Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [30]
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 acknowledged the compliment with a nod. 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, WorMore 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