emotion chip, and the idea of Data smiling was still difficult for Worf to wrap his mind around.
Worf’s nose identified the food long before he could actually see it. Though some of the scents were unfamiliar, he could definitely pick out some Klingon food. He excused himself from the chief engineer and second officer and made a beeline for the source: three tables near the window. Two of them had a standard collection of Federation appetizers, mostly Earth food, with bits and pieces from other worlds tossed in for good measure.
This,
Worf thought,
explains the less familiar odors.
But the third table had all Klingon delicacies:
pipius
claw,
bregit
lung,
gladst, krada
legs,
zilm’kach,
skull stew (that had been chopped to pieces for some odd reason; the skull should have remained intact), stewed
bok-rat
liver, and bowls of both
gagh
and
racht
(dead, but Worf supposed one couldn’t have everything).
The food on the third table was also mostly untouched. Worf grabbed a plate and started piling food onto it. In deference to Federation custom, he used utensils to serve himself rather than his hands.
Worf took a bite of
zilm’kach.
It tasted replicated, sadly, but not bad for all that. He had been spoiled, being on Deep Space Nine with its Klingon restaurant, not to mention having spent the last several days eating his mother’s home cooking.
Realizing he’d need something to wash this down, he approached the bar, fielding several more greetings and congratulations as he went. A bartender saw Worf’s approach and leaned forward. “Can I interest the ambassador in a glass of prune juice? Perhaps something stronger?”
“Something stronger,” Worf said.
Prune juice may be a
warrior’s drink, but this
is
a party.
“A
chech’tluth,
please.”
“Coming up,” the bartender said with a smile and walked off, leaving Worf to finish his food and try not to get a headache from the music.
The
chech’tluth
will help
in the latter regard, at least,
he thought.
Beverly Crusher walked up to Worf while he waited for his drink and ate some
racht.
“Hello, Worf.”
“Doctor,” Worf said, inclining his head. “Nice party,” he deadpanned.
Crusher laughed. “Y’know, I had the feeling you weren’t going to be thrilled with this to-do. But Will insisted you’d love it.”
“I believe, in Commander Riker’s lexicon, that truly means that
he
would love it.”
Again, Crusher laughed. “That’s certainly true.”
The bartender came back with Worf’s drink, which had been sufficiently heated, to Worf’s relief. He put the plate down on the bar and grabbed the mug. He took a gulp and felt the hot liquid burn pleasantly in his mouth. A warm feeling started at the base of his throat and started to spread to his chest and head. Even better, it wasn’t a syntheholic drink. While humans—who had spent millennia cooking all the flavor out of their food—did not have sufficiently discerning taste buds to distinguish alcohol from synthehol, Klingons could. While Worf would drink synthehol if he had to—while on duty, for example—he greatly preferred the real thing, and this was definitely it.
A few more sips,
he thought,
and I might
even be able to stand this music.
Next to him, Crusher’s face grew serious. “Worf, I—I just wanted to let you know that—if you ever want to talk about—well . . .”
“About what?” Worf finally asked when Crusher’s hesitant pause threatened to go on forever.
“Jadzia. With someone who’s been there.”
And then Worf understood. “Odan,” he said.
The doctor nodded.
Like Worf, Crusher had fallen in love with a joined Trill. Like Worf, Crusher had to watch the host body die, and then have the symbiont live on in another that she could not love.
“Doctor—Beverly—”
Crusher let out a bark of laughter. At Worf’s surprised look, she said, “Sorry, it’s just that Odan called me ‘Dr. Beverly.’”
“Ah. In any event, I appreciate the offer.”
“But you