She tilted her head slightly. “That’syourname, isn’t it?”
Erid nodded, intrigued by her strange, quick way of talking. “Yes.”
“Youdon’ttalkmuch,” Corba observed.
He shrugged. “I think a lot.”
“Aboutwhatyou’vebecome,” she said.
“That,” he replied, “and other things.”
Corba glanced at the opposite wall, where the guards were looking down on the yard. Erid glanced that way, too. Their conversation hadn’t drawn any special attention. But then, they were hardly the only ones conversing.
“Otherthings?” she echoed. “Likewhat?”
“Like how much I hate it here,” he told her.
He hadn’t intended to say that. But it had been days since he exchanged more than a couple of superficial words with anyone, and the sentiment had simply come pouring out.
“We allhateit,” Corba answered. “That’swhyRahatan didwhathedidyesterday. Becausewe’repeople, notanimals. We’renotsupposedtobecagedup.”
“No,” Erid agreed. “We’re not.”
Her gaze seemed to harden, become more resolute. “Andwithanyluck, wewon’tbecagedmuchlonger.”
He didn’t understand. He told her so.
Again, Corba cast a glance at the battlements. “Rahatanwantstobreakoutofthisplace.”
Erid looked at her. “Break …” He shook his head. “But how do you know?”
“Paldulcontactedhiminhiscell,” she said. “Hecando that. Rahatantoldhimwedon’tneedtostayhereanylonger—not withthepowerswe’vegot.”
He swallowed. “But the guards …”
Corba frowned. “Allweneedtodoisworktogether. That’s whatRahatansays. Ifwedothat, theguardscan’tstopus.”
Erid felt his cheeks flush. “And the others … ?”
“I’vespokenwithhalfadozentransformedmyself,” she said. “Noone’zsturnedmedownyet. They’re all sick of being here.”
Suddenly, Erid was more frightened than ever. It was bad enough he had become some kind of freak, and worse still that he had been imprisoned because of it. But now he was contemplating an act of violence—one that would forever alienate him from Xhaldian society.
And yet, he thought, if he didn’t do it, he would be alienated from a different kind of society—maybe the only kind realistically left to him. He took a breath, then let it out.
“Has Rahatan got a plan?” Erid inquired.
Corba nodded. Then she told him what it was, and what role had been chosen for Erid in it.
“Soyou’rewithus?” she asked. She quirked a smile. “Ordoyoulikethewayitfeelswhentheystunyouintheyard?”
He thought about it. If Rahatan was right and they were able to break out of the fortress, he might never have to feel a stun blast again.
Erid swallowed even harder. “I’m with you.”
Chapter Nine
THE HOLODECK DOORS opened with a soft hiss. Worf found himself bathed in sun and shadow as he studied the scene in front of him. Wolverine, who was standing beside him, just grunted.
They were in a clearing in the middle of a steamy, tropical jungle. A blood-blackened, white-stone altar was the only man-made structure in sight.
Birds screamed from high up in the lush, golden foliage and darted across a patch of crimson sky. Half-seen creatures peered out from their sun-dappled hiding places with wide, frightened-looking eyes.
“Nice place ya got here,” Wolverine rasped. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “I prefer somethin’ a little frostier myself, but to each his own.”
As it happened, Worf had no particular liking for this place either; the flora gave off a most unpleasant scent. Still, the program had been a gift from his son, Alexander, who had been living with Worf’s foster parents back on Earth at the time. And if one could ignore the smell, the opportunities for battle were most exhilarating.
Hefting his batt’leth, the Klingon turned to his guest. “You’re certain you do not require a weapon?” It wasn’t the first time he had asked.
The mutant held up his fist, showing Worf the deadly-sharp spars of bone that protruded well past his knuckles. “I’ve got all the weapon I need right here,” he said.
The Klingon had seen Wolverine use his claws to considerable advantage. “Very well,” he said.
Taking a couple of steps in the direction of the altar, he felt the program respond to his presence. The shrieks of the birds grew louder, the wind in the trees fiercer, the sense of danger more immediate.
Worf could feel his pulse quickening, his blood growing hotter. His lips pulled back in anticipation of the battle to come.
And Wolverine was right behind him, his eyes sliding warily from side to side, his nostrils flaring beneath his mask. It seemed he could sense the danger as well.
But then, as Worf understood it, the mutant’s faculties of smell and hearing—not to mention his most basic, primitive instincts—were far superior to those of normal humans. In that regard, Wolverine was more like the Terran predator he had been named for.
Or—Worf thought—more like a Klingon.
The only thing about Wolverine he didn’t understand was the mutant’s disguise. If a warrior concealed his identity from others, how could he bring honor to his house?”
“They’re out there,” Wolverine whispered.
“Indeed,” Worf responded.
The mutant’s lip curled. “So what are they waitin’ for?”
As if that were a cue, adversaries charged them from four different directions. Worf flung his bat’leth up in time to ward off the mace-stroke of a hulking, blue-skinned Pandrilite, then whirled and parried the sword thrust of a lightning-quick Orion.
A glance told him Wolverine wasn’t bored either. A Chardeni whipmaster was trying to snare the mutant’s ankles while a Drilikan assassin looped a garrot around his neck.
With the claws of one hand, Wolverine sliced off the business end of the whip and drove his fist into the Chardeni’s face. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough to prevent the garrot from taking hold around his neck—but even then, he was far from vanquished.
Driving his elbow into the Drilikan’s ribs, the mutant cracked a couple, forcing his adversary to loosen his grip. Then, with some room in which to work, he slashed the assassin’s belly.
Worf, meanwhile, was getting a workout. No sooner had he opened the Pandrilite’s throat with his bat’leth than the Orion was on the attack again. Ducking the green man’s flashing steel, the Klingon parried a second assault and a third.
Then, just when the Orion thought he was gaining the advantage, Worf struck low and swept his legs out from under him. With a single, quick thrust, the Klingon finished off his adversary.
Some of Worf’s colleagues might have been shocked at his love of violence. But not Wolverine, he knew. Turning to the mutant, the Klingon grinned.
Wolverine was grinning too. “Not bad for a start,” he gibed. “But when’re we gonna see some real action?”
In answer to his question, a shaggy Bandelaar dropped on him from the trees above. Pinning the mutant to the ground, he raised a large and deadly looking axe over his head.
Taking two quick steps, Worf hurled himself at the Bandelaar. He managed to knock the alien off-balance before he could bring his weapon down on Wolverine’s head. Then, before the Bandelaar could recover, the Klingon sliced his axe-handle in two.
Weaponless, the alien reached out and grasped Worf’s naked throat. The Klingon felt his windpipe closing in the Bandelaar’s vicelike grip. Reluctant to let his enemy finish the job, he plunged the point of his bat’leth into his opponent’s ribs.
That made the Bandelaar let go in a hurry. With his throat open for business again, Worf raised his weapon and savagely terminated his adversary’s brief existence.
That’s when he saw someone big and dark hurtling out of the jungle at him. A Shriiton trident-warrior, he thought. Whirling, he tried to brace himself for the newcomer’s attack.
It tur
ned out not to be necessary. Before the Shriiton could get anywhere near the Klingon, Wolverine tackled him.
For a moment, the trident-warrior and the mutant rolled across the clearing, driven by their momentum. Then they scrambled to their feet, separated by less than a meter. The Shriiton thrust his weapon at Wolverine, who caught it and broke its shaft over his knee.
As the alien tried to regain his balance, the mutant drove his heel into the Shritton’s belly. When the trident-warrior groaned and doubled over, Wolverine laced his fingers together and delivered a two-handed blow to the back of the neck.
The Shriiton collapsed and fell on his face. After a moment or two, it was clear he wasn’t getting up again. The mutant made a show of brushing off his hands, then turned to Worf.
“Don’t tell me that’s it,” he said.
“Actually,” the Klingon told him, “we are just warming up.” He looked up. “Computer—Level Four.”
Wolverine’s eyes narrowed. “Geez, Worf—ya mean we’ve been loungin’ on Level Three the whole time?”
The Klingon shook his head. “No. On Level One.”
Then there was no time to talk. He was too busy defending himself against one enemy after the other.
* * *
As Erid sat with his back against the fortress wall, he felt a voice in his head. He had heard it before, of course, but never charged with such a sense of excitement.
“You’ll take out the man to the right of the prime guard.”
Erid looked at Paldul, who was sitting in the sun at the other side of the yard. Thanks to his telepathic abilities, he had become the link between Rahatan and the other transformed.
“I hear you,” Erid thought. He glanced at the guard in question, gauging the distance between them. “And I’ll be ready.”
“Good,” thought Paldul. “Wait for my signal.”
Erid waited. While he did this, he thought about his parents. The first thing he would do when he was free was get in touch with them and let them know he was alive.
And after that? He had no idea, really. As far as he knew, none of the others did either. The need to escape loomed so large in their minds, there didn’t seem to be room for anything else.
Maybe there was nothing they could do. Maybe this escape of theirs wouldn’t accomplish anything in the long run—and they would end up back inside these walls, or in another fortress somewhere else. But if their efforts only alerted the world to their plight, it would be worth the effort.
Abruptly, he felt the voice in his head again. “Ready,” it said. “On the count of three. One … two … three.”
Pointing his right hand at the guard assigned to him, Erid unleashed a beam of brilliant, white energy. It struck the man before he had any inkling he was threatened, causing him to drop his weapon and collapse on the battlement.
Erid was pleased with his accuracy. His nightly practices had improved his skill with his energy releases, but he had never consciously sent out a bolt so powerful—or over such a great distance.
Meanwhile, his assault hadn’t been the only one. Far from it. All over the yard, every one of the transformed with a projectable energy power had put it to use simultaneously, creating a bizarre, multicolored barrage.
Half a dozen guards were jolted off their feet—and those who weren’t had no better time of it. One was struck by an invisible assailant, who then grabbed his weapon and cracked him across the face with it. Another found himself firing at an adversary who was only an illusion—and hitting one of his comrades instead. A third tried to track a blur of speed and couldn’t, firing instead at the places where Corba had been.
It was chaos. But as Erid shot another stream of energy, spinning a guard around, he began to imagine their plan might work.
Then he felt the ground tremble, and by that sign he knew Rahatan would soon be joining the fray. Also, Leyden and Denara, who had been imprisoned in cells alongside him.
“Watch out!” he heard someone cry.
A fraction of a second later, Erid was smashed hard in the ribs and taken off his feet. At the same time, a stun blast splattered against the wall where he had been standing.
He looked up into the face of his savior—and saw the man with the luminous eyes. “Thank you,” Erid said.
“Don’t mention it,” the other transformed replied. Eyeing the guards warily, he got to his feet and began to move off. “Just keep doing what you were doing, all right?”
Erid nodded. “I will.”
Whatever the other man’s power was, it didn’t seem to be very useful in a fight. But to his credit, he was looking for other ways to help.
Turning to the battlements, Erid picked out another guard and extended his hand. Once again, a crackling stream of energy traversed the yard and found its target, slamming the man into the wall behind him.
Additional guards raced out onto the parapets, replacing those who had fallen. They fired down into the yard, stunning a transformed with four arms and another who had generated a net of electricity.
But they couldn’t stun everyone. Not when Corba was running around disrupting their aim. Not when one of the transformed had grown twelve feet tall and was throwing them off the battlements like dolls.
And the longer the guards were kept busy, the easier it was for Erid and the other energy-wielders to strike. One after another, they blasted their adversaries into unconsciousness. The guards’ ranks thinned moment by moment, until only a handful were left on either side of the yard.
Then a steely voice rang out: “This must stop!”
It was Osan. As Erid watched, the administrator came out onto the battlements, his hands notably empty of weapons. No doubt, he had seen how ineffective such things were against the transformed, and opted to take a different tack with them.
“We need to speak, not fight!” Osan cried out.
He signaled the guards to stop firing and held his hands out. It looked to Erid as if he were praying.
The transformed looked at each other—and desisted, as the administrator had asked. The yard grew quiet, though it was a decidedly uneasy quiet.
But Erid was skeptical. What did Osan think he was going to do? Marshal the forces of sweet reason against the misguided youths wreaking havoc in the prison yard?
As it turned out, that was exactly what the man thought. “This is insane,” he told the transformed. “We’re not your enemy. We’re here to help you—to protect you from the outside world.”
“We’ve heard that speech,” someone called out.
“If you want to help us, open the gates and let us out!”
“Or is it the outside world you want to protect from us?”
The administrator shook his head. “You’ve got to trust us. Whatever the problem is, we can work it out together.”
Suddenly, Erid heard his own voice raised as well. “You wouldn’t let me contact my parents!” he shouted.
Osan found him and looked at him. “Perhaps we can change that policy. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary in the first place.”
“Perhaps you’re lying through your teeth!” someone shouted, his voice echoing dramatically in the yard.
Erid turned and saw Rahatan standing there, Denara and Leyden directly behind him. The earth-mover pointed a finger at the administrator.
“You’ve kept us down and deceived us long enough!” he shouted. “Now it’s time for you to reap what you’ve sown!”
Rahatan gestured and the walls of the fortress began to tremble, as if caught in the throes of an earthquake. Osan tried to protest, but his words were drowned by the sound of stone grating against stone.
Some of the guards were shaken off their perches. Those who managed to stay on their feet tried futilely to take aim at the transformed.
But the transformed had no trouble taking aim at them.
Erid sent a burst of energy at a guard. Someone else blasted another one. Then the rest of Osan’s men leaped from the battlements, reluctant to get caught in the collapse of t
he wall.
The transformed in the yard were waiting for them. Leyden disarmed two of the guards and battered them with their own weapons. Denara enveloped one in her shield and cut his air off. And Seevyn sent more of them flying from imaginary pursuers, until they collided and knocked each other out.
Soon, there were no longer any guards on their feet. Of all the uniformed personnel in the fortress, only Osan was still conscious, still able to bear witness to the escape.
But the parapet beneath him was twisting and cracking. Large stones were coming loose and striking the ground with lethal force. Finally, with a sound of thunder, the wall wavered and caved in on itself—not in one place, but in several at the same time.
Osan fell, too. He dropped out of sight into the clouds of dust that billowed in the yard. For several long seconds, Erid choked and gasped for air. Then, as the clouds settled, he spied the administrator lying on a chunk of the ruined wall.
But was he alive? Erid hoped so. He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, just win his freedom.
Rahatan himself approached Osan, inspected the administrator’s face. Then he turned to the other transformed, all of whom seemed to have the same question in their eyes.
“He’s hurt, but alive,” he announced. “Not that he deserves to be, after what he did to us.”
Erid breathed a sigh of relief.
“But we’re not done yet,” Rahatan announced, his voice full of urgency. “Before the guards regain consciousness, we’ve got to bind them and place them in what’s left of the cells. And those of us who were stunned must be revived. Quickly, now …”
Erid didn’t hesitate. Though covered with dust and sweat, he started to help with the binding of one of the guards.
Then Denara came over to him. “Rahatan wants us to check on Mollic.”
Erid recalled the name. Paldul had mentioned it the other day. He’s insane, the telepath had noted. And dangerous, too. He can set things aflame just by looking at them, so they don’t dare let him out into the yard.
That was why Rahatan wanted Erid to accompany Denara—because Mollic was too dangerous for one of them. Getting up, he followed Denara in the direction of the cells.
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