Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: Sat, 31 Jan 2004 23:35:10 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: 4/5
Archive: ASC, BLTS, www.zakhad.com

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





"Are you sure about this?" Lieutenant Fanchon asked.

Geordi didn't look back at her. "Don't worry about it. I saw her this
morning, to discuss who's going to fill the second officer's position.
You've met the commander, haven't you?"

"Yes, briefly, when I came aboard. . . it just seems intrusive, I don't
know, you said you -- "

"It's all right, Karen." He tapped the annunciator. When the door opened, he
transferred the plate of brownies to the other hand and held up the padd as
he entered. "I got your story. Thanks for sending it ahead of time. This is
Lieutenant Fanchon -- she's writing adventure stories, too."

Deanna looked up from the brownies to his face, then beyond him at Fanchon.
"Hello, Karen. Come in, please." From the floor alongside the couch, Fidele
thumped his tail and panted.

"Mr. LaForge said you wouldn't mind," Karen said timidly, stopping just
inside the door.

"Don't worry about the dog. He's friendly." Geordi dragged chairs around,
putting the coffee table between them. "How you feeling today? I heard you
had a visit from sickbay last night."

"Don't worry about that. The doctor said I would be fine, I just need to
rest more. Please excuse me if I don't move around. Are you writing a book,
too, Karen? I'm not as prolific as Geordi -- he had seven chapters when he
first showed me his work, and he's added three more." Deanna struggled to
sit up until he raised the plate of brownies within her reach; she took two,
and when he went to the replicator, she requested milk. Fidele put his head
down and did a remarkable imitation of a sleeping animal.

Karen seemed to lose her trepidation after they'd settled in to read, with
beverages close at hand and mouths full of brownie. She read Deanna's story
first, since Geordi had already seen it and Deanna hadn't received his final
chapters until now. Karen's story, Geordi realized, wasn't as polished as
either his or Deanna's.

"This is amazing," Karen exclaimed at last. "I've never read a story where
someone became a spy against their will. And I've never read a description
of a Romulan ship that's so vivid -- the sounds, the odors -- it's almost
like you were actually there."

Geordi and Deanna exchanged a glance. "Thank you, Karen," Deanna said.

"I feel so ordinary," Karen said, smiling nervously. "I only took a
mildly-interesting away team mission and expanded on it."

"It's okay. Everyone has to start somewhere, and even mundane situations can
be interesting." Geordi held up her padd. "This isn't bad at all. A little
confusing in the part where you describe where everyone goes after the
beam-down -- I thought for a minute the second officer had gone into the
trees, and I couldn't figure out who was saying what for a few lines. But I
think it's better than my first draft."

"Trade around?" Deanna held out Geordi's padd to Karen. "I don't know if
you'll catch up -- "

"Mr. LaForge gave me a copy of his yesterday afternoon, when he invited me,"
Karen said. "I read most of it last night. It's just the last bit I haven't
seen."

After they'd all had a chance to see each other's work, and to empty the
brownie plate, Deanna handed Karen's padd back to her and brushed crumbs
from her black tunic. "I think it's a good start, Karen."

"But the first paragraph isn't necessary," Geordi said. "Starting in the
second would put the reader in the middle of the action."

Karen gaped momentarily. "Okay. . . ."

"We're used to being up front about our work, Karen. He doesn't mean to be
harsh," Deanna said, re-tying the end of her braid.  "Please don't take it
personally."

"Yeah, you should have seen the changes she suggested. But you know, when I
took her advice, the story turned out much better? Especially when it comes
to the interactions between the characters." Geordi took his padd from the
coffee table. "Deanna, I thought the descriptions in yours were excellent.
Is that really how you spell the Romulan words, though? Because I've read
other stories using the same words, and I think they were spelled
differently."

"I was working from memory and how the words were spoken. And I'm using the
Standard alphabet, not Romulan -- nothing I do will be spelled 'correctly.'
I'm wondering if the dialogue sounds stilted?"

Karen sipped her hot tea, wide-eyed, looking from one of them to the other
while they discussed the finer points of authenticity in alien language
rendered into Standard. Then Deanna began to pick away at the final
chapters, asking where characters had gone and why suddenly a Defiant-class
vessel had appeared when his stated setting was several years before the
first vessel of that class had gone into service.  She found two
unattributed and ambiguous lines of dialogue, a mis-used word, and corrected
the behavior of a Vulcan ensign. By the time they turned back to discussion
of Karen's story, the lieutenant seemed more at ease with their analysis,
even offered a few attempts at constructive remarks about their stories.

An hour flew by too quickly. Karen noted the time in dismay and departed,
after thanking them profusely and promising to return in two days; she'd
have a chance to edit since the next day was her day off.

"I have a meeting with the rest of the senior staff," Geordi said. "Anything
I can get you before I leave?"

"Help me up?"

As usual. He gripped her hands and pulled. There was a difference in her
movements now; she had slowed down, and was careful not to bend or twist.
Once on her feet, she didn't let go of his fingers. "Thank you for bringing
her. She's going to be a good addition -- I suppose we have a writing group
now."

"I thought it would be interesting to have someone else's opinion. She's
very serious about it, too."

Deanna nodded, her eyes soft and affectionate. "I've enjoyed our time
together. When I first started it wasn't my intent to keep writing.
Actually. . . the story I was sharing with you wasn't something I wrote
recently." She let go of his hands finally and sidled around the coffee
table. "I'm afraid I cheated. I wrote that when I was eighteen. Including
the very depressing bit at the end."

Geordi shrugged. "I'm sorry to hear that. Not about when you wrote it, that
you were so. . . ."

"Depressed. It's not uncommon for children who have suffered an early loss
to feel despair. And it isn't terribly unusual for an eighteen-year-old to
believe she's the only one who's ever felt such angst." Deanna smiled again
as she turned for the bedroom door. "But you got me to write for the first
time in years, and I've enjoyed that quite a lot."

While she was gone, he picked up empty dishes. Fidele sat up and stared at
the door she'd gone through.

"You're on watch, aren't you?" Geordi asked softly.

"I must monitor Deanna's condition." The dog's head pivoted on its neck, not
quite naturally. That sort of thing never happened around people who did not
know he was an android.

"Good. I'm glad you're here."

"Yves was most disappointed." Fidele usually waited outside the school while
Yves played and learned his letters.

Deanna returned, combing out her hair with her fingers, and he noted a
distance in her eyes until she looked directly at him and her smile
returned. "Tomorrow?" she asked, startling him out of his study. One of her
eyebrows twitched upward.

"Tomorrow."

He departed, thinking about the afternoon's schedule and the possibility of
time for editing. The Rigellians had put in a special request for a sand
bath, and the Vulcans were reporting -- one could hardly accuse them of
complaining, that would imply emotion -- that they would be more comfortable
if the gravity were stronger in their quarters. Though the urge to simply
tinker with the artificial gravity himself remained, it wasn't strong enough
to sway him from delegating the task and returning to other concerns.

~^~^~^~^~^~

Picard went himself to get Yves after school let out. It was the first time
in months, and Yves' excitement at finding Papa waiting for him instead of
Natalia or Guinan made the walk home an adventure. He bounced around,
zigzagged down the corridor, and kept racing back to grab Papa's hand.

"Are we goin' to hollowdeck, Papa? Is Mama coming?"

"We're going home. Mama doesn't feel well."

Yves halted, face contorted in worry, or fear, or frustration -- probably
all three. "Should we get doctoe?"

"No, she's already talked to the doctor. He told her to stay home and be
quiet."

"We should get her a pwesent. Make her feel bettoe.  I wike pwesents," Yves
cried cheerfully, skipping ahead a few leaps. "What we getting her?"

"What do you think we should get her?"

"A kitty!"

"Cats don't like dogs, and we have Fidele. Think of something that isn't an
animal."

"A gween dwess?"

"She has a lot of dresses."

"Chocwatt!"

"We always get her that. Let's try something different this time."

The lift opened in front of them. Yves ran through a list of his favorite
toys and Picard questioned whether that would be something Deanna would
really like. Finally, as the doors opened on the appropriate deck, Yves
struck upon flowers and thought it not at all strange that they conveniently
arrived at the entrance to the arboretum seconds after the decision was
made.

They moved through the miniature ecosystems, passing from room to room full
of flora of every shape and size. More careful guidance disguised as
suggestions led Yves to pick from the plants with the most blossoms, and
only two flowers apiece.

"Careful," Picard said as Yves reached for a spray of yellow flowers and
nearly tipped over into the flower bed. He heard a step and turned, only to
find himself gaping at Kamala.

"Good afternoon," she murmured, tucking her hands in pockets in the front of
her wrap. The gray overtunic might have been mistaken for a blanket, if one
didn't notice that it hung over her shoulders too artfully. "I'm surprised
to see you here."

"We picking fowers," Yves said. "For Mama."

"A surprise," Jean-Luc added. "This is my son, Yves."

Kamala's face lit up then softened as she leaned in to look him in the eye.
"Hello, Yves. I'm Kamala. Those are beautiful flowers. You love your mama
very much, I can tell."

Yves stared, tongue-tied, and ducked his head, hiding behind the mass of
pink, yellow and white blossoms, peering between them.

"I've been coming here every day. It helps me," she said, sidling toward a
bench in a corner. "It's very peaceful here."

"I know that with Betazoids there's an inhibitor that can help filter out
telepathic noise. You might ask our doctor if there's something similar that
might help you, if you're finding being aboard the ship with all these alien
delegates too overwhelming."

Kamala's lips formed a tiny O for a few seconds. "Thank you. I believe I'll
do that." She glanced at Yves again; this time he had the impression she
found the child's presence upsetting. "I'll see you later, I hope, Captain.
I'm glad to have met you, Yves." She strode toward the bench. Taking the
hint, Picard led his son back through the arboretum.

In the lift, Yves looked up at him. "Who was da lady?"

"She's one of our guests. I told you we had a lot of guests aboard."

"I don' like her." Wrinkling his nose, Yves studied the flowers.

"Why not?"

Yves shrugged and clutched his bouquet close to his chest.

When they presented the flowers to Deanna, she thanked Yves profusely. He
stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek. "You pwettier than the odder lady,
Mama."

Deanna raised her eyebrows at this. "Other lady?"

"Someone we met in the arboretum." Picard glanced down at Fidele, lying on
the floor alongside the couch, Deanna's appointed guardian. "Go with Yves.
Help him pick out a shirt. He managed to spill juice on himself at snack
time."

"I can do it," Yves protested, running for his room. Fidele trotted after
him.

Picard settled on the coffee table carefully, putting himself within arm's
length. "Need anything? A vase, perhaps?"

"Yes, a vase would be good." Her smile dwindled. "Are you all right?"

"The lady in question was Kamala. She's part of the Krios-Valtese
delegation."

"I see. You have mixed feelings about her presence."

He nodded. "You remember her?"

"Not directly. I remember hearing about her. I wasn't aboard. I do remember
your moods following that mission, since I returned just a few days after
she left the ship. Not precisely an elephant, but not quite a swan?"

Frowning, he put a hand on her abdomen, absently stroking it through her
dress. "It was not possible for her to be either, really. She went to Valt
to marry someone else."

"As I recall, Beverly was quite upset over it." Deanna caught his hand, and
thus his attention. "You were upset as well but for different reasons. She
must have been difficult to resist."

Nothing safe to say about that. He sighed.

"She imprinted on you," Deanna murmured. "Which explains how she managed, in
a male-dominated society, to make such progress in so little time. You're
surprised?"

"You know more about Krios-Valt than I expected."

"Empathic mesomorphs are a curiosity to Betazoid researchers. Since
Krios-Valt is now a Federation member, there have been quite a few Betazoids
studying the phenomena. It's thought that mesomorphs and their history would
give us a glimpse into our own possible origins as telepaths -- it could be
that Betazoids began in a similar way, with sensitivity as a rare mutation
that gradually became more common. One of Mother's friends sponsors such
research." She passed him the flowers and pushed herself into a closer
approximation of a sitting position.

"I was wondering how similar her empathy would be to yours. If there were
any. . . ramifications." Rising, he went to the replicator. Putting the
flowers in water gave him a reason to avoid her eyes. This was more
difficult than he would have expected; the gap in communication between them
and the memory of how attractive Kamala had been to him seemed to be a
volatile combination. But thinking about it would lead to emotional turmoil
Deanna did not need to suffer, so he thought instead about Deanna, smiling,
happy, not pregnant, not suffering, in uniform, at his side on a mission.

"You're wondering if you were bonded to her in a way similar to our bond,"
Deanna said, continuing the conversation he had started, and now wished
would end. "The female empathic mesomorph's ability is limited to that
period of time before she bonds. After, she is less empathic -- less
malleable. Bonding is less a matter of permanent connection than it is of
personality development. Her base personality was set when she bonded with
you. At that time, she was your perfect mate. I suspect that since then she
has adapted to her new life, changed in subtle ways as we all do with age."

He placed the flowers on the coffee table and stood back, crossing his arms.
"I see. Would you like to meet her? She expressed interest in an
introduction."

Deanna thought about it. "That might be interesting. Tea, perhaps? I don't
know if I could manage dinner."

"I'll see if she can come tomorrow afternoon."

"At fourteen hundred. The writing group will be here at fifteen hundred."

He smiled, resisting the temptation to ask if he could read her work. He'd
wait until she offered it. "You're becoming quite involved in this
endeavor."

"I enjoy the company, and Geordi's making such progress on his novel." She
practically beamed thinking about it. "And creative writing is more
involving than I expected it would be."

"Perhaps you'll be publishing something more than psychological papers?"

She blushed. "Probably not. It's fun to write, that's all." She looked down
at her belly, extending her foot and raising her leg experimentally. "It
takes my mind off how huge I am and how frustrating this is."

"Good. Well, I should get back to my duties, minimal though they are at the
moment. Can I get you anything? Where is that boy?" He listened for a
moment. No sound from Yves' bedroom, which couldn't mean anything good.
"Yves!"

A moment later, Yves emerged, red-faced and shirtless. "Papa. . . ."

"Where's your shirt?"

"I can't," Yves wailed, flinging up his arms. "I can't I can't I can't!"

When he went in the bedroom, Picard found shirts everywhere, draped over the
edge of the drawer, on the bed, on the floor. Yves snatched one up and tried
to put his arm through the sleeve with limited success. Evidently he'd lost
the ability to put on his own shirt for some reason.

Helping his son put on a shirt was easy. Convincing him to pick up all the
others and put them away, not so easy. It was a good thing the mission
wasn't dependant on his presence.

~^~^~^~^~^~

The annunciator, bothersome thing, went off in the middle of the editing of
a battle scene. Geordi put aside the padd. "Come in."

The captain strode into the first officer's office. "Geordi," he exclaimed,
passing the chair and coming up to stand at the end of the desk. "I just
wanted to stop in and thank you."

"Sir?" Too late now to jump to his feet and come to attention. It left him
in the uncomfortable position of looking up at his superior officer. He
tried to go about it casually.

"Deanna mentioned you've formed a writing group."

He'd had no idea Deanna had even mentioned his visits, and though he had
nothing to feel guilty about, suddenly he was anxious -- but the captain
continued speaking, not noticing his reaction.

"You're one of the few who have stopped in during the day, and it's been
difficult for her to be restricted to quarters."

"Yes," Geordi managed. "It helps to have someone to look at it and give an
objective opinion. Her story's pretty good -- better than mine, actually."

"Well, I'll look forward to seeing the results. If you'll allow me to read
it, that is." Picard smiled, glanced around again. "I haven't been in this
office very often. It's small, isn't it?"

"I don't think she spent much time in here. I don't either, only when I have
administrative work to do."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Picard tugged his jacket as he stood and
headed for the door. "Carry on."

Geordi realized only after the captain was gone that it was the first time
in weeks that he'd seen Picard actually smiling out of happiness. His hunch
had been correct. Helping her had helped the captain. Grinning, he went back
to figuring out the logistics of his fictional alien vessel and how it would
operate. He would have to quit in a short while to make the rounds and
ensure the comfort of diplomats, but in the meantime, Eliadri and her crew
were in danger.

~^~^~^~^~^~

"Your son is in school," Kamala said tentatively as they went along the
corridor.

Picard nodded and sidled right another step. She seemed to be edging closer
as they walked.

Kamala hesitated, touching his arm. "You are constantly withdrawing from
me."

"I told you, I have -- "

"An empathic wife, yes. But you are confident enough that you take me to
meet her, so it is likely she will understand more about both of us than
either would like."

"I am not worried about what she will understand about me." He met her gaze
and took another step away from her.

Kamala, for a moment, hovered in wide-eyed incredulity. She nodded finally.
"I do not wish to cause misunderstanding, Captain. Between us, or between
you and your wife."

"Why did you ask to be transported to Babel on this ship?"

"Is it wrong to wish to see an old friend again?"

"Of course not. I only wished clarification." Picard started forward again.
It hadn't clarified anything, really, but he'd tried.

"You weren't uneasy before," she mused aloud as she followed. "You are not
anxious about my meeting her. But you are anxious, and I do not wish to -- "

"She isn't well, and she's very sensitive to the emotions of others."

Kamala caught up and matched his stride, her brow wrinkling. "You are
concerned. . . about what she will sense from me? I shall be calm, Captain."

He had almost corrected her, offered her the use of his name, on a few
occasions. Now it occurred to him that perhaps not doing so would work in
his favor. "Here we are," he exclaimed, turning toward the door.

Deanna was where he had left her, propped up on one end of the couch. As he
came in she dropped her hand from where she'd been smoothing her dress
around her. The tea service already waited on the low table, and chairs
pulled around in a semi-circle betrayed that she'd been up and fussing when
she should have rested.

"This is my wife, Deanna Troi. Kamala, Chancellor of Krios-Valt. Please,
make yourself comfortable."

Kamala took a chair that faced Deanna over the table. Her bright yellow and
white clothing clashed with Deanna's topaz. "Good afternoon. What a pleasure
to finally meet you." Picard sat on the couch and reached for the teapot.

"And a pleasure to meet you as well. Please excuse my immobility; the
doctor's ordered me to rest as much as possible. Thank you, Jean." She gave
him a bright smile as he handed her a cup of herb tea, sweetened lightly.

"How would you like your tea?" he asked Kamala.

"I've never had this sort of tea before. As you like it would be fine." She
gazed into the cup he finally handed her. "This smells very different from
Earl Grey."

"Chamomile. It's better for Deanna."

"You're very lucky," Kamala said suddenly, a little wistful. She gazed at
Deanna's bulging midriff. "It's unlikely that I will ever have children. I'm
much too involved in our government, and there is no sign that this will
change in the near future. And Valt custom dictates that I cannot remarry."

"I'm sorry," Deanna said softly.

"I am reconciled to it. I leave a legacy for all Kriosian and Valtese
children -- peace and prosperity." But the sentiment sounded hollow, as
though she had repeated it too often without believing it.

"I'm surprised -- no Gruna?" Picard smiled, hoping to lighten the tone of
the conversation.

"I persuaded him I would come to no harm aboard your ship. I informed him
that the computer watched over all of us, and that he should remain with
your security officer, deLio. They seem to have become friends. He does not
have many of those." Though she smiled, the statement made her as sad as her
previous one about children.

"You are very lonely," Deanna said. Horrified, Picard felt his back stiffen
and barely caught himself before spilling his tea. Deanna eyed him briefly.

"The need for security does that. It is necessary." Kamala regarded Deanna
with warmth in kind, her sympathy trebling. "You are also lonely."

"Temporarily. When I resume my duties as first officer, after the baby is a
few months old, everything will be back to normal for me. I'm accustomed to
seeing many people every day, the majority of which I consider friends. This
enforced solitude is for my health's sake." She sipped chamomile and
inclined her head toward her guest. "Jean-Luc spoke of your position and
your intelligence, but not your beauty. Perhaps he did not wish to make me
jealous." She glanced sidelong at him, a canny smile tugging at her lips.

"I left that out so that you could tease me about it, of course," he
replied, still trying to escape into humor.

Kamala laughed aloud, Deanna smiled brilliantly, and though he didn't care
for Deanna's assessment, he understood she was only teasing and the end
result was her amusement. Suddenly both women fell silent and sober. Deanna
watched him carefully, as if not knowing what to expect.

"She is beautiful, by the way," he said, reaching for his wife's hand.
"Though I find that I notice such details less often when you are around."

She dimpled, mildly embarrassed and quite pleased, then started to laugh,
bringing her other hand to her mouth. "You've gotten so much better at this.
That was true, and an artful sidestep around -- Jean, I'm sorry. It's only
that you've brought another empath in, and we can't deny what we sense.
Would you like something to eat, Kamala?"

He knew her point was that Kamala could sense his emotions as well as she.
It was only as Deanna shifted conversation away, to comparing Betazoid and
Kriosian mental disciplines, that he recognized how gently she had reminded
him, how quickly she recovered the discussion and moved on, and why she must
have done it. He wondered if Deanna had sensed anything of his reaction when
Kamala had arrived aboard the *Enterprise.* He reached for the teapot to
occupy himself in refilling their cups. When he glanced up at their faces,
he saw that both had gone quiet for a moment and looked at him, but looked
away again with polite smiles.

"Thank you." He directed it to both of them and put his hand over Deanna's
where she rested it on her thigh. "For pretending you don't sense anything."

"Not everything is important enough to address," Kamala said, quickly
raising her cup and not quite hiding her mischievous smile.

"Damned empaths," he muttered, rolling his eyes. He smiled as they chuckled
at his mock-dismay and switched subjects again.

~^~^~^~^~^~


--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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