Star Trek - Imbalance Part 4

"I suppose so," Worf replied evenly. For the Jarada, with their hard claws which clicked against the tiled floors, it should be nearly impossible. Worf felt his curiosity getting the better of his caution. "How do you accomplish it?"

Again the Jarada clacked its claws together. "It is a matter of rhythm and antic.i.p.ation, mostly. When several people are present, they are always moving, always creating small sounds that can mask a set of random noises. As long as I vary the hesitation between my steps, the sounds will not be noticed. It is the even, rhythmic pattern that alerts one to the coming of a stranger. How do you achieve a silent approach?"

"I use a similar technique. Also, our floors produce less noise." His boot heels made almost as much clatter on the hard floor as the Jarada's claws, Worf thought. With a start he realized that he had seen no carpeting anywhere in the Governance Complex. He filed that fact away for his report on the defensive aspects of Jaradan buildings.

The insectoid gestured for Worf to accompany him through the door. "Today we are no longer sitting in Council, so you should call me Breen. After all, we are fellow guardians of our hives. The full naming t.i.tle is only for ceremonies and strangers. Are you called only Worf?"

"It is the way of my people to have only one name that is spoken in public." Worf frowned, trying to isolate an impression that nagged at the edges of his awareness. Something about the Jarada Breen was different from the day before, a change in its speech or its gestures that was triggering a warning in Worf. Regrettably, from what little the Federation knew of the Jarada, either behavior pattern might be normal for Breen. There was no way to tell.

They turned the corner and started down a long corridor. Breen bombarded Worf with questions about his work, about what it was like to be in Starfleet, and about minority treatment on a human-dominated stars.h.i.+p. In return for Worf's answers, the Jarada supplied anecdotes from its own experience, rarely noticing that Worf's answers were so terse as to be almost uninformative. Even so, after fifteen minutes Worf began to relax marginally in response to Breen's apparent interest. After all, it wasn't often that he could talk shop with someone outside Starfleet.

While they talked, they moved downward along a sloping corridor. When it leveled off, Worf judged they were the equivalent of five decks below ground. A maze of tunnels and side pa.s.sages branched off from the main corridor, and Worf realized the tunnel system must connect most of the buildings in the city. After ten minutes they reached a spiral ramp that led both up and down.

Breen started upward, still talking about its duties as a hive guardian. Worf found it difficult to concentrate on the Jarada's words; although Breen was talking incessantly, it actually said very little. The chatter was a distraction, Worf suspected, a diversion intended to keep his attention focused on the Jarada rather than on his surroundings.

Worf found the layout of the complex enlightening. The extensive cross-tunnels and the apparent lack of markings or directional devices suggested that defensive considerations had determined the design. Without a detailed map, invaders would soon be hopelessly lost in the underground maze, while the numerous side corridors provided endless opportunities for reinforcements to attack from the flank or rear.

The Klingon suspected that security doors operating on the same principle as a stars.h.i.+p's decompression doors were s.p.a.ced at strategic locations along many of the tunnels. He had not identified any such doors, which aroused his curiosity further. Were they disguised behind a false layer of plaster, or was Breen leading him through the only corridor in the area that was not protected by advanced security devices? The more he thought about it, the more puzzled Worf became. A warrior learned to trust his senses, and Worf's perceptions told him something was not right. He knew he should never have left the captain alone.

When they reached what Worf judged to be ground level, Breen stopped. The outline of a door was sharply drawn on the wall, as clear to Worf as the designs on the floor. Breen sc.r.a.ped its claws across the wall and a control panel appeared. Fitting its claws into the depressions, it entered a code into the panel. Much to Worf's surprise, the relays on the touch points each gave off a slightly different sound. He wondered if the Jarada knew this or if the distinguis.h.i.+ng overtones were outside their hearing range. Listening carefully, he memorized the sequence: 1-1-3-2-1-2-3-3-1.

"Our locks are our finest security feature," Breen said as the door retracted into the wall. "If intruders want to open a door, they must first find the control panel before they can enter the code. And if they enter the wrong code three times in a row, an alarm alerts the hive guardians that strangers are attempting to enter our home. Of course, no outsider knows where our control panels are, so it is virtually impossible for them to enter in the first place."

"This is a precaution against predators on your homeworld?" Worf could see no way the invisible panels would be effective against other Jarada, unless each hive used a completely unique security system. Given how conservative the Jarada seemed, he was willing to bet that most, if not all, the control panels in every hive were in precisely the same position relative to the doors they controlled. Was it possible the sharp, bright outlines of the doors were not visible in the frequencies detectable by Jaradan eyes?

"There are many dangers on our world." Breen turned its head toward Worf, rainbow interference patterns flickering across the large central facets of his eyes. It started down the corridor, its head turned sideways to watch the Klingon. "We cannot be too careful in the ways of protecting our hive. Is it not the same for you? How do you prevent intruders from entering your hive?"

"That problem is less difficult for us." They turned left into the first hall, a short dead end with heavily carved doors facing each other across the mosaic floor. "A stars.h.i.+p is a closed system, with all access systems strictly under our control."

"You must tell me more of this later." Breen pushed open the right-hand door and gestured for Worf to enter first. A thick, heavy smell-of cloves or cinnamon or some other spice he remembered his human mother overusing-swirled out of the room and wrapped itself around them. "Now, however, we have arrived, and I am sure you are eager to witness the presentation."

The room was large, larger even than the Audience Chamber, and the roof was at least three levels above them. Worf was reminded of the Enterprise's shuttle deck, both by the sheer size and by the open s.p.a.ce. The floor was wood, its pale surface pitted and scarred, worn by constant use despite its protective coating. The boards flexed under his feet and sprang back, almost alive in their response. Such a surface was made for fighting, and Worf wished he had a partner to help him test it.

Fifty or sixty large reddish-brown Jarada were standing near the far wall, their true-arms crossed over their feeding-arms in a posture that suggested deferential waiting. Near one end, Worf spotted a russet individual with a broken antenna. He had noticed a similar injury on a member of the ceremonial guard the previous day, and he was sure this was the same Jarada.

Examining the rest of the group, Worf recognized other markings-here a discoloration, there a nick on an exoskeleton. He grunted, feeling the first stirrings of interest since Zelfreetrollan had issued the invitation. If these were the guardians entrusted to protect the highest officials on the planet, he did want to see what they were planning to show him.

The tallest of the group stepped forward three paces. "Admirably Ma.s.sive Worf-Guardian, you grace our humble exercises with your presence. When we scented the joyous tidings of your visit, we prepared a special performance for you."

At those words, every Jarada in the room crouched deeply, bending their heads until their antennae brushed the floor. Worf s.h.i.+fted his weight uncomfortably, uncertain whether this excessive obeisance was intended to express their respect for him and the Federation or if they were mocking him. Before he could decide, the leader ordered the group to break ranks. While most of the Jarada scurried around the room, setting up a series of large, strangely shaped objects, two individuals carried a bench with a cut-out seat over to Worf. After they filled the Jarada-shaped indentation with blankets, Breen gestured expansively to Worf and said, "Please accept our hospitality for the duration of our performance."

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 ch.o.r.eography 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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 a.n.a.lysis. 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 a.s.sailants 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 s.h.i.+vers 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 s.h.i.+pmates. 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 a.s.sembled Jarada. He would much rather face a dozen Borg single-handedly than play amba.s.sador 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 performance 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 s.p.a.cing 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. .h.i.tting 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 s.h.i.+p. Even Data should be able to interpret the sounds of a fight and beam him up. All he needed was to get to the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s 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 doc.u.ments 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 doc.u.ment against his memory of their discussions. The provisions for the exchange of amba.s.sadors 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 doc.u.ments into a case. "When I return to the Enterprise, I will transmit these doc.u.ments 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 antic.i.p.ation that we look forward to exchanging amba.s.sadors 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 ma.s.sive 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 BelMinor."

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 doc.u.ments 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 a.s.sume you wish me to extract everything I can from these doc.u.ments?"

"Yes, Mr. Data." As he lowered himself into his chair, Picard took a deep breath, cataloging the smells and appreciating their un.o.btrusiveness. 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 a.s.saulted 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."

"In that case, Captain, I shall give these doc.u.ments my utmost attention." Data shuffled the papers together and turned away, antic.i.p.ating Picard's next order.

"Make it so, Commander." Picard watched the android stride effortlessly up the ramp to the turbolift, his movements so different from the four-legged walk of the Jarada. With a start Picard realized that he had gotten used to the insectoids' odd, rolling gait. He had seen so many of them in the last day that they were starting to seem like the norm. Giving himself a mental shake, he turned his attention to the s.h.i.+p. "Status report, Lieutenant Chang," he ordered.

Chang's report was crisp and concise and very normal. With a feeling of pleasure mixed with relief that matters would be simple for a few hours, Picard settled back in his chair to command his s.h.i.+p.

The buzzer to Troi's cabin door sounded as she was dressing after her shower. She gave her bright blue skirt a tug to settle it into place and reached for a band to hold back her hair. "Who's there?"

"It's Miles...o...b..ien. May I talk with you for a few minutes, Counselor?" The transporter chief's voice sounded unusually tense.

"Of course." Troi signaled for the door to admit him and ordered the computer to adjust the light level in her sitting area to its professional setting. She had known this discussion was inevitable since his fight with Keiko last night, although she had not expected it to happen so soon.

O'Brien entered and crossed to the sofa, his movements stiff and awkward. Troi didn't need her Betazoid perceptions to realize that he was fighting a battle with himself even to come here. He perched on the edge of the sofa, his back as straight as a ramrod, and fidgeted with his hands rather than looking at her.

Troi let the silence stretch, waiting until she judged the time was right. "Is there something you wish to talk about?"

"Yes. No." He twisted his fingers together, clenching them so tightly that his knuckles showed white against his fair skin. Finally, the words exploded from him. "It's Keiko. Sometimes I don't understand her. Like now, when she's run off to that planet. It's dangerous down there. She might get hurt!"

Troi closed her eyes, briefly probing O'Brien's mental state. Beyond his anger and frustration, she sensed a deep puzzlement over his wife's actions. Marriage had yet to improve O'Brien's insight into the woman he loved, any more than it had increased Keiko's comprehension of non-j.a.panese ways. "It upsets you, then, that your wife is doing her job on the away team?"

O'Brien's cheeks flushed with anger. "She can do her job on the s.h.i.+p! If anybody gets in trouble on that planet, it should be a regular Starfleet officer who signed on for that type of duty."

"If you're so sure that there will be trouble, why are you here instead of in the transporter room, waiting to rescue her?" Troi's voice was soft, deliberately pitched to make him work to understand her. Until he released his anger, there was little chance he would listen to anything she said. "Or are you afraid she will be angry over that too?"

"She always wants to do things her own way! She never listens to my opinion on anything!" O'Brien's jaw set into a hard line. "I'm her husband! She should listen to me!"

The problem unfolded itself for Troi, complete with its misunderstandings and cross-cultural confusions. "Like your mother always listened to your father?" she asked in a gentle tone. O'Brien's records showed that his mother had been a quiet woman who enjoyed family life and loved children, even to fostering troubled children after her own offspring had left home. Keiko could hardly be more different from O'Brien's mother if he had set out to find his mother's opposite.

His head snapped up, surprise written across his features. "Of course. Isn't that what marriage is about?"

"That depends." She paused, letting him wonder what her next words would be. "Have you ever asked Keiko about the marriage customs she grew up with?"

"No. Why?" He frowned, confused by Troi's question.

A gentle smile played around the corners of Troi's mouth. The idea that j.a.pan's traditions might still influence Keiko had never crossed O'Brien's mind. "Have you ever considered how much of j.a.pan she brings with her wherever she goes?"

"I don't see what that has to do with our marriage." O'Brien shook his head emphatically. "She rejected all that when she married me."

Troi sighed, thinking that both O'Brien and Keiko came from backgrounds best known for trying to remold the universe to their own specifications. And that she would have to repeat this lecture on tolerance to Keiko, once the away team beamed back from BelMinor. "It is not surprising that you and Keiko are not understanding each other, Miles, when you know so little of j.a.panese culture. For example, did you know that in certain regions of j.a.pan the husband is expected to take his wife's name if her family is of higher rank than his?"

"No, I didn't." His anger returning, O'Brien glared at Troi as if, through sheer indignation, he could alter her words. "It's a stupid rule, anyway. A man's name is his heritage, his roots. It's what he is."

Troi nodded and smiled, as if he had agreed with her. "Precisely. In j.a.pan, heritage and family are everything. It's a high honor to become a member of an influential family. Sometimes, when a man shows promise of great achievement, he will be adopted into one of the senior families. In that case, he is proud to a.s.sume the name of his new family."

"What kind of fool would want to change his name?" O'Brien's mouth compressed into a hard line. He stared defiantly at Troi, but she waited, letting his irritation force him into making the next move. "What does that have to do with me? I don't know anything about Keiko's family. For all she's told me, they could be the lowliest peasants."

"I a.s.sure you they are not. And even if they were-by j.a.panese standards, a non-j.a.panese is lower than the lowliest peasant. In the more traditional districts, a man of j.a.panese descent from another country or from off Earth would be expected to adopt his wife's family name." Troi c.o.c.ked her head to the side, studying his face as the words soaked in. Anger, disbelief, and outrage warred for control of his mind.

"That's absurd. What right do they have to make me deny who I am? I'm just as good as any of them, and better than most!"

"I think Keiko's inclined to agree with that, since it was you she decided to marry. But would you do me a favor, Miles?" She paused, waiting until he gave her a grudging nod. She could tell that he suspected a trap somewhere but didn't know quite how she'd set it. "I'll flag some references for you in the computer and I'd like you to read them. I think they'll help you understand Keiko better."

"I suppose."