Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [45]
Beep. He had not imagined it.
“Come,” he said. The door opened.
If it had been Riker, or Geordi, or even Wesley, the Klingon would not have been all that surprised. They had been here before on one occasion or another.
It turned out to be none of them. In fact, his visitor was the last person on the entire ship that he had expected to come calling on him.
“Do you mind if I come in?” asked Morgen.
The Klingon had instinctively recoiled; he forced himself to relax. “Please,” he said, expressing the rest of the invitation with a gesture.
His eyes never leaving Worf’s, the Daa’Vit entered. Selecting a chair, he folded himself into it.
Worf sat down on the other end of the room. For a moment they just stared at each other.
“You must be wondering why I’ve come,” said Morgen.
The Klingon nodded. “I confess to a certain curiosity.”
Morgen grunted. “You Klingons have a way with words. From your lips, even a polite remark sounds like a challenge.”
Worf shrugged. “Perhaps it is the way you hear it.”
The Daa’Vit smiled. “Perhaps it is. But then—”
As before, in the holodeck, he seemed to stop himself. To regroup.
“How easy it is,” said Morgen, “to get into a war of words.” He leaned forward. “Especially when every part of me is repelled by you. Hateful of you.”
Instinctively, Worf prepared himself for an assault—visually searching the Daa’Vit for concealed weapons, working out ways in which his posture made him vulnerable.
But in the next moment Morgen leaned back again. “Yet,” he went on, “I am an officer in Starfleet—just as you are. We are sworn to stand side by side—not rend each other like beasts. If there is one thing I have learned in my time among humans, it is that prejudice—any prejudice—may be put aside.”
Worf knew how hard it was for the Daa’Vit to express such sentiments. It gained Morgen a measure of respect in his eyes—if not affection.
The Klingon cleared his throat. “Permission to speak frankly, sir.”
The Daa’Vit nodded. “Speak,” he said.
Worf eyed his visitor. “I have not always found the same thing to be true. At least not in my case. Once, I was asked to save a Romulan’s life through an act of brotherhood. I found I could not.” He licked his lips. “And I am not sure the outcome would have been any different if the life in question were that of a Daa’Vit.”
Morgen regarded him. “Honesty. I appreciate that.” He paused. “Perhaps you misunderstand me, Worf. I am not suggesting we become finna’calar. What are the English words for it? Ah, yes—blood brothers. No, I am not suggesting that at all. But we need not be enemies either.” He tilted his head. “You are a warrior. I am a warrior. Surely, there is a common ground on which we may meet.”
Worf gathered himself, fighting his instincts. “I…would…like that,” he got out.
The Daa’Vit smiled, though there was no humor in it. “Good. I may even have an idea in that regard.”
“An idea?” echoed the Klingon.
“Yes. Do you recall what I asked you in the holodeck—if you had created any programs of your own?”
Worf began to see what Morgen was getting at. “Yes,” he said. “I do recall. And I said that I had created some programs.”
“Fit for a warrior, no doubt,” said the Daa’Vit.
“I like to think so,” replied the Klingon.
“It would be a novelty for a Daa’Vit and a Klingon to fight side by side—instead of against each other.”
Worf couldn’t help but smile at the thought. As ludicrous as it was…“More than a novelty,” he decided. “It would be a challenge—one that could only bring honor to all involved.” He omitted the last part of his thought: if it works.
Morgen nodded. “I agree. When?”
“Tomorrow at this time. I will be off duty.”
“Done. Is there anything I should bring? A ka’yun, perhaps?”
“Nothing,” said the Klingon. “The holodeck will provide weapons.”
Gracefully, the Daa’Vit rose from his chair. “I look forward to it.”
Worf rose too. “As do I.”
Inclining his head to signify respect—another gesture that must not have