Standard Disclaimer: Paramount=Trek. I only play around with the Official Franchise Characters because I'm turning into an insomniac... Time frame: sixth season, I'd guess.

soferim@Netvision.net.il

Alpha shift aboard the Starship Enterprise had just ended, and by accident or design, most of the senior staff had drifted to the 10-Forward lounge. They had pushed two tables together and were unwinding, talking about nothing in particular, when Worf's son came bounding in and pulled up a chair.

"Alexander," Worf boomed, "it is impolite to join adults without asking permission." The boy apologized and asked if he could sit down, knowing he would not be refused.

"What's up, Al?" Of all the officers, Geordi was his best friend, the one who encouraged him to try new things, take risks, and even let him help out in Engineering.

"I need some help with my homework." Anticipating his father's objections, he added, "The teacher said we should interview people."

"Very well, Alexander. What is your assignment?"

"I have to write a report about games that different cultures play, and what it's like to play them. So... what did you all play as children?"

Data was the first to respond. "I have no memory records of what would be considered my childhood, but I have extensive files on games and gamemanship, if you require."

Will Riker answered next. "I went fishing. And I played a lot of Parissi Squares."

"I was into volleyball," was LaForge's contribution.

"I swam," answered Troi. "Games are a little difficult on a world like Betazed."

"Didn't any of you play interesting games? Everyone will be writing about Parissi Squares!" despaired Alexander.

"Shinty," murmured Beverly Crusher, almost to herself. Everyone at the table turned to stare at her.

"What's shinty?" the boy asked, speaking everyone's silent question.

"It's a sort of Scottish hockey. If you can't hit the puck, hit your opponent."

"That game doesn't sound much like you." Deanna was puzzled by her friend's choice of childhood sport.

"It wasn't. I hated it. But on Caldos, every family sent participants to the annual Highland Games. Nana was too old to compete, so I played shinty and caber tossed."

Now Geordi was amazed, trying not to guffaw at the thought of the lithe CMO at a caber toss.

"What is a caber?" piped up the little Klingon.

Beverly turned to Alexander. "It's a young tree trunk, about yae wide," she held her hands a good distance apart. "You hold it upright and then try to pitch it past a line."

Worf growled, perhaps annoyed that she filled his son's head with useless knowledge. "You would have enjoyed the Games, Worf. They were designed to test a family's readiness for battle. Those who tossed best could hurl stone missiles, those who excelled with the dirk were the finest swordsmen. You should be a little more open-minded about Human culture."

"I had not realized your world was so war-like, Doctor," rumbled Worf in a half grudging voice.

"Caldos isn't, but ancient Scotland, before families like mine left, was. There's an Old Earth saying that Scotland was born fighting, and they served in almost every army ever raised. So, Alexander," Beverly turned her attention back to the reason for these confessions, "would the Games suit for your homework?"

"Yes, thank you. I wish I could have played in the Games. They sound like fun."

When he smiled that broad smile, showing sharp Klingon teeth, Beverly was glad for the other families' sakes that Alexander never would participate, not that men like McFly wouldn't have deserved it. "Why not? We can program the holodeck for it."

Alexander looked to his father for permission and was given one hour to play. "Let's go get you suited up, lad," said Beverly as she steered the boy out of the lounge.

Will Riker stretched out his long frame. "Now that's something I'd pay money to see. A Klingon in a kilt."

Deanna hurried to take her leave when she saw Worf's eyes narrow in frustration at the thought.

***

Beverly stopped at a hatchway door on deck 11. "Computer, call up files on Caldos colony. Create a Highland Games setting and competitors. And recreate from files Games Master Ian McFly." She looked at the fidgeting child next to her. "Stop fussing."

The boy looked like a tortured targ. "I'm wearing a skirt. My father would not approve."

"Well, then, he doesn't have to know. And you're wearing a kilt. Besides, your father would be very proud. I believe you will be redeeming my family honor."

Alexander was taken aback. "I will?"

The computer informed them that the program was ready, and they entered the room. "There is only one competitive class at the Games, and I played against adult men, almost always coming in last. Every year Master McFly told me not to bother playing, but I kept coming back."

"Why?"

Beverly reflected, remembered how she had felt honor bound to carry her family's banner, to stand for the two last survivors of the Clan Howard, to show respect for her grandmother's choice to live in this recreation of an older land. No man in this universe was going to make her abdicate what she saw as her duty. Maybe there's a little Klingon in us all, she thought, and then shook her head. "You'll see why, Alexander, when you meet McFly. Computer, run program."

The people around them began to bustle about, laughing and dancing, practicing their chosen sports. Beverly took Alexander's hand and led him to the registration table.

"Games Master McFly," she said to a hulking man in a glenplaid kilt, "Clan Howard would like to participate in the Games."

The man looked her over, from top to toe. "Be ye Beverly, then?"

"Yes, and this is Alexander."

The Games Master ignored the child. "I always said ye'd grow into a bonnie big lass. But I ken the Clan Howard's still curn."

The doctor protested. Quality would, in this case, definitely make up for the lack of quantity, small though the Clan was.

She was asked to choose her sport, but she decided to forgo the Games. "I'll take my grandmother's place in the Highland Fling, McFly. But Alexander will participate in all the events."

The Scots growled. "We dinna have a chiel's division. He canna play."

Crusher drew herself up to full imposing height and pierced McFly with a glare known and feared by medical staffs in a dozen sectors, as well as by one or two starship captains. The Games Master did not persist in his half-truth, but tried another tack. "The boy dinna look like Clan Howard."

"He takes after his father." There was no need for a hologram, or even for the real McFly, to know that Alexander was not one of the family and had no real right to participate.

"Ye always did have strange likings, Beverly Howard."

"Not strange enought to like a teacher such as yourself, McFly."

The insult stung the man. The division between Highland and city was long since gone, but the names remained, and to retaliate, he declared the family had been away from the Games too long to participate. Beverly had become so involved with the scenario that she did not even think to shut it down and start over.

"Let the boy carry our banner, and if he does not win at least three events, I will play high jinks." The Games Master again appraised the Howard girl grown to woman and rapidly agreed.

"What's high jinks?" asked Alexander, soaking up more information than he would need for his school report.

"An adult game, a drinking game, and somewhat dishonorable. So, Alexander, you'll be fighting for my honor, not just my family's. Knock 'em dead."

The boy's face lit up. "Aye, sir!"

Beverly grabbed the boy's upper arm, detaining him. "That's just an expression, Alexander. You do know that, don't you?"

"Well, now I do." The boy's grin was more reassuring than his words.

With a little coaching on the side from the doctor, Alexander acquitted himself quite well on the field, more than winning back the Howard family's lost honor. The final sword fights were taking place when Worf entered the Holodeck. He growled to see so many men in such impractical battle dress, and looked around for his son.

"Ye gave me quite a gliff, mister. I hope ye'll no be disturbin' our Games," a ruddy faced man said as he approached.

The Klingon did not quite understand him, but that was not important. "I am looking for my son."

"I'm Games Master McFly, and there's no doubt whose clan ye be with. Yer lad has done the family richt proud." He turned and raised his voice. "Beverly Howard, yer gawsie mon's come fer ye!"

Dr. Crusher stepped out of the crowd to claim Worf, realizing as she saw him that Alexander's allotted hour must have long since run out. She apologized to Worf, but explained the circumstances, and the two drifted off to see the fight.

"What did that man call me?" inquired Worf, prepared to have his touchy honor insulted and avenged.

"Just that you are imposing. McFly is too much the coward to say anything nasty to someone twice his size." The doctor broke off to clap as her little champion scored a hit. Worf, however, grimaced as his son missed an opportunity to kill his opponent.

Alexander bounded up to them, face beaming, until he saw his father and realized he must have overstayed his time. "Well done, Alexander," Beverly praised him, and reaching into the pocket of her tweed suit she offered the boy a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty ridges.

She then looked around and, finding what she sought, raised her hand. "Cadger!" she called to a man selling dairy goods.

The man drew closer. "Be those curmurrings I hear from the young victor?"

"I do believe he is thirsty, as is his father. Two bonny clabbers, please."

Worf tried to protest, unwilling to drink whatever concoction the doctor would wish to order, but the milk which was presented to him looked almost decent. He tasted it and was pleased by the sourness. "What is this?" he asked.

"Curdled sour milk," she explained, and covered her ears as bagpipes began to skirl in the background. As she expected, between the drink and the music, Worf was beginning to look almost relaxed.

After the music died away, though, Worf's stern look reappeared. "Alexander, go to our quarters and finish your homework," he ordered.

"Yes, Father." The young Klingon hung his head for an instant in obedience and turned to leave. "Dr. Crusher," he stopped at the hatchway, "our teacher said that the class could play the most interesting games we found. If she likes my report, can we use this program?"

"Of course, Alexander," the doctor agreed. With a twinkle of mirth in her eyes she added, "As long as you tell McFly you're all Howards."