Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [111]
The door rattled as if someone had kicked it, but did not open at first. Then, it did. It blew open as if knocked by a hard wind.
A thousand times Zevon had seen this instant in his mind, played out in a dozen ways, and it still surprised him. “Eric? he gasped.
The years crumbled and dissolved as they stared at each other, comparing what they used to look like with what they looked like now. Zevon knew he must look different. His hair was longer, thonged with the tiny leather strips many Pojjana wore… but as a Romulan, eleven years meant less to him than it had to Eric Stiles.
Zevon’s long-ago friend looked like neither a rosy-cheeked boy nor a dying waif, the only two personae Zevon had ever seen. He was a healthy man now, more slender, less clumsy, his blond hair a shade darker, his face clean-shaven. He still wore a Starfleet uniform, but of a new design. There were unborn weed pods stuck to the side of his trouserleg, and drying muck on his boots.
Scarcely able to breathe, Zevon clasped the arm of his chair with one hand and the side of his desk with the other.
Eric’s chest heaved from running, from climbing the stairs, and whatever other trials had brought him here. Behind their communion of astonished gawking, the alarms rang and rang in the main complex. “So I’m a little late,” he flipped. “So what?”
Zevon pushed himself around a little more to face him, but still could not find the power to stand up.
Seeing that, Eric simply stepped to him, took his arm, and drew him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Zevon came to his feet and gripped Eric’s arms in a waltz of amazement and disbelief. “You look-you look-“
“Yeah, got a shave too.” Between his fingers Eric spun a piece of the fringe on Zevon’s decorated vest. “You look like one of those goofy dancers at the Spring Cotillion when they used to make us work the kitchen. I know you gotta get along here, but do you gotta wear their clothes?” “I like these clothes.” “Great. Bring ‘em along. We’re leaving.”
Not really surprised, Zevon did find himself startled by the abruptness of the demand. How could he possibly begin to explain? “No, I can’t go.” “Yes, you can. Come on.”
“No-I must not leave the planet.” He drew back with some force as he realized the serious intentions of what seemed ridiculous. “Eric, I have plans-get your hands off me, Eric!”
“I haven’t got time to argue.” Eric let go of him, as requested, but instead raised his other hand and aimed a small black device directly at Zevon. Zevon threw both hands up. “No, no!”
In the same instant a pop of yellow light blinded him. He felt his head snap back and his body convulse. His senses spun wild. His knees buckled, but he never felt the floor strike him. A jostling sensation-his eyes were still open enough to see the ceiling reel, the light flop about, and deliberate movement at his side. His own moan of protest boomed in his head. Voluntary movement sank away.
Through the thickness of semiconsciousness Zevon heard the voice that had come to him so many times in the broken hours of early morning.
“Plenty of seats down in front. Welcome to the opening night of ‘Prepare for the Worst,’ starring the always effervescent Eric John Stiles. Reset your phasers and enjoy the show”
“Zevon… Zevon. Wake up. It’s only light stun. Come out of it. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.”
Some kind of bird cawed in the high tangled roots overhead. The surroundings were ridiculous, an oasis of picnic quality, trying to tell them nothing was wrong and they could just sit here and maybe take a nap.
In the distance, though, more than two miles away, the alarms of the prison still hooted through the open sky. They’d seen airborne patrols sprint from the city toward the mountains, and at least two spotter planes veer toward the valley. None yet angled toward the swamp. Most escapees had more sense than to come in this direction, at least