The first blow came swift and savage. He hadn’t been ready. Mistake Number One. He threw his hands up, blocked the second strike. His arms hurt. He threw out a blind jab. It was swept aside almost mockingly. Mistake Number Two. He deflected two testing blows, sidestepped a lunge. Improvement.

His opponent stepped back, guarded. Watching for an opening. He knew he’d have to smart, fast. His opponent had him by almost fifty pounds of lean muscle. He clenched a fist tight against the ache in his arm. He held still, staring at the other’s core. The eyes always revealed his intent. The eyes didn’t matter, only the body. Fire burned in his lungs. Thunder rang in his veins. The world sharpened on the edge of adrenaline. In the back of his mind, a ticking. Time slowed.

The Klingon dropped his stance, shifted his weight. A voice whispered to him, coaching. He tensed. His opponent rushed him, roaring. His defense held against the rain of blows. His body cried protest and was silenced. He ducked, swung, countered. The grunt of success made him smile inwardly. The reply sang past his ear as he rolled away. His opponent allowed the retreat, regrouped.

He lost himself to the ages-old rhythm of bloodlust. It was a primal dance; it had its steps. Block. Advance. Feint. Attack. Counter. Retreat. Snarling, the music. Pounding fists and feet, the tempo. Blood, the crescendo. He threw himself into it, let it carry him. Each sound strike was a joy and each failure was marked in pain. There was no time for exultation or regret here. Only the dance.

He yelped when his legs vanished from beneath him. The ground clapped him hard on the back, kissed his head. Ringing laughed in his skull. The world swam. A shape loomed, reared. He threw his arms across his face, tucked tight. Blackness fell surely.

“Program terminated.” a woman’s voice announced dryly. “You are dead.“

Caelian sighed and dropped his arms. The Klingon looming over him frozen in a pantomime of snarling death startled him only briefly. He groaned and rolled from beneath it, sprawling on the ground in defeat.

“Computer, reset simulation.”

The air crackled around him as the holodeck realigned itself to appease his command. It took Caelian a few moments to convince his body that it could move and he sat up. An empty field cradled him, a war-garbed Klingon standing rigidly to one side. The mid-afternoon sun watched lazily from a nest of clouds while a playful breeze teased blades of grass in erratic patterns. Gently embracing the field’s periphery were tall cypress and stout olive trees, whispering to one another. A cottage was nestled amidst a sparse copse of cherry laurel to his left, the scent of woodsmoke wafting to him. Seeing that place brought a twinge of longing to his heart.

Home, he sighed inwardly. Someday, maybe.

“Computer,” he sighed, hauling himself to his feet, “clear the arena and compile this session’s combat data through filter Weir Alpha Nine-Five.”

The world melted away and reformed into a black cube wreathed in a silver grid of holo emitters. The Klingon did not seem phased by this in the least and observed Caelian as he limped to the door of the holodeck. The ensign leaned against the terminal and watched the data process on the display. Above the technical data was a replay of the fight he had just endured. He made rude face at the timer when it stopped at his defeat: 03:17.

“Oh, come on,” he grumbled. “That’s worse than last time!”

“Personal best survival time for this particular simulation: six minutes, forty-seven seconds,” the dry voice chimed in helpfully.

Caelian ground his teeth. “No one asked you.”

A squelch of error made him throw his hands into the air and stalk back into the holodeck.

“Computer, reset combatants to engagement positions. Apply the current filter.”

The Klingon warrior vanished from his position of attention and reappeared slightly crouched with fists raised. An instant later, a holographic facsimile of Caelian shivered into being poised ready for combat. The ensign nodded and paced a slow orbit around the pair.

“Now apply filter Weir Two-Two-Gamma.” The air about the two combatants warped and twisted until a pair of genderless mannequins were squaring off. “Overlay with Weir Alpha Nine-Five Baker.”

A host of technical data burst into view, some hung in the air facing him and others etched themselves into the two shapes. Certain parts of each mannequin now pulsed green while others glared red, showing the strengths and weaknesses of each defense. Caelian scrubbed at the stubble on his chin while he paced and turned the information over in his mind. Taking a careful breath against aching ribs, he nodded to himself.

“Computer, replay combat simulation.” His tone was focused as he backed off to watch. “Half-speed. Pause briefly at five-second intervals and update overlay.”

Caelian folded his arms across his chest and watched the clockwork replay carefully, adjusting his view as the two mannequins lunged at and struck one another. In his mind, too, he replayed the encounter as he remembered it. Seeing it from afar was almost jarring, noting the difference between memory and experience. He nodded each time the display updated and showed his model more green than red, frowning at the inverse. He found himself shaking his head when his lackluster clone ended up sprawled and beaten.

Caelian sighed. “Computer, end simulation and save. Update host program with all saved combat data. Export to personal exercise program and update.”

The holodeck hummed briefly before falling silent, leaving Caelian alone within the polished cube. After logging himself out of the system, he paused as the door yawned open. The twinge in his shoulder told him that he’d have to report to Sickbay, had probably torn something. He made a mental note to adjust the security filters on the emitters the next chance he had. He’d had to adjust them for a little more realism in his simulation, but the diffusion pattern was off. He wasn’t fool enough to train without the safeties.

“Adversity builds character, figlio mio,” his father used to say whenever Caelian would come home banged up playing with some of the older children. “And true adversity is never painless.“

“Too bad there’s not a hypospray for my pride,” he grumbled to himself, making his way slowly to Sickbay.
—Caelian Weir, Ensign—