YE/D06 - Holodecks

[Paul]

==

[Riley Wright]

Time has this way of smudging the edges of things when you’re on a ship. Shifts come and go. Hallways fill, then empty again. The lights never change. And your brain—it tries, stubbornly, quietly—to shove everything into tidy little boxes you won’t flinch opening.

Riley hadn’t figured out how to do that yet.

So she ended up standing outside the holodeck in civvies—soft pants, short-sleeved top, her right arm bare. The tattoo along it caught the corridor lights, a tangle of dark lines she could feel even when she wasn’t looking at it. She should’ve felt lighter being off-duty. But it didn’t feel like freedom—it felt like walking around without armor. Her hands were locked behind her back, fingers woven tight enough to turn her knuckles pale. Like if she just held on hard enough, she’d hold herself together. The ship hummed all around her—steady, familiar—and something about that calm made her jaw twitch.

She stopped at the control panel, not the door. Let the screen bathe her hands in soft blue while she keyed in the program list. Skimmed past a bunch she’d already tried. Forced herself to pick something. No overthinking.

Zero-G Racing. Competitive Course. Full Field.

She hesitated, one breath, then dug into the settings—because if she was going to do this, she had to do it right.

[Simulated opponents: enabled.
Opponent count: full roster.
Opponent difficulty: advanced.
Collision safety: engaged.
Course: Gate Run Alpha-Seven.
Reset on injury: immediate.]

She stared at the confirmation screen longer than she needed to. Her thumb just hovered over the key. “Advanced” meant no easing in. No space to wobble. Screw up, and you’d feel it fast.

She hit it anyway.

The tone was soft. The screen blinked: [PROGRAM READY]. Then: [WAITING FOR ENTRY].

Now she moved.

The doors slid open, quiet as always. She stepped through.

For a second the grid blinked into place—those bright white lines in empty space—then it dissolved into a massive, dark stretch of nothing laced with glowing gates and floating markers. No floor, no ceiling. Just movement. Just force. The track hung there like someone had tossed neon rings into the stars and called it a game. In the distance, fake constellations sparkled like they were trying too hard.

Environmental settings kicked in. Her feet lifted a little off the floor as gravity peeled away. Near the door, a suit rack waited—padded flight rig, forearm thrusters. Slick. Practical. Kind of ridiculous next to the clothes she’d walked in wearing.

She floated over, caught the rack with two fingers, dragged the rig over her head and shoulders. Tightened the straps until the whole thing hugged close. Something solid. Dependable. The tattoo on her forearm shifted when she pulled one strap tight—ink over pale skin, one of the only real things in a place built on code.

Farther out, the racers drifted into position—humanoid figures in matching flight gear, holding still with tiny, perfect bursts of thrust. They moved like this was muscle memory. No one looked her way. No one cared. They weren’t here for her.

The countdown flashed in the corner of her vision.

Riley flexed her hands once. Then let them go.

Stop thinking about it.

Zero.

They launched.

They didn’t just go—they exploded off the line. Riley kicked off and punched her thrusters. Clean launch. But the pack was already ahead, tearing through the first gate like a swarm. Tight formation. No gaps. Two racers cut across her path—one above, one low—and she had to make a call fast. She rolled and dropped under, barely threading the gate’s center before the warning tone chirped.

Already?

The next gates came fast. One racer stole the inside line and Riley had to hit the brakes hard, her harness biting in. Another slid past her on the left, smooth and unbothered, the wash of their thrusters brushing her shoulder. Nothing personal. Still sucked.

She clenched her jaw. Not angry. Just done being pushed.

Next sequence, she adjusted early. Cut tighter. Clean pass, then another, and another. She started clawing her way back. Found a rhythm in the pressure—pick a line, commit, live with it. And for a little while, the noise in her head just... shut off.

Then the choke point hit.

A mess of gates bunched together into a bottleneck. Markers floating so close together that one wrong twitch would cost her. Riley pulled in behind another racer, shadowed their line. Waited. Watched. A sliver opened on the left.

She went for it.

Same moment, the racer beside her made their move.

No wobble. No drift. Just a clean, sharp lateral shove straight into her path like they owned it. She snapped the thrusters to avoid a shoulder-check, but there was no room. Her hip slammed into theirs with a dull, rattling thud. The safety buffers kicked in, but it still knocked the air out of her lungs.

She spun. The gate she’d aimed for whipped past in a smear of neon.

A red flash: [CONTACT / LOSS OF CONTROL].

She barely had time to curse before another racer clipped her rig mid-spin, knocking her into a full tumble. Stars and gates spun around her like some kind of slow-motion nightmare carousel while the rest of the field disappeared.

She tried to correct—quick bursts, left thruster, right—but her inertia was all wrong and the course didn’t care. She missed one checkpoint. Then the next.

[DISQUALIFIED] lit up in her vision. Red and loud and final.

Nobody stopped.

They just kept going like she’d never been there.

Riley drifted in silence, her rig slowly bleeding off the spin. Her chest still tight—not from the hit, not from pain, just the leftover punch of being shoved out of the way and knowing no one even noticed.

She didn’t move.

Not right away.

And then, in the quiet that followed, the thing she’d been trying to outrun slipped back in. Slow. Inevitable.

Of course.

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Forced her hands to release the controls. When she looked again, the gates were still there. Waiting. Like it didn’t care what just happened.

She didn’t restart.

Didn’t ask for another shot.

She just eased herself toward the edge of the course, moving slow and steady, like maybe if she went gently enough, she wouldn’t feel the shake in her fingers or the hollow behind her ribs.

She’d come here because the rules were supposed to be simple.

Tonight, even the holodeck had called her bluff.

[Artemis d'Tor'an]

Artemis walked into the holodeck -stomped, really- allowing her thoughts and mood to turn stormy again. She knew it. She knew it. That damn Trill hadn’t gotten away because she lost him; he hadn’t gotten away because he stupidly crawled into a duct and got burned alive and turned into an untraceable pile of ashes; and he hadn’t gotten away because he was smarter than she was. Thanks to the dogged efforts of the more scientifically-minded, there was now a theory of what had happened to the sorry excuse for a man. Time travel. She didn’t like it more than anyone else, and certainly hated using it as an excuse, but during the Race of First Contact, they had gone through an anomoly that had forced parts of the ship into different parts of the past. Before the whole concept made her head hurt, it made a sort of sense that had someone theoretically moved between time-bubbles, they could have unintentionally -or intenionally?- gotten stuck.

That didn’t help Art’s spiraling thoughts.

Had Tomer known about the time-travel-causing anomoly? Had that been why he had chosen this ship to impersonate an Ambassadorial assistant? Tomer most likely wasn’t his real name, but they had nothing else to call him. Or had this been a crime of opportunity? Had he known he was about to be found out, and slipped into the past as a way of escape? What else had he done that Art didn’t even know about?

“Computer,” She said through gritted teeth, “Load program ‘Kaden Execise One-Two-Five’ and start with a delay of three seconds.”

The Security Chief found herself with her back against a wall, a hand pressed into her chest, and a weapon pointed at her head. Good. This was how she felt. There were four assailants surrounding her; which one did she go for first? The one restricting her? Or the one with the weapon? Besides feeling the pain of it pressing into her head, she had to assume they were all armed. She had to act without thinking, had to strategize without getting herself killed. That meant a quick punch to the abdomen of the person on her left, causing the phaser-like weapon to drop, and due to the closeness of the person holding her against the wall, a headbutt square against their weaker skull. She gained precious little space, which the other two filled almost instantly, their own fists flying towards her. She ducked and turned, crouching and hitting both against their kneecaps. She hadn’t even looked at their faces yet to see what species they were – all she knew was that the one that had been holding her against the wall had been vaguely humanoid.

A punch from behind her brought her upright again, the blow landing in the small of her back. A blind donkey kick met something solid, pushing it back and away from her. Art wanted to turn, to face the three enemies that were now behind her, but the movement cost her. From the side, a closed fist met with her nose, an unfortunately lucky angle that made the soft tissue give way to blood that poured down her face. There was no time to pause though, as someone had both her arms, and was pulling them behind her. Another grabbed her between the legs, and she snarled like a feral animal. She leaned back, putting her weight on the person behind her, launching herself up and using both legs to kick the person away from her. He hit the stone wall she had been against, the satisfying crunching sound of a skull being cracked echoing around them. Artemis couldn’t stop to appreciate it though, as she was too busy turning and grabbing the person that had been holding her arms.

Three left. She grabbed the front of the enemy’s shirt, holding him close as she threw her punch. This time, she aimed for the throat, and she felt everything collapse as she drove her fist through. The faceless foe tried to gasp for air, falling backwards as the wheezing sound signaled his end of life. Whirling, Art tried to find the two that were left. She couldn’t see them. Where had they gone? Her heart pounded, and the sound of blood rushing in her ears mixed with the sound of rain, which was now coming down in heavy sheets, accompanied by booming thunder overhead. The mostly-Klingon heart sank: she now had no visibility, and would not be able to hear any assailant coming.

There was no choice: she would have to let them have the first move.




==To be continued…… ==