Possession - J.M. Dillard [20]
How eminently logical, Skel thought, admiring the smaller Ferengi’s rationale. Interestingly enough, Nabon seemed terrified of the objects, as if he already suspected the danger they presented.
Dervin considered his brother’s words, but only for a moment. Impulsively, he grabbed one of the containers with his free hand and brought it up to his face, staring at the alien script engraved across it—writing the Vulcans had yet to translate, except for a short phrase that told them little. Baffled by the alien language, Dervin shook the palm-size object, holding it near his ear. It took all his Vulcan control for Skel to hold his ground and not lurch forward to wrest the shelllike object out of the Ferengi’s abusive hands.
“Dervin!” Nabon protested. “What are you doing?”
“I hear nothing inside,” the DaiMon insisted. “This thing could be part of some bizarre Vulcan ritual, and hold nothing of value at all. We must see what is inside, Brother!”
“Stop this at once,” Skel insisted. “You will harm—”
“Harm what, Vulcan?” Dervin demanded. “This trinket?” While still holding the rifle in one hand, the angry Ferengi used his free hand to try to pry open the two halves of the artifact. “Damage this toy? This religious object?”
Skel contemplated tackling the Ferengi then, but the muzzle of the energy weapon was still aimed directly at Skel’s heart. If Dervin’s reactions were good and he managed to kill the Vulcan—then the receptacles would be left in the fumbling hands of these two ignorant thieves.
“Dervin, stop!” Nabon insisted. He reached out and grappled with his brother, frantically trying to wrest the artifact away. “There’s no point in damaging it! We must make him tell us how to operate it!”
Skel watched, waiting for an opportunity to join the melee without risking his own death, as the two Ferengi wrestled for the weapon and the artifact at the same time. Why doesn’t it open? Why doesn’t it release its deadly cargo?
Yet as the brothers struggled, Skel realized that their warring forms were limned by a faint unearthly light: beyond them, lying placidly on the console, the untouched artifact had begun to glow from its own internal light—a light that grew brighter and brighter as a seam of brilliant color gleamed from the slowly parting shells.
RUN! RUN, MY CHILD, RUN!
The voice was stronger than at any time in his life, but this time he could not obey. No, Mother, I cannot run. For I am in space, and there is nowhere to go.
As the small inconspicuous artifact slowly opened, Skel averted his eyes and seized his most desperate opportunity, lunging for the battling Ferengi and the weapon they held. As soon as his hands closed around the phaser, the high-pitched whine of its discharge sang through the small area. The blast scarred the ceiling, shattering a light fixture, charring tiles, then swung wildly and hit the control console, exploding it in a dangerous shower of sparks and metal debris.
The errant phaser beam streaked across the cramped quarters, searing a black diagonal across Skel’s cot, bisecting a chair whose two halves clattered to the deck. Alarms blared; the Ferengi shrieked, all against the pulsating glow from the opening Pandora’s box. Yet no warning sounded louder than that which shrilled silently in Skel’s brain:
RUN, MY CHILD! RUN …
On the Enterprise’s bridge, Geordi La Forge decided that the only time he really appreciated the vastness of space was when he was forced to search for something in it. The enormity of the task was punctuated by the diminutive size of the sought-after object: a Ferengi runabout. The ion trail the ship had left after departing Vulcan indicated the general direction of its flight, and Picard had them plotting search patterns around the focus of that trail; they’d been scanning for hours.
“Any progress, Mr. La Forge?” Picard