Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [2]
“I’m ready, sir!” Jensen piped. “
“Picard nodded. “Very good, gentlemen. Still no response from the crew?”
“No response, sir,” the transporter officer answered. “But there are some scrambled emissions coming from over there, and Mr. Data thinks it might be an on-board mechanical malfunction. They might be trying to answer. They may be trying to shut down their engines, too.”
“Understood.” He turned to Toledano as he accepted a standard issue handphaser from Worf. “Let’s take care not to startle them. Mr. Warren, energize as soon as we’re in position.”
He motioned the boarding party to the raised transporter platform, where each took a place on one of the clear disks as the transporter officer replied, “Aye, sir.”
“Energizing, sir,” Warren informed, and the familiar faint buzzing began.
In an unnoticeable minute, Picard’s surroundings had changed to the chalky walls of the transport’s docking bay. That moment of mental fog when the surroundings changed was shunted quickly aside. This place smelled like a slaughterhouse.
This place was also crushingly silent. Not even the throb of engines anymore. Data must have succeeded in shutting them down by remote.
But that smell—
“All hands, stand by … security alert.” The sound of his own voice startled him.
Jensen moved into the captain’s periphery. “Sir, permission to confirm engine shutdown?”
“Negative. Stand by.”
“Ah … aye, sir.”
Picard stepped across the small loading bay toward the passenger entrance, which was recessed downward about three inches and carpeted. A few paces beyond the step was the door to the seating coach. Worf stepped behind him, without requesting permission. Evidently he wasn’t going to allow Picard to open that door without guard cover, and Picard did him the courtesy of not pointing out his defying the stand by order.
Together they descended the single step onto the carpet. Picard looked down, suddenly feeling as if he’d stepped into a soaked sponge and gone down to the ankle.
Behind him, someone gasped.
His foot and Worf’s were down into the nap of the carpet, which was indeed soaked through. A ring of glossy liquid cuffed his boot and Worf’s. Only now did he realize that the burgundy color had nothing to do with the carpet itself. He had no idea what color it once had been.
Now it was the color of blood.
“Oh … God …” Commissioner Toledano’s voice quavered with subdued violence. He drew a breath, but couldn’t choke out another word.
His jagged face severe, Worf stepped past Picard to the door. He put his hand on the controls, then turned and motioned his four guards forward onto the gore-soaked carpet. He glanced at Picard. “Captain, if you would please step aside.”
Though he summoned his voice, Picard also found it in the same state as Toledano’s, and cut it back before some choked squawk came out. He nodded and stepped to one side, instantly nauseated by the pull of sticky suction on his boot.
How many life-forms had someone said were here?
Thirty?
He had started adding that up in gallons when the door sloshed open.
Worf went in first. Another security man flanked him, and together they aimed their phasers sharply in two directions. Then the three other guards splashed in, crouched, and took over the aim.
Leading the way into the coach, Worf’s stiff posture wavered in a way that could only be described as shock. The other guards each reacted subtly, but they reacted. A shiver. A drooping phaser. A stumble down to one knee on the soaked carpet. Picard’s alarm doubled as he followed them inside.
The coach was engulfed in the syrupy odor of corruption, blood, slaughter. To his left was the forward part of the cabin, to his right the aft. The rows of seats were all occupied, but with corpses.
All human or humanoid, he noticed first off, one head, two arms, two legs—except that the first ten or so rows of seats