Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [46]
For at the same time, the soldiers on the walls went about their grisly work. The hum of disruptor fire grew loud, like a swarm of angry insects. Dark blue chaos walked on long legs across the courtyard.
Belan had been the first to arm himself. He was also the first to fall—with a disruptor blast in the center of his back.
Another of the prisoners was cut down, and another. Their comrades returned the guards’ fire—or tried to. But not a single one of their weapons worked.
What’s more, Spock knew why. They had been deactivated by the guards in anticipation of the attack.
Within seconds, only four of the twelve armed unificationists remained standing. Three of those were brought down at once by another disruptor barrage. Santek was the last to fall, shaking his weapon above his head in a final act of defiance.
In the wake of the slaughter, there was a moment of complete and tangible silence. Though it lasted only a fraction of a second, it seemed much longer. The Vulcan didn’t wonder at the discrepancy.
Then as quickly as they appeared, the soldiers withdrew from their positions. Surveying the scene, the Vulcan noted that besides the twelve armed prisoners, an additional two had been struck down.
Spock was the first to move, walking purposefully toward the carnage. He knew that having dispatched the threat, the soldiers would not retrieve the bodies or the useless weapons. Not right away, anyway. Instead, they would be left as reminders to the rebels who remained.
Even as the Vulcan approached his fallen students, he could see that none of them was stirring. None of them had survived. Apparently, the soldiers were as deadly as they were precise.
Still there was work to do.
Standing over Belan’s body, Spock raised his hand and offered the Vulcan salute. A moment later, he could sense that the surviving unificationists had assembled behind him.
Spock did not have to turn around to know that they had joined him in his tribute to their fallen comrades. There would be no more lessons today. For now, they would only grieve.
Even as his mind laid out the elements of the mourning ritual, the Vulcan knew there was a larger lesson in the bodies of those before him. He only hoped he had the wisdom to uncover it.
CHAPTER 11
Planetary Governor Tharrus watched the data screen with unblinking eyes.
“How many dead?” he asked.
“Fourteen,” came Phabaris’s clipped reply.
“Any casualties among our soldiers?” the governor asked.
The security officer shook his head. “Only very minor injuries. Nothing requiring treatment,” he reported.
Tharrus grunted. His soldiers had performed well. All of the prisoners armed with the deactivated weapons had been killed, with only two incidental deaths.
And the survivors had learned a much-needed lesson. Of course, had all of them participated, or had they enjoyed even a remote chance of success, the governor never would have allowed the attempt.
On reflection, it surprised him that the pathetic philosophers had gone through with their plan. It showed they still had some teeth—that there was some Romulan left in them despite everything.
In any case, there were more than thirty of the unificationists left. It was an acceptable number for the upcoming trial.
Tharrus took a moment to congratulate himself on keeping his operative in place through it all. The Tal Shiar would no doubt have recalled the agent as soon as the initial arrest was made.
But then, the Tal Shiar did not understand the value of information as the governor did. That was why he had been able to infiltrate the unificationists, whereas the homeworld organization had failed.
Fascinated, Tharrus took a closer look at the data screen. In the closing seconds of the incident, its recorder had swept over all of the surviving prisoners—including the cowardly bunch of unificationists who had chosen not to make the attempt.
For a moment, the recorder had lingered on them. They were watching the scene with the same maddening, impassive