Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [51]
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