Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [65]
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Kane shrugged. Using the business end of the phaser, he pointed to a bank of the builder race’s machines. “Nothing much,” he replied. “Just taking a closer look at these things-to see what’s inside.” And with that, he turned the weapon’s setting selector up to the next-to-last position.
“No,” said Sousa. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe,” Kane conceded. “Or maybe I’ll find something in there that’ll be the saving grace of this mission. And even if I don’t-who’s going to care? The people who built these things are deader than dust.”
Without further ado, he trained his phaser on the nearest wall and activated it. A red beam lanced out into the midst of the alien machinery, creating a fist-sized pit of hissing vapor. The air in the tower was suddenly thick with the acrid scent of burning metal.
“Kane!” cried Sousa. “Stop, damn it! You don’t know what you’re messing around with!”
The ensign chuckled. “That’s the whole point, helm-jockey. And what better way to find out what we’re messing with … than to slit its belly and check out its entrails?”
As he raised the phaser’s emitter, the line of seething vapor grew longer. And longer still. Of course, there wasn’t a whole lot to see, other than black, twisted wires and pockets of what looked like broken glass, but that didn’t keep Kane from continuing.
Whatever actual scientific curiosity he’d had about the machines was fading. They were now his chosen scapegoats-the objects on which he was focusing all the hatred and frustration that had been building up inside him.
“I said … cut it out!” bellowed Sousa over the hissing.
Kane ignored him. After all, what was he going to do about it? What—
Suddenly, the ensign felt something hard make contact with his jawbone. As the world went hot and red, he sprawled. And by the time he got control of his reeling senses, he found he was skidding backwards over the smooth alien floor.
Sousa was standing in the center of the tower, feet spread-as if he expected Kane to come back at him. And the phaser was scraping over the ground right next to its owner, having shut itself off when it left his hand.
As the ensign slid to a stop against the far wall, Kane noticed that something was wrong. Maybe it was the interplay of light and shadow, maybe something else. And by the time he realized what was wrong, it was too late to stop it.
With a horrible sound-like the cry of some great wounded beast-a wedge of alien machinery came tearing down off the wall. Kane saw Sousa wheel and look up at it, even try to escape it.
But he couldn’t-not completely. The wedge hit him as it hit the floor, pinnning him beneath its awful weight.
Kane tried to say something, but the word wouldn’t come out. And then, finally, he rasped “Sousa!” And again, louder, so that it echoed in the lofty, alien edifice “Sousaaa!”
Getting back on his feet, he scooped up his weapon and scrabbled over to his fallen comrade. Please be alive, he thought. Please be alive. And when he got there, his prayers were answered, because the man was still breathing.
But Sousa’s left leg was caught underneath the section of machinery. Crushed, more than likely. And maybe he was hurt in other ways as well, because he wasn’t opening his eyes.
Damn it, Kane told himself. What have I done? What have I done?
“Kane!” The cry came from behind him. Whirling, he saw Will Riker standing in the tower’s arched entranceway.
“Commander!” the ensign called out, genuinely glad to see him. Hell, he needed help, didn’t he? “It’s Sousa! He’s hurt!”
Scowling, the first officer crossed the intervening space in three strides and knelt at Sousa’s side. Using his tricorder, he scanned the man’s status.
“He’s in shock,” Riker concluded. “And losing blood.” For the first time, he assessed the section of machinery. “We’ve got to get this off him.”
“Sure,” said Kane, eagerly grabbing one jagged side of the wedge. “Let’s do it.”
By that time, some help had arrived in the form of Troi, Krause