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Worf was not amused.

“What do you mean, the Delta Quadrant?”

The bekk at the sensor station quailed slightly at the tone in the Commander’s voice. He had only arrived on the bridge moments before, called up to replace the Lieutenant who had been killed during the Federation’s cowardly attack. That lack of preparation was the only reason Worf had not yet thrust his d'k tagh into the boy’s belly.

“Let me see,” Curzon growled, thrusting the bekk out of the way. Worf knew that if his q’m’pak had done that to a more seasoned member of the crew, he would have found a knife at his throat. He also knew that the old Trill would have had his own knife in the attacker’s groin before either of them had time to blink. He grinned at the thought. Curzon Dax may not be a Klingon but he had a true warrior's lust for blood.

“The boy is right,” Curzon said after a moment. Worf cursed and sprang around the station, pushing the bekk further out of the way. He looked down at the sensor screen, studying the readout before lifting his eyes to meet Curzon's. Worf saw something there that he had never seen before. Fear. “Somehow we have found ourselves on the far side of the galaxy.”

“Federation.” Worf said the word like a curse.

“I do not think so,” his mentor replied, his eyes returning to the sensor station. “It would seem that whatever dragged us here brought the Saratoga and the Cardassian ship Prakesh along with us.”

“That does not matter,” Worf barked, returning to the central chair and facing the viewscreen. “It was Federation treachery caused this. They will pay.”

The smoke on the bridge cleared enough for Worf to see the Saratoga appear amongst the stars. Glancing down, he met Martok’s dead eyes as they stared up at the ceiling.

The Federation would pay for this. They would pay for the death of the General.

Worf, son of Mogh, would see to it.

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