Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (53 page)

As Worf entered his quarters, he didn’t ask for any illumination. It was the middle of the night, according to the ship’s computer, and Alexander would be asleep in the next room.

The lieutenant smiled to himself. It was good to be back on the
Enterprise.
As much as he yearned sometimes to immerse himself in his Klingon heritage, it was here he felt most at home.

This was where his friends were. This was where his sense of duty called the loudest and was most resoundingly answered. Even Kahless had been able to appreciate that.

After all, a Klingon could be a Klingon anywhere—even all by himself, if necessary. Nor was it necessary to be raised as one to
be
one.

Being Klingon was a path one either chose or disdained, a way of looking at things with the heart as much as the mind. It was not always a clear path or an easy one, but it was always there if one looked hard enough for it.

Suddenly, he heard an intake of breath at the far end of the room. At the entrance to Alexander’s quarters, a shadow moved.

“Lights!” said a voice, before Worf could make the same request.

A moment later, the lieutenant saw his son standing there in his bed-clothes, squinty-eyed with sleep. But when the boy realized who had come in, a smile spread from one side of his face to the other.

“Father!” he cried.

Alexander crossed the room in a leap. Before Worf knew it he was holding the boy to his chest, slender but strong arms wrapped around his neck. The lieutenant grinned as if he were a child as well.

“Alexander,” he replied.

Worf said nothing more than that, just the boy’s name. But it carried all the depths and shades of emotion clamoring inside him.

“I was worried about you,” Alexander confessed.

The lieutenant nodded. “I knew you would be.”

Leaning away from him, the boy looked at him. “Did everything go all right? Is the homeworld okay now?”

“Yes,” Worf assured him. “The homeworld is fine.”

For now,
he thought.
And for as long as Kahless and Kurn and others like them refuse to let their guards down.

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “And what about you, Father? Are
you
okay?”

The Klingon was surprised by the question. “As you can see,” he began, “I am in good health.”

The boy shook his head. “No, I mean
inside.
Are you okay with what it said in the scrolls?”

Worf’s first impulse was to scold his son for accessing what he had intended to be private property. Then he remembered that he hadn’t left any instructions to that effect, or taken any precautions against Alexander’s prying.

Based on such evidence, Deanna would have said he
wanted
the boy to see the scrolls. Subconsciously, at least. And he wasn’t absolutely certain she wouldn’t have been right.

“Yes,” he answered, putting the lecture aside for another time. “I have accepted what it said in the scrolls. I am…okay.”

Alexander smiled. “Good. I hate it when you’re unhappy.”

Worf eyed the boy. “Right now, it would make me happy to see you in bed. It is late and you have school tomorrow.”

His son frowned. “Okay. But can you sit with me a while? Just a few minutes maybe, until I fall asleep?”

It was not the sort of request a Klingon child made to his parent. But then, the boy was only
three-quarters
Klingon.

“Actually,” the lieutenant said, “I was about to suggest that myself.”

As he returned Alexander to his room, Worf basked in the glow of his progeny. That was a part of being a Klingon too.

A very
important
part.