Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 13 - The Fall: Peaceable Kingdoms

by Dayton Ward

  As always, Chen could be counted upon to provide relief from the stresses of the moment.

  “Not a problem, sir. I’ll see to it that he’s removed from the ship’s holiday correspondence list.”

  Seven

  No matter how much effort and detail might be instilled into them, holographic enemies never seemed to die in a manner Worf found satisfying. Still, he was content to continue experimenting until he achieved the desired results.

  Standing amidst the crumbling remnants of the ancient, unnamed city he had chosen as the backdrop for this exercise, Worf studied his latest enemy. Separated by ten meters of dry, barren soil, the Jem’Hadar soldier returned his critical glare. The simulated Dominion warrior was the fifth opponent conjured at random by the computer from the database of potential rivals Worf had programmed into the training scenario. Behind him, four previous opponents lay unmoving among the ruins, dispatched over the course of the past hour in different iterations of the program. His muscles flexing beneath heavy clothing and armor, the Jem’Hadar fighter held a double-bladed ax in one hand, twirling the weapon as though it were a toy. His eyes, products of the training program Worf had created, glared at him with utter defiance and contempt. Though he said nothing, the challenge was clear.

  Fight me, Klingon, if you have the courage.

  Armed with nothing save his own two hands and the warrior’s heart beating in his chest, Worf lunged at his adversary. The Jem’Hadar soldier did not retreat from the attack, but instead held his ground as Worf closed the gap. Raising his ax, the Jem’Hadar began to swing the weapon. Worf was faster, grasping the ax’s handle before pivoting and pulling his foe with him, using the energy channeled into the downward strike to yank the enemy soldier off his feet. Twisting the ax, Worf felt it loosen from the Jem’Hadar’s grip before his adversary dropped to the dusty soil.

  At first considering turning the axe on his opponent, Worf instead discarded the weapon as the Jem’Hadar regained his feet. Lowering his shoulder, the Klingon slammed into his opponent with all the strength he could muster, hearing the agreeable sound of air being forced from the enemy soldier’s holographic lungs. The Jem’Hadar brought down an elbow between Worf’s shoulder blades, and the first officer growled in anger against the momentary pain as he pushed through his own assault. Lifting the Jem’Hadar off his feet, Worf slammed him down to the dirt.

  As he rolled to one side and regained his footing, Worf saw his adversary doing the same, and now light glinted off something in the soldier’s hand. The polished blade, long and curved, came at him and Worf’s instincts took control. He sidestepped the knife’s thrust and grabbed hold of the Jem’Hadar’s arm. Seeing his rival’s other hand reaching for him, Worf rammed his elbow into the soldier’s face. The Jem’Hadar grunted, more irritated than injured, but Worf followed the strike with another elbow that found his opponent’s throat. This had the intended effect, with the soldier coughing and gurgling as he stumbled backward, his knife falling to the dirt. Worf pressed his advantage, pouncing on the Jem’Hadar and driving the heel of his hand into his enemy’s nose. He felt bone, cartilage, or something else crack beneath his hand, and the soldier’s entire body went rigid. Worf saw the life already fading from the Jem’Hadar’s eyes as he delivered a final, decisive blow, lashing out to chop at his opponent’s neck. The soldier collapsed to the ground and lay there, unmoving.

  “Exercise complete,” reported the voice of the Enterprise’s main computer. “Do you wish to continue to the next level?”

  “Hold program,” Worf said, eyeing his fallen enemy. Despite the raw, unfettered ferocity of the fight, he knew the victory was hollow, taken as it was from a computer-generated simulation and within an environment that carried no real risk. For a moment, he considered instructing the program to remove the holodeck’s safety protocols, but doing so would be in defiance of Starfleet policy with respect to simulation training scenarios as well as Captain Picard’s own standing orders. In the past, such as when he had served as a lieutenant aboard the Enterprise-D, Worf on occasion had disengaged the holodeck safety measures for the set of calisthenics programs he had created as a personal fitness regimen. After all, Klingon honor required no less than a genuine threat to one’s own safety if a fight was to be worth undertaking.

  When Picard had learned of this practice, he at first had said nothing, other than to offer his understanding of what Worf was trying to accomplish. Still, he did instruct that the fail-safe parameters were to be enabled should anyone else attempt to navigate the program. This respect of Klingon culture and heritage was but one of the many reasons Worf had admired Picard from his first day aboard the Enterprise; a sentiment that only had strengthened during the intervening years.

  Later, as he evolved into his role as security chief following the death of Lieutenant Tasha Yar, Worf realized that despite the demands of his Klingon birthright, he needed to present a proper, disciplined role model for the men and women in his charge and that meant not disregarding orders or undertaking undue risk when a situation warranted no such action. With that in mind, he saw to it that the scenarios used to train the security detail were as real and unrelenting as they could be without causing actual wounds or death. The risk of being stunned, knocked out in hand-to-hand combat, or even suffering minor injuries remained, and it was a sufficient motivator for his officers so far as completing the training sequences were concerned. In years past, Worf himself had fallen prey to such pitfalls within the different simulations, thanks to some rather inventive programming on the part of two former Enterprise shipmates, Data and Wesley Crusher.

  “Lieutenant Šmrhová is requesting entry to the holodeck,” reported the computer. “Should I allow her access?”

  Worf frowned. There had been no alert sounded or other summons from the bridge apprising him of a situation requiring his attention, and it was atypical of Aneta Šmrhová to call on him unannounced. “Access granted.”

  Behind him, the computer-generated façade of a dilapidated stone structure morphed to reveal the arched doorway of the holodeck’s main entrance. The doors parted to admit Šmrhová, dressed in exercise attire as might be worn in the ship’s gymnasium or recreational areas. Her clothing and hair were damp with perspiration, and Worf noted that her face was flushed, indicating she had just completed some form of exertion.

  “I’m sorry, Commander,” she said in greeting. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Shaking his head, Worf replied, “No. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  The security chief did not answer at first. Instead she cast her gaze to the dirt covering the ground of his holodeck simulation, as though considering her next remarks.

  “I feel odd, sir, about not accompanying Doctor Crusher on her mission.”

  “Odd? In what way?”

  Šmrhová shrugged. “I’m the security chief. The safety of the ship and the crew is my responsibility. When a team’s sent into a potentially hazardous situation, I should be there, with them.”

  Frowning as he regarded her, Worf asked, “Do you believe Lieutenant Konya was an incorrect choice to send with Doctor Crusher? Are he and Lieutenant Cruzen not qualified to carry out the assignment given to him?”

  “Of course he’s qualified,” Šmrhová replied. “This has nothing to do with him or Cruzen or whether they’re up to the job. I guess this is just me, worrying.” She reached up to rub the bridge of her nose. “Commander, I have to be honest with you when I say that there are times when I feel as though I’m still figuring out how to be an effective chief of security.” Noticing his questioning look, she held up a hand. “I don’t mean the tangible things like ship’s operations and protocol or leading and training my people, or even facing the risks that come with my position.” She sighed. “I seem to have trouble knowing when it’s my place to lead and when to stand by and let others do their jobs.”

  Assigned originally to the Enterprise as a tactical officer, Aneta Šmrhová had proven herself on multiple
occasions in the years since then. Her service during the Borg Invasion and the aftermath of that devastating assault had been exemplary, earning her a reputation as a smart, capable officer who thought fast on her feet and did not shrink from challenges or additional responsibility. She had been promoted to her present billet following the death of the ship’s previous chief of security, Jasminder Choudhury.

  As still happened when thinking of his late lover, Worf felt within him a pang of emptiness; an almost palpable ache in his chest at her absence. The feeling was only exacerbated here and now as he stared into the face of her successor, and Worf reminded himself that Šmrhová did not deserve to be the target of any negative feelings he might still harbor over Choudhury’s loss.

  Owing to the sensitive nature of the mission Crusher had undertaken, Worf had suggested to Captain Picard that Šmrhová not even be told about it or Konya and Cruzen’s roles. Picard had convinced him otherwise, making the valid point that the security chief deserved to know the truth when it came to the risks her people were being asked to face.

  “It is not unusual to question one’s abilities,” he said. “Indeed, it is a healthy practice, as it often prevents one from slipping into complacency or even mediocrity.”

  Nodding, Šmrhová replied, “Agreed, sir.”

  In truth, Worf understood and even sympathized with her feelings. There was a time when he—as chief of security or simply a junior member of the operations staff—might well have doubted the wisdom of superiors choosing to exclude him from a duty to which he seemed ideally suited. However, time and experience had given him a broader perspective, in particular with matters pertaining to the proper knowledge and utilization of those in his charge. It was but another set of lessons he had learned while serving under effective leaders like Jean-Luc Picard, William Riker, Benjamin Sisko, and—for the brief time with which they had worked together—Natasha Yar.

  “I have experienced similar doubts,” Worf said, gesturing for Šmrhová to walk with him as he began strolling toward the nearest of the simulated ruins. “I was a junior officer on the previous Enterprise when Lieutenant Yar was killed in the line of duty, and Captain Picard promoted me to chief of security. I knew he would not have done so if he did not believe me capable of accepting the responsibility, but still there were those occasions when I felt unworthy of the trust he had placed in me. I faced similar uncertainty when the captain chose me to be his first officer after Admiral Riker received his posting to the Titan, but that was due to other reasons.”

  They passed through the remains of what was supposed to be an arched gateway leading to a small courtyard before the front wall of a castle. The computer had seen to it that the ancient structure appeared to tower above them, extending much higher than the ceiling of the holodeck’s interior. Worf never ceased to be impressed with the amount of care and detail that went into simulations of this sort.

  Šmrhová said, “I know of the difficulties you experienced during your time on Deep Space Nine, including the reprimand Captain Sisko was forced to enter into your service record. I’m sure overcoming that was its own challenge.”

  “It was,” Worf replied. “Captain Sisko himself told me that I likely would never earn a promotion to captain or command of a starship.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Šmrhová countered, “not after everything that’s come since, and that’s before Starfleet takes into account the ongoing need for good, experienced officers to take command postings. We’re still recovering from the Borg attack, after all. Besides, if you thought you had no future career prospects, why stay with Starfleet? You were an ambassador for the Klingon Empire. Why leave that behind to put your uniform on again?”

  “Diplomacy and I are not a good mix,” Worf said, pausing as he cast a wry look in Šmrhová’s direction. When she smiled at his subtle attempt at humor, he added, “Truthfully, that also was something of a learning experience, but ultimately my place is here, in Starfleet, serving Captain Picard and the Enterprise.” His selection as the ship’s first officer had—he knew—raised a few eyebrows at Starfleet Headquarters, but Worf was told that Picard had held firm in his decision, refusing to be swayed by anyone in the command hierarchy. Worf harbored no doubt that his career in Starfleet, whatever might happen in the years to come, was a result of Picard’s unwavering support and trust. The Klingon would die before he allowed that confidence to be dishonored to even the smallest degree.

  “Sir,” Šmrhová said, “if you don’t mind my asking, what do you think about being left behind, especially considering that Doctor Crusher could end up in danger? I have to think Captain Picard hates the idea, but we both know he’d never show it. What about you?”

  Worf said, “Like you, I felt that my place was with her on the mission, but if I had left with her, others would become suspicious. By staying here, I not only maintain my proper role and responsibilities, but I also protect Doctor Crusher and Konya and Cruzen.” He eyed the security chief. “You are doing the same, Lieutenant.”

  “Frustrating, isn’t it?” Šmrhová asked, more to herself than him. She gestured to her clothing. “I thought I could work off some of it, but kickboxing dummies or even willing friends just doesn’t cut it.” Pausing, she glanced around the ruins and at the bodies of the five opponents the computer had sent after Worf. “You seem to have found a method that works.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Klingon. “I find training scenarios like this to be more . . . fulfilling . . . than conventional exercise.”

  Šmrhová smiled at that. “And I’ve interrupted you for long enough. Thank you for your time, Commander. Our talk helped.”

  “I am happy to hear that,” Worf said. After a moment’s consideration, he added, “You are welcome to join me in the next iteration, if you wish.”

  Her eyebrows rose in response to the offer. “Really? You don’t mind the intrusion?”

  “Not at all.” Worf turned and walked to one of his vanquished opponents, a Hirogen soldier he had added to the training program based on xenobiological and cultural data collected by the U.S.S. Voyager and other ships that had explored the Delta Quadrant. He reached down to retrieve the long sword carried by the computer-generated alien warrior before its demise at Worf’s hands. “I think you will find the regimen more rewarding. For one thing, the fighting is more satisfying when facing the enemy alongside a worthy ally.”

  “Anything else I should know?” Šmrhová asked.

  “Yes.” As he hefted the sword and tested its weight and balance, Worf was unable to suppress a small grin. “Here, there is no need to pull your punches.”

  Eight

  Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, Earth

  It had been many years, more than he cared to count, since his days as a cadet, but for some reason he could not identify, Will Riker always felt an odd compulsion to run rather than walk across the grounds, as though he was late for class. Even the fingers of his left arm seemed to be tingling, as if to remind him that a padd containing his course notes might still be sitting on the desk in his dormitory room.

  Damn.

  On the other hand, there definitely was a new sensation he was experiencing during this, his first visit to the Academy since his promotion. As he traversed the walkways winding around, across, and through the impeccably manicured grounds and gardens while wearing his admiral’s uniform, he was struck by one very obvious observation: Many of the men and women around him, most on their way to some unknown destination or perhaps enjoying a brief respite while sitting on a bench in the sun and fresh air, were young. It was hard to judge in all cases, of course, owing to the diversity of species represented by the Academy’s current crop of students, but that did nothing to alter his perception.

  Was I ever that young? Perhaps it was his imagination, but Riker was sure he now could hear his very bones creaking as walked, and he visualized his beard growing grayer with every step. Were she here with him, Riker imagined that Deanna would be enjoying his reaction. He was
not that old, was he? What had she once called him during a conversation where he had been lamenting about how time seemed to be passing him? Seasoned?

  That would do, Riker decided.

  Rounding a bend in the walkway that took him past one of several reflecting pools scattered across the Academy campus, he saw a figure sitting on a bench overlooking the small, artificial pond. Leonard James Akaar, dressed like Riker in his Starfleet admiral’s uniform, rested with his hands clasped in his lap, his back ramrod straight, and locks of his long, stark white hair resting atop his broad shoulders. At one hundred eighteen years as measured on Earth, the Capellan looked more like a human of advanced middle age. Aside from his muscled physique, Akaar’s most intimidating feature was his eyes, which seemed to miss nothing and were—if the admiral was of a mind to do so—capable of inciting dread upon whomever they were fixed. Riker himself had been the target of Akaar’s foreboding gaze more than once, and it was something to be avoided if at all possible.

  On this occasion, as Akaar turned at Riker’s approach, the admiral instead offered a small smile. “Will. Thank you for coming.” He raised a hand and gestured as though to indicate the open area around them. “I thought this might be a better place to talk. Given how often we’ve been meeting in either of our offices, it seemed a change of venue might help to throw off suspicion.”

  “Good idea,” Riker said, taking a seat on the bench next to Akaar. They had been conducting frequent clandestine meetings at Starfleet Headquarters in recent days, each time taking precautions to ensure neither of their offices was being subjected to covert monitoring. Riker suspected that President Ishan had to have somebody keeping an eye on him as well as Akaar, but if their movements or conversations were being tracked, then whoever was shadowing them was very good at his job. So far, neither admiral had found any evidence of such surveillance, but they knew that Ishan would not stand idle while they harbored suspicions about him. Though they possessed no evidence to substantiate their theories, the president pro tempore had to know that they were continuing to search for such proof and that they also would enlist trusted friends to assist them in the endeavor.