Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [63]
“In my day, there was no such thing as this…. He turned to Worf. “What did you call it?”
The lieutenant scowled. “Mokbara, was he replied.
“This Mokbaaara, was Kahless finished, butchering the word as if on purpose. He shook his head. “In my era, life itself contained all the exercise one would ever need. And if one still craved action at the end of the day, there was always the requisite afterdinner brawl.”
Worf harrumphed. Clearly, thought Picard, his officer didn’t appreciate the clone’s disparagements.
“The ritual provides more than exercise,” the lieutenant explained. “It helps one to set aside distractions-to concentrate on the advancement of one’s spirit.”
Kahless clapped him affectionately on the back. “I don’t mean to offend anyone, Worf-and certainly not my closest companions. If you want to perform pantomimes in your night clothes, I have no objections.”
Kurn looked at the clone. “With all due respect, Kahless, I can see why you were never revered as a diplomat.”
“To Gre’thor with diplomats,” Kahless spat-Grethor being the Klingon equivalent of Hell.
After some of his experiences with diplomatic envoys, the captain was inclined to agree. But, not for the first time since he’d embarked on this mission, he held his tongue.
Abruptly, he noticed the first brazen rays of the sun sneaking over the cliffs to his right. He turned to Worf, who’d mentioned earlier that the ritual would end when dawn touched the p ateau.
“Lieutenant?” said Picard, by way of a reminder.
Worf glanced at the cliffs and nodded. “We should start down now.”
Without further ceremony, he retreated from the edge of their rocky plateau and made his way across it toward a steep, winding path. By following this path, the captain knew, they would end up exactly where they wanted to be-and with any luck, see just whom they wished to see.
Their descent took them around a natural column of crags and boulders, one of many that seemed to punctuate the landscape. Though Picard’s interests leaned more toward archaeology than geology, he resolved to learn someday what sort of forces created these structures.
As the sky continued to lighten above them, they came to the end of the path and gathered in a hollow. By peering through a cleft in the rocks, they could see the slope just below the mokbara practitioners” plateau. To be sure, it was a gentler way down than the one they’d just taken-but more importantly, it narrowed to a point right near the cleft.
They’d barely arrived when the martial artists began to descend. It was remarkable how calm they seemed, after the effort they’d put into their ritual just a few moments earlier.
The Klingons were conversing quietly, nodding, even smiling at one another. It seemed to the captain they’d come from a sewing bee instead of a potentially lethal combat.
“Which one is Godar?” Kahless asked softly.
“He is the last of them,” Kurn replied. “As always. You see him? The tall, wizened-looking one with the simple chinbeard?”
“,Ah, that one,” said Kahless, craning his head to get a better angle. “And you believe he can be trusted?”
Worf s brother grunted. “I believe so, yes.”
“You seem to trust a great many people,” the clone commented.
“Like you,” Kurn told him, “I have no choice.”
In moments, most of the mokbara practitioners had passed the cleft on their way down from the plateau.
None of them seemed to notice Picard and his companions. But after what had happened in Tolar’tu, that was little assurance in the captain’s eyes.
As Kurn had indicated, Godar was the last of them. He too appeared unaware of the quartet that had traveled so far to speak with him. That is, until Kurn croaked his name.
At first, the man seemed confused as to who might have called him. Then he happened to glance in the direction of their hiding place.
Under similar circumstances, Picard thought, he himself might have cried out in surprise-or bolted, fearing