Ducking a punch that would have caved his skull in, Picard drove his elbow into his attacker’s chest. Then he fired at a second one, sending him sprawling in the snow.
A third adversary fell short, stopped by someone else’s disruptor beam. However a fourth one, only half-glimpsed, managed to hammer the captain from behind.
The impact numbed his shoulder and drove him to all fours, but he still had a grip on his weapon. Pivoting on his knee, he leveled a blast in what he believed was the right direction.
Unfortunately, the centurion was gone by then. And before Picard could regroup, another one hit him from the side.
Together they tumbled in the snow, a mess of arms and legs, but it was the Romulan who wound up on top. Drawing his fist back, he drove it into the captain’s face. Then he did it again.
And again.
Picard was close to losing consciousness, the taste of blood strong in his mouth, his holoprojector disabled. But while the centurion was pummeling him he had been groping for his weapon, which had spilled out of his hand into the snow.
And now he had found it.
Pressing it against his adversary’s side, he pulled the trigger and catapulted the centurion away. But as dazed as he was, it took him a moment to gather himself, to get his feet underneath him.
As it turned out, a moment was too long.
Still on one knee, he felt something hit him in the jaw, rattling his head about. Unable to stop himself, he slumped to the ground. As he looked up through swimming senses, he saw who had hit him—and who was standing over him now, her weapon leveled at him.
“Sela,” he breathed.
She didn’t say anything. She just smiled, as if this were revenge for the schemes he had foiled and the humiliation he had cost her. And in that smile, there was nothing of Tasha.
My luck has run out, he thought. There would be no escape this time, no last-second maneuver.
He had come to Kevratas to keep others from dying. But in the end, it was he who would perish. Ironic, isn’t it? Steeling himself, he awaited the fatal impact.
Then something happened—a fur-clad body striking suddenly and unexpectedly, with an audible thud—and Sela, tangled with the newcomer, went tumbling down a steep, white incline into a gully.
It was a full second later, as Picard replayed the event in his mind, that he recognized the red-gold hair spilling from his savior’s hood.
Beverly… he thought.
Braeg was so intent on firing across Victory Square at Tal’aura’s outflanked centurions that he didn’t give any thought to the shadow passing over him.
After all, what could it it be but a cloud? Then it slid into his field of vision and he saw it for what it was—a type-six military hovercraft equipped with long-range disruptor cannons.
But, Braeg thought helplessly, there aren’t supposed to be any military hovercraft on Romulus. In fact, there were laws specifically prohibiting them, enacted hundreds of years earlier.
Yet there it was. A well-kept secret, no doubt built in anticipation of just such an eventuality.
And it wasn’t alone—because Braeg saw two more hovercraft wafting in pursuit of the first, and a moment later he realized there was a fourth one.
They stopped over the square in what the admiral now saw was a diamond-shaped formation, and spit fiery beams of disruptor energy into the corners where Braeg’s men had positioned themselves. Suddenly the tide of battle began to turn, and not at all in Braeg’s favor.
He cursed as he watched his men die, skewered on the ends of thick green energy bolts. They lashed back at the hovercraft, but to no avail. Their hand weapons didn’t have enough power to be effective at that distance.
Nor was it only his men who were perishing. So were the citizens caught in the middle of the square. Those inside the hovercraft didn’t seem to care who they were cutting down.
Braeg needed to do something before it was too late. But what could he do? He hadn’t planned for this. And he didn’t yet have Donatra’s warbirds to back him up.
I’m a strategist, he insisted. If there’s a way out, I can find it. I must find it.
But in the end, he saw there was only one strategy left to him, only one tactical maneuver he could use to stop the bloodshed.
And only Braeg could execute it.
Beverly hadn’t thought about it. There wasn’t time.
She had seen Jean-Luc lying on the ground at the mercy of Sela’s disruptor and her instincts had taken over, sending her flying through the storm to plant her shoulder in Sela’s side.
Then her momentum had carried them into this snow-filled gully, where each of them was now struggling to rise to her feet before her adversary could do the same.
Beverly won that battle. Still, she had barely braced herself before Sela fired a naked fist at her, both her weapon and her glove buried somewhere in the snow. The doctor managed to elude the attack, but lost her balance in the process.
So when Sela shot a boot at her, she couldn’t ward it off. It hit her squarely in her half-healed shoulder, sending needles of fire through it and forcing a groan from Beverly’s lips.
Smiling, Sela went after the same spot again. And though Beverly was ready this time, the attack struck bone nonetheless.
Go on the offensive, the doctor urged herself. Otherwise, Sela would hammer that wound all day.
Feinting with her left hand, she drove hard with her right. But Sela’s response was lightning-quick, deflecting Beverly’s assault. And without hesitation, she answered it with one of her own.
Dancing backward, the doctor avoided the first blow. But the second caught her in the jaw, dumping her unceremoniously in the snow. She tried to recover, to get her legs underneath her, but Sela followed with a roundhouse kick to the head.
Dazed, Beverly looked up at the Romulan. Sela just stood there, a smirk of triumph on her face.
“You can’t win,” she said, her voice like a whip. “You’re weak, like the rest of your Federation. Like my mother.”
Beverly felt a gobbet of outrage lodge in her throat. Tasha had been a warrior, as courageous as anyone the doctor had ever known. She deserved a better fate than to be reviled by her only child.
“I knew your mother,” Beverly said, anger spreading through her limbs like an elixir, “and she was a lot tougher than you think. But then,” she added, somehow dragging herself to her feet, “so am I.”
Before Sela could appreciate what she had ignited, Beverly launched herself across the space between them. Landing a shot to her adversary’s jaw, she spun her around. Then she lashed out with her foot and swept Sela’s legs out from under her.
The Romulan tried to get up, but the snow proved too soft and slippery—and Beverly took advantage of it. Plowing Sela into the ground, she smashed her in the nose with the heel of her hand—eliciting a bright green spurt of blood.
Sela struck back, but Beverly hardly felt it. She was too busy delivering blow after blow, doing her best to pound the fight out of her enemy.
“You will not beat me!” Sela gurgled, trying to heave her tormentor off her.
“Actually,” Beverly spat through hard-clenched teeth, “I already have.” And she administered a right cross that snapped Sela’s head around, knocking her out as effectively as any sedative.
The doctor sat there on her adversary’s chest for a moment, spewing steam from her nose and mouth. Then, certain that Sela wouldn’t get up any time soon, Beverly rolled off her onto the blood-flecked snow.
Only to look up into the face of one of Sela’s centurions.
Then she realized it wasn’t just any centurion. It was the one who had tied her up in the government hall. He stood on the lip of the gully pointing his disruptor at her, his expression one of unconcealed delight.
“Doctor Crusher,” he said, a deadly edge to his voice. “Imagine meeting you here.”
Weary as she was, Beverly thrust herself to her feet. She wished she could say something that would keep the centur
ion from stunning her and making off with her, but she couldn’t.
I was so close, she thought. So very close.
“Pleasant dreams,” said her enemy.
Then someone loomed out of the storm behind him.
“Fire!” Donatra commanded.
The Valdore’s disruptor beams raked the flank of the warbird on her viewscreen, opening rents in her hull but failing to hit any critical targets. And before the commander could make another pass at her adversary, another one came after her.
Barking out an order, Donatra hung on to her seat and watched the scene on her screen slide to the right. Her helm officer was doing her best to get them out of harm’s way, but the commander doubted they would slip the barrage entirely.
As if in confirmation, the Valdore shuddered. But fortunately, it was no worse than that.
A moment later, Donatra’s viewscreen displayed her new adversary—right behind her, in excellent position to wreak havoc on the Valdore’s engines. But by the same token, the Valdore had a clear shot at her pursuer’s command center.
And Donatra had to make use of every opening she got. “Target and fire!” she snapped.
Her disruptors plowed into the enemy, inflicting heavy damage on her forward shields. Had Donatra been the pursuer instead of the pursued, she would have ignored the volley and blasted her adversary’s engines.
Instead, the warbird veered off.
Donatra swore under her breath. Every time she engaged the enemy, he evaded her. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to be a strategy, instituted by Tomalak.
He knows we need a quick victory, she thought, and he’s doing everything in his power to prevent it.
In his place, Donatra would have done the same thing. But that didn’t keep her from wanting to snap Tomalak’s neck.
“Commander?” said Oritas, her com officer.
Donatra wondered what Suran wanted. Perhaps to tell her the enemy was running from his ships as well.
But after a moment or two, Oritas still hadn’t said why he called to her. She turned to him, a question in her expression.
“It is Herran,” the com officer said at last, his expression as empty of emotion as his voice. “He has news of Admiral Braeg. Apparently, he has given himself up to the capital guard.”
At first, Donatra thought she had misheard. Then she saw the stricken look on the face of her officers, and realized she had heard correctly after all.
“It’s a lie,” she spat.
But even as she said it, she knew she was wrong. Braeg trusted Herran with everything. He would never have reported such a thing if it were not true.
“What else does he say?” she asked Oritas.
He gave her the grim details—the speech Braeg had made in Victory Square, the arrival of Tal’aura’s centurions, Braeg’s counterstroke, and then the appearance of…
Hovercraft? Donatra swore to herself.
They had killed indiscrimately, not just Braeg’s men but innocents as well. The ground had run green with their blood.
Unable to stop the craft any other way, Braeg had waded through the crowd and surrendered himself to Tal’aura’s guardsmen. Seeing him give himself up, his men had turned and tried to escape. Many of them had made it, Herran included, though the praetor was in the process of hunting them down.
Donatra felt her throat constrict. Braeg had sacrificed himself for the good of those in the square. And now he was Tal’aura’s prisoner, to do with as she wished.
She wouldn’t allow him to live. She couldn’t. He had proven himself too dangerous a foe.
Donatra had believed they would have all the time in the world some day. But not anymore. Clenching her fist, she smashed her armrest with it.
Braeg’s only chance now was for Donatra to cripple Tomalak’s defense forces—and to do it as quickly as possible. But Tomalak’s tactics were designed to slow them down.
Which meant they would have to take more chances than ever. “Give me a link to Suran,” she told Oritas.
“Commander,” said her tactical officer, her voice taut with urgency, “there’a a warbird bearing down on us. It appears to be Commander Tomalak’s.”
Donatra’s jaw clenched. Apparently, Tomalak didn’t feel compelled to be as evasive as the rest of his commanders.
It was all right. She couldn’t win without going through Tomalak anyway. He was simply making it easier for her to find him.
Of course, Tomalak was widely considered the craftiest commander of his generation. As good as Donatra was, Tomalak was reputed to be better.
She lifted her chin as she watched his warbird loom larger on her screen. We will see about that.
After all, Donatra had studied accounts of Tomalak’s exploits, committed to memory his favorite maneuvers—which was how she had broken up his initial defense formation. All she had to do was see which approach he took, and then react to it.
“Lock weapons,” she said. “Wait for my order to fire.”
“Weapons locked,” came the response.
Patience, Donatra told herself firmly, no matter the urgency of the situation.
And indeed, she waited as long as she could to see which way Tomalak would veer off. But the longer she waited, the more certain she became that he wouldn’t veer off at all.
A direct attack, without subtlety or nuance? From someone as well regarded as Tomalak?
It didn’t seem possible. And yet, the evidence was right there in front of her.
She couldn’t wait any longer. In a couple of seconds, the enemy would ram her. “Fire!”
Finally Tomalak’s vessel veered off, but not before he unleashed a barrage of his own. Donatra braced herself as her screen went pale green. A moment later, the impact sent her ship lurching to starboard. Behind her, a control console exploded.
“Report!” she barked.
“Shields down eighty-four percent, Commander!”
“Weapons and propulsion still fully operational!”
At the same time Donatra’s screen cleared and she got a look at her adversary. Tomalak’s ship couldn’t have been damaged much worse than hers, but it was retreating as if the Valdore had made it impossible for her to fight.
Donatra didn’t understand. Why would Tomalak attack her head-on—and then run? It wasn’t at all the behavior of the master strategist she had studied.
Suddenly the answer dawned on her, sending a tingle of dread down her spine. But by then it was too late, because her tactical officer was already shouting a warning.
“Another warbird, Commander—coming up behind us!”
“Evade!” Donatra snarled.
The words had barely escaped her when she was catapulted forward. The next thing she knew she was piled against a bulkhead, one of her arms throbbing with pain.
Tomalak, Donatra thought.
He had tricked her, exchanging ships with one of his commanders. Then he had ordered that commander to attack her while Tomalak himself waited for an opening.
“Get us out of here!” Donatra exhorted her helm officer.
On the viewscreen above her, the enemy released another volley. She felt a second impact, worse than the first. In its wake another console exploded, sending up a geyser of smoke and sparks.
“Helm!” Donatra bellowed, dragging herself to her feet.
Then she saw that the helm was unmanned, her officer dead or otherwise incapacitated. Staggering across the bridge, she brought her good hand down on the controls and punched in a prearranged maneuver.
I may perish, she thought, turning back to the viewscreen in defiance, but I will not go down without a fight!
Decalon had caught a glimpse of Doctor Crusher as she went tumbling into a gully. However, he was too busy dodging disruptor beams to do anything about it.
Finally, one of them found him—or rather, found his weapon, blasting it out of his hand. But the Romulan who did it was leveled by the Kevrata, giving Decalon a moment’s respite.
He used it to go after
Doctor Crusher.
It wouldn’t be easy to find her among the twisting curtains of snow, but Decalon was determined, and he had always had a good sense of direction. Finally, after staggering around for a while, he caught sight of something—a slash of purple that might have been part of a Kevratan overcoat.
It’s her, he thought. It must be.
But before he could reach the doctor, someone beat him to it. One of Sela’s centurions. And he had a disruptor lodged in his fist, which gave him a considerable advantage over Decalon.
There was no telling what orders Sela had given her soldiers—whether they were to recapture Doctor Crusher or simply kill her—so Decalon didn’t have the luxury of sneaking up on his target.
Putting his head down, he covered the intervening distance as quickly as he could. Thirty meters, he thought. Twenty. Ten…
Finally, with a last desperate burst of speed, Decalon went bowling into the centurion. There was a flash of pale green energy—errant, he hoped—and they were skidding into the gully together, jockeying for position as they fell.
They wound up side by side, struggling for the centurion’s disruptor—but not for long. Because just as Decalon thought he might wrest the weapon away, the centurion elbowed him in the face.
Decalon lost his grip for a moment—but that was all the time the centurion needed. Scrambling to his feet, he aimed his weapon at Decalon and fired.
Decalon was thrown backward, the air exploding from his lungs. But when he landed, he found he was still alive. Fighting hard to breathe, he thought: Stun. It was set on stun.
Through a haze of pain, Decalon watched Beverly tackle the centurion and try to take him down. But he backhanded her across the face, sending her flying backward, and aimed his weapon at her as he had aimed it at Decalon.
No doubt, he meant to knock her unconscious. Then he would take her to Sela, who would kill her or torture her for what she knew.
Either way, Decalon couldn’t allow it. Doctor Crusher was one of those who had risked their lives to smuggle him to freedom. She wouldn’t become a prisoner of the Empire as long as he was alive to prevent it.
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