Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [6]
Data reflected on the possibility. “Me, sir?”
“Why not? You might find it interesting. And anyway, it’ll probably take a trial run or two to work out the bugs. You can test it out and let me know what you think.”
Data glanced at the monitor and the information contained on the screen. “I do not know. I am not well acquainted with the environment you have synthesized.”
“So what? Broaden your horizons.”
“Indeed,” said the android, unable to keep a note of skepticism out of his voice.
“Look,” said Commander Riker, “it’s up to you—I won’t twist your arm. In any case, please don’t erase it. As I mentioned, it took me quite a while to put it together.”
“Of course,” said Data. “I will be careful to preserve it.”
“Thanks.”
The android stood alone in the silent corridor, peering at the monitor—and then at the holodeck doors. At the monitor. At the doors.
It had been some time since he had used a holodeck, he mused. Neither pastoral settings nor comedy nightclubs nor Sherlock Holmes’s London held much fascination for him lately.
Perhaps Commander Riker was right. Perhaps it was time for a new experience.
A beep told Riker that someone was in the corridor outside.
“Open,” he said, swiveling around in his chair.
The door slid aside, revealing the stolid bulk of the ship’s security chief. “May I come in?” Worf asked, in the same tone he might have used to propose the annihilation of a hostile vessel. Klingons always seemed to be engaged in a heated argument, even when they were uttering pleasantries.
The first officer nodded. “Sure. Have a seat.”
Worf entered and headed for a chair. It was situated on the other side of a polished amber-colored wood table—one Riker had made himself out of wood from a thousand-year-old Alaskan pine after a landslide had toppled the tree and half buried it.
The Klingon sat eyeing him—but not before he’d darted a glance at the garments laid out on Riker’s bed.
“What can I do for you?” asked the first officer.
Worf frowned. It was not necessarily a sign of displeasure—he frowned a lot.
“I have been notified that you will be beaming down to Dante Maxima Seven, also known as Imprima.”
“Yes,” said Riker. “That’s correct.”
“On a Priority One mission.” Worf paused. “By yourself.” Another pause. “Unarmed.”
“Right on all counts.”
The Klingon seemed to be at a loss for the right words. Riker waited patiently, knowing that his visitor would in time find what he sought.
“Of course,” Worf said at last, “it is a Priority One mission. You need not tell me anything about it—even though your safety is my responsibility.”
The first officer found it difficult not to smile, but he restrained himself. So that was what Worf wanted. “In other words,” said Riker, “you’d like to know what I’m going to be doing on Imprima. Even though it’s supposed to be classified information.”
Worf shrugged his massive shoulders. “If it will, in your estimation, enable me more efficiently to carry out my duties as security chief.”
“Which, of course, extend to all members of the crew, even when they are not on the ship.”
“Of course.”
It was a rather liberal interpretation of Starfleet regulations. However, Riker wasn’t disposed to argue with it. After all, he felt the same way on those rare occasions when the captain led an away team.
So he told Worf what he wanted to know. Not in the same detail he’d used with Picard, but nonetheless covering all the essentials.
The Klingon’s frown gradually deepened. “Then this matter is of some personal importance to you?”
“Yes,” conceded the human. “It is.”
Worf digested that. Loyalty was something he could easily understand. “Naturally, you will remain in contact with the ship?”
“I’ll report in occasionally. Besidia, the city where I’ll beam down, is hosting something called a Trade Carnival. One of the rules of the carnival is that there are to be no high-tech devices, including communications equipment, and they’ve gone to the trouble of enumerating