A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
The lordly one’s eyes seemed to darken a shade. “What you do here,” he said, “is very important. But it is not up to you to decide when a warrior is healed.”
“The hell it isn’t,” she told him. “I’m-“
Suddenly, she found herself on the floor, one side of her face slowly awakening to the pain of the blow she had never seen coming. Her mouth was filling with the warm, metallic taste of blood.
The intruder was standing above her, looking down. Flexing the fingers of his right hand-the one he’d used to strike her.
Somewhere off in the enclosure, there were cries and the sounds of a scuffle. Pulaski propped herself up on one arm to get an idea of what was happening. What she saw wrenched at her stomach.
Toc’tu. He had gotten up from his cot-no doubt, to come to her aid. But a couple of his burly fellow patients were holding him back, keeping him from going after her assailant. And in his weakened state, he couldn’t shake them loose. Finally, exhausted, he slumped back against his cot.
“Now, then,” said the lordly one, walking past Pulaski as if she were part of the furniture. “Let us proceed without further delay.” He surveyed the ranks of the wounded, selected half a dozen more. Obediently, they rose and fell into line.
Nor did anyone else offer opposition. The meds were as docile as the patients.
But why? Pulaski asked herself. There are so many of us, and only one of him. Why does he inspire such fear?
She caught sight of the holster on the intruder’s hip, and the pommel that protruded from it. Instinct told her it was a weapon.
Was that the reason no one wanted to move against him?
She licked her lips, which were starting to swell up on the side where she’d been hit. The lordly one was standing with his back to her now; she could see the braid of dark hair that fell halfway to his belt.
If she moved fast enough, she told herself, she could get that weapon.
But if she didn’t…
The idea scared the hell out of her. It made her stomach tighten into a small, painful knot. And yet, someone had to do something. These wounded wouldn’t stand a chance under the rigors of combat. And she had worked too hard to save them to see them sacrificed now.
Slowly, she gathered herself, got to her feet. En route to the exit, some of the warriors she’d tried to protect filed past her-a couple of them limping, another cradling a wounded arm.
Pulaski waited until they were past, made sure the intruder was still looking in the other direction. Holding her breath, she focused on her target and lunged.
But the lordly one was too fast for her. Whirling with a flash of golden eyes, he grabbed her wrist before her fingers could close on the pommel. Then, twisting hard, he flung her onto an empty cot.
The pain in her wrist was excruciating-but after a moment, it began to subside. When he glared at her, she was able to return the expression in kind.
“You never give up,” he said. “Do you?”
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.
“Be thankful,” he told her, “that your hands are so skilled, and your skills are so necessary. Otherwise, I’d make sure you never had the use of them again.”
With that, he gestured, and the remainder of those he’d selected left the enclosure. He waited until the last one was gone, then-with one last look at the strange, defiant med-he followed the warriors through the opening.
After that, there was silence for a time. No one seemed to want to move, not even to breathe. Was that shame that hung so thick in the air?
Finally, one of the other meds came over to her. It was a female, the one with the plume of pale yellow feathers on her otherwise bald skull.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s see to that wrist.”
A little grudgingly, Pulaski allowed her to tend to it.
Will Riker sat bolt upright in his bed, the darkness swimming all around him. It took him a moment to clear his head of sleep-and as sleep ebbed, the events of the last several days rushed in to fill the breach.
Vaguely, he