Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [115]
“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’Very … That’ 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 sat 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 path that cut through the woods.
Simenon was just where Wes had expected to find him. This time, however, he was dressed in regulation Starfleet attire-not the casual robe he’d been wearing when they last visited this program. As Wesley approached, the Gnalish was picking up a stone from the pile. “Greetings,” he said without turning around. Then, pausing-as if savoring the moment for as long as he could-he pulled back and let fly. The stone sailed effortlessly over the bright, placid water. It skipped once, twice, and then three more times in quick succession. Brushing his hands against each other, Simenon turned to his young companion. “It’s like piloting a shuttle,” he said. “Once you’ve got it, you never lose it.” The ensign smiled. “I guess you’re right.”” The professor trained his ruby eyes on him. “Come to polish your technique?” Wesley shook his head. “To wish you luck.” Simenon snorted. “What sort of luck will I need on Daa’Very? One diplomatic mission is much like another.” His tail switched back and forth; his expression eased just a bit. “But thanks for the thought.” “You know,” said Wesley, “I’m hoping to get to the Academy one day. As soon as possible, in fact.” The Gnalish tilted his head as he regarded the human. “And?” Wesley shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m looking forward to seeing you there.” “I see.” He bent and picked up another rock, appraised it. “I should tell you-I’m not the most popular
fellow in the place. Cadets see me and run the other way.gg*thorn] “Then they’re not very bright,” the ensign told him. “I’ve already attended one of your classes.” He glanced at the pile of flat rocks at Simenon’s feet. “I wouldn’t mind at all taking another.” The professor snorted again-more softly this time. “That’s what you say now. Just wait until exam time.” Wesley laughed. And after a moment Simenon joined him. Beverly Crusher smoothed out her dark blue and black dress uniform and considered herself in the mirror. She looked fine. But then, her appearance wasn’t the source of her dissatisfaction. Her door mechanism beeped. The captain, no doubt. Right on time, as always, “Come in,” she said, and left her bedroom to meet him in the apartment’s reception area. Picard was idly taking in the furnishings when she emerged. He smiled at the sight of her. “Very becoming,” he said. “Very becoming indeed. It has been some time since you’ve worn your dress uniform, Doctor.” She smiled back. “Thank you. And yes, it has.” He held his hands out, palms up. “All ready?” Crusher nodded. “I guess so.” The captain regarded her. “Is something wrong, Beverly?” She sighed. “I just wish I’d had more time to prepare for this. Ever since Morgen asked me: to be part of his escort, I’ve been studying Daa