Nightshade - Laurell K. Hamilton [34]
Everything had been going well one moment, and then the next moment: chaos. The entire situation had slipped through Worf’s fingers. The captain was imprisoned for murder, under a death sentence. What kind of security officer allowed such things?
The Orianian guard assigned to the captain had trailed after them, at a distinct distance. Breck seemed in no hurry to approach the new ambassador. Ambassador? Ambassador Worf. It would have been funny under other circumstances. A good warrior knows his own strengths and weakness. Worf knew without doubt that he was not made for diplomacy.
But they could not afford enraged pouting now. There was no time, Worf knew, but what he wanted more than anything right now was to drown his helpless feeling in a good solid fight. Though he heard Troi’s light footsteps come up behind him, he did not turn around. He was still not under control. She sighed, softly, and stood to one side.
He could see her out of the corner of his eye, but he pretended not to. Worf did not trust his voice yet. He stared as hard as he could at the wall hanging in front of him. It was a lovely scene, the graceful branches of a tree heavy with some pink fruit. Large fluttering insects danced on a breeze that must have been sweet-scented. It was very lovely and something Worf normally wouldn’t even have glanced at. Now he tried to memorize it. He treated it as something he would have to report in detail to the captain.
He closed his eyes and tested his memory. Yes, he could report it in detail, as if it were a room, or the scene of a crime. Worf opened his eyes. His rage was contained. It bubbled under the surface, warm and somehow reassuring, but he controlled it. He was Klingon and that, for Worf, meant the greatest challenge was always within, not without.
With the anger contained, the self-doubt flared stronger. Worf knew his weak points, diplomacy was one. And this was not the situation he would have chosen for his first diplomatic effort.
‘Worf,” Troi said quietly.
He stiffened and glanced at her out of the side of his eyes. “Yes.” The word was almost a growl, yet he had not meant it to be.
‘Worf, I know you are angry and worried about the captain. We all are, but we have only three days to find the real murderer.”
He whirled on her, nearly yelling. “Do you not think I know that?” He stopped himself taking a deep breath. Troi’s concerns had to be as great as his own, and she was his friend. She did not deserve the brunt of his anger. He stepped back from her. “The captain should not have ordered me to let him go. I should have died trying to keep him safe. Instead, I allowed him to be led off to slaughter. It is unthinkable.”
‘What would you have done? Fought them all?”
‘Yes!”
‘You would have been killed and perhaps taken us all with you. Is it honorable to cause the deaths of your friends?”
He turned away from her. “I cannot allow the captain to be executed while I stand by and do nothing.”
‘What could you have done?”
‘I could have fought.” He said evenly.
‘Fighting would have gotten you killed. It would not have helped Captain Picard. The captain was right, Worf. We have to solve this by peaceful means. We cannot let the Orianians provoke us. A peace conference is no place for violence.”
‘General Alick would not agree,” Worf said, turning back to stare at her. “His death was very violent.”
‘I was there,” Troi said. An emotion Worf rarely saw flitted across Troi’s expressive face-anger. She swallowed hard, and Worf watched the ship’s counselor fight for control. Seeing Troi so affected helped steady Worf more than anything else.
‘I felt him die, Worf. His terror, the pain…” She stopped in mid-sentence. Pain showed in her eyes, her tears gleaming like glass.
‘Counselor,” Worf said. He stared down at her, wondering how to show he understood, without acknowledging he had seen her lack of control. One thing both of them valued was control. “I did not realize you felt his death. I am being foolish to think my