Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [34]
The android’s brow creased ever so slightly. He turned to the Klingon. “You are the weapons expert, Lieutenant. Have you ever seen specimens of this sort?”
Indeed he had.
Worf nodded. “Mr. O’Brien is right. They are ceremonial knives.” He frowned as his eyes traced the familiar serration pattern. “Klingon ceremonial knives. My brother showed me a pair just like them when he was on the ship.”
Data nodded. “I see. Then that explains it.”
Worf looked at him. “It does?”
“Certainly. They must have been a gift from her parents.”
The security chief’s confusion only deepened. “I do not understand,” he confessed.
Data stared at him. Then comprehension dawned. “Did you not know that Commander Asmund was raised in the Klingon Empire?”
He might as well have told Worf that they were headed for the heart of a supernova. It took the Klingon a moment to recover.
“No,” he said finally. “I did not.”
But that would be rectified as soon as his shift on the bridge was over, and he had a chance to access the necessary information. Worf did not like mysteries—particularly when they hit so close to home.
Guinan was swabbing down her bar with a damp towel when Pug Joseph approached her, glass in hand. He smiled.
“We’re keeping you busy, aren’t we?”
It was an understatement. Now that the Gnalish and Dr. Greyhorse had arrived, the party was really in high gear—though the other newcomer, Commander Asmund, had declined to join them.
Guinan shrugged, returning the smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Joseph placed an elbow on the bar and leaned over in a conspiratorial sort of way. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you have anything a mite stronger than this Ferengi bug-juice?”
She looked at him. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard synthehol referred to as Ferengi bug-juice. Very colorful.” Her smile deepened. “In any case, the answer is no. I can offer you a beer, if you like. But the strongest drink we serve in Ten-Forward is synthehol. In fact, I’m a little surprised at the question. I thought synthehol was the strongest drink served in all ship’s lounges.”
“Well,” said Joseph, “that’s the way it’s supposed to be—officially, that is. But, y’see, we bend the rules a little on the Lexington.” He indicated Ten-Forward with a tilt of his head. “Of course, we haven’t got anything nearly this fancy on our ship. But we give a man freedom of choice—if you know what I mean.”
Guinan nodded. “I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Joseph. But I’m afraid that doesn’t change anything on this vessel. As long as I’m in charge of the Ten-Forward lounge, there will be nothing harder than synthehol served here. Keeps the repair bills down.” She paused. “But how about an ice cream soda? I can whip up one of those in a flash—and no one has to be any the wiser.”
Joseph scowled. “You’re breaking my heart, you know that?” He held up his glass. “Look. I can go back to my quarters and fill this with the finest Maratekkan brandy.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “But that would mean I’d have to drink it all alone—when some of my closest friends in the world are sitting right there.” He gave her his best cherubic look. “Now, normally, I could see your point. Hell—you don’t want everybody drinking the good stuff, or what would happen in an emergency? But under the circumstances—these special circumstances—I think even the head of Starfleet would look the other way and pour me something interesting.”
Guinan sighed. “You’re a tough man to reason with, Mr. Joseph.”
“That’s what they tell me,” he said.
“And I must say, you’ve got a point there. You could simply go to your cabin and drink anything you wanted.”
“It takes an astute person to put matters in their proper perspective,” he encouraged.
“But it strikes me that you might want a real drink a little too much.”
His expression hardened a little. “Eh? What d’you mean?”
Guinan resumed her swabbing of the bar. “Just this—that if I had a problem, I wouldn’t keep it to myself. Especially when there’s someone willing to hear about it. Maybe even help me with it.