Amalik tossed a rock into their dome and crawled inside. She called out for Worf.
For a moment he could not move. He gasped for air, feeling as though every breath was ripping at his lungs. He willed his legs toward his dome, ignoring the pain that came from them. He kicked the hatch, Ilingnorak opened it, and he fell into the opening.
The women pulled him inside and sealed the hatch. Worf could not move. “Use my phaser to heat the rock,” he said hoarsely.
Ilingnorak took the phaser and fired it at the rock. It soon glowed, but the heat from it could not entirely drive back the cold.
“My back is freezing,” Nenana said.
Worf watched the women turn their backs to the heat, then turn around to face it, then turn their backs to it again. After a moment, he sat up and held his hands over the rock. He leaned his face down over it.
“I can't get warm,” Nenana said.
The floor of the shelter, which rested only inches above the ground, grew colder and colder. Worf wished they had a covering to put on it.
Amalik and Nenana were both crying now and rubbing themselves vigorously. Worf heated the rock again. “We are all suffering,” he said. “But we must calm ourselves to conserve air.”
The women made themselves stop crying. When they were quiet, Amalik spoke softly. “The star bears are coming for us,” she said.
“We will fight them,” Worf replied.
They had heated the rock so many times that it had cracked in two, and part of it had melted down into the floor of the dome. Still, they kept it glowing. In addition to the heat, it provided a bit of light; outside the dome, the sun had set. After a time, they heard a soft patter against the dome, then a hard rain. Ozone, Worf knew. The rain let up, but after ten minutes it began again. Rain slammed against the dome in a galestorm. Oxygen, this time.
Ilingnorak held his hand. “You are brave, Klingon,” she said. “And loyal—all the best things I've read about your people.”
Worf said nothing. They listened to the oxygen rain. After a time, Ilingnorak spoke again. “You love her,” she said. “And surely she will love you. That makes us all happy.”
Worf checked their supply of air. He heated the rock again. He listened to the gases of the atmosphere rain down in the darkness and freeze around them.
Love Deanna? he wondered.
What other name was there for what he felt?
ATMOSPHERE: COLLAPSED
It was an Enterprise shuttle that came for them. Worf listened to the crew open domes and rescue the people near them. He listened to the crunch of footsteps around their dome. He heard them burn away the layers of gassy ice above their hatch and attach a crawl tube. He listened for the hatch on the shuttle end to open, and the slam of it echoed down the tube. Then their hatch twisted open.
“Hurry! This way!” a man said, and he began crawling away, back toward the shuttle.
“We need help!” Worf called.
The man recognized 0he familiar voice. He came back and shone a light into the dome. “Lieutenant Worf!” he shouted. Then he called back to the shuttle on his communicator: “I've found Worf!”
The man extended his arms into the dome to help its occupants get into the tube. Worf helped Nenana up, then Amalik. Ilingnorak kissed Worf and crawled after her friends. Worf followed them all.
For two days, Worf could not move. Dr. Crusher had to regenerate forty percent of his lungs. His throat and the lining of his nostrils were also damaged. He had frostbite on his feet, hands, and face, but Dr. Crusher thought it would leave few scars.
But Worf had other scars, not visible. As he lay in his bed, he kept thinking about the people who hadn't gotten into domes. He felt a deep sorrow for them, even as he respected them for their courage in the face of death. He did not know if he would ever be able to forget the sacrifices of the brave people of Nunanavik.
Dr. Crusher helped Deanna to Worf's side on the second day. “How many times did you save my life?” Deanna asked him. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Worf held onto her hand. After she left, he touched the place where Deanna had kissed him.
Picard visited Worf each day of his recovery. On the first day, he looked at the bandages from the frostbite and the stitches that closed the shrapnel wounds on Worf's neck and face, and he realized those were only the dressings and stitches he could see. “You are hurt, my friend,” Picard said.
I am hurting, Worf thought, but not in the way you imagine. He quieted his thoughts of those who had died, and then found himself able to talk. “These wounds are nothing,” he said.
Picard was quiet for a time. “I've met Amalik, Nenana, and Ilingnorak,” he said. “They are healing, and should live. From what Ilingnorak tells me, you will figure prominently in Inuit legend, if she has anything to say about it.”
Worf allowed himself a slight smile, though it hurt to move his face like that. “Those women would be a credit to any people,” he said.
“I am proud they are descended from Earth,” Picard said.
“When we are healed, I will let them know how I honor them.”
“I think they know,” Picard said. “How could they not?”
After a time, Picard left. The crew of the Enterprise could rest now. They had done everything possible. The crew of the Carpathia was bringing up the ten thousand people in the pressure domes. Another ship was implementing a plan to rescue the people in the submarine. The Enterprise waited in case its tired crew needed to provide emergency assistance. Data calculated that their combined efforts had saved more than sixty-five thousand lives.
In a few days, Dr. Crusher removed the dressings from Worf's hands. Now that he was able to touch and feel with his hands again, Worf found his thoughts drifting back to when he had held Deanna in his arms.
She had felt so small. . . . When they'd been falling in the paraglider, he had hung on to her so tightly he'd been afraid she would break. That she had felt small and fragile surprised him, because she had always seemed so strong. Her strength was what originally had attracted him to her, after all. But her strength did not come from her stature. He thought of the Inuit women. Stature—or youth—did not give them strength, either. They had neither of those.
But they had something more important, or rather they understood something more important. Ilingnorak had told him in Anvik to go on for two reasons: first, because he was young. But Worf thought that, where life was concerned, age did not matter. What mattered was the second reason. It was what had given the women hope again and again. It was what had given the people left in Anvik the courage to crawl into the domes and struggle to live.
Life itself is reason enough for living.
It always is, Worf thought. Young or old, it always is.
A Night at Sandrine's
By Christie Golden
STARDATE 50396.2
The cool, briny scent of the sea floated through the damp air. Mist clung to the stone buildings and made the cobblestone of the old streets slick with moisture. The golden glow of lamps gleamed faintly through the fog to guide the wanderer home, and as he opened the door, the welcoming sounds of laughter and music wafted out to greet him. All was warmth and good humor here, especially tonight.
He stood in the doorway, savoring the moment. Yvette was performing “La vie en rose,” her red mouth curving about the words and quivering ever so slightly. Smells of smoke from the crackling fire, of perfume and of good food made him smile. Though a woman owned the establishment, in a sense, this place truly belonged to him. Whatever their rank outside these doors might be, he knew: Sooner or later, everyone came to Sandrine's.
He adjusted his fedora and brought the cigarette to his lips. The tip flared orange as he inhaled, and—
“You're puffing your carrot.”
“What?” Lieutenant Tom Paris was startled out of his reverie by the sound of B'Elanna Torres's voice.
The half-Klingon chief engineer grinned up at him.
“Your carrot,” she repeated, indicating the carrot stick he held in his hand. She mimed bringing it to her lips and inhaling from it. “You were doing this?”
Paris felt himself blush. “Oh. Guess I just got caught up in the moment.” Deliberately, he popped the vegetable into his mouth and crunched on it.
And a hell of a moment it was. Captain Janeway had yielded to Paris's request for an old-fashioned party in the holodeck, specifically program Paris 3—a French bistro called Chez Sandrine. Voyager was presently traveling through a very long and very boring stretch of the Nekrit Expanse, and Paris had capitalized on the crew's restlessness. Together with Neelix, the self-appointed “morale officer,” they had convinced Janeway that a party was just what the doctor ordered.
Taking it a step further, Paris had suggested it be a costume party. Most had agreed. Tom saw fedoras and trench coats, suits and canes, and uplifted hairdos and hats with netting—all right out of Earth's mid-20th century.
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry Kim as he sank the eight ball. He looked very young and innocent in tweed trousers, crisp white shirt, and red suspenders. Gaunt Gary, the resident pool shark Paris had recreated, feigned resignation.
“Pay up.” Harry extended his hand as Gary sighed and handed over a fistful of holographic money.
Paris knew what was coming. “Rematch? I'd like to get some o' that green stuff back,” said Gary.
“Oh, you bet, but I'll just take your money again,” enthused Kim, already racking the balls.
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” sighed Paris, shaking his head as he moved toward a small table by the fire. “He ought to know better. Gary's gonna fleece him.”
“You know,” said B'Elanna, slipping into the chair opposite Paris, “I'm surprised Chakotay agreed to this, after your last adventure with gambling.”
“Ah, Chakotay's not so tough. Neelix and I swore that all the gambling proceeds would go right back into the replicator to provide some decent food for the party.” With an extravagant wave, he indicated the lavish buffet, of which other crewmembers were eagerly partaking.
“Think he'll show up tonight?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. Sandrine was chatting with some other customers, and he flagged down Neelix, who was acting as maitre d' for the evening. The Talaxian grinned and ambled over toward them. He looked surprisingly debonair in the formal black-and-white tuxedo. Paris guessed he'd waxed his whiskers.
“Chakotay?” said Tom. “I don't know. Don't know if we'll see the Captain, either. They're kind of like your mom and dad sometimes, you know? ‘You kids have your party, but don't stay up too late.’ ”
Neelix, who was pouring small glasses of port for each of them, laughed a little. “I hadn't thought about it that way, but I suppose you're right. Monsieur Paris, Mademoiselle Torres, here you are—a lovely port, replicated especially for the occasion.”
“Thanks, Neelix,” said B'Elanna. She brought the glass to her lips; then her eyes widened slightly. “Hey, boys. Mom's here.”
Neelix followed her gaze. “My, my. I don't know about you two, but my mother never looked like that.”
Paris, who was searching the room for one particular person, idly glanced toward the entrance of the bistro. And nearly spilled his wine.
Captain Janeway had, in every sense of the word, let her hair down. The red-brown mass tumbled about her bare shoulders, caught up on one side with a jeweled pin that reflected the mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. Her floor-length gown of black satin clung to her slim figure in a most flattering fashion, but there was no hint of anything but elegance and class about her. The room fell silent. Janeway lifted her chin and smiled.
“Caesar has arrived,” she announced. “Let the games begin!”
Approving laughter and a smattering of applause followed her statement. Grinning broadly, Janeway swept into the room and picked up a cue with the familiarity of one who knew the game well.
“Excuse me, but I shouldn't keep such a lovely lady waiting. Especially when the lady is our captain,” said Neelix, hastening to Janeway with a glass of port already poured.
Paris was pleased. Not only had his captain actually showed up, but she was clearly getting into the spirit of things. Now if only another certain someone would show—
And there she was, standing in the entrance and looking about hesitantly. She was a stunning brunette, with carefully coiffed hair, chocolate brown eyes, wearing an elegantly tailored suit. There wasn't a woman in the place who could touch her for sultry dark good looks.
Ricky. The one constant in every holographic program Tom Paris had ever designed. She had appeared as the gentle damsel in distress in a knights-in-shining-armor scenario, a sexy Orion slave girl in another, and was the innocent American Abroad here in Sandrine's.
“Excuse me, my date is here,” Tom said to B'Elanna. Eagerly, he rose and started to head in Ricky's direction when the bistro's owner, Sandrine, stopped him. She gazed up at him, her eyes cold and angry.
“Where were you last night?” she asked.
He shrugged. “That was so long ago I don't remember.”
“Will I see you tonight?”
“I never make plans that far in advance.” Sandrine was an extremely attractive older woman, and Tom was more than familiar with her charms. Tonight, though, he was in the mood for passive adoration, not Sandrine's tigerish loveplay. The jealous Frenchwoman had once sneered at Ricky, calling her a “little puppy dog.” Tom had replied that he wouldn't have Ricky any other way. She would be the icing on the cake to his triumph tonight. It was all going exactly as he planned.
Ricky had stepped inside and was heading toward the bar. Tom, smiling, sneaked up behind her and playfully put his hands over her eyes.
“Guess—”
He never made it to “who.” The next thing he knew he was flat on his back, gasping for air like a fish, and staring up into Ricky's furious face. Conversation had stopped, and Paris, mortified, realized two things: Ricky—pretty, passive Ricky—had thrown him, and everyone had seen it.
He rose slowly, dusting himself off, and searched frantically for the least embarrassing way out of this confusing scenario.
He found it. “Excellent,” Paris said with false heartiness. “You've mastered the throw even when you weren't expecting to have to use it. Everyone, give the lady a hand, she's spent a lot of time practicing self-defense!”
He started the applause. Others joined in, unsure what was going on. Paris caught Yvette's eye, gesticulated, and she immediately launched into “Les amants d'un jour.” The other crewmembers turned back to their drinks, pool games, or conversation. Thank God, he was out of the spotlight for the moment. He wiped his face. It was wet. The movement made his back ache.
“Who the hell are you?” snapped Ricky. Her rumbling, sultry voice held no hint of teasing.
“Honey—” Paris moved forward placatingly, but she stepped backward just as quickly.
“Don't touch me again,” she warned. “I asked you a question.”
Paris gaped. “Ricky, don't you know me? It's Tom, sweetheart, Tommy boy.” He reached to touch her, to bring his face down to hers. “Perhaps this'll jog your memory.”
Her slap almost bruised him. “I'm getting out of this— Sandrine! What kind of a place are you running these days?”
“Certainement, I am not sure I know myself,” answered Sandrine, impaling Paris with her gaze. “It would appear that just anybody thinks he can wander into my bistro.”
Tom's pleasant evening was rapidly unraveling. He glanced, utterly nonplussed, from Ricky to Sandrine. Normally, they reserved their glares for one another and treated him with sweet eyes and soft lips. Now, they had adopted almost mirrored poses—arms crossed, eyes hard and angry.
“Please observe the series of events,” said a slightly strident voice that Paris didn't recognize. He turned to look at the speaker. She was petite but stood ramrod straight. Every strand of brown hair was in place, her makeup was perfect, her clothing suited to the
occasion without being in the least remarkable. Her mouth and nose had a slightly pinched look to them. Tom figured her for somewhere in her forties.
The Doctor stood beside the woman, looking, as usual, rather pleased with himself. The woman continued.
“This . . . person—I hardly think he can be called a gentleman—brazenly approaches, from behind, a woman with whom he is unacquainted. When, understandably startled, she reacts instinctively to defend herself, he does not admit that he was in the wrong but instead invents a story to hide his shame. He then continues his pursuit of her without even bothering to properly introduce himself or apologize. He attempts an intimacy which would be improper in a public place under any circumstance and is justly reprimanded.” The woman turned her piercing gaze to Ricky. “Bravo, Mademoiselle. He is a scoundrel and does not deserve you.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Paris, echoing Ricky's earlier question. His face was red, but with anger this time.
“Note the demand. He fails to observe any sort of etiquette.” The harridan turned to the Doctor. “I do hope that your situation has not deteriorated to such a level.”
“Not at all,” the Doctor replied. “I am merely a diamond in need of polishing. Mr. Paris, I fear, hasn't even been chipped out of the rock yet. Mr. Paris, may I present Etta. Etta, dear, this is Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris. He's Voyager's pilot.”
Etta extended a hand. “Charmed,” she said in a voice that indicated she was anything but.
Recovering slightly, Tom bent over the gloved hand, kissed it quickly, and bowed. “A pleasure,” he lied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Somewhat better.”
“At Kes's suggestion, I've created a holographic character whom I have programmed with every nuance of human etiquette,” the Doctor explained. “I thought perhaps this might help me become more efficient in dealing with my patients. Kes seems to think I'm lacking in that area.”
The Amazing Stories Page 9
