“And tomorrow is the Batlh Jaj!”
Turning pale, Bernard jumped and looked imploringly at his mother. “Mom?”
Her only response was an unsympathetic scowl.
“Batlh Jaj,”Worf repeated slowly.
Alexander frowned. Was he supposed to say something?
“The Klingon Day of Honor,” Worf said with a prodding look at Alexander. “The only day non-Klingons are allowed to participate in—”
“The Suv’batlh!” Shouting the word, Alexander suddenly realized what his father was trying to set up. Donning his most ferocious Klingon face, he turned to confront Bernard and snarled softly. “Because you’ve accused me with a lie, I challenge you to fight the Honor Combat.”
“Combat?” Bernard squeaked.
Worf moved back, allowing Alexander to look each boy in the eye as he moved from one to the next. Normally, the Suv’batlh was fought three on three. Alexander had no companions to stand by him and decided to even up the odds.
“Three on one.”
“Uh…” Desperate, Bernard looked at Jeremy, then Kim.
“We accept.” Kim’s eyes filled with his poisonous hatred.
“We do?” Bernard blinked uncertainly, then shrugged. “Right. We do.”
“Gladly.” Jeremy smiled with smug confidence.
Moving in again, Worf addressed Bernard. “Although the Suv’batlh traditionally takes place in the territory of the one whose honor has been challenged, this battle will be held on neutral ground. The school gym. Tomorrow morning. Qapla!”
Turning abruptly, Worf strode boldly out the door.
Alexander hesitated, then caught Ms. Marconi waving under the table for him to go, too. Holding his head up, he marched boldly after his father.
Worf did not alter the speed or cadence of his pace until they were outside and striding across the soccer field. Even then, Alexander had to jog to keep up.
“How did you get Mr. Houseman and the other parents to agree to a Suv’batlh?”
“Honor is just as important to most humans as it is to Klingons,” Worf explained, deliberately slowing so Alexander didn’t have to run. “They just do not advertise it as loudly or constantly as Klingons do.”
“Oh.” Alexander walked, feeling as darkly troubled as the twilight sky. “There’s just one thing that bothers me about this whole thing, though.”
“And that is?”
“Jeremy, Bernard and Kim don’t know the first thing about using a bat’leth and I’ve been practicing for years. Fighting an Honor Combat with such an overwhelming advantage just doesn’t seem fair.”
Worf nodded. “An honorable observation. However, I assure you, tomorrow’s Suv’batlh will be fairer to your opponents than they have been to you.”
Bursting with curiosity, Alexander had to ask. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because…” Worf paused on the edge of the forest to look down on him. “The choice of weapons is yours.”
CHAPTER 10
Standing by a fold-out screen positioned center stage just off the back wall, Alexander watched as the school gym was transformed for the Day of Honor assembly. If this had been a large school in a metropolitan area, the setting and props could have been programmed into the hologym, but the small Mirnee Doleena school was not equipped with that technological luxury. Worf, Ms. Petrovna and Mr. Santiago, the physical education teachers who had volunteered to help, were setting up the Klingon props his father and grandmother had taken out of storage or replicated the night before.
The gymnastics equipment had been relocated in the far half of the gym to make room for the Batlh Jaj presentation. The bleachers along both sides had been lowered to accommodate the students and teachers and chairs had been set in front of the tiers for Mr. Houseman, nonteaching personnel, his three opponents and their parents.
Ms. Petrovna and Mr. Santiago came into view pushing two metal bat’leth racks. After placing the racks a few feet to each side of the screen, they hurried out again.
Bustling with energy, Helena and Sergey Rozhenko attached a large Klingon banner to the front of the screen.
“What do you think, Alexander?” his grandmother asked, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I made it for your father a long time ago.”
Alexander cocked his head, studying the red banner with the symbol of the Empire emblazoned in gold at the center. “It looks great. Very … Klingon.”
“So do you!” Sergey beamed as he gave Alexander an appreciative once-over. “You look quite … terrifying.”
“Just like a warrior,” Helena declared with proud delight.
Alexander rolled his eyes, but the intended compliments pleased him. Although the fitted black pants and knee-high boots were comfortable, the belted, plated-metal armor he wore over a black shirt felt awkward. The buckled, metal-studded leather combat gloves itched. He fought the urge to brush back his long hair, which had been teased into a wild disarray that cascaded over his shoulders. Still, he was glad to know his appearance was intimidating. However, he doubted that he looked nearly as fierce as his father.
“Your bat’leth, Alexander.” Also dressed in the armor of a Klingon warrior, Worf strode toward the small group. Placing the ancient family bat’leth on the taller rack, Worf handed another traditional sword to his son. Alexander carefully put it on the shorter metal rack. “Where are Ms. Marconi and Mr. Cunningham?”
“Right here!” Wearing a long Klingon robe made of large blue, silver and brown patches over a black shirt and pants secured with a wide, silver belt, the science teacher hurried across the gym floor. Ms. Marconi moved at a more sedate pace, looking regal in a similar robe of patched greens and golds worn over a long black dress belted in gold. Both of their faces shone with an eager excitement.
“So!” Mr. Cunningham clapped his hands together, obviously thrilled to be actively participating in the Batlh Jaj ceremony. “What do you want us to do?”
Waving Mr. Santiago over, Worf took a tall standard from the gym teacher’s hands. The pole was fitted with metal balls alternated with curved and spiked, metal Klingon symbols. Then he pointed to one side of the screen. “You will stand here.”
The teacher obediently stepped into the spot Worf indicated.
“Ordinarily,” Worf said, “there are specific moments during the ritual when the standard bearer makes the staff sing.” Small metal plates attached to chains hanging from the curved pieces jangled as Worf gently shook the pole. “However, since we do not have time for instruction, you may jangle at your discretion.” He handed the standard to the teacher and turned away.
The science teacher hesitated, then shook the pole. The plates jingled, drawing Worf’s attention back. Mr. Cunningham shrugged with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Just practicing.”
Alexander smiled as his father left to get the remaining props. He was pretty sure the Klingon Empire would not approve of including non-Klingons quite so liberally in the ceremonial proceedings. His father’s willingness to deviate from acceptable Klingon tradition was encouraging, though. If Worf could be this flexible, maybe their human audience would be, too.
“What about me?” Ms. Marconi looked at Worf expectantly when he returned.
“You will light the torches.” Worf handed her a small, tech-torch. The tip would burst into flame when she pressed a button on the long shaft.
Ms. Petrovna and Mr. Santiago came back on stage pushing two more racks, each mounted with three unlit torches made of wood and pitch.
Worf caught Alexander’s questioning glance as the gym teachers rolled the racks into position behind the bat’leth stands. “Under the circumstances, torches seemed … appropriate.”
Alexander held up his hands, indicating he wasn’t going to argue the point.
“It’s almost time, Mr. Worf,” Mr. Santiago said. “I just hope I don’t miss my cues.”
“The lighting is only for dramatic effect,” Worf assured him with another glance at Alexander. “Part of the stuff so many people seem to as
sociate with Klingon rituals. We are, after all, striving to make a symbolic point.”
“I think everyone will be impressed.” Giving Worf a thumbs-up, Ms. Petrovna followed Mr. Santiago to the far side of the gym.
After giving Alexander a supportive pat on the back, his grandmother went to join his grandfather on the chairs in front of the bleachers. Clasping the tech-torch in both hands, Ms. Marconi moved to center stage between the bat’leth racks. Taking a deep breath, Alexander followed Worf to wait behind the screen.
Seated behind the technical control board, Mr. Santiago opaqued the windows, throwing the gym into total darkness. A minute later, leaving the Batlh Jaj stage darkened, he raised the lights in the rest of the gym to a dim, twilight glow.
Alexander listened to the faint whisper of his father’s breath and the muffled sounds of students and teachers filing in and finding seats. He could almost hear the pounding of his own anxious heart as it throbbed against his ribs. Heat flowed from the pulsing muscles into his blood in anticipation of the battle soon to be waged and the honor soon to be avenged. It coursed through major arteries, spreading to smaller ones, infusing every muscle and nerve with the raw power of being Klingon.
Alexander trembled as the intensity of the moment triggered a memory buried in the depths of his mind. The image of a familiar, aging Klingon face suddenly appeared.
K’mtar.
The trusted family advisor had arrived to prevent Worf’s assassination at a Kot’baval festival on a remote Klingon outpost not long before the Enterprise had been destroyed. K’mtar had tried to force him into becoming a warrior with as much, if not more, fervent determination than his father. He had resisted, just as stubbornly as he had always rejected Worf’s attempts. Then, without even saying good-bye, K’mtar had vanished from his life—and his thoughts.
Remembering now, Alexander was once again reminded of the irony inherent in his present circumstances. He had not consciously realized that Worf had stopped pressuring him to learn Klingon ways following K’mtar’s departure. Their time together had been too short afterward. The destruction of the Enterprise had brought him back to Earth and sent his father to serve on Deep Space Nine. But even on his return, knowing his son’s ignorance of Klingon control methods was partially responsible for his fits of violent temper, Worf had not pressed him. His father had only suggested. And finally, left to decide for himself, Alexander had agreed to explore the power of the Klingon self he had always denied.
But, Alexander realized in amazement, that power did not have a will of its own. Focusing his thoughts, he kept the fire from running wild, banked it to be called upon and used when and as he directed. Or so he hoped. He would not know if he was still a slave to the savage in his genes or if he had tamed it until the Suv’batlh began.
The lights dimmed to near darkness and Worf tensed beside him.
The hiss and crackle of Ms. Marconi’s tech-torch bursting into flame and the audience’s collected gasp of hushed awe touched Alexander’s ears. He watched his father as the librarian lit the wooden torches on their right and left. When Worf turned to signal him that it was time to begin, their gazes locked for a long moment. He could sense the tension mounting in the crowd waiting for whatever happened next. His own nerves were taut with excitement. Then, returning Worf’s nod, he moved around the right end of the screen as his father moved to the left.
Matching his father’s movements, Alexander paused before the rack of burning torches on his side of the stage. Ms. Marconi stood in front of the Klingon banner, still clutching her torch. A subtle scowl of Klingon contempt was fixed on her pretty face. Mr. Cunningham waited on his right, holding the standard steady and silent, looking impressively superior and composed. Which, Alexander reflected, wasn’t all that difficult for a teacher.
Their dramatic appearance had the desired effect, though. More gasps and anxious whispers rippled through the assembly. The audience’s undivided attention had been captured as surely as a shuttle snagged in a starship’s tractor beam.
“Batlh Jaj!” Worf’s booming voice roared. A spotlight suddenly illuminated his head and upper body, augmenting the flickering light from the torches.
“The Day of Honor!” Alexander translated loudly as a flash of light enveloped him, too.
Mr. Cunningham jangled.
Perfect! Tensing, Alexander listened as his father recited a brief explanation of the holiday’s origin in sharp, staccato Klingon.
“Jatlh ta’ tlhIngan Du yuQ! Nob’ta Wo’ che—”
Mesmerized by the power of Worf’s commanding voice, no one stirred in the darkness even though they didn’t understand a word. Alexander wouldn’t have understood, either, except that he had memorized the recitation in English and rehearsed it endlessly the night before.
When his father paused, Alexander translated the passage with a clipped, emphatic rhythm. “Declared on the Klingon Farm World Soch! A planet awarded to the Empire under the terms of the Organian Treaty of 2267. Where enemies with wounds still raw from war united to repel the invading Narr.”
Catching his breath while Worf continued in Klingon, Alexander launched into the next passage feeling empowered by the passionate words.
“To honor Captain James T. Kirk, who fought for a world he was not sworn to defend.”
Worf’s powerful Klingon words echoed off the rafters.
“To honor Commander Kor,” Alexander repeated the phrase in English. “Who recognized honor in an enemy and had the courage to risk his own for victory!”
“Batlh hoch yIn vI’tak je pol qaHegh ’Ip!”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed and his own voice became harsh with menace as he delivered the final passage. “To honor all who live by truth and uphold to the death their given word!”
With the exception of Mr. Cunningham’s jingling standard, absolute silence greeted the closing remark. Alexander suspected everyone was either too shocked by the reference to death or too intimidated by his father to risk offending him with applause. Or maybe they were just stunned to learn that the Federation’s most notorious and honored starship captain, James T. Kirk, was responsible for the Klingon Empire’s most respected holiday, too. Whatever the reason, their reaction would work to his advantage in the end.
The spotlights followed as Worf and Alexander moved to retrieve their bat’leths. The lights over the audience remained dark, but brightened over the stage area as father and son gripped the curved weapons with both hands and raised them above their heads.
“The Suv’batlh is fought when a warrior’s honor is challenged by another.” Worf’s gaze scanned the darkened faces before him.
Alexander saw his opponents out of the corner of his eye. Sitting in chairs and visible in the dim light coming from the stage, Jeremy, Bernard and Kim stared at him with expressions ranging from cautious curiosity to wide-eyed terror to open hostility. Alexander smothered a smile and braced himself as his father went on.
“The ancient Honor Combat tests the courage of a warrior’s heart as well as his skill!”
The metal standard sang as the science teacher shook the pole.
Taking the cue and moving in unison with his father, Alexander lowered his sword. He kept his eye on Worf’s face as they both began to circle each other, swinging and dipping the deadly, pointed ends of the curved bat’leths in front of them. A rush of thrilled and anxious sound escaped the audience as Alexander suddenly spun, drew back and swung his blade overhand. Worf instantly raised his own blade to block the downward strike.
Alexander froze, holding his position.
Worf turned only his head to address the audience. “A Klingon warrior never resorts to deception when fighting the Suv’batlh. To evade by any devious means or trick would be dishonorable.”
Instantly, Alexander pulled back and parried his father’s series of side-to-side strikes. Metal clashed against metal until he stopped Worf’s sword with a vertical block and froze once again.
“The Suv’batlh is never conceded
.” Worf snarled, causing the crowd to inhale with alarm. “It is always fought to the finish.”
As lightning strikes—in a flash and without warning—Alexander leaped into action for the final, climactic sequence. Pushing his father’s blade away, he circled and flipped the meter-long sword, then blocked Worf’s overhand strike. Spinning around, he came out of the turn whipping his blade to the side. Worf blocked. Alexander swung to the other side. Worf blocked, then drew back to land a resounding overhand strike against Alexander’s defending blade. Then, as planned, Alexander lunged slightly, throwing his father “off balance.” With a last, overhand swing of the bat’leth, he struck the “killing” blow to Worf’s chest. As Worf fell, Mr. Santiago doused the lights.
Silence reigned as Worf got to his feet and raised his sword over his head to match Alexander’s victorious stance. The hushed quiet erupted into cheers, whistles and thunderous applause when the lights came on again, revealing father and son in all their majestic Klingon glory.
Alexander noted that Mr. Houseman and his grandparents were applauding and grinning along with everyone else. His opponents’ parents sat quietly, their expressions rigid and cold. Jeremy, Bernard and Kim seemed to be the only other spectators who hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed the demonstration.
The hush that followed when the applause died down was one of tense anticipation rather than anxiety.
Cradling his sword in the curve of his arm, Alexander moved forward, then stood at attention as Worf placed his bat’leth back on the rack. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead when his father addressed the audience again.
“On his word of honor, Alexander Rozhenko has denied destroying the library bookcase.”
Teachers and students frowned and a whisper of disturbed discussion swept the room.
“He refuses to name the persons who are guilty. Why?” Worf demanded, whirling to confront his son.
Alexander flinched even though he had expected the question, but quickly recovered. “A heart without honor is hollow. To live without honor is to forsake self. To die without honor is to be forever reviled.” He paused to let those words sink in before he concluded. “It would not be honorable to deny anyone their right to do the honorable thing and confess.”
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Young Adult Books #11: Day of Honor 5: Honor Bound Page 7