Star Trek: Second Generation – Envoy To Days Past
Captain's log. Having conducted our debriefing regarding our contact with the Borg, I have had to formally express my distress at being sent on another mission already. However, it appears that our ship is uniquely qualified for the job; what that means has not yet been made clear to me. The delay before we find out though has meant that one duty that I did not want to have to undertake can now be completed...
Picard tugged at his dress uniform jacket, wishing that uncomfortable duties didn't come with uncomfortable uniforms to wear for them. His regular uniform was designed with a degree of comfort in mind, while thing one felt like it was jabbing him any time he wasn't standing bolt upright.
The charge sheet that he had been handed hadn't, unfortunately, changed since he last looked at it. Nor had the slightly sick feeling when he read the actual charges on it.
"Are we ready?" he asked, looking at Constable Yar.
"We're ready sir," she replied, the satisfaction he knew that she felt at finally being able to make changes that she had been calling for firmly kept under wraps by her professionalism and her own distaste at the crime committed.
"Mr Data?"
"Ready sir," the android replied, his own professionalism in this primarily stemming from his inability to experience emotions from the crime that had been committed. Despite that, Picard recognised that there had been an urgency to his actions that suggested greater than usual concern to have this resolved.
"Very well. Bring him in."
Yar nodded and headed to the secondary door leading into the adjoining holding room. This room that they were in was technically a larger office used by the security teams; temporarily they had been moved out to different offices so that the room could be used for its secondary purpose as a courtroom.
This aspect of his job, even more than the military side of things, Picard had never liked. He approached it with determination and, he hoped, a professional attention to detail and completeness that he hoped covered his distaste effectively. He knew though that he was going to have to ride herd on his emotions very carefully though, because his dislike for this situation made him resent the man who had prompted it.
Samuel Wade was a Human, slightly above average height and with grey hair and pale white skin. He carried the slightly misshapen musculature of someone who had grown up in Mar's low gravity and had then had grafts in order to be able to adapt more quickly to the Earth-normal gravity of starships. His age was hard to guess from his appearance, but his file listed him as being in his late twenties.
His attitude betrayed a kind of surly arrogance; he looked around the courtroom as if it was an inconvenience being imposed on him rather than a response to his actions, and his lack of interest suggested that he was either unaware of what had happened, which seemed unlikely, or somehow didn't care.
Once everyone was in position, Picard spoke.
"Samuel Wade. You are accused of assault leading to serious bodily harm to the person of Xing Zhi, a member of this ship's crew. Secondary charges include failure to report for duty when red alert was called, and wilful misconduct leading to drunken and disorderly behaviour. I have reviewed the evidence for this matter, including security logs, CCTV, medical reports, and the interviews conducted with other crewmembers regarding this situation, and it appears conclusive. Now, before we proceed, do you have any statement you would like to make regarding this situation? I will advise you that should you require legal aid or advice Commissar Troi is able to provide you with the necessary assistance." He indicated to his right where Troi, the royal purple of her commissar's dress uniform standing out very clearly, was keeping her own attitude as professional as she could.
Wade looked at Troi, and then shook his head. "I've had people hounding and persecuting me about this for years; this is just the latest twist as far as I'm concerned," he announced.
"Very well," Picard said heavily, realising that this was going to be a lot harder than he expected with the person to whom this mattered most apparently being entirely disinterested in the outcome. On the other hand, he realised with a shared glance at Troi, he had no need to go full throttle on the formalities and could, apparently with her approval, get things dealt with as quickly as the law permitted. "All of the charges appear to be stemming from the final charge, so we will begin with that: wilful misconduct leading to drunk and disorderly behaviour. Do you admit that at the time of the incident referred to by the first charge that you were in fact drunk?"
"I'd had a few, yes," Wade replied, not quite unconcerned, but definitely surly.
"I have the report from Ten Forward here," Picard stated, "which includes all orders for drinks from your table, and a subdivision for what you yourself had from that. Would you like to review this list to confirm its accuracy before we proceed?"
"Let's take a look," Wade said with a weary sigh. He took the padd that Picard handed to him and looked over it. After a moment he nodded. "Looks about right; I was losing track towards the end."
"Are you aware of your genetic status as, what is termed, a five thirteen? That is to say that your biochemistry processes synthahol as if it was alcohol."
Wade grunted. "If you mean I'm one of the people who has to suffer because of badly designed synthahol, then yes," he replied sourly.
"So you knew that the likely consequences of your actions would include drunkenness that could not be overcome quickly in an emergency?"
"Of course I did," Wade replied. "It's called stress relief."
Picard managed to restrain himself from retorting too aggressively; his own forms of stress relief might well not appeal to Wade, he knew, but at least they didn't result in this kind of loss of control. "Mr Wade, I will come straight to the point: do you admit that you deliberately undertook drinking in a quantity that you knew would have the effect of reducing your level of self-control to the point where you might commit the acts described in the primary charge?"
"I've got into a few arguments before," Wade replied. "I know I can get aggressive sometimes when I'm drunk. Xing wasn't meant to be anywhere near our quarters though; he was due to stay on shift until after I was back and asleep like he usually is. Credit me with that much sense at least," he added, sounding mildly offended.
"Granted," Picard allowed. "However it appears that on the night in question you had more than usual to drink."
"Look, I didn't join Starfleet for the exploration," Wade replied sourly. "I joined up because it's a good job that takes you interesting places and in my line of work is a good way to actually see the stuff that you're studying. This whole thing of being thrown massive distances outside Federation space into unknown territory is not what I signed on for. But this is the second time it's happened. Just on this ship," he added.
That, Picard admitted, was a fair point. The majority of Starfleet vessels didn't even see the edge of Federation space; seeing beyond the border without needing to use long-range sensors was quite rare. The Enterprise was, in that regard, currently almost unique. It was something that, he admitted privately, he could empathise with given his own preference for the slower, more regular missions that they had to deal with.
"That will be taken into account," Picard assured him. "However, the fact remains that you knew that you were drinking more than usual."
"Yeah?" Wade replied.
"In fact your... Triad," Picard said carefully, looking down at the evidence on his padd which included a transcript from the Ten Forward security systems of the conversation at Wade's table, "appears to have departed from the topic of our location very early on and moved onto being particularly disparaging about Xing Zhi."
Wade nodded. "Yeah, I got side-tracked there. He was making a lot of fuss though and it was getting on my nerves. Nearly refused to serve us some more drinks because he was saying that we'd had enough."
"Does it occur to you that if you had stopped then that things might not have degenerated to the point we have reached now?" Picard asked softly, catching Troi's warning glance an instant too late to stop himself.
"Maybe, maybe not," Wade replied with a shrug. "Xing was being a nuisance, and I've been getting more annoyed at him recently. He'd have pushed things this far sooner or later."
Picard frowned and flicked through the evidence to the point where the relationship between Wade and Zhi was described. Which made as much sense now as it had done before. "Mr Wade, I find myself confused by the connection between yourself and Xing Zhi. Can you explain it in more detail?"
"You're confused by it?" Wade asked. "How do you think I feel?" He sighed. "It some wacky tradition that the original settlers brought to Mars with them when they tried to get it renamed Huǒxīng. Basically it's something to do with a life-debt system that they came up with to encourage people to look after each other. Apparently it's still actually part of Martian law, though most people don't even realise it, and my grandfather made the mistake of saving Xing's grandfather's life in some accident or other. But they need to pay the debt back fully, which means that my mother and I have both had someone from Xing's family following us around like lost puppies trying to pay off this stupid debt that they think they have."
"Is that legal?" Picard asked, looking at Troi.
She sighed and gave a shrug. "While it isn't something that the Federation would encourage due to the possibility of it becoming some form of slavery, the idea was put in early enough, and the early Martian colonists had enough clout in the Federation, that it is actually exempt from the normal anti-slavery laws. Any time Xing feels that the debt is paid off he can technically walk away from the situation and the worst that can legally happen is if his family don't agree that it has been paid they can ostracise him and send someone else in his place."
"Yeah, that's what happened to Xing's older brother," Wade interjected. "He was as sick of the tradition as I was, so when I entered Starfleet we made some arrangements involving him paying for some of my studies, equipment, that kind of thing. He was satisfied, I was satisfied, and we parted ways. Then his parents decided that it wasn't good enough and sent Xing, who does the whole lost puppy thing."
Picard sighed. "I presume that legal channels have been followed on this?"
"The only legal recourse would be if Xing had been impeding Mr Wade's career or safety," Troi announced. "Otherwise the worst that he can be accused of is being persistent."
"I see," Picard said heavily, thinking about what that meant. "Mr Wade, I can understand your frustration with this situation; as the captain of this ship I find myself with over a thousand people following me around wherever I go. Including yourself," he added, a bit more seriously in the hope that the implications would register. "I cannot therefore find good reason for justifying your actions in the beating that you delivered to him, nor do I find your drunkenness to be a mitigating circumstance given your admission of knowledge of the consequences. While you state that you planned to be back and asleep before Mr Zhi was off duty, the transcript of your conversation shows that you deliberately refrained from following this plan, choosing instead to remain and publically insult Mr Zhi. Mr Zhi eventually removed you from Ten Forward and took you back to your quarters where you delivered your beating."
"Honestly, I don't remember that part," Wade replied. "But... Yeah, it sounds about right."
Picard sighed inwardly, realising that this was as close to a conclusion or an admission of guilt that he was going to get. "Very well. In view of your past record of excellent work, I am willing to be lenient with regards to your work: you will retain your rank and position in planetary survey. However, I am not willing to have you remain as part of the crew of a starship, which you so rightly point out is a major career stepping stone in your line of work. As such I have confirmed that starbase ninety one is currently in need of someone with planetary survey expertise. They are currently orbiting a small, relatively dead, world in the PSI-376 system and require further assistance after their own expert was promoted to a starship position," he kept a smile off his face at the irony of this. "When the runabout arrives with the envoys with details on our next mission the runabout will be taking you to starbase ninety one."
Wade scowled, clearly aware that his career was being badly scuppered. "And Xing?"
"Mr Zhi will remain in the infirmary for the time being," Picard announced. "He will not be transferred with you, and in view of the situation Commissar Troi and I will be sending a message to his family informing them of this outcome and that we advise strongly against any further interaction between yourself and Mr Zhi."
"Something good then," Wade muttered.
Ignoring that, Picard continued. "I have also advised starbase ninety one of your situation regarding synthahol, and they have agreed that your access to it will be restricted; quite easy since apparently most of the crew are Andorians to whom synthahol is useless. Likewise a ruling is being made aboard this ship that such individuals as yourself shall no longer have access to synthahol, pending the development of a version that you can safely consume with the correct effects." He nodded at Troi and Yar, ignoring Wade's expression. "Dismissed."
Riker was checking over crew evaluation reports when the crewman at operations announced that the runabout was out of warp and moving to close with the Enterprise.
"On screen," Riker ordered, looking up with interest.
Runabouts were an oddity in Starfleet: small vessels that were designed to carry four people, their form was defined almost entirely by the warp drive that was housed inside the rear section of the ship. In practise only ten percent of the runabout's space was actually habitable, and Riker hoped never to have to use one of them: while a regular shuttle lacked warp drive and so could never get too far from the ship that launched it, a runabout was able to travel between stars but lacked an engineering crew unless one of the crewmembers was specifically qualified for the job. The whole thing was meant to be easy enough to handle that an ambassador or diplomat could use it to jump between solar systems without needing to get a regular Starfleet ship or crew tied up in the task.
As part of the attempt to offset the danger this posed, the ship had four nacelles and a layer of ablative armour not normally seen on Starfleet vessels, which actually gave it a more sinister appearance than a regular ship had.
"Hail them Mr Anour," Riker ordered.
"Aye sir," the Andorian at operations replied.
There was a couple of seconds delay before the main screen changed as the channel was opened. The view was constrained somewhat; rather than a full bridge the runabout had a rather cramped cockpit area with two seats for the flight crew, and the camera was mounted on the right of the pilot's seat. The pilot in this case was a female Andorian; to her left sat a human co-pilot, also female, though younger.
"Enterprise, this is the runabout Orinoco," the Andorian said, her tone crisp and tight. "Requesting permission to approach and dock."
"Permission granted," Riker acknowledged. "I take it that you have our guests aboard?"
"I do," the pilot acknowledged. "Two special envoys," she added with a restrained grimace.
"Something wrong with them?"
The pilot glanced over her shoulder back into the living space of the ship, out of Riker's sight. "Personality incompatibilities," she said briefly. "No actual problem; we've just been grating on each other's nerves for the last twelve hours. You should have less of a problem in a less confined space," she added.
"I'll notify the captain of that," Riker assured her. "Do you need to dock or can you transport over?"
"My orders are to wait for a possible passenger," the pilot replied with a shrug. "I would prefer to dock so that I can stretch my legs properly, but it does rather depend on what the envoys say. So far they are favouring you setting off immediately upon their arrival."
"We'll be ready with the transporter then," Riker acknowledged. "Captain Picard should be finished with your possible passenger shortly; we'll have a better idea of what is going on then."
"Understood. We'll be in transporter range in... Fifteen minutes."
Troi sighed wearily as she stepped out of the courtroom and tried to centre herself. Such conflicting emotions in a confined space like that were difficult for her to handle sometimes, and Mr Wade's combination of annoyance and apathy at the situation had been particularly grating.
Checking her commlink she noticed an outstanding message from Will; it wasn't urgent enough for him to override the communications silence around the courtroom, but clearly he felt that a message was required.
"Commissar Troi to Commander Riker," she instructed the commlink after tapping the call key. There was a couple of seconds delay before Will came onto the channel.
"Commissar, is the captain there?" Will asked, clearly intent on business at this point.
"I'm here," Picard said, coming up behind Troi as he stepped from the courtroom himself. "What's the situation?"
"The envoys' runabout has arrived," Riker informed them. "They'll be beaming over to transporter room one in about three minutes. Are you available to handle it?"
"We are now," Picard assured him. "We'll meet them there."
"Aye sir. Riker out."
"So much for getting changed into something more comfortable," Troi lamented jokingly.
"Hopefully we can get the envoys settled and then get changed before things kick off," Picard replied, setting off for the transporter room with Troi alongside him. "Do you see any trouble with the results of that court martial?"
"Not immediately," Troi replied. "Mr Wade is happy to get away from Mr Zhi. The only issue is the five thirteens that are still aboard; a total ban is liable to upset some of them."
"How many do we have?" Picard asked. "I thought that it was meant to be one in ten thousand that had this condition."
"We have two others at present," Troi informed him. "Both are better behaved than Mr Wade and keep themselves restrained carefully. But as I said, a total ban on synthahol for them would be unfortunate."
"Do you think that there is a reason for the concentration of them on this ship?"
Troi shrugged. "I would need to check. It's possible that we're just the far end of the probability curve. Or the ratios might be out of date somehow. We'll need to investigate."
"How do you think people used to cope?" Picard asked after a moment's silence between them.
"With what?" Troi asked.
"Before synthahol," Picard explained. "A society of people like Wade who would knowingly get drunk and risk the loss of control that went with it. I find it hard to comprehend how you could live in a society like that."
"I imagine that they would have similar thoughts about a society where we use synthahol," Troi replied. "The ability to sober up at the first sign of trouble means that people can only be peacefully drunk here, whereas the excitement and aggression of that loss of control might well be what they were interested in." She smiled. "I doubt that we'll ever..." She trailed off as a presence impinged itself onto her empathic sense; louder and more dramatic than she was used to seeing on the ship, the presence had simply appeared a short distance from her. That was normal enough: she was used to seeing transporters in action. But the degree of strength and... The familiarity...
"Oh no," she whispered as they reached the transport room door.
Picard frowned at her, troubled at her sudden concern, but he had already stepped far enough forward for the door to open and give them both a view of the people standing on the transporter pad.
One was a Vulcan; smartly cut black hair combined with elegant features and a simple cream robe with the insignia of the Federation diplomatic corps on it, she was a figure of serenity and poise.
Troi barely noticed her though, as her attention was firmly fixed on the other woman on the pad: taller than Troi herself, but with the same black hair in a much more flamboyant style, she was also dressed in clothing that showed the insignia of the Federation diplomatic corps, but the clothing was of a much more revealing cut and the style was closer to being a blue-green gown than a uniform.
The woman was already stepping down off the transporter pad and heading to the door when it opened, and barely seemed to notice Captain Picard as she boldly stepped past him and embraced Troi.
"Deanna, it's good to see you again," her mother announced.
On the bridge Riker paused suddenly in the middle of a sentence. He simply stared into the distance, clearly no longer aware of the people around him on some critical level, where he had been aware of them a few seconds earlier.
They were starting to wonder whether he was having some kind of seizure, and on the verge of asking him what was wrong, when he seemed to come back to life a bit, seemingly a bit shaken.
"Why her?" he asked softly, his tone not making it clear whether he was confused or concerned.
Picard was surprised by the envoy's quite dramatic show of friendship with Troi; largely as a result of her job as the ship's commissar she was required to be somewhat aloof, and anyone showing that kind of affection, aside from the occasional reminder that she and Riker had been dating at one point, was generally not encouraged.
That this person was familiar with her was clear, and Troi's own reaction in returning the embrace, however tentatively, suggested that whatever affection there was went both ways.
The other envoy, the Vulcan, watched the display with a kind of detached interest that had a hint of resignation to it, as if she was used to such displays and was merely waiting for it to run its course now. She briefly turned her head and met Picard's questioning gaze with a raised eyebrow before stepping forward.
"Captain Picard. Peace and long life," she greeted him, raising her hand in salute.
This part, at least, Picard was prepared for. It had taken several weeks of intermittent practise at the academy to develop the muscle memory to do it, but the trick hadn't left him and he returned the salute with only an instant's hesitation. "Live long and prosper," he replied. "You are the envoys that we were told to expect?"
"We are," she confirmed. "I am envoy K'lar of the Starfleet diplomatic corps. My associate-"
"Oh, you're not an associate," the other envoy objected as she released her embrace on Troi and turned to face them. "After all this time we've spent travelling and working together you're a friend. Though captain," she added more seriously, as if K'lar wasn't around to hear her say it, "you wouldn't believe the effort it takes to make friends with a Vulcan. Getting through that tough shell is an exercise in exasperation sometimes."
Trying not to be put off by this, Picard nodded, wondering how this pair had ended up together. "And you are?"
She drew herself up somewhat. "Lwaxana Troi, Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed. Currently serving as a member of the Starfleet diplomatic corps."
"My mother," Troi added succinctly.
"There's no need to use that tone Deanna," Lwaxana said, scolding her with a cheerfully playful tone that Picard had heard parents the Federation over use to admonish their children in public. "Suffice it to say, we're both here to brief you on your next mission and help in any way that we can."
"Of course," Picard agreed, privately wondering how this was going to work out. And then he remembered that his commissar's empathic abilities came from her being only half-betazoid; she had previously mentioned that her mother was fully betazoid, meaning...
"Yes, it's me that she got it from," Lwaxana announced, in what to everyone except possibly Troi must have been a significant non-sequitur. "Oh don't pull that face," she told him, still cheerfully scolding rather than anything more serious. "Reading minds is as natural to me as reading body language is to you. I'm sure that my daughter has given you some idea of how natural it is for us."
"She's mentioned at various times the kind of things that she can pick up," he replied cautiously. "But little else."
"Well I'm sure that I'll be able to rectify any misunderstandings that she might have caused," managing to suggest by her tone that cleaning up after her daughter's mistakes like this was a regular thing. "In the meantime though, I suppose we should be telling you what you're going to be doing. Let's go," she added, sweeping out of the door.
"The situation is most severe," K'lar informed them as she seated herself at the conference table beside Picard. Riker had joined them, and at the request of K'lar so had Worf. Picard had been sure that he had seen... He hadn't seen Worf startled very often, but in this case, when the Klingon came in and saw the two envoys, there had been a moment of what looked distinctly like shock on his face.
"Our orders so far have been scant enough that I've had the impression that something significant was happening," Picard admitted. "May I enquire what exactly has happened?"
"Quite simply," K'lar explained, "we are looking at a possible Klingon invasion."
"The Empire has no reason to attack at this time," Worf pointed out sharply.
"Indeed," K'lar replied, and Picard thought that there was just a hint of impatience that broke through that Vulcan calm. "But seventy five years ago, they did."
"They've sent us word," Lwaxana interjected, "through that... Ansible?" Picard nodded. "That thing. Apparently someone was investigating something or other that they weren't clear on and found records about a Klingon warship that was launched back then. It was some kind of sleeper ship with a crew in suspended animation so that they could take a slow journey across into Federation space."
"And they've only just found this out now?" Riker asked. He was another that had reacted to the presence of the envoys, though in his case Picard had a good idea of what the reaction was about: when the woman who was nearly your mother-in-law turns up, you are allowed to be confused to some degree.
"The ship apparently belonged to House D'rong," K'lar informed them. "There was no context to the message beyond that."
"Mr Worf?" Picard asked. "Anything you know about?"
Worf seemed to consider, then shook his head. "Between the Great Houses, the Major Houses, and the Minor Houses, there are many of them... I am not familiar with House D'rong."
"Neither is Starfleet Intelligence," Lwaxana informed them. "So all we know is that they launched a ship full of Klingons who will wake up and think that the war is still going on. We've got their approximate course and intended destination, their crew manifest, and command codes to lock out the sleeper systems so that they can't wake up. Beyond that, we're currently on our own."
"What is our mission from Starfleet?" Picard asked.
"As far as Starfleet, and the Federation, is concerned," K'lar replied, "we need to track down the ship and prevent it from harming any Federation citizens. If we can keep the ship intact and divert it back to the Empire, then that is good. If the ship must be destroyed, then that is acceptable."
"What makes this ship so dangerous?" Riker asked. "Aside from already being inside Federation space?"
"We are unclear," K'lar admitted. "A single warship, even their heaviest designs, would not be a match for the strategic defence network around any Federation colony in this area. As such we suspect that there is more to the situation than we have been informed. We are attempting to get a response on the subject, however... The Empire appears disinclined to provide further intelligence on the subject."
"Mr Worf, would you be able to find out more?" Picard asked.
"I do have details for contacting Martok aboard the Dawnbringer," Worf admitted. "And some details for contacting Inquisitor Torsk, although I cannot say how welcome my enquiries would be."
"Anything that we can learn would be useful," Picard informed him. "We'll need to prepare plans for handling the ship in the event that it is dormant or that it is already active. Do we have any idea of what kind of suspended animation technology the Empire had back then?"
"Not that I am aware of," Worf admitted.
"Double check on it with engineering and medical," he instructed. "Commissar, Mr Worf, I'm going to need you both to work closely with the envoys to prepare our response for when we do meet this ship, including co-ordinating with medical and engineering for any challenges that they will need to overcome."
Troi looked professionally detached as she acknowledged that instruction, though Picard didn't need to be an empath to detect the undercurrent of resignation to the acknowledgement. The impression that he was forming of her mother so far suggested that this wasn't going to be an entirely happy and stress-free reunion for her.
Worf though looked downright shifty at the instruction, seeming to ignore Lwaxana entirely and instead throwing a very nervous look at K'lar. Picard followed the glance and realised that aside from requesting his presence (which he realised that she had done by requesting their "tactical officer" join the briefing) and a single curt response to his objection earlier, K'lar had been avoiding acknowledging Worf's presence as totally as she could.
"Sir, I request to hand this duty to one of my officers," he declared.
Picard was confused by this; clearly something was going on there, but when he glanced at Troi she seemed equally confused by it. What could cause a Klingon warrior, even one raised in the Federation, to want to avoid working with someone like this? If he didn't know better it looked almost like embarrassment.
"Your reasons?" Picard asked, trying to work it out.
Worf seemed to consider for a few seconds before seeming to deflate a bit. "Personal only," he admitted.
"In that case I must refuse your request," Picard informed him. "I need my best people working on this problem. I'll want a briefing on what you have found and determined at oh nine hundred tomorrow. Unless there is anything else?"
Riker managed to contrive to hang around in the conference room as everyone else left, and seemingly by a kind of random Brownian motion he ended up sharing the room with Deanna once everyone else had gone.
"Your mother is here?" he asked, trying to restrain the incredulous tone as best he could.
"I knew that she was in the diplomatic corps," Deanna admitted. "But I didn't even know that she was stationed in this region, let alone that she would be involved in this mission."
Riker took a deep breath. "I'm not looking forward to sharing a ship with her," he admitted.
"I'm not looking forward to her being involved in a sensitive mission like this," Deanna admitted. "I can see complications piling up already. We'll have to make the best we can of it," she informed him with a shrug. Then she smiled. "Be strong imzadi," she told him before heading out of the conference room.
Record searches are never particularly exciting things to do. Surfing the net was more interesting: jumping between random hyperlinks and finding things that you didn't previously know was interesting and educational in a fun way.
Just trawling through records was not interesting, especially when those records were incomplete and not very well cross referenced.
"This is going to take some time," Beverley informed Worf after the Klingon didn't leave following thirty seconds of her searching through the records. "Apparently our records are limited with regards to Klingon technology, so I'm probably going to need to raise an enquiry with Starfleet."
Worf sighed, deflating a bit. "Very well... I was hoping..." He shook his head. "Please inform me when you have any information."
"I'll do that," Beverley acknowledged with a smile.
Worf eventually made his way to the operations room that he had reserved for the envoys and their planning with regards to how they would handle the unknown Klingon vessel. He had been thorough before going there: sending a message to Martok requesting information; personally delivering the request for information to Doctor Crusher; checking for a response from Martok; personally delivering the request for information to Commander La Forge; checking for a response from Martok; assigning duties to his subordinates while he was assisting the envoys; chasing up some of the repairs that were still underway from the encounters with the Borg...
It was when he found himself checking for a response from Martok yet again, and realising that Martok probably hadn't even received the message yet, that he admitted to himself that he was procrastinating and needed to get the next part of his job over and done with.
The operations room was normally used by Commander Data's teams when they were managing specific tasks; the room had a number of general purpose tables, consoles, and displays that allowed it to be flexibly used for a variety of purposes that mostly related to organising and co-ordinating teams or large numbers of people, such as when the ship had been over Mirin and the local air traffic control system had failed, forcing the Enterprise to take over the job.
With only four of them present the room felt uncomfortably large and empty to Worf as he stepped into it: Troi was already present and talking with her mother on one side of the room while K'lar was on the other side working intently at a console. She glanced up when he entered but looked away without acknowledging his presence beyond that.
That, he knew, was going to be largely his fault. The problem was that his own embarrassment he could understand; her reaction to him was startling given that they had parted on amicable terms and hadn't been in contact since then. He had been fully expecting the Vulcan logic to make her open about their previous encounters, allowing for her acknowledgement of his desire for privacy, but at worst he had expected... Well, what he was mostly worried about was the memories that her presence brought up and the embarrassment should the events around them become public. He hadn't been expecting her to seemingly deny his presence.
"I have made enquires in sickbay and engineering," he announced, "and sent a message to Martok requesting further information, in addition to anything that Starfleet can obtain via the ansible."
"I never did ask," Lwaxana butted in. "Who is this Martok person?"
"He is the patriarch of the House of Martok and shipmaster of the Dawnbringer," Worf explained. "A Klingon captain. When..." He paused, remembering the awkward nature of talking about such things: the crimes of his Klingon parents had been disconnected from him when he was formally declared to be without a House and the record of his birth as Mogh's son was destroyed, to the point where even in the afterlife it would not be acknowledged who his Klingon parents were. But by necessity that meant that such things could not be spoken of in case acknowledging them, even in passing, restored the records in some manner. "He offered me membership of his House," he settled on. "While I declined at the time, I have maintained minimal contact with him since he left Federation space six months ago."
"Sounds like a useful person to know," Lwaxana admitted.
"It is a long-distance friendship," Worf replied. "Replies can take several days sometimes, though how much of that is internal communications issues and how much is censorship and official scrutiny to our messages on both sides remains to be seen."
"Hopefully this time it will come more quickly," Troi said. "We're less than four days from the probable location of this ship. How do we not even know what it's called?" she asked, exasperation sneaking into her voice.
"Because we weren't told dear," Lwaxana told her. "They might not even know themselves, depending on who the ship belongs to. Heaven knows some people worship that kind of secrecy."
From the way that Troi visibly bristled at that, Worf suspected that he was not the only one having issues with the envoys. He had no doubt that a commissar was required to keep secrets as part of her work, and based on what he had seen of Lwaxana Troi so far, those secrets wouldn't last long if shared; a situation bound to upset a mother who liked gossip and talking.
Glancing at K'lar, Worf realised that she had paused with her eyes closed, and suspected that she was busy counting to some high multiple of lehkuh in an effort to keep calm. Presumably she had been on the receiving end of Lwaxana's enthusiasm already.
"Regardless of its name," Worf interjected firmly before the family dispute could start up, "we must prepare what we can. We already have a tactical assessment of the Enterprise compared to the older models of Klingon warships. We should make a determination of what possible ways the Klingon ships could have been improved at the time this was launched."
"We know almost nothing of their science from that era," K'lar replied sharply. She seemed to realise how sharply she had spoken as she did and visibly pulled herself together before continuing in a calmer, though still strained, tone of voice. "I believe that we would be best served by separating to continue our research and coming together in order to discuss our findings once we have something more to report."
"That may be for the best," Troi agreed. "I will need to consult with Worf about some details about our tactical capabilities. Shall we reconvene in... Three hours?"
Lwaxana sighed dramatically. "Oh Deanna... Very well, you can go off and hide for a bit. I expect you to be there for dinner this evening though," she added. "I'm going to start by unpacking; I only have to consider how we will be talking to these ridiculous creatures when we catch up with them," she added, her tone suggesting that this was going to be a much harder task than anyone else had to undertake, and flourishing dramatically as she headed out of the room.
K'lar gave it a few seconds more at her console before closing whatever files she had been looking at. "I will work from my quarters for this part," she declared, nodding to Troi politely and then ignoring Worf entirely as she left the room.
"Well..." Troi looked at Worf. "This is going to be interesting, isn't it?"
"I agree," Worf said heavily. "Your mother appears to be..." He paused, not entirely sure of how to phrase it.
"Flamboyant?" Troi suggested. "Full of herself? Melodramatic?" She sighed. "We don't entirely get on, for a variety of reasons." She looked at him speculatively. "I'll trade you: what's going on between you and K'lar?"
Worf recoiled a bit at that, the old habit of secrecy getting in the way before realising that the part that Troi was referring to he couldn't even provide and answer to. "I wish I knew," he admitted. "We met at the academy while she was returning for additional studies. That was eight years ago though, and we parted on... Well, as amicable terms as a Vulcan can," he acknowledged. "Things... Happened," he continued. "I cannot give you all of the details," he added quickly.
"Worf, I'm the ship's commissar: I take reports from the ship's psychologists and counsellors who aren't at liberty to discuss where their concerns come from. I'm used to not getting the full story until it blows up and everyone finds out."
"I hope that will not be the case here," Worf said fervently. "It is nothing wrong or criminal," he explained quickly. "It is potentially embarrassing for both of us though." He scowled. "I do not understand her hostility though... When I realised that she was aboard I was primarily concerned for my own embarrassment, and yet she acts as if she has been wronged in some manner."
"I can't tell much," Troi informed him. "But I can tell you that she is very upset about something, and her Vulcan upbringing doesn't give her much in the way of options for dealing with that. A Human or Klingon would know whether to confront someone or leave it or forgive them. Vulcans are expected to just process the information and act on logic, which doesn't exactly allow for handling wrongs except by ignoring them. But I don't think she can ignore this..."
"This mission is not going well, already," Worf informed her gravely.
"Agreed," Troi allowed. "For what it's worth, I suggest that you talk to her. I can't be sure that it will get much in the way of results, but at least it will give you the chance to find out what is going on."
"And will you speak to your mother?" Worf asked.
"I know what's going on with my mother," Troi said sourly. "She's always been over the top, and..." She paused, thinking about something. "On the other hand..." She sighed. "This is going to be awkward for both of us to deal with, and trying to avoid it isn't going to help."
"Commander," Tasha called as she stepped into engineering, heading for where La Forge was working at one of the central desks.
"Constable. We don't see you down here very often," he commented.
"Your people tend to be well behaved," she informed him, carefully avoiding flinching from meeting his visor's gaze; she knew that a lot of people got uncomfortable with that metal band across his face, and she was probably one of them. "Normally there's no need to visit. As it is, I'm afraid that I need to ask you for some help."
"Oh? Forensics?" He turned around so that he could sit on the edge of the console, looking interested.
"Not exactly," she admitted. "It's been pointed out that we have a higher than average number of five thirteens aboard; people who react to synthahol as if it was alcohol," she added. "And by higher I mean in ten crews the size of ours we should statistically have one example, and we've got three... Well, two now."
"That's a problem for Doctor Crusher or Starfleet Personnel surely?" La Forge pointed out.
"Normally yes," Tasha agreed. "However... Now that it's been pointed out I'm concerned about the implications of it. Amongst other things, there was a case back on Turkana IV where we were playing the usual game of trying to work out how to take down the Vikings and someone suggested hacking their replicators."
"So they produced poison or something?" La Forge nodded his understanding. "And you think someone might be trying something like that here?"
"All they would need to do is change the computer's pattern it uses for replicating synthahol," she pointed out. "I don't know how hard that is or what it would involve, but it's an avenue I'm considering."
"Well," La Forge said slowly, clearly intrigued by the idea rather than being offended at her invading his territory as she had been afraid that he might be. "Off the top of my head... Well, the pattern for synthahol isn't..." He looked thoughtful. "You know, I can't say for sure. It would make a difference whether it was stored on its own or as part of the patterns for other drinks."
"Can you check?" she asked.
"Sure. Not right now, but I can get someone looking at it in the next couple of days. I'm guessing that it isn't too urgent in that regard."
"No, it's just something that I'm chasing as a result of getting Wade off the ship," Tasha admitted. "I don't like the idea that there might be more like him around or that there are more turning up than there should be."
"Yeah," La Forge said sympathetically. "Not a nice thing to deal with. I'll get one of my people to look into it; report should be with you in a couple of days."
"That's great," she replied. "Now to pester Doctor Crusher with the same problem," she added with a wry smile.
Deanna paused outside the door to her mother's quarters, trying to gather herself before announcing her presence, and then realising a moment too late that doing so was pointless.
For goodness sake Deanna, you've been amongst these people too long, her mother commented from inside the room. Come in and just talk rather than acting like you're preparing for an exam.
Sighing, Deanna touched the control next to the door, finding it already opening as she did. "Mother," she said carefully.
"Come in," Lwaxana told her. "There's no point hanging around in the corridor." She swept back into her quarters, and Deanna had the familiar feeling of being drawn along in her mother's wake rather than moving voluntarily as she found herself stepping into the room as well.
Somehow, despite only being there for a couple of minutes and having a severe limit on her baggage allowance, Lwaxana Troi had managed to decorate already: the room was now festooned with silk drapes and the desk now featured a Vulcan kinetic plant, the thousands of ultra-fine wire strands only just finishing unfolding to their full metre high glory as they continued to twist around each other in the marginal breeze caused by the two of them moving around the room.
Privately, Deanna had to admit that whatever her failings, her mother was certainly capable when she wanted to be; the level of sheer organised determination required to get this much decorating done in that short a time, even allowing for shortcuts, was scary.
"You're not here to talk business of course," Lwaxana said as she continued to unpack, now working on the more delicate parts of the decorations.
"I would like to know why you are here," Deanna admitted.
"Everyone has to be somewhere dear," Lwaxana replied with a smile.
"Not everyone has to be nearly three hundred light years, which is four months travel, from home, just happening to be in the vicinity of the ship their daughter is based on," Deanna pointed out, trying to stay sounding reasonable and knowing that she wasn't going to fool her mother for a second.
Temper, temper, Lwaxana chided telepathically. "I admit, I may have specifically requested the posting in this region. I'm allowed to take an interest in my daughter's career, and this region is a high profile one. Very good for my career aspirations."
"You don't have career aspirations," Deanna pointed out, aware in the background of her mother's lie. "And I certainly thought that you didn't like to travel."
"Oh, I got over that," Lwaxana replied breezily. "It's easy once you learn to love decorating," she explained, rearranging one of the drapes.
"I'm also surprised to see you without Mr Homn," Deanna added.
"The poor dear," Lwaxana said, pausing as if remembering a fallen comrade. "He was most upset when we found out that he wouldn't be able to come on this mission with me. Something about the runabout not having enough passenger space. Still, hopefully we'll get back quickly and things will get back to normal."
"You don't think that he might be enjoying the peace and quiet?" Deanna asked.
"Oh, don't be silly dear," Lwaxana told her. "You know how much he likes to work."
Deanna sighed to herself, thinking about Mr Homn and comparing it with the case of Wade and Xing Zhi. There were similarities, she knew, though in Mr Homn's case it did genuinely seem that he liked the job, and Lwaxana had no problem with him being around; he was in fact one of the few people that she knew who had no issues with her mother's behaviour or habits.
"So how did you get this job?" Deanna asked, trying to keep back on the original topic.
"Well, when the news came in several of us were interested. I mean to say, meeting Klingons isn't an everyday occurrence for most people. I know this ship is an exception," she added, "but there are only a couple of experts on Klingon culture who have actually met one." She sighed dramatically. "And then they told us how dangerous it would be and people were rethinking their interest, and I admit that I was to some degree. Only then they told us which ship was going to be sent and of course, with you involved I wanted to be sure that you were safe. Being a high level telepath did help me to get the job for the added advantage in reading them."
"Despite how difficult Klingons are to read for someone not used to them," Deanna pointed out. But she was frowning as she did. There was something more that her mother was hiding... "Why else are you here? You weren't being entirely honest when you said that me being aboard this ship was the reason that you wanted to come on the mission. It's something to do with this ship though," she added, trying to probe a bit deeper and finding her mother's higher level capabilities more than a match for her. She did, however, stumble onto something else. "Oh no... You're entering the Phase, aren't you?"
"That's none of your concern dear," Lwaxana replied with a smile that Deanna recognised as being forced.
"Yes it is," Deanna replied, knowing that she was starting to sound a bit upset. "Both personally and professionally that's going to affect me."
"Nonsense dear," Lwaxana insisted. "I shall be the soul of discretion."
"I doubt that somehow," Deanna replied. "When was your last check-up?"
"Oh, a year ago or something," Lwaxana replied airily. "Why?"
"I want to know how far advanced it is," Deanna replied firmly. "It's going to complicate this mission, and my life. You're going to sickbay to get looked at."
Lwaxana stopped rearranging things and turned to face her daughter, putting both her hands on her hips. "And what exactly do you think gives you the right to order me around?"
Deanna drew a breath. "On my authority as ship's commissar I can file due cause for someone to be removed from duty if I feel that they have some issue that will prevent them from operating at their full potential or that may interfere with their work or a specific mission. And on my authority as your daughter, who is concerned about finding out that you've chosen this ship to find a new husband." She pointed sharply to the door. "Now go," she insisted.
K'lar had been assigned quarters of the more austere kind, probably by request; Worf remembered her as living minimally even for a Vulcan, and being very much devoted to her studies. Signs of her profession were around now, giving the room the feeling of being an office rather than someone's quarters, with padds and charts laid out showing the local region and political boundaries.
K'lar herself had withdrawn to the far side of the room when Worf entered, either being there already or retreating before allowing him entry to the room. She waited with an expression in which Vulcan calm and loathing warred, and Worf wasn't entirely certain which one was winning.
"Envoy K'lar," Worf greeted her gravely as the door closed behind him. "I need to speak to you regarding... Our past."
"Your past," she corrected him. "Surely you have done enough already?" she added bitterly.
Worf restrained a growl as best he could. "I do not know where this hatred of me comes from," he declared. "When I realised that you were aboard I was concerned for my own position; should our past actions together become public knowledge it may result in embarrassment for me which would make my job difficult. I presumed that you would have the same concern. Instead..."
"Instead you find me succumbing to emotions regarding you," K'lar replied, her tone managing to convey a certain amount of disgust despite the calm overtones. "Does this please you?"
"K'lar..." Worf restrained himself as firmly as he could. "It is not logical for you to be angry based on what I know of our situations. Clearly you have information that I do not: either inform me of it so that I may make amends or cease this foolishness."
She drew herself up to her full height, which was still short of Worf by far enough that he was able to loom without even trying, her appearance suggesting that she was offended by his bluntness. After a few seconds though she turned away, clearly unable to maintain the determination.
"You wish to know how you have wronged me? Then very well Worf, you shall."