Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [77]
That was the pattern the assault would follow, now that the bulk of the colony’s population was nestling itself deep in the bowels of the installation. It was all in the Gorn histories. They would take the place apart piece by piece. Perhaps half the semicircle would be destroyed in the next few minutes—and with its shields useless, the rest would soon follow.
The procedure would be cold, methodical. Like a praying mantis dismantling a beetle for the succulent meat inside its shell. There would be no animosity, just savage and unswerving purpose. No cruelty, just cultural imperative.
But lives would be sacrificed on the altar of that imperative. The tender lives of children, of fathers and mothers, of men and women who had brought their grace and dignity to this place.
So intent was he on the havoc in the installation, he almost failed to notice the glint of sunlight on red-gold scales. Rolling sideways just in time, the captain avoided the stab of green light that shattered the rock he’d been resting on.
In a fraction of a second, he took in the extent of his peril. Three Gorn stood before him, all of the smaller, red-or brown-streaked variety, each one armed with a hand disruptor. As far as he could tell, they were alone.
But they wouldn’t be for long. He remembered now … the hands-on stage of invasion, the bloodiest part of all.
Not that any strategy dictated it. Certainly, the Gorn could have destroyed the colony from their position in orbit, without ever risking one of their own in the process. But they were warriors first and strategists second—and their tradition demanded that a commander meet his enemy face-to-face.
That was why they were beaming down—to apply the coup de grace in person. And as far as these three were concerned, Picard was just another human to be cleansed from Gorn territory.
There was no chance of their letting him live. Nor could he get away without disarming them, at a minimum. Unfortunately, he would have to accomplish that without being armed himself.
As the foremost Gorn aimed his weapon for another shot, the captain did the last thing his adversary would expect: he charged straight at him, ducking low to avoid the imminent disruptor beam. Even as the weapon discharged, Picard slammed into the Gorn’s knees.
The impact rattled the human’s teeth, but it accomplished what it was supposed to. The Gorn lost his balance, staggered to catch himself—and in the process dropped his disruptor. Before either of the other invaders could react, Picard’s fingers had latched on to the device.
There was a moment when the captain’s eyes met the Gorn’s, both of them struggling to resist an almost hypnotic inertia. Then he raised the disruptor and fired. One of his adversaries was sent hurtling backward by the force of the blast, interfering with the other one’s aim.
As green energies ran helter-skelter over the first Gorn’s serpentine hide, tearing him apart from within as well as without, his companion recovered. Picard and the invader fired at the same time.
One of them missed. The other didn’t.
Picking himself up off the ground, the captain winced as he saw the Gorn shiver and smoke under the influence of the disruption effect. The air turned ripe with the acrid stench of burning lizard flesh.
Now there was only one enemy left to deal with. As Picard turned to him, the two of them acknowledged with a mutual glance that the human possessed a distinct advantage, considering he was the only one holding a weapon.
But before the captain could decide what to do about it, the situation changed again—radically. Some fifty yards off, another team of Gorn began to materialize. Obeying an instinct, Picard whirled—and saw a third team taking shape behind him.
Seeing that he was distracted,