Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [43]
“Nor do I,” Keru said, nodding. “We could be walking into a trap.”
“I don’t think they have any cause to trap us,” Riker said, standing. As far as anyone knew, the Klingons had never learned of the Khitomer Accord violations former Federation President Min Zife had secretly committed on the planet Tezwa; therefore, no Klingon general in good standing had any reason to break the Klingon-Federation alliance that had served both peoples so well before, during, and after the Dominion War.
Riker looked at his wife. “Did you get any better ‘read’ off Khegh this time?”
“Nothing that suggests danger,” Deanna said. “But I still feel fairly certain he’s hiding something—something I’m intuiting may have nothing whatsoever to do with us. Either he’s being secretive out of deference to the prejudices of his convoy captains, or else he’s doing it out of sheer enjoyment of being manipulative.”
“Manipulative? Imagine that.” Riker looked directly toward Akaar. “Admiral, is there anything else you may have…omitted from the mission briefing that might have some bearing on this?” He knew that he was skirting the edge of insubordination, but the Capellan officer had been getting on his nerves increasingly the longer this mission went on. If he had fully informed Riker of all the particulars before they had gotten under way, preparations for the mission would have gone so much more smoothly.
Akaar treated him to a stern gaze that acknowledged the insubordination, but then answered him without any rebuke. “Nothing that comes immediately to mind, Captain.”
Riker clapped his hands together. “It’s settled, then. The only thing we know we have to fear is their cooking.”
“ ‘Cuisine’ might be a better choice of words,” said Deanna. “Don’t count on a lot of it being cooked.”
“That scares me more than any phaser fight,” Vale said, blanching visibly.
Vale felt her stomach roiling as a boisterous male Klingon set a second mug of warm raskur down in front of her. Following the truly unappetizing dinner of live and wriggling gagh—she was grateful that Riker had warned her to avoid acquiring a persistent intestinal parasite by chewing the nasty things to death before allowing them to wriggle down her esophagus—overcooked roasted targ, and a salad that seemed to undulate under its own power, it was all she could do to keep from heaving the meal back up, blasting their warrior hosts right across their ridged foreheads with gut-churning peristalsis.
Keru seemed far less affected. Although he wasn’t a joined Trill, she imagined that any species physiologically capable of allowing a symbiotic life-form to join with them via a belly pouch probably could ingest just about anything. Amazingly, with three tankards downed, he still seemed as sober as a Federation magistrate, even as the Klingons around him got progressively sloppier and drunker.
Captain Riker was seated at the head of the table, to General Khegh’s immediate left. The task force had entered the Neutral Zone a mere ten minutes ago, and as a strategy session, the meal seemed less than successful. Every time Riker tried to steer the discussion to the arena of the brewing Romulan-Reman conflict, Khegh just as quickly diverted it with boasts, blusters, and heavily embroidered tales of past battles. The Klingon wanted to discuss anything, it seemed, but their coming mission to Romulus. He seemed especially interested in hearing stories about Lieutenant Commander Worf, whom he claimed to have known during his pre-Starfleet days in Minsk, unlikely though that might be.
Sitting between the boisterous male Klingon commander, Tchev, and a female Klingon named Dekri, who looked as if she were about to spill right out of her bustier-like top, Vale felt a rough hand pressing on the small of her back.
“So, what do you consider to be your greatest triumph in battle?” Tchev asked, turning toward her with a snaggletoothed leer.
Vale’s mind raced. Over the last year alone, she had spearheaded the Enterprise’s rescue operations on Dokaal, led efforts to calm the social chaos