“I SHOULD KILL YOU MYSELF,” Martok said, his rasping growl of a voice echoing even in the modest space of his private chambers.

Far from hanging his head in shame, Worf defiantly returned the chancellor’s fearsome, one-eyed glare with equal intensity. “I admit nothing.”

“You don’t deny it, either.” Martok said. “Who else would have stolen our fleet’s master command codes and given them to the Enterprise?”

“There could be many suspects.”

“I disagree,” Martok said. “And so will the council.”

“Then let the council bring charges.”

He had to admire Worf’s unrepentant bravado; like any true warrior, Worf was not one to apologize for his victories.

Martok snorted, then walked away from him, toward the liquor cabinet. “Very clever,” he said, taking a bottle of warnog and a carved onyx goblet from the shelf. “ ‘Bring charges.’ When you know damn well they have no evidence.”

Worf said nothing. Martok poured himself a drink and put away the bottle without offering to pour one for Worf.

“Not that they need evidence,” Martok said. He sipped his bitter drink. “Once the council starts lobbing accusations, the truth won’t matter. They’ll stain us both with the same lies.”

“Your allies on the council could prevent such an inquiry.”

Martok’s voice became quiet. “Allegiances falter when the storm comes. You should know that better than anyone, Worf.” Stepping from the shadows into the low, flickering firelight, Martok felt far older than his years. “Forced to choose between honoring our pact and increasing their own power…” He knew that Worf would understand the implied end of his sentence.

“Then you must eliminate your vulnerability,” Worf said. “Accuse me yourself.”

Martok shook his head and stepped closer to Worf. “You’d still be my kinsman. Your dishonor would still be mine.”

“Then you must disown me. Force me to accept web’ghIm.”

“Never!” Martok hurled his goblet, which smashed against the wall, splattering one of his old war banners with warnog. “You’re my family. I’d rather face an eternity in Gre’thor than deny you.” He grasped Worf’s shoulders. “Let the council come. If they want a battle, we’ll give it to them.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me yourself,” Worf said, the hint of an impudent smirk tugging at his mouth.

Martok returned the gesture with his own lopsided half-grin and a grunt of amusement. For what? Martok mused. Saving three hundred thousand Klingons from a pointless slaughter? Preventing the start of an occupation that would have consumed more time and lives than it could ever repay? Martok wondered sometimes whether he was being unduly polluted by Worf’s way of thinking.

“Honor is our way of life, Worf,” he said. “But to blindly confuse honor with pride…that just might be the death of us.”

“Indeed.”

“Your role here will be harder, from now on. People are going to resent the Federation—and you—for some time. And you’ll find the council less willing to cooperate than before.”

“I expected as much.” Worf really didn’t seem fazed by the hostility that was certain to await him, both on the streets of the First City and in the treacherous corners of the Great Hall. Martok couldn’t openly approve of Worf’s actions, but he still admired the younger warrior’s fearless conviction. A bitterly ironic thought made him chortle.

“This is just like old times for you, isn’t it?”

Worf looked puzzled. “How so?”

“Once again you’ve saved the Empire from itself,” Martok said, placing his hand on the back of Worf’s neck in a fraternal clasp. “And once again, you’ll be vilified for it.”