Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [101]
Her concentration intent on the forward window and her instruments, Vale replied without turning around. “It had better be good news.”
“I’ve got a fix on Tuvok’s location,” Keru said as still more data appeared on the console. “And I’ve just picked up a second Vulcan biosignature.”
He also noted that both life signs now seemed to have moved beyond the reach of both Vikr’l Prison’s transporter scramblers and the troublesome underground deposits of refractory metals that had intermittently thwarted their sensors up until now. Forgetting his own injuries, Keru allowed himself a broad grin as he began entering commands into the panel before him as swiftly as he could.
Chapter Eighteen
ROMULUS
The Remans moved swiftly through the darkened tunnels, relying mostly, no doubt, on their finely honed nocturnal senses. Tuvok was glad that two of them were carrying him between them. Had they forced him to run alongside them, he no doubt would have tripped repeatedly, smashing into the rocky ground and likely breaking his malnourished and probably brittle bones.
Because the passageways were nearly pitch black, Tuvok found the sense of rapid forward movement disconcerting. The loud, rhythmic susurration the Remans made as they breathed and ran in the darkness might have frightened most sentient beings, but Tuvok had conquered his fear of the dark when he was a mere child of nine. He had run away from his home after the death of his pet sehlat, which had precipitated a disagreement with his parents over whether or not pets possessed a katra. Embarking on the tal’oth survival ritual—the four-month version of the more modest, seven-day rite of passage called the kahs-wan—he had faced many of his childhood fears while crossing the searing desert known as Vulcan’s Forge before returning home.
Now, he didn’t know where the Remans were taking him, and his body was still jangled from the explosion at the prison. Logically, his abductors seemed to mean him no harm. He didn’t know if he was the only one they had extracted from Vikr’l, but the Remans seemed to have come specifically for him. Even now, they were fleeing farther and farther away from the Romulan guards who had by now probably begun taking Vikr’l back from its rioting inmates.
Time seemed to pass with immeasurable sluggishness, although Tuvok knew that only minutes had elapsed since his capture. He wondered what had become of the Starfleet officers who had come to rescue him. He still clutched the communicator badge that one of them had thrown to him. He couldn’t risk using it now—there was no guarantee that he would reach anyone capable of beaming him out of the tunnels he knew often contained sensor-obscuring ores—but he found its presence comforting nonetheless. Other than his memories and dreams, the transceiver was the only reminder of who he had been prior to his seemingly interminable incarceration in the hellish Vikr’l Prison.
Suddenly, Tuvok noticed light emanating from the rough-hewn tunnel walls, and he heard a Reman voice shouting from somewhere farther ahead. Another Reman voice, even farther away, echoed toward them. Unlike the deep, gravel-filled voices the Remans used in ordinary conversation, these vocalizations were piercing, echoing shrieks that reminded Tuvok of the mating calls of Tiberian bats.
Soon, Tuvok found himself inside a wide, high-ceilinged stone chamber that appeared to have been scooped out of the surrounding rock by one of the angry deities of ancient Vulcan mythology. The rocky cavity was dimly illuminated by glowsticks mounted in the rugged walls. Perhaps a dozen Remans were there awaiting their arrival, and Tuvok realized that the cave was some kind of assembly room.
“You are the one called Rukath?” The voice was harsh and low, clearly Reman.
Tuvok turned, trying to figure out which of the shadowy figures had spoken. “Yes,” he said simply.
“And yet you are not Romulan,” a large, dusky-hued Reman said, stepping forward. Tuvok saw that his clothing was not that of an escaped prisoner. Like several of