William Shatner: Captain's Blood

Kirk gave love. Kirk gave acceptance. Kirk felt both given to him in return. And Kirk was grateful that he had finally lived long enough to understand that, in the end, nothing else mattered.

Kirk leapt to his feet in the combat pit and rubbed his hand on Joseph’s smooth-skinned skull, as if tousling nonexistent hair, making his son squirm away, laughing.

“Son” was how Kirk thought of Joseph these days. Though, he conceded to himself with undiminished wonder, “daughter” was just as appropriate, which was why Kirk had bestowed upon his child two feminine names from Teilani’s side—T’Kol T’Lan. Someday, when whatever maturation process was locked within Joseph’s genes expressed itself, Kirk hoped that his and Teilani’s child would choose the name and identity that pleased him, or her. If, indeed, a final gender was something that eventually would develop.

But for now his child was simply Joseph. Tall and precocious for a five-year-old, his stature and intellect closer to that of a human child of nine or ten, his once rosy skin now a soft gray-brown striped by the single band of dark, almost Trill-like spots that swept up his spine and over the top of his scalp, fading away just above the diminutive Klingon ridges of his forehead and the already elegant tips of his Romulan ears.

McCoy termed the child’s build as scrawny, and his quickly growing gangly limbs revealed a few odd planes and lines to show that his musculature wasn’t exactly human, nor precisely Klingon, nor Romulan, nor Vulcan. Strictly speaking, those four species were the sum total that had contributed to Joseph’s genetic makeup. But where McCoy could be certain that Kirk’s DNA was one hundred percent human, among the genes that had been artificially blended to create Teilani, the best genetic engineers at Starfleet Medical couldn’t be certain that there were not some whispers of other species hidden within the billions of base pairs of the child’s commingled amino acids.

“Time for lunch,” Kirk said. “Then lessons.”

Joseph held up a hand, three perfect fingers and one perfect thumb. “Two more rounds,” he pleaded.

Kirk smiled ruefully. The past few months, almost every conversation with his son had become a negotiation. The request for two more rounds was obviously meant to provoke a counter of one more round. Which was probably all that Joseph wanted, anyway.

But Kirk knew all about that kind of negotiating tactic. He had been taught by experts, and so, it seemed, had Joseph. “You’ve been spending too much time with your uncle Scotty,” Kirk said.

“Daa-ad.”

Kirk tried not to laugh. Joseph was looking deeply offended that his father would even think such a thing. “Hit the sonics. Then lunch.”

“And then two more rounds?” Joseph persisted.

Kirk smiled at his son, losing his battle but not the war. “Lessons, mister. Scoot!”

This time Joseph acquiesced gracefully—This time, Kirk thought—tossed Kirk his holographic bat’leth projector, then ran like an ungainly stork to the wooden ladder at the far side of the elliptical pit.

Kirk marveled that a child so uncoordinated in running could thrust and parry with his bat’leth so deftly. And his piano playing was already at the level of a skilled adult, though his math—usually a related skill—was lagging behind the average for even a five-year-old human. Joseph still didn’t have the faintest grasp of calculus, and without that rudimentary background, warp mechanics would be forever beyond him.

Kirk frowned even as he reached that dismal conclusion. His child was only five, and already he was placing the ultimate burden of expectation on him—a Starfleet career.

“I say this with respect,” Worf suddenly growled from behind Kirk, “but you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Kirk started. He had been so engrossed in watching Joseph clamber up the two-meter ladder to leave the pit that he hadn’t heard Worf approach.

“I beg your pardon?”

Worf, more imposing than ever in his combat-training garb of sueded burgundy leather, scowled as only a Klingon could. Despite his best effort to show deference to his guest, the disdain in his voice was impossible to disguise. “You let the child beat you.”

Kirk bristled. He, Joseph, and McCoy had been guests of the House of Martok for two weeks, and only now were the subtleties of Klingon etiquette coming into focus. Joseph was even developing a taste for gagh, though whether that was because the living worms actually tasted good to his Klingon taste buds, or because he was playing to his father’s unexpected squeamishness, Kirk could not be sure.

But even given the blunt directness of Klingon hospitality, Worf’s rude accusation surprised Kirk.

“Of course I let Joseph beat me,” Kirk said, trolling for more details.

But Worf only shook his heavy head, as if rendered speechless by disgust.

Kirk tried again. “I take it you don’t approve.”

“It is dishonest,” Worf thundered. “Such behavior gives the child a false sense of security. It teaches him that adults cannot be trusted. When the time comes to face true combat, he will fail.”

Kirk sighed, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked past Worf to find McCoy leaning on the wooden railing that surrounded the ceremonial pit. But his old friend paid no attention to Kirk and Worf. He was fiddling with a medical tricorder, no doubt reviewing his latest scans of Joseph. Since McCoy’s full retirement from Starfleet Medical, the study of Kirk’s child seemed to have become his new mission in life.

Still, another human ally was what Kirk needed now, to sort this out with Worf. He was here to help his child explore his Klingon heritage, but his own lessons in understanding Joseph were a challenge to him as well. Kirk started for the ladder closest to McCoy, reasonably certain that Worf would follow. And he did.

“He’s five years old, Worf. He won’t be facing true combat for—”

Worf cut off his explanations. “If you are serious about teaching your son his Klingon heritage, he should have already been blooded.”

Kirk paused with one hand on the ladder. There were some parts of parenting he had no doubts about. “I’ve also got his human, Romulan, and Vulcan heritage to work in there. He’s not going to be blooded. Not at age five.”

Worf growled again. Louder this time.

But Kirk merely handed him the holographic bat’leth projectors. Each unit was the size of a traditional bat’leth’s haft, with its three handgrip openings and leather wrappings. The actual twin batwing blades and spikes on each side were missing, to be created instead by small holoemitters and low-power forcefield generators. The projectors were a clever invention, enabling combatants to feel when an illusory blade had made contact, yet preventing the weapon from inflicting harm. Needless to say, the projectors were not a Klingon invention and Worf did not approve of them, either. But since even the wooden bat’leth s used by Klingon children could cause nasty cuts and bruises, Kirk had opted for safety over cultural purity.

Kirk stepped off the top of the ladder and walked along the railing toward McCoy. At ground level, all around him, the Martok estate was an explosion of dark purple summer-growth vegetation in more subtly differentiated hues than Kirk could identify. Wild targ roamed the forests to the east, in the midst of which stood the ancient ancestral castle of the House of Martok. It had a solid, imposing appearance, almost pyramidal, reminding Kirk strongly of the Great Hall housing the Klingon High Council. Why it was considered an ancestral castle, Kirk wasn’t certain. Less than a century ago, the House of Martok had wrested the castle from the House of Krant, which had wrested it in turn from the House of Fralk, which had rebuilt it after slaughtering the entire House of Tralkar, which originally had defeated the House of Fralk during an imperial inter-regnum four hundred years earlier, following the defeat of…The rest of the endless history was a blur to Kirk, who had tried to follow Worf’s recitation on the occasion of the first dinner held for Joseph. From that evening, he had retained little more than the impression that Klingon realestate transactions were extremely complicated, and often bloody.