Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [93]
Tomalak was about to congratulate himself on the effectiveness of his reaction. Then two of Donatra’s other squadrons darted through the positions his maneuver had abandoned-and went after his ships from behind, disruptors blazing.
Doing exactly what Tomalak had tried to prevent. And to address the problem, he had to release his stranglehold on the first squadron. He felt a rush of blood to his face.
It was a trap all along. Obviously, Donatra had taken the time to study his tactics. I will have to be a bit more creative if I am to keep my reputation intact.
A volley rocked his warbird, whipping him about in his seat. Tomalak calmly righted himself, tapped at his armrest again, and barked, “Skirmish clusters!”
After all, he had already been outflanked. His best chance was to collapse his formation into groups.
Of course, Donatra would be doing the same, and her commanders were by and large more skilled than his. But Tomalak enjoyed an advantage in that he didn’t care how long the battle lasted; all he cared about was keeping the opposition away from Romulus.
Donatra, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to waste any time. She had to carry the day and do it quickly, or Braeg’s revolt would die on the vine.
“Avoid unnecessary risks,” he advised over his com link. “Let the traitors fall prey to them.”
As if I have to tell them that. The last thing they want to do is miss the praetor’s next feast.
As Tomalak surveyed the battle, he saw that his commanders were following his orders. They were pursuing evasive maneuvers, forcing Donatra’s ships to come after them-and thereby expose themselves to fire from unexpected quarters.
That’s better, he thought.
Suddenly, an enemy warbird filled his viewscreen, her weapons batteries spitting emerald fury. A would-be hero, hoping to cut off the serpent’s head.
But Tomalak wasn’t inclined to cooperate. “Hard to port!” he snapped, and felt the shift in inertia as his helm officer complied.
The barrage bludgeoned his warbird and significantly weakened his shields, but it wasn’t the killing blow his adversary had hoped it would be. And now it was Tomalak’s turn.
“Helm,” he snarled, “bring us about! Tactical, let me know when you’ve got a lock!”
On his screen, the enemy was wheeling as well. But Tomalak boasted the best helm officer in the Empire, just as he boasted the best weapons officer and the best engineer-so his ship came out of her turn a heartbeat sooner than the other one.
“Lock, Commander!”
Tomalak leaned forward in his chair. “Fire!”
His disruptor beams stabbed their target like a pair of long, green fangs. The enemy tried to twist out of the way, but Tomalak stayed with her, a hunter refusing to be denied his prey.
Finally, her shields gone, her hull battered and blackened, the vessel went up in an immense ball of flame.
Tomalak watched the few remaining pieces of debris fly outward in an ever-expanding circle. Then the spectacle was behind him and his helm officer was awaiting new orders.
He leaned back in his chair and-because he was who he was-ignored the instructions he had given his subordinates just a few moments earlier.
Smiling to himself, he said, “Find me another one.”
Picard emerged from the catacombs at a different site from the one where he had descended into them.
Like the first spot, this was a jumbled, half-collapsed stone entryway lying unconcealed on the outskirts of the city. However, it was much closer to the place where the captain had arranged to rendezvous with Beverly.
A place where the planet’s magnetic fields were all but absent. A place from which-with the help of the miniature pattern enhancers they had brought-Picard and his comrades could beam back to the Annabel Lee and return to Federation space.
With not four of them on board, but five.
Picard couldn’t wait to see Beverly. It had been one thing to learn that she had survived her ordeal; witnessing the proof of it would be quite another.
Hanafaejas and a couple of his rebels had preceded Picard