The lieutenant cursed as Bashir crashed into the table, sending medical instruments, protoplasers, and the tricorder flying. The device crashed to the deck and fell silent, and Bashir went with it. He collapsed into a heap, gasping as it became increasingly harder to breathe.
“That was stupid of you,” said his assailant.
Bashir blinked furiously, gaining some measure of sight back as the officer leaned down. From somewhere else in the sickbay, he caught the sound of a very proper, cut-glass English voice calling out in alarm. “Lieutenant Maslan? What are you doing with my patient?”
There was a noise like wood twisting in the wind and what might have been snakes dropped out of the ceiling, snagging the dark-haired man around the arms, yanking him off his feet.
Bashir didn’t see any more after that; the theragen robbed him of his awareness, and the room went dark around him.
* * *
The sound Nog was making was a calculated, practiced one. It was a kind of bleating whine that started up in the high registers and then climbed further into a tone that was directly pitched to be as grating as possible to the ears of most carbon-based life-forms. Ferengi vocal cords and lung dynamics meant that with a little focus, they could sustain the noise for several minutes, and some experts could even do it for hours at a time. On a Class-M planet with a near-terrestrial air density, the whine could carry a good distance, and to those close at hand the sound would find the sweet spot of near-perfect irritation. Nog had been taught as a child that the cry was a holdover from the era of primitive, pre-tribal Ferengi, back when his people dwelled in mud hollows and were preyed upon by swamp predators. The sound was so utterly annoying that rather than attack those early ancestors, the hunter beasts would seek their food elsewhere—anything to be away from that piercing, screeching whimper.
Tom Riker grunted and winced, glancing at Tuvok. “If this doesn’t work soon, I swear I’ll smother him myself.”
Tuvok didn’t reply; if anyone was finding the sound the most painful, it was the Vulcan.
Nog snatched another lungful of air, putting a peculiar ululation into the note of the cry, and at last it had the effect they were hoping for. His dark face like a clenched fist, one of the Klingon guards stomped out of the shadows, brandishing a mek’leth blade. He swore a choice oath at Nog in his native language and then switched to Standard. “Shut him up!” he bellowed. “I can hear that damnable noise across the compound. Silence him now or I’ll slit his throat!” To illustrate his point, he slammed the flat of the blade against the bars of Nog’s cage.
The Klingon smelled like sweat, rust, and rage. Nog choked off his whine, sliding back along his makeshift cell as far as he could get from the mag-locked door; then he took a breath and started again, making the pitch high and shrill, just like Uncle Quark had taught him when he was a youth. It’s a Ferengi gift, he had said. Anyone tries to beat you up, just do this until they turn away in revulsion, and then when their back is turned, kick them wherever it hurts.
The guard decided to make good on his promise. He used a wand-like device on a lanyard to deactivate the mag-lock and wrenched open the cage door. One hand still on the mek’leth, he reached in and grabbed at Nog’s jumpsuit with the other hand.
The Ferengi struck; he brought both hands around to clap against the Klingon’s already-strained ears and was rewarded with a dull grunt of pain. It was enough to put the guard off balance so that Nog could grab the wand from where it dangled and tear it free. Dazed, the Klingon staggered backward and away from the cage.
The automated turret saw him move and spun to face the guard, a charge crackling at the tip of its weapon barrel. The guard’s free hand went to his throat and found nothing; not only did the wand act as a key, it also served as a friend-or-foe indicator to the turret’s simple machine brain.
Two brilliant green disruptor bolts burst from the automated gun and blasted the guard back across the dusty floor; in the same instant, a hooting alarm began to sound, echoing through the dome.
Acting quickly, Nog scrambled out of his cage, first to the turret to disable its power supply, then to the other cells to free Tuvok and Tom. The Vulcan took the wand and used it to open the cages where Throk and the other Cardassians sat watching them.
“What is this?” demanded Throk as he climbed out.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” Tom told him, stooping to gather up the dead Klingon’s weapons.
“You are prisoners of the United Federation of Planets,” announced Tuvok. “You will be taken to Earth to answer for your crimes.”
“We’ll be killed,” said Heybis. “Executed.”
“They’re too weak for that,” Throk corrected, glowering at the commander. “I reject your claim, Vulcan.”
“You may return to your cells if you wish,” he said. “The choice is yours.”
Nog crouched and pulled the communicator from the guard’s sleeve. As he touched it, a voice crackled from a speaker grille on the device. “This is Kincade,” said the colonel. “We’re reading a breakout in progress. Don’t waste any more time. Shoot on sight. Kill them all.”
Throk’s eyes narrowed, staring at Nog as if the message was somehow his fault. “Lead the way, then.”
Fourteen
The Klingon trying to part Nog’s head from his neck abruptly breathed his last and fell away, crashing to the ground with a strangled wheeze.
Nog grimaced as Tom Riker came in and pulled the bloody mek’leth from where he had buried it in the mercenary’s side. “He was going to kill you,” said the human. “Don’t make that face.”
“Sorry,” Nog managed. “I’m not good with lots of blood.”
The dead guard had two small-bore disruptor pistols in a bandolier across his chest, and Tom took one for himself, pressing the other into Nog’s grip. “Here. Keep this.”
The Ferengi weighed the weapon in his hand, checking the charge. The hot stink of burnt air and ozone was heavy in the air. They had run from the cages through the remains of the smelting yards and under the shadow of tall, rusting rock grinders; now they were close to the wide landing pad where the Snipe had put down. The guards clearly anticipated the escapees would make a break for the freighter and placed a contingent here to waylay them. The Klingons hadn’t counted on Tuvok’s inspired tactics, turning their ambush on them by using a still-operable cargo lifter to ram through their cover.
Now Vekt, the balding Cardassian, darted forward and grabbed at the body of another dead Klingon, plucking a fan of thin silver daggers from a belt pouch.
“Hey!” Tom aimed the disruptor at him. “Drop those and step away.”
“You cannot expect us to fight our way out of this pit unarmed,” he shot back, looking to Throk for support.
“I’m not expecting anything,” Tom retorted. “You seem to have forgotten the part about how you three are our prisoners.” He took in Vekt, Throk, and the woman Heybis with a wave of the gun. “You’re not getting weapons. You should think yourself lucky you’re even conscious. If it was easier to knock you out and carry you, I’d do that.”
Throk was on the verge of saying something, but he chose to remain silent as Tuvok jogged back from the corridor he had scouted ahead. “The passageway ends in a loading hatch, open to the landing pad,” said the Vulcan. “From there, it is approximately five hundred meters to the Snipe.”
Tom waved the pistol again. “Move it.” The Cardassians reluctantly obeyed, and Nog followed on behind them, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
“They’re going to find us and kill us,” muttered Heybis. “They’ll save you the effort of executing us before your masters.”
Nog said nothing. He hoped she was wrong. The heavy concentrations of ferrous slag throughout the Nydak II facility made scanner functions unreliable at anything but close range—it was how they had managed to stay ahead of their pursuers so far—but once they were out in the open, that advantage would be lost.
Up ahead, he saw a long, narrow gateway,
the saw-toothed hatch across it rusted in the open position. Muddy brown daylight filtered in through the gap, and beyond there was a ramp leading up to the pad. A few empty cargo containers, each one the size of a shuttlepod, lay in an untidy line. Partial cover, he thought to himself, at least for some of the distance.
Nog thought about how far five hundred meters was and tried in vain to recall the best time he had scored over that distance back at the Academy. The number didn’t come immediately to mind, and that was probably a good thing.
The group paused in the lee of the hatch, and Tuvok turned toward him. “Lieutenant Commander, have you been able to reach the Snipe?”
“I’ll try again,” said Nog, pulling the Klingon communicator he had taken from the cage guard. “I didn’t want to chance it earlier. Kincade might be able to track us with it.”
Tuvok accepted this with a nod. “Nevertheless, it is unwise to proceed without certainty that the ship is not compromised.”
Nog prized off the cover of the device and performed a quick-and-dirty bypass on the communicator unit. He took a breath and tapped it gingerly. “Snipe, do you read?”
There was a blurt of static and then a welcome reply. “Aye, sir, this is Lieutenant Ixxen. It’s good to hear from you. . . . When the alarms went off, I suspected you might be on your way. . . .”
Tuvok took the device and spoke into it. “Lieutenant, are you secure?”
“Yes and no,” replied the Bolian. “Zero-Zero was on the bridge, and he didn’t want me talking to anyone. . . . I used a fire extinguisher to convince him otherwise. Bynars have thick skulls. Who knew?”
“What of Zero-Zero’s partner?”
“That’s the no, sir. One-One is still at large on the ship and not showing up on sensors. He’s locked Khob in the infirmary and taken weapons and transporters offline so I can’t beam you from there to here. But I still have engines and airlock control, though.”
“Understood,” said Tuvok. “Drop the main access ramp, Lieutenant, and prepare for immediate liftoff. We will come to you.”
“We have to move fast,” said Nog. “They’ll be watching the ship. Once they see the ramp moving—”
“Kincade will know for certain where we’re going,” Tom finished. “No time to waste, then.”
“Go,” ordered Tuvok, and they broke into a loping run, staying as low as they could, the loose line of six fugitives moving from one derelict container to another.
Nog halted to catch his breath in the shadow of an ore cart, and across the open expanse of the landing pad he saw a chink of light appear as the Snipe’s ramp lowered like a drawbridge. It looked a lot more than five hundred meters away.
But in the next second, it was the furthest thing from his mind. A salvo of disruptor bolts smacked into the walls of the nearest cargo container, and the hot, searing stench of molten metal stung Nog’s nostrils.
Tom fired blindly from cover, strafing bolts of green energy back in the direction of this new attack. “I see multiple enemies,” he reported. “They’re advancing from the main dome in a skirmish line.”
Threads of sparking crimson and blazing emerald bored through the empty container or cut blackened, sizzling scars across the thermoconcrete pad. Nog shot back and was rewarded with a distant cry of pain, but the attack did not lessen.
“If they call reinforcements from their ships in orbit, we will be overwhelmed!” spat Throk. “Give us weapons, you fools!”
A sudden flare of anger welled in Nog’s chest, and he glared at the Cardassian. “So you can shoot us in the back?”
Throk’s face twisted in hard lines of fury. “Then cower here and perish!” With an abrupt burst of violent motion, the Cardassian barged Tom aside, sending a shot from his pistol firing wildly into the air. Before the human could stop him, Throk had broken from cover and charged into a sprinting run.
Tuvok raised his hand toward Heybis and Vekt. “You must not—”
But they were already running after their comrade. Tuvok vaulted up, on the verge of going after them, perhaps to stop their headlong flight, but a lance of particle-fire slashed through the air in front of him, and he stopped short.
Nog wanted to look away, but something compelled him to watch them run. Vekt was the first to be taken; two beams fired by the advancing Klingons caught him in the torso as he stumbled over a cracked stone. He became a figure of flames, dissipating into nothing before his body could strike the ground. Heybis died a fraction of a second later: not from beam fire, but from the impact of a kinetic round. Nog heard the faint crack of the shot, the same noise he had heard on IN-748 as he stood inside the wreck of the Orion privateer. A bloom of pale blood erupted from the Cardassian woman’s neck, and she performed a pirouette before collapsing in a heap.
Throk must have heard the gunshot, too, because he hesitated at the edge of one of the Snipe’s landing skids, turning to look back. A blink of light off a telescopic sight caught Nog’s eye. He saw a figure taking aim with a long rifle.
The second shot went through Onar Throk’s chest, perfectly aligned to fatally puncture his heart. He dropped without a sound, sagging against the landing skid.
In the wake of the shot’s echo, all firing ceased. After a long moment, Nog dared to hazard a look through one of the blast holes in the cargo container, the molten edges of the impact point still sizzling as it cooled. There were a lot of Klingons out there, and among them stood the Elloran, toying with a heavy photon grenade launcher. Kincade approached from behind, her TR-116 rifle cradled in her arms.
“Show yourselves,” she shouted, “or Sahde here will turn you into a smoking hole in the ground.”
“Now what?” asked Tom.
“Every second we are alive, there is a possibility another option may present itself,” Tuvok replied after a moment. He got to his feet, and Nog slowly did the same.
“I hope you’re right.” The human was bitter. “Because the reason we were out here is now lying dead over there, and we don’t have any more cards to play.”
The Vulcan said nothing and moved out from behind cover, still grasping his stolen weapon. Nog and Tom followed a step behind, looking out at the force of mercenaries who outnumbered them three to one.
“You shouldn’t be disappointed, Commander Tuvok.” Kincade watched them draw near. “This was always how it was going to be. No loose ends.”
* * *
Christine Vale looked up as Deanna Troi approached. The lights in the Lionheart’s corridors were low; it was delta shift, so-called “ship’s night,” and at this moment Vale wanted more than anything to be back in her cabin on the slow curve down into sleep. But her wish was unlikely to be granted. The tension that had been pulling at her since they left Earth was no longer holding back, and she could feel the pressure gathering in a knot at the base of her neck.
Troi gave her a sympathetic smile that told Vale the other woman knew exactly how she felt without the need for her to admit it openly. One of the benefits of being friends with an empath, she thought. “Thanks for coming, Deanna. I could use your insight here.”
“I’m glad to help,” said Troi. “Doctor Rssuu told me that Doctor Bashir will be fully recovered by the time we reach Andoria. He didn’t get anywhere near a full dose of the theragen concentrate, but he still suffered some minor nerve damage.” She sighed. “He’s lucky this is a hospital ship. On another vessel, with less experienced staff, he could have permanently lost his eyesight.”
“How is Bashir holding up? Maybe now he’ll be more willing to talk to us.”
The Betazoid frowned. “Don’t hold your breath, Chris. Whatever is keeping him silent, it’s because he’s afraid for someone close to him.”
“The Douglas woman?”
“It’s possible. He’ll talk when he feels safe and not before.”
Vale nodded. “Okay. We’ll go interrogate someone else, then.” She turned toward the nearby security doors and they hissed open.
The Lionheart’s brig was small, w
ith only three cells, and just one of those was active. Vale gave the Tellarite security officer on duty a stiff jerk of the head to dismiss him, and he retreated to the monitor station on the far side of the compartment.
On the other side of the active cell’s force-field barrier, science officer Lieutenant Seth Maslan was lying on a sleeping pallet. His uniform tunic had been taken from him, and as Vale watched, he picked at the cuffs of his blue undershirt. “Captain on deck,” he said, with a smirk. “Tell me, Commander. How are you liking the job now?”
“You know, we’ve got a lot of questions for you,” Vale began, studying him. “But I’m going to start with the one I had from the moment I first met you: Does that ‘charming genius’ act you put up ever actually work?”
“A lot,” Maslan said, nodding thoughtfully. “People are usually quite impressed with me.”
“He certainly believes that is true,” noted Troi.
“Ah, Betazoids. Always a tougher prospect.” Maslan made a tutting noise and looked away.
“And now he’s thinking of a song, concentrating on the music because he assumes it will prevent me from reading him.”
Vale went on. “How about an easy one, then? After I came on board, were you actually hitting on me in the turbolift?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “You’re an attractive woman. I’d have done it even if I hadn’t been told to.”
She seized on his reply. “Who told you, Seth?”
He froze, and for a second his insouciant grin slipped; then in the next moment he was smiling again. “I don’t think I’m going to say anything else until we reach a starbase and I get to speak to my duly appointed lawyer from the Judge Advocate General’s office.” Maslan folded his arms and took an interest in the panels on the ceiling above his head.
“What makes you think we’re going to a starbase?” asked Vale. “Our next stop is the Andor system. We’ll be there in a day.” She leaned closer to the field barrier. “And it won’t be just Bashir that I’ll be dropping off. You see, Envoy ch’Nuillen has been made aware that you tried to kill the good doctor, and he’s not happy about it.”
Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice Page 28
