CHAPTER II. DEFYING THE COMMISSION

The next morning, Lieutenant Commander Worf, the base’s Strategic Operations Officer, escorted Hanor Prem and Bejal Otner to the docking hatch on the Promenade from where, after a very brief exchange of banter, the two Trills boarded the transport ship that was shortly to depart for Trillius Prime.

The imposing Klingon officer, the first of his kind to serve in the Federation ranks, waited patiently for Dr. Kahn to arrive, who had not immediately joined her brother and colleague when Worf had shown up in front of their quarters that morning to escort them to their transport embarkation point.

The Klingon wasn’t the only one awaiting the woman’s arrival: on the balcony overlooking the lower level of the Promenade, Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax, DS9‘s Chief Science Officer, was studying the hustle and bustle of people, her face tense and drawn, her eyes still red, swollen and glazed.

Inside, she fervently hoped that Lenara would decide to stay, fervently hoped not to see her embarking for Trillius Prime, as the other two scientists had done moments before. The night had been quite an arduous one for Trill: she had slept very little, spending several hours pacing back and forth in her quarters, before surrendering to the evidence and, in the very early hours of the morning, making her way to the base’s Operations Centre (only to be bounced by Major Kira, in charge of the Gamma shift, who had clearly ordered her not to return to active duty until she had overcome the trauma of those last few days).

And so she had found herself wandering aimlessly around the base before running into Julian who, given her condition, had not hesitated to offer her his unconditional support and deep friendship, even making sure she ate something for breakfast before going to the Infirmary in time for the start of Alpha Shift. The doctor had listened to the torrent of words coming from Jadzia with extreme patience, even offering a bit of advice here and there, but mainly letting her vent: he realised how that was what her friend needed most. Advice, opinions, could possibly wait for better times.

Before making her way to the docking hatch, albeit from an elevated position, Dax had taken a few more strolls around the station, which was gradually coming to life as the morning wore on and the day service began. The aim was to clear her head as much as possible, not to think about what had happened the day before, but this had achieved little, at least in the immediate term: she couldn’t help but return her thoughts to the fact that she was more worried about losing Lenara than being exiled from her home planet.

Deeply lost in thought and consequently not immediately aware of what was happening along the Promenade, Dax was brought back to reality when a hand hesitantly rested on her arm, gently. The gesture prompted her to turn around, although she was doing so almost reluctantly, part of her attention still focused on the Promenade or on her own innermost thoughts: the person she found herself facing was both the only one and the last one she had expected to see at that moment.

She was so incredulous that she found herself weakly whispering a «Lenara,» suspended between the hope that the other Trill’s presence gave her and the strong fear of what might happen in the next few moments. She did not have time to add anything else that the woman in front of her pulled her towards her, sliding her hand still on her arm upwards and lacing both arms around her neck, drawing her into a firm, but gentle, embrace and sinking her face into the hollow between neck and shoulder. After an infinitesimal hesitation, Jadzia returned the embrace with equal firmness and gentleness, burying her face in Lenara’s hair, to herself thanking all that could be thanked for the apparent choice the other woman had made.

On the lower level of the Promenade, Worf merely looked up briefly at the couple: for some time now, the Klingon had begun to feel some sort of interest in Jadzia, and he also had the impression that the Trill reciprocated it to some extent. However, Worf did not know if he was misrepresenting Dax’s strong passion, knowledge and understanding of Klingon culture with something else.

«They make a nice couple, don’t they?» Quark’s high-pitched voice made the Klingon flinch: a step behind him had approached, unnoticed, the Ferengi, the station’s bartender and fixer, and favourite victim – and rightly so! – of Constable Odo. It must have been a short step, since Quark’s place was right in front of the boarding gate, and the curiosity was great; Worf just turned around, giving him a sullen look and a grumbling of annoyed assent.

«Your glance towards the balcony was very eloquent. Tell me, do you prefer Jadzia or Lenara?» Quark accompanied the words with a complicit glance and a sharp-toothed half-smile.

Worf turned completely around to face him, several spans taller than him and decidedly more stocky, unwilling (as always, so this was nothing new) to put up with the Ferengi’s way, far too intrusive at times: «None of your business.»

Quark raised his hands in surrender and stepped back, dodging a Bajoran civilian passing along the Promenade: «All right, all right, – he squeaked – how touchy you Klingons are!»

Worf tried to extricate himself from the uncomfortable situation he found himself in by declaring that he had to return to the Ops Centre, but Quark wasn’t finished with him yet – on the other hand, every opportunity was a good chance to earn some credit: «Look you can trust me, I’ve had dreams too – he searched for the right word – particular about Dax. With all that passion for Klingon culture she must be a particularly fiery companion.»

«How dare you?» Worf was blatantly annoyed and testy, a fact that led him to clench his fists just to keep from grabbing the cunning little Ferengi by the neck: the Klingon was still a Starfleet officer, not just any petaQ. Besides, he had learned the hard way what anger could lead to when provoked.

«Then I am right!» replied Quark victoriously, «She didn’t say no when I asked her which one she liked of the two; and she didn’t now either.»

«Go back to your bar, Ferengi. And leave me alone,» Worf thundered, this time truly on the verge of committing an action he would most likely regret.

«Don’t be like that, come with me to the bar, the first round is on me. There’s nothing better than some Blood Wine…» at the Klingon’s furrowed brow, Quark changed strategy, «…some warm plum juice to soothe the heartache.»

As inappropriate as it might seem, and all in all it seemed quite inappropriate to him given the Ferengi’s manner, Worf agreed to join Quark at the bar counter. He had no intention of staying long, he was on duty anyway, but he felt that a chat with the bartender about a matter he believed he had concealed from everyone, namely his unexpected interest in Jadzia Dax, would make it easier for him to perform his duties later.

At the second round of plum juice, served in a traditional metal cup, Worf remarked how unusual a union between a Trill and a Klingon would be, wondering how he would marry her if she was not part of a glorious lineage. Quark, for his part reasoned about the profits: «There will be a lot of Trills arriving, intrigued by the two women who have defied their laws; whether they hate them or admire them, they will pass by and have their throats out after all those insults… or compliments!»

«Even a Klingon wedding would bring a lot of people,» Worf retorted almost resentfully.

«Yes, but they’d be Klingons… no offence,» he hastened to correct himself, «there’s all the breaking crockery to be reckoned with.»

By the third glass of plum juice, the two were talking about the holidays Worf and Jadzia might take together. Risa would have been the most obvious destination, but Quark confided in him that a certain Arandis, employed on the very planet of pleasure, had been a mistress of Curzon’s… indeed she had been the last woman Curzon had loved before he died in her arms doing jamaharon. There was a risk that the spark would be rekindled just as it had been with Lenara, and Worf agreed that the destination was not a preferable one.

At the fourth glass they talked about offspring. Quark was fascinated by the hypothesis of a Klingon with the typical Trill markings, while Worf was puzzled by the possibility that the offspring might want to carry a symbiont in the future. It puzzled him, to the point of arguing that the delivery of a Klingon baby was not sustainable by a non-Klingon woman.

«She’s used to having a symbiote in her stomach,» Quark mocked him, pouring him his fifth glass, «what can a little Worf do to her in there?»

«You have no idea, Ferengi,» Worf told him, menacingly, coming dangerously close to his ears, «even that alone would be enough to dissuade me from having a relationship with her.»

«All the better!» The bartender defended himself by placing the bottle of plum juice on the counter: «Also because Dax is with Lenara, not you.»

At this sentence the Klingon-Ferengi idyll broke down. Worf clutched the glass harder than he should, but recomposed himself in time by pulling on his uniform tunic, after which he abruptly pushed it away from him, splashing the contents onto the counter.

«What did I say? It seemed obvious, didn’t it?» Quark put the glass back to him.

«We’re done, Ferengi,» Worf, annoyed, took two steps away, turning his back to the bartender.

«Where are you going? You must pay me!» Quark sighed as he looked up at the ceiling, but by now Worf was taking the walk, stepping out of sight.

Quark shook his head, dejected, then noticed the metal glass, showing the deformed marks of the Klingon’s grip: «All the same, these Klingons.»