by Diane Carey
"I am Lieutenant Commander Worf, Starfleet Security. I'm here to investigate the assault upon you by Klingon nationals visiting this station."
"But…isn't station security Constable Odo's venue, Lieutenant Commander? I've already spoken to Captain Sisko, and I assumed—"
"This is not station security. This is Starfleet security. I've come to monitor the actions of Klingons, specifically, and you were attacked by Klingons—"
"Specifically." Garak nodded. "They came in, four of them, I offered them my tailoring services, and they gave me a most improper thrashing. That's all I know. Perhaps I can offer you a quick cup of strained gagh?"
"No, thank you."
"I didn't think so."
"I will have coffee."
"You will?"
"Yes. Cream and sugar."
"I'll…get it."
Garak meandered through the displayed clothing, belts, shoes, and jewelry to the shop replicator. If he could get this one angry, the subject would change and then the lieutenant commander would lose his chain of thought and ultimately leave. Garak made a bet that the uniform prevented the big Klingon from lashing out, but it was a thin bet and he was careful to stay out of arm's swipe.
"You don't want any small animals in the coffee…mice, insects?" he called back.
The lieutenant commander scowled at him, but simply said, "No, thank you."
Strange, very strange. Didn't this one know a proper insult when he heard one?
"Very well," Garak said, and spoke to the replicator's sensor track. "Coffee, cream and sugar, no mice. Well, lieutenant commander, I reported the assault and the doctor glued me back together, and I'm cautiously getting along with my life, if it can properly be called that. If you wish to know what happened, you can—"
"I have already read the report. I am interested in what is missing from the report."
Such a voice. Garak shuddered. "And what is it you think is missing?"
"What they wanted from you."
"From me? I can't imagine. I assumed they just didn't care for Cardassians. Some people are like that, you know. The crude among us…Have you seen these gem-studded mirrors?"
The lieutenant commander ignored his own face reflected in the mirror Garak held up just as he said "crude," and simply said, "I do not believe that."
"You don't…"
"No. And I find your situation on the station to be very odd. You are an outcast, apparently not by choice. What would you do in order to get back into favor with the Cardassians who are keeping you out?"
Taken aback, Garak stared at him briefly. Then he mustered a mental shield and said, "I opened my door to Klingons—whatever else could be expected of a person?"
He leaned away a little more, then reached out—way out—to hand the coffee over.
The lieutenant commander's black eyes flared and Garak waited for the wind tunnel of angry roaring.
"Mr. Garak," the calm voice said instead—calm?—"I am attempting to narrow down the reasons an organized team of Klingons would target you, an exiled civilian, out of a station rife with military officials. I conclude that there was some information they wanted from you. And I want to know whether or not you gave it to them. I have made myself clear. Please do the same."
He wasn't getting mad. Why wasn't he getting mad?
Garak stared into his face, and into the plain fact that he might have misjudged. Evidence stood before him that not all Klingons were so predictable. Here was one who wasn't acting at all like a Klingon. What if it had been this Klingon who had come after him for information about Deep Space Nine?
"What is it worth to you," the lieutenant commander persisted, "to get back with your own people?"
Lowering his arms to his sides in a kind of giving-up motion, Garak said, "I haven't tallied that price tag quite yet, Lieutenant Commander."
"You are hiding something. Drex and his troops obviously did not assault you frivolously. You know something, yet you fail to help us understand what the Klingon Empire is planning. Captain Sisko and his crew have protected you, let you remain here despite the possibility of repercussions from whoever overpowered you on Cardassia, yet you will not cooperate. I do not know you, yet already I do not respect you, Mr. Garak. Silence is also a betrayal."
This soldier was not behaving at all like a Klingon. In spite of his contempt, there was no blustering or fang-showing. Garak had succeeded in making him angry, but not as planned. The Klingon was treating Garak like something to be scraped off a boot—and Garak was actually disturbed.
He tried to muster his sly smile, but failed. How odd and how stimulating to be beaten by a Klingon, without so much as a slap.
"All right," he said finally, and decided that this lieutenant commander deserved a reward for his win. "It's true, they wanted information. But I did nothing—nothing, Lieutenant Commander—to harm Captain Sisko or this station. You're right that I don't like being an outcast and I don't intend to remain an outcast. But if I were willing to do 'anything' to get back in, you may believe I would be back in already. I intend to go back, but on my own terms. What price will I pay? A high one, to be sure, but not any price. I don't know what put you in this uniform instead of Klingon body armor, but somehow I think you know what I'm talking about. No one should be willing to pay anything for anything. Do you understand? I think so. Now, perhaps we can dispense with this ugly business and find you a nice garment with historical significance. This is called a Nehru jacket…it goes very well with the Hessian boots."
* * *
"Let me guess! Klingon bloodwine."
"Prune juice, chilled."
Worf made his order, then glared down, down, down at the guileful Ferengi barkeeper's wide eyes and elephantine ears without flinching.
Before him, Quark forced himself not to blink. "Prune juice?…If you say so…"
When the bartender went to dicker with the replicator, Worf leaned on the bar and slowly surveyed his new environment. The patrons milled about in undeniable tension. In the darker corners were Klingons, as aware of him as he was of them. They knew he wasn't one of their fleet, for he wore his Starfleet uniform with his Klingon bandoleer over one shoulder. He deliberately leaned into one of the bands of light threading through the dark bar. He was here to be seen.
"Commander!"
Worf turned. Miles O'Brien was motioning to him from where he stood with someone else, a lightly built young man with a narrow face and large eyes, wearing a medical uniform.
Taking the prune juice wordlessly provided by Quark, Worf decided he could surveil the premises from the table as well as the bar. Better, perhaps.
"Dr. Julian Bashir," O'Brien said, gesturing to the medic. "Lieutenant Commander Worf."
The doctor held up a dart. "Care for a game of darts?"
"I do not play games." Worf tried to sound apologetic, but it didn't come out right. He never could get that conciliatory tone just right.
"It's like poker," O'Brien quipped, "but with pointy tips."
Worf realized he might have insulted them, but he was aware of the eyes of other Klingons in the bar. This wasn't the right image if he was going to have the respect of those strangers.
"All right," O'Brien attempted again, "think of it as target practice."
Bashir's voice was mellow. "The object is to throw the dart and hit the board over there."
"Aim for the red dot in the middle," O'Brien added.
Realizing that O'Brien was getting a chuckle out of Bashir's unfamiliarity with Worf, that the doctor didn't realize Worf had been raised by humans and perfectly well knew what darts were, Worf cast the engineer a scolding glower. Now wasn't the time to explain his background to the doctor. Those Klingons could overhear.
He took the dart, held it like a throwing dagger, and flung it at the board, using his arm all the way up to the shoulder. The dart didn't hit the bull's-eye, but it did bury itself two inches into the board. Splinters danced to the floor.
He stood straight. His moment
of possible embarrassment might have turned in his favor. The Klingons were still watching.
With a nod at the dartboard, then at O'Brien and Bashir, he turned wordlessly from the game, still holding his glass of prune juice.
As he turned away, the doctor's smooth voice murmured, "I think the patient did not survive."
Worf hoped he hadn't insulted the doctor, but impressions were everything, and not for Bashir. He stopped short as two women descended a stairway that had until now been hidden by the architecture of this place. They were dressed in fairy-tale princess gowns, with huge pointed hats and long veils.
"I can't believe you did that," the dark-haired one said, and as she descended Worf could see the spotted trail of skin mottling around her hairline and down her neck that marked her as a Trill.
"He didn't leave me any choice," the other girl said in a fierce tone that didn't match the daintiness of her attire.
Bashir looked up at them. "What did she do?"
The Trill smiled—a stunning change. "She knocked out Lancelot!"
The other woman unapologetically claimed, "He kissed me!"
"He's supposed to kiss you."
"But I was playing a married woman!"
So these people had a holodeck, and these women were in a holonovel of some sort. Classical Earth literature. Knights. Damsels. The Trill fit the part, but the other one was no damsel.
The two paused as they saw Worf, and the red-haired woman quickly scanned his Starfleet uniform and Klingon bandoleer, and her expression changed.
"Lieutenant Commander Worf," the doctor introduced, "this is Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax and Major Kira Nerys, our first officer."
Worf nodded to Major Nerys. No—he saw now that she was Bajoran. Major Kira, then.
"Nice hat," he said.
The major quickly pulled the hat off her head, revealing very short hair. "I don't always dress like this. We were in the holosuites."
"So I gathered." He turned to the other woman. "You used to be Curzon Dax."
"That's right," the elegant commander said, but unlike the major she was not defensive at all. "And I don't usually dress this way either."
"Curzon's name is an honored one among my people," Worf offered.
Dax smiled mischievously and spoke to him in clear Klingon: "Yes, but I'm a lot better-looking than he was."
Struck with unease at this Dax's lack of respect for the previous host of the consciousness she carried, Worf muttered, "I suppose so. Excuse me."
Fate had provided him with a reason to escape—the Klingon called Drex and two of his companions had just lumbered into the bar. O'Brien had pointed him out to Worf when they passed him on the way to Worfs quarters, but that hadn't been a good time for a confrontation.
This was.
As he moved away from the women and O'Brien and Bashir, he heard Kira murmur, "What did you say to him?"
Dax didn't lower her voice. "It loses something in the translation."
"This bloodwine is cold!" Drex was shouting at a Ferengi waiter. "Get me another!"
Quark swung by and leaned toward the waiter to tell him, "Do as he says." Then he muttered, "But charge him double."
Glancing at the Ferengi, Worf wondered whether the fast dealer intended to live out the day, but Drex evidently hadn't heard him.
Worf stepped forward. "You are Drex, son of Martok."
The other Klingon surveyed him with disapproval. "That's right."
"I am Worf, son of Mogh."
Without further announcement, he wound up and slammed Drex full in the face, knocking him hard against the bar with a clatter of glassware. Stunned, Drex clawed for his dagger, but Worf lathered a combination of fists across Drex's bleeding face. The other Klingon slid along the bar and slumped to the deck, unconscious.
Worf spun around instantly, knowing what was coming toward him—all the other Klingons in the bar. But he also saw in their faces that they were shocked, unsure how to react, and they knew what he had just done.
They backed away from his harsh glare. When they stepped back and he felt fairly assured of a buffer zone, he bent over and pulled Drex's dagger out, placed it in his own belt, and went out of the bar with measured strides.
He had drawn the line.
CHAPTER 10
"ENTER."
It was happening, very quickly. Something about the ring of his door chime annoyed him. Klingon predictability. The rule of mass habit.
He frowned at the personal items he had just laid out from his duffel bag. His bat'leth lay on the blanket, its curved form and razor-edged tines seeming incongruous there beside his Fleet-issue phaser, his items of off-duty clothing, and a picture of his son, Alexander.
The door chime saved him from gazing too long at the picture, from doubting his decision to leave Alexander on Earth after the destruction of their only mutual home, the ship.
The massive Klingon who came in the door of his quarters was boiling with anger.
"I have come for my son's d'k tahg. Give it to me or I will take it from you!"
Another crick of disappointment. Predictability had done its job. This was Martok, reacting exactly in line with Worfs deliberate actions in the bar. Do this, and he will do that.
To Martok's clear startlement, Worf simply handed him the dagger.
"Now that you are here," he told the general, "I have no further need of it."
Martok stared at the dagger, stunned. This was worse to him than having to fight for it.
"You robbed my son of his honor," he rumbled, "just to get my attention?"
His voice actually squeaked at the end.
Worf blandly said, "You cannot take away what someone does not have."
Gravely offended, Martok lowered his chin and stared out from under his brow ridge. "Are you saying my son is without honor?"
"I am saying your son is a coward and a liar."
"And what of his father?"
"That remains to be seen?"
Thoroughly baffled, Martok hesitated, began to speak, paused again, then began again. "Tell me…what have I done to earn your disrespect?"
"The misdeeds your troops have committed speak for themselves," Worf told him. "Assaulting a Cardassian citizen, detaining and searching ships in neutral space without warning or provocation, and you—executing one of your own commanding officers because he refused to fire on a Federation ship."
Martok hurled, "Whatever we have done is in the best interest of the Alpha Quadrant!"
"You must take me for a fool to make your lies so transparent."
Worf stood him down and let the strong statement fester, but Martok saw what Worf was trying to do and kept control of himself.
"I do not wish to quarrel with you," the general said.
"Nor I with you," Worf allowed. "Your house is an honored one, with a proud tradition. But I need to know why you are here."
"I am here under the authority of Gowron himself. I am carrying out his orders. That should be all the explanation a Klingon warrior needs."
Martok was emphatic, but there was a tinge of overstatement in his tone, as if he were desperately trying to agree with himself and hoping Worf would buy the performance.
"You forget," Worf said, "I am not just a Klingon warrior. I am a Starfleet officer. And Starfleet deserves an explanation."
"They will get one soon enough," Martok evaded. "But until then, know this—my mission will determine the fate of the Klingon Empire. Interfere, and you risk destroying us all!"
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 11
THEY WHO HAVE fierce enemies invent fierce legends.
One of those came at Worf through an opal haze, an ogre out of the cruelest story of defeat, and the monster's noise was a terrible noise.
Blow upon blow rang on Worf's bones, his weapon flashing to petty avail, his body aching and his grace of form completely botched.
The monster's face was compounded in its ugliness by the hologram computer's twisted ide
a of the bizarre, angles of olive light and moldings of flesh that only a machine could invent. Tell a computer to picture a real animal and it would do a prime job. Tell it to conjure a legend, and it went insane.
He fought and fought, and no matter how he panted or stumbled, the computer refused to turn off. He had it set on its maximum, only to find that this computer, unlike the tame beasts on the Enterprise, had been programmed to give a "customer" what he actually said he wanted. The starship had known better.
Quark did not.
As so with roar after spit after howl of the ogre's raw throat and poison breath, Worf was being beaten back.
"You shouldn't drop your left arm like that."
The voice came out of the quartz-gray fog, and there in the dripping jungle stood the outline of that woman who used to be Curzon Dax, standing against the now-closing exit from the holosuite.
Momentarily distracted, Worf heard the swish of the ogre's attack, and only narrowly skated out of the way.
"I do not recall," he panted, "asking for your advice."
"Just trying to help."
Inspired now that he had an audience—and he could not tell how many personalities were watching him at the moment—Worf launched into a torrent of dodges and hits, basting the monster in the face, throttling it when its shoulder dipped, and finally knocking its bleeding legs out from under it. The creature staggered, crumpled, and finally dematerialized.
"So," this Dax said, "how'd you like the program?"
"I found it adequate," Worf lied, hiding his heavy breathing as much as he could. "Though I was surprised to find a Klingon exercise program in this holosuite."
"It's mine," she told him with a touch of swagger as she approached.
"You mean Curzon's."
"No. I mean mine. Computer, bat'leth."
Worf's weapon was stuck in the ground a few feet to his side. Now another bat'leth appeared beside it, replicated to solidity by the fabulous technology around them.
"I thought you might be tired of fighting programs," Dax said.
Straightening with some effort, Worf declined. "It would not be a fair match."