IMBALANCE

by V. E. Mitchell

  Reluctantly, Worf sat down, even though his instincts warned him to remain on his feet, ready for action. A few moments later, two more Jarada brought a bench for Breen. As it settled into its place, the other Jarada formed into ranks against the far wall like a troop of soldiers on parade.

  “The first performance will commence,” the leader announced. Six Jarada, tall and evenly matched for size, stepped out of the group, walked to the center of the room, and bowed to Worf and Breen. Turning to face each other, they paired off and bowed to their partners. On an unspoken signal they began to move, slowly at first, with a carefully synchronized choreography of action and response. Gradually the pace quickened, with each thrust and parry being executed with greater speed and power.

  Worf studied their movements, noticing the polished teamwork that bespoke hours of practice. The patterns were stylized and formal, lacking any spontaneity, but one didn’t need to be a Betazoid to recognize the essence of this performance. If the val’greshneth was a dance company, then Worf was as human as his adoptive parents.

  He leaned forward to watch the Jarada more carefully. The extra pair of legs gave the insectoids a decided advantage in unarmed combat, making it much harder to push them off balance. Once down, Worf guessed their anatomy would work against them, with the articulation of their joints making it difficult for them to regain their feet. It was difficult to be sure, since their rehearsed drills stopped short of knocking anyone down. Watching them work out, Worf wondered if they would let him join in the drill. He would learn so much more about their fighting style by trying it rather than by merely watching his hosts.

  Before he could ask, the six fighters reached the end of their demonstration. They stopped, turned in unison, and bowed once more to their guests. Another group of Jarada came forward, demonstrating a fighting technique that used long strips of cloth tipped with small weights. Again no one ended on the floor, although Worf suspected that in actual combat the weapon would function like a human bolo or a Vulcan ahn woon, tangling an opponent’s legs and tripping him.

  Several other exhibitions followed, all interesting as much for what they failed to show as for what they did. Something in the demonstrations bothered Worf, something beyond his natural inclination to see deception lurking behind the professional geniality of every diplomat. He wished he had brought a tricorder to record the performances for later analysis. Finally, Breen asked if his people had similar techniques and if he would share them with the val’greshneth.

  “I would be honored to demonstrate a similar activity.” Worf paused to weigh his duty as a Federation representative against his responsibilities as the Enterprise’s Chief of Security. Clearly, the latter obligations were paramount. To preserve his advantage should he need to fight the Jarada, he decided not to show them any of the Klingon fighting techniques he normally used. Something human, then; something elementary enough not to compromise anyone who needed the advanced techniques for self-defense.

  Worf shook himself to break the mood, to remind himself that this was a diplomatic mission. The idea rang false, triggering alarm signals every time he considered it. A warrior was trained to recognize potential enemies before the first blow was struck, and Worf kept sensing danger from the Jarada. However, his orders stated that this was a diplomatic mission and he was strictly to disregard his instincts until the other side made a preemptive strike. He squared his shoulders, accepting that he must give them a reciprocal demonstration unless fighting broke out in the next thirty seconds. “I will show you the human art called karate.”

  The chitter of balance-legs against the floor told Worf that the name had not translated. “Karate is an ancient human art whose name means ‘the way of the empty hand.’ I will show you this Earth technique so that you may understand the humans better.” It seemed unnecessary to tell them that they would probably never understand humans, that after years of observation Worf was not sure he would ever figure out even the ones he knew best.

  He stood, stretching to see how he felt. The long walk from the Governance Complex and the climb up the spiral ramp had been a good warm-up, but he had been sitting for some time.

  Surprisingly, he still felt good, ready to take on half a dozen holodeck opponents. To be safe, he started slowly, but as he felt his muscles loosening to peak combat readiness, he could not resist the impulse to demonstrate parts of his personal workout. It was an advanced combination of lunges, feints, and strikes that would have exhausted any other member of the Enterprise’s crew. Riker practiced his katas against a maximum of four imaginary opponents, but Worf used that number only for warm-ups. However, given his audience, the Klingon limited himself to six imaginary assailants and omitted the kicks from the routine.

  When he finished, the room was silent for thirty seconds. Then, as if on a single impulse, every Jarada present began pounding its balance-claws on the floor in approval. “You must teach us that,” said the leader of the group. “The power and purity of your movements embody the essence of a guardian’s mission.”

  An insect buzz of agreement rose from the Jarada, swelling louder and louder. The sound swept through Worf, sending shivers through his body. With an effort he fought down the battle cry that rose in his throat. This was neither the time nor the place—but suddenly his warrior blood was singing for a fight.

  Slowly, the buzzing quieted and the Jarada calmed. They were still twitching, still fidgeting with eagerness to acquire his knowledge. Seeing this, sensing how close their desire was to fanaticism, Worf felt his doubts crystallize. There was something wrong here, some force that was out of balance. At that moment he knew it would be a grave mistake to teach them anything they could use against his shipmates. The commander of the guardians moved forward, true-arms raised in supplication. “We would take it as the greatest honor if you would teach this karate to us.” It crouched until its abdomen touched the floor.

  Once again Worf realized how different Jaradan anatomy was. He could use that as excuse to stick with the simplest maneuvers. “I am honored that you wish to learn karate. However, it is not easy, and humans often claim it requires a lifetime to master. I regret that I am not a skilled instructor, but I will show you some beginning movements. If you desire, you may ask Captain Picard for another teacher.”

  Worf swallowed. His throat felt dry from having to talk so much to the assembled Jarada. He would much rather face a dozen Borg single-handedly than play ambassador to a group of twitchy aliens.

  The leader bobbed its head sideways in negation. “We are sure the instruction of so powerful a guardian will be more than adequate.”

  Worf centered himself, focusing on the essence of the kata he wished to demonstrate. Although the ancient warriors who had developed karate could almost have been Klingon, for this demonstration Worf intended to draw attention to the human characteristics of the art. To exclude the Klingon elements that had crept into his style and to focus strictly on the most elementary lessons a student could learn increased the challenge for him.

  Inhaling deeply, Worf bowed to the watching Jarada. His instincts warned him to keep his eyes on his enemies. He had to struggle to look down as he bowed. One should always show the proper trust and respect to one’s opponents. It was a fine point, one he did not expect the Jarada to recognize, but many warrior cultures had similar traditions.

  Worf straightened and turned, lunging forward to stop an imaginary attack from his right. His block was perfect, catching the attacker well before his blow could have connected. Spinning around, Worf’s right hand swept across his body to knock aside a punch to his midsection. Visualizing how his speed and power would have caught his opponent off guard, Worf followed his block with a counterattack to the midsection. Next he stopped an overhead strike from the side, parrying blows with first his right, then his left, arm. After that the techniques were reversed, the movements executed in mirror image to build strength and flexibility on the opposite side of the body. Worf flowed through the routine, his perform
ance swift and precise. It took him exactly forty seconds to complete the kata for his fascinated audience.

  Before Worf had straightened from his final bow, the Jarada were forming ranks behind him. They spread out, leaving enough room for movement in all directions. Worf’s uneasiness intensified as he realized what the spacing implied. These Jarada were experienced enough with unarmed combat that they recognized what he intended to do before he told them. Part of him rejoiced to meet others with such strong warrior traditions, but he wished the Jarada had identified themselves openly. A true warrior should announce himself to the universe instead of hiding behind ritual and stylized drills. What were the Jarada concealing?

  He started at the beginning of the kata, taking the movements slowly so the Jarada could copy them. They caught on quickly, almost too quickly if they were potential opponents. Worf reminded himself that these were the Jaradan equivalent of professional soldiers, but after watching them for a few minutes, he found that thought disquieting. There was something uncontrolled, almost frenetic, in their behavior that made him glad he had decided to teach them only an elementary kata.

  After an hour Worf bowed to thank them for their attention and announced that he needed to return to the Governance Complex. His pupils returned the bow, but the russet Jarada with the broken antenna charged forward, demanding that Worf continue. The two Jarada closest to it tried to intercept it. Broken-Antenna dodged them, and two more Jarada tried to run interference. Another Jarada started toward Worf, shrieking in three keys for the lesson to continue, and others tried to keep it from tackling the Klingon.

  Soon every Jarada in the room was fighting with a savagery that took Worf aback. A Klingon warrior’s greatest joy was to get into a good fight, but there was something unhealthy about this melee. He looked around the room, trying to find Breen, but it was somewhere in the confusion, fighting along with everyone else.

  The noise was deafening, the shrieks and battle cries of the Jarada blending with the sounds of body blows and the echoing clack and thud of feet and exoskeletons hitting the floor. Several fallen Jarada were trapped in the middle of the free-for-all, unable to regain their footing. The scene reminded Worf of sharks in a feeding frenzy, when the scent of blood sent them attacking anything, even one of their own. Those sharks were no more sane than these Jarada, and Worf knew he must report this to the captain immediately.

  He touched his communicator but could not hear its chirp over the noise. He tapped it again, then maintained the contact so it would transmit the noise to the ship. Even Data should be able to interpret the sounds of a fight and beam him up. All he needed was to get to the ship long enough to give his report and then return to the planet with a phaser to protect the captain.

  When the familiar dazzle of the transporter effect did not form around him, Worf began inching toward the door. Outside, where it was quiet, he could call the ship and order them to transport him directly to the captain’s location.

  One of the Jarada saw Worf starting to leave. It sent up a shriek and suddenly the fighting ceased. A moment later, with a battle cry that sounded as if it came from a nest of deranged hornets, the Jarada charged toward Worf.

  Even after their self-inflicted casualties, the Jarada outnumbered him forty to one. With odds like that, only a fool or a berserker would fight if he had any alternatives. Knowing his duty was to warn Picard, Worf took the only sane option available. He snatched the blankets off his bench and tangled them into the legs of the two leading Jarada. They went down and several others piled into them, unable to avoid the obstacle. While the mob was sorting itself out, Worf executed a high-speed evacuation in search of a less exposed position.

  Chapter Eight

  FOR THE FEW MINUTES after the away team entered the Prime Council Chamber, the room was filled with babble and confusion as those who had been invited to learn about their hosts met with their Jaradan guides. While everyone was sorting themselves out, an aide approached Zelfreetrollan. After a brief consultation the Jarada apologized to Picard for having to delay their meeting a few minutes and left the room. Picard watched as Riker, Crusher, Keiko, and Tanaka left, all plying their Jaradan escorts with questions. Worf had been last, and he was not at all eager to leave his captain. An affectionate grin tugged at Picard’s mouth as he watched the door close behind Worf and Zelk’helvtrobreen. The Klingon was determined to take his normal meticulous view of his duties.

  “He is not pleased that you ordered him to go,” Troi said, echoing the captain’s thoughts. She swept a hand through her dark curls, pushing them off her shoulder. “He fears that something will happen while he is not here to protect you.”

  Letting his grin show, Picard nodded. “It is a risk, Counselor. Trust always is.”

  The clatter of chitin against tile interrupted her reply. They turned together as Zelfreetrollan reentered the room. “Forgive me, Honored Picard-Captain and Honored Troi-Counselor. There was a minor problem that I was required to solve. I hope you have not been left by yourselves for too long.”

  “Not at all, First Among Council. The last of my people just left.”

  “I was afraid I would have kept you waiting. I am glad this is not the case.” He gestured toward the table, where fruit nectar and nut cakes had been laid out. “Please. Help yourselves. I hope this session can be informal, since my Councillors had very few changes to make to the draft agreement.”

  “That is excellent news, First Among Council.” Picard poured a little nectar into a glass and diluted it with water. Troi did the same and then the three of them took seats near the middle of the table.

  Zelfreetrollan laid two piles of buff-colored pebbly-textured paper on the table. One set of documents was covered with the complex symbols they had seen carved into the door of the Audience Chamber. The second copy of the agreement was written in English. In places, the phrasing was stilted, but the meaning was unambiguous. Picard checked the document against his memory of their discussions. The provisions for the exchange of ambassadors and the conditions for widening communications between the Federation and the Jarada were as he remembered.

  “The Council has given its approval for these agreements,” Zelfreetrollan said when Picard finished reading. “It remains only for your Federation to accept our work.”

  Picard slipped the documents into a case. “When I return to the Enterprise, I will transmit these documents to the Department of External Affairs for them to relay to the Federation Council. Since the Council is expecting my message, ratification should take only a matter of hours. The longest delay will be the transmission time between here and there.”

  “Our people are honored that you should give us so much of your consideration, Picard-Captain. It is with the greatest anticipation that we look forward to exchanging ambassadors with your Federation.”

  They talked a little longer, discussing how the agreement would benefit both their cultures. To Picard, it was amazing that the negotiations with the Jarada should have gone so easily, after the long years of tension and mistrust. Picard’s luck, some of his friends at Starfleet Command would call it, ignoring the massive amounts of hard work he usually needed to make luck go his way. That was the thought he took with him as he and Troi beamed back to the Enterprise with the Federation’s copies of the agreement—that they hadn’t yet put enough effort into the negotiations and that somewhere a nasty surprise was waiting to undo the promising start he held in his hand.

  “Captain, we have made the most amazing discoveries about this system.” Data stood, vacating the captain’s chair as Picard strode onto the bridge. “We have cataloged forty-seven previously undiscovered moonlets in orbit around Bel-Major and have already confirmed the orbits of fifteen of them. In addition, we have greatly improved our descriptions of the orbital parameters of four objects that are in complex orbits around both Bel-Major and Bel-Minor.”

  Picard suppressed a groan. Data had accomplished a phenomenal amount of work in the last twenty-four hours, and he wanted
to give his captain all the details immediately. “Thank you, Mr. Data. However, if you could postpone your report, I’d appreciate it if you could examine these documents before we transmit them to the Federation Council.” He held out both versions of the agreement.

  “Certainly, Captain.” Data took the sheaf of paper, fingering the rough surface. “We know relatively little of the Jaradan language, either spoken or written. I assume you wish me to extract everything I can from these documents?”

  “Yes, Mr. Data.” As he lowered himself into his chair, Picard took a deep breath, cataloging the smells and appreciating their unobtrusiveness. There was the bright electric scent of the bridge’s consoles, the whiff of stray lubricant that Geordi could never quite banish, Lieutenant Mendosa’s soft floral perfume. It was a relief not to be assaulted by industrial-strength odors at every turn. “If it’s going to take too long, we’ll have to send them off before you finish. Commissioner T’Zen has convinced the Council that any delays might cause a war.”

  “I believe the commissioner is overreacting, sir. I estimate the probability is—”

  Shaking his head, Picard waved Data to silence. “I agree, but Commissioner T’Zen fears that we are not civilized enough to avoid fighting unless we have a signed agreement to prevent it.” At times it was hard to say who had a weaker grasp of emotional behavior—his ever-curious android officer, who had none of the biological prerequisites, or the ultraconservative Vulcan, Commissioner T’Zen, who denied her own physiological drives while overestimating those of other races.

  No matter how much control people exercised over themselves, the underlying biology did influence their actions. That was Picard’s strongest reason for believing they had not yet determined what controlled Jaradan behavior. He would have to discuss the matter with Troi before they transmitted the agreement. Perhaps after a few hours away from the planet, she would be able to organize her chaotic impressions of their insectoid hosts. “Mr. Data, I would be happier if we had some solid information before we generated any more projections of how things are going.”