Vectors 23

Rrueo

I glance around me. The meeting hall is large, almost cavernous. It has many entrances and exits, and very little in the way of cover. If the Vaadwaur arrive in force, it will become a killing ground.

"I can confirm the tetryon damping field," Oschmann says. "It's knocking out the main EPS grid, and it will negate directed energy weapons -"

"We cannot use our disruptors," I say. "Woe is us, for we are helpless." I draw my d'k tahg, check the blades. "Or perhaps not. You." I turn to the elderly Hazari who seems to be some kind of leader. "We cannot stay here to be killed. We should evacuate towards the docking bays."

He nods. "If we can get to our ships -"

"Brathana may be able to counteract the damping field." Though if my ship is already within the field - warp core powered down, EPS grid drained - generating countermeasures will be a long, slow, process. Perhaps we can get a signal out via laser link to the Caitian or the Talaxian - if their ships are not also wallowing helplessly in the draining field -

I shake my head. Too many things to worry about, not enough time. I turn to Ge'Sirn. "You. With us."

"Now wait -"

I reach with my free hand, seize him by the collar of his tunic. "This Tuarak wants you. That means Rrueo wants you more. And, luckily for you, Rrueo is working with the Feds, and they would be displeased if Rrueo killed you. Feds are sentimental. The truth is, you would be more convenient to Rrueo as a corpse. Bear that in mind." I turn to the actualizer, the other target of Tuarak's desire. The unit is too large to carry, the housing is armoured. With disruptors, I could destroy it - but if I had my disruptors, there would be no problem in the first place.

There is a distant sound, like hammers falling.

"Guns," says Oschmann.

"They cannot have energy weapons in a damping field," says K'Rokok.

"Chemical-propellant firearms, most likely," says Oschmann.

"Rrueo concurs. Crude, but effective. Our body armour should protect us, but try not to get shot in the head."

K'Rokok unslings his bat'leth with a grin; the other Klingons follow suit. Oschmann draws her own cultural weapon, a narrow length of razor-edged steel called a rapier. Toriash flexes his huge Gorn claws.

There are indistinct noises from above us. The elderly Hazari looks up. "Sounds like they're coming in through the upstairs gallery -"

The gallery runs all around the upper part of the conference room. It makes sense; they will stand above us and pour down fire, and other squads will be moving to the exits on our level, to cut us down as we run. It is a sound tactical plan. I may congratulate this Tuarak for it, before I take his life.

I sense minds above and around us, minds that burn like cold flames. Somewhere along the gallery, a door bursts open, then another -

And I scream, and leap.

Even at normal gravity settings, I could reach the gallery in one bound. With the gravity plating weakening, I sail easily over the guard railing, over the single row of seating -

There are three Vaadwaur coming through the doorway, all dressed in long coats over utilitarian combat gear, all with ugly-looking grey metal weapons in their hands. The reek of burning propellant fills my nostrils. Their minds waver and flicker in amazement as I rise up and plunge down on them -

The first one has no chance to recover himself; my d'k tahg plunges into his chest and finds his heart. The secondary blades open, though, and the weapon is caught in his dead body. I have no time to pull it free; I slash at the second Vaadwaur, claws outstretched. Varnished in polycarbonate, my claws can score steel; they do bloody execution on Vaadwaur flesh. The third one has time to bring his weapon to bear. There is a concussive blast which hurts my ears, and the bullet slams into my chest. The impact knocks the breath from my body, but my armour holds, and rage and adrenaline send me flying at his throat. My claws find the folds of his neck, and rip, and tear - It is only when his head comes away from his torso that I realize he is dead.

I look around. My team have taken a more conventional route to the gallery, up the stairs at one side of the room. Even now, they are engaging another Vaadwaur fire team. One long-coated figure is falling, body slashed open by K'Rokok's bat'leth; another stares in disbelief at the stump of his wrist, while Oschmann's blade snaps back and whickers through his throat. Toriash has seized the third -

Gunfire is erupting on all sides. I stoop down and scoop up a dropped weapon. It is unfamiliar, but I am a warrior of the Empire, I can kill with any tool. There are screams and shouts from the floor below. The Hazari are doughty fighters themselves, and they are not waiting peacefully to be killed. I aim the gun, experimentally, and press the trigger. It bucks in my hands like a wild thing, yammering as it sends out bullet after bullet -

"Keep that down!" a cold voice orders. "Whose side d'you think you're on?"

I aim for that voice, press the trigger again, feel shock and panic bloom in the mind behind it, and then pain. I have hit that one, but there are many more. Too many.

"Through that door! The main concourse, and quickly!" I order. Ge'Sirn is with my people; he can follow some orders, at least. K'Rokok, Oschmann and Toriash have captured Vaadwaur weapons; all three are covered in blood, but it is not their own. We plunge through the doorway in a body, come upon another Vaadwaur team. Guns roar, blades flash, and they are down.

The Hazari station is a warren, a labyrinth. I reach out with my mind. The Hazari in the conference room have taken advantage of the shock of our counterattack; they have punched through the surrounding Vaadwaur and are scattering, running, heading for the docking bays and their ships. Some of them may make it. We must do the same. The Vaadwaur are regrouping -

And there is a mind among them, at the limits of my telepathic range - a mind like a running sore, poisoned with pride and resentment and ancient grudges, oozing malice and bloodlust. The arrogance in it shines like a beacon. This is the leader - no underling with a mind like that would be allowed to live. The mere touch of it makes my fur bristle.

"Straight along the concourse, to the docking bay!" I spit the order at K'Rokok. "Do not allow Ge'Sirn to fall into Vaadwaur hands. Support the other Hazari if you can, but your first objective is to reach the ship."

K'Rokok stares at me. "Our first objective -" he begins, doubtfully.

"You are to go. Now. Rrueo will follow." I check my captured weapon. "The Vaadwaur leader. Rrueo has the scent of that one's mind. Now, Rrueo will hunt."

---

I plunge back into the station's maze of corridors. By now, my telepathic senses are flooded with confused images, flashes of blood and anger and fear. The Vaadwaur have surprise on their side, and armaments suited to the situation - but the Hazari are numerous, angry and capable, and my own forces are fanning out from the Brathana. The fighting is fierce, and telepathy - never strongly directional in any event - is swamped with the urgent sensations of battle.

But if psi powers fail me, conventional logic may be enough. Tuarak wants Ge'Sirn and his apparatus. He does not know where Ge'Sirn is, but the device itself should be easy enough to locate. And Tuarak is a Vaadwaur, and the aggressive culture of the Vaadwaur demands that he should lead from the front. Indeed, from the images I see in his mind, he is trying to be more Vaadwaur than any other Vaadwaur. No doubt a competent psychiatrist could address the insecurity underlying this over-compensation, could devise a therapy to deflect his energies into more constructive channels. Not being a competent psychiatrist, I will content myself with killing him.

So I make my way back, through the corridors, past the bodies of Vaadwaur soldiers we have killed - and quite a number, Vaadwaur and Hazari, for which we are not responsible - towards the conference room. If I am to find Tuarak, it will be there.

I stop to slip off my boots. The chance of being shot in the foot is not significant, compared to the advantages of hunting on soft, silent paws. I take a knife and a spare gun from a fallen Vaadwaur. Every tool of killing is an advantage, and I need as many as I can carry.

Voices, the clatter of boots on deckplates, the flare of nearby minds - a Vaadwaur strike team nearby. I flatten myself into an angle of the corridor. I do not want to alarm my prey before I reach him. The Vaadwaur troop along a parallel corridor, unaware of my presence.

I creep towards the conference room, weapons ready, whiskers bristling, every sense on the alert.

It is hearing that gives me the first sign; a commanding voice whose words I can just make out.

"… gently. If we cannot find Ge'Sirn, we must keep the device reasonably intact so that Nessick can reverse-engineer it. So, gently, but quickly, back to the shuttle."

The snide arrogance of the voice matches the mind behind it. Tuarak. If I had time, I would concentrate, penetrate that mind and lay bare its secrets... but I do not have time. Even with their leader dead, the Vaadwaur will be a problem. I sidle closer to the nearest entrance.

There is a guard on the door. A single guard - chancy, but Tuarak's forces are, no doubt, thinly spread, and dealing with many unexpected contingencies. The guard is alert, capable, but he happens to be looking the wrong way - I throw the knife. It strikes the back of his neck, just below the skull, and he sees nothing more, ever.

There is more than one still in the conference room, though. And Tuarak is speaking, using a communicator - obviously, he must have communications that will function through the damping field.

"We have secured the device itself. The Hazari resistance is depressingly heavy, so I do not think it worthwhile to pursue Ge'Sirn himself at this time. I will not lose more Vaadwaur soldiers for the worthless hide of one Hazari. Commence the bombardment now. If he chances to survive, I will take him on another occasion."

It sounds as though my time is short. I crouch-run over the fallen guard, through the doorway, and take cover behind a row of seats. No mind-flash of alarm from the others in the room; I have not been spotted. I concentrate. Three minds, one of them Tuarak. I bare my teeth. It is time to disclose myself.

I rise from behind the seats, levelling one of the captured guns, firing as soon as I have line of sight. The gun roars and shudders, sending out a spray of projectiles. One Vaadwaur falls at once, a lucky shot catching his head. Another curses and clutches at his thigh. I take aim at that one and loose off another burst. He drops -

But the gun clicks empty, and there is one Vaadwaur left, and it is Tuarak himself with a pistol in his hand.

I dive behind the seats as he shoots, and bullets punch through the seat backs and send up great clouds of flock and splinters from the upholstery. He is shooting rapidly, he has no clear idea where I am - I pull out the other captured gun and work the action.

"Animal!" Tuarak shouts. "Show yourself!"

"Rrueo will oblige." And I rise from behind the seats and send a burst of bullets in his direction, and then dodge his return of fire.

He has a handgun, with limited capacity in range - I have a longarm which fires automatic bursts - but he is familiar with these weapons, and I am not, and both of us are moving. I feel sure I have hit him, once or twice, but I cannot have penetrated his body armour. Punishing impacts on my chest, my arm, my shoulder tell me that he is having no better, but no worse, luck.

Our guns both run dry at almost the same time, and we stand there, glaring at one another through the haze of expended propellants.

"Filthy animal," Tuarak says, and he reaches for his belt, for another clip of ammunition.

I have no more ammunition, but I have the weapons I was born with. Again, I scream and I leap.

But as I leap, a dull booming sound echoes through the station, and the deck shudders and shifts beneath my pads. Fractionally off-balance, I flail through the air towards Tuarak. I would fall short, would not reach him at all - but the same sudden impact has made him stumble a step or two forwards. I do not reach his throat, as I had planned, but one desperately outstretched hand finds his face, and my claws slash down his cheek before I fall gracelessly at his feet.

He screams, his mind afire with pain. I roll quickly away. He has slammed a fresh clip into his pistol, is firing, wildly, blindly. I move to one of his fallen guards, scrambling for another weapon of my own. At this range, I can finish him.

And he knows it. I seize a gun, roll again, rise to my feet and turn. He is sprinting for an exit. I snarl and open fire from the hip, but my shots go wild, ricochets flickering through the air around him. He reaches the door and is through it in a flash.

No matter. I have the scent, now, not just of his mind, but of his blood as well. I will pursue him, I will end this. And him.

Then there is another massive impact, and this is closer at hand. The bombardment Tuarak ordered - kinetic projectiles, no doubt. The floor of the conference room shifts and tilts and splits, and I am sliding down an incline into whatever lies beneath - I drop the gun, and leap to one side. One hand finds something solid, a structural support of some kind, and for a moment I swing, dangling, beneath it. I pull myself up, panting.

I look down. Below me, storage space, and a fifteen-metre drop to the floor. The lights are flickering, and there is a faint keening of escaping air. I snarl in frustration as I clamber back up to the level of the conference room. For the moment, I must forget Tuarak. My first need is to survive.