Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [103]
Chapter Twenty
As THE E NTERPRISE sped on its way, the staff on the bridge was complete save one—the ship’s counselor.
And though the seat on the captain’s left was thus empty, the seat on the right was commodiously filled by the first officer.
First Officer Riker was staring at Worf.
Riker had just remembered incidents over the last few days that suggested a clandestine activity on the part of Worf, and involving Oleph and Una. There had been hushed meetings between Worf and the two little beings. There had been the assertion by the ship’s counselor that Worf was hiding something …
Worf stared back, obsidian-eyed, stubborn, knowing why he was the object of attention and disinclined to respond. He bent his gaze downward to his tactical console, and presented to his audience the mute prospect of his sagittal skull-bumps.
This action caused Riker’s eyes to twinkle with amusement. He knew Worf well enough to assume that the Klingon’s secret was harmless. And he had been through so much serious business lately that his innate lightheartedness just insisted on taking the reins.
Some of the officers presently on the bridge had already heard rumors of Worf’s furtive behavior. And, as all of them knew each other well enough to sense the subtle whorls in the currents of their shared company, Worf now became the focus of several more stares, some covert, some brazen.
“Worf,” said Riker, “you know, just the other day I was thinking about how many times you’ve told us personal things, Klingon things, and how that candor always helped us all in the end. Have you ever noticed that effect?”
“That has been the pattern in the past, sir.”
“And I’ve been trying to imagine a circumstance when it would be better for you, and all of us, if you didn’t tell us, but it’s the damnedest thing—I can’t come up with one. Can you?”
Worf stared at his console, and cleared his throat several times. Finally he lifted his massive head and spoke.
“As I am tired of being stared at, I shall satisfy your curiosities. Soon after Oleph and Una were brought on board, they asked me about Klingon culture and I read them some of my own poetry. They saw my writing talent and suggested I write a novel. Their advice was to keep it a secret as long as possible so as to be unencumbered by the expectations of others. I have been writing that novel and contacting Klingon publishers.”
He looked around with a slightly challenging air, as if he expected someone might try to ridicule him.
“Worf,” said Captain Picard, “I think I can speak for all of us when I wish you the best of fortune with your novel. I’m sure you will attack it with the thoroughness you bring to everything. And I intend to exert no encumbrance.”
“Thank you, Captain. I believe the recent incidents in the rho Ophiuchi system illustrate that the warrior of the pen achieves a glory outlasting the warrior of the sword.”
Worf seemed taken aback, but not entirely displeased, by his own sudden outburst of verbosity.
“I couldn’t agree more, Worf,” said the captain.
“So what sort of book are you writing?” asked Riker. “Are we in it?”
“Will,” said the captain, “I think we should let Worf choose when he wants to say more about it.”
“Thank you sir,” said Worf.
“Worf,” said the captain, “did you know that our own Mr. Data has been involved in literary pursuits?”
“Sir,” said Data, “I would hardly call it—”
“Don’t be modest, Data. Your poetry has already saved several lives, after all. Why don’t you give Worf a sample.”
Data looked down at his console.
“Sir, too many of my internal processors are at the moment involved in the tasks of ship’s operations to allow for random word and phrase recombination.”
“Not inspired at the moment, is that it, Mr. Data?”
“Perhaps you could say that, sir.”
The android glanced at his console.
“I will observe, though,” he went on, “that as we have just passed the point in space where Counselor Troi had her first experience with the Other-worlders, we may be said to