Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [97]
“I knew your mother,” Beverly said, anger spreading through her limbs like an elixir, “and she was a lot tougher than you think. But then,” she added, somehow dragging herself to her feet, “so am I.”
Before Sela could appreciate what she had ignited, Beverly launched herself across the space between them. Landing a shot to her adversary’s jaw, she spun her around. Then she lashed out with her foot and swept Sela’s legs out from under her.
The Romulan tried to get up, but the snow proved too soft and slippery-and Beverly took advantage of it. Plowing Sela into the ground, she smashed her in the nose with the heel of her hand-eliciting a bright green spurt of blood.
Sela struck back, but Beverly hardly felt it. She was too busy delivering blow after blow, doing her best to pound the fight out of her enemy.
“You will not beat me!” Sela gurgled, trying to heave her tormentor off her.
“Actually,” Beverly spat through hard-clenched teeth, “I already have.” And she administered a right cross that snapped Sela’s head around, knocking her out as effectively as any sedative.
The doctor sat there on her adversary’s chest for a moment, spewing steam from her nose and mouth. Then, certain that Sela wouldn’t get up any time soon, Beverly rolled off her onto the blood-flecked snow.
Only to look up into the face of one of Sela’s centurions.
Then she realized it wasn’t just any centurion. It was the one who had tied her up in the government hall. He stood on the lip of the gully pointing his disruptor at her, his expression one of unconcealed delight.
“Doctor Crusher,” he said, a deadly edge to his voice. “Imagine meeting you here.”
Weary as she was, Beverly thrust herself to her feet. She wished she could say something that would keep the centurion from stunning her and making off with her, but she couldn’t.
I was so close, she thought. So very close.
“Pleasant dreams,” said her enemy.
Then someone loomed out of the storm behind him.
“Fire!” Donatra commanded.
The Valdore’s disruptor beams raked the flank of the warbird on her viewscreen, opening rents in her hull but failing to hit any critical targets. And before the commander could make another pass at her adversary, another one came after her.
Barking out an order, Donatra hung on to her seat and watched the scene on her screen slide to the right. Her helm officer was doing her best to get them out of harm’s way, but the commander doubted they would slip the barrage entirely.
As if in confirmation, the Valdore shuddered. But fortunately, it was no worse than that.
A moment later, Donatra’s viewscreen displayed her new adversary-right behind her, in excellent position to wreak havoc on the Valdore’s engines. But by the same token, the Valdore had a clear shot at her pursuer’s command center.
And Donatra had to make use of every opening she got. “Target and fire!” she snapped.
Her disruptors plowed into the enemy, inflicting heavy damage on her forward shields. Had Donatra been the pursuer instead of the pursued, she would have ignored the volley and blasted her adversary’s engines.
Instead, the warbird veered off.
Donatra swore under her breath. Every time she engaged the enemy, he evaded her. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to be a strategy, instituted by Tomalak.
He knows we need a quick victory, she thought, and he’s doing everything in his power to prevent it.
In his place, Donatra would have done the same thing. But that didn’t keep her from wanting to snap Tomalak’s neck.
“Commander?” said Oritas, her com officer.
Donatra wondered what Suran wanted. Perhaps to tell her the enemy was running from his ships as well.
But after a moment or two, Oritas still hadn’t said why he called to her. She turned to him, a question in her expression.
“It is Herran,” the com officer said at last, his expression as empty of emotion as his voice. “He has news of Admiral Braeg. Apparently, he has