Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [13]
The Gnalish harumphed. “You mock me, Captain.” He appealed to Crusher. “Imagine— ridiculing someone of my advanced years.” The doctor found herself smiling. Perhaps Wesley wasn’t entirely wrong.
Both Simenon and Asmund had heard her last name, but neither had made the least mention of Jack. And Simenon seemed like the kind of person she’d like to know better.
She still wasn’t about to invite them to her room for a party. Or, for that matter, join them in Ten-Forward. Not yet. But she made a promise to herself-and to Wes-that she’d be a little less of a hermit.
At Tactical, Worf noted the intercom activity a fraction of a second before they heard the voice on the bridge. “Commander?”
It was O’Brien down in Transporter Room One. Data sat up just a little bit straighter in the captain’s chair. “Yes, Chief?”
O’Brien frowned. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. It’s probably nothing, but … well, one of our guests-Commander Asmund-brought aboard some rather unusual cargo.”
“Can you be more specific?” asked the android. A pause. “Some kind of knives, sir. I can’t tell you much more about them, except … I think they’ve got a sort of ceremonial look to them.” Another pause. “I would’ve said something to the captain himself when he was here, but Commander Asmund does have top-security clearance, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.” Worf grunted. Ceremonial knives? That was unusual. Data rose and started to circumnavigate the command center. “Please make your scan available to the Tactical station,” he told O’Brien. “Aye, sir,” came the response.
A fraction of a second later, the image appeared on one of Worf’s monitors. And a fraction of a second after that, Data was standing beside him, looking it over.
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. “Vingon 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 nat. his
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,