“That is all that I ask.” He took a sip of bloodwine. “Have you heard from Alexander?”
Taking a bite of
bregit
lung, Worf said, “Yes, briefly—before I left for Earth. He finds his new assignment challenging. He also sends his regards.”
Martok laughed. “A Klingon sentiment, followed by a human one. Appropriate for your son.”
There was an awkward silence while both men ate their food and drank their bloodwine. Worf had never been comfortable talking about his son. Alexander seemed to be turning out all right, but that was through little of Worf’s own doing.
Perhaps inspired by the mention of Alexander, Martok broke the silence with a very human question: “Are you all right, Worf?”
Worf shook his head and almost smiled. He had hoped that his façade had remained intact, that Martok could not see the turmoil he was going through. In his life, only four
people had ever been able to see past it—or, at least, had done so and were willing to say so to his face—the Rozhenkos, Jadzia, and Martok. The chancellor’s ability to work past the barriers that Worf had spent a lifetime erecting was one of the many things that he admired about Martok, and why he felt so honored to be part of his House.
“No, I am not,” he said, and then added, very reluctantly, “but I am afraid I cannot say why.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
“Both,” Worf said. “It is—personal.” He had been about to say it was a family matter, but that would make it Martok’s business. “I cannot discuss it, even with you.”
“Will it affect the mission?”
“I do not believe so,” Worf said carefully. The fact of the matter was, he had no idea what effect it would have.
Drex’s was not the only familiar name on the
Gorkon’s
crew roster. There was the second officer, Toq, one of the children Worf had rescued from the prison camp on Carraya—Worf looked forward to seeing the young man again.
And then there was the primary-shift gunner: Rodek, son of Noggra.
A false name that Worf himself had given to Kurn, son of Mogh. His brother.
When Worf had opposed Gowron’s invasion of Cardassia four years previous, Gowron had cast Worf out of the empire, seized his family’s lands, and removed Worf’s younger brother Kurn from the High Council. Kurn had come to Deep Space Nine to ask Worf to perform the
Mauk-to’Vor
on him, but Captain Sisko had forbidden it—what would be a proper ritual in the empire was murder on a Bajoran station, and Sisko would not allow one of his senior staff to kill his own brother.
Kurn was unable to die with honor and unable to go on living. Worf found only one solution: have Dr. Bashir erase Kurn’s memory and surgically alter his crest, and then create a false record. “Rodek” was born from the ashes of Kurn.
Now Worf was a hero of the empire, a respected member of the chancellor’s House. However, his brother unknowingly still lived the lie necessitated by a dishonor that no longer existed.
But aside from Noggra, who took Rodek in, and Worf himself, no one in the empire could know of this. Not even Martok.
“Worf, if you are hiding something from me that will affect what happens at taD—”
“I will see that it does not, Chancellor,” Worf said formally. “You have my word.”
Martok gazed upon Worf with his one good eye, and finally said, “Very well. Your word has always been more than enough. We will speak no more of it.”
And they did not.
“It was a glorious battle,” Klag said as he opened a third bottle of bloodwine and poured it. Most of it landed inside the mug; the rest splashed onto the table. Klag didn’t seem to notice or care. “Twelve ships against six Breen and Jem’Hadar vessels. When it was over, only two remained: the
Pagh
and one of the Jem’Hadar ships. But we were both severely damaged. The fifth planet was breathable, so Kargan ordered us to land there. The Jem’Hadar did the same.”
Riker took a hearty gulp from his own mug of bloodwine, still from the first bottle. Anti-inebriant notwithstanding, he was feeling a bit woozy, while Klag—who
had drunk about four times as much—showed no signs of even slowing down.
“Our stabilizers were a thing of the past. The moment we hit the atmosphere, we were thrown across the ship like riders on a bucking mount. By the time I regained my senses, I was on the deck, my right side pinned by what was left of the command chair.” He snorted. “The chair had been sliced in half, and one of those halves was presently weighing me down. I couldn’t feel my right arm, but I could see it sticking out from the other side of the debris. With a mighty shove, I rolled the twisted piece of metal off with my left hand—and then I stood to get a damage report.” Klag took a long gulp of bloodwine. “My right arm remained on the deck.”
Riker let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Even though he knew that the story would have Klag losing his arm at some point, Riker had found himself sufficiently engrossed that it still came as a surprise. He drained his mug of bloodwine. “That must’ve hurt.”
Pouring Riker some more before the commander could stop him, Klag replied, “Actually, no. I felt only anger—which increased a hundredfold when I saw that I was the only one who had survived the crash.” Klag set down the bottle and clenched his fist. “I was furious! For such a fine crew to have survived the Jem’Hadar, only to die like that!”
Leaning back and smiling, Klag said, “But then I saw the corpse of Captain Kargan. It was a sight I had
long
awaited.”
Riker leaned forward. He had half-expected the glee with which Klag described Kargan’s death. The general impression Riker had of Kargan from his time as the latter’s first officer was that the captain would be removed
due to his own ineptitude ere long. The fact that he hadn’t had always confused Riker.
“What you did not know about the captain,” Klag said, “is that he was the son of General Talak—and the nephew of Councilor K’Tal.”
Riker nodded. He didn’t know much about Talak, but K’Tal was one of the more respected members of the High Council. Riker had met K’Tal eight years earlier when the councilor supervised the installation of Chancellor Gowron. “Friends in high places, huh?”
“The highest. So I was trapped under that fool. He blocked any opportunity for me to be promoted off the
Pagh,
keeping me firmly under his heel while he stumbled through command with the same idiocy he displayed against the
Enterprise.”
Shortly after Riker had reported to the
Pagh
as first officer, the vessel was afflicted with a corrosive element. Kargan made the ludicrous leap in logic that the
Enterprise
had sabotaged the
Pagh
during their rendezvous. Riker had defused the situation, but it was a close call. “Why didn’t you challenge him?” Riker asked. It was, after all, Klag’s right; indeed, Riker had invoked that right, after a fashion, during the confrontation with the
Enterprise.
“Oh, I could have, if I’d wanted to measure my life in microseconds. Both K’Tal and Talak had minions on the
Pagh
who would make sure that no harm would come to Kargan. Even a successful challenge would have been a failure. I intend to die in battle, not in a dark corner at the hands of a paid assassin.”
“So why didn’t he challenge you?”
Grinning, Klag said, “And lose what respect he’d scraped up for himself? His House kept him alive quite well, but even the finest assassin will not bring trust. He
needed me to lead the crew so he would be spared having to.”
“So seeing him dead wasn’t exactly what you’d call a hardship,” Riker said with a sardonic smile.
“No.”
Taking another sip of bloodwine, Riker shook his head. Not for the first time, he realized he’d make a lousy Klingon. There was just no way he could take such pleasure in anyone’s death, never mind advancing in rank that way.
Klag finished off his latest mug of bloodwine and poured some more. Riker had, at this point, lost count of how much the captain had drunk. “So, as the only survivor, it was left to me and me alone to finish what we had started. After all, if I survived, some of the enemy might have as well—and that meant the battle was not yet over. I found a working scanner and saw that seven Jem’Hadar and one Vorta still lived amidst the wreckage of their ship. Armed with a
mek’leth,
I went to greet them.”
Smiling, Riker said, “‘Greet’ them, huh? And how’d they return the greeting?”
“Poorly,” Klag said with a vicious grin. “Oh, it was magnificent. Their Vorta had been injured, and their instrumentation destroyed in the crash. I had lost a great deal of blood, and should have felt the effects, but the death of my comrades put a fire in my belly. The Jem’Hadar may have been bred for combat, but the heart of a warrior cannot be grown in a Vorta laboratory. Within minutes, I stood amongst the corpses of my enemies, my
mek’leth
stained with their blood and the Jem’Hadar’s drug.” He gulped down more bloodwine, half of it running down into his goatée. Slamming the mug to the table, he smiled. “Then I passed out.”
Riker laughed. “Good timing.”
“Indeed. I came to on a ship, being examined by some doctor or other who had stanched the bleeding from my shoulder. I was told that our battle had paved the way for Defense Force and Starfleet vessels to penetrate the Allicar sector. I had left the Homeworld the lapdog of a fool. I returned as a hero of the empire.” He indicated the ship around him with his hand. “I was given this as my reward.”
“Quite a reward.”
“Yes. One wonders why you have not been similarly blessed, old friend.”
Riker sighed. He had expected this subject to come up. After all, he had remained a first officer longer than Klag had. “Big difference between us, Klag. Kargan forced you to stay under his command. I remain with Captain Picard—and on the
Enterprise
—by choice.”
“Then you are a fool. Whatever Picard’s merits—and I admit, he has accomplished much—even he is not worth denying yourself the greatest glory of all.”
Smiling, Riker quoted, “‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.’”
Klag frowned. “What?”
Riker had uttered the quote in English. He repeated it in Klingon, substituting
Sto-Vo-Kor
for heaven and
Gre’thor
for hell. The translation didn’t entirely hold up, as those two realms in Klingon mythology were not precise analogues to the human concepts. “It’s from a human poet named John Milton. Basically, it means that it’s better to be the ruler of a bad place than to be a subordinate in paradise.”
Klag nodded. “Ah, I see. Obviously, you disagree with this poet.”
“I didn’t used to. Time was I lived my life by it. But
that was before I signed onto the
Enterprise
—she’s the finest ship in the finest fleet under the finest captain. I couldn’t ask for a better place to serve, even if it means staying a first officer.”
Grinning, Klag said, “Plus, of course, there’s that half-Betazoid counselor of yours.”
Riker laughed, and wondered if he blushed. His cheeks certainly felt flushed, but that could have been from the bloodwine. “Your sources are good, Klag. Yes, there is her also.”
Klag shook his head. “You’re a typical human, Riker. Sacrificing duty for the sake of
par’Mach.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Riker said, raising his mug.
Klag threw his head back and laughed. “Of course you do, my friend!” Raising his own mug, he said, “I toast us both. Two warriors who have at last found their place in the universe.”
Riker smiled and clanked his mug against Klag’s. “I’ll drink to that.” Suiting action to words, he drained his mug. “And with that, I really do need to be getting back. We’re due at Starbase 10 in two days.”
Klag stood up; Riker did likewise. “It was good to see you again, my old comrade. Perhaps someday, we will fight side by side—you in the ship of your dreams, and I in mine.”
Riker had had enough battles over the past couple of years to last him several lifetimes, but he gamely said, “It would be an honor, old friend.”
“Good.” Klag hesitated. “One question, before you go.”
“What?”
Again, Klag hesitated. “Ambassador Worf. You served with him.”
“For over seven years. He’s one of the finest officers I’ve ever known.”
“Then you think he is worthy of his new position?”
Folding his arms, and resisting the obvious answer to the question, Riker said, “I take it you don’t?”
“What I
think
is that he received this post because he is of Martok’s House, just as Kargan gained his by being of K’Tal’s. And I have had my fill of such things.”
Riker straightened. “Worf isn’t Kargan. And the Federation isn’t in the habit of basing its diplomatic assignments on nepotism.”
Klag got a faraway look for a moment, then blinked at Riker. Then he laughed and slapped Riker on the shoulder—but it was not Klag’s trademark throw-back-the-head laugh, more of a snort or a chuckle, if a Klingon could ever be said to chuckle. “Perhaps not. Well, enough of this. You must be returning to your ship. And let me give you a piece of advice.”
“Yes?”
“Grow the beard back. You look like a Romulan without it.”
Returning Klag’s laugh, Riker said, “I’ll think about it.
Qapla’,
Klag.”