STAR TREK DEEP SPACE NINE DAY
OF HONOR: HONOR BOUND [065 5.0]
  BY DIANA G. GALLAGHER
  Synopsis:
  Alexander stood his ground as the boys slowed and
stopped ... "You don't expect us to believe
you're going to take the blame for smashing that
bookcase without trying to get back at us, do you?"
Kim's eyes narrowed in a dark scowl. "Believe
what you want," Alexander countered. "Don't play
dumb with us, Alexander," Bernard snapped. "No
self-respecting Klingon would let us off the
hook." "That's right. Don't you Klingons have this thing
about defending your honor." Bernard put a
ridiculing emphasis on the word that made Alexander
bristle. Still, he held his temper even as the
impatient fury sparked. "You don't know anything
about honor, Bernard." "Maybe you don't, either."
Jeremy took a daring step forward. "Maybe you
didn't snitch because you knew we'd do something about
it." Gritting his teeth, Alexander fought the terrible,
burning desire to rip the smug, challenging sneer
off Jeremy's face.
  The sale of this book without its cover is
unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a
cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the
publisher "S as "unsold and destroyed." Neither
the author nor the publisher has received payment for the
sale of this "stripped book."
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons living or dead is entirely
coincidental.
  A MINSTREL PAPERBACK Original
  A Minstrel Book published by POCKET
BOOKS, a division of Simon and Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New
York, NY 10020
  Copyright 1997 by Paramount Pictures. All
rights reserved.
  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of
Paramount Pictures.
  This book is published by Pocket Books, a
division of Simon and Schuster Inc., under
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to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
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  ISBN: 0-671-01452-8
  First Minstrel Books printing October 1997
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon are
registered trademarks of Simon and Schuster Inc.
  Cover art by Michael Herring
  Printed in the U.s.a.
  Alexander Rozhenko was one-quarter human,
threequarters Klingon and totally furious!
  Sitting between his human grandparents in the shuttle
terminal at Earth Station Bobruisk, Alexander
stubbornly refused to look them in the eye.
He didn't want to relax or listen to reason.
He didn't want to see the troubled patience in
Sergey Rozhenko's eyes or the disappointment his
grandmother hid behind a stoical smile. But he
especially didn't want to see his father, Worf
  "I don't understand this hostility toward your father,
Alexander," Sergey said gently.
  "Nor do I." Helena sighed with deep sorrow.
"Worf is taking special leave from his duties
on Deep Space Nine just to come see you. So you can
celebrate the Klingon Day of Honor together. You
were so upset when he canceled his vacation plans
to visit Earth, we thought you'd be happy."
  Alexander's upper lip curled in a snarl, a
low, guttural expression of displeasure that was
distinctly and uncomfortably Klingon. It was the kind
of Klingon trait he usually struggled
to suppress. Now, he didn't bother to try. He
resented his grandparents" patronizing attitude
toward him.
  "He is taking emergency leave, and it's not because
he wants to celebrate his sacred Klingon
holiday with me!"
  Eyes flashing, Alexander snapped his gaze from his
grandfather to his grandmother, then focused straight
ahead. "My father is taking time away from his duty
because you asked him to come."
  Catching the worried glance that passed between the
elderly couple, Alexander choked back the hurtful
words he was about to add. It wasn't fair to take his
anger out on his grandparents. That made about as much
sense as blaming the Romulans who had attacked the
Khitomer Outpost in 2346. If they had killed
his father instead of leaving him alive at the age of
six, Sergey and Helena Rozhenko wouldn't have
adopted the orphaned Klingon and they wouldn't be
saddled with a problem they couldn't handle nowhim-their
mostly Klingon grandson. Desperate, the
Rozhenkos had turned to the one person in the
Federation who might be able to help: Lieutenant
Commander Worf, Strategic Operations Officer on
Deep Space Nine and the only Klingon in
Starfleet.
  Sergey glanced at the time. "Worf's shuttle
should be landing in a few minutes."
  Alexander stiffened when the old man gripped his
shoulder.
  "At least try to be civil, Alexander."
Removing his hand, Sergey spoke sternly.
"Regardless of your misguided feelings right
now, Worf is your father and you will treat him with
respect."
  Bristling, Alexander clenched his fists and
concentrated on the steady movement of air in and out of
his lungs. His grandfather rarely used that commanding tone of
voice with him. In the past, Alexander would have felt
ashamed and sorry for whatever he had done to deserve
it. This time, it took every ounce of his willpower not
to attack the old man.
  In. Ou. In. Ou.
  Alexander breathed, calming the explosive urge,
but not the emotional torment he felt. His mother,
K'Ehleyour, had been half-human and the Federation
ambassador to the K'mpec government in the Klingon
Empire before she was murdered by Duras. Like her,
Alexander had embraced human behavior and
customs with all his heart and soul. Now his cherished
human value system and code-of-conduct was being
threatened by a passion for violence that surged through his
veins like a virus.
  Alexander didn't know why, but he had suddenly
become prone to enraged fits of temper that were getting
harder to control. He was terrified that one day he
wouldn't be able to stop himself and someone would get hurt.
What he feared most was that the victim of his
fury would be his beloved grandfather or grandmother.
  And for " that reason alone, Alexander was glad his
father had agreed to visit Earth. He would rather die
than bring harm to the kindly couple that had given him
a loving home as they had his father before him. His
disruptive behavior had already caused his grandparents
more heartache and worry than he cared to admit. The
Rozhenkos did not have much to say about Worfs
adolescent years, either, which made him suspect that
his own faults were a lot worse than his father's had
been.
  Worf must have been a model child compared to him.
  And that thought caused another spasm of intense
anger to rise within him.
  "It's here." Helena stood up. Anxious and
excited, she gazed at the door where the disembarking
passengers from the shuttlecraft von Braun would
soon enter.
  Nudging his sullen grandson to his feet,
Sergey smiled tightly. "There is one thing you must
never forget, Alexander. Worf loves you very much and
nothing you do or say can change that."
  Alexander nodded curtly, still avoiding his
grandfather's gaze. He was certain of his father's
feelings, too, but with a twist that Sergey
didn't understand. Worf was Klingon and Klingons
valued honor above all. His father had made that
perfectly clear when he had gone back to the
Enterprise to live after spending a year on Earth
following his mother's death.
  Alexander thought back to the traumatic and
uncertain beginnings of his relationship with Worf.
Even then, he had become too much of a discipline
problem for the aging Rozhenkos to handle. Deanna
Troi, the counselor aboard the starship, had
recognized that his disgraceful lies and disruptive
behavior were expressions of his feelings of loss and
insecurity. Worf had understood and had decided not
to send him to a Klingon school as he had planned.
Being forgiven and accepted by his father had given him the
stability he needed to resolve his emotional
problems and explore his mixed heritage.
  But I'm not a scared little kid anymore,
Alexander thought dismally, and I don't have an
acceptable excuse this time. Dragged away from his post
on Deep Space Nine to deal with his unruly
son, Worf would feel angry, betrayed and
dishonored. Love didn't matter.
  Bracing himself, Alexander watched the door as a
stream of human and alien travelers walked
through. Most of them were civilians and families
returning from business trips or vacations on other
worlds. An occasional flash of Starfleet red,
blue or yellow caused the breath to catch in his
throat before the 'Silver sheen of the Klingon sash his
father wore caught his eye.
  Alexander couldn't help but feel a sense of awe
as the imposing Klingon moved into view. Tall and
muscular with an expression that always seemed grim,
Worf paused in the doorway to scan the crowded
waiting area. The human family ahead of him
fumbled with bundles of souvenirs and carry-on
baggage. He did not seem to notice the nervous
glances the man and woman cast over their shoulders at
him as they frantically tried to get out of his way.
In fact, Alexander realized, everyone in the waiting
area was giving him a wide berth and watching him
suspiciously.
  Which was no surprise to Alexander.
  Hostilities had broken out between the Federation and the
Klingon Empire after decades of peace. The
tenuous alliance had dissolved when Gowron led a
Klingon attack against the Cardassian Empire,
believing it had been infiltrated by the Dominion.
Starfleet had defended the Cardassians,
an insult and breach of faith the Klingon Empire
could not ignore even though Gowrol had started the
conflict because he was afraid and misinformed.
  Worf, a Starfleet officer, had fought against the
Klingons, but the uniform he wore with such fierce
pride, evidence of his loyalty to the Federation,
might as well have been invisible now. A mere
piece of black and red cloth could not negate
Worf's genetic heritage.
  Or mine, Alexander thought dismally.
  The boy wondered if his father was aware of the hostile
shunning he would experience on Earth because he was a
Klingon. Since the beginning of the break between the
Empire and the Federation, Alexander's life at
school and in the neighborhood had become a
nightmare. His uncontrollable temper had flared
up about the same time. He assumed the tantrums were
provoked by the cruel and unjust actions and
attitudes of his peers.
  "WorP." Helena waved and called to her
adopted son. "Over here!"
  Alexander tensed as his father greeted them with a slight
nod. There was no warmth in the hard eyes that met his
son's equally hard stare. As the boy expected, the
reunion was not going to be pleasant. He
had not even realized he was harboring a faint hope
that Worf would be glad to see him. The unspoken
rejection made his blood burn with a feverish
fury.
  "My boy!" Grinning, Sergey rushed forward,
accidently brushing against the human man scurrying out
of Worf's path. "Excuse me. I'm-was
  "Watch where you're going!" The man's son, a
large, husky boy about Alexander's age, shoved
Sergey aside. "Klingon lover!"
  Helena gasped and steadied Sergey as he stumbled
into her.
  "Howard!" The boy's father snapped, then paled.
  The boy glared at the Rozhenkos.
  Worf's eyes flashed and his lip quivered in a
silent snarl. Every muscle in his powerful body
tightened, poised to strike the boy who had pushed
Sergey, but he did not attack.
  In the fraction of a second Worf paused
to calm himself, and everyone else in the area became
frozen in shocked fear, Alexander reacted with pure
Klingon rage.
  Roaring, Alexander sprang toward Howard with his
clawed hands aimed at the fragile human throat.
The fury coursing through his young body blinded
him to everything except the need to destroy the
arrogant, offensive boy. Howard had insulted and
shoved one of the few people in the galaxy Alexander
loved.
  "Alexander! No!"
  Alexander barely heard his grandmother's scream as
he tackled the stunned boy, knocking him to the
ground. A strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him
off the shrieking human before his fingers closed around
tender flesh.
  "That is enough!" Worf barked.
  "Get him away!" Howard squealed as he
scooted backward, then scrambled to his feet.
"Get him away!"
  Infused with strength as the savagery locked in his
Klingon genes erupted, Alexander ripped free
of the hand that held him.
  Screeching with terror, Howard ran.
  "Alexander!"
  As Alexander gave chase, Worf's demanding
voice was lost in the thunder of his own blood pounding in
his
  ears. He was only vaguely aware of the
alien-dotted, human sea parting before him or the
shouts of those pursuing him. He was totally
focused on the panicked boy fleeing through the
terminal.
  Leaping luggage and darting between supporting pillars
and rows of seats, Alexander quickly closed the distance
between himself and his prey. The stench of human fear
flooded his nostrils, feeding the hunter frenzy that
drove him. A terminal security guard jumped
into the aisle ahead. Dodging to the right, Alexander
shoved the man and ran past.
  Howard looked back as the guard thudded against the
wall. Eyes widening in fear, he stumbled over his
own feet and sprawled on the tiled floor.
  The cry of victory rising in Alexander's
throat as he lunged toward the boy was abruptly
silenced. A hand with a grip like iron clamped around
his arm, stopping him dead in his tracks. He fought
against the hold, but this time he could not break free.
  "Alexander."
  The calm, commanding sound of his father's voice broke
through the fury. Pulse racing, Alexander blinked and
tried to still his rapid breathing. Through a slowly clearing
fog he saw Howard's parents help him up and
draw him into the comfort of their arms. Then his grandmother's
arms were around him, holding him close as she
murmured soothing sounds into his ear. He
buried his face against her chest and began to shake.
  If he had caught Howard, he might have killed
him.
  A strong, but gentle hand gripped his shoulder.
Alexander looked up, expecting his father to be
furious, but there was no anger in the warm brown eyes
that gazed
  down on him. Worf's face softened with relief
and worry and a tight-lipped smile of reassurance.
  Stunned, Alexander did not immediately realize that the
deep, unfamiliar voice he heard next was
addressing him.
  "You're under arrest."
  It'll be all right, Alexander," Helena
whispered. "You'll see."
  Alexander nodded and managed a wan smile
to please his grandmother, but he was sure nothing would ever be
all right again. He sat on one side of the Terminal
Security Office with the Rozhenkos. Howard
Chupek and his mother sat on the other side. Mr.
Chupek and Worf stood stiffly before the chief of
security's desk.
  Like two Starfleet Academy cadets on
report, Alexander thought glumly. Any chance there
had been of closing the emotional gap between
himself and his father was gone now. Worf would never forgive
him for this embarrassment. Just as the sins of the father brought
dishonor to the child in Klingon society, the sins of the child
dishonored the father.
  "I see no reason why this unfortunate situation
can not be settled rationally." Worf's deep base
voice resounded through the small room even though he
spoke with calm reserve.
  "Rationally?" Mr. Chupek blustered. "That
Klingon spitfire of yours would have ripped Howard
apart if you hadn't stopped him, Mr. Worf."
  Howard glanced at Alexander with a triumphant
smirk. The smug smile disappeared when Alexander
countered with a menacing stare.
  "My son was defending his grandfather," Worf argued
quietly. "I do not condone Alexander's methods,
Mr. Chupek. However, we would not be here now if
your son had not insulted and pushed my father to begin with."
  Security Chief Clausen flicked an
anxious gaze between the two fathers. He seemed
concerned that they might pick up the fight where the boys
had left off.
  "Your father?" The man frowned uncertainly.
  "That is correct." Shifting his attention back
to Chief Clausen, Worf used Mr.
Chupek's confused silence to press the advantage.
"My son is going through a phase that is difficult
for a young Klingon under ordinary circumstances."
  What does he mean by "conPhase"?
Alexander shifted uncomfortably, losing all
interest in Howard. He didn't think of himself as a
Klingon. The idea that he might not be able to stop
acting like one was very disturbing.
  "And your point, Lieutenant Commander Worf?"
Chief Clausen prodded cautiously.
  "Present hostilities between the Federation and the
Empire are compounding the . . Worf hesitated,
groping for an acceptable word. . . problem. Howard
Chupek's insulting actions are a perfect
example of why this is so."
  "My son may have exercised poor judgment,"
Mr. Chupek said hotly, "but an insult hardly
justifies your son's violent behavior!"
  Alexander tensed and clenched his teeth. His
grandmother's hand closed over his wrist, an alarming
reminder that the rage could escape if he let down
his guard for even an instant.
  "The boy was provoked." A glint of warning
flared in Worf's eyes, but he remained in total
control.
  "Mr. Chupek," Chief Clausen said sternly.
"I would prefer to resolve this incident without causing
irreparable harm to either boy. I'd appreciate it
if you'd allow Mr. Worf to finish without further
interruption."
  Mr. Chupek nodded, but his cheeks flamed red.
  "Thank you, Chief Clausen," Worf said.
"I have come to Earth for the sole purpose of helping
Alexander adjust to certain changes in his life.
If you will release him into my custody, I give you
my word as a Starfleet officer that he will cause no
further trouble."
  "Not if I have anything to say about it!" Mr.
Chupek bellowed. Placing his hands on the desk,
he glared at the security chief. "I'm pressing
charges against that alien delinquent for assault with
intent to do bodily harm!
  You can't just release him on this-this Klingon's
word!"
  Alexander inhaled sharply, expecting his father to lash
out at the human who dared question his given word. It
wasn't because he was a Starfleet officer, either. It
was a matter of Klingon honor.
  A Klingon's word is his bond Without it he is
nothing.
  Worf would rather die than break an oath.
Alexander didn't understand why his father clung so
fervently to this as well as other rigid Klingon
traditions, but he did. In Klingon society,
Mr. Chupek's reckless accusationthat Worf would
not do as he promised-would have triggered an attack that
might have cost the imprudent
  man his life. But the only evidence of his father's
intense indignation was a squaring of the shoulders and a
narrowed, penetrating stare.
  Chief Clausen was not easily intimidated,
either.
  "You are quite wrong in that regard, Mr. Chupek."
  rising, the security man's scowl faded as he
turned to Worf. "Since no one was injured, no
property was damaged and both boys were instrumental in
causing the incident, I'll let Alexander go with a
warning this time. Take your son home, Mr.
Worn" Mr. Chupek sputtered, too angry
to speak.
  Sergey nodded in approval.
  Helena squeezed Alexander's arm and smiled.
"See? I told you it would work out."
  Alexander just stared in disbelief. The security
chief's leniency surprised him almost as much
as his father's defense and request on his behalf. He
had been positive that Worf would insist he take
responsibility for his outrageous conduct and pay
whatever penalty the law required.
  Then again, Alexander thought, as Worf executed a
stiff bow and turned away from Chief Clausen
to face him. Maybe he preferred to make me pay
in some horrible Klingon ritual that was for worse
than anything Federation law would demand He had seen
that frustrated frown on his father's face too often
when they had lived together on the Enterprise.
  Worf gestured toward the door and waited for the
Rozhenkos and Alexander to go first.
  Getting to his feet, Alexander gladly turned
his back on his father to leave. Worf's dark,
unblinking eyes were as cold as the ridged Klingon
face was impassive. The troubles he had blindly
plunged into when he had
  rushed to his grandfather's defense were far from over.
  They were just beginning.
  Flanked by his grandparents and with his father watching every
move from behind, Alexander felt like a condemned
prisoner being marched through the terminal. No one
spoke, which only added to his anxiety. By the time
they had picked up his father's duffel bag and
arrived at the local shuttle stand, his nerves were
dangerously on edge. Slipping into the front seat
of the vehicle, he sat in brooding silence while his
father programmed the Rozhenkos' residential
coordinates into the automated navigation system.
  Helena leaned forward as the shuttle lifted off the
ground. "I'm making your favorite dinner tonight,
Worf."
  Worf glanced back. "Rokeg blood pie?"
  "What else?" Sergey shuddered with disgust. "I
still haven't acquired a taste for it. Never will,
either."
  "I'm making a pot roast, too, Sergey,"
Helena said, patting her husband's knee. "You can
tell your stomach to relax."
  Laughing, Worf settled back to watch the green
hills and valleys of the Russian landscape skim
by below.
  The family small talk and ensuing quiet
strained Alexander's nerves even further. His
grandparents were chattering about Klingon glop for dinner
as though his father had just dropped by for a casual visit
instead of coming halfway across the galaxy to deal with
him. His life was falling apart and everyone was acting like
nothing was wrong.
  As the shuttle began its descent over Mimee
Doleena, Alexander squirmed in his seat. Staring
down at the small town where he lived and went
to school stoked the
  fires. Mirnee Doleena translated as
Peaceful Valley and the community had been exactly
that when he had come to live with his grandparents on Earth
again. But the town was not a welcoming, tranquil
haven anymore. Between the Federation's renewed
conflict with the Klingon Empire and his own
uncontrollable temper, the local population had
reason to despise him. Consequently, he had
to cope with the vicious prejudice of strangers he
met on the street as well as intolerant
classmates who had once been his friends.
  Alexander didn't blame them, but it was
impossible to ignore the unfair and painful torment.
He didn't have anything to do with the troubles between the
Federation and the Empire and he had chosen to embrace
his humanity in spite of his predominantly
Klingon heritage. The rages were as much his enemy as
anyone's.
  Except for him, there was nowhere to run to escape
them.
  Like now.
  He could feel his temper racing toward critical
mass. He had to get away from his father and grandparents
long enough to calm down-or until the rage ran its
course.
  Struggling to contain the anger, Alexander slammed his
hand against the door latch when the shuttle touched down
on the drive leading up to the Rozhenkos' modest
house. As the door whooshed open, he sprang out and
started to run toward the tall trees bordering the
front lawn.
  "Alexander!"
  Worf yelled as Alexander leaped over his
grandmother's carefully tended bed of brilliantly
colored rosebushes. He reacted instinctively
to his father's sharp command and whirled as he landed.
  "Alexander, wait." Rushing around the front of the
shuttle, Worf paused, then slowly advanced.
  "It's all right, Alexander," Sergey pleaded as
he stepped down from the rear compartment. "We're not
angry with you."
  But Alexander was angry and the rage deafened him to the
concerned words. Feeling cornered and pushed to the
limit, he gave in to the overwhelming fury.
  A fury that was getting more violent and powerful with
each outburst.
  A fury that had to have an outlet.
  Alexander attacked the only thing within reach.
Screeching, he pulled Helena's prized hybrid
rosebush out of the ground by the roots and tore it apart.
Delicate yellow petals and green leaves rained
on the grass around him. Sharp thorns dug into his
skin, drawing blood. He did not even notice the
pain until he tightened his grip on the main stern.
A large thorn drove into his palm, piercing the
enraged daze as effectively as it had pierced his
tender flesh. His mind cleared in an agonizing
instant.
  Alexander stared at the demolished remains of the
rosebush in shock. Limp roots dangled from the
trunk he still held in his hand. Looking up, he
saw his grandparents and his father staring back.
  Worf's jaw flexed.
  Sergey's gentle eyes filled with stunned pain.
  Helena's hand covered her mouth and her face was
ghostly pale. The glorious Butter Beauty
Rose she had
  cultivated, pruned and raised with such pride and
loving care was dead.
  And he had killed it.
  Dropping the thorned trunk, Alexander
ran. This time, his father's booming voice could not call
him back.
  Although the Rozhenkos' house was within walking distance
of the small town, it was nestled on the edge of an
expansive forest. Alexander sped across the lawn and
darted into the cover of the thick woods. His worst fear
had been realized. Destroying his grandmother's
favorite rosebush was almost as bad as attacking
Helena herself
  Avoiding the deer trails he and his grandfather used
on their morning and evening strolls, Alexander drove
deeper into the forest. The sound of Worf and Sergey's
calling voices became muffled by the dense
foliage, then faded completely into the quiet of the
wilderness. Ashamed and confused, he kept running.
Not because he was afraid of being yelled at or
punished. He simply couldn't face the hurt and
disappointment in his grandmother's eyes or his father's
Klingon judgment.
  Dry leaves crackled under Alexander's pounding
feet. Brambles and broken branches scratched his
skin and ripped his jumpsuit as he crashed through
overgrown
  tangles of brush. Jumping from one moss-covered
rock to another to cross a wide stream, he
slipped and fell. Snarling with frustration as he
scrambled to his feet, he plunged through the rushing
water and clawed his way up the far bank. Mud and
leaves clung to his wet hands, clothes and hair,
but he ignored the discomfort. The thunder of water
cascading over rocks in the woods upstream called
to the savage essence of his Klingon blood, and he
ran toward it.
  Heart thudding against his ribs and breathless,
Alexander finally stopped when his sleeve snagged on
a young tree. Freeing himself, he sank to his
knees a short distance from the high, roaring waterfall
and focused on the spindly tree that was struggling
to survive in the dim light. The canopy of leaves
crowning its towering parent blocked the sun. His rage
and energy spent, Alexander was suddenly consumed by a
sorrowful empathy with the frail sapling.
  Sighing with despair, Alexander sat and dropped
his head into his folded arms. When he sensed his father
moving through the forest and heard him call, he did not
look up or try to flee.
  "Alexander." Worf strode through the trees to stand
before him. "We must talk."
  "Just go away and leave me alone."
  Worf stood his ground. "You are not
to blame for what happened today. I am."
  Alexander looked up sharply. "No, you're not!
I'm the one who chased Howard Chupek through the
terminal and tore up Grandma's rosebush!"
  Nodding, Worf eased his bulk down onto a
nearby log. "Do you know why?"
  "Yeah! Because I'm a Klingon and Klingons are
always mad and want to fight all the time!" Tears
stung Alexander's eyes.
  "That is not true," Worf said. "A race that was
always mad and fought all the time wouldn't survive."
  was What's happening to me isn't funny!" In the
past, his father's attempt at humor would have both
surprised and amused Alexander. Now, it was a
dangerous annoyance that poked and prodded the anger.
  "I was not trying to be funny," Worf said
calmly. "Even the Klingon Empire needs
farmers and craftsmen. If everyone fought constantly,
nothing would get done. We would still be prowling the
comforests with wooden spears."
  "So Klingon farmers don't get mad?"
Alexander asked sarcastically.
  "I did not say that." Worf paused to eye
Alexander with thoughtful concern. "We are a highly
aggressive race. It is in our blood,
the core of what we are-of who you are. But it is not
the end of the world. Every problem has a solution and this one
is no different."
  "Oh, yeah! How would you know?" Jumping to his
feet, Alexander glared at his father. Worf was
talking to him with the calm understanding he had always wanted
when they were together on the Enterprise. Why was he
suddenly so furious with him? Bewildered and
frustrated, Alexander started to pace.
  "I know because I am a Klingon, too."
  Alexander kept walking, too intent on fighting
his mounting agitation to respond.
  was Your body is going through some intense physical
changes because you are growing up," Worf explained.
"And those changes are causing these violent
outbursts."
  "So that's what you meant by "phase" in
Chief
  Clausen's office."
  "Yes." Worf's face clouded slightly, as
though he had momentarily drifted off to another
place. "Every young Klingon experiences difficulty
controlling the impulses that make them great
warriors."
  "So I'm stuck with being like this?" This was
something he had suspected since the violent
tantrums had begun a few weeks ago, but having
his father confirm the awful truth out loud was a shock
anyway. There was one thing he had always been sure
of, something he had told his father when they had first started
getting to know each other. He didn't want to be a
warrior!
  The emotional impact unlocked still more of
Alexander's innate Klingon traits. His blood
burned hotter, enhancing his senses. Every leaf and
twig came into sharp focus and every nuance of sound
rang crystal clear in his ears. The tang of
decaying leaves and pungent fungi teased his nose,
making him keenly aware of every subtle scent rising
on the still air.
  Worf started slightly. "You are stuck with your
Klingon genes-was
  His father's voice blended with the forest sounds,
unheard as Alexander's attention was drawn to an
enticing aroma.
  Warm muscle and fur.
  Prey.
  A rabbit crouched in the thicket to the left, still
except for the twitching nose and the quiet heaving of its
life's breath.
  "comb that does not mean you can not conquer the impulses
they generate."
  The scent of fear was irresistible. With every muscle
tensed and primed, Alexander savored the anticipation
coursing through his hunter veins for a moment before he
sprang. With a quickness and agility he did not know he
had, he snatched the cowering rabbit from the brush. His
own chest heaving with exhilaration, he clutched the
fear-frozen animal by the throat and whirled to face
his father.
  "Your skills are excellent, Alexander. If
we were on a ritual hunt, I would be very proud of
your prowess."
  Rising slowly, Worf stepped forward. "Are you
hungry?"
  The blunt question disrupted Alexander's feeling of
triumph but did not dampen the instinct to hunt and
kill. His pulse raced and his hand tightened around the
prey's fragile neck. It would be so easy
to squeeze the life out of the dangling body, but his
mind rebelled against causing a senseless death.
  "No-was 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.
  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.
  was 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.
  "and No, I don't have any plans." Picking
up the dropped biscuit, Alexander buttered it.
"Why?"
  "Well-was Sergey swallowed. "Worf thought you
might like to join him for his Mokbara workout today."
  "I have your things ready." Helena gestured toward
a neatly folded stack of white clothes on the
counter. "Just in case."
  was 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 Mokbara 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 Mokbara 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-was
  "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 Mokbara 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 Mokbara 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 Mokbara.
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 Mokbara 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 Afokbara 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
KlingonFederation 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."
  Speechless, 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.
  And sooner or later someone would get hurt-or
worse.
  Out of my way, lumphead!" Shoving Alexander
aside, Bernard Umbaya laughed and kept walking
down the crowded school hallway.
  As Alexander stumbled backward against his locker,
his PADD slipped out of his hand. When he leaned
over to pick up the compact computer, a foot stomped
down on it.
  A Tellarite exchange student walking
by snorted with jeering disgust. Two girls heading in the
opposite direction giggled.
  "Get off it!" Alexander snapped, then looked
up into Jeremy Sullivan's scowling face.
  Somehow, he had managed to avoid a direct
confrontation with Jeremy and his friends during the previous
two days. Using the Mokbara mental skills his
father had taught him, he had also managed to appear
unaffected and in control when the other kids had
shunned or insulted him. A lot of them had given
up trying to provoke him. His faked indifference
  took the fun out of it. Jeremy was not so easily
put off.
  was Your PADD doesn't belong on the floor,
Klingon!" Blue eyes gleaming with arrogance,
Jeremy lifted his foot, then kicked the PADD
away when Alexander reached for it. The personal
access display device shot across the corridor and
banged against the far wall.
  Alexander froze, silently counting to ten as he
tried to confine the rage. His pulse and breathing quickened
as he locked gazes with the red-haired boy. He
kept counting, desperately wishing Jeremy would just
move on before the rage won. But Jeremy
didnt move and Kim Ho suddenly appeared beside
him. Surrounded with his back against the wall,
Alexander rose into a defensive posture, fists
clenched at his sides.
  "You don't scare me, Alexander." Jeremy
leaned toward him, his voice low and intimidating.
"Starfleet officers aren't afraid of Klingon
dogs like you."
  "We're not Starfleet officers, yet," Kim
said with an uneasy glance at Alexander.
  "But we will be." Jeremy's jaw flexed as his
hateful gaze bore into Alexander.
  Alexander stared back, his hard nails biting into the
skin of his palms as he tightened his fists. One more
word and Jeremy Sullivan would be heading toward the
nurse's office with a broken jaw.
  "Come on." Kim tugged on Jeremy's
sleeve. "We're gonna be late."
  Jeremy's cold gaze remained fastened on
Alexander as Kim pulled him into the stream of
students on their way to class. "Watch yourself,
Klingon."
  Feeling the rage begin to slip past his defenses,
Alexander whirled and slammed his fist into the locker.
Hearing a startled cry, he snapped his head
around and gasped.
  Brown eyes wide with anxious uncertainty,
Suzanne Milton stood beside him clutching his
PADD. She shoved it toward him. "You dropped
this."
  Swallowing hard, Alexander self-consciously
took the PADD. Suzanne sat behind him in
fundamental physics and he had become
uncomfortably aware of her recently. She had
long, flowing brown hair and freckles and he had
often caught her watching him with guarded curiosity.
Convinced that she would refuse any friendly overtures,
he had not had the courage to start a conversation. Now that
she was here, talking and being nice, he felt totally
tongue-tied.
  "Jeremy can be such a jerk." Suzanne smiled
shyly.
  "Thanks." Alexander smiled back and was
appalled when the smile turned into a guttural
snarl.
  Drawing back with surprised indignation,
Suzanne turned and walked away.
  "I'm sorry. . . ." Slumping against his
locker, Alexander watched as she disappeared into a
classroom. The bright, pretty girl was the
only person in school who had been friendly toward
him in weeks! He was sure she wouldn't make that
mistake again. He had snarled in her face! No
wonder humans despised Klingons.
  Keying in his lock code, Alexander opened his
locker and took out a data bar. He had had
library authorization coded into the pass earlier.
Although he could access any information he needed for his
paper on thermal dynamics with his PADD, he
preferred working in the library to being in regular study
hall. The rows of computers and long, tall stacks
of old-fashioned bound
  books provided a seclusion that wasn't
possible in an open classroom.
  As he trudged up the stairs to the second
floor, Alexander was only vaguely aware of the
sneers and whispered comments of the other students he
passed. His anger at himself for growling at
Suzanne was potentially more explosive than an
anger directed at someone else. He imagined he
was climbing a treacherous mountain, a mental
exercise that kept his mind focused on his feet
instead of on the disturbing incident with Suzanne.
  "Hello, Alexander." The librarian, Ms.
Marconi, smiled tightly as he handed her
the pass. "How are you today?"
  "Fine," Alexander mumbled. Before his Klingon
temper had emerged to totally disrupt his life, he
had liked the attractive librarian. Slim with
shoulder-length blond hair and laughing green eyes,
Ms. Marconi had always treated him with respect and
kindness. But she wasn't fooling him with her
pleasant attitude now. Last week he had almost
smashed a computer screen when it failed to respond
to a simple voice command. He had roared and kicked
the sturdy desk instead. No permanent damage had
been done, but the outburst had brought him dangerously
close to being banned from the library for the rest of the
semester. Ms. Marconi wasn't worried about
him. She was worried about the safety of the library,
its contents and the students in her charge.
  "S. What's on your agenda this time?" Ms.
Marconi ran the pass through a scanner to check the
authorization, then gave it back.
  "Physics." Jamming the data bar into his
pocket, Alexander nodded toward the towering shelves
of bound books. "I want to look up a few things
in the original texts."
  "Oh." Ms. Marconi smiled, looking both
relieved that he wouldn't be using the computers
and nervous because he would be using the precious
leather-bound books with paper pages. "Let me know
if you have trouble finding anything."
  "Okay." Alexander hurried away from the front
desk and quickly found a table in a far corner. No
one else was in sight. Grabbing a physics
reference book off the shelf just in case Ms.
Marconi came by to check on him, Alexander eased
into the corner chair.
  Concealed by high shelves lined with books of
different sizes and colors, he settled down
to work, hoping the hour would pass without interruption.
He had only two classes after this. With luck,
he'd get through another day without starting a fight or
breaking something. There were only two more days to go
until the Batlh Jaj, the Day of Honor, and his
vow to his father remained unbroken.
  Alexander was surprised at how much that meant
to him. Thinking about it in the quiet solitude of the
library, he realized that the significance of the
Batlh Jaj went far beyond a holiday that
celebrated the Klingons' unwavering dedication
to honor. It was the oath itself. The belief that a
person was only as trustworthy and strong as his given
word was the one Klingon tradition he agreed
with without reservation. It was the first lesson Worf had
taught him on the Enterprise. More importantly,
swearing to abide by it had been the first solid thread
binding them together as father and son.
  Honor bound.
  He would rather suffer a horrible punishment than
disgrace himself and his father by breaking his promise.
  "I'm not kidding," a boy's voice insisted.
"It's a first edition of Zefram Cochrane's The
Potential of Warp Propulsion and it has a
type error in it."
  "They called that a typo." Kim corrected
Bernard as they walked around the end of the long
bookcase forming an aisle that ran along the back
wall.
  Sitting at the far end of the row, Alexander held
his breath as Jeremy followed, looking bored.
  "So what?" Jeremy asked.
  "So he corrected and initialed it." Bernard
scanned the upper shelves, looking for the volume.
  "No, he didn't," Jeremy scoffed. "Some
joker with a replicated pen initialed it so fools like
you would think Zefram Cochrane did."
  Kim noticed Alexander and tapped Jeremy on
the shoulder.
  Alexander stiffened, sensing that his oath was about to be
tested. He reinforced the heavy, metal door
imprisoning the imaginary lion in his mind with a huge
padlock and several duranium bars. As long as the
symbolic beast didn't get out, his very real rage
wouldn't escape, either.
  "Well, well. Look who's here." Jeremy
sauntered down the aisle with Bernard and Kim
close behind. They stationed themselves around the table,
blocking Alexander's only way out. "What's a
Klingon doing in a library?"
  "My homework," Alexander said evenly.
  "On what?" Bernard grinned and nudged Kim.
"The only thing Klingons are any good at is
hunting and killing."
  "Like the savages you are," Kim added. He
wasn't smiling. "My uncle was killed in a
Klingon raid near the Cardassian border."
  "I'm sorry." Tense with the effort of caging his
temper, Alexander knew he didn't sound as
sincere as he felt. "But I didn't have anything
to do with that."
  "You're a Klingon, aren't you?" Eyes narrowed,
Kim lunged toward the table with his fist raised.
Jeremy, the undisputed leader of the trio,
put a staying hand on Kim's chest. Bristling,
Kim stepped back.
  "I'm surprised Ms. Marconi let you back
in after the fit you threw last week." Thumbing through the
physics reference book on the table by Alexander's
PADD, Jeremy frowned. "This is a Starfleet
reference!"
  Alexander didn't respond. The rage was gaining
strength. The imaginary lion repeatedly threw itself
at the metal door in his mind. The door boomed and
bowed, snapping one of the duranium bars and cracking
another. Closing his eyes, he mentally replaced the
broken bar with a newer, stronger one. It broke almost
instantly when Jeremy grabbed the front of his
shirt.
  "Are you spying for the Empire?"
  "I am a Federation citizen." Alexander's lip
curled in a snarl, revealing sharp canine teeth.
His gaze was like a steel rod boring into Jeremy's
eyes. "My father is a Starfleet officer."
  "Right. And my father's an Orion pirate!"
Jeremy talked tough and released his hold with a
flourish, but Alexander didn't miss the flash of
uncertainty on his face.
  Lowering his gaze to stare at the edge of the
table, Alexander hoped Jeremy would take it as a
sign of defeat and leave. What he really needed was
to focus on something nonthreatening while he willed the
fury into submission. Every muscle strained in the
struggle to subdue an enemy far more dangerous than
Jeremy Sullivan.
  Falling for the ploy, Jeremy backed off.
  Alexander continued to stare at the table, afraid
to look up before the rage was completely gone.
  "Ready?" Jeremy's quiet voice pierced
Alexander's concentration. "One. Two . . ."
  Too late Alexander realized that his tormentors
had not left, but had only retreated to execute a
more damaging plan. His gaze snapped up.
  Standing behind the end section of the aisle bookcases,
Jeremy, Bernard and Kim pushed the stack over on
the count of three. The shelving unit wasn't tall
enough to reach and crush their Klingon target, but it would
hit the table, trapping him behind it.
  A combination of fear and fury broke through all of
Alexander's mental defenses. Shrieking, he
vaulted over the table as the bookcase toppled and the
three boys darted for cover. He was only a
split-second short of jumping clear when the unit
crashed, spilling books all over the
floor. The top corner edge landed on his sleeve,
pinning his shirt to the top of the table.
  Snarling with frustration, Alexander yanked his arm and
tore his shirt. The sound of ripping fabric calmed
the rage, but that wouldn't help him now.
  Ms. Marconi and several curious students
rushed up to the fallen bookcase to stare at the mess
and him. Jeremy, Bernard and Kim had disappeared.
The librarian looked like she was on the verge of
tears in spite of
  her troubled frown, but Alexander didn't harbor
any illusions about why she was upset. Her grief
was for the dumped and battered books, not for the Klingon
boy who was so obviously guilty of the crime. She
showed no mercy.
  "The principal's office, Alexander," Ms.
Marconi said in a flat voice. She pointed
toward the door. "Now."
  Alexander sat ramrod straight and as unmoving as
stone, his eyes riveted on the bulletin board
hanging on the wall across from him. He had not shifted
position since arriving at the school office over
an hour before. His grandmother had not been able to contact his
father immediately after Mrs. Miyashi called, but Worf
was on his way now. Alexander focused on the
hard bench, welcoming the discomfort. It helped him
imprison the fury aroused because he had been
falsely and unjustly accused. It also distracted
him from his anxiety over the impending and unavoidable
conflict with his father.
  The bell for the last period of the day rang.
  Alexander watched the wall, bearing the disgusted
sighs of the office personnel and the cloaked glances of
students in stoical silence. There was nothing he could
do to alter their distorted perceptions of him. No
human understood the degree to which a Klingon valued
his honor.
  And in this, Alexander realized, he was truly
Klingon.
  He would not break his silence just as he had not
broken his oath.
  His only regret was that his father would not know the
truth.
  All eyes turned toward the door as Worf
strode through it. Everyone but Alexander held their
breath. Even dressed in a casual shirt, loose
pants and boots with his long hair clipped at the
base of his neck, his father was an imposing and
impressive sight.
  Resolved not to shame himself further in his
father's eyes, Alexander kept his expression blank
when Worf paused before him. Neither one said a word as
he stood up and they approached the counter.
  "You must be Alexander's father." Mrs.
Miyashi's voice singsonged with a nervous lilt.
  "Yes."
  The single word spoken in a deep, commanding bass
set the office clerk fluttering to the end of the counter.
"I'm sure Mr. Houseman will see you immediately."
  con"That would be appreciated."
  'allyes, of course. Right this way." Nodding
vigorously, Mrs. Miyashi rushed to the
principal's office to announce their arrival.
  If he hadn't been in so much trouble, Alexander
would have smiled. Aside from the fear all Klingons
evoked because of their appearance and reputation, his father had
a way of sounding intimidating even when that wasn't his
intention. Few outside himself had ever experienced the
unique sensitivity his father hid so well.
  But I don't think I'm going to see that side of
him today, Alexander thought as he followed Worf
into Mr. Houseman's office.
  Tall, muscular and a commanding personality himself,
Mr. Houseman motioned for Alexander and Worf
to sit in the chairs in front of his desk.
"Thank you for coming so promptly, Lieutenant
Commander. I regret having to call you in, but
Alexander's unruly behavior seems to be getting
worse."
  "So I have heard."
  Worf did not even glance in his direction and
Alexander cringed inwardly, but like his father, his face
revealed none of the emotions churning within. He was
determined to conduct himself with dignity. Fixing his
gaze directly ahead, he listened without fidgeting
as the principal explained what had happened in the
library.
  "There was a similar, although less destructive
incident last week," Mr. Houseman finished.
"We did give him a warning."
  Worf turned to address Alexander. "Is that
true?"
  "Yes," Alexander said, still staring at the wall.
His, father asked the question in a way that allowed him
to answer honestly. "I kicked a desk and I was
warned."
  Worf nodded, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I find it
very difficult to believe you would deliberately
destroy a bookcase after you gave me your word."
  Alexander didn't respond. It
wasn't a question.
  Hoping to head off a dispute, Mr. Houseman
interjected. "No one else was in the vicinity,
Mr. Worf."
  Worf's brow furrowed for a long moment before he
pressed Alexander. "Do you have anything to say?"
  "No, sir." Alexander could not defend or clear
himself without snitching on Jeremy, Bernard and Kim.
And that was something he simply couldn't afford to do. They
would launch a campaign of unbridled revenge and
he did not trust his ability to cage the fury. It
was growing too powerful and at a much faster rate than
his progress with the Mokbara.
  The three arrogant and unsuspecting boys could not
possibly survive an encounter with him.
  He wouldn't survive the oppressive guilt,
especially if he ignored a way to avoid a
fatal confrontation to save himself. His father had killed
someone accidently. Yet, as strong and confident as
Worf was, even he couldn't exorcise the guilt
that haunted him.
  The bitter alternative was to let his father believe
he had lost his temper in the library, toppled the
bookcase and broken his promise.
  Alexander swallowed a sigh. Suffering
Worf's disappointment would hurt, but no one would
die from it. Besides, his father would be returning to Deep
Space Nine in a few more days. He had to live
with Jeremy Sullivan.
  And himself.
  Growing anxious in the prolonged silence, Mr.
Houseman cleared his throat. "I am not
unsympathetic to-the fact that things have become rather
difficult for Alexander, given the recent
hostilities and a general lack of understanding between our
two cultures."
  Giving no indication of his inner feelings, Worf
turned back to the principal. "Unfortunately, that
is quite true. However, Alexander's loyalties do
not lie with the Klingon Empire."
  "No, of course not." Mr. Houseman shifted
uncomfortably, weighing his options. "But I can't
let his actions go unpunished. A week of
detention, beginning tomorrow. Since his last class has
already started, you may as well take Alexander home
now."
  "Is that acceptable to you, Alexander?"
  For the first time since entering the office, Alexander
looked at his father. It seemed like an odd question, but
  nothing in Worf's eyes or expression
gave him a clue as to why he had asked it. In the
overall scope of things, that hardly seemed
important. "Yes, sir."
  con"...Then the matter is settled." Worf stood
up.
  'ationot quite," Mr. Houseman added quickly. "If
anything like this happens again, I'll have no choice but
to expel Alexander from this school."
  was Understood. Good day, Mr. Houseman."
Worf deftly dismissed the principal and motioned
Alexander out the door.
  Even through his daze of despair, Alexander heard
Mr. Houseman sigh with relief as they left his
office.
  When Worf pointed him toward the nearest exit,
Alexander stopped. "I have to put my data bar in
my locker. We're not allowed to take them out of the
building."
  "Very well."
  As Alexander led the way through the deserted
corridors, his anxiety increased. His father's
unemotional calm was worse than the flustered
displays of annoyance he had exhibited on the
Enterprise. Worf had been completely out of his
element when he first accepted the
responsibility of fatherhood. In his confused and
frightened innocence, Alexander had been able to reduce
the noble Klingon to a state of sputtering, bewildered
frustration when not even the High Council's decree
of discommendation two years before had caused a
ripple in Worf's veneer of proud poise. He
knew because Counselor Deanna Troi had found his
unusual effect on his father both fascinating and
amusing.
  Alexander wasn't fascinated or amused now.
Worf's apparent unconcern was making him more
nervous and upset than the furious lectures ever
had. Why wasn't his
  father turning with anger? The boy choked back a
gasp of alarm. Maybe Worf didn't care enough
about him anymore to be devastated and disappointed
by his misbehavior!
  "Here it is." Alexander paused in front of the
locker, and froze, his worry about his father's feelings
suspended for a moment.
  Suzanne Milton was walking briskly toward
them with her own data bar clutched in her hand. As she
passed, she raised her chin and tossed her long
hair over her shoulder. The deliberate snub hit
Alexander like a bucket of ice water.
  Worf frowned. "Is this how everyone treats you?"
  "Mostly." Sighing, Alexander keyed in his lock
code. Since it didn't seem possible to make his
situation worse, he decided to confess all. "But
Suzanne has a real reason. She was being nice
and I snarled at her."
  Stunned, Worf blinked, then leaned closer.
"Snarled at her?"
  "I didn't mean to insult her. It just happened.
I still can't believe it." Shaking his head, Alexander
pulled the data bar out of his pocket. He was
prepared to accept whatever punishment his father had in
store for him when they got home, but he wasn't
prepared for what he saw when he looked back
around. Worf was headed down the hall toward
Suzanne.
  Aghast, Alexander sagged against his locker and
watched helplessly. If the girl's view of the
hall hadn't been blocked by her open locker
door, she probably would have run screaming in
terror. However, Worf took her by surprise with a
smile. She's probably too shocked to scream,
Alexander thought miserably, wondering and yet not
really wanting to know what his father was up to.
  When Worf finished speaking, Suzanne
nodded, then dashed to the side exit.
  Closing the locker door, Alexander confronted his
father when he returned. "Why did Suzanne run
out of the building? What did you say to her!"
  "She was excused early because she has a
rehearsal for a dance recital," Worf said.
  "Oh."
  "And I explained that when a Klingon boy snarls
at a girl, it is a compliment, an expression
of-affection."
  "What?" Alexander's mouth fell open. He
couldn't deny that he liked Suzanne and wanted to be
friends. But even if that happened, which didn't seem
likely now, it was foolish to think a friendship could ever
develop into something more when they got older. "But
she's a girl! I mean, she's pretty and smart
andhuman."
  "She seemed pleased."
  "She did?" Alexander frowned uncertainly.
He wasn't sure which was more confounding: Suzanne's
attitude toward a complimentary Klingon snarl or
his father's efforts to rectify the unintended
misunderstanding.
  Worf urged him toward the door. "Human
females are unpredictable, almost without
exception. And many of them are not as fragile as they
look."
  Human females aren't the only ones who are
unpredictable, Alexander thought. His father was doing a
pretty good job of throwing him completely
off-guard, too.
  Late the next afternoon, Alexander watched the
seconds flash by on the detention hall clock, but
he wasn't watching the time. He was lost in puzzled
thought. After returning home the day before, Worfs
attitude of unruffled acceptance had not wavered.
He had neither dictated a punishment nor said
another word about the library incident. Even his
grandmother had seemed perplexed.
  Alexander was pretty sure the startling change in
his father's attitude was not because he didn't care.
If that were the case, Worf wouldn't have tried
to correct the problem with Suzanne. It was also
safe to assume that the Starfleet officer with the
Klingon soul would not accept a dishonorable act in
patient, unaffected silence.
  Which, Alexander finally had to conclude, could only
mean that somehow Worf knew he had not pushed over the
bookcase, that his honor-bound promise not to break
anything in a fit of temper was intact.
  Alexander smiled as the significance of that sank
in. Worf's belief, based solely on faith
without supporting evidence, was a demonstration of the
absolute trust he had always hoped to earn, but never
honestly thought he could.
  The only question that remained was why his father hadn't
challenged Ms. Marconi's and Mr. Houseman's
assumption that he was guilty, especially since
Worf obviously thought he was innocent.
  "That's all for today. You're free to go."
  Alexander shook himself out of his reverie as Mr.
Cunningham dismissed him, the only student in the
classroom. He didn't care. Discovering how much
his father trusted him was worth spending a whole semester
in detention. However, it was only five days.
  One down antifour to go.
  He didn't even mind having to stay late at
school tomorrow on the Batlh Jaj, Alexander
realized as he grabbed his PADD and ran for the
door.
  was Walk!" Mr. Cunningham smiled as
Alexander skidded to a halt. "Please, Mr.
Rozhenko."
  "Yes, sir." Grinning, Alexander made a show
of walking as fast as he could without breaking
into a jog until he burst through the doors to the
outside. Leaping into the air, he laughed aloud.
For the first time in a long time, he had actually had a
good day.
  Jeremy, Bernard and Kim had left him alone.
Since they hadn't been hauled into the principal's
office, they must have figured out that he hadn't accused
them. Maybe that had made them reevaluate their
unfair attitudes and tactics. More likely,
they were just afraid he'd change his mind and tell if
they continued to torment him. Either way, their absence had
made it
  much easier for him to control the persistent rage.
The twinges of annoyance he had felt during the day
had quickly been suppressed.
  On the other hand, he had avoided Suzanne.
In spite of his father's impression, he wasn't at
all sure her reaction to his unwitting display of
Klingon affection had been positive. Maybe she
had run out of the building because the very idea made her
sick to her stomach. If so, he didn't want that
terrible truth confirmed. It was enough to know that she knew
he had not deliberately been rude.
  Yep, Alexander thought happily. All things
considered, it had been an extremely good
day.
  And it wasn't over yet.
  Anxious to get home, Alexander walked toward
the soccer field to take the shortcut through the woods
on the far side. As part of their Day of Honor
celebration tomorrow evening, he and his father were going to stage
an Honor Combat for his grandparents. When one
Klingon challenged the honor of another, they fought the
Suvbatlh to decide whose honor would be preserved.
It was similar to the medieval practice of trial
by combat between knights in that a warrior's character and
courage were thought to determine victory as much as his
skill. Wielding bat'leths and wearing full
Klingon armor, he and his father would battle it out in the
backyard, hopefully to the delighted horror of the
elderly Rozhenkos. Although Worf wouldn't admit
it, he had never quite outgrown his own mischievous
delight in trying to shake his adopted parents"
unruffled acceptance of his "brutal" Klingon
nature.
  Eager to practice with his batleth, the
traditional curved sword of honor, Alexander
started to run. He
  didn't want to waste what was left of the warm,
sunny afternoon. Halfway across the playing
field, he realized he had made a gross
tactical error.
  Jeremy Sullivan darted from the edge of the forest
onto the field in front of him. Bernard
Umbaya and Kim Ho jumped out from behind the goals
and raced toward him from the base lines.
  Alexander's near-perfect day turned as sour as
a bunch of rotting Argelian grapes.
  The boys were launching an attack even though he
had protected them-from the principal, detention and
himself.
  His initial dismay was instantly dragged under a
rising tide of outrage. Even he had his limits,
and it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge of
reason into a ferocious, fighting madness.
  Keeping a tight rein on the aggressive
impulses, Alexander stood his ground as the boys
slowed and stopped about five feet away.
  "So what's the deal, Klingon?" Jeremy asked,
regarding him warily.
  "No deal," Alexander said shortly. He was
only guessing that Jeremy was referring to his
silence, but asking a question, even for clarification, would
imply that he was uncertain and intimidated. He was
neither.
  was You don't expect us to believe you're going
to take the blame for smashing that bookcase without
trying to get back at us, are you?" Kim's eyes
narrowed in a dark scowl.
  "Believe what you want," Alexander countered.
  "Don't play dumb with us, Alexander,"
Bernard snapped. "No self-respecting Klingon
would let us off the hook."
  "That's right. Don't you Klingons have this thing about
defending your honor."
  Bernard put a ridiculing emphasis on the word
that made Alexander bristle. Still, he held his
temper even as the tension in his muscles mounted and the
impatient fury sparked. "You don't know anything
about honor, Bernard."
  "Maybe you don't, either." Jeremy took a
daring step forward. "Maybe you didn't snitch because
you knew we'd do something about it."
  "I had reasons you don't understand." Gritting his
teeth, Alexander fought the terrible, burning desire
to rip the smug, challenging sneer off Jeremy's
face.
  "Because you're a coward!" Kim's chest heaved.
"My uncle was killed by a bunch of no-good,
rotten, Klingon cowards!" The angry boy
charged.
  Alexander staggered backward with the momentum as the
smaller boy's body smashed into him. The power of
unleashed Klingon adrenaline surged through him.
Staying on his feet, he grabbed Kim's arm and
easily freed himself from the boy's tackling grasp.
Every cell in his Klingon body screamed for blood,
urging him to yank the frail arm out of its socket.
He tossed Kim aside instead.
  Landing on his back with a thud and a whooshing grunt as
the impact forced the air from his lungs, Kim lay
without moving.
  Time came to a screeching halt for Alexander.
He stared at Kim, stricken as he recalled the
soccer player who had died because Worf had been
careless with his superior strength. That image was one
hundred percent more effective than trying to cage
an imaginary lion and the heat of Alexander's anger
turned cold with dread.
  Get up!
  Moaning softly, Kim struggled into a sitting
position and drew a long, deep breath.
  Relieved and focused on the stunned boy,
Alexander didn't see Jeremy and Bernard lunge
at him until the last second. His
reflexes engaged before the attack registered in his
mind. Jumping back and to the side, he deflected
the force of Jeremy's fist against his jaw and eluded
Bernard's clumsy grasp.
  The Klingon rage exploded from the depths of every
gene, demanding its innate right to fight. Alexander
mentally shoved the urge back as efficiently as he
evaded Jeremy's second attempt to smash his
face. He ducked the punch, then whipped around,
freeing his leg from the arms Bernard wrapped around it.
  Howling in frustration, Bernard rose into a crouch
with his fists raised before him. Jeremy circled,
trying to flank him.
  Getting a second wind, Kim stood up and
advanced with Jeremy and Bernard.
  Sweat glistened on Alexander's brow from the dual
exertion of controlling the rage within and fending off the
boys' assault without seriously hurting anyone.
Realistically, he knew he couldn't keep the fury
blocked indefinitely. And even though it was three
against one, if the Klingon fury got out, the fury
would win.
  But the price of his assured victory would be too
high.
  Retreat was not a maneuver any Klingon
considered except as a last resort. And even though
a fleeing Birdof-Prey survived to fight again,
many Klingon commanders preferred to die. For
Alexander, retreat was the only option. He could
bear being branded a coward. He could not bear inflicting
a crippling injury or causing a death.
  Hoping the implied threat would keep his attackers
at bay, Alexander raised his hands in a defensive
Mokbara position and slowly moved back.
  "Come on!" Jeremy screamed. "Fight!
Fight!"
  "Chicken!" Bernard ran forward, swinging
wildly.
  Kim didn't say anything. He just charged.
  Still moving backward toward the school, Alexander
deftly warded off the blows. He instantly
recognized an opportunity to flip Bernard, but
didn't take it. He had not been practicing the
offensive aspects of the art long enough to guarantee
precision control. One wrong move and Bernard could
snap his neck.
  Coming in from behind, Jeremy slammed himself into the back
of Alexander's knees. Unprepared, Alexander
went down. All three boys fell on him with
fists flying.
  While Jeremy, Bernard and Kim battered
muscle and bruised bone, the denied rage stormed a
Klingon-human mind that would not and did not surrender.
  A fist clobbered him in the eye and another blow
split his lip. The salty taste of his own blood
amplified the rage, but Alexander did not fight
back.
  The pounding stopped suddenly as new voices mingled
with the boys' shouted curses and insults.
  "Stop this!" A man demanded. "Stop this now!"
  "Enough, Bernard!" An authoritative
female snapped.
  "Kim! Alexander!"
  Breathing hard, Alexander watched as Mr.
Cunningham pulled Jeremy away. Ms.
Marconi stepped between him and Bernard, saving him from
one last punch. Kim backed off on his own.
  "You know," Mr. Cunningham said crossly as
Alexander struggled to his feet. "I was really
looking forward to getting home, but thanks to the four of
you, we'll all be spending the rest of this beautiful
day with Mr. Houseman."
  "And I don't think he's going to be too
happy about being stuck here, either." Standing with her hands
on her hips, Ms. Marconi glared at
all four boys.
  "He started it!" Bernard pointed to Alexander.
Jeremy and Kim, looking suitably ashamed,
nodded in agreement.
  The librarian's incensed gaze shifted to fix on
Alexander's dirt-streaked face. "How could you?
Especially after Mr. Houseman gave you another
chance."
  "I did not start it." Alexander said, wondering
if the slight narrowing of Ms. Marconi's eyes
indicated disgust or uncertainty.
  "Everything was fine when you left detention,
Alexander." Either disregarding or not hearing
Alexander's denial, the science teacher threw up his
hands in exasperation. "What could these three
possibly have done that was worth starting a fight and
getting thrown out of school?"
  I was ambushed, Alexander thought. He would have said
so if he thought anyone would listen. He seriously
doubted anyone would. Sighing he fell into step beside
Jeremy as Mr. Cunningham marched them back to the
building and the principal's office.
  "Gotcha, Klingon," Jeremy whispered.
"You're out of here."
  Alexander didn't give the gloating boy
the satisfaction of a response. The disgrace of being
expelled would pass someday, but if he couldn't
convince his father he had
  not started the fight, the breach of faith between them
might never be healed.
  Who would Worf believe?
  A rebellious son who had challenged his ideals
and brought him more trouble than joy over the years?
  Or everyone else?
  Sitting on the hard bench in the school office,
Alexander stared at the three boys perched on chairs
across from him. With an expression of inscrutable
indifference frozen on his face, he did not blink,
twitch, or in any way react to their whispered
discussion. The cut on his lip stung and his
blossoming black eye throbbed. He ignored those
irritations, too.
  Behind the counter, Mrs. Miyashi watched all of
them like a hawk, ready to sound the alarm at the first
hint of trouble. Mr. Houseman was still in his office.
Jeremy's father and Bernard and Kim's mothers had already
arrived and were waiting in the conference room with Mr.
Cunningham and Ms. Marconi. Alexander didn't
know when his father would show. Worf had gone to Starfleet
Headquarters to attend a research and
development briefing about new security
technologies. Alexander was sure he would not leave
before the presentation was finished.
  A buzzer sounded on Mrs. Miyashi's desk.
Rising, she headed for the principal's office and
paused at the door to glance at her charges.
"Nobody moves. Do I make myself clear?"
  The human boys nodded.
  "Yes." Alexander answered without moving anything
except his mouth. The instant Mrs. Miyashi
closed the door behind her, the boys fastened their
intent, triumphant eyes on him.
  "Defeat is as bitter as they say, isn't it,
Alexander?"
  Jeremy smiled.
  "And victory is sweet." Bernard nodded
emphatically. "We'll probably get a month
of detention, but you know? It's worth it to get rid of
you."
  Kim just stared back.
  Remembering how devastated he had been when his
mother died, Alexander sympathized. But unlike
Kim, who had targeted the entire Klingon race
because he did not know the face or the fate of his
uncle's killer, he knew a certain,
painful peace. Duras would never kill again. His father
had risked his Starfleet career to claim the right of
revenge under Klingon law and had killed the murdering
traitor. Kim had no such comfort and Alexander
sincerely wished there was some way he could diffuse the
emotional time bomb the boy was carrying around.
  "We won our war against you, Alexander." Jeremy
leaned forward to drive his point home. "And
Starfleet will win against the Klingon Empire,
too."
  "But," Worf's deep voice boomed from the
doorway. "It would be more beneficial for all
concerned if our differences could be settled
peacefully."
  As though operating as a single unit, all three
boys gasped. Eyes widened and jaws fell open
as Lieutenant
  Commander Worf, wearing his red and black
Starfleet uniform and a silver Klingon sash,
stepped into the room.
  "You really are a Starfleet officer!" Jeremy
stated the obvious in a hushed rasp. "How can that
be?"
  "I graduated from Starfleet Academy."
Worf spoke without a hint of humor and
dismissed the stunned boy by simply looking away.
  Alexander tried not to smile. It was a struggle
easily won when he saw the hard gleam in his father's
gaze when their eyes met.
  Mrs. Miyashi's hand clamped to her chest as she
left Mr. Houseman's office and spotted the
towering Klingon standing by the counter. "We've been
waiting for you to arrive, Mr. Worf. If you'll just
have a seat in the conference room with the other parents-was
  "You and they will have to wait a while longer," Worf
said bluntly. He was not asking permission.
  "Oh, uh ... really?" Mrs. Miyashi
swallowed hard.
  "I will discuss this matter with my son first. In
private."
  Alexander's heart lurched.
  Jeremy and Bernard couldn't stop staring.
  Kim frowned.
  Stricken mute, Mrs. Miyashi pointed to the
door leading into the guidance counselor's office.
  With a curt nod, Worf turned toward the
indicated door. "Come with me, Alexander."
  Breathing in deeply, but keeping his own
impassive expression fixed, Alexander stood up
and followed his father. He did not acknowledge
the four pairs of eyes that followed him.
  "Sit down." Motioning toward one of two chairs
by an uncluttered desk, Worf closed the office
door.
  Alexander sat, bracing himself for the worst as Worf
sank into the other chair.
  "Have you been falsely accused again, Alexander?"
  Alexander had expected his father to be direct, but
he had not anticipated the question asked. He answered
in stammering awe. "Uh ... yes."
  "I see." Worf lapsed into thoughtful silence a
moment before continuing. "Did these same boys push
over the bookcase in the library yesterday?"
  Alexander could only nod, astounded yet again by his
father's blind belief that he had kept his given word. The
questions Worf asked did not challenge his honesty, but
merely sought additional information.
  "Why did you not say so when we were in Mr.
Houseman's office?"
  Shrugging, Alexander explained. "Everyone was so
sure I did it, I didn't think anyone would
believe me."
  Worf frowned. "That is not sufficient reason
to take the blame and accept punishment for something you
did not do."
  "No." Alexander paused, but he didn't even
consider trying to hide the truth. "I thought that if I
told, Jeremy and Bernard and Kim would try to get
back at me. I wasn't afraid of a fight,"
he added quickly. "I just wasn't sure I'd be able
to ... control myself if I got into one."
  "You did not want to risk hurting or ...
killing anyone."
  Alexander shook his head. "No."
  "But they attacked you anyway."
  "Yeah. They wanted to get me before I got them,
except I wasn't even thinking about getting
revenge."
  Nodding, Worf gently touched the dried blood
on Alexander's lip, then glanced at the closed
door. "They
  do not appear to have any broken bones, bruises
or black eyes."
  "I could have torn them apart with my bare hands!"
  Alexander's eyes flashed with Klingon fire, then
he exhaled in self-disgust. "But I didn't
fight back. I am a rotten Klingon just like Kim
said. Just not for the reasons he thinks."
  "I was not aware that you wanted to be Klingon."
  Worf blinked, unable to hide his
surprise.
  "I don't. Not exactly." Alexander shifted
position and averted his gaze. "I want to be like
you."
  Worf just stared at him.
  Misinterpreting the long silence that followed,
Alexander tried to cover the admission he had not
intended to voice. "I wanted to make you proud, not
ashamed."
  "Ashamed?" Worf started. "I am not ashamed of
you and you are not a ... rotten Klingon. Your
ability to control your temper under such trying
circumstances is impressive. And there is no
dishonor in not fighting back when the decision is
made in the interest of a greater good."
  "There isn't?" Alexander looked up with a
puzzled frown.
  "No. After leaving K'Ehleyour by killing
Duras, I made a decision not to challenge the
High Council to clear our family's name for the good
of the Empire."
  "But Duras's father betrayed Khitomer to the
Romulans, not Mogh!"
  Worf sighed. "That is true, but the entire
High Council had supported the lie and
shared the dishonor that went with it. To expose them would have
thrown the Empire into chaos."
  Alexander raised an eyebrow. "But that happened
anyway."
  "Yes." Worf sighed. "When the Duras
family challenged Gowron's right to lead the High
Council, the result was civil war. My silence
only delayed the inevitable."
  "Yeah." Alexander nodded. "Now I wish I
had defended myself about the bookcase, too. But it's
too late now."
  Worf sat back with a frown. "My decision
bought Gowron valuable time. Taking the blame for the
bookcase to avoid a potentially dangerous
confrontation was a wise decision as well."
  "Except it didn't work!" The heat of anger
warmed Alexander's blood, but the heat quickly
dissipated in the cold of bitter despair. "There was
still a fight and everyone thinks I started it. Just like
everyone thinks I dumped that bookcase. Even if
I told the truth, no one would believe me now."
  "Truth does not stay buried forever," Worf
said. "The Duras lie was exposed and our honor was
restored by Gowron when he emerged victorious in the
civil war."
  "Yeah, but then Gowron kicked us out of the
Empire again."
  "Yes." Worf's jaw flexed with tension. "He
wanted me to join him when the Empire broke the
alliance with the Federation. I chose to remain in
Starfleet. He did not understand that being truly
Klingon, my oath of allegiance to the Federation was just
as binding as if I had sworn to be loyal to him."
  Alexander couldn't help but notice the fleeting
sadness that clouded his father's eyes. Gowron had
robbed them of their place on the High Council, their
lands and
  their titles and evicted them from the Klingon
Empire. Worf had even lost his brother, whose
memories had been erased and replaced with a new
identity to save him. Not only did Kum no
longer remember Worf as his brother, he despised
and reviled him.
  Now, Alexander realized with a profound sadness he
had not felt before, all they had left of their Klingon
heritage was each other and their honor-which Worf had
never compromised.
  "However, that is beside the point," Worf continued.
"Gowron had to set aside my discommendation because his
honor would not allow him to ignore the truth
about Mogh's loyalty to the Empire at
Khitomer. And I believe that someday he will pay
highly for dismissing my oath to the Federation as
irrelevant. Honor does prevail."
  "When you're dealing with Klingons," Alexander
pointed out. "My word doesn't mean anything here because
these people don't understand the importance of a Klingon's
oath. None of what's happened is my fault, but
I'm going to be expelled anyway."
  Worf bristled. "I will not allow them to expel you
for something you did not do."
  Alexander appreciated that, but his father's
perspective had been distorted by his years in
Starfleet. Because Starfleet incorporated so many
different races and species, tolerance and understanding of
alien cultures was imperative. With the exception of
himself and an occasional exchange student from another
world, the school's teachers and students had never had
to take critical cultural differences
inffconsideration.
  "I don't think you can stop them," Alexander said
honestly. "It's my word against the word of three
humans who lie."
  Worf's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "By lying, those
boys have challenged your honor.
Consequently, they may also have provided us with the
means to solve both your problems."
  con"Both problems?"
  "This school's lack of knowledge about Klingon culture
and the false accusation. There is a way, but you must
trust me without question."
  How? Alexander wondered, his mind racing with a
dozen more questions. He did not ask them.
  "You have my word," Alexander said solemnly.
  As Alexander took his place back on the bench,
Worf looked at all four boys in turn, then
addressed Mrs. Miyashi. "They will remain here
until called. I must speak to their teachers and
parents alone."
  "Uh, well. If it's all right with Mr.
Houseman, I suppose-was
  "If what's all right?" Mr. Houseman
frowned as he stepped out of his office.
  "I will explain in the conference room, Mr.
Houseman." Without giving the principal a chance
to reply or argue, Worf opened the conference room
door and strode inside. He stopped at the near
end of the long table. All five humans seated around
it reacted to his entrance with varying degrees of
alarm and curiosity.
  Mr. Houseman followed, remaining calm and
collected as he walked past Worf and sat down
at the head of the table. "Please, Mr. Worf. Have
a seat."
  "Thank you. I will stand."
  "You're not on trial here, Mr. Worf," the
principal assured him kindly.
  "No, but Alexander is and I am convinced he
has been falsely accused-for the second time in two
days."
  Worf had never understood the human tendency to
"beat around the bush" and chose to get directly to the
point. It was more efficient and gave him an immediate
insight into the attitudes of the other people in the room.
  He noted that the two women and one man seated
to his left took exception to his statement. The
darkskinned woman frowned, but with consideration for his
blunt declaration. The guarded stares of the woman of
Asian descent and the man transformed into hostile
glares. They were, he surmised, the other boys"
parents. The pretty, blond woman on his right
looked startled, then deeply troubled, suggesting she
might agree. The man to her right appeared to be
thoughtfully reserving judgment.
  Mr. Houseman quickly introduced
everyone. Nods were exchanged instead of handshakes,
providing Worf with more helpful information. Mrs.
Umbaya, the librarian and the science teacher greeted
him with tight, hesitant smiles, indicating they were
willing to listen. Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Ho
would be difficult to convince.
  "The matter of the library bookcase is closed,
Mr. Worf," Mr. Houseman said evenly.
"We're here today because Alexander, Jeremy, Bernard
and Kim were caught fighting on school property."
  "Today's fight is a direct result of
Alexander's silence concerning the bookcase." Worf
also kept his voice even. "He did not defend
himself yesterday because he mistakenly thought that taking the
blame would prevent a confrontation. He did not
start the fight."
  "Are you saying that our kids did?" Mr.
Sullivan demanded hotly.
  "But why would they?" Mrs. Umbaya asked,
genuinely puzzled.
  Mrs. Ho shifted uncomfortably, but didn't
speak.
  Worf was not unsympathetic to their distress. He
had not forgotten how embarrassed he had been when
Ms. Kyle, Alexander's first teacher on the
Enterprise, had informed him of his son's disturbing
behavior in class. However, although he was determined
to clear Alexander, he was more concerned with correcting the
circumstances that had prompted the incidents than he
was with seeing the other boys punished.
  "As concerned and responsible parents, the question we
must address is not who did what, but why-as Mrs.
Umbaya asked a moment ago."
  Mrs. Umbaya nodded, pleased with Worf's
recognition.
  "We are all aware that Klingons are savagely
aggressive," Mr. Sullivan huffed.
"Obviously, Mr. Worf's son must have done
something to antagonize the others."
  "Obviously?" Ms. Marconi glared at
Jeremy's father. "Are all people of Irish descent
alcoholics and terrorists?"
  "Of course not!" Mr. Sullivan snapped,
then blinked. A flush of humiliation crept up his
neck as he cleared his throat. "Although, a few
hundred years ago there were a lot of people who thought so.
My deepest apologies for my prejudicial
remark, Lieutenant Commander."
  Worf accepted with a gracious nod.
  "Prejudice." Mr. Cunningham
sighed. "Humans have lived together without caring about our
differences for so long, I didn't recognize the
ugly beast when it was
  staring me in the face. Prejudice is the
problem, isn't it, Mr. Worf?"
  "I believe so." Worf scanned the troubled
faces before him, noting that everyone but Mrs. Ho now
seemed open to discussion. "In spite of the long
alliance between the Federation and the Empire, Earth knows
very little about our culture and values. Ignorance
breeds misunderstanding."
  "That doesn't change the fact that your son went
berserk in the library yesterday!" An anger
completely out of proportion to the circumstances
twisted Mrs. Ho's face and flared in her eyes.
"That was no misunderstanding. Kim told me that Ms.
Marconi caught Alexander red-handed."
  "Actually-was The librarian sheepishly glanced
at Mr. Houseman and then at Worf. "I
didn't see Alexander push the case. His sleeve
was caught between the bookcase and the table and he was the
only one there when I arrived. But . . ."
  "Yes?" Worf prodded.
  Ms. Marconi sighed deeply. "Jeremy,
Bernard and Kim were in the library at the
time, too."
  Mr. Houseman started. "And you think it's
possible they did it?"
  Ms. Marconi shrugged. "Possible, yes. But
I can't prove it. Not unless they confess."
  "The same is true of the fight today," Mr.
Cunningham added. "Bernard said Alexander started it
and the other two agreed, but we don't know that for a
fact."
  Appalled, Mrs. Umbaya gasped. "I can't
believe Bernard would lie or do any of these terrible
things just because Alexander is a Klingon."
  "Kim would." Tears flowed freely down Mrs.
Ho's cheeks. "My brother was killed
by Klingons."
  No one spoke for several seconds.
  "I hate to admit it," Mr. Sullivan said
softly, breaking the anguished silence, "but Jeremy
could be guilty, too. He's been set on a
Starfleet career since he was six years old.
According to him, Bernard and Kim share his dream. Perhaps,
in their youthful enthusiasm, they've forgotten that the
primary function of Starfleet is exploration. The
dispute with the Empire has put an unusual
emphasis on combat."
  "And Alexander is the face of the enemy."
Exhaling, Mrs. Umbaya lowered her gaze.
  "I'm at a loss how to proceed," the
principal admitted, running his hand through his hair.
"Without proof or confessions, we may never know what
really happened in the library. However, I'm no
longer convinced Alexander is guilty. Even so, they
were all caught fighting on school grounds. I
don't see any option but to punish all of them."
  "I have a better idea." When everyone turned
to regard him attentively, Worf plunged ahead.
"The boys are the only ones who know the truth. It
cannot be forced out of them, but must be offered willingly, as
a matter of honor. Honor is not a concept
unique to Klingons. It has been valued as a
measure of an individual human's worth throughout
your history. It is absolutely essential in
Starfleet officers."
  "Go on, Mr. Worf," Mr. Sullivan
urged with a smile.
  Alexander stood with Jeremy, Bernard and Kim
at the edge of the table. The adults sitting around it
watched them with expressions so grim and foreboding, he
wondered if his father had been giving them lessons.
He aimed his own gaze straight ahead, but
he was aware of Worf standing off to the side. His
father's narrowed, piercing stare and proud stance were
unmistakeable signs that he had shifted into pure
Klingon-mode.
  "Alexander!" Worf barked sharply.
  Jeremy, Bernard and Kim flinched.
  "Yes, sir." Swallowing hard, Alexander
tried to bear in mind that his father had a plan. No
matter what happened, he had to trust him-blindly and
without question.
  "Did you knock over the bookcase in the
library?"
  "No, sir. I did not."
  "Do you know who did?"
  "Yes."
  Arms crossed over his massive chest, Worf
strode forward and stopped before him. "Name them."
  Alexander felt Jeremy tense beside him and
hesitated. He wasn't sure what response his
father expected. An honest and honorable one, he
realized. "No."
  Worf paused, tightening the tension with his silence.
"That is your right. However, Bernard Umbaya has
accused you of starting the fight on the soccer field."
  Bernard sucked in his breath with a soft
cry of alarm.
  Mrs. Umbaya's hand quickly covered her mouth,
but Alexander couldn't tell if she was hiding a
smile or a gasp of horror.
  Worf's attention remained riveted on him.
"Did you?"
  "No, sir."
  Still speaking to Alexander, but moving so he faced
Bernard, Worf spoke in a low, threatening tone.
"Then he has insulted your honor."
  con"Yes."
  "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, was 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
nonKlingons are allowed to participate in-was "The
Suvbatlh!" 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 Suvbatlh 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 Suvbatlh 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 Suvbatlh?"
  "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 Suvbatlh 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."
  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
Mimee 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
Ja" 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,
platedmetal 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 associate 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 Kotbaval
festival on a remote Klingon outpost not long
before the Enterprise had been destroyed. K'mtar had
tried to force him inffbecoming a warrior with as much, if
not more, fervent (i-etermination 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 yuQuite!
Nobta Wo' cheMesmerized 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 Suvbatlh 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 Suvbatlh. 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 Suvbatlh 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
warningAlexander 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 batleth 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."
  Alexander saw all three boys frown.
Jeremy's expression was still hostile, Bernard's
one of fear. Kim looked thoughtfully troubled.
  Worf went on. "Alexander Rozhenko has
been openly accused of starting a fight on school
grounds. This he has also denied on his word of
honor. Therefore, because his honor has been insulted,
he has issued a challenge and the challenge has
been accepted." Scowling ominously, Worf turned
and pointed at the three boys. "You will come forward now
and face the challenger!"
  Behind him, Alexander heard the intense jangling of
Mr. Cunningham's metal standard.
  Murmurs of nervous surprise and fright rippled
through the audience as Jeremy, Bernard and Kim stood
up and slowly approached. Alexander did not meet
their eyes as they paused before him, but he could tell that
they were all scared. Even Jeremy's
protective crust of smug confidence had crumbled.
  "Honor will be restored to the victor and any
request he makes will be granted." Worf looked
at Alexander, then barked as he backed off.
"Challenger! Choose your weapons and let the
Suvbatlh begin!"
  Alexander's eyes flashed as he instantly
shifted his gaze to his opponents. Pressing the
bat'leth over his head, he shouted and shook the
sword. "Batlh DaqawlujlHave!"
  Bernard trembled. Jeremy tensed and Kim set
his jaw.
  All three boys turned white as the blood
drained from their faces.
  "QabjlHave nagil!" Alexander snarled. "I will
be remembered with honor! Face me if you dare!"
With a flourish, he whipped the sword up above his
shoulder, intending to stay the blade.
  The rage blsided him as it burst free.
  Alexander's arms trembled and his hands flexed on
cold metal as he fought the savage command urging him
to swing.
  Jeremy and Kim cringed. Bernard ducked, throwing
his arms over his head.
  Gasps and cries of alarm rose from the
assembly. Students jumped up in horrified
disbelief and teachers glanced at each other
uncertainly. Mr. Houseman, the office
personnel and parents perched on the edge of their
seats.
  Filled with the power surging through his veins, Alexander
felt the overwhelming desire of the Klingon predator
to draw blood. He rebelled, calling on a
stronger passion and a different strength. This was not a
hunt and he was not a mindless beast. Clenching his
teeth, he swung the sword and deftly pulled the
swing, bringing the bat'leth to an abrupt halt in
front of his chest. He stood perfectly still as he
withdrew into himself and used the Mokbara to calm the
rage. Exhaling slowly, he turned, flipped the
cutting edge toward him and offered the sword to Worf.
  "The Suvbatlh, was Alexander said, turning
back to face the boys, "must be fought fairly if
honor is to be served. These are the weapons I
chose." As he pointed toward the far side of the
gym, spotlights su.denly illuminated the
pommel horse, the high-bar and the vault.
  The boys blinked in dazed confusion.
  Jeremy recovered first and asked warily. "You're
challenging us to a gymnastics meet?"
  Alexander shrugged. "Well, if you'd rather settle
this with bat'leths-was
  His dark face shining with relief, Bernard
emphatically shook his head. "Not me!"
  Jeremy held up his hands. "I wouldn't mind
learning how to use one, but right now-I'll pass."
  Kim just smiled.
  The crowd, suddenly realizing what had just
happened, roared with approval as Alexander removed
his wrist gauntlets and slipped out of the
plated-metal chest armor. Then, motioning for the other
three boys to go first, he followed them onto the gym
floor where Ms. Petrovna directed them to halt
and face the principal.
  "In the interest of fairness," Mr. Houseman
began, we have invited three gymnastics coaches from
other schools to judge the Suvbatlh."
  Enthusiastic applause met the woman and two
men who entered through a side door and seated themselves at
a table. Their presence left no doubt that
Alexander's choice of "weapons" had been planned
and came as no surprise to the adults in charge.
  Alexander glanced back at his father, who was watching
intently with the bat'leth comfortably settled in his arm.
He nodded slightly with a not-quite smile that
  warmed Alexander to the core. For Worf, it was the
same as an ear-to-ear grin.
  Smiling as she walked over to stand by Worf, Ms.
Marconi gave him a thumbs-up. Mr.
Cunningham winked and gently shook the bangled
staff.
  "Alexander will compete against a different one of his
opponents in each event. Their scores will not be
revealed until the match is finished. The highest
total score wins." Mr. Houseman looked at
the three other boys. "You may decide among
yourselves who will compete in each event. However, you will
all go first."
  The boys conferred as Ms. Petrovna marched to the
vault. When she blew her whistle, Bernard
removed his shoes and socks and darted to the starting
line.
  In keeping with the spirit of human sports events, the
crowd applauded and screamed encouragement.
  Kicking off his own boots and socks, Alexander
shook his arms and legs to limber up. The vault was
the easiest of the three events. Although Bernard was
athletic and fast, gymnastics was not his sport.
Jeremy and Kim, however, were on the school
gymnastics team. They were used to performing
under pressure and both competed on the high-bar and
pommel horse, the most difficult apparatus.
  Silence fell as Bernard paused to take several
deep breaths. Then he was off and running. He
jumped, hit the leather vault with both hands and
executed a single somersault. Taking a step
to keep from falling on landing, he threw his arms in the
air.
  The spectators whistled and cheered even though
Bernard had not attempted a difficult vault or
performed perfectly. His father applauded wildly and
his mom jumped up and down with excitement. With a
broad grin, Bernard bowed and shook his fist in the
air.
  He had met the Klingon challenge and survived.
  Alexander returned Bernard's nod as they
passed each other on his way to the vault. It was a
small gesture, but it signified a measure of
acceptance. Perhaps, Alexander thought as he paused on
the line, his war against prejudice had already been
won. If so, there would be no losers in the
Suvbatlh being waged on the gym floor.
  Focusing on the leather vault, Alexander drew
a deep breath and took off at a run. With a flying
leap, he hit the vault with his hands and
pushed off into a perfect layout body turn and a
solid landing. Straightening, Alexander punched the
sky with his fists.
  A silence even more absolute than the one after the
Day of Honor origin recitation fell over the
crowd. He held his pose, knowing his vault had
been spectacular and his landing perfect. Still, maybe
he had been right all along. Demonstrating his
superior agility and strength would not ingratiate him
to his human peers.
  Then someone whooped and whistled from the bleachers. Within
a split second, the gym filled with the thunder of
clapping hands, shouts and whistles of enthusiastic
appreciation. Worf roared with unabashed Klingon
pride.
  A shudder of emotion swept through Alexander and
tears of joyous relief swelled in his eyes.
Clamping down on the decidedly non-Klingon
reaction and blinking back the mist, he smiled as he
bowed and jogged back toward the others.
  "That was perfect!" Bernard laughed.
  "Very close anyway," Jeremy agreed, shaking
his head in wonder. "Looks like we've got some
real competition."
  Kim nodded, then looked up as Ms.
Petrovna moved to the high-bar and blew her
whistle. With a curt salute that Alexander was sure
included him, the slim boy ran to the mat.
  "Go, Kim!" Alexander shouted.
  Grinning, Jeremy and Bernard hooted
encouragement.
  Everyone lapsed into respectful silence again as
Kim leaped to grab the bar. Swinging forward, then
back to pick up momentum, he completed two
rotations of the bar in exquisite form, then executed
a handstand. On his downward swing, he released his
hold, turned his body in the air and caught the bar
again. As he swung over the top, he dismounted with a
single somersault and nailed the landing.
  As Alexander approached the bar, he couldn't
help but be impressed with Kim's flawless routine.
Scoring higher wouldn't be easy.
  "The bar feels a little slippery," Kim said as
he stepped off the mat. "Be careful."
  "I will," Alexander said, his voice choked with
shock. It was the first time Kim had ever spoken to him
as a person and not an enemy. "Thanks."
  "Sure." Smiling, Kim jogged away.
  Dipping into the chalk bucket, Alexander dusted the
excess carbonate of magnesium off his
hands, then paused to breathe in deeply. He jumped,
caught the bar and swung instantly into three rotations
topped off with a handstand. As his body fell forward,
he bent his legs into a pike position and slipped
them through his arms, released and turned to catch the bar
again. His left hand slipped. He managed to hang
on, but the fluidity of his movement had been
interrupted, which would cost him with the judges. Swinging his
body up again, he released into a single somersault
dismount and landed squarely on the mat.
  No one seemed to care about Alexander's small
mistake. Whether releasing their tension after the
intensity of the Klingon segment of the program or just
thoroughly enjoying a thrilling gymnastics
competition, the crowd went wild.
  "Too bad about that slip," Jeremy said when
Alexander joined the group. "But I gotta warn you,
the horse is my best event. I'm gonna try like
crazy to beat you."
  "Great. It wouldn't be any fun otherwise."
  "Exactly." Responding to Ms.
Petrovna's whistle, Jeremy dashed to the pommel
horse in the center of the floor.
  Jeremy paused to compose himself, then jumped and
grabbed both pommels. With quick, sure
releases of his hands as he moved, he swung his
extended body to the left, then back to the center, then
to the right, traveling the length of the horse. With both
hands on the pommels again, he drew up into a
handstand. Then, spreading his legs, he slowly lowered
them until they extended in front of his body on
either side of his arms. Swinging smoothly back into a
handstand, he pushed off and nailed the landing. After
saluting the audience with raised hands, Jeremy bowed
then jumped with delight.
  Alexander sighed, then headed across the gym.
Jeremy had executed the difficult routine without a
single glitch. There was only one way to beat him-if
he dared.
  "I think that's the best I've ever done,
Alexander."
  Standing with his hands on his hips, Jeremy gasped for
breath. "If you beat it, I'll-was
  What? Alexander stiffened automatically.
  "combuy your ticket to a holoflick in town tomorrow.
  That new Ferengi comedy just started and Bernard and
Kim are bustin' to see it."
  "You're on!" Alexander beamed. Jeremy's
proposal wasn't a dare or a gamble. It was just
the boy's way of apologizing and opening the
door to friendship. "And if I don't beat it,
I'll buy for all three of you."
  "Good luck." Cuffing Alexander's arm, Jeremy
waved to a cheering audience as he left.
  Recognizing an edge of nervousness that might
distract him, Alexander paused and closed his eyes
before starting. Using the Mokbara discipline, he
cleared his mind of everything except the pommel
horse beside him. For a brief few moments, nothing
else existed in his universe.
  Grabbing the pommels, Alexander extended his
legs and traveled the horse, demonstrating the
same basic movements Jeremy had. Still following
Jeremy's routine, he drew into a handstand, then
scissored his legs. He followed through by slowly
lowering his legs and holding position with them in front
of his body. However, instead of finishing, he suddenly
flashed into a difficult and complex movement known as
the Thomas Flare since it had first been executed
in a late twentiethcentury Olympic Games.
Whipping his scissored legs from one side to the other,
he released and grabbed the pommels with lightning
quickness. Then, with a burst of energy, he pushed off and
dismounted with a half twist.
  Alexander didn't need to hear the
tumultuous roar of the crowd or see his father shaking the
bat'leth in the air to know that his routine had been
dazzling. If he had had any doubts, they would have
been instantly vanquished as Jeremy, Bernard and
Kim rushed up to surround him.
  "I've never seen anyone do that before!" Bernard was
breathless with excitement.
  "Not in real life." Kim qualified the other
boy's observation. "Only in major competitions."
  "I'm so flabbergasted, I don't know what
to say."
  Jeremy shrugged, then extended his hand.
  Alexander shook it, making sure not to squeeze
with the full power of his Klingon grip. Breaking
Jeremy's hand at this point might end a wonderful
friendship before it ever got started.
  "Attention!" Mr. Houseman shouted, moving his
arms in a downward motion as he tried to quiet the
audience. "Please! May I have your attention!"
  Ms. Petrovna blew her whistle and Mr.
Santiago flashed the lights. Order returned
within a minute.
  "The results, if you will." Mr. Houseman
glanced at the judges. The woman keyed a panel
on the table. Each boy's total score
flashed on the board attached high on the end wall.
  Alexander's point total was higher by a wide
margin.
  With the bat'leth ceremoniously cradled in his arm,
Worf, followed by Ms. Marconi with her light
tech-torch and Mr. Cunningham with his jangling
standard, came forward.
  "The Suvbatlh has been fought and won!"
Worf announced. "Alexander Rozhenko's honor
has been avenged and restored."
  Cheers and applause rose and quickly died when
Worf frowned.
  Alexander struggled to keep a straight face.
  "Any request you make will be granted!
Yay'lIj! Victory is yours!"
  Alexander started uncertainly as all eyes
focused on him. He hadn't really thought about the
request part of
  the Suvbatlh. He already had everything he wanted
his honor and the respect of his father and peers. Still, one
thing suddenly came to mind.
  "I would like to try out for the gymnastics team."
  Mr. Santiago jumped to his feet. "You've
got it, Alexander! See me right after school."
  "Uh . . ." Alexander's cheeks
flushed slightly. "I can't. I've got
detention."
  Silence.
  "No!" Glancing at Kim and Bernard,
Jeremy stepped forward. "We tipped over that
bookcase, not Alexander."
  "And we started the fight!" Kim added.
  "We're the ones who should be punished," Bernard
concluded.
  Alexander stared. The Batlh Jaj ceremony had
apparently been far more impressive than he had
imagined.
  Mr. Houseman rubbed his chin, then looked up
with a smile. "In keeping with Klingon tradition, the
Suvbatlh has settled these matters. We'll just
call it even. As long as-was He scowled pointedly
at all three boys. "comy promise not to do anything
like this again."
  "Word of honor!" The boys swore in unison,
raising their right hands as was the human custom.
  "Dismissed." Mr. Houseman grinned.
  And Mr. Cunningham jangled the standard one last
time.
  As the students and teachers began to file out
to return to class, the boys' parents and the
Rozhenkos hurried over to congratulate the
contestants.
  "You were magnificent, Alexander!" Sergey
beamed.
  Mr. Sullivan clasped Jeremy by the arms.
"I'm proud of you, son. You may have the makings of a
good Starfleet officer after all."
  "Thanks, Dad."
  "Alexander is thinking about going to Starfleet
Academy, too." Helena smiled, her eyes
twinkling.
  Alexander gasped. He had never, ever told
anyone he wanted to join Starfleet. The idea had
never entered his mind. "Who told you that?"
  "Your father!" Helena said brightly. "He told
me that you said you wanted to be just like him. He's so
proud."
  "But did he say Starfleet specifically?"
Alexander pressed. It hadn't been that long since
Worf had stopped trying to push him into a Klingon
way of life. He didn't think he could stand it if
his father suddenly started pushing him toward Starfleet.
  Helena frowned. "Specifically? No, I
don't believe he did."
  Alexander sagged in relief. For a long
time he had thought he wanted to be a diplomat like his
mother, K'Ehleyour. They shared the mixed human and
Klingon heritage that had allowed her to be so
effective in trying to bridge the gap between the
Federation and the Empire. Recently, though, he had
come to realize that his interest in that career path had been
greatly influenced by his father's stubborn determination
to turn him into a Klingon warrior. In truth, he
knew that K'Ehleyour wouldn't want him to become a
diplomat for her sake any more than she had wanted
him to become a warrior to please Worf. To make
his mother truly proud, he would have to find his own
path-whatever it was. He had plenty of time
to decide whether he wanted to be a diplomat or
a Klingon warrior or a Starfleet officer or
something else entirely. Right now, he just wanted
to be a kid.
  A mostly Klingon kid living in a human world,
he realized soberly. He would never be free of the
savage
  rage that lurked in his Klingon blood. For the rest
of his life he would have to guard and struggle against his
natural tendency to fight first and think later.
However, now he knew he could conquer those powerful,
warrior impulses just as his father had.
  Feeling better about himself than he had in a long
time, Alexander looked at the students leaving the
gym. He inhaled softly when he caught
Suzanne Milton staring at him.
  Alexander snarled, then smiled.
  Suzanne flushed, waved shyly and smiled
back.
  Glancing over his shoulder, Alexander watched as his
father demonstrated how to use a bat'leth for Ms.
Marconi. However, the librarian's rapt attention
was on Worf and not the sword.
  Starfleet officer and Klingon warrior.
  Alexander frowned thoughtfully. He had to admit
there were advantages to being both.
  About the Author
  Diana G. Gallagher lives in Minnesota
with her husband, Marty Burke, three dogs,
three cats, and a cranky parrot. When she's not
writing, she likes to read, walk the dogs, and
look for cool stuff at garage sales for her
grandsons, Jonathan, Alan, and Joseph.
  Diana and Marty are musicians who perform
traditional and original Irish and American
folk music at coffeehouses and conventions around the
country. Marty sings and plays the
twelve-string guitar and banjo. In addition to singing
backup harmonies, Diana plays rhythm
guitar and a round Celtic drum called a
bodhran.
  A Hugo Award-winning artist, Diana is
best known for her series Woof- The House
Dragon. Her first adult novel, The Alien
Dark, appeared in 1990. She and Marty
coauthored The Chance Factor, a STARFLEET
ACADEMY VOYAGER book. In addition to other
STAR TREK novels for intermediate readers,
Diana has written many books in other series
published by Minstrel Books, including The
Secret World ofalex Mack, Are You Afraid
of the Dark, and The Mystery Files of Shelby
Woo. She is currently working on original young
adult novels for the Archway Paperback series,
Sabrina, the Teenage Witch.