Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [86]
The captain laid down his nearly spent hand phaser and laid the rifle in the crook of his arm. Too bad he couldn’t actually use it, he mused—only finish off Gorn who were already caught in someone else’s beam. It was bad enough that he had been forced to kill and disable some of the invaders in order to reach this point; to continue in that vein would only put the timestream in undue jeopardy.
After all, the colonists were doomed to die; history required it. But that same history had seen the invaders take precious few casualties. And who was Picard to say which of the Gorn on this field of battle would go on to become a major benefactor to his race? Or a major supporter of relations with the Federation?
Then there was no more time to think. The invaders were coming at them again, plodding ahead in their slow but unyielding fashion. And all around him, the surviving colonists began to fire at the lizard-skinned enemy.
“Jean-Luc?” whispered Julia.
He turned to her, drinking in the sight of her, knowing he would not have much longer to do so. “Yes?”
“Do me a favor,” she said. “Don’t die before I do, all right? I don’t want to have to see you go.”
The captain grunted. ‘I’ll do my best,” he responded. Then he raised his rifle and started firing along with the rest of them.
Two Gorn in the forefront of the charge were cut down by a barrage of angry, red beams. A third fell a moment later, causing some confusion in the ranks. However, the rest kept coming, undaunted.
All the while, they were returning the colonists’ fire, obliterating what was left of the administration building’s superstructure in a wash of green chaos. Like a river that has run into a huge rock in its path, the middle of the invasion force slowed down, while its extremities expanded in an attempt to encircle their objective.
Of course, they couldn’t surround the place completely, or they would be hitting each other when they missed. But by forming a semicircle, the Gorn had made it necessary for the humans to defend a larger area than before. It was a tactic they should have used hours ago—and would have, no doubt, if they’d had any way to measure the colonists’ tenacity.
Travers was shouting orders as he took aim again. “Hill, Santos, Yamaguchi … take the left flank. Persoff, Mittleman, Aiello … on the right. The rest of us will try to split them up the center.”
Courageous words, thought Picard, coming from a man who was beaten and knew it. But then, the commodore was not the type to give up easily.
Another Gorn fell, and another. But the administration center was being torn away piece by piece, and soon there would be nothing left to provide cover for them.
The thought had barely occurred to him when a protective fragment of wall sizzled out of existence, exposing him to a well-placed shot. Through the still-smoking gap, he could see the oncoming swarm, each Gorn cruel of visage and relentless in his progress, envisioning the captain’s death in his insectlike orbs.
A ball of emerald fire seemed to reach out for him. Hugging the floor as hard as he could, Picard heard a scream behind him. Glancing back, he saw the colonist named Yamaguchi writhe in the grip of the disruptor effect. Then, before the echoes of the scream had quite died, Yamaguchi was a wisp of vapor on the hot, still air.
Another cry, and Aiello was gone. Then a female security officer whose name he didn’t know. Ten of them left. Two more wails of horror and pain cut their number to eight.
“The bastards!” someone barked. “The stinking, murdering bastards!”
The captain traced the curse to its source: O’Dell, the red-bearded engineer who’d been part of Hronsky’s long-range sensor team. The man’s face was contorted, torn by fear and hate, revulsion and sorrow. Unable to bear up under the stress any longer, he had snapped.
“Darby!” cried Julia. “Get down!”
And before Picard could stop her, she had risen to pull down the bearded man. But she was