Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [120]
Grabbing Greyhorse’s wrist and swinging around at the waist, he fought off a black wave of vertigo and wrapped his legs around the man’s ankle. Then he twisted his hips as hard as he could.
Caught unawares, the doctor reeled wildly. When Picard twisted a second time, he toppled altogether.
With an effort, the captain rolled away, already anticipating retaliation. But the big man was much faster than he seemed. Before he could scramble to his feet, Greyhorse whirled and kicked him in the ribs.
The pain was excruciating. Somehow, Picard weathered it and kept his legs underneath him. But it only made him an easier target. Putting all his weight behind the blow, Greyhorse leapt and kicked again. It was like being hit with a phaser set on heavy stun.
The captain skidded backward across the deck, the breath knocked out of him. As he wheezed and struggled to fill his lungs, Greyhorse advanced on him purposefully. A second time, Picard rolled in the opposite direction—it was all he could manage. Lights exploded behind his eyes; his pulse thundered in his temples. But he hung on to consciousness, greedily gulping each painful breath.
“You’re as much a fighter as you ever were,” the doctor said. He sounded as if he were speaking to him from a great distance. “But it won’t help. Your crimes have finally caught up with you.”
And with uncanny ease he lifted Picard’s limp form and flung him across the room. The captain felt himself hit the deck, tumble, and finally come up hard against the base of the console. When it was all over, the taste of blood was strong in his mouth. He spat it out, lifted his head.
The transporter platform was being activated again. Dimly, through the layers of wool in his brain, he realized what Greyhorse might have been up to—and curling his fingers over the lip of the control console, digging his heels into the carpet, he slowly dragged himself to his feet.
Too slow, he told himself. Too slow. With each passing second, Greyhorse was destroying another life.
But as Picard inched up high enough to see his adversary, he knew that he hadn’t been too late after all. Something had gone wrong for Greyhorse.
He could see it in the man’s eyes—trained on him now instead of on the controls. They were fierce and dark, full of unbridled fury. His lower lip trembled savagely.
“Damn you!” Greyhorse rasped. He pounded on the transporter console with his huge right fist; it shuddered beneath the blow. “They’re on to me! They’ve taken off their communicators.”
A wave of relief swept over the captain. Someone had seen Greyhorse’s strategy in time.
The big man reached over the console and took hold of the front of Picard’s tunic. “You. You delayed me, or I would’ve killed them all by now—scrambled them in transit.” His lip curled. “I wanted you to watch, Captain. I wanted you to see your friends die—that was the worst thing I could’ve hoped to do to you.” His face was just inches from Picard’s. It was a shaman’s mask of pure, writhing hatred. “I never should have cut it so close. I should have scrambled you too, and been done with it. I just didn’t think you’d fight so hard.”
Trembling with rage, Greyhorse let go of the captain with one hand and started resetting the transporter controls. Picard grasped the man’s wrist with both hands, but he couldn’t seem to break that monstrous grip.
“Maybe I can’t scramble them,” the doctor muttered. He looked up, his eyes suddenly alight. “But I can still scramble you.” He turned his attention back to the board. “And don’t expect anyone to stop me from outside; I made sure they couldn’t interfere once I got started.”
Picard believed it. He knew what kind of technical expertise Greyhorse had demonstrated in his other attempts at violence.
“Carter,” he gasped, still fighting to get air into his lungs. He needed time—to get his strength back. To make the room stop spinning. “Carter—why?”
The big man