Strike Zone Part 25

And their thoughts touched, and Jaan recoiled with a shriek, so overwhelmingly fierce was the Kreel.

"No, I'll tell you," said Aneel, ignoring Jaan's mental pain. "I am the one chance you have-the one chance of not being tried and convicted by the Federation and spending what little time you have remaining left rotting in prison. The one chance of living more than the paltry few months your disease has given you. You need me, and if you don't realize that, I might as well put you out of your misery right now!"

There it was. One final test of Jaan's character. One chance to make up for what he had done by fearlessly facing down his captors.

"All right!" howled Jaan. "Just-just don't shoot!"

"Why shouldn't I shoot?" asked Tuttle.

"Because," Geordi said patiently, "I don't want you to damage this metal. Besides, there's no point. If it's anything as tough as the gun we have back up in the Enterprise, there's no way that your phaser's going to be able to cut through."

"So what do we do?"

"Well, I could always try the combination lock."

"The what?"

"This thing," said Geordi, indicating the keypad. "Probably touching it in a certain order will open the door."

"How do you know what the order is?"

"I don't," said Geordi cheerfully. "It'll take some experimentation, but I've got time." He turned, his hand hovering over the keypad. "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"

Chapter Eighteen.

FIVE MINUTES BEFORE Geordi's hand hovered over death, Wesley Crusher floated in and out of consciousness. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he couldn't. He had to keep going, had to accomplish what he set out to do.

And he was so close. So close. It was there, just beyond him, just out of reach. Formulas he didn't quite understand, theories that danced just past his ability to a.s.similate. If he could just gather in the threads, he would be fine.

Just rest. But there was no time.

Something roused him. He didn't know what it was. Sounded like rain? Thunder? A storm, inside the s.h.i.+p? Didn't seem likely. He half giggled to himself in his delirium. They'd been predicting sunny weather.

Then he remembered. He'd heard something. Captain's voice. Something about people staying in? Was it really raining? Stay in so you won't get wet?

Wesley picked up some notes that he had written to himself. When he'd scribbled them, at the time, they had made perfect sense. Now, though, someone had replaced them with garbage. He stared at the notes in confusion. Gibberish. Gibberish in his handwriting.

Who had done this? Who was trying to sabotage his work? And why was it so d.a.m.ned hard to think clearly?

He scratched his face and was astounded to find beard stubble. But that was ridiculous. He was only sixteen, and his facial hair came in very slowly. It took him the better part of a week to acquire five-o'clock shadow. He couldn't have gone without shaving that long. He'd only been working on the cure, what, two days? Three at the outside? How long?

"How long?" Wesley heard his own voice croak.

There was more running, more shouting.

An emergency. There was an emergency on the s.h.i.+p.

He stood, swaying in his cabin. What was he doing in there, hiding, if there was an emergency? He was needed, dammit. He was an acting ensign. And it was high time he started acting like one.

He staggered into the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and allowed the jet spray of water to hit him in the face. He turned away, water dripping from him, his hair and the front of his s.h.i.+rt now soaking wet.

"Got to help them," he said. "Got to get to the bridge. They need me."

He lurched out into his room and fell, slamming into a computer console. He yelled and made a grab for it as it fell to the floor with a crash, and he heard something inside it shatter. Oh, man, Pulaski was going to kill him. But that didn't matter.

He turned away. None of it mattered-just saving the s.h.i.+p. That was his job. That's why they paid him "the big money." He laughed merrily at an expression that had lasted even though it no longer had any meaning.

He stepped out of the door of his cabin, still chuckling to himself, and got run over.

The portable force-s.h.i.+eld generator had been created by none other than Wesley Crusher. At one time, it had been rather effectively used to keep the embattled Enterprise crew out of the engineering section during the occasion that the whole crew had run amok. Since then, it had been slightly modified and was now a favored tool of the security team in situations just like this one.

The security team of Meyers and Boyajian, a team with ancestors going all the way back to the Enterprise Model NCC 1701-A, had been chosen to man the access ladder that was the only available means of getting up to the bridge. The turbolifts had been shut down, as Picard had ordered. The access ladder was to be used only in emergencies, but was always open. No one had ever considered the possibility that anyone would want to cut off the bridge.

So Meyers and Boyajian had positioned themselves at the bottom of the ladder, crouched on the floor, the s.h.i.+eld created by the generator providing them with more than adequate cover. From where they were, they had a clear field of vision in either direction down the hallway. Any shots at them would bounce harmlessly off the force s.h.i.+eld. They, by the same token, could return fire with impunity; their field of vision was completely un.o.bstructed behind the translucent s.h.i.+eld.

At first, the halls had been filled with running, frantic people. Now, however, the action had died down and it seemed long minutes since they had last seen anyone.

And then a figure came around a corner.

Boyajian saw it first, swinging his phaser up and shouting, "Halt! Stay back!"

"Hold it," said Meyers. "It's the elf."

Sure enough, hands draped behind his back as if he were taking a leisurely Sunday stroll, Jaan walked down the corridor, whistling lightly.

"Didn't you hear the captain?!" shouted out Meyers. "Stay in your quarters!"

"We're at red alert, " seconded Boyajian.

Jaan stopped a few feet away and stared directly into their eyes. "Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" said Meyers slowly.

"Oh for the love of-I can't believe they didn't tell you! It's over! They rounded up everybody."

"They did?" said Boyajian. "I ... " (and why was it getting hard to concentrate) "I was hoping they would, but-"

"Well, of course," said Jaan, coming closer, smiling in his friendliest manner. "I'm surprised you hadn't been informed. Everything's back to normal."

Meyers sat back on his heels. "Wheeww"- he let out a whooosh of air-"That's certainly a relief."

"Glad we got that settled," said Jaan.

"You bet! Thanks. We'd have looked like idiots crouched behind here."

Meyers stood, stretching his legs as Boyajian reached down and snapped off the force-s.h.i.+eld generator.

The moment he did, Jaan hit the floor.

"Are you okay?" Meyers started to ask, and then both he and Boyajian were cut down as the high-pitched whine of phasers surrounded them. They fell, clawing at air as they were knocked cold.

Aneel came toward them, along with the other Kreel, and he was shaking the phaser in irritation. "I thought I had it set to kill finally," he said. "I thought this k.n.o.b was all you had to turn. You must have to do something with the power lever too. Oh well"- and he waved his phaser in the direction of the access ladder. "Let's go."

"I've done all you asked me to," said Jaan.

"So far. You can still continue to be valuable, elf, so you're coming along."

"No more!" said Jaan furiously. "I went with you this far, but-"

"It's always easy to say you'll go just this far and no further, isn't it?" Aneel sneered. "One more easy step on the road to h.e.l.l, and before you realize it you're knocking at the door. Now if you want that cure, get up there!"

Jaan stood there, bristling for a moment, but in short order his resolve failed, and he turned and started to climb up the ladder.

Tron made his way cautiously down the hallway, darting inside Jeffries tubes, looking for whatever cover he could find.

A phaser bolt shot past him just off his shoulder. He dropped, pulled a throwing star from inside his sash and hurled it without even looking. He heard a satisfyingly truncated scream and turned just in time to see a Kreel staggering back, the throwing star embedded in his forehead. Blood was pouring down and it was nothing short of miraculous that the Kreel was even alive, much less on his feet.

Tron slowly advanced on him, grinning, and he grabbed the dying Kreel, whose pig-like eyes had already lost their focus, and he snarled in his face, "You sleep in h.e.l.l tonight, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The Kreel slammed his head forward, the throwing star still jutting out.

Tron screeched as the throwing star ripped into his eye, and he hurled the Kreel back, grabbing at his ruined face, clutching at the now-destroyed right eye socket. Pain such as he had not imagined possible threatened to overwhelm him. The throwing star clattered to the floor, Klingon and Kreel blood comingled, and Tron clapped a hand over his lacerated eye socket and staggered forward.

He tripped over the corpse of the Kreel, who had predeceased him by mere seconds. But Klingons, he swore, did not die so easily. He plunged forward, scooping up the Kreel's phaser as he went, and stumbled into a turbolift.

"Sickbay," he groaned, for that was the only place he could think of to go. The d.a.m.ned Kreel! The d.a.m.ned Kobry! d.a.m.n them all to h.e.l.l!

As the turbolift shot toward its destination he ripped off a piece of his tunic and, trying not to think about what he was doing, stuffed it into where his eye had been to stop the bleeding. He was gasping for breath and his mind was trying to shut down because of the pain, but he wouldn't let it. He ... would ... not ... let it.

He was a Klingon, and while a single Kreel breathed, he would do whatever it took.

The turbolift halted and the doors slid open. Tron lurched to his feet and staggered out into the hallway.

No one around. And there, just ahead, was sickbay.

He ran up to the doors and slammed headlong into them.

They hadn't opened! The d.a.m.ned doors hadn't opened! Well they wouldn't keep him out! He swung the phaser up and fired point-blank, blasting a huge, smoking hole in the doors and eliciting a satisfying shout of alarm from within.

He stepped through, shouting, "Doctor! Where's the d.a.m.ned Doc-"

And then he froze in midword.

There, standing next to a med table, was Gava. Lying on the table was the Honorable Kobry.

Sitting up. Staring at him. Alive.

Alive.

"You ... it ... you can't be," stammered Tron. "I-"

"Poisoned me?" said Kobry, and he still sounded weak. But alive, impossibly alive. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"No," Tron said. "No, I ... I didn't ... "

"I realized afterward that you were standing nearby when I was foolish enough to put my drink down," said Kobry, clearly annoyed with himself. "And here I had been talking about turning one's back on an enemy."

"It's a trick!" yelled Tron.

"Someone should take care of that eye," said Kobry mildly.

"What I'll do is take care of you!" shouted Tron, and he brought his phaser up point-blank, aiming at the Klingon amba.s.sador who lay helpless a mere ten feet away.

Gava leaped over the bed, prepared to intercept the phaser blast with her own body.

And at that moment a twenty-pound Wa.s.serman Chamber came hurling through the air from med lab II, cras.h.i.+ng into Tron and knocking him back. He smacked into the wall and the world, which was already less than solid, began to spin around him.

Standing in the doorway, adrenaline pumping, Dr. Katherine Pulaski summoned all the fury and indignation she could muster. "Get the h.e.l.l out of my sickbay!" she bellowed, at the same time hitting her comm link. "Security! There's a lunatic in my sickbay! Get him!"

Grabbing at his bleeding eye, Tron lunged out into the corridor. He heard the sounds of running feet coming from one end of the corridor, so he headed down the other.

Blood was now starting to work its way into his other eye. He reached up, tried to wipe the blood away, and, for a moment, was completely blinded.

That happened to be the moment that Wesley Crusher stepped out of his quarters.

The Klingon crashed. into Wesley, and, if the Klingon had been at full strength and concentration, Wesley would have gone flying as if he were weightless. As it was the two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

"Get off me!" howled Tron as he shoved Wesley away.

And Wesley was now completely snapped out of his confusion and lethargy, except that he now found himself staring down the business-end of a phaser.

Tron had scrambled to his knees and he snarled, "I'm ready to kill something and you're it."

A booted foot kicked Tron in the chest.

He fell back on the floor, grunting as his head hit once again. Now he was completely blind and someone of great strength was hauling him to his feet.

"Still wish to know where my allegiance is?"

Tron recognized the voice immediately. "Worf! You've got to help me."

"Shut up," snapped Worf, and he drew back and slugged the Klingon once across the face. Mercifully, Tron fell into unconsciousness.