Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [31]
Joseph didn’t say anything. He just smiled.
Simenon took a deep breath and let it out again. He had never been so touched in his entire life—not that he would ever say so. But what his friends were doing wasn’t right. They didn’t have any idea of what they were getting into.
“You’re all proud of yourselves,” he observed, “aren’t you? You think you’re going to save me from a grisly end. But all you’re going to do is get yourselves killed along with me.”
“Nice speech,” Greyhorse told him.
“Very nice,” said Picard. “Now get on the platform and let’s get this over with.”
“Fools,” Simenon spat.
“Careful,” said Ben Zoma. “We don’t like you that much.” But the Gnalish knew the human didn’t mean it.
Obviously, there was no dissuading them. Swearing under his breath, Simenon climbed onto the platform and took an empty spot. Then he turned to Refsland, the transporter operator on duty, and uttered a single word.
“Energize.”
Chapter Ten
ONCE, SHORTLY AFTER PICARD had been accepted at Starfleet Academy, someone had told him that a man in a transporter could actually feel his molecules being dismantled and zapped through space.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
There was no awareness of the process, no sensation associated with it. One moment, you were in one place. A moment later, you were somewhere else. It was that simple.
It’s so simple, in fact, that it often surprised those unaccustomed to transporter travel. After all, they expected some intermediary state, some time to prepare oneself for the change in environment, and they didn’t get even a fraction of a second in that regard.
Picard, on the other hand, had traveled by transporter more times than he could easily remember. But even a veteran of such travel could occasionally wish he had had a moment to prepare for what he was about to see.
He found himself wishing that now. Ben Zoma whistled softly. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Nor have I,” Picard confessed.
“It’s beautiful,” Vigo observed.
Joseph nodded. “You can say that again.” They were in an immense stone chamber, one that seemed to soar skyward with irresistible grace and power and majesty. And every inch of it, every twisting column and fluted wall, was the deep, scarlet color of human blood.
There were no energy-powered lights that the captain could discern, neither globes nor open flames. The only apparent source of illumination was a series of towering, splinter-thin windows that filtered the planet’s sunlight and cast it in long, elegant shafts on the smooth stone floor.
It took him a moment to realize that he and his away team weren’t alone in the place. At the far end of the chamber, a ceremonial gathering of some kind stood in a slash of light.
Shading his eyes from the glare of the windows, Picard was able to make out six elderly, white-robed Gnalish surrounded by at least a dozen towering individuals in loose-fitting black garments. The larger figures wore their hoods drawn low over their faces, so the captain couldn’t tell what they looked like underneath them. However, the image they brought to mind was that of a team of medieval executioners.
Impossible, Picard told himself. Gnala was a civilized world. Its government didn’t execute anyone, even for capital crimes. Then he noticed the long, deadly-looking blades that seemed to grow out of the larger figures’ black sleeves.
For a moment, neither the white-robed Gnalish nor their companions said a thing. They just stood there, eyeing the away team much as the away team was eyeing them.
Finally, one of the Gnalish whispered something to one of his colleagues, his voice too low for Picard to discern individual words. The whisper was returned, its echoes fading on the air. Finally, one of the white-robed figures made his way toward Simenon and his companions and extended a scaly finger in their direction.
His mouth twisting, he rasped a single word of accusation: “Offworlders!”
It sent the hooded ones rushing at the newcomers