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Cambridge really hates it here.
He supposes, on some level, this is mostly petty spite. Starfleet ships aren't that different, really; while one might have a more informal atmosphere, and another goes purely on ceremony, and another contains families and the other just a scattering of scientists, they all have certain commonalities, in atmosphere and content. For example, most ships are more like each other than they are like Starfleet Medical, where Cambridge spent twelve years before being assigned to Voyager.
But, he hates it anyway. There's something missing in the atmosphere, and while the gel packs on Voyager don't have a smell of sorts, he imagines that there's a scent of ozone that's not there that should be. The uniforms look all wrong, and Cambridge resents it every moment, from bustling, bright ensigns to non-coms repairing open conduits.
Eventually, he settles on working on unsolved archaeological mysteries from the last few centuries. Alien, not human. It's at least something to do, and it's well within his area of expertise. Part of the time, he works in Ten-Forward, at a table with a handful of PADDs, frowning fiercely, cross-referencing. "No," is what he says to anyone who approaches him. Without looking up from the PADD.
The rest of the time, he works in his quarters, which he has to himself. And when he works like this, so intently, he doesn't care much for the organization of his room. Things end up on tables, on the floor. At one point he kicks a pair of pants aside, towards the doorway. Unfortunately, the next time the door opens and closes, the cloth gets in the way. So the ankle of the pants sticks out into the hallway, like a flag.
He supposes, on some level, this is mostly petty spite. Starfleet ships aren't that different, really; while one might have a more informal atmosphere, and another goes purely on ceremony, and another contains families and the other just a scattering of scientists, they all have certain commonalities, in atmosphere and content. For example, most ships are more like each other than they are like Starfleet Medical, where Cambridge spent twelve years before being assigned to Voyager.
But, he hates it anyway. There's something missing in the atmosphere, and while the gel packs on Voyager don't have a smell of sorts, he imagines that there's a scent of ozone that's not there that should be. The uniforms look all wrong, and Cambridge resents it every moment, from bustling, bright ensigns to non-coms repairing open conduits.
Eventually, he settles on working on unsolved archaeological mysteries from the last few centuries. Alien, not human. It's at least something to do, and it's well within his area of expertise. Part of the time, he works in Ten-Forward, at a table with a handful of PADDs, frowning fiercely, cross-referencing. "No," is what he says to anyone who approaches him. Without looking up from the PADD.
The rest of the time, he works in his quarters, which he has to himself. And when he works like this, so intently, he doesn't care much for the organization of his room. Things end up on tables, on the floor. At one point he kicks a pair of pants aside, towards the doorway. Unfortunately, the next time the door opens and closes, the cloth gets in the way. So the ankle of the pants sticks out into the hallway, like a flag.
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Klingon, he processes, immediately.
Now, his next reaction has a bit of backstory to it. When Cambridge was younger, he studied the mythology and culture of various Federation allies extensively. But, during that time, he had conducted a fair amount of his study from the actual source material. This meant Cambridge, as a young, wiry sprout of a youth, had spent several months on the Klingon homeworld of Qo'noS. This had begun as a shock to the senses, Cambridge being used to a certain amount of withdrawn decorum common amongst the British isles.
Then he had quickly and happily adapted, embracing his own adventurous side.
Subsequently, during the war with the Dominion, Cambridge, as somewhat of an expert on Klingon culture, had been tasked with the psychological evaluation of Klingon veterans. This task was absolutely impossible, and he thrived on arguing down Klingon warriors who really just wanted to punch Cambridge in the face and go home.
This all perhaps explains why his first response, when confronted with a Klingon visage intruding into his space, is to say, with surprising strength, volume and fluency, in Klingon, "Remove yourself, you slime-eating petaQ!"
He then notices the (somewhat antiquated, to his eyes) insignia denoting Chang's rank.
Well, bugger.
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He smiled at him, the kind of smile that begged Cambridge to try something. "Make me," he replied in Klingon, not bothering with any kind of volume. Chang had dropped any need for over the top bluster, only engaging it when he was particularly delighted.
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"Thanks," he says, finally, "but I'm rather fond of all of my limbs." He's not about to provoke a fight he'll definitely lose. He's fair, in battle. He could take someone down, especially if he caught them by surprise. A fair brawl with a Klingon probably wouldn't go well.
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Generals, though, tend to be a bit better than average.
Cambridge frowns, as the face clicks in his memory, from historical documentation.
"General Chang?" he asks, still in Klingon.
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"Reveling in your time on the Enterprise?" asks Cambridge. (Reveling is a strong word, in the language; it's something like a revel in the older English sense, only with the bent towards Klingon parties, rather more exciting overall. Cambridge is careful to slightly emphasize the name of the ship, as well.) It's something that could be interpreted as a taunt, subtly, if Chang is from late enough to understand it. He watches for the other man's reaction, carefully.
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"And where am I to get food and drink?" he asked, waving his hand around the lounge, where all the food was dead and alcohol was mostly not. Synthahol. Trust the Ferengi to invent the equivalent of a chocolate teapot and spread it like a plague.
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"A ship with a Klingon tactical officer has no Klingon food?" Cambridge is honestly surprised at the thought. He shrugs. "I'm sure you could ship something in." If Chang wants to stay here at all. "And no blood-wine either?" Of course Starfleet ships mostly serve synthehol, it being a military establishment. Cambridge has never understood it, himself. He takes care to find actual Scotch to drink.
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As for shipping, that doesn't really solve the problem. Other tastes would seep in for one. There's no one here who could be able to properly prepare the meals and he's not interested in half measures at this point.
"Does this dismay you?" he asked, rather than answer. Is the human simply trying to get to him through his food?
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He leans back in the chair, putting his feet up on the table, at an angle to Chang. Settling in. "What's wrong with humans?" he asks.
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But after that, he shrugged. "Ask me to speak in generalities, you will not receive much information."
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"Then something a little more specific," he says. "What do you hate the most about humans?"
Actual curiosity. Cambridge didn't want to be bothered, ten minutes ago, but speaking to a Klingon historical figure is more than worth the compromise. Plus, his Klingon was getting a bit rusty. He's curious. He wants to know.
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He snorts at the question. "Ah, more specific to my feelings. Interesting, that you would assume that I object to the vagueness of feeling rather than the subject of your remark.
"You believe my objection to the Federation is a result of a blind dislike of your species? Or that I spend time in my off duty hours whining about how you smell, hm?"
He shrugged, going on to what he meant rather than harp on. "I find it frustrating that your people assume that our people are merely savages when you deal with rage and anger and pretend you do not. I find it a matter of despair that that security officer acts like he believes our people must treat yours as if you were made of bone china," he briefly switches to English, because 'bone china' doesn't really translate into Klingon - what use did Klingons have for dishes that break so easily? "I find it difficult to look into the eyes of a half-breed and see her feel shame about her Klingon side.
"What I hate the most about humans is that they pretend that this is not so. That they seek the best when 'the best' is always the human way."
Is that what you wanted from him, Cambridge?
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Klingons, to humans, to Vulcans. In some ways, it feels like a syllogism, a comparison, a conclusion. Each one, a different level of denial and control, a different result. All three of them with their own kind of truth.
"One day," he says, slowly, "B'Elanna Torres will be nothing but proud of herself and of her passion." He knows this, for a fact. "One day, Worf, son of Mogh, will fight for the Klingon Empire. If nothing else, I hope that the circumstances of their lives don't lead you to disregard them as Klingons and as warriors."
It's not a total answer, though, and it's not particularly satisfying to say. Cambridge's words won't make much of a difference.
A little shrug. "You're right, though," he says. "And you're wrong. But you're not blind."
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Presuming his reactions after a matter of moments, even knowing his reputation, is a little insulting, frankly, particularly hidden as it is under the words 'I hope'. How very Starfleet.
"Have you considered becoming a writer?"
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Cambridge sends a glance at the ceiling, not quite rolling his eyes.
Well, forget it, then. Cambridge honestly doesn't care what the people on this ship think of him, and the surge of curiosity he felt about a Klingon from the past has somewhat dissipated. Intellectual and emotional exchange isn't possible when one of the parties is completely unwilling to be a part of it. And Cambridge is human. Being knowledgeable about Klingons is one thing, as is knowing the language, being immersed in mythology, blah blah. He even admires a few things about Klingons, disdains several others, the same way he confronts most alien races. Still, in the end, he has the same issues with passion and emotion as humans do.
Humans aren't conquerors, Cambridge thinks. They're magpies. Thieves. Humans will absorb customs and cultures and ideas from anywhere. It isn't even that humans have no identity - they have an identity that evolves from moment to moment, always with the illusion that what lives today has been eternal. It's clearly successful enough to make humans one of the dominant species in the Quadrant, and it's adaptable enough that it's made of humans something that doesn't exploit and doesn't ruin anymore.
Cambridge is as much a magpie as anyone. He's absorbed some of what made Klingons Klingon. And he's absorbed some of Vulcans. And every other race he's studied. But, in the end, he's always been about understanding. It's not the same thing as honor. He is, admittedly, not terribly honorable, in the Klingon sense.
So, again: why would Chang particularly want to have an exchange with him? There's no real reason. Cambridge doesn't feel the need to prove himself. Chang's words don't call for a response. And thus, Cambridge doesn't respond.
He's perfectly capable of ignoring someone else, even someone at the same table. He picks up a PADD again and focuses back on the words in it.
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He was making a statement about his statement rather than the contents, sure. But the manner of his speech needed to be addressed.
People can make poetry of life. But they also take it away from reality in doing so. So Chang's comment on his overdramatic phrasing. was a point on his content as well.
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He puts his hands flat on the table.
"Is there something you want from me?" he asks. "Because I'm interested in what you have to say. I like Klingons. I have great respect for Klingons. But I don't give a damn what you think of me. I do care that you could significantly enrich the lives of the Klingons on this ship, and if I'm jeopardizing their chances, feel free to end this conversation immediately."
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The point was brought across as neutrally as his expression had been, though there was a tinge of irritation.
"Do not assume your knowledge is enough to make these assumptions. A strange Klingon would not have been received well, had he spoken to me as you chose to."
He probably would have thrown him rather than his PADD.
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He actually means it. He doesn't find it fun, tossing insults back and forth, and clearly the two of them aren't communicating well in words. Cambridge could waste some time insisting that he hadn't made any assumptions, that all of his probes and statements and questions were about gathering data, but then the question is why he acted so arrogant and the answer is just because, which doesn't sound very good in an argument like this one. Nor does oh, please, I could be much more arrogant if I put my mind to it.
He'll almost definitely get his ass kicked, yeah. But he'll make a good showing. He's no slouch at hand-to-hand, and he's made a very physical study of Klingon fighting. Injuries are what sickbay is for. Pain is just a matter of mental discipline.
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He snorts, amused once more. He supposed he could go to the holodeck and beat this man up, but honestly, he can tell there's no real heart in his challenge. No bloodlust. And there'd be no fun it as a consequence.
"Ah, yes. The holodeck. Truly an arena where 'actual fights' occur. I could kill you here, if you'd rather. But then I would surely cause offence by doing so."
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He says might because Q appears to be messing with everything.
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