Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
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