Diplomatic Implausibility by Keith R. A. DeCandido Read Free Book Online

security staff. Some were from Klingons he had served with during the war. Some were from the Rozhenkos’ friends and family. A few others were from Deep Space Nine.
    He noticed that two messages came from the
U.S.S.
Excalibur.
That was, he recalled, Captain Mackenzie Calhoun’s ship, presently assigned to what used to be Thallonian space. Worf remembered that Commander Shelby was Calhoun’s first officer, and three of his Academy classmates also served on that vessel.
    The freckled face of one of those classmates, Lieutenant Mark McHenry, appeared on the screen.
“Hey,
Worf. Soleta’s busy with a sensor recalibration, so I
offered to send this message, since we just heard from
Commander Shelby—who sends her regards, by the way,
she said you guys served together on the
Enterprise
dur
ing that Borg mess—about your being made ambassador,
and we were all thrilled, especially with all the reports
that you got captured by the Dominion, we figured you
were a goner, so it’s good to know that you not only sur
vived, but got a nice job. Kinda funny, you being a diplo
mat, especially after all the times you and Kebron . . .”
    The message went on for several more minutes—though it seemed like hours—delivered in McHenry’s usual stream-of-consciousness babble, recalling several incidents from their shared Academy days. Worf swore it was all one sentence.
    Then the Vulcanoid features of Lieutenant Soleta replaced McHenry’s image, which came to Worf as something of a relief.
“McHenry forgot to actually say congrat
ulations. I should have known better than to trust him with
composing the message. So, congratulations, Worf. And
best of luck to you—though I suspect you will not need it.”
    The second
Excalibur
message had no audiovisual component, merely a one-word text message from the ship’s chief of security, and Worf’s former roommate, Zak Kebron: CONGRATULATIONS.
    For Kebron, it was verbose.
    Worf leaned back and looked at the pictures of Jadzia and Alexander, thought about seeing his parents and Jeremy, being reunited today with the
Enterprise
crew, and now all these letters.
It seems the past does not wish
to leave me alone these last few days.
    Leaning forward again, Worf began to compose a reply to Soleta.

    As Worf and Wu approached Ten-Forward at 1805 hours, Worf could hear the sounds of a trombone playing.
    Human music,
he thought with a sigh.
I should have
known.
    With a due sense of anticipation and dread, he entered Ten-Forward, his aide right behind him. A cacophony of Dixieland jazz assaulted his ears as the doors parted. The room was nearly packed with uniformed personnel, eating and drinking. Most of them, of course, Worf did not recognize. Though some of the staff from the
Enterprise
-D presently served on this newer ship, they were by far in the minority. Many, like Worf, had gone on to other assignments; many had been killed in the war. The result was a party in Worf’s honor full of people he did not know.
    In the center of the room, a band provided the music—with William Riker playing the trombone. A sign had been placed over the windows that said WELCOME AMBASSADOR WORF in English and Klingon.
    “Modest, indeed,” Worf muttered.
    “Sir?” Wu asked.
    Sighing, Worf said to his aide, “Commander Riker had promised me that this would be a modest affair. His exact words were, ‘Just a few officers and some finger food and drinks.’”
    Wu looked around the crowded room. “Obviously, sir, this is a definition of the word
modest
that I was heretofore unaware of,” he said dryly.
    Steeling himself against the noise, Worf milled around the party. He lost track of Wu relatively quickly, but he did find Geordi La Forge and Data. Geordi still had his goatée, for which Worf was grateful. It
almost
made up for Riker’s clean-shaven face. As for Data, the android had a broad grin on his face as he asked how Worf was. Worf hadn’t served much with Data since the android hadinstalled his