Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
The Modern Age Deanna Troi spotted the boy in the corridor outside the ship’s classrooms, on his way to the turbolift. She hurried after him, calling his name.
“Alexander?”
The boy turned and stopped to wait for her. The Betazoid smiled.
“I almost missed you,” she told him. “I meant to be here ten minutes ago, but my work ran a little long today.”
Alexander looked at her, his dark brows coming together at the bridge of his nose. “Is everything all right?”
She knew exactly what he was asking. Damn, she thought. Here I am, trying to ease Worf’s absence, and I find a way to alarm the poor kid. Some counselor you are, Deanna.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured him, “as far as we know.”
Troi had to add the caveat, just in case. After all, away missions included their share of tragedies, and the Klingon Empire was more perilous than most other destinations.
Alexander seemed to relax a little, but not completely.
“So why were you in such a hurry to see me?”
The counselor shrugged. “No reason in particular. It’s just that I haven’t had a chance to spend any time with you since your father took off, and I thought you might like to keep me company while I have a sundae in TenForward. Of course, you could have one yourself, so I don’t look like too much of a glutton.”
The boy normally smiled at her silliness, but not this time. “Okay,” he said without enthusiasm. “I guess.”
“That’s the spirit,” she told him, wishing she meant it.
Worf looked around the bridge of Kurn’s ship. It wasn’t much bigger or more comfortable than the one in which Kahless had brought them to Ogat. But it had four seats, one in the center and three on the periphery, and that made it possible for them all to be on the bridge at once.
At the moment, Kurn was in the center seat, checking to make certain they were still on course. After all, Klingon vessels of this size had a tendency to veer slightly at high speeds.
Kahless was pacing the corridor that led to the vessel’s sleeping quarters, occasionally striking a bulkhead with a mere fraction of his strength. It was as if the ship were a starahk and he was urging it into a gallop, eager to get on with his self-appointed mission.
Captain Picard was sitting at the station closest to the main viewscreen, his blunt, human features illuminated by the lurid light of his control panel. He seemed absorbed in the readings of the alien monitors.
Sitting next to the captain, one panel over, Worf watched him. There was something he needed to say, but he was having difficulty finding the words to say it.
After a moment or two, he gave up. He would just have to say what he felt, and hope that would be enough.
“Sir?” The captain turned to him, so that the control lights lit up only half of his face. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
Worf frowned. “Sir, I must apologize for the way I acted on Ogat. At the academy, I mean.”
Picard nodded. “After you emerged from the burning building, and I attempted to console you.”
“Yes,” said the Klingon. “I pulled away from you in a t unseemly manner. But I assure you, it was not my mos intention to offend you. Or to seem ungrateful for you The captain winced and held up his hand. “Please, mister Worf. There is no need for you to go on. First off, it’s much too painful for me to watch. And second, I was not offended.”
The lieutenant looked at him. “But the way I acted was hardly in keeping with Starfleet protocol.”
Picard leaned closer. “That is true. However, you were under a great deal of strain at the time. We all were. And as you have no doubt noticed, we are not now wearing Starfleet uniforms. It occurs to me we can make some allowances if we wish.”
The Klingon breathed a little easier. “Thank you, sir.”
For a second or two, the captain smiled. Then he said, “You are quite welcome, Lieutenant,” and went back to scrutinizing his control panel.
His duty discharged, Worf sat back in his chair. He was fortunate to have a commanding officer who understood-at least in some small measure-what the Klingon was going