“No—” Alexander’s voice was a harsh rasp. “I’m not hungry.”
“Then why are you holding that rabbit in a death grip?”
Because I want to kill it! Alexander trembled as reason battled the genetic instincts within him. But I don’t want to kill it!
“We are not on a ritual hunt designed to test your skills,” Worf continued evenly. “There is no feast being planned to make use of the kill and you are not hungry.”
Alexander focused on his father’s voice.
“There is no honor in taking a life without purpose. Killing to vent anger or frustration is meaningless. Do you understand?”
Desperate, Alexander nodded, but he did not release the rabbit. His hand wanted to choke the terrified animal. His mind wanted to see it go free. He stood frozen with indecision, trapped between his primitive impulses and his civilized values with the hapless rabbit’s life hanging in the balance.
“Do you want to let the rabbit go?”
Again Alexander just nodded. He was afraid to move because his Klingon blood might overwhelm his desire. The rabbit could die in his hand in an instant and death could not be undone. There would be no second chances.
“Concentrate on your hand, Alexander. It is merely an extension of you. A tool that does your bidding, nothing more.” Speaking in a soothing monotone, Worf held Alexander’s frightened gaze. “You command the tool, Alexander. Open your hand.”
Shaking with the effort, Alexander loosened his grip. The rabbit stirred slightly. The movement tempted the hunter and the hand flexed to close again. Beads of sweat broke out on his ridged forehead as he concentrated, forcing himself to squat down, to keep his killing hold in check.
“Remove your hand, Alexander. You control it and it will do as you command.”
Lowering the captive rabbit to the ground, Alexander stared at his father while he focused his will on his hand. His fingers snapped open. Stunned and limp with fear, the animal did not immediately dash for safety. It just lay there in his open hand, taunting the hunter and testing his rational will.
And then it was gone.
Gasping, Alexander collapsed as the rabbit darted into the brush and fled.
Worf dropped to one knee on the ground beside him. “There is a solution and you have just taken the first step. By letting the rabbit go, you have proven that you are the master of your actions and your destiny. Your Klingon blood cannot control you.”
Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Alexander sighed wearily. “It almost did. You don’t know how hard it was not to strangle that rabbit.”
“Yes, I do,” Worf said sympathetically. “It will not be an easy fight, but it is a fight you can win.”
I sure hope so, Alexander thought. The rabbit’s escape was too narrow for comfort and a sickening sensation churned in his stomach. The Klingon warrior impulses were more powerful than he had imagined and they were getting steadily stronger.
What if he couldn’t learn to control it without fail?
There had been too many times in the past few weeks he had wanted to silence Jeremy Sullivan’s taunting insults by strangling him.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning at breakfast, Alexander was all too aware that his grandparents were trying extra hard not to do anything to upset him.
And that upset him.
If he was a human kid and not mostly Klingon, they wouldn’t be afraid that he might take offense at some innocent remark or minor incident and go berserk.
“Be careful, Alexander,” Helena said as she set a plate of freshly baked biscuits on the table. “I just took them out of the oven and they’re still hot.”
Nodding, Alexander stared at the biscuits his grandmother still made the old-fashioned way. They had a replicator, but she preferred to measure and mix all the ingredients herself. Famished, he couldn’t wait for the steaming biscuits to cool. He picked one up, inhaled with a hiss and dropped it on his plate.
Sergey tensed with a fork full of fried potatoes poised before his open mouth, staring at him as though he might fly into a rage and demolish the kitchen.
Helena smiled tightly. “Do you want some ice for the burn?”
Alexander shook his head and gritted his teeth to quell an angry outburst. He was not angry because he had been stupid enough to burn himself. Or at the Rozhenkos because they expected him to react violently. He was furious with the Klingon genes that triggered the tantrums and gave his grandparents good reason to worry.
And because there was nothing he could do about it.
“You didn’t make any plans for today, did you?”
Slipping the potatoes into his mouth, Sergey chewed and glanced at Alexander.
“Of course he didn’t.” Gently cuffing Sergey’s shoulder, Helena sat down. “He knew his father was coming.”
Alexander sighed. Not long ago deciding between spending the time with Worf or with his friends would have been a problem. However, it had been ages since he had gone to see the latest holoflick or participated in a casual game of soccer or just sat around the Galactic Cafe in town stuffing himself. Hanging out alone wasn’t fun and none of his old friends were talking to him.
“No, I don’t have any plans.” Picking up the dropped biscuit, Alexander buttered it. “Why?”
“Well—”Sergey swallowed. “Worf thought you might like to join him for his Mok’bara workout today.”
“I have your things ready.” Helena gestured toward a neatly folded stack of white clothes on the counter. “Just in case.”
“He’s waiting for you outside.” Sergey reached for a biscuit. “If you want to, of course.”
Alexander hesitated, frowning. “Why didn’t Father ask me himself last night?”
Sighing sadly, Helena shrugged. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to feel pressured. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be around if you refused.”
Alexander nodded. He had made a habit of rejecting most of Worf’s attempts to teach him anything Klingon, but not this time. Knowing how rigorous his father’s exercise routines could be, he’d probably be too tired to throw a temper tantrum for days.
Wearing a belted, white tunic and matching pants, Alexander joined his father on the lawn behind the house. Perhaps sensing that he was nervous, Worf instructed him in some basic loosening up exercises before launching into the intensive Mok’bara ritual.
“What happened to the green lamp that used to stand in the front foyer?” Worf asked casually as he rolled his head back and then from side to side. “Did your grandmother finally decide to get rid of it?”
“No.” Alexander parroted his father’s movements. “I finally broke it.”
Worf did not even blink. “That was inevitable, I suppose.”
“That’s what Grandma said.” Flexing his shoulders, Alexander tried not to smile. When Helena had found the smashed remains of the old lamp he had accidently knocked off the hall table, she had laughed. As a child, Worf had repeatedly bashed into and knocked it over, too. He just hadn’t bashed into it so hard that it literally hurled itself to certain destruction on the floor.
“What did she say?” There was just a hint of anxiety in Worf’s deep voice.
“That it was a miracle the lamp had survived one Klingon. Expecting it to survive two had been foolish.”
Laughing, Worf straightened. “Your grandmother is a very wise woman.”
Yes, she is, Alexander thought soberly. Knowing her adopted son and grandson better than they knew themselves, she had reunited them a second time. The dread he had felt before Worf disembarked at the shuttle terminal had been unfounded. There had been no punishment for the incident with Howard Chupek, only understanding. Maybe the gap separating him and his father wasn’t as big as he had thought.
Finishing his warm-up, Worf suddenly grew serious. “The Mok’bara is one of the most effective disciplines young Klingons use to control the violence of adolescence. If they want to control it.”
Alexander frowned suspiciously. �
�Meaning a lot of Klingons would rather fight?”
“It is in our nature and difficult to resist.”
“That’s not what you said yesterday,” Alexander countered hotly. “You said—”
“I remember what I said.” Worf sharply cut him off. “When I was at the Boreth Monastery after the Enterprise was destroyed at Veridian Three, Master Lourn tried to convince me that our violent Klingon nature could not be conquered, that Klingons will deliberately create conflict when there is none because of our innate aggressive tendencies. I know that is not true. Klingons can rise above their instincts—if they want to.”
Alexander crossed his arms and cocked his head, challenging the statement. “For sure?”
“I did, eventually.” Worf frowned slightly, but the fleeting shadow of pain in his eyes quickly vanished. “Discovering the Mok’bara helped. If I had sent you to a Klingon school when you first came to the Enterprise, you would have learned these techniques years ago.”
“Maybe, but I’m glad I stayed with you instead.” Alexander shrugged. He had never been interested in learning the martial arts discipline of Mok’bara before. It was so … Klingon. Now, he was desperate enough to try anything. He didn’t quite believe that a ritual designed to hone combat skills could help him control the urge to fight, but Worf was so certain that he decided to give it a shot.
“I am glad you stayed, too. But it appears I did not teach you many of the things you need to know. For instance, there is no honor in attacking those weaker than yourself because you can not leash your anger.”
“Howard Chupek insulted your father!” Seething, Alexander gritted his teeth.
“But there were other ways to handle the situation,” Worf said patiently. “Fighting to settle grievances is acceptable in Klingon society. It is not acceptable here. I should have anticipated your current problem and taken measures to prepare you to cope with it.”
“You tried,” Alexander said honestly, relieved as the surge of anger subsided. “I wouldn’t cooperate.”
“That was then. This is now.” Moving in front of the boy, Worf assumed a pose with his body bent slightly forward and his feet spaced wide apart. “Watch me and remember. When I stop, execute the movements as best you can.”
Alexander anxiously studied his father’s controlled stance and memorized the slow, deliberate motions of his hands and arms. When Worf paused, he tried to duplicate the exercise. His movements felt awkward and clumsy compared to the powerful grace his father displayed. Performing the Klingon ritual in the Rozhenkos’ backyard on a bright, sunny morning only added to his sense of being totally out of place in his adopted world. The colorful flower gardens, fruit laden trees, stone birdbaths and wooden climbing toys were hardly an appropriate setting for the intensive Mok’bara. For once, he was glad there were no close neighbors to spy on them.
“The form clears the mind,” Worf said. He moved his hands forward, then brought them to an abrupt halt with a sharp intake of breath. “As the movements become ingrained, connecting your mind and body in a natural flow, you will feel more in control.”
“I feel silly.” Alexander instantly regretted the words and hastened to qualify the remark. “I mean, I used to pretend I was a Cossack fighting off European invaders in this yard. Don’t Klingons do these ritual things in ancient caves with torches and stuff?”
Freezing in position, Worf slowly turned his head. “No. Obviously, I have neglected your Klingon education to a greater degree than I thought. However, we will address that at a later time. As far as the Mok’bara is concerned, it is a discipline of mind and body. Location is irrelevant.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Alexander watched attentively as his father resumed the exercise. If nothing else, Alexander told himself as he self-consciously executed an intricate pattern of quick thrusts and turns, maybe he’d learn to fight better. And that couldn’t hurt. He was the only Klingon attending his school—one against three hundred.
After half an hour of grueling concentration, Worf relaxed and gestured toward a stone bench under a large shady tree. “That’s enough for now.”
Alexander nodded. He felt both drained and invigorated by the constant mental and physical tension inherent in the Mok’bara exercises. His own fitness routine utilized more energetic activities that strengthened muscles, agility and endurance without making such rigid demands on the mind. Still, he was in superb physical condition and the weariness surprised him. Rejecting it, he suddenly sprinted across the lawn toward the jungle gym his grandfather had built out of logs. Executing a high vault in a layout position with a half twist, he landed solidly without a misstep and raised his arms.
Worf roared with Klingon approval and shook his fist in the air.
Grinning, Alexander ran over and flopped down on the bench. Pouring two glasses of lemonade from the pitcher Helena had left on the side table, he handed one to his father.
“I did not know you had such a talent for gymnastics,” Worf said. “Are you on the team at school?”
“No.” Alexander frowned and shook his head. The question instantly darkened his mood as surely as a sudden storm cloud would have blotted out the sun.
“I am surprised the gymnastics coach has not insisted.” Worf scowled. “An athlete with your abilities would ensure victory for the school’s team.”
“The coach doesn’t know,” Alexander mumbled. Besides, Jeremy Sullivan and Kim Ho were on the gymnastics team. They would not welcome a Klingon, no matter how well he performed.
Worf raised a more surprised eyebrow. “How can he not know? Do you not participate in gymnastics in physical education?”
“Yes. It’s required.” Alexander evaded the whole truth and shifted uncomfortably.
“But you do not perform as well as you could.”
Alexander blinked, then nodded. His father’s insight was astounding. It had been hard enough being the only one of his kind at school before the new Klingon-Federation conflict had started. Even then, he had quickly learned that showing off his superior prowess in sports was not the way to make friends. Flaunting his abilities now would just cause more trouble with his hostile classmates—and he already had more than he could handle. Jeremy Sullivan, Kim Ho and Bernard Umbaya were making sure of that.
“I often wish I had had the strength of character to overcome my competitive nature when I was your age. If I had been secure enough to hide my abilities…” Worf paused with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Huh?” Alexander squinted, totally puzzled. During their times together, Worf was always saying or doing something that caught him off guard. But his father had never paid him this ultimate compliment before. To his shame, his father’s assumption was false. “I don’t hold back because I have strength of character. I don’t let anyone see what I can do because I’m a coward.”
“You are many things, Alexander, but you are not a coward.”
“Yes, I am.” The confession hurt Alexander to the very core of his human-Klingon soul, but he had made a vow long ago never to lie to his father again. “I’m afraid all the kids will gang up on me.”
“I see.” Worf sighed. “Would you fight back to defend yourself?”
“Of course!” Alexander sat back indignantly. “But I’d probably lose.”
“There are far more dishonorable things than losing an unfair fight.”
“Like what?”
Worf sighed. “Like being so positive you are better at something than everyone else, you cause a friend to die needlessly.”
Alexander gasped. “You didn’t do that. You couldn’t have!”
“Not deliberately, no.” Worf’s eyes filled with sadness. “Your grandparents and I lived on the farm world of Gault for several years before coming here. I was captain of the school soccer team when I was thirteen. Because the score was tied in a game I desperately wanted to win, I pushed a teammate to intercept a play that was rightfully his. I shoved Michail so hard, he broke his neck and died the next day.”
Speechl
ess, Alexander just stared at his father’s face. The intense pain was only evident in Worf’s eyes.
Worf gripped Alexander’s knee tightly. “That was when I realized that because I was bigger and stronger, I had to learn how to harness my aggressive nature. It is a lesson I do not want you to learn the hard way.”
“Me neither,” Alexander whispered, recalling how he had felt in the terminal. If his father hadn’t stopped him, Howard Chupek would be in the hospital—or dead. “I’ll learn control. I have to.”
Worf nodded. “It will be a difficult task, especially if your friends are provoking you like Howard Chupek did.”
“I can do it.” Alexander eyed his father with grim determination. “And I promise I won’t start another fight or break anything in a fit of temper ever again.”
“That is not a promise you should make lightly, Alexander. I know how easy it is for the anger to take over.” Another almost-smile played at the corner of Worf’s mouth. “I remember one glass table on the Enterprise that was a particularly spectacular victim because I was frustrated and lost control. That was not the first time I failed to contain it and it may not be the last.”
“My word of honor!” Alexander’s eyes flashed. The oath was a bond stronger than any restraint or potential punishment and it was absolutely necessary to protect himself and those around him. Like his father and all Klingons, he would rather die than break his given word.
“For a week,” Worf said gravely. “That is a reasonable goal and one you can achieve. You can renew your vow in seven days when we celebrate the Day of Honor.”
“Okay. One week for starters.”
“So be it.” Rising, Worf set his glass down. “We have today and tomorrow before you return to school. I strongly suggest we accelerate your training with the Mok’bara. Then I will teach you some ancient meditations that have helped me.”
Alexander followed his father back into the center of the lawn stricken with a deep sense of irony. Having denied his Klingon heritage for most of his young life, it was unsettling to find out that he had to acknowledge and accept his genetic inclinations in order to reject them. Without knowledge of his nature and proper training in Klingon methods, he would be fighting blind and unarmed with no way to win.
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Young Adult Books #11: Day of Honor 5: Honor Bound Page 3