A Call To Love. Sweat soaked his body, his white fencing outfit damp and uncomfortable yet Jean-Luc Picard ignored it. His tense muscles quivered slightly as he held his pose, left arm back and raised, right arm cocked, the foil balanced perfectly in his hand. His legs were apart, his body side on, the right bent and the left straight out behind him. The small black ball, suspended from the ceiling of the simulated studio slowly swung in ever decreasing arcs until it rested in line with his foil. With a well-practiced lunge, he struck the ball, then held motionless as the sphere arced away then returned to strike the tip of the foil perfectly with a dull thunk. He reset his pose and settled to wait until the ball stopped again. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and gathered in his eyebrow. The droplet grew in size until it overflowed the sable ridge and slid down his damp skin into his eye. Ignoring the stinging, he blinked twice, his pose unaffected. His helmet lay on the bench with his towel and bag, for this exercise he didn’t need it. For over three hours he’d been executing a series of demanding drills, pushing his body to the limits of both endurance and skill. The present exercise had been in progress for an hour but he would not cease until he’d completed five hundred reps. He regulated his breathing and put aside the sensation of burning muscles. “Four hundred and ninety-eight. Two more. Concentrate.” The ball stilled and he sharpened his mind. “Now!” He lunged and the ball swung sweetly away, not a hint of deflection. Holding his pose until the ball returned and struck the foil, he withdrew and blinked as more sweat infiltrated his eyes. “One more then you can rest. Concentrate.” A cramp began to develop in the arch of his right foot. Savagely suppressing the pain, he pressed his weight forward and pushed the muscles into submission. The ball stilled and he gathered himself. Allowing a quiet grunt, he lunged and growled with satisfaction as the ball arced back then swept down and hit the point of the foil. He slowly lowered his arms and brought himself upright. Lolling his head back on his neck, he took a large breath and swallowed. Taking off his left glove, he wiped his hand over his face as he walked stiffly to his towel. After drying his face and neck, he did some warm-down stretches and packed away his foil. Turning to face the brightly lit studio he called out quietly, “Computer run programme Picard eight Omega.” The studio disappeared to be replaced by a darkened room, a single overhead light illuminating a massage table. To one side stood a man, his head bowed. Jean-Luc placed his bag, foil case and towel on a chair and stripped off his clothing. Naked, he approached the table and laid himself face down. The holodeck recreation took a small bottle and drizzled the contents down the middle of the Captain’s back. He then coated his hands in the oil and Jean-Luc sighed as the man’s strong hands started on his tense shoulders.
1