For My Parmach'Kai

Disclaimer: Deep Space Nine and the Deep Space Nine characters belong to Paramount. I'm just using them in my story. This story is dedicated to Terry Farrell and Michael Dorn, the two wonderful people who brought the beautiful union of Dax and Worf to life.

Editor's Note: This story is the second in the "Death Avenged, Honor Restored" series. Read the first story Coping

The beautiful sun of Casperia Prime welcomed Jadzia and Worf into the morning. The Klingon opened his eyes first. He lay contentedly still, watching Jadzia sleep. Her eyelashes cast delicate shadows over her sculpted cheekbones; the corners of her full lips turned up in the last traces of a smile that lingered on her face from the night before. The silken brown waves of her hair were spread out on the pillows underneath her head.

Worf gently traced the string of enticing spots on her neck with his thumb. He loved to watch his parmach'kai at rest like this. She looked so immaculate, with her creamy, absolutely unblemished complexion and pattern of spots which added an exotically beautiful touch. Yet she hid multiple centuries' worth of experiences. Jadzia certainly did not look old, and physically she was not. That was impossible, for she was slender, gracefully curved, and possessed an athlete's firm, well-toned muscles. But the symbiont dwelling inside her was ancient and wise. When Worf looked deeply into her eyes, sometimes he could sense Dax's presence.

He gazed out the window, where the sun was casting its first rays of morning light over the glistening ocean. It had been Jadzia's idea to request a hotel room on the very top floor, where the view of the beach would be the best. Then he heard a soft sigh, and felt movement against the arm on which her head lay. As Worf glanced down at her, the lovely Trill's eyes fluttered open. She blinked a moment, disoriented, and then looked up at him and smiled.

No words were needed; they could see the excitement in each other's eyes. Three weeks of their honeymoon lay ahead, bringing endless possibilities. They lay still for almost another hour after that, drifting in and out of sleep, just enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other and being able to actually sleep in.

Finally Jadzia murmured, " I can't believe it."
"What?"
She propped herself up on one elbow and grinned delightedly. "We're finally here!"

Their gazes met. She laughed out of sheer delight and allowed herself to be drawn closer to him for a fierce kiss before asking, "You want to get up?"

He pulled a strand of hair from behind her ear and looped it between his fingers. "Not particularly."
"Come on, Worf. I'm hungry."
"So am I."
From the look in his eyes, Jadzia could tell he wasn't talking about food. She rolled her eyes.
"Didn't you get your fill of that last night, parmach'kai? I'm getting up. I want to go down on the beach."

The Klingon let her pull away. Jadzia rolled out of bed and wriggled into her nightgown, which had been carelessly tossed on the floor the night before. Worf watched her go. It was amazing that they'd been able to get away for their honeymoon, especially with the war going on. But Captain Sisko had managed to get them the time, and here they were on Casperia, free at last. For a few weeks, at least.

~ * ~

When Worf walked into Ops, Sisko, Nog, Rom, O'Brien, and his team of engineers were already gathered in the wardroom, despite the fact that he himself was slightly early.
"Good morning, Commander," said Sisko as he entered.
"Good morning, Captain. Chief, Lieutenants, Ensign," Worf replied. "Shall we begin?"
"Have a seat," said Sisko, taking his chair at the head of the table. Nog seated himself next to Worf and handed him a PADD containing the familiar schematic of the weapons system.
O'Brien stepped up to the computer display screen on the wall.

"As you all know, the master differential relay for our weapons was damaged when, after a repair, an isolinear chip was inserted improperly. With something like this it's impossible to tell when it happened, although we think it was recently. The relay has been removed, but can't be fixed. No Starfleet ship currently docked here or in the immediate vicinity has a spare and I wouldn't count on the Ninth fleet arriving in time to give us one, so we're stuck. Any ideas?"

The room was silent for a few seconds before Ensign Walker suggested the obvious: "What about modifying, say, a transporter relay to fit the specifications?"

"We've already got someone on it," replied O'Brien, "but there's a very slim chance it'll work. It's never been done before, and there's just not enough time to fiddle around with experiments. We need something that's guaranteed to function correctly."
Sisko steepled his fingers and asked, "Mr. Worf, what is the position of the nearest Dominion fleet?" The Klingon quickly consulted a PADD.
"They are eighteen light years away, sir. About four days."

Worf was a little dismayed that he hadn't been able to recite the fact off the top of his head. It was part of the duty of every good Starfleet officer to memorize critical information and have it at their disposal. Since the previous night, though, it had been hard to concentrate on anything. Anything, that is, except Jadzia and how much he missed her. He knew nothing could be done to bring her back, but Worf was going to do everything within and beyond his power to ensure that her memory remained honorable. And that entailed avenging her death.

Gul Dukat deserved to feel the life slowly and painfully drain from his weakening body. That Cardassian deserved what he had inflicted. This would require meticulous planning. Worf didn't think Sisko would approve of his wanting to track down Dukat, and wasn't going to risk asking. The less anyone knew of this, the better. He didn't know yet how he was going to get off the station or find the Cardassian. His planning was interrupted, though, by annoying events like duty shifts, conferences, and this meeting. Giving up was not an option. There had to be a way. After another hour of unfruitful brainstorming, Sisko called for a short break. As they were filing out into Ops, the captain called Worf back.

After another hour of unfruitful brainstorming, Sisko called for a short break. As they were filing out into Ops, the captain called Worf back. He waited until the door had whisked shut again before asking, "Since we seem to be getting nowhere relying on only Starfleet components, what about using a relay from a different type of ship?"
"A Klingon ship, sir?"
"Yes. Or Romulan, if need be."
Worf considered this. "It is a possibility. Some minor adjustments may be required, though."
Sisko shrugged. "That's to be expected in a situation like this. Go down to the Rotarran and ask if General Martok has a relay we could use."
Worf nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned and went into Ops, crossed  the room, and entered
the turbolift. "Docking ring."

The lift began its journey, and hadn't been moving for more than fifteen seconds when it slowed, stopped, and
opened to admit another passenger. Worf immediately straightened up when he saw who it was.
"Promenade," ordered the newcomer, and smiled companionably at him.
"Hello, Worf."
"Hello, Ezri."
They stood in awkward silence as the lift continued, each with words on the tips of their tongues but not ready or brave enough to say them. When Worf glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye, he had to look down slightly. It had not been that way with Jadzia. She was his height, making her a perfect sparring partner. Of course their weights had differed, giving him a slight advantage, but her slender figure and smaller mass had given her superb maneuverability and agility. Her ability to duck out of his way had cost him many battles.

The Klingon was never sure how to act around Ezri. He wouldn't go so far as to say he distrusted her, but it made him slightly uncomfortable to be around her. Worf had bared his heart and soul to Jadzia, sharing
every fiber of his being with her. She had done the same, trusting him completely and faithfully. Now that Ezri had her memories, this new woman whom he hadn't invited or wanted in his life was standing beside him, aware of all his thoughts, beliefs, and feelings. This angered Worf. Why had she stayed on Deep Space Nine instead of returning to the Destiny? She had no right to be here, no connection to anyone on the station except through her predecessor. Was she judging him? Worf could never be sure. Ezri got along well with the other officers on the
station, and she spent a lot of time with Colonel Kira and Doctor Bashir. The crew seemed to take comfort in the fact that a part of Jadzia remained, but only Worf felt taunted by it. A precious part of his parmach'kai hovered just out of reach, with no way to it.

Ezri was standing as if at attention, her hands clasped behind her back, a gesture reminiscent of the way Jadzia had unconsciously positioned herself. Her image mingled with his wife's in Worf's mind. Sometimes he would see only Jadzia, and fight against the urge to slip his arms around her waist and draw her close. There were the times where Jadzia's face would shimmer into existence, then he would blink, and Ezri would reclaim her pixie features. And then he saw only Ezri, accompanied by a confusing mixture of anger and suspicion and surprising
loneliness. For the mere mention of the name Dax invoked the biting desolation that he felt every night when he climbed into bed alone. Why was Ezri doing this to him? Was she aware that she was?

 As the turbolift carried them to their respective destinations, Ezri Dax felt a familiar pang of emotion. A painful longing, dulled somewhat by the knowledge that the feelings in actuality were not really hers, but painful nonetheless. She remembered the way it had felt to be close to Worf, to allow her hands to outline each firm, powerful muscle on his body. He would use his skilled fingers to massage the knots gently out  of her shoulders and back. These everyday rituals had often given way to much more intimate explorations. Each occurrence of their lovemaking was a declaration of their commitment, passion, and dedication to each other. Her love for him-no, Jadzia's, Jadzia's, Ezri emphasized forcefully in her mind- had flooded her so deeply that no word or action could show it. Worf was the most amazing person she had ever known. He fit so perfectly into what had been the empty notches in her life.

Jadzia and Worf were synonymous with two pieces of a puzzle, one part melding into another, making up for one area in which the other lacked. When one puzzle piece was missing, the empty area was what stood out.
Another similar piece could be substituted, but nothing fit as well as the original section.

 Worf couldn't seem to understand that Ezri didn't want to be more than simply friends. He was very uptight around her, she noticed, and answered even the most companionable questions brusquely, as if letting
down his guard infinitesimally would be hinting at his desire for a more intimate relationship. Inconspicuously peering at him in her periphery, Ezri studied his face and was struck by a jolt of emotion. She was always startled by how deeply some of Jadzia's memories affected her. Gazing at the Klingon's stony (nervous?) face and set jaw, a person never would have guessed that he was capable of loving as tenderly as he had Jadzia. ("You come first. Before career, before duty, before anything.")  She was jealous sometimes; wanted the memories of being unconditionally adored to be her own. Not necessarily by Worf. That would oppose Trill customs, and he obviously wasn't the one for her anyway. She was a little bit frightened of him, of the way that a
furious flame would smolder and ignite behind his eyes whenever Jadzia's and Gul Dukat's names were mentioned in the same conversation. Just someone, someone to be waiting in her quarters at the end of the day
with a smile and a kiss and a bottle of champagne. But Ezri was young. Her life had barely begun. She had plenty of time.

 Ezri turned to Worf and forced a smile. "How are you, Worf?" she asked.
He blinked, startled, then replied quickly, "I am doing well, thank you." After a pause: "And you?"
"Fine, thanks." There. The ice had been broken. "Where are you headed?"
Ezri attempted feebly to continue the conversation.
"The Rotarran." The turbolift slowed suddenly, and the doors parted.
Worf stepped out of the turbolift a little too fast. "Good day,
Lieutenant." She gave a mental sigh. Oh, well. They would get other chances to talk. He was probably just preoccupied.
"Bye." She lost sight of him as the lift doors shut. In the corridor, Worf turned and headed in the direction of the docking ring. Seeing Ezri had reminded him of the painfully realistic dream he'd had the night before. He had been on Casperia Prime with Jadzia, enjoying the first day of their honeymoon. When he awoke in his cold, lonely bed in his quarters, he had actually turned towards what had been Jadzia's side of the bed, expecting to see her nestled under the fur blanket next to him. Their times in bed had been unique. Not just when they were making love, but also when they would just talk. Snuggled under the covers together, the world seemed to come to a stop around them. There would be no war, no stress, no death. Just the two of them, in their timeless universe.
They could laugh, cry, dream, and nothing would interrupt them.

~*~

The day had been hectic and the conferences long, but none of that mattered now. When Worf entered the room, clad in the loose green pants and shirt that served as his pajamas, everything stressful seemed to recede from
Jadzia's memory and be tucked away in its own secret haven in her consciousness, where not even she would be aware of their existence until they surfaced again next morning.
"Hello, Jadzia," he greeted her as he knelt before his shrine to Kahless.
"Hi," she replied, and fell respectfully silent as the Klingon began to pray. Jadzia watched him as he silently communicated his thoughts to the ancient god of his people. Nighttime was special for him, too. It was
the time of day where he could let down his guard and not have to concentrate on matters of war and combat. The presence of another body pressed against his was comforting to him, even though he may not have
used those exact words. When he finished praying, he got to his feet and came over, sliding under the covers with a fatigued look on his face.
Jadzia was automatically in his arms before he'd had time to pull their blanket over them. She leaned up quickly to kiss the side of his neck and then settled down against him with her head on his shoulder.
"Are you tired?" she asked. Worf rubbed his hand over her upper arm.
"A little."
"Me, too. I had a long day. So many reports due, so many meetings, so many things to think about. Next free chance we get we're heading to Risa."
"Are you sure about that?" The Klingon gazed down at his wife, cuddled in the curve of his arm. He knew she remembered as well as he did their disastrous vacation on the "paradise planet" before their wedding and
the war. When she didn't respond, he changed the subject by lightly kissing the top of her head.
"You look exquisite tonight, Jadzia." She smiled.
"Nice try, Worf, but I'm exhausted. If you even attempt to make love to me I'll be dead within five minutes."
"Are you sure?"
"Tomorrow," she promised, planting her lips firmly on his nose. "Right now I just need to sleep."
"Very well." She favored him with one last relieved smile.
"Thank you." Jadzia kissed him long and slow, as if to apologize, then rolled over in his arms so her back was resting against his stomach. The Trill was asleep before either of them could say another word.

~*~

But right now he needed to put all thoughts of Jadzia and Ezri and the past out of his mind. Captain Sisko had assigned him a task, and he was responsible for seeing it through. Worf emerged from the corridor and
began to walk around the docking ring to where the Rotarran was fitted snugly into the station's docking clamps. Two Ferengi, whom the Klingon recognized as some of Quark's waiters, hovered outside the airlock to a
Bajoran merchant vessel, springing to attention when the door rolled aside and a tall figure in layered green and black robes appeared. The three huddled instantly together, looking suspicious. Worf expected the
efficient Odo to be on the scene within minutes, or, if the Ferengi and their consort weren't worthy of his immediate attention, to send one or two of his deputies to handle the situation. The Rotarran was docked
four ports down from the merchant ship. The engineer, N'Garan, was kneeling just inside the open airlock door with a scanning device in her hand. She looked up at his approach.
"Yes?"
"Is General Martok on board?"
"No."
"Where is he?" Worf inquired impatiently. N'Garan, who was young and rebellious, was not fazed by his tone.
"On the Promenade, probably at Quark's. He should be back soon."
"I will wait."
"If you wish." The girl turned back to her work. For lack of anything better to do, Worf observed the data readouts over her armor-plated shoulder. N'Garan told him what he was looking for without him even
having to ask.
"Our cloaking device is malfunctioning. We are having abnormal power fluctuations that cause the ship to cloak and uncloak at random moments. The Rotarran was almost destroyed three days ago when the cloak failed
and revealed us just as we were about to ambush a Jem'Hadar warship."
Worf suggested, "Chief O'Brien has had experience with cloaking devices, especially the Defiant's. You might consider asking him for advice. Or Senator Pulchek. His warbird is outfitted with a top-of-the-line cloaking device that gives them no trouble."
"I will have her look into it." A new voice from behind them caused the two Klingons to turn as one. General Martok was coming up the set of steps that led to the airlock, clutching a bottle of bloodwine, his
metal-toed boots scraping the treads of the stairs. "Do you wish to speak to me, my friend?"
"Yes. We have need of-." Martok cut him off.
"Not here, Worf. Come aboard." Worf complied, stepping carefully over the now prone N'Garan. "May I offer you some refreshment?" the General offered, and raised his bottle as they traversed the bird-of-prey's
gray-walled corridors. "Year 2309, sent to me by Sirella. The woman has good taste, doesn't she?"
"A good year," agreed Worf. "But I will decline."
Martok shrugged and took a long swig. They stepped onto the bridge. The command center of the mighty Rotarran was dimly lit with red lights that cast an eerie glow on the consoles and faces of the crew, giving the impression that everything was glazed in blood. The grim expressions on their faces only added to that image.
The two of them crossed the bridge and went into Martok's office. Only when the door had closed securely behind them did the General begin to speak.

"Now, Worf," he began, "what did you want to ask?"
"We have need of a master differential relay for our weapons, as ours has been damaged and no longer functions properly. Since a Starfleet issue relay is unavailable, Captain Sisko thought it might be possible
to convert a relay from a bird-of-prey to fit the specifications we have. Would you or any of your ships have an extra relay or know where we could get one?" Martok furrowed his brows.
"I'm not sure."

Turning to a control panel on the wall behind his desk, he tapped a few buttons and called up an inventory list. He scanned it, mumbling to himself. Finally he turned back to Worf and reported, "The only relay we have on board is currently in use. The same holds true for every ship in my fleet. I apologize, my friend."

Worf cursed inwardly, dreading having to report to Sisko with this unsatisfactory news, but only nodded his thanks and made his way back across the bridge and through the corridors until he had passed the laboring N'Garan again and was on the docking ring. Sure enough, a tan-clad Bajoran security officer was standing behind a tall stack of bulky gray shipping crates, carefully monitoring the conversation between the Ferengi and their
mysterious companion. Worf was frustrated that he had not been able to find the needed part. When he returned to Ops, the captain, O'Brien, Rom, and the other officers were gathered in the briefing room
continuing their discussion. All heads turned as the doors parted for him.

"Well, Mr. Worf?" inquired Sisko. "Any luck?"
"No, sir." O'Brien sighed in the background. "Neither General Martok nor any of his crew had one." Sisko looked annoyed.
"Damn!" Worf started to apologize, but stopped when Sisko held up both hands.
"Never mind, Commander, sit down. I ordered some raktajinos; Quark should be bringing them shortly."

Worf sat, and in a few moments the Ferengi came in balancing a tray of steaming mugs. Ignoring him as he
distributed the drinks, Sisko asked, "Has anyone thought of replicating a new relay?"
"That was the first thing that came to mind, sir," answered O'Brien. "Unfortunately, the replication system aboard DS9 is Starfleet issue. The relay is Cardassian-made. We had to replace some of the relays-."
"Transporter and Environmental Control," interrupted Nog.
"- about two years ago. The weapons weren't our top priority."
"We should just ask the Cardassians if they have an extra part on hand," Quark remarked sarcastically as he left the room.
"You know," said O'Brien thoughtfully, "that's not such a bad idea."
Everyone looked at him incredulously.
He explained, "We could send a salvage team to Empok Nor. Even if the relay isn't in perfect shape, it might be repairable."

Nog cringed at the words "Empok Nor." He'd had some very bad experiences on the abandoned space station,
identical to Deep Space Nine except for the name, on an earlier salvage mission when he was still a cadet. They'd been stalked by two ruthless rogue Cardassians who'd been in stasis for years for the sole purpose of
standing sentinel for a station they hadn't wanted in the first place. If they can't have it, you can't either, thought Nog. Garak, who'd come along on the mission to disarm booby traps left behind when their forces
pulled out, was accidentally injected with a psychotropic drug. The Cardassian soldiers that had been left behind were under the influence of the same drug. The entire Starfleet team, excepting Nog and O'Brien,
had been murdered either by the crazed Garak or an equally frenzied soldier. O'Brien had been forced to set a trap using a modified phaser as a bomb in disguise when Nog was captured by Garak, who threatened to
kill him. With the Cardassian unconscious, they sent out a distress call and were rescued by the end of the day by the Defiant. The Ferengi considered himself as brave as anyone, but he was silently hoping he
wouldn't be chosen for the mission. Sisko was pondering the suggestion.

"How much risk would be involved, Chief?"
"It would be considerably dangerous, sir. I wouldn't recommend sending the Defiant with the large rendezvous of Dominion troops at Cardassia, so whoever went would have to take a runabout. They'd have lesser warp
capability and the disadvantage of smaller weapons. It's going to be pretty risky crossing into Dominion territory without a cloak."
"I say it would be worth the risk. We need that relay," said Sisko. "Any negative reactions?" No one spoke. "All right. Next order of business: the salvage team."
He noted Nog's instant tension and decided to give him a break. "Ensign Nog is needed on DS9."

The Ferengi sighed in relief, thinking no one saw. Sisko understood.

" Chief O'Brien, you should remain here to continue making modifications and running tests on our modified relays in the holosuite. Ensigns Walker and Shelby, you're both under consideration.  Mr. Worf, it looks like you'll be taking a trip." The Klingon nodded.
"Yes, sir. When do I leave?"
"As soon as we get the team together, I'd say probably tomorrow. Any questions?" asked the captain. No response. "Good. Dismissed."

They all went back to their posts. At Tactical with nothing to do, Worf began to think. In his mind the layout of the station was clearly mapped. Once on board, it should be easy to get into the central core. The real problem
would be trying to avoid detection from Dominion patrols. If only the runabouts had cloaking devices! All of a sudden, a completely unbidden image rose in his mind. Gul Dukat was leering at him, gloating. He may
have projected the exteriority that all he wanted was peace in the universe, that he would have given anything to be seen for who he really was, a "kind, gentle man who deeply regretted his actions during the
Occupation."

But Worf knew better than to believe his act. Dukat was exactly like all the other Cardassians: power-hungry, bloodthirsty, always needing to feel that they were superior to someone, even if it was just a peaceful people like the Bajorans, who would have gladly shared their world with them without them having to barge in with their savage soldiers and brutal overseers. The bastards had turned the innocent occupants of Bajor into a race of cowering slaves. And overseeing it all was Gul Dukat. He'd organized the torture and slaughter, showing no remorse or guilt for what he was doing. It had been his idea to have his Bajoran slaves construct Deep Space Nine,  known then as Terok Nor, an ore-processing center. The ones who'd been lucky enough to escape murder or slavery fled into the hills, forming bands of resistance fighters and operating on an underground, not caring
what happened to them as long as they could take their world back. No one was immune to the fighting. Men, women, religious figures, even children as young as ten armed themselves and prepared to drive the
Cardassians off their precious planet. It took thirty years and the slaughter of countless millions, but the Bajorans finally prevailed. The damage was catastrophic even after the last soldier had departed on a
shuttle. Fields and towns smoldered, having been burned to the ground.

The rich ore deposits had been completely stripped from the soil. Over a third of Bajor's population lay dead and unburied like a macabre carpet of corpses. The mental condition of the fighters, most of them at war
for the majority of their lives, was forever scarred. Then had begun the slow and painstaking process of rebuilding. A proud people at one time, capable of surviving without any outside subvention, they had been
forced to turn to the Federation for assistance. The Federation had eagerly agreed, and sent out Commander Benjamin Sisko to assume a joint command with Major Kira Nerys. During the last seven years, Bajor had
once again began to prosper, and was now back on its feet with a vengeance. But the Bajorans, religious as most of them were, would never be able to forgive the Cardassians for what they'd done. And least of
all Gul Dukat.

At the mention of the word "evil" his face was conjured up in their minds as a greedy man who gave no thought to anything except his own fiendish desires. To add insult to injury, in the past year Dukat had mysteriously converted to worshipping the Pagh'wraiths, the dreaded nemeses of the Prophets. The Cardassian had set up a temple on Empok Nor, which he had recently abandoned when his followers turned against him thanks to the intervention of Colonel Kira. He had led a cult devoted to the evil "gods" of Bajor, which only added to the list
of injustices that the Bajorans had accumulated against him. He would never have their forgiveness, no matter how much he tried to justify it by saying that the Cardassians would have been perfectly fair rulers if
the Bajorans had submitted and given them a chance. And he would never have Worf's. Dukat had destroyed another world when Jadzia had breathed her last, shuddering breath in his arms that day almost four months ago.

The impact of that loss would remain with him forever.

But Worf, being Klingon, refused to sit around and feel sorry for himself. A respectful amount of time had passed for him to grieve, and now it was time to take action. Gul Dukat was going to die.
 

Go to Part II