Strike Zone Part 20

"I could be enjoying it more." He grinned his offensive grin. "But I'm making do. We all are, aren't we?"

The others grunted their agreement, and Deanna found herself wishing that Riker would show up. Even though she knew she wasn't in any real danger, she disliked the feelings she was getting from them. "I'm on my way up to the bridge," she lied.

"Well ... "

Aneel stopped, suddenly noticing that Selelvian he'd spotted several days ago just ahead of them. The elf was waiting patiently in front of a large set of double doors, and then they opened and, to Aneel's shock, two people dressed in winter clothes stepped out. Flakes of snow seemed to blow past them and vanish as soon as they hit the hallway. The Selelvian nodded a greeting to them and stepped through the doors which closed behind him.

"What's that place?" said Aneel.

"That? That is the holodeck. Realistic computer creations allow you to live out virtually anything you can imagine,"

"How interesting." He pointed ahead, down the hallway. "Will that turbolift take us to the Ten-Forward Room?"

"Oh yes," said Deanna, unsure of whether she'd been able to keep the relief out of her voice.

"Good. Come along, men."

Deni and the other Kreel reacted in mild surprise to their leader's sudden eagerness to get to the Ten-Four Room. But they said nothing, hurrying instead to keep up with Aneel as he sped down the hallway on his muscular legs.

"What's the hurry?" asked Deni.

"The hurry," replied Aneel, "is that something occurred to me that I didn't want the Betazoid to know about. How much have you learned about her, Deni?"

And Deni, who had been doing quiet investigations on all key personnel, said, "You needn't have been concerned. She can't read thoughts. Just sense emotions."

Another one of the Kreel snickered and said "I bet she was picking up a few great ones from me." There was raucous laughter from the others, which continued as they got to the Ten-Four Room and entered.

The usual a.s.sortment of off-duty personnel was there. There were also six Klingons seated around a table.

Chatter in the Ten-Four Room started to ease up as the occupants slowly realized that there was potential for major trouble here. Six Klingons. Six Kreel. Twenty-four fists.

The odds were not promising.

The highest-ranking Klingon present was Sklar, and the others immediately looked to him for what lead to follow. Sklar, for his part, did not move. He knew what the Honorable Kobry had arranged, and what he expected. By the same token, he answered directly to Tron, and he knew how Tron felt about the Kreel-a feeling that he and the others at the table shared. There was, of course, honor to consider, but were the Kreel mature enough to comprehend honor?

Sklar and the others sat stiffly, as if bolted to their chairs. They were poised to stand quickly if need be, to attack lethally if it was required. Sklar allowed his right hand, which had been under the table, to drift toward the top of his boot where a knife rested comfortably. Next to him, Sub-Lieutenant Derl was prepared to yank his garrote from concealment in his belt buckle.

Swaggering, utterly confident, Aneel ambled toward them, arms dangling relaxedly. He had a lopsided sneer that Sklar was certain was indicative of total contempt. Sklar mentally chose a point two feet away where, if the Kreel crossed it, Sklar would consider that an act of aggression and pull his knife. Self-defense, of course. Pact or no pact, he wasn't going to let a Kreel sc.u.m get within choking distance.

Perversely, the Kreel stopped just short of that mentally drawn line-of-no-retreat.

Aneel folded his arms across his barrel chest. He was staring directly at Sklar with those d.a.m.nable pig eyes of his, and Sklar waited for him to do something.

From the bar, Guinan called out to the new arrivals, "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Aneel paused and then said slowly, not to Guinan but to Sklar, "I'll buy you and your people drinks ... if you'll buy me and my people drinks."

Sklar blinked in surprise. It was not at all what he'd been expecting. Hardly any sort of violation of the shipboard treaty. He glanced at the other Klingons but they were just as surprised.

"Well?" said Aneel. "Are you going to show that you're less hospitable than we?"

Sklar's lips thinned, his heavy brow bristled, and then in a low voice he called to Guinan, "Bartender ... drinks for the Kreel."

And Aneel promptly responded, "Bartender ... drinks for the esteemed Klingons."

"On the house," Guinan said.

Normally, the Klingons preferred something a bit more in the rotgut category, such as the swill they'd brought on board, but in this instance Guinan used discretion and reached for the synthenol.

The liquid began to flow.

"Estimated time of arrival at DQN 1196, Mr. Data?"

Data turned from his position at ops and looked curiously at Picard. "Precisely thirty-two minutes sooner than the last time you inquired, Captain."

Picard settled back in his command chair and sighed. "The sooner this business is over with, the happier I'll be. I feel as if there's a clenched fist in my stomach."

"So far, so good, Captain," commented Riker.

"No, Number One, you mean, so far, no one is dead." Picard shook his head. "I have an extremely bad feeling about this."

Suddenly a voice came over the intercom, snapping, "Security to bridge!"

Worf's head snapped around, beating Picard to the response as he said, "Bridge, Lieutenant Worf here."

"Disturbance, sir. Ten-Four. Knives being thrown. Mobbed down there, but we believe Kreel and Klingons are involved."

"d.a.m.n!" cursed Picard. "Worf, Number One, get down there!"

"Security team, meet me at Ten-Four!" barked Worf even as he darted for the aft turbolift, with Riker right on his heels.

It seemed ages ago that, in this very same arboreal setting, Jaan and Wesley had engaged in mindless hide-and-seek games.

Jaan now wended his way through the forest, phaser out, competing against a computer-created enemy. He had not wanted to disturb Wesley-Wesley who was his only hope. Wesley who was his only friend.

For the umpteenth time he considered somehow trying to undo the damage that the Knack had done to the young genius. But there was no point to it. Let Wesley go on trying. He might succeed. And even if he didn't ...

His thoughts grew dark. Even if he didn't, who cared, really? So Wesley lost some sleep. So what? He, Jaan, was what counted. He was what mattered. He wanted to live. In most cultures, that wouldn't be considered a crime.

And the Federation-what had they done for him?- hadn't found a cure for the Rot. Oh, they'd been working on it, or so they said. But they undoubtedly had more important things to worry about, like building bigger and better s.p.a.ceships. Who gave a d.a.m.n about one life?

"The h.e.l.l with them," he said, and at that moment a phaser bolt struck him square in the chest.

The computer-created seeker had found him, and Jaan was blasted back off his feet, caught totally unaware. A tree halted his backward flight, but he hit it with full impact and the world spun around him.

He slid to the ground and lay there helplessly, feeling humiliated. Once, he had been the best at this game. Even computer creations couldn't begin to cope with his speed, his stealth. Now his concentration was unfocused, his body movements stiff and clumsy. The disease was creeping through him, eating away at his nervous system.

The computer-generated human stood over him, unmoving, not making a sound. Why should it? It was just an unliving sh.e.l.l.

Which was what he was going to be.

"d.a.m.n you," he grunted and tried to stand. His legs had no strength, his stomach cramped up yet again. He felt a wave of nausea rolling over him.

He should have listened to Pulaski. He should have taken it easy ... but for what? To prolong this non-life of his?

His face became wet with tears. It was unmanly. It was inappropriate. But he couldn't help it, and the computer human remained an impa.s.sive witness.

In a strangled voice Jaan said, "Go away!" Obediently, the computer opponent holstered its phaser and walked away from him.

He sank to the ground then, rubbing the dull pain in his chest from where the phaser bolt had taken him down.

Why was this happening to him? Why? What had he done? It was so d.a.m.ned unfair. He had tried to live a good, honest life, and this was his reward. Being cut down, not even in his prime. His prime was still years off.

He sighed, and even that stung. There was no point to sitting here like an oaf in computer-generated woods. He stood, preparing to leave.

And that was when a figure, who'd been watching him, stepped out of the shadows of the trees.

Jaan heard the snapping of twigs and spun quickly, so fast that he almost lost his balance and fell. But he recovered immediately, throwing his arms out to either side to prevent it. He looked at the newcomer in surprise.

"What," he said, "are you doing here?"

And the newcomer smiled and said, "I thought I might have something I can offer you."

"Like what?"

"Life."

Worf and Riker pounded down the hallway, setting new speed records as they got to the Ten-Four Room. Even before they arrived, they heard shouting and yelling, challenges being tossed back and forth, all in the very distinct voices of Klingons and Kreel.

The security team of five was waiting, phasers at the ready, and the moment Worf and Riker arrived the Klingon security head said, "Phasers set on stun. At my mark and ... go!"

The doors opened and they leaped in, phasers aimed, and they were hit by a now-overwhelming barrage of noise, except now it seemed that in addition to Klingon and Kreel voices there were others as well.

At first they couldn't see anything. Enterprise crew members had created a solid wall of backs, as if they were watching some sort of sporting event. They were bellowing out what now seemed to be shouts of encouragement, and Riker could have sworn he even heard betting being made.

What in the world-he thought.

"Out of our way," snarled Worf, and he didn't even wait for people to obey as he shoved his way through, followed by Riker and the now-completely-confused security team.

As people in the crowd realized who was trying to get by them, they made every effort to step aside. At last, the officers fought their way to the front of the crowd. There, they stopped and gaped in disbelief.

Hanging on the wall, stuck there who-knew-how, was one of the leather tunics that the Kreel typically wore. Concentric circles had been drawn in the middle of it, and sticking out of the bull's-eye, just right-of-center, was a dagger.

Thirty paces away, a bare-chested Kreel, whose tunic it undoubtedly was, was taking aim with another dagger. He was surrounded by shouting Kreel who were urging him on, and equally raucous Klingons who were claiming that no way could he possibly match that throw.

Worf and Riker looked at each other, dumbfounded. They'd expected to find bodies on the floor. Not this.

The Kreel, who Riker now recognized as the one called Deni, let fly. The dagger soared straight and true and landed dead center of the bull's-eye.

A roar went up, and immediately everyone was shouting and arguing. The Klingons wanted a rematch. The Kreel were shouting that this was the rematch, but sure, why not, and it was all a madhouse, simply a madhouse.

And at the top of his lungs, Riker shouted, "Everybody quiet!"

Immediately a silence fell over the Ten-Four Room. Slowly, Riker walked across to the target, shaking his head in utter disbelief. He pulled the daggers out of the tunic and lifted it up. The wall was riddled with knife marks, where previously-thrown daggers had penetrated the tunic and gone through. He also noticed that the tunic was being held to the wall by the puttylike substance used to seal bottles of synthehol.

Derl of the Klingons, who had been the knife-thrower opposing Deni, said, with no trace of remorse, merely as explanation, "We tried to protect the wall."

Riker turned slowly and stared at them, stared at the crew. "You're out of your minds," he said incredulously. "You're throwing daggers around! Someone could have gotten hurt! Plus you're damaging Federation property. You're disturbing the tranquility of the entire ship with these dangerous stunts! Now"- and his angry tone made it clear that a reckoning was about to occur-"whose bright idea was this, anyway?!"

And every Klingon and Kreel, and every member of the crew, pointed and chorused the same thing: "GUINAN'S!"

Riker turned and looked at the hostess for confirmation. From behind the bar, she smiled, giving him her most innocent expression.

"Oh," said Riker. He shrugged. "Okay, then."

A cheer went up and Riker said quickly, "However." And when the noise level had dropped back down to a safe decibel range, he said, more quietly, "However ... these daggers are now property of the first officer. Namely me. If you all want to entertain yourselves, that's splendid. Try to do it with less-sharp objects. Is that understood by everyone?"

There were desultory nods all around, although the Kreel didn't nod so much as half-bow, because of their relative lack of necks. Taking this to be a sign of understanding by all, Riker and Worf left the Ten-Four Room, security squad in tow.

The Klingons and Kreel looked at each other. "They took the knives," said Deni.

"That's fine," replied Sklar. He lifted his arm, and the sleeve fell away to reveal a pair of daggers in tight holsters strapped to his forearm. "We have lots more."

Meanwhile, Worf and Riker reported back to the bridge, where Captain Picard looked less than pleased as they explained the situation.

Deanna Troi couldn't help but observe, "It's better than their trying to kill each other, Captain."

"That is a matter in which I take small consolation," replied Picard. "Although you do have a point. Let's hope that business proceeds smoothly from here."

So the knife throwing continued in the Ten-Four Room, as Worf and Riker had secretly imagined it would. And the Enterprise drew closer toward DQN 1196.

And none of the partic.i.p.ants had noticed that Aneel had vanished from the Ten-Forward Room in the heat of the knife-throwing contest.

Jaan stared up at the unexpected intruder, a burly member of the Kreel contingent, so recently arrived on the Enterprise. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, and brushed the dirt off himself.

"Life?" Jaan snorted.

"That's correct."

"Don't talk to me about life."

"Why not?" said the Kreel, swaggering toward him. "My name is Aneel, by the way."

He was a typical Kreel, Jaan thought. Obnoxious, overbearing, and incredibly confident in himself, even when he had no reason to be. "Aneel the Kreel," said Jaan. "That's simple enough to remember. Well, Aneel the Kreel, the reasons I don't want to talk about it are none of your concern."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."