Section 31_ Rogue - Andy Mangels [63]
“We find the rest of the hostages,” Zweller said, pointing his sword down the stone corridor. “Then we fight our way to the hangar and take one of the rebels’ flyers.”
“Oh,” Troi said laconically. “Is that all?”
Riker raised his sword before him, as though it were an anbo-jytsu staff. He was grateful for the chance to finally do something to end their confinement-even if it did seem to be a lost cause.
“If you’ve got a better plan, Deanna, I’m all ears.”
Troi nodded, conceding his point. “Lead on, Commander,” she said to Zweller, spinning her weapon by its trigger guard, in the manner of a gunfighter from the ancient American West.
As they made their way down the empty corridor, Riker could hear shouts and the sounds of a struggle. He saw Troi frowning at her pistol’s electronic controls.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“I can’t find the stun setting.”
“Chiarosans don’t believe in nonlethal weapons,” Zweller said, then led them around a corner.
They entered a wide chamber that contained five empty holding cells. In front of the cells, four Starfleet officers-who had evidently also made a bid for freedom once the forcefields had dropped-were grappling hand-to-hand with a pair of hulking Chiarosans. An officer, a human male, lay on the stone floor, either dead or unconscious. One of the Chiarosans sent a human woman sprawling with a single backhanded slap.
The second guard raised a heavy sword and prepared to skewer a very angry Tellarite. Instead of fleeing the blow, the Tellarite leaped forward, sinking his tusklike teeth deeply into the soldier’s bare forearm.
With surprising adroitness, Zweller hurled himself into the melee, striking from behind and hacking at the first guard’s hamstrings. Roaring in pain, the Chiarosan fell to one impossibly flexible knee, twisting his torso almost backward to engage Zweller with two curved, scimitar-like blades. Riker rushed the second guard, parrying a downward sword-thrust aimed at the Tellarite’s thick neck. The Chiarosan shrugged the Tellarite off of him, sending him flying, gobbets of gray flesh trailing through the air behind him. Seemingly unaware of his wound, the soldier turned toward Riker, a death’s-head grin fixed upon his face. The guard rushed him, his blades twirling like the propellers of an ancient terrestrial aircraft.
Riker moved as fast as he could, sidestepping and parrying with his sword. But his hip, which was bone-bruised if not sprained, was slowing him. Sparks flew as metal hit metal with a deafening clangor. Something nicked Riker’s scalp, and he felt a liquid warmth soaking into his beard and surging down his neck. The warrior paused, laughing in triumph.
“A little help here, Deanna!” Riker shouted.
The Chiarosan raised his blade, advancing with preternatural speed. Then his eyes went wide in shock and he flung his blades to the floor. Riker saw that the weapons had suddenly changed in color from silvery-gray to bright red. The blades of the guard Zweller had slashed struck the stone floor a moment later, and both warriors stopped moving, startled by their burned hands but bearing their pain stoically. For a moment, the room fell silent.
Troi stood a few meters away from the fracas, holding the pistol before her in a two-handed grip. “I won’t be aiming at your weapons next time, gentlemen,” she said icily. “Please don’t force me to fire again.”
It would have been easy for one or both of the guards to charge her, given their obvious strength and agility. But their muscles slackened and they backed away from her, apparently utterly convinced of her sincerity. Riker smirked, wondering for a moment if this was some new combat application of her empathic talents.
Zweller and one of the freed Starfleet officers-a man who wore a commander’s pips-began helping the injured to their feet. Brushing blood away from his ear, Riker was relieved to note that no one appeared to have suffered any serious injuries.
Zweller and the Tellarite disarmed the guards and