Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [135]
One didn’t always have to be an empath to know what was going on in people’s hearts. And to rejoice with them.
Worf looked at the entrance to his quarters, where the alarm was beeping insistently. “Enter,” he said.
As the doors opened, Morgen’s angular frame filled the gap. “I hope I am not interrupting anything,” he remarked, his yellow eyes glinting.
Worf made a point of not paying excessive attention to the long, leather-wrapped object tucked under one of the Daa’Vit’s arms—though when this voyage began, he would have been more than a little leery of it. “No,” he replied evenly. “Not at all. Come in.”
Morgen walked directly to the chair he sat in last time. Momentarily, the Klingon considered placing himself on the other side of the room, as he had before. Then he thought again and took a seat much closer to Morgen’s—separated from it by only the width of a low, s’naiah-wood table.
Their eyes met and locked. Klingon and Daa’Vit—though no longer just Klingon and Daa’Vit. With a hint of ceremony, Morgen laid the leather-wrapped object on the table.
“Open it,” he instructed. His inflection rendered it more of a request than a command.
Worf picked it up and unwrapped the thing. Before he was entirely finished, he saw the curved, razor-sharp blade. It gleamed even in the subdued light. The Klingon regarded his visitor.
“Go ahead,” Morgen said.
Carefully, Worf unwrapped it the rest of the way. He noted the grim elegance of the weapon, its surprising lightness, the intricately woven leather of its pommel. He nodded appreciatively.
“I only regret,” the Daa’Vit told him, “that it could not be a real ka’yun. But I was quite pleased with the job your ship’s computer did in fabricating this one. You’ll find it handles slightly better than the one you gave me when we participated in your ‘calisthenics’ program.”
The Klingon looked at him and suppressed a frown. It was only reasonable to expect that a Daa’Vit would make a superior ka’yun; they were trained to do so from the age of three.
“The hardest part was convincing your captain to authorize a bypass of the computer’s security restrictions. As you know, it will not create a weapon without the prior approval of either the captain or the security chief.” Morgen smiled. “And I could hardly have asked you—not if I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Worf rewrapped the ka’yun and set it down again. He didn’t know what to say. It was the first time in the history of the universe that a Daa’Vit had ever offered a Klingon such a gift. “I am honored,” he managed to say at last.
“Of course you are,” Morgen quipped. “But you understand—it’s only a temporary thing.”
The Klingon’s forehead ridged over. “Temporary?” he echoed, not understanding at all.
“That’s right,” the Daa’Vit informed him. “When my coronation is over, I’ll beam you back with a real one.”
Worf shook his head. Now he really didn’t understand.
Morgen leaned closer. “Unfortunately, I have a couple of vacancies in my escort. Dr. Crusher has graciously agreed to fill one of them. I am asking you to fill the other.”
The security chief looked at him. “A Klingon…on Daa’V…?”
Morgen waved aside the objection. “I’m not saying it will be easy, Lieutenant. Not for you—and not for me. But I’m willing if you are.”
Worf sat back in his chair. “You will be denounced as a traitor. Your throne will be forfeit.”
“Does that mean you’re turning me down?” the Daa’Vit asked.
The Klingon attempted a grin. “No,” he said. “Once again, I am honored.”
“And perhaps a little crazy,” Morgen suggested.
Worf nodded. “That as well.”
As the holodeck doors opened, Wesley recognized the scene. It was just as he remembered it—a scarlet forest set ablaze wherever a sunbeam pierced it. The flying things were there too, hurrying from one overhead branch to another, making their deep-throated cries and dropping their beautiful, deadly feathers.
As the ensign entered, he remembered also to adjust for the strange springiness of the turf—and to look for the