Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [24]
That was the story he really wanted to hear-even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself earlier. That was the hole inside him that truly needed filling.
Simenon sobered a bit at the request. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. He shrugged. “Besides, you must already know what happened.”
“Only from my mom. And she didn’t have much to go on. Just the official report from Starfleet, and whatever Captain Picard told her when he came to the house.”
The Gnalish regarded him for a moment, his ruby eyes blinking. Wesley could plainly see the reticence in them. Nor was it difficult to understand.
It was one thing to have to dredge up the memory of a comrade’s death. But to have to share it with that comrade’s son … “I’ll tell you what,” Simenon said finally. “Why don’t I regale you with that story on another occasion? I do have that tour to take, you know.” He smirked,
abruptly himself again. “Though you’re welcome to come along. I wouldn’t mind hearing some more about all those contributions I’ve made to warp drive technology.”
Wes smiled back, putting his feelings aside for the time being. “You can count on me, sir.”
The Gnalish nodded. “Good. That’s what I like about you, Ensign Crusher. You’ve got a healthy respect for your elders.”
The door beeped. Worf turned at the sound. He did not often entertain guests in his quarters. His preference for solitude was well known, not only among his friends but throughout the entire crew. After all, he was surrounded by humans and other races for most of the day; after hours, he needed time to just be himself. To just be Klingon.
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 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 Mor-gen. 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-was
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,