Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [79]
Now, with her superior officer awake, she saw that the way had created itself.
“Sir, may I help?”
“Yes. You can accompany Wesley when he tries his device.”
“Aye, sir.”
Shikibu got up from her bed and retied her ponytail.
Dr. Crusher, who had been treating a radiation case in another suite, returned to the room.
Before she could object to the autonomous departure of two of her patients, Worf spoke.
“There is no time for any more of your babying, Doctor. The ship is in critical danger. Both Shikibu and I are ready for duty, and our help is needed.”
“Worf, I don’t see how you expect to function. I happen to know you both have headaches that could melt an iron asteroid.”
“Yes,” said Worf. “It feels quite refreshing. Wouldn’t you say so, Ensign?”
“Like a cup of strong coffee, sir. Let’s go.”
Worf and Shikibu left before the doctor could speak again.
She had wanted to wish them luck.
Worf stayed in communication with the bridge and got to the corridors outside Warp Engineering just before the one-eyes.
“They could appear at any moment,” Wentz had said, though she couldn’t pinpoint the spot where they would ingress into the corridors, or even if they would use the corridors at all.
Worf paced quickly, choosing a route through the corridors that would regularly circle him past Engineering. A smoking rage fulminated inside of him, a hatred for the devices infiltrating the ship, and for the people who invented them and set them in motion.
He felt the muscles in his thick neck tighten like steel cables. He growled softly, as the feeling of tautness and readiness spread through his body, a sublime combination of absolute control and feral abandon. To Worf, honest, unsublimated rage was an intoxicant bordering on ambrosia.
But now there was something different about it—his secret quest for glory called with a voice separate and distinct for destruction of the one-eyes. It spoke to him of a future triumph that would spread his name throughout the Federation and the Klingon Empire and keep it alive when he himself and his children’s children were dust, and maybe long after.
Primed and ready, Worf found himself breaking into a run as he mentally rehearsed his various attack strategies. He kept his internal dialogue confined to his native Klingon tongue, reasoning that the one-eyes wouldn’t be able to decipher it if they picked up his brain waves.
At a certain point Worf realized something was amiss. He hadn’t heard from Wentz for at least a minute. If the one-eyes had not entered the corridor but instead taken a different route into Engineering, Wentz would have told him. And if they had entered the corridor as expected, he would have found them by now. Unless they were …
… following behind him.
He slowed to a walk. He kept his thoughts confined to the most uniquely Klingon elements of his heritage—the bleeding hands of love’s touch, the trial-by-pain of his Rite of Ascension …
Presently he heard the hum of the infernal one-eyes behind him, closing slowly with him as he maintained a steady walk. The sound stabilized and he sensed they’d picked what they regarded as a safe distance from which to observe him. They weren’t going to let him lay hands on them again, or so they thought.
Worf had already planned what he would do at this moment.
He opened his mouth and let out a magnificent yell, a shout from the secret catacombs of his soul. It was the traditional Klingon death-howl, a signal to the inhabitants of the afterworld: beware, a Klingon warrior is coming.
And even as Worf yelled, confusing the one-eyes with this incomprehensible behavior, he brought himself to an abrupt halt, and with predatory agility reversed his momentum, turned, and caught his pursuers off-guard.
The two devices had just begun to slow down as Worf reached up with both