Kali Vorek felt like a rose in the middle of winter. At the appetizer table, the Orion picked over the options, not really looking for anything in particular. Moreso, she felt out of place. She’d been among Romulans for most of her adult life, but it was the Klingons that gave her the chills, constantly wondering if she’d been made, and if so, whether her career was over.
“An Orion in a Republic uniform,” HoD Hor’keth quipped as he stepped up to the appetizers without directly acknowledging Vorek. At least, not at first. His plate was empty, and the small size made it smaller still in his hand.
Hor’keth wasn’t the biggest of warriors, but he was verging on the larger end of average, and he wore enough scars to show he’d done his time. And while he wore scars matched only by those on his armor, he wore no badges or medals, no declarations of past deeds, allegiances owed or owing. His uniform was distinctly plain in that regard, the only oddity a small pin of a distinctly non-Klingon origin affixed directly under his house badge on the ceremonial sash he’d deigned to wear for the occasion. It took him a few moments in silence, contemplating each choice as he loaded his plate with a variety across the table, from the Klingon and human selections, and the Romulan ones too.
Only after he had filled his place to the HoD turn to face Vorek directly. “The uniform seems ill-fitting,” Hor’keth noted with a slight sneer. “Like you and it don’t quite go together.” Then, to emphasize he was finished with his initial point, he picked at a skewer on his plate and raised it, ripping at it with his teeth in as decidedly Klingon a manner as he could.
Vorek studied him, curious as to his purpose. Had she been made? Had he spotted her? It was maddening, but she needed to stop overthinking it. “What do you mean?”
“Vorek,” Hor’keth grumbled around the meatball he was chewing at, waving at her with the skewer like a conductor. “I could count the number of Orions in Republic uniform on one hand and still have fingers left.” He raised one, and then a second. “Two at most.” He chuckled, an abrupt shift from appraising to serious to joking in as many heartbeats as naturally as could be. “I knew a Vorek once, when I was but a boy, barely able to lift a knife. Trouble, the lot of them.”
Vorek averted her eyes. She felt her heart rate pick up in speed as the Klingon chewed. How had he made her so quickly? Maybe he hadn’t. His species weren’t known for being so bright. Maybe he was thinking back on his childhood. A sentimental Klingon? She scoffed at the thought. “My grandparents had a… colorful career.”
“That is certainly one way to describe the Vorek family. Head of their own cartel, if I’m not mistaken?” Hor’keth’s question was just that: a question. There was no unspoken accusation attached to it, no animosity in his asking. Just a rhetorical question before he ripped another piece off of the skewer.
“I’m sorry, but have we met before?” Vorek asked, fairly certain they hadn’t, but knowing she needed to say something to turn the conversation from the subject of her last name. By now, her heart was in her throat, and she could feel as though her life was falling apart in front of her.
“No,” Hor’keth answered formally. Then a smile started to grow. It wasn’t a polite diplomatic smile, or a toothy grin meant as an intimidation display. It was mirthful, tugging at Hor’keth’s mouth and the corners of his eyes. The skewer was impaled on a savoury on the small plate, then a hand hastily brushed against his uniform pant leg where a discoloration of fabric hinted at repeated use in a similar fashion. Then a quick inspection before Hor’keth presented his hand, really his whole forearm, to the young woman. “Hor’keth, son of Tela-bur, of the House of Lorkoth. Commander of the Fek’lhr!”
“Lieutenant Kali Vorek,” Vorek hesitated when she stated her surname. “Morale officer on the D’taret.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Lieutenant,” Hor’keth revealed, his words quieter, verging almost on conspiratorial, a whisper between not-so-innocent parties. He leaned a touch closer, retrieving his skewer once more. “Tell me, who should you be more worried about: a Klingon playing at politics and diplomacy, or one leaning into what the galaxy expects of us?”
“Depends on where you are.”
“Ah, a clever answer. Very good, Lieutenant, very good.” Hor’keth’s smile was genuine, impressed by the answer given. It was a suitable turning, placing the onus on him to be more precise. Danger, after all, could be predicated purely on the situation.
“Where I was raised, we have a saying about Klingons. ‘Be cautious of the one who carries a bat’leth. Be wary of the one who holds a treaty. But never trust the one who knows how to use both.’” Vorek paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “In other words, you shouldn’t fear either. The dangerous Klingon is the one who knows how and when to use both.”
“An even cleverer answer,” Hor’keth commented.
Niravux raised a brow, studying the Klingon. “I believe, HoD, that you are perhaps both,” she said, staring at him as she paused. “Or am I wrong in that assessment?”
“Now, now, Lieutenant. That sounds a little like an accusation.” Hor’keth’s tone was clear that he was joking, but he kept the smile at bay for just a few heartbeats. “With a mind like yours, you do your ancestors proud. Tell me, are you as capable as said ancestors in…procuring items others would consider…contraband?”
But anything further could be said, the ring of a bell interrupted their conversation as an ensign in red clanked it loudly to grab the attention of all. “I am sorry to interrupt, but dinner is served!” Ensign Ortega announced. “If you’ll collect your drinks and follow me this way…”
Vorek smirked, relieved that she had been saved by the bell. “It would seem we will have to put an end to this inquisition, HoD. It’s been a pleasure.” She turned and briskly folded into the flow of dignitaries.
