A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [66]
Harr’h shrugged. “No, not so bad. Unless you are one of the dead-and you are not quite ready for paradise.”
Worf thought he caught a note of disapproval in the veteran’s tone. Perhaps even a veiled warning. But neither Harr’h nor anyone else could come out and speak of fear. Or concern for anyone else.
These were not the traits of a warrior. They were marks of weakness-and one did not stand beside the weak in battle.
Fortunately, no one remembered Worf’s reticence to fight, early on. Those who had witnessed it were all dead now, and his present companions would never credit the story anyway. After all, how could anyone so vicious in battle be a coward at heart? As far as his comrades were concerned, he was every bit the blood-maddened killer he seemed to be. And, of course, no one stopped in the middle of the battle to scrutinize him-or to count up his victims.
Nor had his attack on his own ally-not so long ago-earned him anyone’s undying enmity. Not even that of the one he’d attacked. The mantle of berserker covered a host of deformities-and it was a reputation the Klingon had worked hard to earn. It was one thing to have to accept his own incompleteness-but to have others know about it…
Worf scanned the faces around the fire. Was it possible that any of them shared his incapacity? After all, he hadn’t watched them any more closely than they watched him. Could they have been wearing mantles of deception as well?
Or was he truly unique-and therefore truly alone? He bared his teeth reflexively at the thought, drew wary glances from those about him.
Pah. Even the one who’d been of his race, his kind-even that one had had no inkling of what plagued Worf. If even his racial brother failed to understand him or his troubles…
In the sky, there was a rumbling. Worf looked up at the sound, peered at the full, purple-bellied clouds with mild interest.
The weather had been turning sour all day. Soon, there would be rain.
Chapter Thirteen
AS RIKER APPROACHED the lounge’s conference table, and those gathered around it, he instinctively headed for his customary seat. He had to stop himself, remember that his place was now at the head of the group-in the captain’s chair.
Troi had noticed the glitch in his behavior. But, apparently, no one else had.
He claimed the position of authority as unobtrusively as possible. As he sat, he realized that Modiano was absent-though Merriwether, Geordi’s second assistant, was in attendance.
“Where’s Modiano?” he asked.
“Down with the disease, sir,” responded Merriwether. Her voice was just a little higher-pitched than it should have been. She wasn’t used to sitting in on executive-level conferences.
Down with the disease. That made four people altogether-and two of them in sections other than medical. Riker filed the information away, made a promise to himself to look in on Burtin again. After this meeting was over, of course.
“As you know,” said Riker, “we’ve been scanning A’klah for quite some time, and we’ve yet to turn up a single familiar bio-profile. We need a different approach.” He glanced from face to face, and he couldn’t help but yearn for the expertise of his missing colleagues. “Data tells me that Mister Fong has some ideas which may help in this regard.” He turned to Worf’s temporary replacement. “Go ahead, Li.”
The security officer took a moment to gather his thoughts. “My best guess, sir, is that these conflicts-which probably are a form of entertainment, as Mister Data posited-had their roots in the Klah’kimmbri experience with the Cantiliac armada.”
Fong jerked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of A’klah-though, seen at this distance through the lounge window, it was indistinguishable from the rest of the celestial array.
“The Cantiliac, of course, hadn’t set out to destroy A’klah’s budding empire. They were departing the galaxy, for reasons which we can still only guess at. But Trilik’kon Mahk’ti lay in their way.
“We’ll never know who fired the first salvo-the Cantiliac, impatient to sweep aside an obstacle