“No.” T’Latrek also stood, raising her right hand and parting the middle two fingers in the V-shape of the Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, Ambassador. Qapla’.”
“Qapla’.” Worf raised his own right hand and matched the gesture. It was uncomfortable, but the minister had done him the courtesy of a Klingon salutation. Worf could hardly do other than return the favor. “Live long and prosper, Minister.”
At least T’Latrek isn’t human, Worf thought as he left the office. Then she would likely have insisted on shakinghands. No matter how long he lived among humans, Worf had never been able to think of that human ritual as anything other than silly-looking.
Worf headed for the nearest transporter room in order to return to his parents’ home for what would probably be the last time for many months.
In all his time as security chief on the Galaxy-class ship that bore the name Enterprise, Worf had escorted many people to the VIP quarters. They were the largest on the ship, almost embarrassing in their luxury. Worf— who had found his own, smaller rooms to be unnecessarily lavish—had never thought he would be in a position to stay in such quarters.
Now, on the Sovereign-class successor to that ship, Worf found himself in accommodations even larger than those he had so disdained. Commander Riker himself had met Worf in the transporter room and escorted him here, and Worf came very close to requesting something smaller—but he knew that would not happen. He was, after all, a Federation ambassador.
So he simply set down the duffel bags he had insisted on carrying himself (courtesy was one thing, but a warrior never let others carry his personal items), turned to Riker, and said, “Thank you, Commander.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Ambassador,” Riker said formally.
“Please, Commander—I believe it would not be a breach of protocol for you to call me by name.”
Grinning with his still-beardless face—Worf wished the first officer would grow it back; without it, his face looked just wrong somehow—Riker said, “Haven’t gotten used to the title yet, huh?”
“No,” Worf said simply. “But even if I had, such formality between us would be—unnecessary.”
“All right, but that means you’re going to have to start calling me ‘Will.’”
Worf blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. Riker had been his superior officer for so long. . . . “I will work on that—Will.”
“Good,” Riker said.
Walking toward the food replicator, Worf asked the question he knew he’d need to know the answer to sooner or later: “How is Deanna?”
“Fine,” Riker said with an ease that relieved Worf. “Not here, unfortunately—she’s on Betazed, helping with the reconstruction efforts there.”
To the computer, Worf said, “Prune juice, chilled.” He turned to Riker. “Anything for you, si— Will?”
“No, thank you.”
The prune juice materialized in the dispenser, and Worf took a sip of it. “And you and Deanna are . . . ?” Worf let the question trail off.
Riker broke into another of his trademark grins. “Doing just fine, thanks.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Worf’s brief relationship with Deanna had been a source of tension, which was why, when Riker and Deanna had renewed their relationship on the Bak’u planet, Worf had made sure to give it his blessing.
“Y’know, Worf,” Riker said, approaching the Klingon, “the first time I saw you, I said to myself, ‘That man is going to make a great diplomat.’”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Worf, the first time I saw you, you tried to blow a hole in the viewscreen because Q’s face appeared on it.”
Worf took another sip of his prune juice. “I was young and rash.”
“And what would you call yourself now?”
Worf considered. “Old and rash.”
Riker laughed. “It is good to see you again, Worf. Well, I’ll let you get settled in.” He headed toward the doors. As they parted, Riker turned and said, “Oh, there’s a reception for you in Ten-Forward tonight at 1800 hours.”
Wincing, Worf said, “Comma—Will, I do not think—”
Cutting him off, Riker said, “Worf, in the seven-and-a-half years you served on the Enterprise, how many people of your current rank did we take on as passengers?”
“I do not recall the exact number, but—”
“And how many of them had some kind of reception or event planned in their honor?”
Worf sighed. “All of them.”
“Precisely. Don’t worry. It’ll be a modest affair—just a few officers and some finger food and drinks.”
“Modest,” Worf said, sounding dubious.
Putting his hand to his heart, Riker said, “Mr. Worf, don’t you trust my word?”
Remembering more than one surprise party that the commander had been responsible for springing on various unsuspecting crewmembers, Worf could only reply: “No, I do not.”
Chuckling, Riker said, “Well, let me put it another way: Captain Picard would be deeply offended if you didn’t show up. See you at 1800. Oh, and you’re welcome to join us in my quarters afterward.”
Worf frowned.
“Poker night,” Riker said with a smile, and then departed.
Shaking his head, Worf turned to his duffels and began to unpack. The trip to the border would take several days, after all. He placed his clothing in drawers and the padds he’d need on the desk.
Then he unpacked the two framed pictures. One was of him and Alexander. It was several years old—Alexander was much shorter and Worf was still a Starfleet lieutenant when the picture was taken—but Worf had kept it with him since the previous Enterprise had been destroyed.
The other was his and Jadzia’s wedding picture.
He stared at it for several seconds before finally placing it on the bedstand next to the other picture.
Losing K’Ehleyr had been painful, but he had at least been able to avenge her death. Ending his relationship with Deanna had been difficult, but ultimately the right choice for them both.
Jadzia Dax’s death was agony, made worse by the fact that Worf had not been able to avenge it.
It had been over a year, and the pain had not faded.
He wondered if it ever would.
Finally, he unpacked his other possessions: the statue of Kahless fighting Morath; his bat’leth championship trophy; the metal baldric he had worn over his uniform since becoming Enterprise security chief; the new mek’leth Ezri Dax had given him as a going-away present after his old one had been taken by the Breen during their capture; and his family’s bat’leth, the one possession of the House of Mogh that had survived the Khitomer massacre.
As he set the bat’leth on the wall—replacing a rather hideous painting—the door chime rang. “Enter,” he said.
A human wearing civilian clothing—a dark blue tunic, a burgundy vest, and black trousers and shoes—entered. He carried a padd in his left hand. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m sorry I’m late,” he said calmly. The man spoke with an accent Worf couldn’t quite place. “My name is Giancarlo Wu. I’m your aide.”
Worf noted that Wu did not offer his hand. A promising start. According to his file, Wu had served as Worf’s predecessor’s aide as well, and had been on the staff of the Federation embassy on Qo’noS prior to that, so he was certainly aware of Klingon customs and preferences. “Minister T’Latrek told me you would be joining me here.”
“Yes,” Wu said. “I do apologize again. I’m afraid I was caught up in getting your computer access set up, and I was unable to greet you at the transporter.”
“That is not a problem. I do know my way around this ship.”
Wu smiled a small smile. “Yes, of course. In any case,” he continued, glancing down at the padd and tapping the occasional command into it, “you have quite a large number of correspondences waiting for you. I will go through them and flag any that need your personal attention, but most of them are trivial matters that either I can handl
e or can wait until after the taD matter is resolved.” Something on the padd seemed to grab his attention, and he added, “Ah, you also have a good number of personal correspondences, which I forwarded to you unread, obviously.”
“Good,” Worf said. “Since you are not new to this position, I assume I do not need to tell you that Klingons do not prevaricate. I expect you to speak the truth to me at all times. It is possible that my predecessor had an understandably human need to have her feelings assuaged on certain delicate matters. However, I prefer that you assume there are no such things.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, there are always delicate matters.”
Worf nodded, conceding the point. “If you do stumble across one of them, I will let you know.”
Wu nodded. “Understood, Mr. Ambassador.” He gazed back down at his padd. “In addition to your personal correspondences, I have also forwarded to you an up-to-date report on taD, more current than what Minister T’Latrek gave you yesterday. I have also obtained the complete personnel records of the Gorkon crew and of Governor Tiral’s staff on taD.”
“Good,” Worf said again, and he meant it. He had not expected such thoroughness, though he was glad of it.
“Will there be anything else?” Wu asked.
“Not at the moment. I will contact you if that changes. Otherwise, I assume I will see you at the reception at 1800 hours in Ten-Forward.”
Wu blinked. “That is in your honor, Mr. Ambassador. I wouldn’t presume—”
“You serve me,” Worf said. “A reception in my honor is therefore also a reception in yours by extension.”
Again smiling a small smile, Wu said, “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated, then, apparently taking Worf’s urging not to prevaricate to heart, said, “Your predecessor never liked having staff attend such functions. She said that having us around reminded her too much of work.”
“A very human attitude.”
“The ambassador was very human.” Wu put the padd in the pocket of his vest and said, “My quarters are just next door, sir. I am at your disposal any time of the day or night.”
“Thank you,” Worf said. He moved toward the desk as Wu headed toward the exit.
“Mr. Ambassador?” Wu said, turning to speak over his shoulder.
Worf turned to face him. “Yes?”
“I know we’re only going to be on the ship for a few days, but— Well, I think the statue would look better over there.” Wu pointed at the bureau over which Worf had hung the bat’leth.
“I will consider it,” Worf said dryly.
“Very good, sir.”
And with that, he left.
A curious person, Worf thought. Still, Wu had lived on Qo’noS and worked with Klingons, so he probably wouldn’t have too much trouble dealing with the conditions on the Gorkon. Starfleet ships were designed for comfort; Defense Force vessels were meant solely for combat. Often humans had difficulty dealing with the somewhat Spartan conditions—indeed, his comrades on Deep Space Nine had complained about it endlessly whenever events of the Dominion War necessitated travel on a Klingon ship.
Wu was also right: the statue did look better on the bureau.
Sitting at the desk, Worf said, “Computer, display personal correspondences, Ambassador Worf.” He then gave his access code.
Wu had not exaggerated. He had dozens of letters. Most seemed to be of a simple, congratulatory nature, but he decided to plow through them and get it over with.
There was a note from Ezri, catching him up on what was going on on Deep Space Nine, including the rather surprising news of who had replaced Odo as the security chief on the Promenade. His parents, typically, had sent a message, even though he had seen them less than four hours ago. They ended it with Father saying: “Son, we could not be more proud of you. And remember, that we will always be here for you, no matter what.” Mother added: “We love you, Worf.”
Worf saved both messages, then continued through the other letters. Some were from former Enterprise personnel who had moved on to other assignments, including a number of his former security staff. Some were from Klingons he had served with during the war. Some were from the Rozhenkos’ friends and family. A few others were from Deep Space Nine.
He noticed that two messages came from the U.S.S. Excalibur. That was, he recalled, Captain Mackenzie Calhoun’s ship, presently assigned to what used to be Thallonian space. Worf remembered that Commander Shelby was Calhoun’s first officer, and three of his Academy classmates also served on that vessel.
The freckled face of one of those classmates, Lieutenant Mark McHenry, appeared on the screen. “Hey, Worf. Soleta’s busy with a sensor recalibration, so I offered to send this message, since we just heard from Commander Shelby—who sends her regards, by the way, she said you guys served together on the Enterprise during that Borg mess—about your being made ambassador, and we were all thrilled, especially with all the reports that you got captured by the Dominion, we figured you were a goner, so it’s good to know that you not only sur vived, but got a nice job. Kinda funny, you being a diplo mat, especially after all the times you and Kebron . . .”
The message went on for several more minutes—though it seemed like hours—delivered in McHenry’s usual stream-of-consciousness babble, recalling several incidents from their shared Academy days. Worf swore it was all one sentence.
Then the Vulcanoid features of Lieutenant Soleta replaced McHenry’s image, which came to Worf as something of a relief. “McHenry forgot to actually say congratulations. I should have known better than to trust him with composing the message. So, congratulations, Worf. And best of luck to you—though I suspect you will not need it.”
The second Excalibur message had no audiovisual component, merely a one-word text message from the ship’s chief of security, and Worf’s former roommate, Zak Kebron: CONGRATULATIONS.
For Kebron, it was verbose.
Worf leaned back and looked at the pictures of Jadzia and Alexander, thought about seeing his parents and Jeremy, being reunited today with the Enterprise crew, and now all these letters. It seems the past does not wish to leave me alone these last few days.
Leaning forward again, Worf began to compose a reply to Soleta.
As Worf and Wu approached Ten-Forward at 1805 hours, Worf could hear the sounds of a trombone playing.
Human music, he thought with a sigh. I should haveknown.
With a due sense of anticipation and dread, he entered Ten-Forward, his aide right behind him. A cacophony of Dixieland jazz assaulted his ears as the doors parted. The room was nearly packed with uniformed personnel, eating and drinking. Most of them, of course, Worf did not recognize. Though some of the staff from the Enterprise-D presently served on this newer ship, they were by far in the minority. Many, like Worf, had gone on to other assignments; many had been killed in the war. The result was a party in Worf’s honor full of people he did not know.
In the center of the room, a band provided the music—with William Riker playing the trombone. A sign had been placed over the windows that said WELCOME AMBASSADOR WORF in English and Klingon.
“Modest, indeed,” Worf muttered.
“Sir?” Wu asked.
Sighing, Worf said to his aide, “Commander Riker had promised me that this would be a modest affair. His exact words were, ‘Just a few officers and some finger food and drinks.’”
Wu looked around the crowded room. “Obviously, sir, this is a definition of the word modest that I was heretofore unaware of,” he said dryly.
Steeling himself against the noise, Worf milled around the party. He lost track of Wu relatively quickly, but he did find Geordi La Forge and Data. Geordi still had his goatée, for which Worf was grateful. It almost made up for Riker’s clean-shaven face. As for Data, the android had a broad grin on his face as he asked how Worf was. Worf hadn’t served much with Data since the android had installed his emotion chip, and the idea of Data smiling was still difficult for Worf to wrap his mind around.
&nbs
p; Worf’s nose identified the food long before he could actually see it. Though some of the scents were unfamiliar, he could definitely pick out some Klingon food. He excused himself from the chief engineer and second officer and made a beeline for the source: three tables near the window. Two of them had a standard collection of Federation appetizers, mostly Earth food, with bits and pieces from other worlds tossed in for good measure. This, Worf thought, explains the less familiar odors.
But the third table had all Klingon delicacies: pipius claw, bregit lung, gladst, krada legs, zilm’kach, skull stew (that had been chopped to pieces for some odd reason; the skull should have remained intact), stewed bok-rat liver, and bowls of both gagh and racht (dead, but Worf supposed one couldn’t have everything).
The food on the third table was also mostly untouched. Worf grabbed a plate and started piling food onto it. In deference to Federation custom, he used utensils to serve himself rather than his hands.
Worf took a bite of zilm’kach. It tasted replicated, sadly, but not bad for all that. He had been spoiled, being on Deep Space Nine with its Klingon restaurant, not to mention having spent the last several days eating his mother’s home cooking.
Realizing he’d need something to wash this down, he approached the bar, fielding several more greetings and congratulations as he went. A bartender saw Worf’s approach and leaned forward. “Can I interest the ambassador in a glass of prune juice? Perhaps something stronger?”
“Something stronger,” Worf said. Prune juice may be a warrior’s drink, but this is a party. “A chech’tluth, please.”
“Coming up,” the bartender said with a smile and walked off, leaving Worf to finish his food and try not to get a headache from the music. The chech’tluth will help in the latter regard, at least, he thought.
Beverly Crusher walked up to Worf while he waited for his drink and ate some racht. “Hello, Worf.”
“Doctor,” Worf said, inclining his head. “Nice party,” he deadpanned.
Crusher laughed. “Y’know, I had the feeling you weren’t going to be thrilled with this to-do. But Will insisted you’d love it.”
DIPLOMATIC IMPLAUSIBILITY Page 4
