Star Trek: The Next Generation - 020 - Q-In-Law by Peter David Page B
Authors: Peter David
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can't..." She actually seemed to choke on the words for a moment, and then she immediately pulled herself together. She drew herself up and said confidently, "So... which do you think?" and she pointed at the two dresses she'd been considering.
Deanna brushed both of them aside and picked up a dress that was a dazzling combination of colors, like an aurora borealis. "How about this one?" Mrs. Troi shook her head. "Now, how did that one get in there? Mr. Homn," she said scoldingly, "what's that one doing there?" Mr. Homn tilted his head slightly.
"Oh, of course," she said. "To wear on the actual festive day, since it would be considered the height of bad taste to be in mourning garb at a wedding. Bad luck and all that. I'm sorry, daughter. I appreciate your feelings, but tradition, I'm afraid, is tradition. Even..." "Pointless tradition," they said together.
Deanna gave a small chuckle and consoled herself that at least she was starting to be able to laugh about it. "All right, mother--the black with red, then.
It's more festive." She stood. "I have things to attend to before the reception." "Then by all means, don't let me stop you, Deanna." Deanna turned and was almost to the door, when a voice in her head said, Little One, aren't you afraid of growing old alone?
Deanna paused for a moment and then thought back, No, because I'll always have myself.
Mrs. Troi sighed. I envy you.
She turned back to her mother, but Mrs. Troi was already busy bustling about the cabin, and Deanna didn't need to be empathic to realize that her mother considered the discussion closed.
Deanna walked out but couldn't help but consider the fact that no matter how much children seemed to object to their parents, somehow, when they grew up, they wound up turning into their parents.
Despite her blithe confidence in her completeness, was Deanna really looking at herself in the future? Lonely? Depressed? Regretting directions in her life, and the possible solitude of old age?
Would she be in the service forever? Would she be who she was forever? Now, now she was young, attractive, vibrant. She had her choice of men, if she so desired, or none if she desired. But eventually her looks would fade. The vibrancy would leave her. Her hair would gray and then whiten, her limbs become heavy with age, the sparkle and vitality leave her eyes.
She touched her face, imagining wrinkles creasing the soft skin.
"Deanna?" She jumped slightly and turned. Riker was directly behind her.
He smiled the handsome, confident smile of the young. "Is something wrong?" She went to him and embraced him so hard he thought she was going to crack a couple of his ribs.
"There's definitely something going around," he muttered.
Chapter Six
The Ten-Forward Lounge was crowded to bursting and, with the glitter of the different skinned races side by side, did not look too dissimilar to a Christmas tree.
Picard moved through the throngs, smiling and tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment as various Tizarin, or their guests, expressed their approval of the festivities or the good ship Enterprise herself. He thought he saw Riker for a moment on the far side of the lounge, but then his first officer vanished in another wave of partygoers.
Music filled the air, mingling with the voices of everyone around. The music was provided by a group of junior officers who, several months ago, had discovered a mutual proficiency for horns and had formed a group calling themselves the Federation Horns. At the moment, they were playing some sort of fast-paced tune that Picard vaguely recognized as swing. Picard's personal taste leaned more towards classical, although there were those-- Commander Riker among them--who would argue that swing was every bit as classical as Mozart.
He bumped into Graziunas, literally. More precisely, Graziunas bumped into him, and
Deanna brushed both of them aside and picked up a dress that was a dazzling combination of colors, like an aurora borealis. "How about this one?" Mrs. Troi shook her head. "Now, how did that one get in there? Mr. Homn," she said scoldingly, "what's that one doing there?" Mr. Homn tilted his head slightly.
"Oh, of course," she said. "To wear on the actual festive day, since it would be considered the height of bad taste to be in mourning garb at a wedding. Bad luck and all that. I'm sorry, daughter. I appreciate your feelings, but tradition, I'm afraid, is tradition. Even..." "Pointless tradition," they said together.
Deanna gave a small chuckle and consoled herself that at least she was starting to be able to laugh about it. "All right, mother--the black with red, then.
It's more festive." She stood. "I have things to attend to before the reception." "Then by all means, don't let me stop you, Deanna." Deanna turned and was almost to the door, when a voice in her head said, Little One, aren't you afraid of growing old alone?
Deanna paused for a moment and then thought back, No, because I'll always have myself.
Mrs. Troi sighed. I envy you.
She turned back to her mother, but Mrs. Troi was already busy bustling about the cabin, and Deanna didn't need to be empathic to realize that her mother considered the discussion closed.
Deanna walked out but couldn't help but consider the fact that no matter how much children seemed to object to their parents, somehow, when they grew up, they wound up turning into their parents.
Despite her blithe confidence in her completeness, was Deanna really looking at herself in the future? Lonely? Depressed? Regretting directions in her life, and the possible solitude of old age?
Would she be in the service forever? Would she be who she was forever? Now, now she was young, attractive, vibrant. She had her choice of men, if she so desired, or none if she desired. But eventually her looks would fade. The vibrancy would leave her. Her hair would gray and then whiten, her limbs become heavy with age, the sparkle and vitality leave her eyes.
She touched her face, imagining wrinkles creasing the soft skin.
"Deanna?" She jumped slightly and turned. Riker was directly behind her.
He smiled the handsome, confident smile of the young. "Is something wrong?" She went to him and embraced him so hard he thought she was going to crack a couple of his ribs.
"There's definitely something going around," he muttered.
Chapter Six
The Ten-Forward Lounge was crowded to bursting and, with the glitter of the different skinned races side by side, did not look too dissimilar to a Christmas tree.
Picard moved through the throngs, smiling and tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment as various Tizarin, or their guests, expressed their approval of the festivities or the good ship Enterprise herself. He thought he saw Riker for a moment on the far side of the lounge, but then his first officer vanished in another wave of partygoers.
Music filled the air, mingling with the voices of everyone around. The music was provided by a group of junior officers who, several months ago, had discovered a mutual proficiency for horns and had formed a group calling themselves the Federation Horns. At the moment, they were playing some sort of fast-paced tune that Picard vaguely recognized as swing. Picard's personal taste leaned more towards classical, although there were those-- Commander Riker among them--who would argue that swing was every bit as classical as Mozart.
He bumped into Graziunas, literally. More precisely, Graziunas bumped into him, and
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