Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [11]
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Can I go scan the tape?” Alexander asked.
“Sure,” Grant pushed in. “I’ll get my gear squared away, and we’ll go get some chow. It’ll be like old times at your grandma’s table. Big slabs of homemade bread, baklava, lamb chops—”
“We have replicator food on board the starship, Grant,” Worf pointed out.
“Well, we can pretend, can’t we? I’ll see you later, Lex. Dibs on the biggest slice of ultra-super-replicator doubledollop slow death by melted caramel, deal?”
“Deal!”
With one last warm hug, Grant gave Alexander a little shove and sent the delighted boy dodging out of the transporter room.
Worf watched his son leave and fought to control a terrible grumble of regret. He could never remember hugging Alexander. Did the boy want to be hugged? Worf’s foster parents on Earth were warm and friendly people, but they had held back in their demonstrations, wisely knowing that some day he would have to survive as a Klingon, and heavy emotions would have to be masked. He had assumed they were right, and taken the same course with Alexander.
But he and the boy lived on a ship full of humans. Did that mean Worf was the only person holding back in the boy’s presence? Did his son see him as a cold island in a sea of warmth? Grant’s free-flowing affection blanketed Worf with sudden self-reproach, and he didn’t know what to do about that.
And Grant complicated matters when he turned to Worf and slung an arm around him—as best he could, given that he was a head shorter than Worf and half as wide.
“I can’t believe I’m here!” he bubbled, and waved to the transporter trainee. “Hey, hi there.”
“Afternoon, sir,” the young officer responded, a little ill at ease with the chief of security right here.
“Like the job?”Grant asked.
“Yes, sir, I do. I’ve just started here.”
“You married?”
“Grant,” Worf snapped, pulling his old friend toward the door panels. “Back to work, Ensign Escobar.”
“Yes, sir.” The young officer averted his gaze instantly.
Worf scooped up the duffel bag that Alexander had frivolously forgotten now that its secrets were out, and steered Grant out into the corridor.
“What a great ship!” Grant gushed. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off it as we were coming around to the docking port. Man, it’s big. Ship’s big, you’re big … everything but me is big!”
As some of the tension of the past few days flowed away, Worf sighed. “You can stay in our quarters. After your gear is stowed, I can brief you on the mission.”
“I know most of it,” Grant said. “I heard about the … y’know … the …” He pointed at his shoulder and made a ripping motion.
“The arms.” Worf sighed again, and more of that tension let go of him. He was no longer alone in this task before him. There was someone here who had a common background, if not common heritage, someone who knew him better than anyone else on board, and who was not intimidated or ill at ease around him.
Ross Grant wasn’t ill at ease around anyone, and somehow that helped.
Grant lowered his voice. “Do you really think it was Klingons? Torture like that? People without any way of defending themselves? I mean, flash-and-burn is one thing, but torture … that’s something else.”
“The Federation suspects a band of Klingons on Sindikash. I intend to find out. Klingons would not consider those kinds of actions honorable. If the rumor is true, I want to know what kind of Klingon could do those things.”
“Oooh, hot button,” Grant cooed. “Not taking this personally or anything, are we? Even if it’s Klingons doing this stuff, how is it your fault?”
“Not my fault,” Worf told him. “Somehow my responsibility.”
“You’re nuts. If humans are doing it, it sure isn’t my fault. You always screwed yourself to the wall with that kind of thinking, and you’re still doing it. This is a mission. You’ve got a job to do. That’s all it is. We’ll go down there, I’ll work my magic, you’ll break some heads, we’ll crack the crime network, and leave a silver bullet behind as we ride into the sunset. You, me, a couple of white horses