Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [56]
T’Pol leapt to her feet, phaser still in her hand.
“Set it on kill!” Archer commanded.
T’Pol hesitated.
And in that instant of hesitation, Meir struck Archer with a crushing blow to the midback—a blow stronger than any human, male or female, could have administered. He dropped to his knees, by sheer will refusing to go all the way down. “Shoot!” he cried hoarsely.
T’Pol fired.
Once again, the human woman went staggering back…then immediately returned and seized T’Pol’s wrist. At the same time, Meir slammed the Vulcan’s back against the wall, with such force that phase pistol dropped and T’Pol slid to the deck, dazed.
“No,” Archer said, furious at himself, at his wounds, which left him unable to fight back. Wanderer would kill them now, and have his ship—yet even facing defeat, Archer could not permit himself to yield to it. He forced himself to his feet and drew a ragged breath, intending to hurl himself at Meir’s body one last time….
But Meir, apparently satisfied, picked up the pistol and walked away down the corridor, intent on some other destination.
“What the…?” Archer murmured, gasping, clutching his arm to his side. He staggered over to T’Pol, who sat, somewhat wide-eyed, against the bulkhead. “Are you okay?”
“I am…free of any significant injury.” She glanced up at the captain. “Certainly, I am in better condition than you are.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Archer said wryly.
The Vulcan rose, apparently taken aback by Meir’s sudden disappearance. “If Wanderer fears our informing the rest of the crew about its inability to tolerate electricity…why did it not kill us?”
“Obviously, it has a soft spot for Vulcans,” Archer said. “But I don’t understand why it didn’t kill me.” He paused. “It’s planning something. The question is, what?”
Ten
IN ENGINEERING, Archer sat at one of the computer consoles while Dr. Phlox stood back (which, given the crowded conditions, was only a step or two) and studied the captain’s left shoulder.
“T’Pol is correct on both counts, I would say,” the doctor said genially. “You do have a dislocated shoulder—to use the vernacular—and you do have a concussion. We’re fortunate on both counts. The concussion is very mild—a good thing, since I have no way of treating it without returning you to sickbay.”
“How is the shoulder fortunate?” Archer groaned. Now that he, T’Pol, and the unconscious crewman were out of immediate danger, the pain in that quadrant of his body was reaching unbearable proportions.
Porthos, now back in Hoshi’s arms, wriggled as close as possible to his master and licked Archer’s face, covering it with spittle and warm dog breath. Not exactly medicine, but it would have to do.
Archer’s faint smile came out a grimace. “Thanks, Porthos. Not now, buddy.”
Phlox replied to Archer’s question. “It’s fortunate in that both Denobulans and humans are very similar in terms of skeletal structure. I actually can solve the problem of your shoulder with a simple physical manipulation….” He leaned down over the captain, put one hand on the affected scapula and one hand on Archer’s chest, and gave a swift, violent push.
Archer screamed.
Porthos snarled, teeth bared, and very nearly lunged out of Hoshi’s arms at the doctor. Hoshi caught the beagle by the hind legs just in time and gathered him back into her arms, before he could take a piece out of Phlox’s hands.
“I’m sorry, Porthos,” Phlox told the dog. “But I dare say your master will be feeling much better now.”
Archer sat straight, flexed the wounded shoulder—gingerly at first, then more firmly—and tested his arm by raising it. “It’s true,” he said, looking up at Phlox in amazement. “It’s just a little tender. Thank you, Doctor. Now I have another reason to be glad you’re back with us.”
The Denobulan stood back and beamed. “Sometimes the best medicine is the simplest.”