Star Trek: Pantheon (13 page)

The holodeck doors opened.

Morgen nodded approvingly. “I like it,” he said.

Worf grunted. “I thought you would.”

Before them loomed the remains of a ruined temple, neither distinctly Klingon nor distinctly anything else, but so barbaric-looking that only a Klingon could have invented them. The sky overhead was the color of molten lava; the ground was a dead gray, pocked with steaming, smoking holes.

God-statues stared at them, either from the heights to which they’d been erected or from out of the rubble into which they’d fallen. There were bird cries, savage and shrill, though the birds themselves—a carrion-eating variety—were not evident. Long snakelike things slithered over the crumbled stones, hissing as they went.

Worf indicated the weapons at their feet. Kneeling, the Daa’Vit picked up the one that was meant for him.

“A
ka’yun,”
said the Klingon.

Morgen inspected it appreciatively, testing its balance. He looked at Worf. “Very authentic.”

The Klingon shrugged. “There were descriptions of it in the library computer. I merely drew on the data.” He bent and picked up his own weapon, a long staff with a vicious hook at one end and a metal ball at the other.

“A
laks’mar,”
noted Morgen. He stiffened a little at the sight. “I am familiar with it.
We
are familiar with it.”

Worf decided it would be wise to change the subject. “This program has two levels of difficulty. I have chosen the second,” he said.

The Daa’Vit nodded his approval. “Let’s begin.”

O’Brien seldom took advantage of the holodecks. It wasn’t that he had an aversion to them—just that he liked other sorts of recreation, chief among them being a good, steamy poker game.

Of course, it had been different when he’d first come on board. The holodecks had been a novelty then, and he’d vented his imagination in them. Once he’d constructed a pub in old Dublin, where he’d tossed a few down with his favorite author—a fellow by the name of James Joyce. Another time he’d had dinner with the Wee Folk under the Hill, and let their pipes charm him to sleep.

But after a while the novelty had worn off. The final straw had come when he found himself constructing
poker games
in the
holodecks
—and enjoying them less than the live games he played with the ship’s officers.

When he visited Deck Eleven these days, it was strictly to visit a friend in his or her quarters, or to work up a sweat in the gym. And when he walked past the holodeck panels, it was usually without a second thought.

Except this time. On his way to Crewman Resnick’s apartment, he’d seen Worf and Captain Morgen entering holodeck one. And he knew from speaking to Commander La Forge that Klingons and Daa’Vit didn’t get along. Hell—Worf had been afraid it might come to blows. Or worse.

But if they didn’t see eye to eye…what in blazes were they doing in the holodeck together?

In the end, it was more than curiosity that drove O’Brien to find an answer to that question. It was genuine concern for the Daa’Vit’s welfare—not to mention Worf’s. And if he didn’t exactly feel right checking the computer panel to see what program they were using, he at least felt
justified.

The panel readout indicated “Calisthenics—Lt. Worf. Level Two.” When he saw that, O’Brien thought he understood what was going on.

Klingons were warriors. Daa’Vit were warriors. Yup—it all made sense.

Worf was trying to bridge the cultural gap between them. If they were human, they’d be playing billiards. Or Ping-Pong. But since they were who they were, they were mixing it up with alien monsters instead.

And Level Two—well, that didn’t sound so good, but it didn’t sound so bad either. After all, Commander Riker had once tried Level One—or so he’d said one night around the poker table.

O’Brien went to see his friend Resnick with a clear conscience. He’d done his part to ensure peace and tranquility on the
Enterprise.

Responding to the Daa’Vit’s request that they begin the exercise, Worf strode ahead into the most congested part of the ruins. Already, he could feel his instincts coming to the fore—his senses becoming sharper, the fire in his blood awakening.

Morgen followed, but at a distance of a couple of meters. A good idea, the Klingon remarked to himself. When things heated up, he didn’t want them to become entangled with one another.

The birds shrieked, eager for freshly killed meat. The snake-things crawled. High above them, the heavens rumbled as if with an impending storm.

Movement.
Worf saw it only out of the corner of his eye. His first impulse was to attack it, to draw it out.

But it was on the Daa’Vit’s flank, not his. If they were to work together, they would have to trust each other. Trust each other’s perceptions and abilities.

A moment later, Worf was glad that he had practiced restraint. For if he had gone after the first hidden assailant, he would have been too distracted to notice the second—a powerful, furred being that leapt down at him from one of the god-monuments.

He brought up his weapon just in time to absorb the force of the furred one’s downstroke. Recovering, he launched an attack of his own, burying his hook deep in his enemy’s shoulder. When the furred one tore it free, Worf used the other end to smash him in the face.

As the furred one sank to his knees, unconscious, Worf allowed himself a glimpse of Morgen’s combat. The Daa’Vit was exchanging blows with a horned and hairless white giant modeled after the Kup’lceti of Alpha Malachon Four. No problem there, the Klingon decided.

And whirled in time to face another attacker, who had sprung from behind a ruined altar. This one was broader than the first, squatter, with a black-and-yellow hide and eyes like chips of obsidian. Shuffling to one side, Worf avoided his initial charge. Then, as they faced off again, he caught the being’s mace on his staff.

For a moment they grappled, Worf snarling with effort as he tried to gain the upper hand. He could smell his opponent’s fetid breath, hear the screams of the carrion birds drawn by the scent of blood. His pulse pounded in his ears, feeding the fires inside him.

Finally, with a mighty surge, the Klingon thrust his enemy back—in the process creating enough space between them to swing his weapon. The metal ball caught the being on the side of the head, spinning him around, sending him sprawling into one of the steaming hellpits. Roaring with pain, he struggled desperately to climb out of the hole. In the end, he failed.

Worf felt a cry of victory burst from his throat, piercing a roll of thunder overhead.

Coiling, wary of another enemy, he caught another glimpse of the Daa’Vit. Morgen was standing over not one opponent, but two—his angular face split by a huge grin, his sword dripping blood.

When he sensed Worf’s scrutiny, he whirled and returned it. For a moment they stood there, each fighting the instinct to cut the other to pieces. Straining against themselves, measuring passion against intellect.

Then the battle fury subsided. The moment passed.

“Excellent,” said the Daa’Vit. His yellow eyes glinted. “Better, in fact, than I had hoped.”

Worf acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

Abruptly, the scene changed. The bodies of their enemies were gone—as if they had never been there at all.

Morgen looked at him. “Something else, Worf?”

The Klingon shook his head. This was not part of his program. It should have ended when they struck down the last attacker.

“Something is wrong,” he said out loud.

He didn’t have a chance to elaborate. The furred one was descending on him as before, whole again. As Worf leapt backward, a skull-faced warrior—a relic of past programs—advanced from another direction, making his way around a steaming hellhole. And a third opponent, a leathery-skinned, club-wielding Bandalik, was crawling toward him over a slab of stone.

It was happening too quickly. This wasn’t Level Two. It was something more difficult.

But he hadn’t
programmed
anything more difficult.

“What’s going on?” asked Morgen, beset by a second group of antagonists.

“I don’t know,” said the Klingon. But he wasn’t about to risk the Daa’Vit’s well-being by subjecting him to a program too fierce for him. And possibly, Worf admitted, too fierce for him as well.

“Stop program,” he called to the computer.

It had no effect. His enemies were still converging on him.

“Stop program,” he called again.

Nothing.

Off to the side, Morgen cursed. Worf heard the clang of colliding blades, followed by a grunt and another clang.

The Klingon’s lips pulled back in fury. This was no joke. Something had happened to the holodeck. It wasn’t responding.

Even as he confronted that fact, Skullface swung his ax, meaning to separate Worf’s head from his shoulders. The Klingon ducked, slammed his opponent with the ball end of his weapon—then whirled to strike at the oncoming Bandalik.

The blow landed; the Bandalik staggered back. However, the furred one was on top of him now, too close to defend against.

Worf’s staff went up, though not in time to keep the furred one’s blade from slashing his uniform shirt. There was a hot stab of pain—and the Klingon could feel something warm and wet trickling down the hard muscles of his solar plexus. It smelled like blood—
his
blood.

Hooking the furred one as he had before, he sent him sprawling. But before he could turn and face another adversary, something hit him in the back—hit him
hard.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, the Klingon did his best to keep his feet. But a second blow sent him spinning wildly.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and he found himself at the brink of a steaming hole. A moment later, Skullface was on top of him, bringing his ax up for the killing blow—and Worf had lost his staff when he fell. Still dazed, he forced himself to reach up and grab his enemy’s arms.

It worked—but only for a moment. Then his enemy’s superior leverage began to take its toll.

As he forced the ax blade down toward the Klingon’s throat, Skullface grinned. Behind him, the furred one and the Bandalik looked on eagerly, waiting to finish Worf off if Skullface failed….

Unfortunately for O’Brien, Resnick wasn’t home. He called her on the ship’s intercom.

“You
did
invite me over?” he asked. “I mean, I wasn’t dreaming it, was I?”

Resnick cursed softly. “Sorry, Miles.” She apologized profusely for having drawn an unexpected shift in security—and forgetting they were supposed to get together.

“I understand,” he told her. “I guess I’ll just have to find another way to pass the time.”

Making his way back down the corridor, O’Brien passed by the holodecks again—and slowed down. He had nothing else to do, he thought; a visit with old James might hit the spot. As he stopped to see if holodeck one was still occupied, he noticed that Worf’s program had escalated to Level Three.

“Hmm,” he said out loud. Straightening, he touched his communicator insignia. “O’Brien to Commander Riker.”

The response was barely a second in coming. “Riker here.”

“O’Brien, sir. I know this is probably none of my business, but I saw Lieutenant Worf and Captain Morgen enter the holodeck together a few minutes ago—to participate in the lieutenant’s ‘calisthenics’ program. And just now I couldn’t help but notice that the program had been bumped up to Level Three—”

“Level Three?” Riker exploded. “Turn it off, O’Brien! Turn the damned thing off!”

The transporter chief took a moment to recover from the force of Riker’s reaction—but
only
a moment. Then he whirled and pressed the abort program area on the holodeck computer panel.

Nothing happened. According to the monitor, the program was still in progress.

“It’s not working, Commander,” said O’Brien. He tried to terminate the program a second time, but with no more success. “The program won’t abort.”

“Damn it,” said the first officer. “Riker to bridge—”

That was all O’Brien heard for a few moments. Then the lights went off in the vicinity of the holodecks, and with them the faint hum of the ventilation system.

“O’Brien?” It was Riker again.

“Aye, sir?”

“We’ve cut power to Deck Eleven. Can you hear anything from inside the holodeck?”

O’Brien listened. His stomach tightened.

“Nothing, Commander.”

A muffled curse. “Try to pry the doors open, Chief. There’ll be a security team there in a minute or two.”

O’Brien tugged at one of the doors, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to budge it by himself—even with the power shut down. Of course, that didn’t stop him from giving it his best shot.

By the time the security team showed up, he’d actually created an opening the size of a hand’s-breadth. A familiar face loomed before him as other hands gripped the interlocking segments of the doors.

“Fern,” he said, acknowledging her.

Resnick smiled grimly. “Any idea what happened?”

He shook his head. “Just that Lieutenant Worf’s in there, and Captain Morgen as well. And they’re in some kind of trouble.”

He and Resnick strained along with the rest of the security team, but they weren’t making much progress. It seemed that the doors had moved about all they were going to.

“Everybody step back,” said Burke, the team leader. Waiting a moment while O’Brien and the others complied, he plucked his phaser off his belt, selected a setting, and trained it on one of the doors. Then he activated the thing.

The blue beam knifed out, vaporizing the duranium door in a matter of seconds. As the air filled with steam and the smell of something burning, Burke made his way through the twisted metal remains.

Resnick was right on his tail. And O’Brien was right on hers.

With the power off, the holodeck had reverted to a yellow-on-black grid. There were two figures inside. Both bloody, but both still standing—if barely.

Swaying, panting heavily, Worf waved away Resnick’s offer of help. “See to Captain Morgen,” he ordered, his voice little more than a rasp.