Marooned - Christie Golden [65]
And that stupid bug bite. It itched like crazy. He scratched it through the material of his uniform, but that just made it itch more.
"Tom, are you all right?" Paris glanced up and realized that everyone, even pudgy Bokk, was already standing up and prepared to depart. His face flamed, and he was glad of the approaching darkness that hid his embarrassment to at least some degree.
"I'm fine. Never better," he lied, his tone of voice artificially cheery. He rose and hoisted his pack, wondering if someone hadn't mischievously slipped a few dozen kilos' worth of stones in it when he wasn't looking, and forced a smile. "Let's hit the trail!"
It was easier when you didn't think about it, Paris discovered sometime well into the fourth or fifth hour of that night's hike. Just put one foot in front of the other. Don't worry about how heavy the pack is, or how damn hot you feel, or how your legs are shakier than the lie you come up with when one girl catches you with another.
Instead, as he had done when he and Harry were prisoners of the Akritirians, he thought of food. A thick steak would be good along about now, Tom thought, brightening at the image he conjured up. And corn on the cob, crunchy and sweet, with a melting pat of butter on it. A tall glass of beer with just the right height of frothy head to wash it all down with. Yes, that would be just the thing. I can almost see it... I can see itthe thick steak that led them came suddenly to a halt. "Quickly!" it cried, rapidly untying the rope that bound it to the other foodstuffs. "I can smell them. Get ready for a fight!"
Dazed and utterly confused, Paris stood on wobbling legs as the giant glass of beer in front of him and the corn on the cob behind him followed suit. The yellow corn turned toward him, speaking with B'Elanna's voice and waving green fronds in his face.
"Tom, what are you doing?"
He rubbed his eyes with filthy hands. The ear of corn suddenly transformed into Torres. She seized his arms and shook him roughly. He fumbled with the rope, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. With a snarl of exasperation, Torres thrust a crude club-a Sshoush-shin weapon-into his hands.
Tom was frightened by his strange hallucination. His heart slammed against his chest and he tossed off the cloak and pack. He fought off rising panic at his lack of ability to see very far in the darkness. Stumbling, Paris hoisted the primitive but effective weapon, and hoped desperately that if he had to swing it, he wouldn't bring it crunching down on the skulls of his companions.
A gibbering howl shattered his eardrums. Paris gasped, clapping his hands over his ears as the sound seemed to vibrate right through him.
Hrffl answered with his own bellow. Paris could just make out his shape, charging into the darkness. He stumbled forward, raising his club, determined to do something, anything, to help. He heard the whir of a phaser blast, and one of the shapes lurking in the darkness dropped like a stone.
The familiar sound lifted Paris's spirits, calmed his nerves. He could see them now, and recognized their attackers as the Xians. They were every bit as formidable a foe as Grrua had warned. Janeway, Tuvok, and Bokk were firing with their phasers, but it was so dark, and they were so hard to see Something seized Paris's arm, yanked him around. He had just enough time to register a horribly ugly face, foul breath, and a mouthful of sharp teeth that, somehow, he could see very clearly indeed despite the darkness, before a phaser blast caught the creature in the midsection. It fell, but didn't release its grip on Tom, and Paris tumbled down with him.
As he struggled to get free of the creature's unconscious grip-he assumed, at least, that the phasers had been set on stun-the battle continued to rage around him. He heard Torres bellow something in Klingon, heard the dreadful noise of clubs and spears hitting home. Above it all, there was an incoherent scream of pain and terror.
"Bokk," whispered Paris to himself. He got to his feet but almost