A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [79]
Worf’s adversary took a step toward him. Not a belligerent step; it seemed tentative, uncertain. “Where am I?” he asked, rain spilling down the sides of his face. “What am I doing here?” Another step-and now there was a flare of anger in those ruby red orbs. “Where is this place?”
These were questions that Worf himself had asked-but only in the beginning. As he listened, he heard them repeated over and over again, all along the battlements.
And not just there. Over the sizzle and spatter of the rain, Worf could hear cries of bafflement in the ranks of his comrades down below-the ones who had been scaling the ladders. The same sounds came from within the fortress walls. And from even farther away, among the squads of invaders that had been held back for a second rush.
Had the flash caused them all to lose their memories again? The idea made the Klingon shudder. After all, they remembered so little as it was. Losing even that would be unbearable.
Or had something else happened to them? Indeed, they did not look so much bereft as…
Before Worf could complete his thought, he caught sight of a sky rider swooping toward them-angling out of the maelstrom of churning, black sky. Instinctively, he crouched, prepared himself to accept the blast of agony.
But it never came. Instead, the marshal’s beam hit the one whom Worf had been fighting-the one who stood so innocent and weaponless on the battlements.
There were no screams, no convulsions. The warrior just collapsed-and lay there, a target for the rain.
Nor did the sky rider stop there. He strafed the parapets, blasting nearly everyone. By the time he bad nosed his sled up again, the only ones still standing were those like Worf. The ones who still wore their helms, who still grasped their weapons.
Everyone else lay still. As Worf watched, one limp form slipped from the wall and fell into the courtyard below.
The Klingon crept closer to his fallen adversary, touched the warrior’s neck just below his jutting jaw. There was no pulse.
Dead. And not honorably, in battle-but at the hands of that misbegotten dog on the sled!
It was happening all over. Everywhere the madness had made a warrior cast off his helm, a sky rider followed-bringing not torture but instantaneous death.
A sense of loss came over Worf, lodged in his throat. He felt shame-for those who had perished without glory. Remorse-for it seemed to him that he should have touched these lives as they fled, heralded their passing somehow. And savage, unendurable hatred-for those who could kill with such cowardice.
Something took hold of him. It was more than a scream. It was an outpouring of his soul, a release of his great and terrible pain into the bawling heavens. Somewhere off to his side, there was a slender quick-stitch of distant light, and the heavens roared back at him.
A second time, one of the sleds came his way. This time, it came too close. Without thinking, fired purely by instinct, Worf launched himself from the parapet.
And caught hold of the marshal’s leg.
Earth and sky reeled as the sled swung about, thrown off by the sudden and unexpected weight. The sky rider tried to shake off his newfound burden, to break Worf’s grip by pounding at his hands with the blaster’s pommel.
But Worf wasn’t letting go. In fact, spurred by the emotions that roiled inside him, he was climbing higher-improving his grip on marshal and machine.
“Go ahead,” he growled, glaring up into the pale, narrow countenance, beyond which the sky was a spinning chaos. He was almost close enough to strike it, to crush it. “Use your stinking weapon. Slay me as you slew them!”
But the marshal held back. Perhaps, at this range, he could not fire for fear of being caught in the backlash. Perhaps he had other reasons.
In any case, he did not bring his death beam to bear. And though his mouth gradually stretched in a rictus of mounting fear, though his eyes darted wildly, he gave up his pummeling as well.
Slowly, fighting