Pathways - Jeri Taylor [142]
He held the throbbing weapon at his side, walking with calculated nonchalance in the direction of the first target. Neelix was no longer Neelix; he was Xebot, master spy, behind enemy lines in the heart of Krebe territory. So far he had not been detected. But he had learned that several of the Krebe were suspicious of him and were planning to execute him. He must act first.
When he was about seven meters away, he suddenly lifted the weapon, whirled in the direction of the Krebe, and fired.
The cutout shimmered briefly as it absorbed the energy charge, then burst into plasma flame. Within seconds it was consumed. Neelix continued his slow, calculated ambling, tacking indirectly toward the second cutout. As he seemed to pass by it, he turned suddenly and fired at the third one, some twenty meters away, because that one had spotted him and was ready to fire.
But Neelix was quicker. The Krebe took the impact right in his chest and, like his recently departed colleague, burst into plasma flame.
Now Neelix spun back to the second attacker, who was rushing toward him, weapon drawn, and fired for the third time.
The weapon exploded in his hand.
Neelix screamed. The remnants of the weapon went flying and scattered on the ground, sizzling in their death throes. His hand was raw and pulpy, burning with a pain unlike any he’d ever imagined. He stared at it, panic overwhelming him. Was he going to die? He had to get to a doctor. How could he get home through the woods in this much pain? His hand would have to be amputated.
Nausea began to rise in him, and he grew light-headed. He was vaguely aware of the two destroyed cutouts, and of the third, which still stood, triumphant, mocking him. If they’d been real he’d be dead by now. He suddenly felt cold, racked with chills, and the world of his imagination, which had been his fantasy playground for so long, now seemed a hostile and uninviting landscape. He turned in a circle in the clearing, trying to clear his head, trying to wish away the pain, and longing for his mother’s warm embrace.
He had to sit down for a few minutes. He was, after all, just a small boy, and he didn’t know how to handle problems like this. What was he to do? He began shaking violently, watching as his hand began to turn from red to purple.
How long he sat, he didn’t know. He had fixated on his hand, and now it was all he could see. His vision, he realized, had darkened at the edges. If he stayed very still, maybe the darkness would simply close in farther and farther into the center, until the sight of his grotesquely burned hand was eliminated.
He could die here. Never again would he sit in the loving embrace of his family, never join his sisters at the table while Papa patiently lectured them about the events of the day, never wake to the smell of freshly baked trove bars. He would die alone and uncomforted. How long would it be before they found his body? Alixia would know to look here, so maybe they’d find him before the insects had invaded his body and rendered it a disgusting, spongy mass, like the dead animals he saw from time to time in the woods.
How could this be happening? It wasn’t fair—he was only twelve years old. There was so much he’d planned to do, there were so many things to learn, so many adventures to have. How could he die now? Where was Alixia?
He looked up and his eye fell on the one remaining cutout Krebe. The terrifying face he’d drawn glowered at him, eyes boring into him, teeth bared in a vicious sneer. It seemed to mock him, celebrating its triumph and the vanquishing of its enemy.
The fearful visage galvanized him. I have to get out of here, he thought. Home.
He managed to get to his feet without touching his injured hand to the ground. The clearing swam viciously, and for a moment he thought