Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [114]
He thought for a moment, then seemed surprised. “We’ll be on time.” “That’s right,” she said. “Even with all that’s happened, we’ll be on time. Thanks to Geordi and his engineering staff and a little help from your friend Simenon.”
Ben Zoma smiled. But a moment later the smile faded. “It’s too bad. About Greyhorse, I mean.”
She nodded. “We all feel bad. Perhaps with some rehabilitation …” She shrugged. “One can only hope.” He turned to Asmund. She returned his gaze atten-tively.
“Funny,” he said, “isn’t it-that the one we were most eager to pin the problem on … should be so instrumental in the solution. And in saving my life to boot.”
Idun grunted. “Remember Beta Gritorius Four?” After a second or two it carne to him. “So I do. Then we’re even?”
The blond woman shook her head. “Not at all. It’s just your turn again to save my life.”
Ben Zoma laughed—comwh turned out to be a bad move, as it drew the attention of Dr. Selar. The Vulcan was suddenly standing at the foot of the biobed.
“I think we should be going,” Troi said, rising. Asmund stood too. “If we must. But I’ll be back,” she told Ben Zoma. The captain of the Lexington pointed at her with mock-solemnity. “I’m depending on-it,.: Commander.” Troi grinned —and not just at Ben Zoma’s antics. She saw the look on Idun Asmund’s face, and she knew that she was happy. For the first time in years the woman felt as if she belonged.
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 oftheearoom, 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 restric-tions. 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 comthing.”
The Klingon