Seeing him switch off the screen and rise from his chair, dressed in the long cassock of office over a rust-colored suit, still with the powerful crest, probing eyes, and strong shoulders she remembered—though the smell she loved was muted—she realized whatever factor was played by nostalgia and despair was irrelevant. She still loved this man.
But does he feel the same?
Worf smiled, an expression she’d never seen in all the time he spent on Carraya. “Ba’el. It is good to see you.”
She ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest. “Worf. I’ve missed you so much.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she held Worf more tightly. So much had been taken from her these past few days—even Toq, truth be told, for he was no longer the boy she grew up with—and seeing Worf made her realize how much she needed something to cling to.
From behind her, Wu said, “Sir, as I was going to fetch Ba’el, I was informed that the Ky’rok has achieved orbit around Qo’noS.”
“Thank you,” Worf said, his deep voice rumbling into Ba’el’s very bones.
“Very good, sir.”
Ba’el heard the doors open and shut. She presumed that they were now alone. Breaking the embrace, she looked up at his glorious face, and she cupped his chin in one hand.
Worf gently took her wrist in one hand, then stepped back. He indicated one of the chairs in the room and sat back down.
Unhappy—she wanted to stay in his embrace—she fell more than sat in the chair. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“I am grateful that you survived the cowardly attack upon your world, Ba’el.” He got a faraway look. “I have lost many who are close to me, and it would have pained me for you to be added to that list.”
“Your wife? Toq told me that you’d married.”
“Yes.” His eyes went to the wall opposite the windows.
Ba’el followed his gaze and saw that the wall was filled with a number of items: a metal sash of some sort, an ornate medallion, several ribbons and chunks of metal, and three images. One was of Worf in a uniform that was vaguely similar to the ones worn by the humans in the transporter station, along with a Klingon woman with a weak crest and a boy. One was of Worf and another woman—possibly human, though she had odd spots ringing her face—dressed in what Ba’el assumed to be some kind of formal wear. The last was of Worf and a group of people of various species Ba’el did not know, all wearing the same uniform as well as strange headgear.
“K’Ehleyr was my first mate,” Worf said. “She died in a cowardly attack by a worthless petaQ. It was with her that I sired Alexander.” Ba’el realized that that must have been the Klingon woman. “Jadzia was my second—we were not able to produce children before she too was killed.”
Ba’el smiled. “Also by a worthless petaQ?”
Worf nodded, still somber. “Both those deaths were avenged eventually.”
“Toq mentioned that, too. He seemed to think that that made it all better.”
Now Worf shook his head. “It does not. But it provides some measure of comfort.”
They sat in silence for several seconds, which were agonizing to Ba’el. She’d waited eight years to see Worf again, and now she had no idea what to say to him, especially now that she saw that he had loved other women. I’ve loved only him, and don’t I feel like a fool for it?
He didn’t seem to know what to say, either.
Finally, unable to bear it, she asked, “What is the third image?”
That actually prompted—well, not a smile, but a softening of his features. “I was posted to a space station in the Bajoran system for several years. While there, several of the staff competed in a sport against the personnel from a Starfleet vessel.”
“Were you victorious?”
“After a fashion.” Worf leaned forward. “Ba’el—”
Holding up a hand, Ba’el said, “No, Worf, don’t say anything. I don’t expect us to just pick up where we left off. You obviously moved on with your life.” And I didn’t. She couldn’t bear to add that out loud. “I didn’t come here trying to renew our relationship.” Thinking a minute, she then added: “I would not have objected if we did, though.”
Worf closed his eyes. “Ba’el, right now—I cannot. Jadzia’s death was but two years ago, and—”
“It’s all right,” Ba’el said, putting a hand on Worf’s thigh, a gesture she feared might get her in trouble, but she didn’t care. She knew how she felt. “All I wish from you is your help.”
That seemed to put him in a more comfortable place. He straightened and said, “Whatever I can do to aid you, I shall.”
“I have nowhere to go. Carraya was my only home. Toq told me about this Federation you work for. He said they took you in after your parents were killed—after my father killed them.”
Worf’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a snarl. “I do not know that your father was responsible for my parents’ death—only that he was part of the larger Romulan force that destroyed the Khitomer outpost.”
“It doesn’t matter. Father is dead, and I have nothing—except you.”
After staring at her with those damned dark eyes of his, Worf turned away and touched a control on his desk. “Mister Wu, report to the ambassador’s office immediately.”
Ba’el frowned, unsure what Wu could do for her.
The doors parted to reveal the human’s pleasant, if odd, face. “Yes, sir?”
“Have Mister Mazzerone’s requests for an assistant abated?”
Did Wu shudder? “I would say they have done the exact opposite, sir. Your predecessor did not entertain quite as many Klingon nationals as you, and the preparatory and—you’ll forgive me, sir—cleaning-up requirements for Klingon guests are considerably greater than they are for most species.”
At Ba’el’s confused look, Worf said, “Eduardo Mazzerone is the person in charge of coordinating events that are held at the embassy. He requires someone who will assist him in these duties.”
Putting her hand to her chest, Ba’el said, “Me?”
Wu said, “Your job will be, in essence, to do whatever Mister Mazzerone tells you to do, ma’am. I believe his primary desire is to have an extra set of hands to whom he can delegate certain pedestrian tasks so that he may focus on larger issues.”
“You will be provided with a quarters here at the embassy,” Worf said. “You will have—a place.”
Breaking into a grin, Ba’el said, “Thank you, Worf! That’s so much better than I expected! And I’ll get to stay on Qo’noS, so I can see my mother’s home, finally!”
“Yes.”
“If that will be all, sir,” Wu said, “I will inform Mister Mazzerone that his prayers have been answered.”
“Of course,” Worf said with a nod to his aide.
“Very good, sir.” Wu departed.
Once the doors slid shut behind Wu, Ba’el got up and wrapped her arms around Worf’s shoulders. “Thank you so much, Worf. I can’t begin to tell you what this means to me.”
Worf stiffened at first, then relaxed, though Ba’el noticed that he did not return the embrace.
Once she broke it, he gave a small smile. “Perhaps we cannot pick up where we left off, Ba’el—but this avails us of the opportunity to bring ourselves back to where we were eight years ago. I will not always be present here in the embassy, however—my duties will take me all across the empire, as well as sometimes returning to the Federation. Your duties will require that you remain here at all times.” In a surprisingly soft voice, he added, “There is a galaxy of possibilities, Ba’el. It is past time you learned what they were.”
“You have to make me one promise, though,” she said with a mischievous smile.
Now Worf looked apprehensive. “What?”
“You have to tell me more stories about Kahless. L’Kor tried to tell them after you left, and so did some of the others, but nobody told them as well as you did.”
Before Worf could reply, th
e doors slid open to reveal Wu once again.
“My apologies for the interruption, sir, but Mister Gorjanc has just informed me of some goings-on at the qaDrav that you need to be aware of. It involves the passengers on the Ky’rok.”
Frowning, Ba’el asked, “What’s a qaDrav?”
“I will explain later,” Worf said, getting to his feet and approaching Wu. “Tell me.”
Ba’el did not like the sound of this. As soon as Wu mentioned the Ky’rok, Worf stiffened, his fists clenched, his eyes hardened.
I wonder what that’s about…
Twenty-four
The House M’Raq estates
Outside the First City, Qo’noS
Klag felt refreshed as he materialized on the porch of his family estate. B’Oraq was quite the enthusiastic lover, and the more time they spent together the more he realized he’d been a fool not to take her to his bed sooner.
He also thought that a mating might well be good for both of them. With Dorrek discommendated it was left only to Klag to keep the family line alive, or risk the House of M’Raq falling into the hands of one of his idiot cousins.
As he walked through the front door, he thought, I shall have to arrange a meeting with her uncle, see if he can be convinced that linking his House to that of the Hero of Marcan and Elabrej is worth overcoming his disdain for the Defense Force.
Thoughts of his future receded upon crossing the threshold, however, as he smelled Mother’s distinctive grapok sauce. He had yet to determine what spices she used—she’d sworn she’d take the secret of her grapok sauce to the afterlife—but he knew the sauce’s olfactory signature a qelI’qam away.
It also meant that Tarilla had finally returned. “Mother!” he cried.
She came out from the kitchen, wearing a cooking drape. “It’s about time you got home,” she said with a smile. “I was not going to hold dinner for much longer.”
“I have been home for many days now, Mother,” Klag said. “I had a meeting with Chancellor Martok at the Great Hall.” He did not bother to include his subsequent liaison with his physician.
“Meetings with the chancellor, eh?” Mother said with a smile. “You are doing well for yourself.” Then the smile fell. “A pity the same cannot be said for all my sons.”
Klag scowled. “You have only one son, Mother.”
“Oh, spare me,” she said with a snarl. “I carried Dorrek in my belly same as I did you. That makes him my son, even if he isn’t part of this House anymore. And now he doesn’t even have a ship.”
Klag walked across the living room, past the Danqo tapestry that adorned the center wall and past the two metal chairs and the intricately carved wooden sideboard. “That was not my doing, Mother. General Kriz took away his command, and believe me, his discommendation had nothing to do with it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Now Klag stood face to face with his mother. “Yes, I do. He engaged in an action that was condemned by Martok himself.”
“ ‘Martok,’ is it? You’re familiar with the chancellor now? And my other son is left to—” Tarilla cut herself off and looked away. “Never mind. We will not speak of this. My son is home, and I will feed him and we will talk of other things. Come, the meal is almost prepared.” She turned and led him into the kitchen.
The house had a full dining room, of course, but for a two-person meal such as this, the small metal table in the kitchen served the purpose. Mother had arranged some taknar gizzards on a plate around a bowl of the grapok sauce, and she’d also made rokeg blood pie.
She brought both plates over to the center of the table, then went to the cabinet and retrieved two plates. Klag waited until she had done so before grabbing several gizzards and dunking them in the sauce. His exertions with B’Oraq had given him an appetite, and he devoured half the gizzards in two bites.
Nibbling on a bit of the pie, Tarilla said, “It is good to have you home again, my son. It has been too long.”
“You know my reasons for staying away, Mother. As long as Father—”
Tarilla held up a hand. “I know. And in truth, I understood. If there had been some way—any way—I could have convinced your father to reclaim his honor, I would have done it, if for no other reason than to have our entire family together again.” She let out a long breath. “But, for whatever reason, he could not rouse himself to do so. I do not know what he saw when he was a prisoner of the Romulans, but it obviously did something to him.”
“That or his escape,” Klag said quietly. “I too have often wondered what led him to his decision.”
“Perhaps you should have asked him instead of shunning him,” Tarilla said bitterly. “Perhaps he would have told his oldest son what he would not tell his mate.”
Klag found he had nothing to say to that. He had given a great deal of thought to family these past few days, and to his relationship with both his brother and his father, but all that had done was confuse him further. So he grabbed more gizzards and dunked them in the sauce—which was particularly pungent today, just the way he liked it. In fact, it was even better than usual.
After he wolfed down more gizzards, he started to tell his mother how good the sauce was—but found that his mouth wouldn’t work. Looking at his mother, he saw her split in twain, become two Tarillas instead of one. And she became fuzzy around the edges…
Mother? He thought the plaintive word but could not make his mouth actually form it. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and the kitchen started to melt and darken.
Blackness overwhelmed him as he realized that Tarilla hadn’t touched the gizzards or the grapok sauce, and that the reason why—and the reason why the sauce was so much more pungent than usual—was that his own mother had poisoned him.
Images shimmered into being before him: M’Raq, as Klag remembered him when he and Dorrek were children, young and vital and strong; B’Oraq, naked and enticing; Me-Larr, the San-Tarah leader who defeated Klag in the circle; Drex, Tereth, Kornan, and Toq, the succession of first officers he’d had under him in less than a year commanding the Gorkon; Worf, trying to warn him about something; Martok standing before him, staring at him judgmentally with his one eye; Rodek striking him across the cheek…
Only after it happened a second time did Klag realize that Rodek was truly striking him, in the manner that preceded a challenge. Shaking his head, his vision clearing, Klag saw that he was no longer in his family’s kitchen. He was outside, for one thing, wind howling in off a nearby river whose flow he could hear and the scents of dozens of Klingons mixed with the ozone tinge of a coming storm.
Clambering quickly to his feet, Klag realized that he stood inside the qaDrav in front of Command Headquarters, facing his second officer.
“Rodek? What is going on?” He looked around. “I was…I was home, and—”
“Face me, traitor!” Rodek screamed. The tone more than the request prompted Klag to face him. Since first reporting as the Gorkon’s gunner, Rodek had always come across as passionless, almost sedate. He was a good soldier, but he lacked the spirit one usually found in a Klingon warrior.
That tendency had improved of late, particularly since Klag elevated him to second officer after Toq took over as first, but this was something else entirely. Never had Klag heard such vitriol, such hatred in Rodek’s tone.
“You took my life from me, son of M’Raq! You stole my identity, my very soul! Once I was Kurn—the son of a great House, a member of the High Council, a noble warrior! You left me with virtually nothing—and then you even took that away, having my foster father murdered.”
Klag wondered if he was still hallucinating from Tarilla’s grapok sauce. “Rodek, I do not know what you are speaking of. Who is Kurn?”
“I am Kurn!” Now Rodek—or Kurn, or whoever he was—turned to face the crowd that had gathered.
Following his gaze, Klag saw that Tarilla and Dorrek were at the front of the crowd, standing together as if united. Of course they are together in this. I am doo
med to be betrayed by my entire family.
Looking back at his foe, he amended the thought. And my crew as well.
To the crowd, Rodek said, “I was born Kurn, son of Mogh! But this filthy petaQ conspired to have my memory erased, to make me over into a passionless blood-worm named Rodek, son of Noggra. Were that not enough, he had Noggra killed by an assassin!”
The crowd rumbled its disapproval, though whether it was with what Klag was accused of, or in disagreement with the charges, Klag could not tell. He knew Noggra only as Rodek’s father, and had no idea he was even dead. As for Kurn, that name was familiar only insofar as he identified himself as being Ambassador Worf’s brother.
All Klag could do now was speak the truth.
“Hear me! I know not of what this man says. Until now, I have always thought of Rodek as a trusted officer under my command. I have never heard of Kurn, son of Mogh, I know nothing of the death of Noggra, nor do I know anything of what he has said.”
Rodek went on as if Klag had not spoken. “I challenge you, traitor! Face me and die!” To accentuate the point, Rodek unsheathed his d’k tahg, the outer blades unfurling with a click.
Having very little choice at this point, especially while standing in the qaDrav, Klag pulled out his own blade. He had no desire to kill a perfectly good second officer over what was obviously some kind of misunderstanding, but he would not back down from a challenge, either.
At least his head appeared to have cleared. Whatever his mother had done to him, she had not left him incapable of fighting. She does not wish to dishonor me—only herself.
That was for later, however. Now, he stood in a ready crouch, tossing the d’k tahg back and forth from one hand to the other. Although he’d been less assiduous about retraining with the d’k tahg than he had the bat’leth after his transplant, Klag had continued to practice so that he was facile with either hand while using the blade.
Rodek feinted, and Klag ducked. Then Klag did likewise, and Rodek dodged to the left.
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