Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
“Remember,” he told his men, “fire only on my command. We don’t want to blow the warp core with a stray shot.”
“Acknowledged,” said Peavey.
“Aye, sir,” Marciulonis chimed in.
The doors to the engine room were open. Signaling for his officers to fan out on either side of him, Pelletier darted straight ahead, laser pistol at the ready.
When he got inside, he looked around quickly, hoping to find Agnarsson and take him down before the man realized he was there. But all the security chief saw were the surprised faces of McMillan and his engineers.
Agnarsson, it seemed, wasn’t there.
Carlos Tarasco paced behind his center seat, wondering if Pelletier and his people had caught up with Agnarsson yet.
He saw now that the security chief had been right. Agnarsson was too dangerous to remain in a medical bed. He had to be incarcerated, for the good of everyone on the ship.
And even that might not be enough, the captain reflected. If the man’s powers kept growing, if he became too big a threat, they might have to consider even stronger measures.
Is that how you treat a man who followed you out into space? someone asked, his voice echoing wildly in Tarasco’s head.
The captain whirled and saw a strapping, blond figure standing at the threshold of the open lift compartment. Somehow, its doors had slid open without Tarasco’s hearing them.
“Don’t look so surprised,” said Agnarsson, stepping out onto the bridge. “Pelletier’s security teams were looking for me everywhere else. This was the only place I could go.”
Knowing that the engineer could read his mind, Tarasco tried not to think about the weapons he had secured for himself and his bridge officers. He tried not to think of how those officers would be slipping the pistols from their belts to use them against the man who had been their comrade.
But he couldn’t help it.
Agnarsson must have caught the captain’s thought, because he whirled in Gardenhire’s direction. The navigator had already drawn his laser and was aiming it at Agnarsson.
With a sweep of his arm, the engineer sent the weapon flying out of Gardenhire’s grasp. But by then, Womack had drawn her laser as well—and while Agnarsson was disarming the navigator, Womack was pressing the trigger.
A bolt of blue laser energy speared the engineer in the shoulder, spinning him into the bulkhead beside the lift doors. Agnarsson lifted his hand to strike back at Womack, but a second beam caught him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
A beam from the barrel of Tarasco’s pistol.
Fighting to stay conscious, Agnarsson glared at the captain with his gleaming silver eyes. I won’t forget this, he thought, each word a reverberating torment in the confines of Tarasco’s head.
Then Womack fired a second time and Agnarsson slumped to the deck, looking woozy and deflated.
Tarasco stayed alert, just in case his adversary wasn’t as disabled as he looked. But before he could even think about squeezing off another shot, he saw something happen to the engineer’s eyes.
Miraculously, the silver glow in them faded. They became the blue of summer skies, the very human blue that Agnarsson had probably been born with.
For a fraction of a second, Tarasco wondered if they might have cured the engineer of his affliction—if all it had taken to drive the phenomenon’s energies out of him was a good laser barrage.
Then the light in Agnarsson’s eyes returned—and with it came a restoration of his incredible strength. He planted his hand against the bulkhead and tried to stagger to his feet, shrugging off the punishment his body had absorbed.
But Womack wouldn’t have any of it—and neither would Gardenhire. They fired their laser pistols at the same time, knocking Agnarsson senseless. And when he crumpled this time, Tarasco was ready.
“Take him to the brig,” he ordered.
Instantly, his officers moved to comply.
Four
Captain Tarasco was standing in the corridor outside the brig, watching Pelletier activate the force field that would keep the temporarily sedated Agnarsson