A Dish Served Cold - Pt 2 of 2

What—what have you done to me?”

For the first time in the conversation, Worf allowed a true smile to cross his lips. Looking down at the bit of metal in his hands, he inquired, “Do you like my cane? A friend of mine made it for me.” Worf paused a moment in thought, “Well, to be honest, he only made the top of it. And he did not necessarily make it for me. He made it for you.”

Armus pulsed slightly, a ripple running across the surface of the oily channel. “For – for me? I do not understand.”

Worf continued, “You do remember the android from your last set of visitors, don’t you?”

“The Tin Man?”

“Yes, the Tin Man,” answered Worf. “If you remember, you sought to manipulate him, to play on his emotions by forcing him to hold a phaser to the head of his captain. You asked him how he would feel, knowing he was the responsible for the death of his captain.”

“I remember.”

“When I first reviewed the logs of that meeting, I admit I found the irony rather amusing. You see, Data (that was his name by the way) lacked any emotions at the time – he would not have been able to feel anything.”

“At the time?” asked Armus.

“Yes. As time passed, Data was reunited with his creator who fashioned an emotion chip for him. This chip allowed Data to experience a whole wealth of human emotions – fear, love, sorrow,” Worf again smiled, “and hate.”

Worf continued, “Tasha, Lt. Yar, was very special to him. You might almost call her his first love, and when he thought of what you did to her, he felt an uncontrollable rage rise through his circuits. For a time, he became obsessed with you, studying everything we recorded of you and this planet, seeking to find out as much about you as possible.

“His goal, of course, was to find a means to destroy you. And he did. You see it here before you.” Worf tapped his finger against the shining, metal cylinder at the top of his cane. “I do not pretend to understand it. From what I could decipher from his notes, it emits a radiation that breaks down your cellular structure on a molecular level.

“But he chose never to use it. He believed that isolating you on this planet was a far worse punishment.”

Armus, its voice barely distinguishable, allowed itself a brief chuckle. The humanoid form it assumed was growing thinner and thinner as fluid oozed down back into the channel, “Really, and why is that?”

“He felt that you were primarily motivated by a deep loneliness and hurt. That you lashed out because of your abandonment, and that continuing to isolate you would be sufficient torment.” Worf cocked his head slightly to one side, “I happen to disagree.”

Armus managed an unintelligible gurgle as his form began to sink into the oily channel.

“I believe,” continued Worf, “that you were not motivated by pain, but by rage. Rage at the Titans. You used to be a part of them. You were their every dark impulse. Their obsession. Their rage. Their madness. You were everything that they hated about themselves, and they found a way to purge themselves of you. A way to slough you off like old, dead skin.”

The humanoid form that had been the mouthpiece of Armus was no longer visible, and the channel of sludge was beginning to dry up and mix with the sand of the desert.

“And with that, your precious ego was shattered, and you were forced to realize that you are not as great as you think you are. In fact, you aren’t even necessary. Once they were rid of you, they continued to thrive even more. They were free, liberated. They achieved things that you could only imagine, and you hated them for it.

Worf wedged the can deep into the ground next to the pool of filth that had been Armus. “You hated them so much, that the very mention of them distracted you to the point that you didn’t notice you were dying until it was too late. Your stupidity is almost enough to evoke a sense of pity in me. But my mercy died along with my honor long ago. All I have left is my hate and my revenge. On this planet, you took Tasha from me, and now your life is forfeit.”

Worf tapped the comm badge on his chest, “Ambassador Worf to the Kho’voth.”

The badge emitted a slight chirp followed by the deep tone of Lt. B’etoth, “Kho’voth here. Have you concluded your business, Ambassador?”

Worf was wracked by a brief coughing fit before he could respond. He produced a small black cloth from a pocket to cover his mouth. When the fit had ended, Worf answered, “Yes. My work here is done.” He then took a moment to look at the bloody residue that now covered the cloth – it would not be long now before he too entered the land of the dead.

“Beam me aboard quickly. There are some more stops I need to make.”