Forwarded by the ASC-VSO 
Posted: 23 Feb 2004 04:14:00 -0800  
In: alt.startrek.creative 
From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) 
 

Title: Echoes
Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net)
Series: TNG
Part: 152/?
Rating: R (violence and language)
Codes: P/C, D/f
Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes
make any money from writing this.
FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection",
but pre-"Nemesis".
Feedback is welcome. 


Chapter 152

	Despite himself, Worf was impressed.

	He had never thought Ballorians to be much more than adequate
Starfleet officers; they were to rigidly attuned to the specifics of
rules and regulations to see behind them, to understand the spirit -
as opposed to the letter - of the laws that structured Starfleet and
the Federation. For the most part, they seemed to have little internal
inspiration, doing what was necessary - according to the requirements
- but little more, never finding in themselves the personal motivation
that marked them in the eyes of their superiors as prime candidates
for promotion - or the esprit de corps that would mark in the eyes of
their compatriots.

	And so to find G'Sef, the ship's Ballorian transporter chief,
hurriedly dictating notes about the readouts from his transporter
console as well as rapidly describing the play of shimmering pink and
silver light before him as the Breen began their transport sequence,
astonished him - and impressed him.

	After all, Breen transport cycles had been observed - and documented,
albeit sketchily - for the last several decades, but no one had yet
been able to reverse engineer the process from those observations; for
G'Sef to try - perhaps even presume that he would succeed where no one
else had - spoke highly of the alien's faith in his knowledge and
abilities, his determination to give the Federation an upper hand in
their interactions with the unknown species - and, Worf conceded, of
G'Sef's personal drive.

	He glanced at the captain who was standing beside him before the
transporter console, but the man was oblivious to the minor miracle
playing out just behind him, his concentration fixed and absolute -
though whether it was on the display presenting itself on the
transport platform, the potential glories - or disasters - that these
negotiation could yield, or whether Picard was desperately
concentrating on trying not to notice the red-haired physician
standing on his other side, Worf didn't know.

	Most likely the former two, Worf told himself, reminding himself of
the man's dedication to his work, his near absolute denial of a
meaningful personal life; he would not allow himself to be distracted
by his personal feelings... even, perhaps, he added grimly, when he
should.

	A Klingon warrior could not always fight for the honor of the Empire,
he reminded himself; sometimes, he had to fight for some thing more
important.

	For some _one_.

	There was nothing wrong in having a personal relationship, he
admonished the two silently; it enhanced one's life; it gave life a
meaning, a depth, a reason, that nothing else, not even glory - not
even honor - could replace.

	And yet you both choose not to even try, he admonished the two senior
officers; what honor, what glory, could there be in blind resignation?

	But the people he knew, the physician and the captain that he had
come to know - and respect - would never yield to such resignation, he
told himself.

	Indeed, even now, even as they stood beside each other in the
transporter room, each intently focused on the platform, seemingly
unaware of the other beside them, they seemed keenly aware of the
other's presence, studiously keeping a distance between themselves,
bobbing and weaving in unconscious response to one another's
accidental approach, one occasionally brushing a dress uniform sleeve
against the other's arm, making slight adjustments of position as the
faint currents of air carried his cologne to her, and her perfume to
him...

	No, Worf decided, they had not yet abandoned the relationship - for
watching them, he found the scene no different from any other time
they had met in the transporter room to greet a visiting dignitary;
they had always played at this game, bobbing, dancing, their sleeves
and scents meeting and mingling, teasing and tormenting one another -
but always light-heartedly, joyfully, both silently playing at who
would dare to go further before they both had to don their
professional personas one more time - and become the Captain and the
Doctor once again.

	Today, however, there was no joy on either face - but neither was
there any trace of the pain that had marred both of their expressions
in the last few weeks, he conceded - though whether by sheer dint of
time and fatigue, or by some mutual consent to try - or not to try -
to resolve the situation, Worf didn't know.

	But the weariness that had blunted their animosity had taken its toll
on Picard's perspicacity as well, Worf thought - else he would have
noticed the transporter chief's unusual behavior - and complimented
the man on it.

	That the captain was preoccupied didn't absolve the Security chief of
that same obligation, however; he leaned toward the Ballorian.

	"I applaud your efforts, Mr. G'Sef. Although no one to date has been
able to reverse engineer the Breen transporter technology, I admire
your dedication in attempting to gather sufficient information to make
the same attempt."

	G'Sef smiled at Worf, knowing high praise from a Klingon when he
heard it - and shaking his head. "I won't take credit when it's not
due me, sir; I may understand these boards better than anyone else on
this ship - but I'm no engineer. And that's what it's going to take to
solve this riddle - someone who knows transporters and engineering."

	Worf affixed the Ballorian with a confused look. "Then...?"

	"I got a shift reading to the Lieutenant this evening," G'Sef replied
proudly.

	The Klingon frowned. "I was not aware that such opportunities
existed," he grumbled.

	"They didn't - until this morning," G'Sef explained. "Apparently Mr.
Data had some obligation - and Dr. Crusher started calling some of the
people who had volunteered," he said, gesturing with his head at
Beverly.

	"And you were selected?" Worf muttered.

	The Ballorian shook his head. "No. I wasn't even close to the top of
the list - but one of my staff was," he added. "When I heard about it,
I offered him two weeks of my shore leave to trade with me."

	Worf considered. "And he accepted?" he said at last - though the
disapproval was evident in his voice.

	"Grudgingly - but he had used up all his leave just before we left
Earth, and has nothing coming when we finally get back home. I'll
admit it was a little unfair," G'Sef conceded.

	"On the contrary," Worf replied, "it is an object lesson in the
conservation of resources. Better planning on his part would have
given him a stronger position," he concurred - then considered again.
"I will offer you three weeks of leave in exchange for your shift with
the lieutenant," he countered.

	G'Sef smiled - then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer - but I
have plenty of leave coming. And more importantly, I want to be the
one who tells her the specifications of the Breen transport cycle. If
that's not the challenge that helps her wake up, then nothing will,"
he insisted.

	Worf's expression tightened. "I appreciate your position," he replied
respectfully, then added, "Four weeks."

	G'Sef only grinned.

	"Mr. Worf," Picard interrupted, bowing his head at the two forms
beginning to materialize on the platform.

	Worf turned, his attention focused on the Breen bodies coalescing -
then glanced once more at G'Sef.

	"Five weeks," he mouthed silently.

	G'Sef's grin broadened, but he shook his head. Turning his attention
to the console before him, he let his fingers fly across the board,
then spoke. "Captain, I have confirmation from the Breen ship that
their transporters cycle is completed; the Breen ambassadors should be
materializing... now," he announced - then looked up to study, for the
first time, their enemy.

	The hardest part of having an enemy, G'Sef knew, was finding out they
weren't so different from you.

	It was easy to hate - and fear -  the mysterious beings in the black
body armor, with their almost undefeatable weapons, with their unknown
technology; it was easy to hate and fear something with a thousand
tentacles, or that breathed a nitrogen atmosphere, or that clattered
about in a chitinous exoskeleton.

	It was much harder to automatically hate the two beings standing on
the platform before them, both rather human in their appearance -
albeit with more planar faces, less hair, and both of unimpressive
physical stature - both dressed in rather unimpressive brown and gold
uniforms, and each carrying only a small bag that, according to his
Security scan, carried padds, a small book, and a few innocuous
instruments.

	Yet they had crippled the ship, G'Sef reminded himself; they had
killed some of her crew; they had kidnapped the Captain and the
lieutenant - almost killing her in the process, he added bitterly -
then stopped himself.

	They hadn't, he reminded himself sharply; the captain had been
explicit about that point in his announcement to the crew about the
forthcoming meeting; everything that had happened, every death, every
injury, every act of sabotage, had been the doing of their own people,
Federation members and Starfleet officers. Whatever supposition, rumor
and gossip had claimed about the Breen's involvement was simply that,
Picard had reminded them all: supposition, rumor and gossip. These
meeting would begin on an assumption of innocence - and with the hope
of a peaceful resolution for both races.

	The announcement had stilled much of the growing disquiet on the
ship, G'Sef thought, for above everything else, the crew held to the
certain knowledge that their captain would not lie to them.

	He would, of course, withhold the truth as decorum and politics
required, G'Sef reminded himself - but without a focal point for the
gossip-mongerers to grab onto, the rumors were varied and scattered,
ranging from conspiracy to madness to another invasion by parasitic
organisms - and each died a rapid death as other, newer and more
interesting events came to pass.

	Such as the presence of these two, G'Sef reminded himself, noting the
readouts from the scanners, hoping that the information they revealed
might help the lieutenant to put together some of the other pieces of
the puzzle and solve the mystery of the Breen transporters.

	He started to make a note about their physiology - then stopped, and
slowly raised his head.

	The Breen were still standing on the platform, unmoving - and one of
them was looking at him.

	Staring at him.

	Smiling.

	The row of razor sharp teeth glinted white and shiny in the light of
the transporter room, eerie and terrifying in the dazzling white
sharpness - but there was nothing of malice - or hunger, G'Sef thought
- in the expression behind them. Instead there was a peacefulness, a
gentleness, that the Ballorian had never thought to find in the eyes
of so reputedly brutal an enemy.

	I'll tell her about this too, he began to think - then felt a soft
touch at the back of his mind.

	_Have faith,_ a voice echoed through his thoughts, soft and
reassuring. _Faith and love. These, above all else, are what she
needs._

	G'Sef stared at the being, captivated by the expression, lost in the
comfort and certainty of the being's voiceless words - then blinked
and realized that somehow the two were already making their way down
from the platform, stepping toward the captain, Dr. Crusher and Cmdr.
Worf, the words of greeting already filling the room.

	He glanced around him, shaking his head to dismiss the sensation -
and the memory -  instantly chalking up the moment to... fatigue? he
wondered. Worry? Imagination?

	Whatever it was, he had other things to think about now - like
realigning the pattern buffers to prevent the Breen for wantonly using
their platform without their permission - though, he added, it would
stop them from beaming anyone to any other part of the ship if they
decided to do so.

	Maybe there was something in that alignment configuration the Breen
ahd provided, he mused to himself, his attention falling from the two
visitors and back to the console before him.

	Jemat smiled to himself - then turned to face Picard. "Captain," he
said quietly, extending his hand in the human fashion, "I am pleased
to see you. How are you feeling?" he added, an expression of
professional concern crossing his face.

	"_Outo_ Jemat," Picard answered, taking the proffered hand. "It
is..." He hesitated - but only slightly, as worry and experience
tempered that automatic response. "It is good to see you again," he
said after a fraction of a second's pause.

	Jemat smiled, then turned to his companion. "You are warned, Ferata;
the captain's hesitates to speak outside the truth. It is not good
that we are meeting again, for it is sorrow and pain that has brought
us to this point. But it is good in that this may be a beginning for
us all. Perhaps tomorrow he will be able to speak those words without
hesitation," he advised the being beside him, then turned back to
Picard. "Captain Picard, I am pleased to present Ferata, our
representative to your people for these discussions."

	The second Breen, slightly taller and heavier set than Jemat stepped
forward, extended his hand awkwardly and uncertainly - then withdrew
it, giving a half bow instead.

	Picard responded with a  half bow of his own - then looked at Jemat,
surprised. "Then you will not be at these discussions, _outo_?" he
asked.

	Jemat shook his head. "I am not a diplomat, Captain; I am _outo_ and
physician; I am here to see in what ways - if any - my people and our
medicine might help to heal Garave. Ferata, on the other hand, is
trained in the ways of a diplomat; I would hope that he can heal the
wounds between our people as well as I would like to heal Garave's
wounds," he said solemnly.

	Beverly stepped forward. "Garave?" she repeated, confused.

	Picard turned to her, the explanation on his lips - and his eyes met
hers.

	It was the first time he had looked directly into her eyes since the
day of that desperate and terrifying surgery, the first time he had
seen her since he had realized the awesome responsibility of her
field, of her career, of the life she had chosen for herself.

	The week had not been kind, he thought; her eye had sunk into the
depths of her exquisitely carved cheekbones, lost in darkening circles
of fatigue and worry - and loneliness, he knew; the planes of her face
had grown stark, haunting, paling from the ivory porcelain clarity to
a chilling, chalky grey, her lips colorless, raw from being chewed on
as she worried over a patient who was not recovering, who might never
recover - and grieved for a friendship she knew was lost forever.

	A friendship I destroyed, he reminded himself.

	I'm sorry, he thought to her. There were things I should have told,
things you needed to know...

	No, he stopped himself harshly. Those were only explanations,
justifications - excuses - for what I did. And didn't do.
	
	I should have told you - but I didn't - and now...

	Now, he knew with a certainty that tore at the very breath in his
lungs, now it was too late.

	For a moment, a wave of regret washed over him - but this wasn't the
time for regret - or for apologies, he reminded himself harshly; he
was a starship captain: he had duties to perform, obligations to
attend to; this was not the time or the place to give in to his
personal problems.

	There would be time enough for that later.

	Indeed, there would be the balance of a lifetime he could spend in
empty, solitary regret.

 	"Excuse me," he apologized to the Breen. "_Outo_ Jemat, Ambassador
Ferata, may I present the ship's Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Beverly
Crusher."

	Beverly stepped forward, offering her hand to each of the Breen - and
after a moment's hesitation, receiving theirs in return.

	"Doctor, I am pleased to meet you," Jemat said, "and I thank you most
sincerely for the information you have provided on the lieutenant's
condition. In return, I hope that I may be able to assist you in
resolving the complications you've encountered."

	"As do I," she said. "Although the lieutenant is continuing to
recover - very slowly - I'm growing concerned about her hands and
feet. I've seen some fluctuations in her immune system, and I'm
concerned that she may be becoming susceptible to infection. In
humans, the epidermal layer is one of the strongest defenses against
infection - and while I can keep her hands and feet covered much of
the time, they need to be exposed for both dressing changes and
range-of-motion therapies. I'm concerned that it's simply a matter of
time until infection sets in," she explained.

	Jemat nodded knowingly. "It is much the same with our people,
Doctor," he agreed. "Indeed, if she had remained with us, I would like
to think she would have regained the full use of both her hands and
feet by this time. But," he sighed regretfully, "what we wish and what
comes to be are often far different, are they not, Doctor?" he added,
studying her intently as her gaze flickered from him to Picard and
back again, his eyes taking in every nuance of her expression as she
did so.

	But whatever hurt she was feeling was held in carefully check, he
realized as she spoke. "I'm afraid you're correct. However, I was
hoping you would be able to share your techniques us, here aboard the
Enterprise, so that we might be able to repair that damage, even now,
_outo_," she said, trying out the Breen honorific - and earning a
smile in return.

	"Despite your captain's usage of the term, _outo_ is not a medical
title, Doctor," he explained. "I would be pleased if you would simply
address me as Jemat."

	"Of course... Jemat," she replied. "But if _outo_ doesn't mean
'doctor', then what does it mean?" she asked.

	Jemat considered, then glanced at Ferata, who gave a slight jerk of
his head in negation. Jemat sighed, then looked back at Beverly. "I am
afraid we do not know your language or your culture well enough to
find an accurate translation. Perhaps Garave can assist us - later, of
course," he added.

	Beverly shook her head. "I'm sorry? Garave? That's the second time
you've used that word - but I don't know what it means," she
confessed.

	Jemat gave her a confused look. "What it means...?" he said - then
looked at Picard. "Captain? You have not told her?"

	"Told me what?" Beverly pressed.

	Picard looked at her. "Garave," he said quietly, "is the lieutenant's
real name."

	Jemat made a soft sound. "That would not be entirely correct,
Captain; it is her birth name - but she has come to see herself as
being 'Andile'," he advised him.

	"That word is not a name; it's an obscenity," Picard snapped
instantly, angrily

	"As she knows it, yes," Jemat agreed, "but it was not always so. The
derivation is from an ancient word..."

	"Jemat," Picard suddenly interrupted the Breen, the caution - the
concern - evident on his voice.

	The Breen looked at him, surprised at the interruption - and by the
sternness in the human's tone. "Captain?" he asked confusedly.

	Picard hesitated, then spoke. "This is not the... proper venue for
this discussion," he explained.

	"Venue? For discussing Garave...?" Jemat began, puzzled - then
stopped abruptly, understanding suddenly registering.

	_Then... you have not told them? None of them?_ he added, glancing at
Beverly then back at Picard in astonishment. _Not who she is? To us -
to you? Nothing?!_ he thought, clearly incredulous - then closed his
eyes, and Picard felt his own eyes close as the soft touch of the
Breen _outo's_ thoughts reached into his own.

	Picard staggered, the touch in his mind at once familiar and yet
startlingly unfamiliar, sending him reeling against the transporter
console. He reached out to steady himself - but not before G'Sef
rounded the console, his phaser coming out of the holster even as Worf
stepped between the human and the Breen, shielding the captain - and
as Beverly reached for Picard's arm, steadying him.

	"Captain?" she said softly, gently - worriedly. "Jean-Luc?"

	For a moment, the man did nothing, then slowly his eyes opened,
focused on her - and he nodded.

	"I'm fine," he answered in his usual, professional tone - but for a
moment his eyes lingered on hers.

	For an instant, hope flared in both their souls...

	... and faded away.

	Tightening his grasp on the console, Picard turned to Worf.

	"At ease, Mr. Worf, Mr. G'Sef; Jemat was not trying to harm me. It's
simply one of the ways the Breen communicate," he informed the
Klingon.

	Worf glared at the two suspiciously, then back at Picard, who nodded
again. Reluctantly, the Klingon gestured to the Ballorian to return to
his place, then returned his phaser to its holster - but not without
another glare at the Breen. "We are aware that your race is highly
telepathic; however, you will restrict your communications to verbal
methods while on board this ship," he growled at the two. "Any further
exhibitions of such... communications... will be interpreted as an
assault - and will be dealt with accordingly."

	Ferata nodded diplomatically, bowing his head in slow, but dignified
acceptance of the dictum. "As you require," he agreed.

	"I too, apologize," Jemat concurred. "But there are things we must
discuss, Captain," he added worriedly, then glanced at Beverly, still
holding Picard's arm. "Things we assumed... things that should have
been discussed before now," he added, disapproval unmistakable in his
voice.

	Beverly stared at him curiosity and worry filling her eyes.
"Jean-Luc?" she asked in a troubled voice.

	He shook his head, dismissing her concern, then turned to Jemat.
"Humans are not the Breen, _outo_," he reminded the being. "Our
thoughts, our minds, are our own; there are some topics we prefer not
to share, topics that are personally offensive, topics we don't openly
discuss."

	"Offensive?" Ferata interjected. "To whom, Captain? Her? Or you?" 

	Picard stared at the Breen, his jaw tightening at the remark - then
felt the gentle pressure on his arm.

	He looked down, surprised to find Beverly's hand still resting there
- then slowly raised his eyes to hers.

	Sadness, she thought; such sadness, such regret - such shame, she
added.

	"What is it?" she said softly, her voice barely louder than a
whisper, inaudible to anyone else in the room.

	For a moment, she saw the temptation in his eyes, the desire to tell
her, the need to break down the barriers he... no, she corrected
herself, the barriers they both had spent most of their lives
building.

	But he was not a man who yielded to temptation - no matter how
desperately he might wish to - and even as she watched, the hope in
his eyes faded away.

	He looked down, gently lifting her hand from his sleeve, then
released it, letting it drop away -  then looked at Jemat and Ferata.

	"Perhaps we can continue this conversation in the conference room,
gentlemen," he said - then turned to Beverly. "I'll have Jemat
escorted to Sickbay as soon as we're finished, Doctor," he began -
only to see her mouth drop in outraged astonishment.

	We're in this position because you can't let me into your life, she
raged at him silently - and now you're going to leave me out - again!

	Not this time! she seethed. I'm not going to let you block me out
this time!

	"Captain," she growled through gritted teeth, "if this...
'discussion'... has anything to do with my patient's health, I demand
to be present."

	Jemat turned to her. "And I insist upon it, Doctor," he agreed.	

	 Picard glared the two, his anger suddenly flaring - then felt it
damped down, pushed back in part by his own efforts - and, in part by
Jemat's.

	Despite Jemat's promise to Worf, Picard felt the words, gentle and
calming, touching his mind. _You can not continue like this, Captain.
Your pride, your vanity, your doubt - it will destroy you... and
her... and perhaps, in the end, destroy us all._

	Picard stared at the man, the vestiges of rage still glowing in his
heart - then gave a reluctant nod.

	"Worf, please inform your Security team that the visit to Sickbay
will be delayed... briefly," he added pointedly.

	Jemat gave a tolerant, toothy smile, deigning not to argue with the
man - though Beverly could see in his expression the same look she had
seen in her own frequently enough when dealing with the recalcitrant
captain: regardless of the captain's words, the final decision was
going to be his.

	And she realized as he turned to add her to his intense gaze, hers as
well.

	I think we're going to get along splendidly, she thought to herself.

	_As do I_, Jemat replied wordlessly.

	Her eyes widened at the unaccustomed touch in her thoughts - and then
she gave a slight bow of her head to the Breen.

	He nodded back - then proffered a crooked arm. "Doctor?" he said.

	She slid her hand into his arm, taking it as though they were old
friends. "My name is Beverly," she replied quietly.

	Jemat smiled. "Beverly," he replied  - then glanced at Picard. "If
you are ready, Captain?"

	Picard stared at the two, gave a resigned sigh, then led the group
from the transporter room.

--
Stephen Ratliff
ASC Stories Only Forwarding

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