• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Yeah.” Hudson turned to Tuvok. “How far are they?”

“Approximately half a kilometer northwest of here.”

“Let’s get to it, then, before the weather changes again,” Hudson said as he started to walk northwest.

That hope was in vain. Before they’d gone ten meters, the temperature plummeted and the skies clouded up. The sweat and rainwater cooled against Hudson’s skin. Within two more steps, the snow started.

“I suggest we take shelter until this passes,” Tuvok said.

Hudson started to say that they couldn’t afford to wait, but then the snow reached the intensity level of the rain—as did the wind. He also found that he couldn’t speak because his teeth were chattering. So instead he simply ran toward the closest structure: what looked like a residential building.

The front door slid open about halfway, then made a screeching noise.

“The metal has been warped,” Tuvok said.

“G-g-get ins-side,” Hudson said, squeezing between the door and its frame. Chakotay and Tuvok did likewise—both were smaller of build than Hudson, so they had an easier time of it—and then the door shut. The building’s lobby was a utilitarian affair: a square room with walls painted beige. The back wall was lined with a series of turbolifts; a few hideous paintings sat dolefully on the two side walls, broken only by a computer interface that no doubt allowed visitors to communicate with residents. A plush beige carpet took up the entire floor. Hudson decided it was the most boring room he’d ever been in.

“W-wish we’d beamed down a medikit,” Hudson said, trying to warm himself with his arms and failing miserably. His hair felt odd—no doubt the water there from the rain had frozen into ice—and his skin felt like one giant goose bump. “We’ll get pneumonia at this rate.”

Tuvok checked his tricorder. “It is a possibility—unfortunately, this is not a medical tricorder.”

Nodding, Hudson turned to Chakotay. “Have you given any thought to what we might have to do today?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied stoically, not looking at Hudson.

“Yes, you do.”

“All right, so maybe I do,” Chakotay snapped, turning toward Hudson, his jaw set. “If I have to, I’ll kill him, but I’d like to avoid it if I can.”

“I know that,” Hudson said, grateful that he was now warm enough that he could talk normally without forcing himself to enunciate without stuttering from the shivers. “But it’s never easy to take up arms against your comrades—or your friends.” He hesitated. “Last year, right after we started the Maquis, I had to face off against my oldest friend—my best friend. He was in a runabout, I was in the Liberator—and I realized that I might be put in a position where I’d have to kill my friend.”

“What happened?”

Chuckling, Hudson said, “Actually, it was never an issue. Ben won the fight. I was in bad shape, turning tail and running.” Hudson looked at Chakotay. “The funny thing is, Ben did have the opportunity to fire on me. He could’ve disabled me, destroyed me—but he let me go. He faced the test and couldn’t do it. Funny thing is, I wasn’t sure I would’ve done the same thing in his place.”

“There’s a big difference,” Chakotay said. “I assume that ‘Ben’ is Commander Sisko of Deep Space 9?”

Hudson nodded.

“He’s not a freedom fighter—he’s just a soldier. He was doing his job, nothing more. You were fighting for a cause.” He smiled. “Besides, Starfleet’s always been big on the lost cause. There’s no problem they can’t solve—so they let you live, because they think you can be ‘cured.’” Chakotay sighed. “I wish they were right, most of the time.”

Hudson found he had nothing to add to that, so he turned to the Vulcan. “You picking up any life signs in the building?”

“Negative.”

“Hm.” He walked over to the computer interface, his clothes and hair dripping water onto the carpet. He touched the black surface, and it lit up.

“Computer, was this building evacuated?”

“Please identify yourself.”

“Calvin Hudson. I’m a visitor to Slaybis IV.”

There was a pause while that information was processed.