Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [76]
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked one.
“Hey you,” called another. “We’re talking to you. Don’t make it hard on yourself.”
Yes. Definitely to detain him.
Instinctively, Worf rose to the challenge, whirling and bracing himself. As his nearest pursuer charged him, the Klingon stepped aside like a matador and used the man’s momentum to send him sprawling. The next two came at once; the first took a kick to the solar plexus, the second a fist to the jaw.
However, the paired maneuvers left Worf vulnerable, precariously balanced. And as the rest of his uniformed adversaries swarmed over him, he went down rather unceremoniously. Nor was it easy to get up again; holodeck simulacrums were every bit as heavy as they looked.
Kicking and smashing, tearing and slithering, he did his best to work free of the tangle. Anyone else would have acknowledged that he was fighting a losing battle—but Worf was not anyone.
“Damn you, hold still,” yelled an adversary.
“Hey, George … I don’t think that’s a mask.”
“Of course it’s a mask. Nobody’s that ugly.”
Worf struggled with renewed fury. Ugly, was it? He would show these slugs how ugly a Klingon could …
“Pause,” said a voice—one that Worf recognized.
Suddenly the comments stopped. And so did his adversaries’ attempts to subdue him. With as much dignity as possible, the Klingon climbed out from under the pile.
He found Data waiting for him with an outstretched hand. The android looked more than a little apologetic.
“I hope you are not injured,” he said. “I would have stopped the program sooner, but you appeared to be enjoying yourself.”
Worf ignored the hand and got to his feet. “Who are they?” he asked, looking back at the mound of simulated humanity. “I did not know you were partial to combat programs.”
“I am not,” answered Data. “The main activity here is something called a baseball game, a spectator sport of the twenty-first century.” He indicated the uniformed ones. “These security guards are present to keep the crowd from endangering the players and, of course, one another.”
Worf couldn’t believe his ears. “These,” he said, “are security guards?” He grunted—a sound that another Klingon would have recognized as an expression of disdain. “They dishonor the title. A dozen of them could not subdue a lone intruder.”
“To be fair,” said the android, “they were unaccustomed to dealing with an intruder like you.”
The Klingon allowed the truth of that, but it did not raise the guards in his esteem. He believed that security personnel should be prepared for anything. Then another question occurred to him.
“Why did they attack me,” he asked, “and not you?”
“I am disguised by a persona function,” explained Data. “When the simulacrums look at me, they see someone called Bobo Bogdonovich—the role Commander Riker intended to play when he created this program. You, on the other hand, are extraneous to this milieu. Since the security guards did not recognize you, they attempted to remove you from the field.” A pause. “Nor could your Klingon appearance have helped matters any. In the twenty-first century, mankind had not yet seen a Klingon.”
Mankind’s loss, mused Worf. As for the persona function, he probably should have thought of that himself—though in his own holodeck programs, he wove in no such protection. After all, it was essential that his enemies recognize him if they were to engage one another in battle.
But this was all beside the point. He had come here for a reason, and he apprised Data of the fact. Without any further pleasantries.
“The captain sent me. He wants you to be ready in case it becomes necessary to join Commander Riker in Besidia.”
That seemed to pique the android’s curiosity. “I thought Commander Riker was incapacitated.”
“He is. Apparently, he has decided to forge ahead anyway.”
Worf did not disguise his admiration, though he would have expected no less of Riker. The first officer was not easily daunted.
Data nodded. “I see. You may consider me