Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [26]
Transporter Chief O’Brien made a final adjustment to his controls and completed the process. Morgen’s eyes, a fiery yellow that contrasted with the green tint of his skin, came alive at the sight of Picard.
“Captain,” he said.
“Ens—er, Captain Morgen.” Picard frowned. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard.”
“No need for apologies,” said the Daa’Vit. As always, his tone was subdued, almost conspiratorial. “Not between you and me.”
And in that moment, Picard realized that nothing had changed about Morgen—nothing significant, anyway. It was like old times again. True, this was not his ensign standing before him—but neither was it the head of a powerful empire. It was simply Morgen.
Stepping down off the platform, he extended his hand. Picard grasped it.
“This is how you humans greet one another—isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Picard smiled. “I am glad to see your years in Starfleet have produced some cultural improvements.”
The Daa’Vit smiled back, obviously delighted. “Pitifully few, I’m afraid.”
Picard chuckled. He was tempted to clap his former officer on the shoulder. “It is good to see you, Morgen.”
The Daa’Vit looked around. “And where is the full-dress review appropriate for a guest of my stature?”
“Indeed,” said Picard, “I have assembled my officers—though not here, and not in full dress. Rather, they await you in our Ten-Forward lounge—an environment I thought better suited to your…er, grave and formal demeanor.”
Morgen looked at him askance. If he didn’t know the Daa’Vit so well, he might have been alarmed by the intensity of the scrutiny. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Captain?”
Picard shrugged. “In all our years on the Stargazer, did you ever once know me to be sarcastic?”
“Come to think of it, no. But then, I wasn’t wearing all those pips on my collar then—and you were.”
Picard grunted. “Strange. I don’t believe I can remember that far back.” He straightened his tunic and gestured in the direction of the exit. “Come. Let’s see if we cannot refresh my memory in Ten-Forward. There are some people there who are eager to meet you.”
Morgen inclined his head. “Agreed.”
So much for melancholy, the captain told himself as they exited the transporter room with a nod to O’Brien. Seeing the Daa’Vit seemed to have cured him of it for the time being.
He was even starting to look forward to the remainder of this mission.
“Damn,” said Geordi. “Seems like just a few years ago I was sitting in command class, listening to stories about the Stargazer and its valiant crew of deep-space explorers—and before you know it, they’re going to be walking around in these very corridors, just like regular people. Hell, one of them’s here already.”
Walking beside him in the long, curving corridor, Worf scowled. “It is a problem,” he rumbled.
Geordi looked at him. “A problem?” he echoed. “How so?”
His companion cleared his throat. “The dignitary we have taken aboard—Morgen. He is…Daa’Vit.”
The Klingon appeared to think that that was explanation enough. But Geordi still didn’t get it. He said so.
Worf’s scowl deepened. He turned to the chief engineer without breaking stride.
“The Daa’Vit,” the Klingon explained, “were the enemies of my people for more than three hundred years. We have licked each other’s blood from our fingers.”
Licked each other’s…? Geordi hoped that that was just a figurative description.
“Shortly after the Federation allied itself with the Empire, it entered into a similar arrangement with the Daa’Vit Confederacy….”
The Klingon stopped himself as a couple of female ensigns approached from the opposite direction. The women nodded as they went by, and Geordi nodded back.
Not until the ensigns were well out of earshot did Worf continue—and then only in subdued tones. “The Empire had been wed to the Confederacy without its consent. Tempers ran high among my people.”
Geordi could only imagine what that was like.