“The Klingon Empire will never bow to pahtks such as Toral! I will not permit your execution, your…your murder!” Worf said, his voice booming like thunder in the small office of the Federation Embassy.
“Chancellor,” Alexander Rozhenko replied determinedly. “This is a Federation matter.” He barely took his eyes off his terminal to look at his father. “Besides, I am a Federation citizen and diplomat. I am immune to Klingon law.”
“But you are also a Klingon and you reside on Klingon soil,” Worf insisted. “We cannot bend to the demands of terrorists!” He gazed at the man who had once been a little boy who looked to him for approval and acceptance. Now he was a grown adult with a strong will of his own.
“Alexander…” Worf said in an uncharacteristically tender and pleading voice.
Finally, Alexander stopped what he was doing. He shut his eyes and breathed out the tension from within. The ambassador stood and looked Worf right in the eye.
“Father, I am working with Starfleet and Klingon Intelligence. We will find Toral and his thugs and we will stop him.”
“There isn’t enough time. You are well aware of that.”
Alexander nodded, but his eyes kept straying back to the display on his monitor.
“It may not happen in the next seven minutes, but it will happen. We will stop him, with or without me.”
“I will not permit anyone to sacrifice you!” Worf’s words were strong, but his voice quivered slightly. He hoped his son would attribute it to his growing older, not panic.
“And you would stand by and watch millions of people of Cygnus Three die a slow and horrible death? Federation scientists say that it takes anyone exposed to Metreon radiation at that level two days to finally die. The cellular deterioration and pain grows worse with each passing minute!”
Worf did not like where this argument was heading. He knew what kind of man his son had grown into and how he thought.
“It matters not,” said the chancellor. “The Federation will not sanction the murder of one of its citizens, much less their top diplomat, who happens to be the son of the Klingon chancellor.”
Deep down, Worf was uncomfortable. Something about his attitudes and words did not befit a warrior of his stature. And at the same time, something about his son’s attitude caused his breast to swell with pride. But the two sentiments could not coexist peacefully within Worf’s mind.
Alexander looked to his father, this time with eyes that Worf had not seen since his son was a child.
“Father, I will not stop fighting Toral until the bitter end. But we must be prepared, if all else fails. I cannot allow myself to be the reason that millions die.”
“You are not the reason,” Worf insisted, and pointed at the image of Toral on Alexander’s terminal. “He is the reason!” If ever there were a time that Worf had regretted having shown mercy to the bastard son of Duras, it was now. This is how his kindness was to be repaid. “Furthermore, we cannot let Toral and his followers believe that they can have any hold over us! He will not stop until he has brought the Empire into war with the Federation.”
“And for the past fifteen years, I have done more to stop him than any military power could have. If he doesn’t see me dead today, he will try again in the future. I will not be the Achilles heel of the Klingon Empire.”
The metaphor eluded Worf and he simply blinked.
“Achilles…?”
“Father, listen to me—I’m not trying to appease a known terrorist bent on destroying the Khitomer Accords,” Alexander said. “But I may be the only way to spare those lives, while buying time for Starfleet to find Toral and stop him.”
“Alexander…no,” Worf protested.
“You said it yourself. The Federation cannot and will not sacrifice my life,” the ambassador said. “But I can and will do so, if need be.”
He’d fought the Romulans, the Remans, the Jem’Hadar, and the Borg, yet Worf had never before felt as helpless as he did now. It was as if the ground had opened up and threatened to pull him down into the flames of Gre’thor.
Alexander reacted to the beeping on his terminal. He looked at it and keyed in a few strokes then looked up at his father.
“Only five minutes left. We might have a means of locating Toral but I need a couple more minutes alone,” Alexander said in a steady and calm tone.
Worf stood tall and took a deep breath before responding.
“As you wish, son. I will be back in the final two minutes. May Kahless grant you success.”
The Klingon numerals of Worf’s desktop chronometer ticked away silently but mercilessly. Five minutes remaining until the fate of his son and the inhabitants of Cygnus III would be determined.
Why have I not heard from Picard yet? There was nothing he could do now but wait. Worf hated waiting—patience was not his strength.
For as long as he could remember, Worf had hoped that his son would embrace his Klingon heritage and become a warrior, bringing honor to his house. It had taken all of Worf’s forbearance, forged through years of being with and working with humans, to understand that one-quarter part of his son which seemed to compel him to defy being a “normal” Klingon. There were even times, Worf had to admit, that he felt disappointed by Alexander’s choice not to pursue the way of the warrior. At the same time, his son had surprised him by joining the Klingon Defense Force during the Dominion War and training to become a warrior afterward. However, both of those ventures seemed doomed to comical endings which, ironically enough, until only now could Worf look back upon and laugh.
When Alexander had finally decided to take Worf’s vacated position as the Federation ambassador on Qo’noS, Worf had resolved that his son would function better in this line of work, where courage and combat abilities were not required—only “smooth talking,” something humans were all too good at.
But in recent years, seeing Alexander stand up to Toral’s vitriol and threats, Worf had begun to see a side of his son which was undeniably Klingon. It had taken a great deal of courage for Alexander to stand up to two assassination attempts and still refuse to relinquish his diplomatic office.
Today, Alexander showed his true Klingon hearts—of courage and honor. His son refused to allow the enemy to intimidate him and was willing to give his own life to save the innocent. Worf was indeed proud, but at the same time, he cursed himself for instilling the very values that would cost his son his life.
His terminal chimed and stirred him from his musings.
“My lord, I have the Federation president for you on a secure channel.”
“Put him through,” Worf replied. The screen winked to life and was replaced by the image of the president, his face ashen with despair. The chancellor didn’t need to ask; he just knew.
“Mister President.”
“Chancellor,” the president began. “I regret to inform you that we have not been able to locate Toral. Furthermore, Ambassador Rozhenko has contacted us and decided to…”
“Thank you, Mister President,” Worf said, sparing him the discomfort of having to put words to what Worf already knew. “I am aware of my son’s decision.”
The president’s features wrinkled in a pained look.
“Be assured, Chancellor Worf, that the United Federation of Planets will not rest until Toral is found and brought to justice. We will…”
Worf rose from his chair. “Thank you, Mister President,” Worf interrupted curtly, and terminated the link. He looked at his chronometer. Exactly three minutes remaining. Worf then began the long walk down the hallway to his son’s office in the Embassy wing.
“Alexander!” Worf called, seeing his son slumped in his chair with his back turned toward him. His son wore a ritual Hegh’bat robe. The elder Klingon ran over to him and found him crumpled and trembling. Though Alexander was a grown man, Worf took him in his powerful arms and would not let go.
“Father…I’m afraid.”
“You do not have to do this!” Worf whispered.
; “Yes, I do.” Alexander unsheathed a d’k tahg and turned the handle for his father to grasp. “My legs are shaking and I can’t get to the transporter pad on my own.”
Worf looked across the room and saw the transporter powered up. “No! I cannot allow this!” he cried.
Alexander looked up. “You must, Father! It is no different from the time you wanted me to help you with the Hegh’bat when you were injured on the Enterprise.”
“Son…this is different.”
“Please, Father. I cannot live with the dishonor of knowing that the fear of death prevented me from saving the lives of millions of innocent people. You must help me. Help me retain my honor!”
Worf hesitated. He had never fled a battle in his entire life. But now he wanted nothing more than to run from the room and not have to face this. A son assisting his father in the Hegh’bat, the ritual suicide of an injured warrior no longer able to fend for himself, was natural for a Klingon. But a father doing this for his son, a healthy and able-bodied son, was not. It went against every grain of his existence.
“There isn’t much time!” Alexander said. “I need to do this quickly and then use the transporter. I’ve programmed the coordinates for R’kalla Square. Hurry, Father!”
This is my son’s wish. This is my son’s honor, born of courage and sacrifice. It is to his glory and mine. To the glory of Kahless and the Klingon Empire. Worf forced himself to believe it.
Not affording himself a moment to think twice about the consequences of his actions, Worf helped his trembling son to his feet. They began to walk toward the transporter pad when Alexander faltered. His knees buckled.
“Father!” Alexander gasped.
He had to be strong for the sake of Alexander’s honor. But his son’s cry of dread impaled Worf’s heart like the very dagger that would soon pierce Alexander’s. He recalled a childhood moment when his son had fallen and injured himself. How he regretted now not having run to his little boy, not having held him tight, assuring him that all would be all right. A curse upon my pride!
Clenching his teeth, Worf willed his body to stand tall and pull his son back to his feet. He helped Alexander to rest his weight upon his father’s strong shoulder. Together they staggered to the altar of sacrifice that was the transporter pad. Each painful step was an eternity which to Worf was all too brief. He kept his eyes on his son, trying desperately to memorize every feature on his face, every bit of detail about him that he could commit to his thoughts. In just a little while, he would never see him again.
They arrived at the transporter pad and Alexander knelt. Still shaking visibly, he looked up at his father and nodded. Reluctantly, Worf handed him the d’k tahg.
Alexander took the weapon, which shook violently in his nervous hands. Then he said in a quavering voice, “In…in my pocket. Take it…for later….”
Seeing that his son’s hands were rendered useless because of the convulsing, Worf reached down into the pocket of Alexander’s robe and pulled out an isolinear chip, one designed to store holographic data.
Alexander used his free hand to grasp his father’s wrist and steadied himself. “There wasn’t enough time to tell you all I wanted to say, Father.”
Worf fell to his own knees and his voice nearly cracked.
“There wasn’t enough time, my son.” He held his son to his bosom and gently stroked his hair. “I am and will always be proud of you.”
Alexander’s countenance lit up with a smile. “Then it will all have been worthwhile.”
“Your name will be revered. Operas will be commissioned in your memory,” Worf whispered. “You bring honor to your house, to the Empire.”
Alexander’s trembling seemed to subside a bit. Worf released his son from his embrace. Alexander straightened up and brought the razor-sharp point of his d’k tahg to his chest. Worf saw a flash of light reflected from the blade and it caused his heart to skip a beat.
“I’m ready,” Alexander said.
Worf stood proud and strong, hoping to lend his own strength to his only begotten son at this, his moment of truth. Alexander lifted the blade preparing to plunge it into his heart. But just then, his entire body began to shake. The blade fell from his hands and he looked in despair at Worf.
“I can’t control my hands! Father, please, help me!”
Immediately Worf knelt behind his son. He picked up the d’k tahg and held it in Alexander’s hands. Worf knew what he must do and cursed himself for it.
Alexander smiled in relief. Worf felt his trembling diminish and his body relax against his own.
“Now,” Alexander whispered.
“Today, my son, you die a warrior’s death. You will be avenged.”
With one swift thrust, Worf pulled his son’s hands, wrapped around the handle of the d’k tahg, into his chest. He felt the dull thud as his entire world imploded.
“Quickly, Father…the…trans…porter!” Alexander gasped.
He looked at the chronometer. One minute and twenty seconds remaining. The mighty warrior gently laid his son’s head upon his lap. He saw the pain in his eyes, which Alexander struggled to keep open. Worf could tell that his son meant to allow him to look death in the eye.
“Thank you, Father,” Alexander said as the life drained from his body. “Thank you for helping me stay the course.”
It mattered little that Worf didn’t fully understand what his son meant; he simply leaned over and kissed the ridges of his forehead.
“We will meet again…” Worf whispered. Sorrow infused his voice like a bitter troi’kara root simmering in a cauldron. “…in Sto-Vo-Kor.”
Alexander’s eyes shone brightly and a tranquil smile stretched across his face. “In Sto-Vo-Kor,” he whispered with his last breath.
The chronometer began to beep frantically. Ten seconds remaining. Worf carefully laid his son’s head down on the floor of the transporter pad. Then, according to the ritual, he wiped his son’s blood from the d’k tahg on his own sleeve. His task done, Worf strode to the transporter controls.
If only he could have had a few more minutes to be with Alexander and hold him! But his death must not have been in vain—Worf needed to beam Alexander’s empty shell to the coordinates Toral had demanded. He slid his fingers up the controls and the red light of the transporter beam enveloped Alexander. In an instant, his son was gone.
Clouds obscured the Qo’noS sun and turned the sky to an ominous hue of dark gray. Worf looked to the heavens and let out a fearsome, guttural cry, announcing his son to the gates of Sto-Vo-Kor. Flashes of lightning lit the darkened office. Worf found himself on his knees, emptied like a broken chalice with all its bloodwine drained out onto the cold stone floor. Night had fallen and Worf chose to remain alone in the darkness.
A bright ray of sunlight invaded the room. Worf awoke to find a new day, warm, bright and deceivingly full of life. Outside the open window, birds sang what seemed like a new song, people bustled in the streets below. It was the laughter of children that stirred Worf to get up off the floor. He looked over to the transporter pad and was soberly reminded of what had happened the night before. All that remained was a drying puddle of Alexander’s blood.
As he pulled himself up to his feet, Worf realized it would take all the strength and willpower he had within him to continue living. He was tempted to take Alexander’s d’k tahg and kill himself as he had helped his son. Alas, he knew that taking his own life, out of grief, would not allow him to travel The River of Blood so that he could join Alexander in Sto-Vo-Kor. Indeed, the long ride on the Barge of the Dead would require more courage than running from the pain he was feeling.
Taking in a deep breath, Worf walked to the window and looked outside. Life seemed to go on for all the people down below. Had any one of them ever watched their children die, much less by their own hand? He saw a little boy walking next to his father and pretending to be a warrior. He wielded a toy bat’leth and repeatedly struck his father in the shin. Playfully, the father feigned injury an
d defeat.
“You must kill me now! Spare me the dishonor of living as an invalid!”
The little boy plunged his foam bat’leth into his father’s chest. The father pretended to die gloriously—everyone around applauded the scene and laughed in delight.
The father got to his feet and vigorously patted his son on the back.
“That’s my little warrior!”
Worf smiled poignantly as he watched the boy walk away holding his proud father’s hand.
May you never know the pain of losing your son.
He sat at Alexander’s desk and looked around. There was a holoimage of his mother K’Ehleyr and Alexander as child. Over on the other side of the desk was a holoimage of Worf standing proudly next to him, on the day that Alexander had been appointed ambassador to Qo’noS. Then he remembered the isolinear holochip. Worf reached into his pocket and clicked it into the computer. A three-dimensional image of Alexander floated above the desk—it was apparently recorded just before he’d died.
“Hello, Father. By now, I am probably dead. I grew up thinking that I would be the one to live to watch you die at the hands of assassins. Perhaps that visitation from my future self changed things. I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak with you in person but there was not enough time. I have a few things that I really need to tell you now.
“Do you recall one of the passages in ‘The Wisdom of Kahless’ that you taught me when I was about nine years old? Kahless said: ‘To each warrior there is a path. Glory goes to him that fulfills their destiny.’
“For my entire life, I’ve never been able to resolve what my purpose was. I’m not quite Klingon and I’m not quite human. I felt that nothing I did was good enough—not that you made me feel that way—I just didn’t see the point of anything I tried to accomplish. Today, however, I realize that the greatest thing I can do is to die so that others might live. I am not the courageous warrior that you are, Father, but I have been given a unique opportunity to make my life count for something great. I believe that my honor depends on it.
Strange New Worlds IX Page 5