Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [29]
“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 came 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 wore 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 ‘IW-O.” 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’allyit’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 theist 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