Captain's Table 02_ Dujonian's Hoard - Michael Jan Friedman [11]
When I entered the room, Worf hesitated, his expression one of concern. But with a gesture, I assured him there was no urgency to my visit. I would stand there and watch while he completed the morning’s exercises.
Nor did I mind in the least. Mok’bara was as elegant a discipline as any I had encountered, and I had encountered my share.
That said, I had no desire to take part in it myself. When it came to exercise, my tastes at the time ran more toward horsemanship and fencing. They still do, as you have seen, in part, for yourselves.
When the ritual exercises were over, one of Worf’s students a young woman asked him about a particular maneuver. Apparently, it was a method of dealing with an attack from behind.
With a patience he seldom displayed in other circumstances, the Klingon showed the woman how to turn her attacker’s wrist and grip it just so. Then he came around behind her and let her attempt the move on him.
It worked like magic. The woman performed the maneuver as Worf had indicated, turning, twisting and throwing her hip out and the Klingon went spinning to the mat.
Of course, I had to wonder how much of the Klingon’s fall was involuntary and how much of it an attempt at encouraging his disciple. Still, it was an impressive display.
The woman thanked Worf and withdrew, enlightened by his lesson. I must say, I was enlightened a bit as well. Even if I was not a practitioner of Mok’bara, I was intelligent enough to pay attention when there was something valuable to be learned.
Worf’s class didn’t last much longer after that. As his students filed out, muscle-sore but exhilarated, I approached him.
“You do not come down here often,” he noted.
“That’s true,” I said. Lately, I had gotten in the habit of taking my exercise in the holodecks. “And as you seem to have guessed, this isn’t just a casual visit. I have need of you, Mr. Worf.”
My tactical officer looked at me, his very posture an assurance that he would do whatever I asked of him. Klingons place a premium on loyalty, as Hompaq will confirm and Worf was no exception.
“When do we leave?” he asked.
I hadn’t yet told him we would be working undercover. I hadn’t even said we’d be disembarking from the Enterprise. He just seemed to know.
“As soon as I can make arrangements,” I replied. “It all depends on when we can find a ship headed for the Caliabris sector.”
His brow furrowed. “Why the Caliabris sector?”
“Allow me to explain,” I said.
In the next few minutes, I briefed him on our mission, and he absorbed the data dutifully. But the particulars mattered less to him than the fact that there was a mission.
“I will be ready,” he told me.
And of course, when the time came, he was.
With the help of Starfleet Command, Worf and I obtained passage on a Thriidian freighter bound for the Caliabris sector.
As far as the Thriidians were concerned, my companion and I were just two of the many characters who spent their lives drifting from one end of known space to the other, taking work where they could get it. The fact that Worf was a Klingon drew a few extra stares, but I had anticipated that and accepted the risk before we set out.
Certainly, there were those in the galaxy who harbored a burning hatred for Worf’s people. However, we didn’t run into any of them on the freighter. In the end, we reached our destination on time and without incident.
Soon we found ourselves in orbit around Milassos IV, a backwater planet on the fringe of the Caliabris sector. Our informant, an Ethnasian named Torlith, was there to meet us at our prearranged beam-down site a clearing in the fragrant, blue-green forest that surrounded that world’s largest city.
Ethnasians were broad, slow, and ruddy-skinned, with black eyes and a collection of equally black spines projecting from their lumpy skulls. Torlith