Myriad Universes 02_ Echoes and Refractions - Keith R. A. DeCandido [28]
Regula, David thought. Just say the word and the pain will stop. In his mind he could see the lab, the computer banks, the Genesis torpedo in its storage ark as they fled the onslaught of Khan; and he could hear the screams of those they left behind, who bought time for their escape with their own lives, the screams that continued to echo through his mind…
His own scream rang out in sympathy as another finger was brutally snapped. No longer could he distinguish the pain of one injury from another; the pain surrounded him-enveloped his entire being. He was submerged in its cold fluidity. He struggled against his restraints, frantically trying to kick his legs, as a drowning man attempts to claw his way through the oppressive medium without purchase or foothold, desperate for one last lungful of air…
Kruge resumed his exercises with renewed vigor, seeming to draw energy from the suffering of his prisoner. “It is time to end this now,” Kruge said stridently. His movements with the sword grew more frenzied. “Give me a name. Where can I find the secrets of Genesis?”
Visions flashed through David’s mind: Doctor Delwin March on a slab in the Enterprise sickbay, his throat slit from ear to ear…the pale visage of Doctor Vance Madison, who had exsanguinated while strung upside-down in the slaughterhouse of Khan’s creation…the shrill screams of Zinaida as Khan repeatedly slashed her flesh into ribbons, demanding to know the escape route of David and his mother…
The weapon spun around furiously in Kruge’s nimble hands. “Tell me what I want to know!”
So many lives lost…lives that must not have been given in vain…
The sword now rose up high above Kruge’s head, still spinning with uncontrolled hysteria. “Give…me…Genesis!!!” he shouted.
David achieved a moment of calm confidence, and met Kruge’s eyes, burning his gaze deep into the Klingon’s pupils. “You can all rot in hell,” he hissed.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!” Kruge screamed, his banshee wail slowly building until with a blur of motion the sword descended onto David’s exposed wrist, instantly slicing through flesh and bone and impacting the hard steel of the underlying armrest with a cold, metallic thunk.
His eyes wide as saucers, his mouth gaping in a silent scream, David watched as his left hand rolled away and fell to the ground with a pitiful thud, leaving behind a severed stump spraying forth his blood in steady, rapid pulses. The pain was gone as he quickly succumbed to shock. The periphery of his vision began to shrink into darkness.
“Maltz, take him to sickbay,” the voice of Kruge commanded. “Cauterize his wound. Then leave him in the brig while you prepare your mind scanner.”
The sound of the words and the lights of the room faded into oblivion as David sank into unconsciousness.
“Ah, here we go!” Kirk finally reached into one of his kitchen cabinets, having already opened three of them in quick succession while trying to remember where he’d stashed the recent gift. “I really need to get myself a wine rack.”
Carrying a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, he returned to the sitting room of his San Francisco apartment, where Thelin was seated comfortably and watching him with interest.
“Romulan ale?” Thelin said, his eyebrows raised. “Jim, you know this stuff is illegal?”
“Transporting it is illegal,” Kirk clarified. “You’ll have to speak to the good Doctor McCoy about that. But as long as it’s here…Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Thelin responded in kind, holding up the glass of bluish liquid in keeping with the human tradition before taking a sip, and feeling the caustic liquid assail his palate, some of it wasting no time and being absorbed directly through the soft tissue of his mouth into his bloodstream. Romulan ale was one of those rare spirits that seemed to