Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [25]
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 comif 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. . dis”…More than a novelty,” he decided. “It would beeaa 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: his
Inclining his head to signify respect—another gesture that must not have been easy for him-Morgen took his leave of his new battle-partner.
And the Klingon, watching him go, decided he had much to think about.
Picard stood, looking down the long table at his assembled officers-both past and present. He was glad to note that Idun Asmund was among them, seated between Ben Zoma and Cadwallader. And Beverly as well-though she had been reticent al first, she had apparently managed to overcome that without any encouragement from her captain. He raised his glass.
“A toast,” he said. “To those who have served me in such exceptional fashion.”
“Here, here,” said Riker.
“Jian dun yu,” agreed Morgen, voicing the Daa’Vit equivalent of Riker’s acknowledgment.
Everyone murmured their approval and drank-just as their plates were removed and replaced with their main courses by a cadre of waiters. Under Guinan’s supervision, of course. The captain assessed his dinner as it was placed in front of him. The aroma was exquisite, tantalizing. “Manzakini Loraina,” he said appreciatively. He looked up at Guinan. “An excellent choice.” Standing discreetly apart from the table, Guinan
inclined her head. “I knew you’d like it, sir,” she told him. “This is an Emmonite dish, is it not?” asked Data. “That’s right,” confirmed Troi, who was sitting next to him. “One of the many Emmonite dishes of which the captain is so fond.” She looked at Picard and smiled. “Nor am I the only aficionado of Emmonite cuisine,” the captain reminded her. “It is served regularly at Starfleet headquarters.”
“Is it true,” asked Geordi, “that the Emmonites never heard of pasta before they joined the Federation?” Picard nodded. “Quite true. As I understand it, the head of the Emmonite delegation dined at the home of Admiral Manelli-this being a good fifty years ago, of course, when Manelli was in charge of Starfleet. That night, the admiral’s wife served linguini with white clam sauce, and the ambassador was so taken with it that he insisted on bringing the recipe back to his home planet.”
“I heard he wanted to bring Mrs. Manelli back as well,” said Ben Zoma.
Picard nodded. “He did. But that is another story.” Data consumed a forkful of the manzakini, seemed to ponder the experience. He turned to Guinan.