Apella stood clutching the railing, seemingly transfixed by the scene before him. “Apella!” Kirk snapped. “Do something! Only you can put an end to this!”
“Those are my people, James,” Tyree said. “I must go to them!”
Before Kirk could stop him, Tyree dashed past the guards and back into the office, then through the door into the big front room. Kirk hesitated only a moment. He had said his piece to Apella, and what the man did or didn’t do was up to him.
But Tyree was already injured, brutalized by Apella’s thugs. Now he was about to wade, unarmed, into a full-blown battle.
One of the guards tried to catch Kirk as he passed, but he shot an elbow to the man’s jaw and he folded. Kirk snatched the rifle from his suddenly limp hands and darted past the remaining guards.
Kirk hoped he wouldn’t have to use the weapon. He would, though, if forced to. A bad situation had just become blood-drenched chaos, and there was no telling when, or how, it would end.
* * *
The captives flowed in every direction at once, without order or apparent logic. With the guards having abandoned their posts at the pit gates, laborers flooded out, bearing shovels, picks, burning logs, or whatever else they could lay hands on as weapons. A steady stream of Victors headed from the city toward the fence, rifles in hand.
Where the two rivers of humanity came together, blood was spilled.
Searching for Tyree in the crowd, Kirk heard a drawn-out, full-throated scream off to his right, toward the pit entrance. A man raced toward him, bent over almost double, arms thrown wide. The noise that tore from his throat sounded barely human.
Kirk braced for impact. At the last instant, the man altered his course slightly and crashed into someone behind Kirk, a Victor toting one of the old flintlock rifles. Both men went down, a flailing arm striking Kirk in the back of the thigh as they did.
The flintlock fell from the Victor’s hands as the enslaved Freeholder pummeled and clawed at him. Kirk grabbed for it, holding his own stolen weapon under his arm, and snapped off the cock. It would still serve as a club, but it wouldn’t fire.
One gun down, out of how many? Was it worth the time it took?
Kirk thought he caught a glimpse of Tyree through the mob. One platinum-blond head looked much like another, especially in flickering firelight, and there were plenty in evidence. But he knew Tyree’s gait, the width of his shoulders, the way he carried himself. He started after the man.
He’d made it four steps before somebody slammed into him from the left. Kirk tried to brush past the man—an unarmed, uniformed Victor guard—but a pair of hands grabbed onto his vest. He was bringing his free right hand up to break the hold when the guard drove his head toward Kirk’s mouth.
Kirk threw up a shoulder, taking the brunt of the impact. At the same moment, he swept out with one leg, knocking the man’s feet from beneath him. Staggering, the man released Kirk’s vest. When he had regained his balance and tried again, a blow to the solar plexus with the butt of Kirk’s rifle dissuaded him.
With that out of the way, Kirk scanned for Tyree again—or the man he had thought was Tyree.
Gone, vanished into the darkness and the throng.
Tyree had been headed toward the fence. And Kirk knew that was his destination initially, because he’d been reacting to the presence of the Freeholders assaulting it. Kirk went that way, dodging and weaving through the crowd, trying to avoid the fights breaking out all around him.
The fence was bedlam. Gunshots rang out every few seconds, a fusillade that blended with the cacophony of voices into a deafening roar. The fence swayed so much that those trying to climb it were shaken off, like dying leaves in a gale. Then it collapsed, and the Freeholders scrambled over it, and the din grew even louder.
People were dying by the score. If Tyree had reached the thick of it, Kirk would never find him in time.
Using the rifle as a wedge, he shoved through the crowd. A knife’s blade slashed his upper arm, but he ignored it and kept going. A body, thrown down by an opponent, crashed into his legs. Kirk stumbled but continued on. Watching, always, for any glimpse of his friend.
* * *
Nyran joined the crush of laborers charging up the winding pathway toward the pit’s entrance. When he heard the commotion at the fence, he knew with utter certainty what it meant—Freeholders had banded together to rescue the captives. His heart leapt with the firm knowledge that Joslen was among them. He could have sworn that he heard her calling for him through the chaos, despite the fact that it was impossible to pick out a single word, a single voice.
Still, she was out there. He knew it to the core of his being. There were guns being fired, and screams piercing the darkness, and if anything happened to her he would . . . he would—
Well, he didn’t know what. Something, though.
The walkway was packed. He squirmed and slithered and writhed through, sometimes grabbing a stranger’s shoulder or arm and swinging wide, out over the drop-off, to gain ground. Everyone was in a hurry, but there were so many, and the way so narrow, that they had to move slowly.
Slowly didn’t work for him. Even fast wasn’t good enough. If there were only a way to just be there—to stand here one instant, and there the next—maybe that would do.
But that was lunacy. He needed to focus. Joslen might be in danger.
Nyran ducked under somebody’s arm, took a knee to the ribs, grabbed an old woman for balance and almost spun her around, caromed off another woman, this one younger and stout enough to stand up to the impact, and then he was through the gate.
Free.
He’d only been a slave for a few days, far less time than many of the others. Still, there was something about breaking free, about being out of the pit and going where he wanted for a change, that felt so good, so right, so true, he thought his heart would burst. He was already panting slightly from the mad dash up the pathway, but now that there was more room to maneuver, he poured on the speed. Hands grasped at him but he eluded them, dodged a shovel being swung indiscriminately in the crowd, dropped into a skid when he saw a guard aiming a rifle right at him. The gun spat flame and noise, but the round shot over Nyran, and if it hit anyone behind him, he couldn’t tell. He smashed into the legs of the woman who had fired it, and as she tumbled over, he snatched the rifle from her and kept going.
He was almost to the fence when it toppled. People who had been scrambling on it hung on, spiderlike, or fell screaming into the crowd. Shards of light from fires and guns revealed glimpses of people: shouting, crying, faces twisted with rage or broken from sorrow.
Then he saw her, swept forward in the crush of Freeholders surging through where the fence had been. “Joslen!” he cried, though he knew she couldn’t hear. “Joslen!”
She looked up. Had she heard, after all? For an instant, it seemed that her gaze locked on his, and something like a smile brightened her face.
Then, just as suddenly, she was gone.
* * *
Apella stood on the deck, clutching the rail with trembling hands. He was afraid if he released it, he would fall. His legs would not support his weight. Though he had never before feared tumbling over the side—the railing was sturdy, secure—he was convinced that if he lost his balance now, rather than dropping to the plank floor, he would crash through or flip over the rail and plummet into the pit.
And if he, through some miracle, survived the fall, those he had imprisoned there would tear him to shreds.
So he stood on rubbery legs, hands locked on the rail, and watched his world fall apart.
He was not, he knew now, a brave man. He had thought before that he was. Brave, powerful, possessed of a killer instinct and knife-edge reflexes and tactical brilliance surpassing all his peers. He had ascended to the very pinnacle of society. He had remade society, through force of will and the partnership he had dared to create with the Klingons.
Those people down there, the ones rushing to defend Victory, were really defe
nding him. They worshipped him. He had not chosen the name Victory by accident—it had been a statement of purpose, a vision of the future. Victory would prevail now, as it always had and always must.
But he was not down there with them, racing headlong into danger. Instead, he stood here, above the fray and afraid to budge.
And he didn’t care.
Accepting one’s own essential cowardice, Apella thought, was a form of liberation. Rid of illusions about himself, he could face the world with a truer sense of purpose. It was not, after all, his courage that had held Victory together. It was his cunning and his charm, his ability to persuade others to his point of view. He had—
“Apella!”
He spun around, releasing the rail without thinking about it, and almost fell. He had to reach back and catch it again to steady himself. “Honored Krell!”
“You have a disaster on your hands,” Krell said. There were three other Klingons with him, ones Apella didn’t know. Krell’s hands were empty, but his disruptor pistol and his knife hung from his belt. The others all held disruptor pistols. From the crests on their sashes, they appeared to be of a different house than Krell. Apella wondered what was going on, but he didn’t dare ask. “What steps are you taking to deal with it?”
“I—my forces are down there now, trying to rebuff the assault and restore order.”
“They are clearly failing.”
“It is early yet. The battle has just been begun.”
“The fence is down,” Krell pointed out. “And the pit is emptying.”
“A little more time,” Apella said. He didn’t want to plead, but he was afraid that was how he sounded. “You’ll see.”
“Time? That may not be mine to give. It may be determined by how successful your guards are.”
“The . . . the tide of battle already turns, honored Krell.”
“Does it? I had not noticed.” The other Klingons chuckled at this. Apella wondered how often they laughed about him, when he wasn’t there to see. Constantly, he believed. Now this fresh self-knowledge felt like a curse. He was a coward and a laughingstock to the only ones who could grant him power. What other discoveries might he make about himself on this night? “Get this under control, Apella,” Krell said, starting for the door. He stopped, just at the doorway, and added, “And quickly. Or I will take action myself, and you may not like the action I take.”
“Yes, Krell. Of course.” Apella’s legs started shaking again, and he knew if he removed his hands from the railing, they would flop around like a fish on the banks of a stream. He didn’t know what he could do, from here or down there in the thick of it.
He would have to do something, though, and he would have to do it soon.
Twenty-Eight
The crush of bodies became even more pronounced when the wave of Freeholders coming over the downed fence met those already on the inside. Gunfire didn’t stop, but it slowed, since it was hard to see individual targets, much less pick out enemy from friend. Kirk was bashed and buffeted from every side. Blood ran down his wounded arm in a steady stream.
He was beginning to despair of ever finding Tyree. There were hundreds of people around him, or more, and in the flickering half-light, telling one from another was almost impossible.
Someone’s fist landed in Kirk’s sternum. The breath went out of him in a whoosh. As he struggled to remain upright, thinking it had been a random act, he recognized Belo’s grinning face. “We have unfinished business, Adjim,” Belo said.
“I suppose we do, at that,” Kirk agreed. He tried to take a step back, to give himself room to move, but the crowd blocked him. Belo was already in motion, his right arm drawing back for another punch. Kirk, still winded, raised his left shoulder to block it, while dropping to a crouch and swinging the rifle with his right hand on the barrel.
There was barely space for the weapon’s arc, but it narrowly missed the surrounding mob and the butt crashed into Belo’s left knee. The big man grunted and he listed to that side.
His fist shot out, but the blow to his knee skewed his aim slightly. Kirk was able to block it, though the impact made him reel backward.
Belo was bigger than Kirk, and stronger, and not bleeding from a bad gash in his arm. Kirk would have to finish this in a hurry, or he wouldn’t finish it at all. He thought about turning the gun around and shooting the man, but at this range, the round would likely pass through him and endanger those behind him.
Anyway, Kirk wasn’t sure Belo could be hurt with a bullet. Maybe with a cannonball, or a tank round, or a phaser bank.
But that knee . . .
He took a step back, swinging the gun to clear a space. Belo followed. Kirk took another step, and Belo kept coming. He was favoring that left knee. He was a huge man, and the weight he carried probably strained his knees at the best of times.
Kirk took one more step, watching Belo’s face as he put weight on that leg. He was rewarded by a perceptible wince.
As Belo drew back for another swing, Kirk slammed the gun forward, butt first, into that left knee. Belo let out a wordless complaint, and his arm dropped to his side. Kirk brought the weapon back and jammed it again, at the same spot. Belo’s pants showed blood there.
Before Kirk could pull the rifle away, Belo caught it and wrenched it from his hands. He hurled it into the crowd. Kirk tried to step away again, but the throng pushed back this time. Kirk was pressed toward Belo instead of moving away, and the big man got a huge hand on Kirk’s throat. He squeezed, and Kirk knew he wouldn’t last long under that pressure. His hands went to Belo’s, to try to pry his fingers away. But with his free hand, Belo began punching: solid, powerful blows that Kirk couldn’t dodge.
With the world turning black at the edges, Kirk had to do something fast. He brought his foot up and drove it into Belo’s knee. Belo grunted, and Kirk felt him buckle a little. He kicked again and again. Belo’s flesh gave way under the assault, but he kept his grip on Kirk’s neck, squeezing tighter than ever. Kirk smashed his foot into the knee once more, until finally he felt something pop under his assault. When it did, Belo collapsed like a felled tree. His grip on Kirk’s throat loosened and he was free.
He coughed, gasping for breath. Belo’s fall had cleared a swath around them, and Kirk tried to use the space to recover. But Belo wasn’t done.
He grabbed for Kirk’s legs. The crowd surged, forcing Kirk back toward him. Belo caught his right ankle and yanked, and Kirk fell to the ground beside him. The big man drew himself up on one elbow, pain apparent in his expression, and started pummeling Kirk again.
Kirk took the blows as best he could, but he was weakening. Other Victors, realizing what was going on, joined in, kicking Kirk and hitting him with their fists and their rifles. One drew a knife and stabbed at him, but Kirk managed to squirm away and the blade only grazed his ribs.
He tried to tear his leg from Belo’s grasp, but in spite of his injuries, the man still had incredible strength. Instead, Kirk lashed out with his free leg. His foot caught Belo’s jaw and the big man slumped again. Kirk kicked twice more. Blood ran from Belo’s nose and mouth, and when Kirk kicked again, he felt Belo’s jaw give way. Belo’s grasp relaxed, and Kirk was able to wrench his leg free and make it to his feet. He was still ringed by Victors, though, still taking blows and kicks, still threatened with knives and rifles.
“Finish him,” someone said. The voice was familiar. Kirk peered through the flickering light and saw Carella, the slaver, standing at the edge of the circle. He spoke with casual authority, and Kirk didn’t doubt that someone would obey. He heard rifles being cocked.
But Belo had other ideas. “No!” he cried. Kirk spun around and saw the big man rise unsteadily, hanging on to those around him for support. Belo said something else—Kirk thought it was “He’s mine,” but his mangled jaw made it hard to understand.
Kirk was stuck. If Belo didn’t kill him, the Victors surrounding him would. He was unarmed and injured. He could take Belo, maybe, but that would onl
y postpone the inevitable by seconds, if that. Carella looked on with a bloodthirsty grin. No help there.
Someone behind Kirk shoved him toward Belo. The big man caught Kirk’s left arm, his grip weaker than before. Kirk didn’t wait for a blow, but drove his fist into Belo’s ruined face. Belo cried out, squeezing more tightly, and Kirk did it again. His third punch threatened to tear Belo’s jaw completely off. Blood sprayed everywhere. Still, Belo hung on.
But he wouldn’t for long, Kirk knew. And he knew, likewise, that the other Victors around him were already preparing for the kill. He saw knives and guns everywhere he looked. Carella watched, arms folded casually across his chest.
Belo punched. The blow landed weakly. Kirk fired one back, but Belo lurched forward and Kirk’s fist landed against his temple. Belo swayed. Fell.
And the knives lanced toward Kirk.
Then another figure entered the fray, crashing through the mob, knocking down the two nearest knife-wielders. In the chaos, Kirk snatched a rifle from someone’s hands and swung it like a bat, clearing away others. He spun around to find Carella, but the slaver had already fled.
Other Freeholders joined the brawl, and Kirk had a few seconds to collect his thoughts. The man who had broken up the circle turned to him with a grin. “You okay, Admiral?” he asked.
“I am now, Mister Rowland,” Kirk said. “Thanks for the assist.”
“Any time, sir.”
“You know, you really can call me Jim.”
“I’ll think about it, sir.”
Brawling with Belo, Kirk hadn’t realized how close he was to the pit’s edge. With the ring around him dispersed, he saw that there was only a narrow band of people between him and empty space. And in that band, slightly forward of his position, he spotted Tyree.
He nudged Rowland’s shoulder and pointed. “It’s Tyree!”
“Sure is,” Rowland said.
Kirk risked shouting the chief’s name once, but his call went unheard over the din. As he watched to see if Tyree reacted, he realized that Tyree and a few others were standing near an ore cart perched at the edge of the pit. When the ore cart tilted slightly, Kirk recognized what it meant.
Serpents in the Garden Page 21
