The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [122]
Theras gasped, making Shran fear for a moment that he’d handled him too roughly. “They’re just firing blindly!”
“But these passageways ought to look empty to them,” Shran said.
Theras nodded, his features taking on an almost hysterical cast. “They should. But the Romulans must know that there are only two ways in or out of this section of the ship.” Large tears pooled in the Aenar’s gray, sightless eyes; he appeared to be in intense physical pain, but it was clearly not because of anything Shran had done to him. “They’ve cut us off. And they’re determined not to let anyone take their prisoners away from them. They’ll kill us all before they permit that. I—”
Yet another disruptor blast illuminated the corridor for a split second. It struck lower than had the previous shot, but came no closer to hitting anyone.
“Even firing blind, they’re bound to start hitting us sooner or later,” Shran said, addressing nobody in particular. He supposed that even if the Romulans hadn’t actually somehow pierced Theras’s psionic veil of selective blindness, they must have intuited the boarding party’s continued presence aboard their vessel by some other means.
Of course, none of that would matter a whit if the Romulans managed to score only a handful of lucky, random shots.
“What have I done?” Theras said, breaking down into shoulder-racking sobs that were amplified grotesquely by his suit’s com pickup.
Shran wanted to strike him, but restrained himself when he realized he’d only succeed in injuring himself on the Aenar’s helmet. “Shut up, Theras. Remember, they still can’t see us. Otherwise they wouldn’t be lob-bing their fire at us at random.”
“There is another problem,” T’Pol said. In the dimness, and with the suit’s apparently damaged night-vision functions disorienting him somewhat, Shran could just make out the fact that the Vulcan woman, flanked by Reed and a pair of rifle-wielding MACOs, was holding a small scanning device before her face. “We apparently cannot determine the precise location of any of the Romulans aboard this vessel. Therefore we cannot return their fire with any degree of accuracy.”
Shran felt as though a physical blow had abruptly slammed all the air from his lungs. He grabbed the hard carapace of Theras’s suit, keeping both their bodies close to the wall as he caught his breath.
“Why might that be, Theras?” Shran whispered.
It took Theras a protracted moment to rein in his sobs and find his voice. “It may be… that using my telepathy defensively has created a… blanket effect.”
“Are you saying,” Shran said, the words leaving his mouth in a snarling rush, “that you’ve blinded us as well as the Romulans?”
Theras nodded, weeping again. “Forgive me, Shran. Forgive me, all of you. I am… unused to the ways of war.”
Pacifists, Shran thought disgustedly. Beautiful. He felt his psionic bond with Jhamel jangling uncomfortably at that thought, momentarily filling his mind with an unpleasant sound not unlike an inexpertly plucked high string on an Andorian zharen’tara.
Still another stray blast briefly ionized the air, once again coming uncomfortably close to Shran’s back. Theras winced as the beam passed and struck a distant wall with a momentary spray of bright orange sparks. In that instant, Shran saw Jhamel clearly, her gray eyes staring and sightless, her mien sedated and confused.
She was in mortal danger, as were they all. Why couldn’t Theras have just tricked the damned Romulans into shooting at each other instead of at us?
“I suggest you get used to the ways of war,” Shran said, no longer trying to hold back the contempt he felt for this weakling. “And quickly, Theras. Otherwise, you’ve probably condemned Jhamel and all the rest of us to death.”
Thirty-Eight
Friday, February 21, 2155
Rator II
“HANG ON, DOCTOR,” Trip said, though he could see that Ehrehin was securely strapped into his seat, just as Trip himself was. “I’m taking us out.”
“Perhaps we should wait until the hangar bay doors open completely,” the elderly scientist said, a note of apprehension causing