by David Mack
Dastin scrambled after Theriault. All the way across the village, he had never been more than a second behind her, except in a few moments when he’d had to hang back to avoid being seen by Nimur or her new disciples. He arrived at Theriault’s side, ducked low, and peeked around the next corner. “Looks like the villagers are making a run for the fire pit.”
Theriault stole a look around the corner and saw the panicked crowd of Tomol fleeing down a long trail, running from Nimur and the other Changed. Hearing the villagers’ high-pitched shrieks of terror, and seeing their tiny, slender shapes retreating into the jungle, she was reminded of the cruel fact that the entire village was populated by children—all of whom were in danger of suffering grisly fates unless someone put an end to the rampage of the Changed.
She checked the charge on her phaser. “Nimur and the others don’t seem to be in a hurry to catch up to them. Maybe they figure time’s on their side, so why waste effort running?”
The Trill drew his phaser and handed it to Theriault. “Whatever they’re thinking, this might be our best chance to take them out with minimal collateral damage.” He risked another furtive glance at the Changed. “I can grab a Warden’s lance and use it to draw their attention.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why? What could go wrong? I mean, other than everything.” He hooked a thumb toward the Tomol. “At the very least, we might buy the Tomol time to find a place to hide.”
It was a good argument, as rationales for suicide went. Theriault decided to act while she still had options. “All right, but you don’t get to be the bait. That’s my job.” She handed back his phaser, looked toward the rest of their group, and signaled Hesh and Tan Bao to join them. Seta drew her ceremonial dagger, put it to Tormog’s throat, and nodded her assurance to Tan Bao that she would be all right guarding the Klingon, who remained drugged, bound, and gagged.
The two men ran to Theriault and Dastin. She held out her hand. “Phasers. Let’s have ’em.” The nurse and science officer surrendered their weapons to Theriault, who handed them to Dastin. “Tan Bao, take Seta and Tormog back the way we came and hide in the jungle. Dastin, make those phasers into an explosive by linking their charging coils and setting them for a high-speed synchronous overload. Hesh, jury-rig a trigger for the explosive that you can remotely activate with your tricorder. As soon as the charge is ready, hide it beneath some piece of loose debris in the street just around that corner over there, then regroup with Tan Bao and the others.”
Dastin telegraphed his doubts with a single arched eyebrow. “And where will you be?”
“If I’m lucky? Right behind you.”
Tan Bao asked, “And if you’re not?”
“Then I’ll be all around you, in the form of free radicals.”
Hesh frowned. “I do not care for this plan, Commander.”
“Good thing I don’t have to ask your permission.” She pointed Tan Bao toward the trees. “Get moving.” The nurse hurried away and led Seta and Tormog to cover in the jungle. Theriault faced Hesh and Dastin. “Get that charge rigged and placed on the double. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to harass Nimur and her brood before I’ll have to make a run for it.”
The scout started pulling apart the three phasers, one at a time. “You know that I can’t make this work like a shaped charge, right? This thing’s gonna vaporize everything inside its blast radius—so you’d better not be inside it when Hesh pulls the trigger.”
“Don’t worry.” Theriault stood, tightened her grip on her phaser, and turned the corner moving in bold strides toward the Changed. “I’ve got my running shoes on.”
And a death wish, apparently.
She marched toward Nimur and her company of Changed, who all were facing away from her as they walked in slow pursuit of their escaping Tomol brethren. None of them seemed to take any notice of her, not even when she had narrowed the gap between them to less than ten meters. She decided to grab their attention in the most direct way possible.
The blinding, full-power beam that screeched from her phaser was powerful enough to blast apart boulders or vaporize a small shuttlecraft. It slammed into the back of one transformed Warden and knocked him forward, onto his hands and knees. As he lingered, stunned, on all fours, the other Changed stopped, turned in fearsome unison, and trained their cold glares upon Theriault. Nimur stepped between her companions, and then in front of them, to confront her.
“Ah, yes—your version of the Warden’s lance.” She looked down at her humbled follower. “I see it has even more of a kick than the one I felt in the cave.”
Theriault mustered her bravado. “It had enough juice to make you run.”
Tendrils of electricity began to crawl over the hands and arms of the Changed, and a nimbus of pale violet light formed around Nimur’s hands and head. She cracked a sinister, taunting smile. “Four of them at once did. Care to test your luck alone?”
Eleven versus one would be atrocious odds even in a so-called fair fight, and Theriault knew this melee promised to be anything but equitable. Her only hope of survival rested in her observation that, so far, Nimur’s ability to attack appeared to be limited to what she could see.
The young Starfleet officer slowly lowered her phaser, as if to surrender.
As soon as it was pointed at the ground beneath Nimur’s feet, Theriault fired. A shriek split the sultry jungle air, and the first meter of earth beneath the Changed flared and vanished; the next two meters beneath that became molten rock and sand, and the Changed plunged into it feet-first and vanished beneath its surface, immersed in white-hot liquid glass.
Theriault didn’t wait around to see what happened next; she knew her dirty trick would only make the Changed angry and slow them down for a few seconds. As Nimur and the others arose, howling with rage as they clawed their way from the impromptu slag pit, Theriault was already running for her life and firing random shots at the ground behind her, filling the air with superheated dust. Through the smoky amber veil, she heard Nimur roar, “Destroy that one!”
And away we go.
Shock waves hammered through the village all around her. Each psionic pulse splintered several empty huts and scattered their broken thatch walls and roofs like shrapnel. Theriault felt the concussive force of each wave that leveled the structures around her. A storm of shattered pottery erupted into the street and peppered her with stinging shards. An impact knocked her to the ground half a second before another fearsome invisible force tore past above her, sending ripples through the curtains of dust and smoke that had separated into discrete layers.
She rolled supine, pointed the phaser back the way she had come, and fired several short blasts through the impenetrable haze. Her effort was rewarded by cries of pain and fury from the Changed. She snapped off two more shots for good measure as she got back up and resumed running for the ambush position. She plucked her communicator from her hip pocket and flipped it open on the fly. “Theriault to Dastin! Ready?”
“Ready! But you’d better haul ass, they’re right on you!”
Theriault saved her breath for the run to cover and flipped her communicator shut. She hurdled over assorted debris littering the trail between rows of huts, which were being swept away en masse by unseen waves of force, and fired a few more shots behind her to maintain what little cover smoke and dust could offer her. Then she made the turn down a short path that dead-ended at the tree line and forced herself to ignore the sensation that acid was pumping in her veins and her muscles were tying themselves into knots from the exertion of her mad dash.
A thundercrack and blistering white flash from behind her launched her through the wall of low brush and foliage, into the jungle, and into the arms of her landing party.
When the dark spots began to fade from her vision and the dull silence in her ears gave way to the painful ringing of tinnitus, Theriault blinked and got
her bearings. Seta stood a couple of meters away, looking nervous as she turned back and forth between the village and Tormog. Dastin and Hesh were on Theriault’s right. They watched Tan Bao, who kneeled at Theriault’s left and scanned her with a medical tricorder. His voice sounded as if he were speaking through several heavy blankets. “No permanent damage. I can fix her up once we get back to the ship.”
She reached up and seized the front of Dastin’s jumpsuit. “Did it work?”
“We hit ’em.” He looked over his shoulder and grimaced. “And boy are they pissed.”
“So, that would be a no.”
“Pretty much.” Dastin took Theriault’s left arm and nodded at Tan Bao. “Help her up. We gotta go.” He noted the confusion on Theriault’s face and added, “They’re still coming.”
She pressed her phaser into Dastin’s free hand. “Just in case.”
“Got it.” He waved Hesh, Tormog, and Seta into motion. “Let’s motor.”
Seta refused to be moved. “To where?”
“The beach,” Dastin said. “We’re getting off this island.”
The teen backed away. “I won’t abandon my people.”
Dastin’s temper frayed. “Look, kid, I don’t have time to argue with you. Come with us and live, or stay here and die. Your call.”
She was unmoved by his tough talk. “I wish you well, and I hope you all make it home. Good-bye.” Without waiting for anyone to respond, she scurried away and vanished into the jungle’s verdant embrace, on a heading that would take her around the edge of the village.
Tan Bao raised his chin at Tormog as he asked Dastin, “Where are we gonna put him?”
“We’ll stuff him in the cargo box.” He tossed the phaser to Tan Bao. “Watch him.”
Hesh silenced an alert from his tricorder. “The Changed are closing on our position.”
“Move out,” Theriault said, her voice reduced to a pained groan. “Stay off the trails.”
The landing party retreated single file through the trees, with Dastin in the lead and Tan Bao bringing up the rear, prodding the stumbling Tormog forward at phaser-point. Behind them, sharp cracks and heavy crashes reverberated through the jungle. Theriault chanced a look over her shoulder, and she glimpsed enormous trees toppling in various directions, as if the landing party were being pursued by a demolition machine.
So much for avoiding the trails, she realized. The Changed are just making a new one.
“Hesh,” she said between labored gasps, “how many are chasing us?”
“All of them.”
That put a smile on her face. Good. Mission accomplished.
Now all the landing party had to do was reach its amphibious rover, pull the vehicle out of its hiding place, pack the Klingon prisoner like cheap luggage, climb inside, and escape into the sea before Nimur and her murderous band of freshly minted demigods caught up to them.
Piece of cake, as long as nothing else goes—
A stunning force, like a giant fist of steel, hit Theriault in the back.
She was airborne, tumbling and off-balance. On all sides the jungle blurred past, its details spinning by too quickly for her impact-purpled vision to discern. Around her, the others rolled or traced shallow arcs through a low-hanging cloud layer of tiny insects. Then she struck something immovable that knocked the air from her chest. She collapsed in a heap to the ground. Curled up in her own agony against the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, she felt several trickles of warm blood trace random designs down the side of her face. Somewhere close by, hidden beneath the jungle’s dense carpet of fronds and flowering brush, she heard Dastin groan.
Theriault rolled onto her stomach and looked around in vain for any sign of the Klingon prisoner. Then she heard footsteps drawing near.
She was clinging to consciousness when Nimur and three of her minions surrounded her. They looked down at her with eyes afire. There was no pity in their gaze, no compassion, only contempt. “Outsiders,” Nimur sneered. “You should never have come here.”
“Actually? We were just leaving.”
“You will leave here in pieces, as a warning to all who would violate my domain.”
Nimur’s eyes blazed brighter—and then a nearby wash of white noise accompanied by a shimmering of light turned her head. She and all the Changed spun to confront a new threat.
As the transporter beam faded, Theriault savored the irony as she realized this was the first time in her life she had ever been happy to see a Klingon landing party.
• • •
It had galled Tormog to play the part of an invalid while in the Starfleet team’s custody, but his fleeting humiliation proved worthwhile as soon as the natives’ attack left his captors stunned.
Nimur and the corrupted Wardens were not yet on top of the fallen Starfleeters by the time Tormog regained his feet. His mouth remained gagged and his hands were bound behind his back, but he was up and able to run, and for the moment that was enough. He made a hard sprint through a tangle of low-drooping vines thick with broad leaves, and he didn’t stop until he heard the familiar singsong whine of an Imperial transporter beam.
He turned back, paralyzed by conflicting desires. He wanted to be free of his bonds, and to get off this miserable planet-sized ball of mud, but he knew that what little honor he still retained as a lowly scientist would be stripped from him if it became known that he had been taken prisoner. A warrior would not ask for help, he decided. He would free himself.
He crouched in the undergrowth and blindly searched the ground behind his back for a sharp-edged rock. All he found were half-buried roots, rotting vegetation, and what he suspected were desiccated animal feces. Damn this useless planet! It denies me even this simple gift!
A root caught his foot and tripped him onto his back. Seconds later, the angry whine of disruptor blasts resounded through the jungle, and several wild shots ripped through the foliage above him, cutting smoldering paths through the greenery. Suddenly, flat on the ground seemed to Tormog like an ideal place to be.
Proud, defiant Klingon battle cries gave way within seconds to primal howls of pain. Lying on his back, all but hidden in the leafy cover of the jungle floor, Tormog found a jagged shard of bone nestled among the festering slime that coated the ground. His fingers seized on that splinter and turned its sharpest edge against the knotted vines the Starfleeters had used to bind his hands. As he sawed through his bonds with patient precision, the sounds of battle lost their stridency, and the shrieks of disruptor fire became less frequent. The last sinews of vine gave way, and his hands broke free. He pulled the gag from his mouth and rolled to a low crouch.
He had run quite a ways from the Starfleeters, none of whom were anywhere to be found. All he saw were Nimur and her Wardens using their telekinetic powers to sadistically twist and break Klingon warriors who Tormog could tell, even from a distance, were already dead.
Lurking behind a thick-trunked tree, the last Klingon warrior standing primed his tagging device. Tormog wanted to signal the man, to warn him not to bother with such a hopeless and futile gesture, but the scientist’s overactive instinct for self-preservation left him mute.
The warrior pivoted around the tree, aimed at Nimur, and fired a transponder at her.
At first, Nimur showed no response. Then she and the other Changed released their holds on the Klingon bodies they had been levitating and tormenting post-mortem. The broken corpses fell limp to the ground. Nimur turned and fixed her stare upon the warrior.
In a blur, the Klingon’s head spun completely around, and the crack of his snapping cervical vertebrae echoed between the trees. His lifeless eyes seemed to stare at Tormog as he collapsed and disappeared into a hip-deep miniature forest of dark-green fronds. Tormog ducked and crabwalked to cover behind a tree while he eavesdropped on Nimur and her cohorts.
“The others are running for the beach,” Nimu
r said.
A Warden with a scar on the left side of his neck pointed in the opposite direction. “We should return to the village and finish what has begun.”
Nimur continued to look away in the direction of the shore. “Not yet. I sensed something in the ones who escaped. If we don’t stop them, they could pose a danger to us.”
Another Warden, one with a bald stripe shaved down the middle of his silver-haired head, sounded unconvinced. “If they are such a threat, why do they fly like frightened songbirds?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. They run from us—but only to strike from a distance.”
The Wardens traded glances, and then Neck-Scar spoke for them. “Then they must die.”
“Follow me,” Nimur said. She led the other Changed away from the village. As they advanced through the jungle, they uprooted and knocked aside the dense sea of trees in their path with their fearsome telekinetic assault. Great cracks of splintering wood, like the breaking of a titan’s bones, drowned out all the other sounds of the jungle and sent multitudes of small animals skittering and flying away in panicked retreat. Where the Changed had passed, searing hot sunlight beat down through newly torn wounds in the forest canopy.
Tormog remained behind cover, not daring to move for fear of bringing Nimur’s wrath back upon himself. He had only narrowly evaded her in the caves; he had no desire to face her again out in the open, where he had so few places to seek shelter.
The air was heavy with the odor of fresh-spilled blood and the stench of ruptured viscera. It would not be long before the jungle’s natural scavengers and carrion-eaters came to feast on the Klingon dead. Tormog knew it would be best if he were gone before that came to pass. But where was he to go? In pursuit of the Starfleeters, who had the murderous Changed following them? Back to the caves, to await his next confrontation with Nimur? Or into the forsaken vale beyond the great hill, the barren rocky sprawl filled with graven figures of men and women frozen for eternity in poses of torment and horror?