Star Trek: Pantheon by Michael Jan Friedman

appeared to think that that was explanation enough. But Geordi still didn’t get it. He said so.
    Worf’s scowl deepened. He turned to the chief engineer without breaking stride.
    “The Daa’Vit,” the Klingon explained, “were the enemies of my people for more than three hundred years. We have licked each other’s blood from our fingers.”
    Licked each other’s…? Geordi hoped that that was just a figurative description.
    “Shortly after the Federation allied itself with the Empire, it entered into a similar arrangement with the Daa’Vit Confederacy….”
    The Klingon stopped himself as a couple of female ensigns approached from the opposite direction. The women nodded as they went by, and Geordi nodded back.
    Not until the ensigns were well out of earshot did Worf continue—and then only in subdued tones. “The Empire had been wed to the Confederacy without its consent. Tempers ran high among my people.”
    Geordi could only imagine what that was like.
    “In the end, however, the Romulan threat induced the Empire to keep its ally. And to tolerate its ally’s ally.” Worf grunted. “Since that time, no Klingon has attacked a Daa’Vit or vice versa. But then”—he paused significantly—“no Klingon has stood face-to-face with a Daa’Vit in that time.”
    Geordi was starting to see. “You’re concerned that when you see our guest, your instincts will take over.”
    The Klingon looked at him. “My instincts?” He made a derogatory sound. “I am talking about his instincts.”
    Geordi smiled. “But Morgen was the captain of a Federation vessel for six years. Surely, he had dealings with the Klingons at some point.”
    “Possibly,” conceded Worf. “But not face-to-face.” He paused again. “You must understand—the Daa’Vit are a barbaric race.”
    The chief engineer found the choice of words interesting. If the Daa’Vit were barbaric by Klingon standards…
    “There is no telling how he may react.”
    Geordi nodded. “And you can’t exactly stay away from him. Not when it’s your job to provide security for him.”
    “Precisely.”
    Geordi thought for a moment, his excitement about meeting the Stargazer crew pushed aside for a moment. “You know,” he said finally, “maybe you do have a problem.”
     
    Riker looked around Ten-Forward and smiled. There was a feeling of history in the air.
    Though their group was a small one, seated at a single unobtrusive table near one of the observation ports, it had drawn the attention of everyone in the room.
    The reunion between Morgen and Captain Picard had not failed to live up to Riker’s expectations. The Daa’Vit was every bit as charming as he had heard, and a hell of a raconteur to boot. The first officer—and everyone in the lounge, it seemed—couldn’t help but be enthralled by him.
    “Believe me,” said Morgen, considering the glass of synthehol on the table before him, “I am far from eager to leave Starfleet. I have grown to love the starspanning life.” He raised his eyes, glancing at Riker, Picard, and finally Troi before continuing. “But my father’s passing has left a gap in the government that must be filled. As crown prince, it falls to me to fill it—and within the allotted time, as you are no doubt aware, or the throne will pass to someone else.”
    “Manelin was a good man,” observed the captain. “I was sorry to hear of his death.”
    The Daa’Vit shrugged. “He was old. He was in pain. Better that he died when he did, with a few shreds of dignity left to him, than to drag it out any further.”
    It was a sobering thought. Riker saw Troi’s brow crease slightly, no doubt in empathy with Morgen’s discomfort. “Of course,” the Daa’Vit went on, “I don’t wish to make it seem that I am complaining. If one must abandon a captaincy in Starfleet, ruling a confederacy of planets is not a bad alternative.”
    They all smiled. But Riker knew that Morgen’s remark wasn’t from the heart. He himself