The Murdered Sun - Christie Golden [83]
Panting a little, he reached the door, looking around for a touch pad.
He glanced back at the ships--the three remaining guards were laying siege to the small vessels. The Verunans were doing a pretty good job of keeping them back, though, and the numbers favored them. As long as the Akerian fire didn't make the vessels unspaceworthy, all would be well.
Quickly, Paris punched in the code and waited breathlessly for a long second.
Nothing happened.
Sweat dappled his brow beneath his helmet. He tried it again, making certain that each was the correct symbol. This time, he got a response: the thing began to beep angrily.
Paris swore loudly. Miweni glanced at him. "What is wrong, Par-is?"
"They've changed the damn code. You keep the guards at bay if they come back at us. I'm going to see if I can't break it with the tricorder."
He could always simply blast his way in, but he knew from the blueprints Kim had shown him that this first door was the entry to an airlock. Without the protection from the planet's atmosphere, anybody inside not already in an envirosuit would die almost immediately. And that certainly was not the game plan.
Frantically Paris made the necessary adjustments to the tricorder, aimed it at the lock, and said a short prayer as it went through its paces.
The alien symbols that served as numbers and letters rolled past, faster than the human eye could see but not fast enough for Paris.
"Come on, come on," he hissed to the inanimate object, resisting the completely illogical temptation to shake it in order to make it behave better. It went as fast as it was able to, and that would just have to be fast enough. Thus far, it had determined two of the seven numbers required to open the door.
He huddled back against the metal door, taking his eyes off the spinning numbers and letters long enough to see what was happening back on the landing pad. His heart sank. As he had guessed, the guards had figured out that the little band of intruders had been delayed and were redirecting their fire from the shuttlecraft and the Verunan escorts to the ten figures that crouched at the door. As Paris watched, one of his friends went down. The pilot next to him whirled with astonishing swiftness and fired upon the guard who had injured his comrade.
"How is he?" called Paris through the comm link.
The pilot didn't spare him a glance but kept firing in the direction of the guards. "Not good. He is still alive, but we will have to get him treated soon."
Not for the first time since this mission began, Paris cursed the fact that there was no beaming anybody back up to safety.
Voyager wasn't even in the vicinity, wouldn't be for several long, dangerous more minutes. He and the inexperienced Verunans were truly on their own.
He made a decision. "When we open this airlock, get him inside and stay with him. The rest of us will go get the slaves. We'll pick you both up on the way back. Understood?"
"Yes, Par-is," replied the Verunan, still not looking in his direction and still spitting fire upon the enemy.
The lieutenant glanced again at the tricorder. Five of the seven numbers had been found. Paris tried to block out the grim sound of battle behind him. Six numbers.
Seven.
There came a slight click, and the door began to open.
"Okay, everyone inside, let's go, let's go!" he cried, waving one arm vigorously and keeping a firm hold on the phaser rifle with the other.
Seven rushed forward, one or two of them hanging back to get in one final shot. The Verunan who had been protecting his friend now hoisted the injured party and carried him inside.
Once everyone was safely inside the airlock, Paris reactivated the controls. One of the guards rushed the door, firing.
Without even thinking, Paris dropped to his belly and fired through the rapidly closing crack between door and floor. He didn't know if he got the guard, but at least the Akerian didn't make it inside. The door slammed