Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
But the proconsul would have to give the order first. And the governor’s guards would make sure to prevent that.
“Well,” said Tharrus appraisingly, “it seems we have a difference of opinion here.” He looked at Eragian meaningfully. “If I were you, I’d drop my weapon and surrender myself. But then, you may prefer to die in a bath of disruptor energy instead. It’s up to you, Proconsul.”
Eragian’s mouth twisted. He hesitated, obviously reluctant to give up without a fight. But what choice did he have?
None, the governor decided.
CHAPTER 22
Spock had observed the confrontation between Governor Tharrus and Proconsul Eragian with acute interest. After all, the unificationists’ collective fate hung in the ever-so-precarious balance.
Clearly Eragian—like Tharrus—had divined the Vulcan’s presence here, or he wouldn’t have argued for custody of the prisoners with such intensity. But the proconsul was likely to show them no more mercy than the governor intended.
Either way, the rebels seemed destined for execution. And Spock himself would become a tool in the dismemberment of the homeworld unification movement.
Of course, the entire situation had been turned on its ear when both sides drew their disruptors. In the words of the humans he’d served with, all bets were off.
Not that the chances of a successful escape were any more promising than before—even considering the fact that most of their guards had been drawn to the center of the courtyard, or the confusion that seemed likely to follow. The Vulcan estimated the odds of their succeeding at ten percent, and even that was stretching it.
But they weren’t likely to get a better opportunity.
Reaching back, the Vulcan targeted the nearest guard and slugged him across the face—manacles and all. As the Romulan crumpled, his disruptor fell out of his hand. Spock picked it up two-handed and fired in the dirt at Eragian’s feet—his intent not to injure but to incite.
Reacting just as he’d hoped, the proconsul fired back in the direction from which the disruptor blast had come. The Vulcan was on the move, however, and the counterattack struck only the stone wall that ringed the courtyard.
Discharging his weapon on the run—this time, with an accuracy born of years of Starfleet practice—Spock hit the part of the gallows from which the nooses were suspended. With a sound like water striking a white hot coal, the structure sizzled away into nothingness.
As the executioners scrambled for cover, the rebels found themselves unhampered by either noose or guard. Instinctively they turned to the Vulcan.
“Down!” he cried, his voice strong and clear in its urgency.
They did as they were told. Dropping to their knees, they avoided a disruptor blast from elsewhere in the courtyard.
Because by then, the seed he had planted by firing at the proconsul had taken root. Seeing that Eragian’s bodyguards had opened fire, the governor’s men had done the same.
Now the two sides were exchanging disruptor blasts with bloodless intensity. And as long as the proconsul’s men held their own, the unificationists had at least a ghost of a chance.
Spock turned his weapon on his own manacles. They disintegrated down the middle, freeing his hands. That done, he reset his weapon to Stun.
Then he turned to the main body of rebels and held up the disruptor—in his hands, a symbol of hope and freedom. For a strange, detached moment, even in the blood-pounding haste with which he moved, he considered their faces.
He saw the unflinching trust in their eyes, and the incipient cheers that shaped their mouths, and the rise of color in their hollow cheeks—and he hoped he had not led them astray.
Most of all, Skrasis, whom he had the least reason to protect.
Or was it the most?
“To the gate!” he bellowed. “Follow me!”
The gate, of course, represented the way out. It was also where the citizens of Constanthus had gathered to watch the executions—no doubt, at the instigation of the local constabulary.
“Come on!” cried Skrasis.