Before she slept, though, Keiko knew that Tanaka’s leg needed as much care as she could give it. She draped the sleeping bag over herself and pulled out the flashlight to examine the injury. Dried blood caked the wound and streaked the leg. The edges of the cut were yellowish-white and crusted with dried pus, but most of the calf was a dark purplish-red and hot to the touch. Keiko shuddered, thinking she had never seen a wound become so badly infected so rapidly. Most likely, the Jarada’s claws exuded something toxic to humans.
She cleaned the gash as best she could, unwilling to disturb the scabs, and slathered antibiotic ointment into the wound. Looking at the leg, she knew her treatment was completely inadequate, but their first aid supplies were an emergency stopgap, intended to patch someone up before beaming back to the ship. Nothing in the kit was intended for situations like this. Tanaka shivered, his body burning with fever. For good measure, Keiko dug out the hypo and injected him with a double dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics and an antivenom shot.
Then, with nothing more she could do, she stretched out on the air mattress beside Tanaka and pulled the sleeping bag over both of them. Miles will find us soon, she promised herself, trying to hold her apprehension at bay. She had intended to keep watch, but in spite of her best intentions, exhaustion claimed her and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep filled with nightmares of friendly insectoid beings that changed into enemies when she turned her back on them.
Sometime much later Keiko drifted back to consciousness, awakened by the sound of several Jarada talking outside the tent.
Chapter Seventeen
THE DANK, MOLDY TUNNEL seemed to go on forever, with no cross-tunnels or intersecting shafts that offered any hope of escape. The thick mud squelched under Worf’s boots, a constant reminder of how far underground he was. After ten minutes the corridor ended in a T-shaped intersection. He started to the right, but found his way blocked by a cave-in before he had gone more than fifty meters.
He reversed his course and tried the other direction, but found that the builders had stopped their excavation just beyond the intersection. That left him with two options, neither good. He could return the way he had come, hoping to find another escape route before his pursuers found him. Or he could try to worm his way through the cave-in and hope that an exit lay beyond it.
It didn’t take Worf long to decide. Clearly, he had to get back to the captain to warn him of what was happening to the Jarada. His chances of fighting off the overwhelming odds he would face if he retraced his steps were slim. Although a warrior’s greatest ambition was to die in battle, death should count for something. To deliberately court suicidal odds when he had other options, however distasteful, was not the warrior’s way. With a growl of frustration Worf headed back for the cave-in.
He studied the pile of mud and rubble, trying to make sense of the chaos. Rotting timbers sagged from the ceiling and jutted from the dirt at drunken angles. He prodded a two-decimeter beam, wiggling it until he discovered that it had once been anchored in the tunnel wall. Apparently the builders had tried to shore up the roof at that point, with little success. From somewhere within or beyond the collapsed section he heard the trickle of running water, a constant drip and gurgle that added to his uneasiness. There was too much water in these tunnels, so much that he felt as though an entire lake were poised over his head waiting to sluice over him.
Worf climbed halfway up the mound and prodded at the gap near the ceiling, looking for a hole big enough to crawl through. At first the spaces he found were barely large enough to accommodate a human child. He was almost ready to give up, when the rotting beam again caught his attention. It was wedged between two large boulders and half buried under the mud, but if he could pull the end free, Worf thought he could just barely wiggle through the hole.
Planting his boots into the slippery muck, he shoved against one of the boulders. At first it would not budge, but finally, with a revolting sucking noise, it came free of its muddy cocoon and rolled down the incline.
The second boulder was more difficult. Even when he braced himself against the side of the tunnel and shoved with all his strength, Worf could not get enough leverage to force it loose. Finally, he realized he was not going to budge the rock, so he turned his attention to removing the beam.
Lying flat on his back in the cold, slimy mud, Worf kicked upward, aiming at the unsupported middle of the obstruction. The rotten wood gave a tortured groan and cracked under the impact. Three more powerful kicks widened the break. Worf scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around the beam. Throwing his weight backward, he jerked against the weakened section. It yielded slowly, creaking and groaning in protest. Worf continued the pressure until the beam snapped. Overbalanced from the effort, he tumbled backward down the slope and fetched up against the boulder he had managed to move. The impact knocked his breath from his body.
Grunting from the shock, Worf climbed to his feet and crawled up the mound to examine his handiwork, slithering half a step backward for every step he took. A bristly, ragged break separated the two sections of the beam. By tugging the broken ends aside, Worf was able to create a hole that could just accommodate a Klingon. He poked his head into the opening beyond.
The trickle of running water was louder, and it echoed in the empty space. He could see nothing in the darkness, even after he let his eyes adjust to the minimal light that leaked in from the corridor behind him. He felt around with his hands, but encountered only emptiness overhead. A vertical wall rose above him, its surface unnaturally smooth.
Worf slid backward until he regained his footing. To get anywhere, he needed a light. If he had a phaser, he could dry out the rotten wood and use it for a torch. On the other hand, if he had a phaser, he wouldn’t be in this mess. The stun setting would easily have eliminated the threat from the crazed Jarada, and he could have rejoined the captain long before.
He started back along the corridor, studying each of the glowstrips. Most were in such poor condition that it wasn’t worth the effort to remove them from their brackets. Finally, he found one strip that still put out a consistent, if weak, glow. It was firmly attached to the wall and it took Worf several tries to break it loose from its fasteners. Bearing his prize, he returned to the cave-in.
In the feeble light from the glowstrip, the opening extended upward into darkness. Worf examined the walls carefully, confirming his guess that the builders had intended to put an enclosed ramp here. The sides of the shaft were smooth as far up as he could see, although the far wall was buried under a mass of mud and debris that filled the bottom of the shaft and spilled out into the corridor beyond. Water slicked the walls and pooled in the low places near the perimeter of the shaft.
A steel rod, about three centimeters in diameter and with a rust-streaked surface, jutted upward in the center of the opening. Worf climbed up to its level and pushed against it, testing its strength. With one hand clamped around the rod, the other hand just reached the wall. The rod flexed slightly but seemed sound and well anchored, and Worf guessed that its upper end was still anchored to the construction bolts. Apparently the cave-in had halted all work on this part of the complex. He just hoped the shaft opened out on another level before it ended.
Wedging the glowstrip under the edge of his sash, Worf started to climb up the slippery pile of mud. His progress was slow, with each step carrying him back downhill almost as fast as he could pull his boots free for the next step. After fifteen minutes of slithering and sliding he reached the top of the mound of waterlogged dirt. Smooth walls extended upward on all sides of the shaft.
Muttering with frustration, Worf held the glowstrip over his head, trying to see what lay farther up the shaft. The mud under his feet had come from somewhere, and he had been gambling that it had fallen from a hole that he could use for an escape route. At first he thought he had lost his bet, but then he saw a darker shadow on the wall just at the limit of his vision. It was difficult to estimate distances in the uncertain light, but he gu
essed that the darker spot was about seven meters above his head, which put it two levels above the corridor where he had started. If he was right, the upper corridor had crumbled into the shaft when the construction crews connected the two. All he had to do was get to that upper tunnel.
Holding on to the central rod for support, Worf played the glowstrip over the sides of the shaft. The finish was smooth, almost polished, and showed no signs of obvious deterioration. Briefly, he wondered why the Jarada had not used the same coating on all these lower tunnels to exclude the moisture rather than foolishly building kilometers of corridors that fast became unusable. The mud beneath his feet shifted, forcing him to take two steps to regain his position. That triggered another train of thought, suggesting that perhaps the moisture buildup behind the coating was what had caused the cave-in.
Such speculations did not solve his immediate problem, however. The shaft was too wide for him to jackknife his way up it and the surface was too slick to provide any handholds. That left only the central rod. He shook it again, listening to the hum of the vibrating metal and wondering how strong its anchoring bolts were. Given the condition of these tunnels, he was reluctant to bet his life on the sturdiness of the fastening. Still, if he could not escape by climbing up the rod, he would be forced to return the way he had come.
His decision made, Worf tucked the glowstrip back under his sash and started up the steel rod, hand over hand. The damp, rusty surface of the metal bit into his hands, alternately aiding and hindering him. He tried to keep his movements slow and deliberate to avoid excess stress on the upper end, but he could feel the metal flexing under his unbalanced weight. Worf decided to move faster, trying to shinny up the rod before it broke loose.
Three meters. Four meters. Five. He was beginning to hope he could make it when the ominous screech of a bolt pulling loose from rock echoed down the shaft. The rod shuddered and started to sag toward the wall. Worf grabbed another handhold higher on the rod, abandoning all caution and trying to climb high enough while he still had time.
A second bolt shrieked and a rain of mud and small pebbles pelted Worf. He lunged upward again, bringing himself to the level of the dark shadow he had noticed from below. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder, confirming that this spot was the scar where the tunnel had collapsed into the shaft.
The edge looked crumbly and weak, and Worf doubted that it would hold his weight. The bar shimmied beneath him, and Worf didn’t need to see the anchors to know that only one bolt was left. He made another grab, hoping to get the last bit of height he needed just as the remaining fastener pulled loose.
The steel rod snapped against the side of the shaft with a deafening clang. Worf hung on with desperate strength, hoping his weight would dampen the rebound. The glowstrip slipped loose from his sash and tumbled away, quickly swallowed by the darkness beneath his feet. His knuckles scraped against the rock, but the rest of his body encountered only air.
Worf loosened his legs from around the rod and pushed off, trying to swing himself as far into the opening as he could. Trusting to luck, he released the bar and dropped to the mud, throwing himself backward to get the maximum body area in contact with the floor. Even so, he slid downward and, despite his efforts, arrested his descent only after his boots were hanging out into thin air.
Carefully, Worf rolled over onto his stomach and wiggled uphill. The mud sloped upward toward the ceiling, again blocking his way. Without the glowstrip he had to explore by touch alone, probing with his fingers to find any openings. At first it seemed like he was out of luck, with the mud blocking this tunnel completely. Finally, he located a gap that was just too narrow for his shoulders.
Muttering under his breath, Worf began clawing at the damp, clayey soil. It gooped through his fingers and clung to his hands as if it were glued there, cold and slimy and repulsive, but slowly he forced his way through it. After three meters of squirming on his belly like a snake, the passageway became wider and drier. Phosphorescent patches, possibly bacteria released from broken glowstrips, shed faint, patchy light into the tunnel.
Getting to his hands and knees, Worf began crawling, eager to escape the cramped passageway. It seemed to go on and on, an endless nightmare of cold and wet and mud. He was in so much of a hurry that he didn’t notice the subdued buzz of Jarada voices until he almost fell on the two guardians.
Suddenly aware of his danger, Worf froze, berating himself for his lack of caution. The dirt that clogged the tunnel ended abruptly against a wooden retaining wall. A short distance away, a similar barricade closed off the tunnel from a brightly lit corridor beyond. In the space between the barriers, two Jarada were clutching each other and writhing on the ground. More insanity? Or simply illicit behavior such as drugs or forbidden dueling? Worf decided he didn’t want to know.
Creeping back from the edge, he reversed his position. Feetfirst, he dropped over the wall. Grabbing the Jarada by their necks, he cracked their heads together with his full strength. Both sagged to the ground, unconscious. Leaving them, Worf crossed to the second barricade and looked over it. He was in a well-lit, dry corridor that ended a few meters to the right at a well-marked door. As he watched, it opened and a dozen guardians marched out, moving at double time. Worf ducked below the barrier and waited until the clatter of their claws faded into the distance.
When he was sure the corridor was deserted, he climbed over the barricade and headed for the door. Much to his surprise, it responded to the same sequence as the others: 1-1-3-2-1-2-3-3-1. He entered the shaft and started up, counting doorways. If he was right, he needed to climb four levels to reach the ground floor.
Once, halfway to his goal, Worf heard another troupe of guardians enter below him. However, his luck held and they went down, the clatter of their claws receding as they descended. The shaft ended in a flat landing at what Worf thought was ground level. For a moment, thinking that the shaft’s entrance might be public, Worf considered retreating one level. If he did that, he would have to find another way out of the building, and he had seen more than enough of the underground tunnels.
He entered the lock code one last time and waited for the door to open. The mechanism was sluggish, jerking the door a moment before pulling it back into the wall. Worf stepped into the deserted corridor and saw the most welcome sight of his life. A broad, arched door that opened onto a wide avenue was opposite him. In three long strides Worf crossed the space and shoved the door open.
It was dark outside, with the huge rusty ball of Bel-Major casting an amber half-light across everything. Worf looked around, trying to get his bearings. Through a gap in the bushes he saw a broad, swift-moving river flowing beside the building he had just left. He started toward the water with a sinking feeling in his gut. Almost certainly, if his sense of direction had not completely betrayed him, the Governance Complex—and Captain Picard—was on the far side of the river.
The road turned to the left and dipped downward through a dense wall of bushes. Following his instincts, he started toward the river. From the other side of the hedge Worf saw the spidery strands of a bridge stretching across the water and the globular architecture of the Governance Complex on the far bank. He started toward the bridge, wondering if things could really be so easy.
He studied the layout from the cover of the bushes, looking for concealed obstacles. The deck of the bridge was broad and unguarded, inviting him to cross. No one moved on either side of the river. Their information on the Jarada had not said when the insectoids slept or how long their sleep cycle was, but Worf decided he would not have a better opportunity than now.
He was nearing the middle of the bridge, keeping to the shadows as much as he could, when he heard the hum of a vehicle behind him. He broke into a jog, trying to reach one of the support pylons before he was spotted. Several of the deck plates were missing on the far side of the road, and the edges of the holes were warped. In his haste Worf failed to notice the loose plate ahead of him. His foot landed on its edge and k
nocked it free.
Worf felt his footing drop out from under him and grabbed for the rim of the hole, a moment too late. His fingers slipped off the metal decking and he dropped toward the river, fifty meters below.
Chapter Eighteen
THE INTERCOM ROUSED PICARD from a fitful sleep. “Go ahead,” he told the computer as he swung his feet to the floor and tugged his uniform into place. Sleeping in his clothes was not something he usually did anymore, but the events of the last few hours had revived old habits. Far too often in the old days, patrolling the Neutral Zone, the entire command crew of the Stargazer had been forced to sleep as they were and when they could for days at a stretch. The continual alerts were one thing he certainly did not miss in his current assignment aboard the Enterprise.
“Selar, here,” the speaker announced. “I have preliminary results on the Jarada pilots, if you would come to sickbay.”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible, Doctor.” He tapped his communicator as he stood. “Mr. Data, meet me and Dr. Selar in sickbay in five minutes.”
“Yes, Captain,” the android answered.
Data arrived from the bridge just as the turbolift deposited Picard outside sickbay. They entered together, threading their way through the complex of treatment rooms and laboratories to the security area where the Jarada were being held. The tall Vulcan doctor greeted them with a brief nod and activated her monitor.
“What did you find, Doctor?” Picard skimmed the columns of data, but the information made no sense to him. That was not really a surprise, since he knew only enough biochemistry to realize how complex the field was. He glanced at Data and was surprised to see a puzzled flown creasing the android’s face. Selar’s results must be unusual, if the readout could produce that reaction from Data.
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