Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [67]
Suddenly, he heard Guinan hiss at him over the greater hiss of escaping plasma. Looking back, the captain saw her pump her thumb over her shoulder, a look of anxiety on her face.
Her message was clear. Steej’s security people had discovered that she was missing, or were about to.
Picard hadn’t heard any sounds to support that observation—not yet, at least. However, Guinan had already proven that her powers of perception were superior to his own. If she believed her captors were on to them, he certainly wasn’t going to debate the matter with her.
Stopping and turning, he took aim at another conduit—this time, one that was almost directly in line with Guinan’s escape hole. Then he sent a spear of disruptor energy into it, creating a second sibilant plasma cloud as big as the first.
Of course, Steej’s security officers might still be tempted to fire blindly through the roil of gases—and since Guinan had no weapon, Picard was the only one who could fire back at them. With that in mind, he stood his ground for the moment and let his companion crawl on.
You know, he complained to himself, it is even colder in this place when one stops moving.
That was when he heard the shouts and curses of Steej’s officers—just as Guinan had warned. But he didn’t see any resulting energy beams.
Maybe Steej’s men were afraid that they would ignite the plasma, or else accidentally poke a hole in the vessel’s hull. No matter the reason, Picard was glad of it.
Making haste again, he caught up with Guinan. “Not too much farther now,” he told her.
“Good,” she said. “If I had known it was going to be this cold, I might have stayed in my cell.”
A joke, Picard thought.
It was strange that Guinan should choose this place and time to make one, when she had been so somber since the moment he met her. Perhaps it was just a release of anxiety.
Yes, he told himself. That’s it. What other explanation can there be?
After a moment, Guinan spoke up again. “I think I see something up ahead.”
“Something that looks like a handle?” the captain asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
The exit, he thought.
“That is where we get off,” he told Guinan.
“Not a moment too soon,” she returned.
A few moments later, they reached it—a round hatch in the floor of the tube with an L-shaped metal handle. A few turns and they would be out.
Picard put his disruptor down and tried to do the honors. But he couldn’t get a grip on the thing. His hands were too frozen, too clawlike.
He looked up at Guinan, his tongue thick and unresponsive. “C-can you…?”
“Clockwise or counter?” she asked, trails of white steam streaming from her mouth.
“Cl-clockwise,” the captain told her.
Without another word, Guinan put her hands on the handle and bent to the task. And though she must have been devilishly cold as well, she managed to turn the handle—once, twice, and then a third time.
“Now pull it toward you,” he told her.
With the creak of an undoubtedly long-neglected hinge, the hatch came open. Picard could feel the welcome rush of warm air in his face.
“A-after you,” he said.
He watched her lower herself through the opening to the deck below—apparently without anyone’s notice. Scooping up his disruptor in his hands, he tossed it down to her. Then he lowered himself through the hatch as well.
The captain found himself in an irregularly shaped, unused, and unoccupied section of the Chezzulid vessel—one that Steej must have known about but ignored.
And for the first time since Guinan had crawled out of her detention cell, he was able to look at her, face to flushed, sweaty face.
Guinan couldn’t believe it.
Picard had come back for her. And despite the apparent impossibility of the task, he had plucked her from right under Steej’s nose.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” Guinan told him, though she thought her heart was going to pound its way out of her chest.
“I’m glad to hear it,” the captain said.
“But I must admit,” she said,