“Qapla’,
Riker. And farewell.”
As Riker headed toward the
Gorkon’s
transporter room, he thought,
That’s two Klingons who think I should
grow the beard back. Maybe I should consider it.
Then he remembered kissing Deanna while still bearded and her subsequent reaction: “Yuck.”
Naaaaahh.
When Worf concluded his meal with Martok, he was greeted in the transporter room by Drex.
“Commander,” Worf said as he stepped down from the platform. “Has my aide arrived?”
“Yes,” Drex said. “I will take you to your quarters.” Drex then walked up to Worf and stared him directly in the eyes. “We are House-mates now, son of Mogh. See that that does not change.”
Worf had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. But then, he did not expect Drex to make it easy for Worf to fulfill Martok’s request. “If it does change, Drex, it will be of no consequence.”
Drex snorted, then turned and exited the room. Worf followed.
A woman in a
bekk’s
uniform stood at attention outside the quarters where Drex led Worf.
“This,” Drex said as the doors opened at their approach, “is Krevor. She has been assigned to you for the duration of this mission. Unless,” Drex added with a sneer, “you have some objection.”
Sighing, Worf said, “I have none.”
Drex glared at Worf. “Very well. If there is anything you need, Ambassador—I am sure you will know how to obtain it.”
With that, Drex turned on his heel and left.
Worf shook his head as he entered his quarters. He suspected that Drex had deliberately chosen a female as an insult. However, if Worf was insulted by anything, it was Drex’s belief that Worf would be so easily offended.
The room he entered was large by Defense Force standards, which meant it was still smaller than anything on the
Enterprise.
In fact, it reminded Worf of the quarters he had taken on the
Defiant,
though this had two separate beds instead of bunks. He and Wu were meant to share.
The latter sat on one of the beds. He rose at Worf’s
entrance. “I may be going out on a limb here, sir,” he said slowly, “but I get the feeling there’s some bad blood between you and the commander.”
Worf nodded, and noted that his duffels were on the floor next to the other bed. “We met when I was first assigned to Deep Space Nine. It was shortly before the empire’s invasion of Cardassia. Drex was bullying the station’s personnel, and he assaulted one of the Promenade shopkeepers. Drex is also the son of Martok.”
“Ah, I see,” Wu said. The aide still wore the red vest, now over a black shirt and dark green trousers. “He assumed that his family status gave him carte blanche to act like an idiot.”
Worf nodded as he set the Kahless-and-Morath statue on the desk. “Something like that. I challenged Drex and took his
d’k tahg
in order to get Martok’s attention. Or, at least, the person I thought was Martok.”
“The changeling?” Wu asked.
Again, Worf nodded. “After I rescued the real Martok from the Jem’Hadar prison camp, he made me part of his House. Drex objected.”
“Because of the way you embarrassed him?”
“Yes. But Martok knew nothing of that, and did not care.”
Wu shook his head and chuckled. “So Drex is stuck between a rock and a hard place. You’re an honored part of the House, so he has to treat you as such—or, at least, not actively challenge you—but he hates your guts.”
“An apt summary,” Worf said.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on him, then,” said Wu, pulling his padd out of his vest pocket and making notes on it. “Someone with that kind of grudge could cause problems.”
The door chime rang.
“Enter,” Worf said.
Krevor stood in the doorway. “May I speak with you, Ambassador?”
“Of course,” Worf said, taking a seat at the desk.
The young woman entered. She had fairly straight black hair, dark eyes, and a soldier’s bearing. “I just would like you to know, sir, that I consider this assignment to be a great honor, and that I look forward to the opportunity to die for you.”
Noble sentiments,
Worf thought,
but said in a rote
manner.
He suspected there was more to this. “But—?”
“If you feel that I am not worthy of this assignment, I would not be insulted if you requested another.”
Worf leaned back in his chair. “Really? And why wouldn’t you be?”
Krevor frowned. “Sir?”
“Are you not a loyal soldier of the empire, the same as the others who serve on this vessel?”
She straightened. “Of course, sir!”
“Then if I did request another, why would this not insult you? If I were in your place, I would not suffer such an offense lightly.”
“That is not what I meant, sir.”
“But it is what you said.”
Now Krevor started to shift her weight from foot to foot. “May I speak freely, sir?”
Worf nodded.
“I believe that Commander Drex gave this assignment to me in order to give
you
offense. I merely did not wish you to suffer it needlessly.”
Worf regarded her. “Why would you in particular give me offense? We have never met. Our Houses cannot be in
conflict, since Commander Drex and I are both of the House of Martok. If any such conflict existed, he would have addressed it by now.”
Krevor blinked in surprise. “No, sir. I have no House. That is why I joined the Defense Force—to make my own honor, since I cannot take refuge in the honor of my House.” Unlike her offering of her life, this statement was said with feeling. “I simply meant that he gave the assignment to a female, sir.”
“You are quite presumptuous, Krevor. You assign motives to your superior officer. You presume that I am incapable of detecting those motives myself. And you think me to be ignorant.”
“Sir?”
“Did Lukara not fight alongside Kahless at Qam-Chee? Was Melota not Aktuh’s equal in battle? Did Azetbur not finish the work begun by her father, for whom this ship was named?” Worf stood up and faced the young woman. “The body is but a shell. If you have the heart of a warrior, it does not matter the form that contains that heart.”
Krevor closed her eyes. “I have committed the very offense I sought to spare you. I offer my life in restitution.”
Worf shook his head. “Your life was mine the moment you received this assignment. For me to take it now would be—wasteful. Return to your post.”
If Krevor felt relief at her life being spared, she did not show it. Instead, she simply said, “Yes, sir,” turned around, and exited the room.
As the doors closed, Wu let out a small chuckle. “Klingon sexism—gotta love it.”
Sparing Wu a mild glare, Worf called up Krevor’s
record. She, indeed, had no House, having been raised in a brothel, the daughter of a deceased harlot and one of her customers. When she had reached the Age of Ascension, she joined the Defense Force. Her ignoble birth had left her no chance of being an officer, but she did not let that stop her.
Now there were layers to Drex’s insult. Besides being a female, Krevor was also a reminder that the House of Mogh into which Worf had been born no longer existed, thanks to Worf’s own actions. If not for Martok, Worf would still have no House.
But I will not do him the honor of acknowledging it,
Worf thought as he turned to the computer station on the desk. Besides, Krevor’s record was excellent. She’d served well during the war, and even gained a commendation—no small feat for a House-less provincial. That she had overcome the obstacles of her birth spoke well of her.
Worf doubted Drex would appreciate that.
Klingon ships did not come equipped with windows, so Worf programmed his computer station to provide a view of the
Enterprise
and the
Sword of Kahless
as they went into warp—the former on a heading that would take it to Starbase 10 near the Romulan border, the latter toward Qo’noS. After a moment, the
Gorkon
did likewise, heading for taD.
Worf’s Starfleet career had been like an opera, whose overture had been his acceptance into the Academy. The songs included battles against foes ranging from the omnipotent Q to the relentless Borg to the ruthless Jem’Hadar. He had visited dozens of parallel universes, survived torture at the hands of both Romulans and Breen, and held the legendary Sword of Kahless. He had gained friends, lost comrades, and met the brother he
never knew he had. He had witnessed the “rebirth” of Kahless as a clone, and helped install him as emperor. He had twice survived exile from his own people.
He had killed a chancellor in honorable combat and named his successor.
He had seen two mates die. He had raised a son.
Our triumph on Cardassia was truly the final song,
Worf thought.
Everything since—the farewell party on
DS9, seeing my parents and Jeremy on Earth, traveling
on the
Enterprise—
have been the curtain calls.
Now the performance has ended. It is time to begin a
new saga.
He shut off the computer station.
I
F
L
ESKIT HAD KNOWN
that B’Elath would sing all fifteen verses of “The Campaign at Kol’Vat,” he’d have eaten dinner in his quarters.
Shortly after the shakedown cruise had commenced, it became a tradition on the
Gorkon
for someone to sing before the evening meal. Leskit generally didn’t object to this, as long as the song was decent and short.
“The Campaign at Kol’Vat” was neither. It told of a battle at Goqlath Castle in Kol’Vat, in which the hero Krim enabled his forces to storm the castle by slitting the throats of the castle guards during a moonless night. Some said that it was from the stories of Kol’Vat that the saying, “Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man” derived, though many linguists felt that the quote predated both the song and the campaign.
Leskit had never liked the song or the saying—he’d seen the ruins at Kol’Vat, and at most they would have
had two hundred guards, not four thousand, and then only if they stood crammed side by side. The tune was rote, the rhymes were pedestrian, the meter was stultifying—and B’Elath, one of the engineers, was also a terrible singer.
Worse, dinner would not be served until she finished the fifteenth verse.
Leskit looked around, surprised to see that neither Klag nor Drex had joined them. The captain and first officer were by no means required to dine with the troops, but over the past month one of them always did, if not both. The ambassador hadn’t joined them, either, but Worf hadn’t attended troop dinners when he served as first officer on the
Rotarran
during the war, so Leskit hadn’t expected that.
The pilot stroked his white beard, which he had trimmed to resemble a pair of horns pointing downward. He had to admit to some amusement at Worf’s appointment. He was very curious to see how this mission would turn out.
Kurak wasn’t present, either, but Leskit had come to expect that. The chief engineer always ate in her cabin.
A
pity,
he thought.
There’s fire in that one.
So far, though, Leskit hadn’t been able to warm his hands in that fire. But he had hope.
Just as Leskit was about to give up and follow Kurak’s example, B’Elath sang the longed-for final verse, the warriors in the mess hall cheered—
No doubt,
Leskit thought,
grateful that this particular nightmare is over
—and several people brought the dinner out.
Right away, Leskit’s mood improved. He had always considered himself something of an epicure, and years of service had led him to expect horrendous food from
Defense Force replicators. But the food on the
Gorkon
had become quite good over the last month.
Leskit grabbed some
bregit
lung, a handful of
gagh,
and some
rokeg
blood pie, and took a seat at the small table where his shift of the bridge crew generally sat. Rodek and Toq were already there—as was, to Leskit’s dismay, Vall.
Leaving aside Vall—which Leskit was happy to do in any case—the three of them made an odd combination. Toq was young, relatively short, but well-built. His beard was unformed and unshaped, as if he hadn’t figured out what to do with it. Yet, for all that he looked like he’d just stumbled out of Defense Force Training a week ago, he moved with a warrior’s confidence, as Kegren had learned to his dismay. He had made himself third in command of the ship.
Rodek, on the other hand, had all the markings of a warrior. He wore a simple mustache in a popular style: beginning above the corners of the mouth and curling down in a crescent shape. Half the men on the ship wore that, including Drex. Rodek was tall, broad, and carried the weight of his years. Yet he never displayed any of the passion Leskit would have expected.
As for Leskit himself, he was old for his rank, but he did not care. Rank was not for him; he knew that none would follow him into battle. His lot was to be led, not to lead, and so he remained a pilot. He fully expected to die a lieutenant, and he was content with that, as long as the death was in battle.
Biting off a talon of
pipius
claw, Toq said, “This will be a glorious mission.”
“How’s that, Toq?” Rodek asked. “We’re just going back to taD.”
“Yes, but look who we serve with! Already blessed with the Hero of Marcan and the son of Martok, now we have the noble Worf on board!”
Leskit rolled his eyes. “Worf is a Klingon like the rest of us.”
“Less than the rest of us,” Rodek said. “He lives with the Federation.”
“I wouldn’t go
that
far,” Leskit said. “I served with him during the war. He’s as fine a warrior as you’ll find.”
As he slathered
grapok
sauce on his
racht,
Toq said, “He is more than that. He rescued me and many others from Carraya. He taught us the Klingon ways.”
“Didn’t you know them already?” Vall asked.
Toq shook his head. “We were very young when we crashed. I owe Worf more than my life—I owe him my heritage.”
“What does he know of our heritage?” Rodek asked with obvious disdain.
“Enough to tell us of Kahless, and the true meaning of being a warrior. Enough to teach me of the hunt. Enough to tell me who I was. I would not be here if not for him.”
Rodek shrugged and bit through the heart of a
targ.
“I could say the same, I suppose. He rescued my shuttle when it crashed near that Federation outpost by the Bajoran wormhole. But I don’t let that distract me from the truth.”
Toq glared at the gunner. “And what truth is
that?”
“That he remains in the Federation. Wears their colors. They may be our allies, but they are sheep. How can a true warrior live among such as them?”
“He
is
a true warrior, make no mistake of that,” Toq said, throwing his
racht
back onto his plate, splattering
grapok
sauce all over the table.
“You yourself said you only knew about being a war
rior from him,” Rodek said, and Leskit had to admit that the gunner had a point.
Toq smiled. “I don’t think Kegren has any doubts about my skills as a warrior, Rodek. Or would you like to find out for yourself?”
Leskit rolled his eyes. “Will you two calm down, please? We’re trying to eat. Besides, splattered blood will ruin the taste of my dinner.”
Vall spoke up in that Ferengi-like whine of his, which was almost enough to put Leskit off his feed. “Actually,” he said, “Worf was raised in the Federation. Until they made him ambassador, he was highly decorated by Starfleet.”
“Decorated for what? Charting solar systems?” Rodek said with a sneer while wiping his hands on his uniform.
“No, he fought against the Borg, the Cardassians, the Romulans, the Jem’Hadar, the Ferengi, the Tamarians,” Vall said in a cadence-free drone. “He was one of the first people ever to
see
a Borg. He helped rescue Captain Picard after the Borg captured him, as well. He’s—”
“Enough!” Leskit cried. “I like to sleep
after
dinner, Vall, not before I’ve finished it.”
“None of that explains why he joined Starfleet,” Rodek said.
Vall said, “His family was killed at the Khitomer massacre, and he was rescued by a Starfleet ship. A Starfleeter raised him, and then when he was old enough, he went to their Academy.”
“A debt of honor,” Toq said with a nod.
Rodek looked at Vall with a questioning gaze. “Khitomer
massacre?
What are you talking about?”
Leskit blinked. “Thirty years ago, Rodek. You were only a boy then, but you must have heard about it. A Romulan attack?”
“I know Khitomer is where the treaty with the Federation was signed after Praxis was destroyed, but—” Rodek hesitated. “I’m sorry, but my memory is filled with—gaps. That crash left me badly damaged. I don’t remember anything of my life before then.”
Toq laughed a contemptuous laugh. “And you accuse
Worf
of being a false Klingon? You, who have only been Klingon for a few years.”
Rodek stood, throwing his chair to the deck. The ends of his mustache flared as he cried, “I am as much a Klingon as you, boy! If you doubt it, a demonstration can be arranged.”
The mess hall fell silent. Toq matched Rodek’s gesture, the clattering of his own chair now the only sound in the hall. Toq stood eye to eye with the gunner. “I have already killed one fool on this ship, Rodek. I’ll be happy to make it two.”
Wearily, Leskit said, “If you two are going to kill each other, just get it over with. All this yelling is adding to the headache I got from B’Elath’s song.”
“I thought she sang it very well,” Vall said.
Leskit bit his tongue.
Toq and Rodek glowered at each other for another moment. Leskit feared that they would actually fight, meaning yet another delay in dinner while everyone watched these two idiots try to kill each other.
Then, finally, Rodek retrieved his chair and sat down. “I have no interest in the second officer’s position. And Morketh isn’t ready to take over as gunner just yet.”
Toq laughed and also recovered his seat. “You may justify your cowardice any way you wish, Rodek. When your spine regrows, you will find my
d’k tahg
as eager to taste your blood as it was Kegren’s.”
As the pair of them went back to their food, Vall looked at Leskit. “Lieutenant—are those
real
Cardassian neckbones?”
Idly, Leskit fingered the necklace made of bones that he always wore. He had contemplated removing the trophy once the war ended, but he got a certain pleasure out of the looks he got from the younger warriors when they saw it. Vall, in fact, had that look on his face right now. “Oh, yes,” he said. “They came from real Cardassians. Or at least,
formerly
real ones.”
“Those are difficult to dislodge, from what I hear.”
Shaking his head, Leskit thought,
A true warrior
wouldn’t need to add that last phrase.
He took a bite of the
rokeg
blood pie. “This is
good,”
he said with some surprise. He’d had blood pie his first night on the
Gorkon
and left it unfinished, it was so inedible. The subsequent month had dulled the bad aftertaste, and the food smelled good enough tonight that Leskit had decided to give it another shot.
Obviously,
he thought,
someone has tin
kered.
“A pity Kurak isn’t here,” he said aloud. “I’d congratulate her on the food replicators myself.”
“You’re wasting your time, Leskit,” Rodek said. “I served with Kurak on the
Lallek.
You’d have a better chance ‘congratulating’ the matter/anti-matter chamber.”
“I’ll see for myself, if it’s all the same to you, Rodek.”
“Actually,” Vall said, while attempting to puff himself up like a beast who had cornered its prey, “I was the one who conquered the replication matrix’s inability to provide proper sustenance.” Then he deflated somewhat, looking more like the
Grishnar
cat he truly resembled. “And I would rather you did not tell Commander Kurak, since she ordered me not to.”
Toq laughed.
“You
disobeyed an order?”
“Well, not exactly.” Vall squirmed a bit. “She didn’t specifically order me not to upgrade the replicators—but every time I suggest such an upgrade, she objects. I had mapped out a magnificent battle plan for modifying the ODN conduits, only to have her scream at me about only doing what she tells me to do.”
Leskit shook his head as he chewed on his blood pie.
Battle plan for modifying the ODN conduits? Give me
strength. . . .
Toq frowned. “Why would she wish you
not
to improve the ship’s systems?”
Vall shrugged. “I do not know. But the food replicators were not worthy of this vessel, so I defeated the pattern enhancers and put new ones in their place—these enhancers are
twice
as powerful as the ones that—”
“Enough!” Leskit cried again. “I’d rather listen to those two fight over Worf again than listen to you drone, Vall.”
“My apologies, Lieutenant, but—this is a great ship, but there are so many ways it could be made even more worthy.”
“A new assistant chief engineer would be a fine start,” Rodek said.
All three of them laughed. Vall sulked.
A pity such
brilliant talent is trapped in such a repugnant form,
Leskit thought. He wondered if he would be doing the boy a favor by killing him rather than forcing him to endure continuing to live as—well, as
Vall.
Then he took another bite of the excellent blood pie, and decided that, if Vall could live with himself, so could Leskit.
“Alert status!”
Rodek’s voice on the speakers making this announce
ment, combined with the sound of the alarm, startled Worf awake. He took all of a nanosecond to remember where he was—the feeling of the metal slab under his back meant he was on a Klingon ship, which in turn brought his current mission back to his quickly awakening conscious mind.
Then he rose from the bed—a padd that had rested on his chest clattering to the floor—and went to the computer station on the desk, inputting commands for the view from the bridge’s security camera. This required access codes that a Federation ambassador normally would not possess—but most Federation ambassadors hadn’t served on Klingon ships, nor had lengthy tenures in Starfleet security.