All Good Things__ - Michael Jan Friedman [42]
Picard held his hands out. “I don’t care what kind of ship we’re in—cloaked or otherwise. The important thing is to get to the Devron system.” His hands balled into fists as he pleaded his case. “Surely… even with what’s happened to you… it’s within your power to grant us permission to cross the border. If nothing else, at least that.”
Worf looked down, then shook his shaggy head. “I am sorry, but my first duty is to the Empire. I must adhere to regulations.”
The captain eyed him. He had to try a different approach.
“Maybe I’m an old man who just doesn’t understand,” he said. “But the Worf I knew cared more about things like loyalty and honor than he did about rules and regulations.”
As he paused for effect, he saw the Klingon’s head come up, so that he gazed at Picard from beneath his protruding brow. It seemed he had gotten Worf’s attention.
“But then,” he concluded, driving in the final stake, “that was a long time ago. Maybe you’re not the Worf I knew.”
He had expected to spur an emotional reaction—but he wasn’t prepared for the actual violence of the governor’s outburst. In a fit of untrammeled rage, Worf swept everything from his desk. Computer disks flew through the air like deadly weapons while official reports erupted in a ston-n of loose papers.
“Dor-sHo GHA!” the Klingon bellowed, trembling with fury. He brought his fist down on the desk like a sledgehammer, making it jump.
Indeed, thought Picard, holding his ground.
His eyes flashing with anger, Worf pointed an accusa-tory finger at his former captain. “You have always used your knowledge of Klingon honor and tradition to get what you want from me.”
“That’s right,” Picard shot back, measure for measure. “Because it always works. Your problem, my friend, is that you really do have a sense of honor. You really care about things like loyalty and trust.” He snorted. “Don’t blame me because I know you too well, Worf. Blame yourself for embodying the virtues to which others only pretend.”
The Klingon glared at him. His rage was cooling, by degrees.
“Very well,” he snarled at last. “You may cross the border. But only if I come with you. No one is more familiar with the Neutral Zone than I am—and you will need a guide.” He frowned. “There are those in the Empire who long for battle with the Federation… who believe that we were taken advantage of during the years of the alliance. They will not hesitate to fire on an unauthorized vessel.”
Picard smiled in his beard. This was more than he could have hoped for. “Terms accepted,” he said.
A moment later, Worf’s visage was replaced by a motionless starfield. The transmission was at an end.
And Picard had gotten what he wanted. They were on their way to the Devron system.
Beverly turned to Chilton. “Ensign,” she said, “in-form transporter room two that the governor is to be beamed aboard.” “Aye, sir,” replied the conn officer.
As Worf came around his desk and waited for the transport, he reflected on what this decision would mean to his career. A Klingon didn’t abandon his post—even if it was a purely bureaucratic one. No doubt, he’d be taken to task… perhaps even stripped of his title.
He grinned recklessly, for the first time in many years. Worse things could happen than losing a position he had never wanted in the first place. It was a good day to be dismissed, he mused.
Just then, one of his assistants entered the room with a padd in his hand. “Governor,” he said, “I have the supply report for your—”
“K’dho moqak!” bellowed Worf.
His assistant took a couple of steps back, astonished at his superior’s outburst. It was a second or two before he could bring himself to speak. “But, Governor…”
“Cancel all of my appointments for the next few days,” Worf instructed—then thought better of it. “No,” he amended with some satisfaction.