It is a dinner, where honorable beings may meet and break bread together, Worf said calmly. Maybe too calmly. It was a strange balance for him: his tone had to be severe enough to warrant respect, yet soft enough to broadcast appeas.e.m.e.nt.

Zhad said nothing. He stared. Everyone was staringthe Hidran, the Klingons, Picard. Another knot in Worfs spine.

Worf reached out for the platter of grain-bread in front of them, and as his fingers touched the handle of the knife, one of the Hidran began to rise.

The Klingon stopped, let his fingers fall to the table. He looked up to see Urosk gesturing the Hidran soldier back down.

One slice with the knife and Worf had a large piece of the Velexian delicacy. He made sure he held the knife not one moment longer than necessary.

Tearing the bread into two chunks, he dipped one into a dish of gravy and held the other out to Zhad.

The amba.s.sador looked away.

Better to die than eat with a Klingon, he spat.

It was Worf who remained silent this time. He would not prove Zhad right about all Klingons by speaking in anger. His race was inflexiblehe did not have to be. He had the cushion of a Terran upbringing to support him, and he could use that hereditary Klingon obstinance to make sure he did not slip into impulsiveness.

Do you fear me so much that we cannot have a meal within the same walls?

Worf finally asked.

Zhad turned so quickly he nearly spun out of his seat. He grabbed the bread from Worfs hand and pushed it through the electronic field in his breathing mask. A loud gulp and it was downwhole.

They locked eyes, Worf and Zhad. Klingon and Hidran. Enemy to enemy.

No, not enemy. Worf knew he was not the enemy. Neither friend nor foe, he was a symbol, and the irony of that nipped at him. He would never feel fully Klingon, yet here he stood to represent all Klingons. An alien on Earth andQono S, he fit only in Starfleet, and now found himself the embodiment of two cultures that would never completely accept him. That he could never completely accept.

If we can have a meal in common, perhaps we can share a trust, Worf said slowly.

We will sharenothing!

Zhad pushed back his chair and sent it grinding across the floor. He turned, his slick black cloak twisting around him as he stormed through the nearest door.

Worf glanced back at Picard, but did not wait for an order or even gesture. He rose, and followed the amba.s.sador out.

The gall of these animals.

Zhad angrily paced the dim corridor. The only thing worse than an arrogant Klingon was an insufferably condescending Starfleet Klingon.

He wondered if even Picard fully trusted Worf. Or was it just another of the Federations tricks?

How could he learn to fight the urge to crush those ridged skulls? How had the Federation? It was no secretStarfleet had been at odds with the Klingons for decades. How did Picard now trust a phaser to a Klingon on his own crew?

Amba.s.sador?

Zhad pivoted toward the deep baritone he knew was Worfs. His muscles tensed and he readied himself for the attack.

I have not come to antagonize you, Worf said.

Your existence antagonizes meas your people have done for a hundred years, Zhad sputtered.

His throat felt tight and he adjusted a control on his mask to allow himself more air.

War is a fire that can rage out of control, Amba.s.sador, Worf said.

But only when both sides feed the flame.

A Klingon saying for every occasion,Starfleet Lieutenant Worf?

Zhad snorted. He took a step closer to the Klingon he nearly towered over.

You slip into stereotype. Do you know the Hidran reply to your saying? How many times must we be blistered before the flame is finally smothered?

I am sorry, Worf said.

I did think there was some hope for you. I see I was wrong.

Dont you pity me, Klingon mongrel!

Zhad balled his fists and leaped forward. If anyone needed a few hard jabs of pity, it was this pompous Klingon.

Worf jerked up his arm and belted Zhad away.

Pain knocked Zhad off his feet and pinched his eyes shut. He fell hard on his knees, then rolled forward, his hands covering the breathing mask that had been pounded into his face.

My apology, Amba.s.sador, Worf said as he turned to the door that led back to the main hall.

I hope in the future we can both learn to feed the flame a little less.

The Starfleet Klingon left, abandoning Zhad in a puddle of pain and awe.

Zhads throat was parched with anger and hate. Still somewhat dazed, he straightened his tall frame and worked his way to his feet. If Worf had stayed another moment, he would have been on the floor now. And there would have been no getting up.

Too much of a coward to even finish what he starts,Zhad thought.

Taking a deep breath, Zhad felt the scratchiness of dry air. He adjusted the mask control again and felt a twinge of pain ripple through his body.

He sucked in another breath. Dry. Too Dry. Like the grit the Klingons filled their own lungs with.

Frustrated, Zhad snapped at a dial on his mask.

More moisture, he muttered, then found himself doubled over in agony.

He gasped, tried to suck in a breath. Any breath. Couldnt!

His hands flew back up to the mask and grabbed wildly. No air! His chest heaved, his lungs sharp and tight. He struggled to tear the mask awayto gulp any air if not his own.

Wet fingers clawed at the tubes that now burned his skin. He yelped in pain and twisted them out.

Anything!Anything to stop the pain!

He felt warm blood drain from the holes in his cheeks down his shoulders and into his skin.

Staggering forward, he looked at the air tubes that had once fed him life. They now dangled useless in his hands. He coughed a dry hack ... and knew he was dead.

The Klingon! Hed known just where to strike the blow! Just where to snap the mask and force it to destroy its owner!

Hatred took over where panic left off. Zhad drew the dagger hidden in his cloak. His throat closed and his chest ached for freedom from its desert grave. He scrambled up, determination the only wind his lungs could feel.

He nearly fell through the doorway and into the hall, a trail of blood pouring from his exposed mouth.

Where? Where was the Starfleet Klingon? Where was Worf! He did this thing!He would pay!

Vision began to cloud into a mesh of color, and the amba.s.sador cursed himself a fool for not killing Worf when hed had the chance.

He held the dagger close and squinted across the room.

No one moved toward him. The hall was alive with noise, yet all he heard was the silence that was his absent breath. Worf was too far across the hall, and Zhad knew he would not reach him.

Another Klingoncloser.Any would do.

He would avenge his own death, and prove to his people that the Klingons could not be trusted.

He croaked out a puff of air, and took in the alien breath that was sand in his lungs.

A moment pa.s.sed, and felt an eternity.

Zhad fought to focus ... feet away ... one Klingon ... alone ...

Slowly, the Klingon delegate began to turn. Zhad saw his victims eyes. It was his due, to see the look on the Klingons face as they met death together.Everything has a price, Klingon! That you shall learn!

Zhad drew back his arm, and with all the strength he had left, with all the strength his people had left, plunged the blade down.

The Klingons hands moved too slowly to stop the dagger from piercing his armor and cutting through his rib cage. Zhad reveled in the feeling of sinew tearing against steel, bone cracking against hate. A gush of alien blood warmed his cold fingers.

The Klingons grunt shook the room, and he fell back, pulling Zhad down with him.

What a sight! What a shadow they would cast, both of them collapsed into a heap in the center of the halls floor. His death ... his victory ... how the legends would be!

He struggled to raise his head one last time, to taste with his eyes the Klingons blood that gurgled round his blade.

Zhad saw, and savored his success for a final, fleeting moment.

Slowly, his hand fell away from the dagger that triumphantly stuck in the Klingons chest: a flag beckoning on the brink of war.

Chapter Four.

EMERGENCY STRETCHERto main transporter room! Stat!

Beverly Crusher lifted Geordis head gingerly off the transporter pad with one hand and ran her medical scanner over his tearing, sightless eyes with her other.

Howm I doin, Doc?

Geordi croaked out softly, droplets of perspiration streaking down his skin.

Youre going to be fine, she told him.

It was a lie. She didnt know that. She wasnt sure of anything right now. It was just what doctors told patients when they were critical ... what doctors told themselves when those patients were friends.

Beverly glanced at her hand-scanner for the third time in as many moments, then gazed at Geordi again.

Not a brain hemorrhage. Not an aneurysm. Not something simple. Nothing she could just give him a pill for and make go away. And no magic technological wand to wave. This was the kiss-and-jab of being a doctor to her closest friends: she could cure them when she knew the answer, but had to watch them suffer when she didnt.

Setting the scanner down, she slipped her hand into Geordis and held it tightly.

Suddenly he convulsed, every muscle pinched and shaking. He writhed forward, plunging off Beverlys lap and onto the transporter dais.

She dived for him, scooping up his head, keeping it from cracking against the hard deck.

Pain seized his bodya hot poker of agony that jerked his muscles one way, then the other. She reached around and hugged himhalf motherly instinct, half medical trainingkeeping him from hurting himself.

The readout on her tricorder told her nothing she couldnt see for herself: Heartbeatrapid.

Breathingshallow. Perspirationby the bucket. The pain indicator on the graph might be malfunctioning, but not as badly as Geordi was.

Did she dare give him a pain depressant without knowing the cause?

His neck was a knot in her hand as he pitched back and forth. He cried out, and his hands flailed back up to his temples, fingers scratching at the glowing implants.

She yanked her head up to the nurse and pointed at the medkit.

Four CCs zenapantocene!

Geordis trembling body went slack as the hypo hissed into him.

She pulled his limp body back onto her lap and slipped her hand back between his slack fingers and squeezed.

Come on, come on! Wheres that d.a.m.n stretcher?

The turbolift droned upward. Rushing was always too slow when life was at stake.

Beverly Crusher bounced on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, as if to lighten the drag on the lift or get her closer to the deck ...something .