Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [43]
Stiles tried to brace himself, but he might as well be skinned alive as drum up a vestige of physical superiority-hell, he could barely keep standing. Orsova reeled back a thick arm like a cannon, poised to turn Stiles into mashed oats.
Refusing to close his eyes, Stiles winced and prepared for pain and flash. “Stop!”
Though he attempted to turn toward the sound, Stiles found his head reeling and comprehended that somehow Orsova had gotten a lick in there someplace. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut briefly, and fought to focus.
When he could see again, he frowned at a clutch of odd-looking aliens he didn’t recognize, yellow in the face with some kind of green growth on their heads that might be their idea of hair. Their cheeks were smooth as babies’ butts, they had no recognizable nose, and two eyes pretty far apart. Their clothing was a mishmash, obviously not uniform in any way, so this wasn’t anybody’s military unit, just a ship’s crew from some ungodly where. Sure wasn’t Starfleet. Why were yellow aliens coming for him?
From the middle of the clutch came the sharp voice again. “Stop that. Get away from that man.”
Abruptly-and that was the shock-Orsova flinched back, and so did the other guard.
And so did about a dozen other Pojjana soldiers who were standing within flinching distance. What?
Stiles found himself struggling to stand up all alone, without even the assistance of his daily tormenter to help.
An old man strode bonily up to him, right up until there wasn’t even a foot between them. Human. Old, darn old. Over a hundred, maybe, with a full head of frost-white hair, a simple flight suit framing his narrow body. The old man flicked a medical scanner between them. Piercing blue eyes watched the instrument’s indicator lights. “You Eric Stiles?” “Who wants to know?”
“I’m your new granddad, son. Grew a beard, huh? I had one of those once. Itched.” The ancient man turned to the yellow aliens who flanked him and said, “Get him aboard, boys.”
Stiles backed up a clumsy step as two of the yellow aliens stepped toward him. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? You’re not Starfleet. There’s nobody like them in the Federation-what do you want?”
From behind, Orsova and two other Pojjana guards shoved him forward again roughly, but the narrow old man snapped his fingers and his blue eyes flashed with confidence and barked, “Hands off him!”
So abruptly that Stiles almost collapsed between them, the guards-even Orsova-relaxed their threat.
The old man approached and leered at Orsova. “Don’t get any ideas, hutch. I’m old, but I’m ornery”
Amazing! The burly Pojjana all backed away again, so fast that the suction almost dragged Stiles off his feet. “What the hell-” Stiles glanced at them, then glared at the frail white-haired codger. “Who are you that you can make them flinch like quail?”
The old man was completely unimpressed by the lines of Poijana soldiers, and indeed they shied away from him. “Let’s just say that once upon a time I removed a thorn from the lion’s paw. Now the lion thinks I’m powerful. Of course, he’s right.”
Weird-somehow this old man’s voice… it sounded familiar. The way he snapped at those men- “What’s all that mean?” he asked. “What thom?”
But the codger, without taking his eyes off Stiles, waved at the yellow guys, who moved forward again. “Don’t look back, son,” he said. “It doesn’t pay.”
As the yellow aliens pressed toward him, Stiles stumbled back. “You keep your alien paws off me!” He slapped at them as they attempted to get a grip on him. “I don’t want to go without Zevon! Orsova, I’ll get you for this someday! All of you get away from me!” “Hypo.”
“I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go… I don’t… want …. “
Familiar voices. How secure they sounded, how wondrous! The anchorage of life, those voices. All the hours upon hours, watching historic mission tapes, memorizing the fiery defiance of Captain James Kirk during the M5 experiments, the Nomad occurrence, the incident at Memory Alpha,