Diplomatic Implausibility (5 page)

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
dur
ing 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 congrat
ulations. 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 have
known.

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.

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.”

“I believe, in Commander Riker’s lexicon, that truly means that
he
would love it.”

Again, Crusher laughed. “That’s certainly true.”

The bartender came back with Worf’s drink, which had been sufficiently heated, to Worf’s relief. He put the plate down on the bar and grabbed the mug. He took a gulp and felt the hot liquid burn pleasantly in his mouth. A warm feeling started at the base of his throat and started to spread to his chest and head. Even better, it wasn’t a syntheholic drink. While humans—who had spent millennia cooking all the flavor out of their food—did not have sufficiently discerning taste buds to distinguish alcohol from synthehol, Klingons could. While Worf would drink synthehol if he had to—while on duty, for example—he greatly preferred the real thing, and this was definitely it.
A few more sips,
he thought,
and I might
even be able to stand this music.

Next to him, Crusher’s face grew serious. “Worf, I—I just wanted to let you know that—if you ever want to talk about—well . . .”

“About what?” Worf finally asked when Crusher’s hesitant pause threatened to go on forever.

“Jadzia. With someone who’s been there.”

And then Worf understood. “Odan,” he said.

The doctor nodded.

Like Worf, Crusher had fallen in love with a joined Trill. Like Worf, Crusher had to watch the host body die, and then have the symbiont live on in another that she could not love.

“Doctor—Beverly—”

Crusher let out a bark of laughter. At Worf’s surprised look, she said, “Sorry, it’s just that Odan called me ‘Dr. Beverly.’”

“Ah. In any event, I appreciate the offer.”

“But you won’t take me up on it.”

In fact, Worf had no intention of taking her up on it, but he had hoped he had not been that obvious about it. “Doctor—”

“Will’s not the only one who’s easy to read by someone who knows him well enough,” Crusher said. “It’s okay. I honestly didn’t think you
would
want to talk with me. But I wanted you to know that the offer was on the table, in case you change your mind.”

Worf nodded. “Thank you, Doctor—truly, I
am
grateful. However, I have had over a year to come to terms with Jadzia’s death.”

“Sometimes that’s not enough. Believe me.”

The music came to a merciful halt, and then a voice rang out through Ten-Forward. “Everyone, may I have your attention, please?”

Worf turned toward the center of the room to see Captain Picard holding a glass of some kind of ale.

The room quieted down almost instantaneously. Jean-Luc Picard had that effect on people.

“Many of you here do not know Ambassador Worf
personally, though surely you know him by reputation. He served aboard the previous
Enterprise
with distinction, then did likewise at Deep Space Nine, one of the most important strategic posts in the quadrant. Long ago, I said that the bridge wouldn’t be the same without him, and the last four years have proven that to be the case. But I also know that he has served both the Federation—which sometimes saw him as a curiosity and in which he was always to some degree an outsider—and the Klingon Empire—which twice saw fit to exile him from his own homeland—with honor. And now, those two august bodies have shown tremendous good sense in allowing him to serve them both as the Federation’s ambassador to Qo’noS. As one who has been his commanding officer, his
cha’DIch,
and his friend, I wish him well—but I do not wish him luck. For a warrior does not depend on luck, and Worf, son of Mogh, is first and foremost a warrior.”

Picard held his ale up. “So I ask you all to raise your glasses and join me in saluting the bravest man I have ever known. To Worf!”

A roomful of Starfleet officers, most of whom Worf had never met before tonight, raised their glasses and cried out,
“To Worf!”

As they all drank, Worf held up his own glass.
Perhaps
this party won’t be so bad, after all . . .

K
LAG HAD TO ADMIT
to being impressed with the sight on his viewscreen.

The
Gorkon
had been joined at the rendezvous point by the
Sword of Kahless,
Chancellor Martok’s new flagship, replacing the
Negh’Var.
Martok had informed Klag that he wished to brief the captain and the ambassador on the taD mission when the
Enterprise
arrived.

Klag had been less than thrilled with the High Council’s reply to his request for aid to Governor Tiral. To put the negotiations in the hands of a Federation ambassador who only got his position because he was a member of Martok’s own House angered Klag.

Toq’s voice sounded from behind him. “Captain, a Starfleet vessel is coming out of warp. Sensors identify it as the
Enterprise.
They are hailing us.”

Klag nodded. “On screen.”

The bridge of Starfleet’s flagship replaced the exterior
of the empire’s on the viewscreen. Although most would have been honored to converse with Jean-Luc Picard, who nine years ago was the first outsider ever to serve as a Klingon chancellor’s Arbiter of Succession, Klag was much more interested in greeting the human who sat to Picard’s right.

Picard stood.
“Captain Klag, greetings from the Fed
eration. Ambassador Worf and his aide are ready to beam
over at your convenience. Unless the presence of the
Sword of Kahless
indicates a change in the mission?”

“Thank you, Captain Picard. There is no change to the mission, and the ambassador’s aide can beam over at any time. However, Chancellor Martok wishes to brief the ambassador and me. Please transport him to the
Sword of
Kahless.
I will meet him there in ten minutes.”

“Of course.”

Business concluded, Klag turned to look at Picard’s first officer. “It is good to see you again, Riker.”

Riker grinned with a face that was now inexplicably beardless.
“Same here, Klag. It’d be good to have a
chance to catch up. If nothing else, I’d love to hear about
what happened to your arm.”

“That, my old friend, is a long story. Luckily, I have a case of bloodwine that will go quite well with long stories. With your captain’s permission, I will contact you when my business with the chancellor is concluded, and we can speak of old times.”

Picard nodded.
“My permission is granted, Captain. In
addition, my chief medical officer tells me she has an old
comrade serving on your vessel.”

This news did not surprise Klag. B’Oraq, the
Gorkon’s
doctor, had studied medicine in the Federation. “She, too, may beam aboard at her leisure, Captain.”

“Thank you, Captain. Enterprise out.”

Klag rose from the captain’s chair. “Commander Drex, you are in command until I return from the
Sword of Kah
less.”

“Yes, sir,” Drex muttered.

“Is there a problem, Commander?”

Drex straightened. “None, sir,” he said with more authority.

“Good. See that that state of affairs continues.”

With that Klag left the bridge, followed by his own personal guard. The pair of them proceeded to the transporter room in silence.

Klag arrived in the
Sword of Kahless’s
much larger transporter room to see a Klingon as tall as Klag himself, wearing a brown tunic with silver trim under a gray vest decorated on either lapel with the Federation and Klingon Empire insignias.

“I am Klag, captain of the
Gorkon,”
he said as he stepped down from the platform. “On behalf of the Defense Force and the High Council, I welcome you, Ambassador Worf.”

Worf nodded. “Thank you, Captain. It will be an honor to be transported by one of the finest new vessels in the fleet.”

A
bekk
—the Defense Force equivalent of a noncommissioned security guard—stood in the doorway and said, “The chancellor awaits you both,” then led the way out of the transporter room.

The
bekk
took them through several corridors, bringing them further into the interior of the massive vessel. A guard was stationed at the door, and Klag’s guard joined him as the captain and Worf entered.

Only two others had served as head of the High Coun
cil in Klag’s lifetime, and Klag had met them both. K’mpec had once traveled on the
Baruk,
on which Klag served as an ensign. He had seemed larger than life to Klag, a near-mythic figure who, at that time, had already served as chancellor longer than anyone in history. K’mpec carried himself as if he had been born to lead the empire, and the old warrior’s death had saddened Klag. Many years later, Klag had met Gowron, who had struck him as little more than a political opportunist who had schemed his way to the top. He had seemed born only to best serve himself rather than the empire.

Although Klag had, of course, served under Martok—every member of the Defense Force did during his tenure as Gowron’s chief of staff—he’d never met him until now. The man who got up from a chair far more ornate than any on which Klag had ever sat seemed to rank between the two extremes of his predecessors. He had none of K’mpec’s grandeur, nor Gowron’s self-importance—simply the face of a warrior, proudly bearing the scars of the Jem’Hadar blade that had cost him his left eye. The smile with which he greeted them was genuine.

“Worf!” Martok said as he rose. “It is good to see you again, my friend, as always.” He turned his one eye to Klag. “And the Hero of Marcan. It is an honor to have you aboard my flagship, Captain.”

To Klag’s surprise and delight, Martok actually sounded like he meant it. “The honor is mine, Chancellor. I simply won a battle. It was you who won the war.”

“We
all
won the war,” the chancellor said, “the empire, the Federation, and even the Romulans. We claimed victory through unity. And unity is what we must now discuss.”

Martok indicated two other chairs—far smaller, of course—as he sat back down in his own.

Turning to Klag, Martok said, “First of all, Captain, I wish to make something clear. Worf will be in charge of the mission to taD. From this point until the mission concludes, command is his.”

Klag leaned forward. This was
not
what he had in mind. “Chancellor—”

“You still command the
Gorkon,
and obviously Worf has no authority in any matters outside the purview of the mission—but the mission is his. Is that understood?”

Oh, I understand just fine,
Klag thought bitterly.
You
use your influence unfairly, son of Mogh—as you did to
obtain this position.

Another voice rang out in the back of Klag’s head:
And what was it you used to ensure that the
Gorkon
escort the ambassador to taD in the first place?

Aloud, Klag said only, “Of course.”

“Good.” Martok turned back to Worf. “The situation on taD is difficult. All things being equal, I might consider allowing the al’Hmatti their independence.”

Klag blinked in surprise.

“But all things are
not
equal,” Martok continued. “Several conquered worlds have taken advantage of the war to foment their own rebellions. None are as far along as taD’s, nor may they be. If we grant taD freedom from our rule, it will be a sign of weakness, and encourage other worlds to wrestle for independence.”

Interesting,
Klag thought. He had not known this bit of intelligence; he could hardly blame the High Council for keeping it quiet. He wondered what other worlds had attempted to throw off their overseers.

Martok leaned forward and looked at Worf. “Let me
do you the honor of being blunt, Worf. Under no circumstances can I allow taD to be ruled by anyone other than Klingons. To do that would plunge the empire into a dozen conflicts at a time when we are attempting to rebuild a fleet. I will not be remembered as the chancellor who led the empire to victory over the Dominion only to lose a quarter of our territory to
jeghpu’wI’.”

Worf nodded. “Thank you, Chancellor. It is my hope that a solution can be reached that will please all sides.”

“The only side that concerns me is that which will keep the empire intact.”

“Naturally. But I do not work for the empire. My first duty is to the Federation; my second to the alliance between the two governments. You may rest assured that I intend to serve both.”

And no mention of his duty to the House of Martok,
Klag noted.
I wonder if that is due to my presence.

Martok laughed. “You already sound like a diplomat, Worf. I’m sure that if anyone can find that solution, it will be you.” He leaned back. “Excellent. I’m glad that’s over with. Someday, my friend, I will find it in my heart to forgive you for turning me into a politician.”

Said Worf, “I have had no reason to regret my actions, Chancellor.”

“No, I suppose
you
haven’t,” Martok said with a snort. “Well, enough of this. Captain, again, it is an honor to have met you finally. And we will meet again at Ty’Gokor in a few months’ time.”

Klag fought to control his reaction.
So, I will be
inducted into the Order of the
Bat’leth
after all.
He couldn’t help but direct a few smug thoughts in the direction of Kargan, in whichever afterlife was unfortunate enough to have him. “The chancellor honors me,” Klag
said, rising from his chair. “With your permission, we will return to the
Gorkon.”

“Not just yet. Oh, you’re dismissed, Captain, and may return to your ship. But Worf and I have other matters to discuss. Family matters.”

All the joy he felt at Martok’s pronouncement fled Klag.
I was right. This entire show was for my benefit.
The true business will commence after I leave.

Not wishing to show his anger in front of Martok—who was, after all, still supreme commander of the empire’s citizenry—Klag simply said, “As the chancellor commands.”

With that, he left, his guard following close behind.

Klag decided that his first impression of Martok needed to be revised somewhat.

The first time William Riker ever set foot on a Klingon ship, he was ten years old. After years of pestering his father to take him along on one of the assignments that took Kyle Riker away from home for long periods of time, Dad finally acquiesced—on a mission that entailed passage with the Klingons.

From the moment Will first beamed into the dark, funny-smelling ship full of large, foreboding creatures who seemed to spend all their time growling down at him, he was scared to death. He retreated to the tiny cabin assigned to him and Dad, sat on the metal slab that was supposed to be a bed, and hoped nobody would see him crying.

He never asked to go along with his father again. When he was older, and more cynical, Will figured that Dad chose the Klingon ship hoping for precisely that result.

Ten years later, as a cadet at Starfleet Academy, he went on a mission that required him to board a Klingon ship. It had taken all the fortitude his twenty-year-old self could muster not to cower in fear at the very idea.

Now, of course, he was over forty and beyond such things. He had spent plenty of time on Klingon ships and in Klingon space, ranging from a historic-if-brief tour as the first officer of the
I.K.S. Pagh
(the first time a Starfleet officer formally served as a member of a Klingon Defense Force crew) to more recent visits during the Dominion War.

But as he materialized alongside Beverly Crusher and Giancarlo Wu in the
Gorkon
transporter room, he couldn’t help but hear his ten-year-old self saying, “Dad, it’s
dark
in here!”

Waiting for them was Klag, once Riker’s second officer on the
Pagh,
now the captain of this ship. The two had formed a close friendship during Riker’s tenure on the
Pagh,
and they had stayed in sporadic touch ever since. After Riker’s departure, Klag had been made first officer, and had remained at that post for the decade following—an unusually long time for a Klingon to remain at one post.

Klag had changed over the years. For one thing, as Riker had noted before, he had lost his right arm. His straight, jet-black hair was now twice as long as the shoulder-length cut Riker remembered, and his goatée had grown in fuller. He still had the same eyebrows—upswept, even by Klingon standards—sharp nose, and penetrating black eyes.

Next to Klag stood a taller, lankier Klingon with a scowl on his face; this man had the insignia of a commander, so Riker figured he was the first officer.

“Welcome to the
Gorkon,
Commander Riker,” Klag said. He still had the same deep, resonant voice that Riker remembered.

“Thank you. This is Dr. Beverly Crusher, and the ambassador’s aide, Giancarlo Wu.”

The commander made a noise, and then muttered something under his breath. Riker didn’t catch all of it, but it sounded like something derogatory about humans.

In flawless Klingon, Wu said, “I have slept on plenty of metal slabs in my time, Commander. You needn’t worry about my well-being.”

Klag threw his head back and laughed the hearty laugh that had startled Riker out of ten years’ growth when he first heard it in the
Pagh’s
mess hall. “Well said, Wu.” Klag then turned to Beverly and said, “B’Oraq has been looking forward to seeing you again, Doctor.”