THEY WERE ALL ALONE in the rec, which was the way McCoy had planned it.
"Well," he said, "everything seems to have worked out all right. Our young friend has won the heart of just about everyone on this ship." He paused. "With one notable exception, of course."
Kirk peered at a strip of turkey on his plate, stabbed it with his fork. "You think the food synthesizer is on the blink again?" he asked. He held the fork and its burden up to the light. "This stuff doesn't look any more like turkey than I do."
"You're trying to ignore me," said McCoy. "And I wouldn't be much of a doctor if I didn't know what was on your mind."
"You amaze me, Bones. I had no idea you were a psychiatrist as well as a surgeon." Kirk continued his study of the alleged turkey meat. "I should have Scotty look into this."
"Go ahead," said the doctor. "Pretend nothing's wrong. The only one you're hurting is K'leb."
Kirk frowned, seeming to lose interest in the turkey question. He replaced the fork on his plate.
"I can't help it," he said. "He makes me feel so damned old, Bones."
"Come on," said McCoy. "It's not as if he were really your son. It's a custom, Jim. A cultural convention that we only equate with fatherhood—because it's the easiest way for us to understand it."
The captain sighed. "I know all that. And I don't really feel like I'm his father. But it occurs to me that I'm old enough to be his father, and that's just as bad." He sat back in his chair. "I'll tell you, it puts things in an entirely different light."
"What do you mean?" asked the doctor.
"Well," said Kirk, "suddenly, all those new faces on the ship look younger than ever. And it starts to seem like a very long time since I was that age." He paused, remembering. "You know how old I was the first time I visited Trank Seven?"
McCoy shook his head.
"Twenty-two. And barely out of the academy. I spent half my time dreaming about commanding a starship one day, and the other half certain that I'd never get the chance. And after what happened in Tranktown, I was certain most of the time."
McCoy looked at him askance. "Why's that?"
"There was a brawl," said Kirk. "A big one. The whole bar was wrecked, in fact, and Starfleet ended up paying the damages." He cleared his throat. "You can probably guess who got blamed for starting it."
"Not in a million years." And then, "Did you start it?"
Kirk shrugged, smiling a little. "I guess I did—though for the life of me, I can't remember why."
McCoy smiled a little too. "All right," he said. "So you're starting to miss your misspent youth. I sympathize with you. But don't take it out on K'leb."
The captain looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "You're right, Bones. After all, I'm the reason he's here in the first place. The least I can do is let him know I haven't forgotten about him."
"There you go," said McCoy. "That's the Jim Kirk we all know and love."
Kirk grunted. "Love and affection, Doctor, are not essential to the command of a starship."
"No," said McCoy. "But they don't hurt, either."
"All right," said Sulu. "Now lunge!"
The P'othparan shot forward, more fluid and graceful than any beginner Sulu had ever seen. He waited until the last possible moment to turn the attack aside.
Without hesitation, K'leb recoiled into an en garde position.
"Very good," said the helmsman, smiling. Since the P'othparan could neither understand the words nor see the expression behind the mesh mask, Sulu brought his foil up in a fencer's salute.
Recognizing the gesture, K'leb brought his own blade up.
Sulu swatted at it playfully. "One more time," he said. "With feeling, now." He lowered himself into a slight crouch.
Again, K'leb lunged. But this time, Sulu waited a little longer before he parried—timing it so that he'd be just a hair too late.
Sure enough, the P'othparan's point caught him in the chest, just above the solar plexus. The blade arced—perhaps just a bit too much, for K'leb had begun his maneuver a quarter step too close to his target. But that was a nuance that could be worked on in the future.
It was more important that when Sulu moved the point away, K'leb didn't lose his balance. Instead, he withdrew—transferring his weight to his back foot again.
The P'othparan was ready to launch another attack, but Sulu paused—to embellish the moment. He patted himself on the chest where he'd been hit.
"Good touch," he said, knowing how much it had meant to him the first time he'd scored on his instructor.
He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought he noticed a grin through the mesh.
"I'm impressed," said a familiar voice.
Sulu turned and saw the captain, standing just to one side of the fencing strip, hands on hips.
"Pretty soon," said Kirk, "K'leb will surpass Chekov as your prize pupil."
The helmsman chuckled. "I think he has already, sir."
Kirk smiled at that. "Mind if I take a crack at him, Sulu?"
Sulu shrugged. "No. Be my guest." He pulled his mask off as the captain went over to the equipment locker. "Just don't get too elaborate, sir. K'leb hasn't gotten to the riposte stage yet."
Kirk selected a jacket, slipped it on. "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I won't damage his technique too much." He found a glove, tugged that on too.
Sulu felt himself blushing. "Sir, I didn't mean that. . . ."
"The hell you didn't," said the captain. He extracted a foil from the rack, tested its weight in his hand. "And if I'd spent as much time as you have with K'leb, I'd be just as reluctant to see my hard work go down the drain." Satisfied with his choice of blade, Kirk grabbed a helmet and, one-handed, fit it snugly over his head.
The helmsman smiled. Had he been that obvious about it? Uhura had warned him time and again about being such a mother hen.
As Kirk stepped onto the strip, Sulu moved to the judge's position, at the midpoint. He waited until the captain had taken a couple of easy practice lunges, which K'leb watched with his usual intensity. Then he lifted his arm up until it was parallel with the deck.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," said Kirk, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.
The P'othparan, as usual, said nothing—though he seemed to understand much.
"Fence," said Sulu, dropping his arm and retreating from the strip.
Kirk extended his blade, took a couple of steps forward.
But K'leb just stood there. His arms hung by his sides; the point of his blade rested on the metal surface beside the strip.
"En garde," said Sulu, assuming the position himself so that K'leb would get the idea.
The P'othparan didn't respond. He didn't even look at his teacher.
He seemed to be waiting for something.
"Am I doing something wrong?" asked the captain.
Sulu shook his head, puzzled. "Not as far as I can see," he said. He thought for a moment. "Maybe K'leb thinks you're too far away. Try coming a little closer."
Kirk advanced a couple of steps, until his point was hardly more than a foot from the P'othparan's chest.
It didn't seem to make any difference. It was as if K'leb had no idea what to do—or had forgotten. Suddenly, a shudder ran through the boy—bad enough to be noticeable.
Kirk backed off, lowering his foil. "Damn," he said. "I think I'm scaring him, Sulu."
So it seemed. But why? It wasn't as if K'leb had never fenced with anyone else. Any number of Sulu's other students had taken turns with him.
The helmsman just didn't get it, and he said so.
"That makes two of us," said Kirk.
He removed his mask, looked at the P'othparan for a time. Frustration and regret mingled in his expression.
"Look," he said finally, still facing K'leb but obviously addressing Sulu. "Maybe he's just uncomfortable with me—maybe I waited too long to come to see him. Or … I don't know." He took a deep breath, expelled it. "I probably shouldn't have interrupted in the first place. He was obviously enjoying himself before I broke things up."
Sulu would have contradicted him if he could. But it seemed that K'leb was somehow uncomfortable with him—even if the reason for it was not evident.
"Why don't the two of you go back to what you were doing?" asked the captain. "I should be getting along anyway—I'm still knee-deep in reports." And with that, he headed back to the locker, already starting to pull his glove off finger by finger.
The helmsman turned to his student, hoping for a clue as to K'leb's behavior that he might have missed. But masked, silent and unmoving, the P'othparan offered none.
K'leb stared at his ne'barat, his bond-father, and wondered. For what confronted him was sacrilege.
Days had passed, and he had not seen his ne'barat at all. That alone had been a strange thing, but K'leb had accepted it—for the one called K'liford had told him of his bond-father's other responsibilities.
Now, his ne'barat had come to see him—finally. But a moment later, he had covered himself with the same garb as the others with whom K'leb had sported. He had taken up the same metal stick.
And then, he had assumed the prescribed position. As if he meant to touch K'leb with the stick, as the others had.
As if he meant for K'leb to touch him.
But surely, he knew that this could not be. No bond-son could strike his ne'barat—not even with his open hand, in jest.
What did it mean? Was it a test of K'leb's piety? Or was his ne'barat truly ignorant of the principles of the ne'barr—the life-bonding—as it had seemed when he had asked all those questions the other day?
He reached into his bond-father's mind, seeking an answer to his questions. But there were none to be found there. Only a growing roil of emotions, perhaps as great as his own.
While he stood there, pondering this, his ne'barat exchanged words with the one known as Su'lu. And now he came closer, bringing his metal stick even nearer to his bond-son's body.
Did he mean to harm him with it, to pierce him, as T'nufans had done to one another long and long ago? The stick seemed too flimsy to be a weapon, and its point was tipped—but perhaps, driven with enough force …
He could not suppress a shudder. Suddenly, his knees felt weak, and he locked them into place lest they betray him.
No, he told himself. It cannot be. It is unthinkable.
Yet there was the stick held before him. And there was his ne'barat, holding it—its point only a handsbreadth from his throat.
What cause could he have given him? What reason? Could their customs be so different that he had offended him without knowing it?
Then, abruptly, the metal stick was withdrawn. His bond-father stepped back, and a wave of relief washed over K'leb.
But he no more understood his ne'barat's withdrawal than he had understood his other actions. And it frightened him that it was so.
Nor did it help his understanding when his bond-father removed his headpiece and addressed him. Though K'liford had taught him a few of his people's words, K'leb recognized none of them in his ne'barat's speech.
And after a time, he just walked away, leaving K'leb as he had found him.