Star Trek: Pantheon (12 page)

The door beeped. Worf turned at the sound.

He did not often entertain guests in his quarters. His preference for solitude was well known, not only among his friends but throughout the entire crew. After all, he was surrounded by humans and other races for most of the day; after hours, he needed time to just be himself. To just be
Klingon.

Beep.
He had not imagined it.

“Come,” he said. The door opened.

If it had been Riker, or Geordi, or even Wesley, the Klingon would not have been all that surprised. They had been here before on one occasion or another.

It turned out to be none of them. In fact, his visitor was the
last
person on the entire ship that he had expected to come calling on him.

“Do you mind if I come in?” asked Morgen.

The Klingon had instinctively recoiled; he forced himself to relax. “Please,” he said, expressing the rest of the invitation with a gesture.

His eyes never leaving Worf’s, the Daa’Vit entered. Selecting a chair, he folded himself into it.

Worf sat down on the other end of the room. For a moment they just stared at each other.

“You must be wondering why I’ve come,” said Morgen.

The Klingon nodded. “I confess to a certain curiosity.”

Morgen grunted. “You Klingons have a way with words. From your lips, even a polite remark sounds like a challenge.”

Worf shrugged. “Perhaps it is the way you
hear
it.”

The Daa’Vit smiled. “Perhaps it
is.
But then—”

As before, in the holodeck, he seemed to stop himself. To regroup.

“How easy it is,” said Morgen, “to get into a war of words.” He leaned forward. “Especially when every part of me is repelled by you. Hateful of you.”

Instinctively, Worf prepared himself for an assault—visually searching the Daa’Vit for concealed weapons, working out ways in which his posture made him vulnerable.

But in the next moment Morgen leaned back again. “Yet,” he went on, “I am an officer in Starfleet—just as you are. We are sworn to stand side by side—not rend each other like beasts. If there is one thing I have learned in my time among humans, it is that prejudice—
any
prejudice—may be put aside.”

Worf knew how hard it was for the Daa’Vit to express such sentiments. It gained Morgen a measure of respect in his eyes—if not affection.

The Klingon cleared his throat. “Permission to speak frankly, sir.”

The Daa’Vit nodded. “Speak,” he said.

Worf eyed his visitor. “I have not always found the same thing to be true. At least not in
my
case. Once, I was asked to save a Romulan’s life through an act of brotherhood. I found I could not.” He licked his lips. “And I am not sure the outcome would have been any different if the life in question were that of a Daa’Vit.”

Morgen regarded him. “Honesty. I appreciate that.” He paused. “Perhaps you misunderstand me, Worf. I am not suggesting we become
finna’calar.
What are the English words for it? Ah, yes—
blood brothers.
No, I am not suggesting that at all. But we need not be enemies either.” He tilted his head. “You are a warrior. I am a warrior. Surely, there is a common ground on which we may meet.”

Worf gathered himself, fighting his instincts. “I…would…
like
that,” he got out.

The Daa’Vit smiled, though there was no humor in it. “Good. I may even have an idea in that regard.”

“An idea?” echoed the Klingon.

“Yes. Do you recall what I asked you in the holodeck—if you had created any programs of your own?”

Worf began to see what Morgen was getting at. “Yes,” he said. “I do recall. And I said that I
had
created some programs.”

“Fit for a warrior, no doubt,” said the Daa’Vit.

“I like to think so,” replied the Klingon.

“It would be a novelty for a Daa’Vit and a Klingon to fight side by side—instead of against each other.”

Worf couldn’t help but smile at the thought. As ludicrous as it was…“More than a novelty,” he decided. “It would be a challenge—one that could only bring honor to all involved.” He omitted the last part of his thought:
if it works.

Morgen nodded. “I agree. When?”

“Tomorrow at this time. I will be off duty.”

“Done. Is there anything I should bring? A
ka’yun,
perhaps?”

“Nothing,” said the Klingon. “The holodeck will provide weapons.”

Gracefully, the Daa’Vit rose from his chair. “I look forward to it.”

Worf rose too. “As do I.”

Inclining his head to signify respect—another gesture that must not have been easy for him—Morgen took his leave of his new battle-partner.

And the Klingon, watching him go, decided he had much to think about.

Picard stood, looking down the long table at his assembled officers—both past and present. He was glad to note that Idun Asmund was among them, seated between Ben Zoma and Cadwallader. And Beverly as well—though she had been reticent at first, she had apparently managed to overcome that without any encouragement from her captain. He raised his glass.

“A toast,” he said. “To those who have served me in such exceptional fashion.”

“Here, here,” said Riker.

“Jian dan’yu,”
agreed Morgen, voicing the Daa’Vit equivalent of Riker’s acknowledgment.

Everyone murmured their approval and drank—just as their plates were removed and replaced with their main courses by a cadre of waiters. Under Guinan’s supervision, of course.

The captain assessed his dinner as it was placed in front of him. The aroma was exquisite, tantalizing. “Manzakini Loraina,” he said appreciatively. He looked up at Guinan. “An excellent choice.”

Standing discreetly apart from the table, Guinan inclined her head. “I knew you’d like it, sir,” she told him.

“This is an Emmonite dish, is it not?” asked Data.

“That’s right,” confirmed Troi, who was sitting next to him. “One of the
many
Emmonite dishes of which the captain is so fond.” She looked at Picard and smiled.

“Nor am I the only aficionado of Emmonite cuisine,” the captain reminded her.

“It is served regularly at Starfleet headquarters.”

“Is it true,” asked Geordi, “that the Emmonites never heard of pasta before they joined the Federation?”

Picard nodded.
“Quite
true. As I understand it, the head of the Emmonite delegation dined at the home of Admiral Manelli—this being a good fifty years ago, of course, when Manelli was in charge of Starfleet. That night, the admiral’s wife served linguini with white clam sauce, and the ambassador was so taken with it that he insisted on bringing the recipe back to his home planet.”

“I heard he wanted to bring Mrs. Manelli back as well,” said Ben Zoma.

Picard nodded. “He did. But that is another story.”

Data consumed a forkful of the Manzakini, seemed to ponder the experience. He turned to Guinan. “Very authentic,” he said. “My compliments to the chef.”

Guinan inclined her head again. “Thank you. The food service units will be glad to hear that.”

Joseph looked across the table at the android. “You
eat,
Mr. Data?”

Data nodded. “It is not necessary for my survival. However, I have found that in a situation such as this one, it is often distracting to others if I do
not
eat.”

“Then you can actually
taste?”
asked Cadwallader.

“Yes,” replied the android. “I have the requisite sensory apparatus. I can even analyze the ingredients. The only thing I cannot do is derive enjoyment from the sensation.”

“Too bad,” said Morgen. “But then, we all have our limitations.”

“Pardon me,” said the Gnalish, addressing Worf. “But your Manzakini Loraina looks a little different from mine. It seems to be
writhing.”

“Worf is on a special diet,” Geordi jested.

Picard gave his chief engineer a sidelong glance. “The lieutenant has a preference for
Klingon
preparations,” he explained, “though he seldom gets them, except on special occasions. This qualifies as such an occasion.”

The Klingon looked at Simenon as if he’d been challenged. “It is called blood pie.” He pushed the plate toward the Gnalish. “Would you like to try some?”

Simenon swallowed. “No, my boy, I don’t think so. I like my food to lie still on my plate. You know—to at least
pretend
it’s not alive.”

“Actually,” said Greyhorse, “blood pie is quite nutritious.” He looked around at the surprised expressions of his companions. “I didn’t say I had eaten it. Just that it was good for you. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Laughter. And from Simenon, a crackling that was as much for Greyhorse’s benefit as anything else.

“I
have eaten it,” said Asmund rather abruptly.

The laughter died down.

“And?” asked Morgen.

Asmund regarded him evenly. “It is not as good as stewed
gagh.”

“Gagh?”
asked Geordi, mutilating the word in his attempt to pronounce it.

“Serpent worms,” explained Riker. “I’ve had occasion to try them myself. They are quite…filling.” He couldn’t help but grimace a little at the memory.

“You don’t appear to have enjoyed them, Commander,” observed Cadwallader.

“It is,” said Worf, “an acquired taste. Much like
chicken.”

“Chicken,” Simenon remarked, “doesn’t try to eat
you
as you are eating
it.”

Ben Zoma grunted. “Vigo used to love something called
sturrd.
It looked like a mound of sand with pieces of ground glass thrown in for good measure. And he would down it with half a gallon of maple syrup.”

“It was
not
maple syrup,” argued Joseph. “It only
looked
like maple syrup.”

“Vigo,” said Data, who had been taking in the conversation with equanimity. “He was one of your colleagues on the
Stargazer
—one who did not survive the battle at Maxia Zeta.”

“That’s right,” said Greyhorse. “Unfortunately. Vigo was our weapons officer.”

Morgen nodded. “And not just any weapons officer. He was the finest Starfleet has ever seen.”

“I didn’t know Starfleet
had
weapons officers,” said Troi.

“Only the deep-space explorers,” Picard expanded. “It was an experiment, really. A separation of the ship’s defense functions from its security functions. But don’t let the terminology deceive you—Vigo did a lot more than look after the weapons systems.”

“That’s right,” said Ben Zoma. He turned to Dr. Crusher. “He also used to thrash your husband regularly at
sharash’di.”

Beverly smiled. “I think I remember Jack telling me about that. Though as I recall, it wasn’t just Jack he beat. It was
you
too. And a few others.”

Ben Zoma laughed. “Now that you mention it, I guess I
was
one of the victims.”

“And I as well,” said Cadwallader.

“But Jack was Vigo’s regular partner,” recalled Joseph. “I think they used to play every chance they got. As if Jack couldn’t accept defeat—couldn’t accept the fact that there was something he couldn’t do.”

“Not that there was any shame in losing to Vigo,” Cadwallader interjected. “He was uncanny. A master.”

“Vigo lost only once,” said Ben Zoma. He seemed to concentrate for a moment, then shook his head. “Though for the life of me, I can’t remember who beat him.”

“It was Gerda,” said Asmund. “Gerda beat him.”

Suddenly, there was silence in the room.

Asmund turned to Data before he could ask. “My twin sister,” she explained. “The one who tried to kill Morgen.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw Geordi exchange glances with Simenon. For once, the Gnalish had nothing clever to say.

Picard cleared his throat. The best thing, he decided, was to take the remark in stride. To act as if it were just part of the conversation, and not a complete bombshell.

But before he could open his mouth, Morgen beat him to it.

“What’s that expression you humans have? ‘Water under the bridge’?” He shrugged—a rather awkward gesture for a Daa’Vit. “As far as I’m concerned, the incident is forgotten.” He looked at Asmund. “And forgiven.”

The captain breathed a silent sigh of relief. Everyone at the table seemed to loosen up a little.

Everyone except Asmund.
“I
haven’t forgotten it,” she told Morgen. She looked around the table. “Sorry. I hadn’t intended to put a damper on things.” She got up. “Excuse me.”

“Idun,” Picard called.

She seemed not to hear him as she walked out of the room.

Ten-Forward was open around the clock. It had to be. The ship’s officers and crew got off duty at various odd hours, depending on their section and individual responsibilities, and nearly everyone felt the urge to unwind in the lounge at one time or another.

And whenever anyone stopped in for a drink and some conversation, Guinan seemed to be there—standing at her usual place behind the bar, mixing drinks and distributing advice in small doses. Of course, that was only an appearance. Guinan slept like everybody else.

Well, perhaps not
exactly
like everybody else. But she slept. So it was unusual that she should have been around during the pre-“dawn” shift when Pug Joseph swaggered into the lounge.

He didn’t look very healthy—or very happy. There were faint dark circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that told Guinan he’d been drinking more than synthehol. She smiled and prepared herself.

As she’d expected, he made his way to the farthest table from the bar—a small set-up for two right by an observation port. When he pulled out a chair, the legs clattered against the floor; as he lowered himself into it, he did so awkwardly. Then he slumped over the table, turning his head to the observation port—as if he preferred the company of the streaking stars to that of the crewmen who sat all around him.

Dunhill was the waiter assigned to that area. But before he went over to take Joseph’s order, he cast a glance in Guinan’s direction.

She shook her head slowly from side to side. Acknowledging her silent instructions, Dunhill waited on another table, ignoring the
Lexington’
s security chief. Somehow, though he wasn’t looking in that direction, Joseph managed to notice. He turned, straightened, and glared at Guinan through narrowed bloodshot eyes.

Recognizing her cue, she wove her way among the tables, exchanging greetings with those she passed, until she reached the place where Joseph was sitting. He studied her sullenly.

She returned his hard gaze with a more pleasant one. “May I?” she asked, indicating the empty seat opposite him.

His nostrils flared. He shrugged.

Taking that as an affirmative response, she pulled out the chair and sat down. For a moment there was only silence between them—a silence strung so tight that it seemed liable to snap at any time.

Then she spoke. “You know,” she said, “you’re getting to be quite a regular around here. Aren’t there any other parts of the ship you’re interested in?”

He chuckled. The sound had an edge to it.

“Not that it’s any of your business.” He leaned forward, the pupils of his eyes larger and blacker than they had a right to be. “And if I were Morgen or Ben Zoma or—hell,
any
of the others—you wouldn’t be mentioning that now, would you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Guinan said, “I
would
be.”

Joseph sneered, leaning back again. “In a pig’s eye.”

“I don’t lie, Mr. Joseph.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked at her. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

“You mean what
race?”
she asked.

“That’s right. What race.”

“An old one,” said Guinan. “Old enough to know alcoholism when we see it.”

Joseph grunted. “Give me a break, all right? I can hold my liquor.”

“No doubt,” she answered, though she had lots of doubts. “The question is why you would
want
to.”

His mouth twisted into something mean. “I love people like you,” he told her. “Crusaders. They always think they know you—know all about you.” His voice became menacing. “You don’t know
anything
about me.”

Guinan stood her ground. “I just might know more than you think.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re bubbling over with hate. For others, to an extent—but most of all, for yourself. Because you don’t like what you’ve become. Because you think it could’ve been different. And because you believe, in the secret center of yourself, that somehow it’s all your fault.” Seeing him shrink a little from her, she softened her voice. “And the alcohol is the only way you can keep the hate in check. It’s the only way you can smile at people and not snarl at them, because if you let them see what’s inside you, you know you’re going to lose what precious little you
do
have.”

Suddenly, Joseph’s face was flushed. It took him a few seconds to respond, and when he did, his voice was little more than a rasp.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I just come from a very old race.”

Gradually, Joseph’s confusion dissipated. But it wasn’t replaced by anger. Rather, the man seemed on the verge of tears.

“I’m as good as they are,” he said. “I’m as good as
anyone.”

“Of course you are,” Guinan assured him. “But now you’ve got more than a couple of bad breaks to deal with. The
alcohol
has gotten in your way. Can’t you see? It’s like a jealous lover. It doesn’t just console you—it makes sure you stay just where you are. Beaten. Bitter. If you really want to become the kind of person you
can
be, you’re going to have to face this—and take care of it.”

He looked at the stars again. His face, a portrait of a tortured soul, was reflected in the transparent barrier that separated them from the void. “I—I can’t. I just
can’t.”

“You
can,”
she insisted. She sought his eyes, found them as he turned to her again. “I’ll help. You hear me, Chief? I can help you.”

For a brief moment it seemed Joseph was going to take the first step back. And then, with a pathos that tore at her inner being, he pounded on the tabletop. “No,” he got out between clenched teeth. “No. You don’t know what I—what it’s like. Just—damn it, just leave me alone. You can
have
your stinking lounge.”

Shooting to his feet, he glared at her one last time. Then, with all the dignity he could muster, he threaded his way among the tables and left.

Guinan was so busy watching him, she almost didn’t see Dunhill’s approach.

“Ma’am?” said the waiter.

“Yes, Dunhill?”

“Is everything all right?”

She sighed. “Not exactly.” She looked up at him. “But thanks for asking.”