by Diane Carey
Worf bristled. "Are you saying that Klingons will go out into the galaxy and cause a conflict if none comes?"
"It is our nature," Lourn said again.
With a rough grunt, Worf said, "We should rise above such nature."
"That is your human upbringing talking."
Worf shifted on his bench just enough to see Lourn. "At this monastery you teach that conflict is inevitable, that rejecting it is rejecting reality, that species survive by being good at conflict. Planets orbit stars and intelligent beings will always conflict. But I have seen otherwise. Starfleet has shown me other wisdom."
Lourn made a sound that may have been a laugh. "How many times in Starfleet have you known it was time to strike a blow, and you were held back?"
Worf faced the arena again, troubled, angry. He had heard this ten times from Lourn just this week. He had no response to it. He didn't know the words to vocalize what the Federation wanted for the galaxy, yet he had seen it and he wanted it too.
"You're not alive because of wisdom, Worf," Lourn said evenly from behind him. "You're alive because of luck. Any gambling house knows, in the long run you cannot beat the odds. The coin may flip a thousand times to the same face, but if it is flipped enough times more, it will even out. It always does. Starfleet is made up of timid pacifists afraid to take a stand. Sooner or later they will hesitate to strike enough times that they will be destroyed."
"The Federation will stand its ground," Worf attempted, feeling his shoulders tremble with the effort of philosophical argument. He wasn't good at this. "I have seen them many times say, 'This is the line. Do not cross.'"
"Yet you don't understand where the line is, do you?" Lourn prodded. "You don't really know why they draw that line. You're a Klingon, Worf. You may never understand their line. You were raised by humans and of course you assumed some of their ways, but you're not a child anymore. You must cast aside the things your adoptive parents and their people were wrong about, that which is not you. You're having problems here because you're denying that you are Klingon."
Driven to fury by confusion, by his inability to verbalize what he believed, Worf spun around with his fist balled, aiming for the sound of Lourn's voice, planning to land a blow on that which he could not power down with words.
But Lourn wasn't there anymore. He had moved away, just back far enough that Worf's fist spun free and he struck at empty air, almost toppling himself from the bench.
"You see?" Lourn quietly said. "You're a Klingon and I knew it. I knew what you would do. That blow you just missed is your true nature. By losing this argument, you have learned that you can't defend Starfleet because you don't understand it. You're a Klingon. You can't be human. The humans see things differently and that's why you don't know where they draw their lines. It's time for you to accept that and become fully Klingon. Worf…you are in the wrong place."
Haunted by his own prodigality, Worf gripped the edge of the bench. He wasn't angry at Lourn. The cleric was doing his job. Sifting Worfs identity and searching for clarity.
On the other hand, yes, he was angry at Lourn. Who could think such thoughts about the Federation, which had provided stability in the midst of galactic upheaval? Was that what it meant to be Klingon? To deny facts?
"Commander Worf!"
A third presence relieved him of having to speak to Lourn. He stood to his full height, towering over the newcoming Klingon by half a head as one of the monastery's clerks came toward them. "Yes, Brother Klasq?"
"I'm afraid we must interrupt your Silent Hour. Greetings, Master Lourn. Commander Worf, a communiqué has come for you. It's from Starfleet Command."
Worf glanced at Lourn. This was supposed to be his Silent Hour. It came twice a day, every day, rain, shine, hunger, storm, boredom, random thoughts, alien attack, planetary core explosion—nothing could stop it.
Except a communiqué from Starfleet Command. Right through the Silent Hour like a pincer.
Worf tried not to insult Brother Klasq, or satisfy Master Lourn, by plunging too quickly for the comm disk in the clerk's hand.
After all, there was no point in breaking bones.
CHAPTER 9
DEEP SPACE NINE. Ironically, not the ninth deep-space station established by the Federation. The "Nine" had something to do with the area of space—nine sectors, nine years trying to establish a post here, something like that. Worf hazily remembered the story, but had forgotten the reason.
It was good to once again wear his Starfleet uniform. Too long had he felt the robes of Boreth around his ankles, with Lourn constantly biting at those ankles. Too long had he lumbered about the monastery, discussing vagaries of life without pursuing life itself. Now it came to get him and he was glad for that.
But here?
It might as well be here. At least this would be a chance to avoid what Lourn had predicted for him. If he couldn't defeat his inner demons, perhaps he could avoid them.
Deep Space Nine was familiar enough, and still jaundiced in its way. The Cardassian architecture was annoying, as if it refused to forget who had built it. There was an air of simmering trouble here in these lava-gray halls with their structural arms arching overhead like the legs of a crouching spider.
Yes, here.
Worf shuffled from the docking pylon in a gaggle of other travelers just arriving, and a voice threaded to him over the grumble of conversation in the docking ring.
"Commander Worf!"
A ruddy face under buff curls appeared out of the crowd. Suddenly a touch of the Enterprise was back in his grip.
"Chief O'Brien," Worf greeted. "It has been a long time."
"Too long," O'Brien said. "Welcome aboard."
They strolled together through the crowd and into one of the lateral turbolifts that would take them through to the habitat ring, where the quarters were.
"I'll get you settled," O'Brien said. "How's the rest of the crew? The captain?"
"Captain Picard is well. As all commanders, he understood why he must lose his ship. The civilization on Veridian Four was saved because the ship was sacrificed. Every captain wishes such an end for his vessel."
O'Brien nodded. "That's why I became an engineer. I'd rather build 'em than wreck 'em. How's the rest of the crew taking it?"
"We are Starfleet officers," Worf said. "We take things."
Rewarding him with a laugh of mutuality, O'Brien didn't ask again. He either understood what Worf meant or understood that the Klingon didn't want to be the courier of other people's feelings, especially about such a thing as the loss of their vessel.
It felt good to talk to O'Brien, to walk beside him again even in the bout of silence that came now as they both imagined their crewmates and the ship on which they had served together. He wondered if O'Brien felt guilty for having transferred off the ship to this distant spiral in the dark. Probably not. O'Brien had left the Enterprise in excellent condition and come here to a place where an innovative engineer was desperately needed. And, Worf knew, the chance to convert a Cardassian station to Starfleet equipment. The textbooks went out the nearest portal. A hungry task, a lengthy purpose with a horizon.
They passed a huddle of Ferengi and deliberately kept moving. Worf noticed that O'Brien maneuvered between him and the Ferengi, attempting a buffer zone—as if that would stop anything that insisted upon happening. Ferengi didn't like Klingons, but didn't usually try anything physical.
One of them, intimidated enough to stay behind in the crowd but bold enough to speak up, said, "Just what this station needs. Another Klingon."
Worf glanced at O'Brien. They kept walking. In his life among humans, striving as his adoptive parents encouraged to remain as Klingon as possible, Worf had heard the word Klingon used as everything from compliment to epithet. No use of it bothered him anymore. He listened only to tone, inflection, and peered into the eyes of anyone who said it, for there was the true opinion.
"That was Quark, wasn't it?" he rumbled quietly.
"You'll have t
o forgive him," O'Brien said. "The presence of the Klingon task force in his bar's been costing him."
"I understand." What he really meant was that he didn't care, but no point starting off on that note.
He could tell from O'Brien's amused glance that his attitude hadn't gone missed.
"We'll square away your gear," the engineer said. "Then you can report in."
"With Major Kira? Or Commander Sisko."
"Oh—you haven't heard? It's Captain Sisko now."
"Is it…that will be easier to say."
"Easier to 'say'?"
"There is something about addressing myself to a captain which comes naturally to me."
O'Brien smiled. "I can relate to that. Starship duty'll do that to a person. I don't envy you. I know why Sisko asked Starfleet Command to find you."
"To deal with other Klingons."
"Right. Some of the force has moved off, but there are still a bundle of 'em here. And these Klingons, they've been in space a long time. They're the hardened ones, left over after all the weaker ones have been killed or couldn't take the pressure of deep space. You're here to deal with them."
"Do not worry, Chief," Worf offered. "They will relate to me."
O'Brien grinned again.
"Tell me, Chief," Worf asked, "why does Captain Sisko think these Klingons need to be dealt with?"
"I don't know it it's for me to say. I'm sure he'll tell you his concerns. . . ."
"Yes, but I would like your opinion."
"Don't know if I have one. There's just been a strange, well, sort of quietly hostile air around here. The Klingons haven't even been acting like—you'll pardon this, but…Klingons."
"Yes. I saw all the ships. I am certain something is under way. After all, stealth is not the Klingons' greatest talent."
"No. Say, if you do have to rough it up any, you can do us a favor. You can start with a joker named Drex. He took a poke at Garak."
"Your Cardassian tailor?"
"Well, he's a tailor at the moment. With Garak, we can never tell. But he's living here, he's one of us, and we don't take kindly to having our neighbors pounded."
"How do you know he did not provoke the attack?"
"Because, as I hear it, he was with Odo at the time, and Odo wouldn't have allowed him to 'provoke' anybody. Whatever was said, the Klingons took it harder than they should've. They took Garak four to one."
"Four to one is dishonorable," Worf told him. "Unless the one is me."
"Lieutenant Commander Worf reporting for duty."
The stars were a passive, challenging backdrop out the viewing portals of the commander's—the captain's—office. Worf covered the space between the door and the desk in two strides.
Before him, Captain Sisko swung around from watching those stars. "It's good to have you aboard, Commander."
"Thank you, sir." Worf didn't look Sisko in the face, but kept his shoulders straight, his arms at his sides, and his chin up. As a captain, Sisko deserved to see, once in a while, someone standing at attention.
Sisko's expression betrayed his enjoyment of the small offering. "At ease, Mr. Worf. I was sorry to hear about the Enterprise. She was a good ship."
"Yes, sir," Worf responded clinically. A good ship—there was no better way to say in three words what a ship like the Enterprise really was, or the Enterprise that had come before her, the heritage of slam and sacrifice, of first-through-the-door danger that she represented.
That ship had been a warrior. Her death was appropriate.
"I understand you've been on leave," Sisko said, and it was obvious he was changing the subject on purpose.
Relieved that he was not expected to discuss the ship, Worf blandly acknowledged, "Yes, I have been visiting the Klingon monastery on Boreth. I found my discussions with the clerics there most enlightening."
"I hope you'll forgive us for pulling you away from your studies. I doubt this assignment will last very long."
"My leave was almost over."
"Any idea where you'll be stationed next?" Sisko asked him.
So he had picked up on Worf's hint that he wasn't going back to Boreth, but didn't want to outrightly say that he didn't want to go back. Again Worf was relieved, but kept it out of his face.
Yet he knew he wasn't fooling Sisko.
Struck with a flash of candidness, he said, "I am considering resigning my commission."
"Really?" Sisko's face changed for the first time. "Do you mind if I ask why?"
"I have spent most of my life among humans," Worf found himself saying. Perhaps the time on Boreth had made him less guarded, for he spoke openly to a man whom he hardly knew. "It has not always been easy for me. And since the destruction of the Enterprise, it has become even more difficult. I am no longer sure I belong in this uniform."
Sisko absorbed the words, the concept, the struggle that not all, but many Starfleet officers faced at one time or another in their lives—to keep putting on the uniform today, tomorrow, the next day. He seemed to comprehend professionally, but also personally.
He paced from one end of his desk to the other. "Mr. Worf, if I said we didn't need you, I'd be lying. But if you don't want to take this assignment…I'd understand."
"Thank you, sir," Worf said quickly. "But until I make my decision, I intend to do my duty."
"I'm glad to hear that. I assume you've read my situation report."
Worf nodded, but didn't mention that O'Brien had given him the nonofficial take on what was happening and that he thought the picture was ugly, but clear.
Sisko didn't prod. "I can't help feeling that General Martok hasn't told me the whole truth about the Klingon task force. There are too many unanswered questions."
"Then I will attempt to find you the answers."
Worf made the simple offering because he knew it was hoped for, if not expected. Captain Sisko had requested Worfs assistance, but hadn't been able to specify, officially, any more than a need for a presence with Starfleet authority that the Klingons would instinctively respect, or at least to which they would pay attention.
"Good," Sisko said, hinting at his relief that Worf understood and wasn't insulted. "If you need any help, let me know."
"Yes, sir."
Worf turned to exit. He needed no explanations of what to do first. That would be his to decide. By not specifying, by not assigning him escort, by not asking questions, Sisko was giving him free hand to act as he wished.
"Commander," Sisko said just before Worf made it to the door. "I just wanted to say…I thought about resigning from Starfleet once too. But I know now, if I had, I would've regretted it." He paused, searched for thoughts, then added, "I guess what I'm saying is…don't make any hasty decisions."
The words seemed shallow, awkward from one officer to another, but there was substance beneath them. Sisko was evidently hoping Worf would assume that, would comprehend the inner torture signaled by what he was saying. The details wouldn't help.
The fact that another officer had gone through this—did.
"Thank you, sir," Worf said. "I will keep that in mind."
Garak puttered in his tailor shop. When there was little work, puttering became his art. An annoyance, but it kept up appearances. As many times before, he found himself thinking of his earliest years, stitching carpet samples and making fabric patterns for his uncle's furniture factory. Who would have known that such mundane childhood drudgery would come in so handy? If he were not a tailor, what excuse could he have to linger on Deep Space Nine, the nearest Federation outpost to Cardassian space?
He could keep a tavern, but Quark already did that here. He could open some other kind of shop, but there already were dozens of misplaced beings running cubicles here, trying to sell things they appropriated from various sources. In fact, shops came and went here constantly. The average length of stay for a business was only one or two months. He needed longer than that.
So, he not only opened a shop, but provided a service. Those who did not buy clo
thing at least occasionally ripped clothing. Beings appeared here who needed special fittings. After all, a creature with the head of a fish and the body of a spiny tree could hardly buy a shirt off the rack.
And now and then—not frequently, but significantly—he had a chance to use his position here to do a small favor for Deep Space Nine, forsaken though it was.
He grinned as he thought of Drex. The big bully would take the information he had "wrenched" from Garak and give it to his leader. He would puff up with pride that he had taken the details and he would probably be congratulated. Then, when the truth came out—and it would, in time—Drex would be seen as the pawn of a Cardassian spy and would be humiliated.
Grinning again, Garak wondered what the Klingons would do to Drex. He wondered if there weren't some way he could help do it. Skin peeling or tongue pinning…
He glanced up as one browsing customer left and another strode in, and his hand began to shake.
A Klingon. Big one. Unfamiliar.
This one was standing behind the high rack of ceremonial robes, glancing around at the merchandise, but didn't seem particularly interested in any item.
Despite the fact that he had purposely orchestrated the events that left his back sore and his legs aching, Garak hesitated to approach another of the evolutionarily deprived.
Did they want more from him? Worse—had they discovered that the information he provided was bogus and out of date?
Perforce he shook off his fright enough to function. He had to appear casual. Maybe they weren't sure yet and were watching him for suspicious behavior.
Of course, there was another, slightly bizarre, possibility. This one could be shopping.
He moved forward, staying on the opposite side of the rack of robes.
"May I help you, sir?"
The Klingon looked up. "You are Garak."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm glad to hear my reputation is spreading. Is there some garment I can enlarge for you?"
"No, thank you." The Klingon came around the ceremonial robes in two strides—
A Starfleet uniform! An officer?
