who should be included in
the discussion of who to promote.

It was like watching children move away from home, he reflected in the lift.
But Ward leaving under a cloud of resentment didn't sit well with him.

~^~^~^~^~

The following morning, Picard met Geordi at the airlock connecting the ship
to the station via a long causeway. "Just in time," the former engineer
exclaimed, shoulders losing some tension.

Before Picard could answer, a Vulcan strode out of the causeway followed by
her entourage, and diplomacy ensued. The Rigellians, the Deltans, the
Hebrideans -- he kept track but focused on the greetings, nodding and
smiling, falling into the role of courteous host as easily as breathing. The
handful of lieutenants Geordi had drafted for escort duty came and went,
taking people to quarters and returning.

Then the one representative he'd wondered about, even felt a mild anxiety
over seeing again, emerged from the airlock. The Krios-Valtese delegation
was listed among the attendees. After Krios and Valt Minor had united they
had jointly applied for Federation membership. He knew Kamala was
responsible for both events. After her husband died in a terrorist attack,
she had risen to the occasion and won allies, first on Valt, then with the
Kriosian government. These things had been part of the vast flow of news
crisscrossing the Federation network, brought to his attention by filters
he'd set long ago to catch references to missions in which he'd played a
part. That Kamala had specifically requested to be taken to Babel aboard the
*Enterprise* had been noted in the briefing from Command.

He thought he was ready for this meeting until she stepped around what must
be a bodyguard and clasped his hand in greeting. "Hello, Captain. What a
pleasure to meet you again."

She wore white leggings under a knee-length paneled skirt hemmed in green.
The long-sleeved white smock wasn't loose enough to conceal anything. Her
hair was different, though still swept up on her head; now that he had seen
hair being done every morning, he could tell that Kamala must have had help
with her elaborate curls and rolls.

"Welcome aboard." Picard bowed over her hand, keenly aware of the stares of
the three men with her. "This is Commander LaForge, my first officer."

Her gaze went to Geordi, who greeted her with bravado. She nodded and
reached for his hand as well. "Do we know our destination yet?" she asked,
glancing from Geordi to Picard and back, including them both in the
question.

"Not yet, but soon. After we pick up the remainder of the delegates at
Starbase 213." Geordi checked his padd. "Lieutenant Wills will escort you to
your quarters. Deck six, number twenty-four. If you require alterations to
your rooms, please don't hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you, Commander." Kamala's smile warmed considerably as she met
Picard's gaze directly. "I look forward to the journey. I have never been to
a Babel conference before."

"There haven't been many," Picard said. "Only when it's suspected that
diplomatic proceedings may be sabotaged, and in the case of Larios, there
are likely many in the Randra Alliance who would wish to do so. I hope you
will join us for the reception tomorrow evening, after our visit to Starbase
213."

"We shall certainly attend, thank you." Bowing her head, Kamala followed
Picard's gesture and led her entourage after the lieutenant without looking
back.

"Wow," Geordi muttered. "She hasn't changed much."

She hadn't. Picard said nothing, simply turned to greet the next ambassador
and tried to quell the nervousness writhing in the pit of his stomach.
Putting the warmth of her smile out of his head proved difficult.

~^~^~^~^~



--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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