almost an amused sound. Geordi grinned at Eileen’s sudden reflexive look of alarm. “Arch,” he said. The gateway into the corridor appeared, and he headed over that way. “Come on, Lieutenant… you can come back later with a picnic basket if you like. Grandma’s house is just down that path.”
Eileen hit him again, from behind, though not very hard. Chuckling, Geordi headed out into the hall and out of range.
* * *
Will Riker had long since learned that, most especially when he was nervous, micromanaging his people was no good. In any case, the captain knew they were doing their best and had gone off to get what sleep he could—so that was one worry off Riker’s mind, at least temporarily. Meanwhile, the ball was in Mr. La Forge’s court now, and hanging over his shoulder wouldn’t help… no matter how much Riker wished it would. He had therefore taken himself out of the way for at least the next few hours and had made himself busy micromanaging someone else: Worf.
Since bringing the extra Stewart to sickbay, Worf had clearly been looking for something to shoot, damage, or otherwise work out his concern on. Riker knew this mood in him of old and had some practice in dealing with it before it got out of hand. Now, therefore, when the door to Worf’s quarters opened at his signal, he put his head in and said, “Come on, I want you to see this.”
“What is ‘this’?” Worf was sitting behind his desk, looking distressed. Riker strolled around and looked: Worf was rerunning a display of the seizure of Stewart.
“Problems?”
Worf frowned. “I am not sure we acted with maximum efficiency.”
Riker laughed out loud. “Worf, are you kidding? You acted exactly correctly. You’re just upset about this new threat to the ship. A big threat, and you can’t do anything about it.”
“It is a considerable danger. I desire to anticipate—”
“You don’t have enough data. Leave it be. I want you to come see a riot.”
Worf looked up at Riker quizzically. “On board
this
ship?” he said, getting up. “And there have been no reports—”
“Come on,” Riker said, and headed for the door. “Deck eleven,” he said as they got into the turbolift.
A few moments later they stepped out and made their way down the hallway toward one of the main holodecks.
“What is this about?” Worf said, sounding suspicious.
“Another installment of our opera studies,” Riker said mildly. Riker had been so fascinated that Klingons
had
opera at all that Worf had some time ago begun broadening his experience of it, tutoring Riker through the contextual barbed-wire tangles of the Old School classics such as
The Warrior’s Revenge
and
Tl-Hahkh’s Way
, as well as the more modern, outré, and accessible works such as
X and Y
. In return, Riker had started introducing Worf to some of the older Terran works (though he had been slightly startled to find that Worf considered such works as
Pique Dame
and
Der fliegende Holländer
“easy listening” and had lately been finding profound meaning in the Viennese operettas, which Riker had always found more provocative of high blood sugar than anything else.
Worf frowned. “I am not in the mood for
The Merry Widow
at the moment. I have enough problems.”
Riker shook his head. “Nothing like that. Remember I told you there were some aspects of opera that you hadn’t yet investigated fully?”
“That is so,” Worf said, looking doubtful.
“Program
Traviata
One running,” the computer said mildly to them as they approached the door.
“Good,” Riker said. “Open.”
The door slid open, and a roar came out. It was not applause. It was the sound of many voices crying for someone’s blood. Worf looked at Riker with a bemused expression; Riker grinned at him. They stepped in, the doors shut behind them.
It took Riker’s eyes a few moments to get used to the dark. He suspected Worf’s were adjusting faster, to judge by his glance around him, amused, and his
Eileen hit him again, from behind, though not very hard. Chuckling, Geordi headed out into the hall and out of range.
* * *
Will Riker had long since learned that, most especially when he was nervous, micromanaging his people was no good. In any case, the captain knew they were doing their best and had gone off to get what sleep he could—so that was one worry off Riker’s mind, at least temporarily. Meanwhile, the ball was in Mr. La Forge’s court now, and hanging over his shoulder wouldn’t help… no matter how much Riker wished it would. He had therefore taken himself out of the way for at least the next few hours and had made himself busy micromanaging someone else: Worf.
Since bringing the extra Stewart to sickbay, Worf had clearly been looking for something to shoot, damage, or otherwise work out his concern on. Riker knew this mood in him of old and had some practice in dealing with it before it got out of hand. Now, therefore, when the door to Worf’s quarters opened at his signal, he put his head in and said, “Come on, I want you to see this.”
“What is ‘this’?” Worf was sitting behind his desk, looking distressed. Riker strolled around and looked: Worf was rerunning a display of the seizure of Stewart.
“Problems?”
Worf frowned. “I am not sure we acted with maximum efficiency.”
Riker laughed out loud. “Worf, are you kidding? You acted exactly correctly. You’re just upset about this new threat to the ship. A big threat, and you can’t do anything about it.”
“It is a considerable danger. I desire to anticipate—”
“You don’t have enough data. Leave it be. I want you to come see a riot.”
Worf looked up at Riker quizzically. “On board
this
ship?” he said, getting up. “And there have been no reports—”
“Come on,” Riker said, and headed for the door. “Deck eleven,” he said as they got into the turbolift.
A few moments later they stepped out and made their way down the hallway toward one of the main holodecks.
“What is this about?” Worf said, sounding suspicious.
“Another installment of our opera studies,” Riker said mildly. Riker had been so fascinated that Klingons
had
opera at all that Worf had some time ago begun broadening his experience of it, tutoring Riker through the contextual barbed-wire tangles of the Old School classics such as
The Warrior’s Revenge
and
Tl-Hahkh’s Way
, as well as the more modern, outré, and accessible works such as
X and Y
. In return, Riker had started introducing Worf to some of the older Terran works (though he had been slightly startled to find that Worf considered such works as
Pique Dame
and
Der fliegende Holländer
“easy listening” and had lately been finding profound meaning in the Viennese operettas, which Riker had always found more provocative of high blood sugar than anything else.
Worf frowned. “I am not in the mood for
The Merry Widow
at the moment. I have enough problems.”
Riker shook his head. “Nothing like that. Remember I told you there were some aspects of opera that you hadn’t yet investigated fully?”
“That is so,” Worf said, looking doubtful.
“Program
Traviata
One running,” the computer said mildly to them as they approached the door.
“Good,” Riker said. “Open.”
The door slid open, and a roar came out. It was not applause. It was the sound of many voices crying for someone’s blood. Worf looked at Riker with a bemused expression; Riker grinned at him. They stepped in, the doors shut behind them.
It took Riker’s eyes a few moments to get used to the dark. He suspected Worf’s were adjusting faster, to judge by his glance around him, amused, and his
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